#and napoleon and illya were NOT fast | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cha-melodius · 7 days

Text

Fic Pride Weekend

Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

@kiwiana-writes tagged me for "Fic Pride Friday" but let's face it, no one is actually doing this on a Friday anymore and Fic Pride should go the whole weekend.

So I decided to try to give some superlatives—my favorite action sequence, my favorite kiss, my favorite love confession, my favorite comedy moment, etc etc. But the problem was I came up with a LOT of superlatives! Oh well. A few up top, and the rest below the cut. Oh, and there are some spoilers below, so be warned!

Favorite Shouted Love Confession: Love is a Losing Game

“Then what, Illya?” Napoleon demands sharply, frustration heating his face. “What exactly was the problem?” “I love you, Napoleon!” Illya nearly shouts, the words ringing loudly in quiet of the club, and the silence that follows is only broken by Illya’s ragged breaths as Napoleon stares at him in shock. Illya closes his eyes, as if trying to steady himself, and when he opens them again the raw vulnerability in them is startling. “I love you,” he says again, with something like resignation in his voice, “and when they told me you quit I thought I would never see you again, and— and that was not something I could bear.”

Favorite Action Sequence (Duo): This Hell of a Season

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the headlamp rapidly approaching. He’s not sure if it will be fast enough. Henry watches as the dark shape of the man, little more than a shadow under the meagre moonlight, shifts slightly out from behind the hedges again. A few more shots, fired near where the shadow lurks, buys Henry some time, but Alex’s approach feels impossibly slow, as if he were travelling through treacle. One heartbeat passes. Two. Three. Four. The motorbike gets close enough to bathe Henry in a wash of yellow-tinted light; he’s now far too tempting a target, and the man shifts out from behind his cover again. Alex nearly puts the bike on its side as he skids into a stop, cutting the lamp at the last minute and plunging them into darkness. “Here!” he yells, and Henry flings himself in his direction, nearly blind after the brightness of the headlamp.

Favorite Action Sequence (Solo): A Good Man is Hard to Find

Pulling a rope off his belt, Mobius ties it securely around the empty window frame then measures out what he guesses is the right length before attaching the other end to his belt again. On the other side of the table, the guards have stopped firing, but he has no doubt they’ll be advancing on him now that they’ve realized that he’s not shooting back. He’ll need to stand up to be able to jump out far enough, which unfortunately means making an easy target of himself for at least a few seconds. He peeks around the table and sends a couple of bullets toward their feet, which succeeds in making them scatter and retreat backwards. Then, holding onto the window frame for support, Mobius takes a deep, steadying breath and rises to his feet. In the second before he jumps, the guards start shooting at him again and a bullet tears through the outside of his upper arm, but he barely feels it past the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He launches himself out as far as he can until he feels the rope snap tight at his belt, punching the breath out of his body. The line starts swinging him in an arc down toward the window, and he twists wildly as he tries desperately to orient himself in the air. Just before he smashes into the huge sheet of plate glass, he manages to fire twice into it and, in a rain of glass, crashes back into the building two floors down. The shouts of the guards are audible from above, as is the sound of running feet; no doubt they’re already heading back down the stairs. Mobius scrambles up and over toward the delivery entrance where he and Sylvie first came in, smearing the blood that’s dripping down his arm along the floor and doorway in a trail. Satisfied at the feint, he takes off toward the utility room and gets through the door, closing it carefully behind him.

Favorite Car Chase: The Hardest Cut (continues from here, hard to put the whole thing in!)

They turn again, away from the courthouse, and Mobius can unmistakably feel the horrible cocktail of adrenaline and dread that floods into his veins. Loki doesn’t answer his question, but his hands tighten on the steering wheel as he stares fixedly out the windshield, knuckles going painfully white. “You’re starting to worry me, you know,” Mobius says with a nervous chuckle, like it’s a joke. “Little heads up on what we’re doing would be great right about now.” Finally, Loki glances sideways at him—once, twice, then a third, lingering look—then he takes a deep, shuddery breath like he’s coming to a decision. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swears emphatically, then jerks the wheel hard to the right, sending them fishtailing into a wild skid and down an alley that looks entirely too narrow. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

Favorite Moment of Slapstick Comedy: The Makings of a Perfect Christmastime

Waverly, on the other hand, looks surprisingly unperturbed. “Oh, I know,” he says, incredibly. “Because what it looks like is that my war hero is playing home-wrecker to my star author’s marriage.” He looks pointedly at Illya, who’s mouth opens wordlessly as he flushes a deep scarlet, before his gaze slide back to Napoleon. “But that’s not actually what’s happening here, is it?” Napoleon’s mind is whirring as he tries desperately to figure out what the hell is going on, but before he can think of anything that might offer some kind of reasonable explanation, the door to the kitchen opens again. “I’m hoping that the fact that you didn’t come back to the room means you were getting laid and not in here cooking all night,” Gaby says as she comes in, so focused on the coffee that she doesn’t even see Waverly standing off to the side. For a moment, no one moves, until she turns with a mug of coffee in her hand, spots Waverly, and proceeds to drop it on the floor.

Favorite Wrestling Scene: Double Dutch with a Hand Grenade

Two can play, and all that, and he is not having this conversation on his back. Not when Illya has been seemingly holding all the cards to this point. He cants his hips under Illya—slowly, deliberately—and is gratified when his partner’s eyes go wide. More importantly, the distraction makes his grip on Napoleon’s wrists loosen. Napoleon yanks his hands down, out of Illya’s hold, then slams the heel of his palm hard into his sternum. Illya grunts in pain and surprise, shoulders curling inward, which gives Napoleon enough of an opening to grab the front of his t-shirt and roll them both sideways until Illya’s back thunks hard against the mat. It’s Illya’s turn to glare up at him, still grimacing. Napoleon has effectively reversed their positions, pinning Illya’s wrists to the mat over his head, though he hasn’t managed to secure his lower body. Instead, Illya’s legs are wrapped around his waist, preventing him from maneuvering or getting any better leverage for a subsequent attack. Of course, that also means Illya’s legs are wrapped around his waist, which is something he’d been valiantly trying not to imagine ever since that encounter at the café. So much for that. Neither of them is completely in control of this situation, and it’s rapidly starting to seem like that’s true in more ways than one.

Favorite Emotional "Confession": Please Don't Let Me Be So Understood

“Yeah, I mean, it hurts,” he says with a nonchalant shrug he’s pretty sure doesn’t land. He wants to ask, ‘what makes me different? why are you friends with everyone but me?’, but that would give up the game for sure. Instead, he aims for something close. “Sometimes it feels like you’re more distant with me than with other people at the office.” “You’re right,” Henry replies with shocking matter-of-factness. “Casual friends are easy, Alex. There’s no risk when you don’t want anything more from someone than the ability to hold a five minute conversation over coffee in the break room. It’s different when it’s… someone you might truly care about. You’re different.” Alex doesn’t really know what to do with that. It’s quickly becoming difficult to tell where the lies end and the truth begins. “Oh,” he says, floundering a little. “I guess I can see that.”

Favorite Flirty Email: Class(room) Warfare

To: Alexander Claremont-Diaz <[email protected]> From: Henry Fox-Mountchristen <[email protected]> Subject: Re: your shirts Dr. Acerbic Cocky-Disaster I am quite certain you’ve never given anyone a break in your life. Regretfully, Henry Assistant Professor of What Did I Do To Deserve This

Favorite Seductive Spoon-licking (yes, I have more than one): All the Old Showstoppers

Locating a clean tasting spoon, he scoops a bit of the buttercream out of his mixer and holds it out to Alex across the top of his station. Their fingers brush when Alex reaches out to take it, and an image of Alex holding a very similar spoon up to his lips flashes through Henry’s mind. His mouth goes slightly dry at the memory, and that’s before Alex proceeds to stick the spoon deep into his mouth and draw it slowly out between his lips. Alex’s low hum, which skirts dangerously close to a moan, is somehow audible over the buzz of activity in the tent, and his eyelids flutter slightly as his pink tongue slips out to lick the back of the spoon in a manner that is far too seductive for their current setting. Who could have guessed that giving Alex a spoon would be such a massive mistake? Because Henry can see a camera currently filming them out of the corner of his eye, but he still can’t seem to force his own bloody mouth closed, nor can he hope to control the flush that is no doubt painting his cheeks a rather lurid pink, if he knows himself. The best he can hope for is that he just looks stunned rather than incredibly turned on by the display before him. “Ok, yeah, that’s good,” Alex says, snapping him out of the daze he finds himself in. He grins, and the mischief sparkling in his eyes is enough to make Henry believe he did that on purpose. “Guess you’re gonna make things hard for me, huh Wales?”

Favorite Movie Adaptation Moment: False Dichotomy

“Sometimes I wonder,” Alex says, staring up at the leaves fluttering in the breeze over the sidewalk. “If you hadn’t been Mountchristen, and I hadn’t been Under the Rainbow Books…” “Alex,” Henry breathes, a little unsteadily. Alex keeps going because he is, as previously established, an idiot. He can’t quite bring himself to look at Henry, though. “Maybe I’d have gotten up the courage to ask for your number.” “I’d have asked for yours,” Henry says firmly, surprising him. That does make Alex turn back toward him again. “That first day in the shop. Wouldn’t have been able to wait even twenty-four hours before asking you out to dinner.” “We’d never have been at war,” Alex continues. “The only thing we’d fight about is what to watch on Saturday night.” “Only because you have terrible taste in Star Wars movies,” Henry teases.

Favorite Angsty Kiss: So Close to Something Better Left Unknown

Alex hesitates a moment too long for it not to be an answer. Henry’s eyes are dark and wild with primal desire and something else, something more terrifying than even that, and Alex murmurs, “It doesn’t matter.” “Alex—” Alex turns in his arms and drags him into a kiss that catches like dry tinder, lighting such an inferno under his skin that Alex feels like he’s the one who’s been drugged. This is a fucking mistake, he thinks desperately, then his mind goes blissfully blank as Henry’s tongue slides into his mouth. It’s rough, demanding, as much as sparring match as a kiss, particularly when Henry sinks a hand into his hair and tugs hard, then bites down on Alex’s lower lip when he gasps as stars burst in his vision. Alex gives as good as he gets, though, finally getting his teeth on those sinful fucking lips and swallowing Henry’s answering moans.

Favorite Almost Kiss: White Knuckles

When he comes out of his last spin, Napoleon joins him for the final movements, an expansive trip across the ice that usually ends with Illya hunched over, almost on one knee, as if clutching an apparently dead Juliet. Now, though, there is an actual body in his grasp: Napoleon is underneath him, back bent into a graceful arc, being held off the ice only by Illya’s grip on his hip and his palm splayed between his shoulder blades. As the music comes to its grand conclusion he meets Napoleon’s eyes, and suddenly Napoleon doesn’t seem so unaffected anymore. He’s certainly breathless, all right, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted, and it would be so easy for Illya to flex his arms and draw him upward until their lips meet. Illya considers it a true testament to his self control that he doesn’t do it. “Wow,” Napoleon breathes, after a long moment in which he has made no move to disentangle himself from Illya. Then one corner of his mouth quirks upward into a smirk. “Now that’s more like it.” It is also a testament to Illya’s self control that he doesn’t drop him on the ice.

Favorite Cliffhanger: Nova, Baby

A couple of officers with red crosses on their helmets hurry forward as Raf grabs Alex’s arm and tries to pull him to the side. Somewhere deep inside, Alex knows that he has to let go, that Henry’s only hope is the medical team. The panic choking him has fully taken over now, though, and he only clutches Henry more tightly to his chest. “N-no, Raf, please,” he pleads. “You have to let go of him, kid.” “No, no, I can’t, I can’t—“ “Alex! Look at me!” Raf commands sharply. The order catches Alex full in the chest and he responds instinctively, his gaze snapping up to meet dark, worried eyes. A face much like his own, but lined and careworn after years at the agency. A face that has seen more than its share of hopeless situations. A face that is telling Alex, now, to trust him. “You have to,” Raf says again, his voice gentle but firm. Alex lets go.

Favorite First Meeting: Cold Light

“That doesn’t sound good,” the man replies as he straightens up again. Whatever he was doing he seems to be done with, even though he hasn’t touched a thing. He stares up at the sky for a moment, as if lost in thought; in the silence that follows, Mobius watches ribbons of what’s shaping up to be a rather spectacular display of the aurora borealis begin winding their way across the night’s sky behind him. “So? What do you think?” “Hm?” “About the engine.” “Oh, I don’t actually know anything about engines.” Mobius stares at him for a beat in disbelief. “Then why’d you want to see it?” The man shrugs, a vaguely amused expression playing on his features. “Seemed like a thing one does when your vehicle breaks down.”

Favorite Outsider Perspective: That's What Other People Do

“You know me so well, Peril,” Solo says to him before taking a huge bite. He briefly looks, somewhat bizarrely, like a chipmunk. “I know you are somehow always hungry,” Kuryakin returns. “And you get as excited about greasy diner food as gourmet restaurant.” Solo swallows and grins broadly. “Sometimes there’s nothing better than greasy diner food. If I’m gonna have to go to Jersey for this mission, I might as well indulge. Gimme some of your milkshake, would you?” Kuryakin lets out a put-upon sigh, but his mouth is unmistakably tugging up at the corners as he slides the half empty glass over toward his partner. Robin chews slowly as she watches them continue to banter about the food as if she wasn’t there at all. Kuryakin stretches an arm out along the back of the booth behind Solo’s shoulders, and when Solo finally polishes off the burger he settles back against it, almost but not quite tucked against Kuryakin’s side, looking immensely satisfied.

Favorite Angsty Confrontation: Little by Little

“How many have there been?” Napoleon whispers. Suddenly his proximity is unbearable. Close enough that Illya could lean in and kiss him in an instant, and wouldn’t that just be the perfect cap on all of this misery? He can almost imagine the slide of his lips and the heat of his mouth for a moment before the fantasy threatens to choke him. Illya drops his arm and turns away, striding across the room as he scrubs his hands over his face. “I don’t know,” he says into his palms, and it’s nearly inaudible to even him so he knows Napoleon did not hear the answer. “How many, Peril? I mean are we talking a one or two, or a handful, or—” “I don’t know!” Illya bellows, wheeling back toward him.

Tagging @orchidscript, @historicallysam, @leaves-of-laurelin, @tintagel-or-cockleshells, @three-drink-amy

@loki-is-my-kink-awakening, @nicijones, @justabigoldnerd, @magicandarchery, @14carrotghoul

@mirilyawrites, @eusuntgratie, @cactusdragon517, @violetbaudelaire-quagmire, @magicandarchery

@myheartalivewrites

So that's the number of snippets I posted, but PLEASE if you see this and want to do it, jump in!! Be proud of your fics!

#fic pride friday #fic pride weekend #rwrb #firstprince #napollya #tmfu #lokius

37 notes · View notes

set-phasers-to-whump · 6 months

Text

leave (stay)

prompt: "leave me alone"

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hello here's another sickfic for my beloved illya :) it's sort of pre ship napoleon/illya sort of not idk. what is romance even. hope you enjoy!!

“Leave me alone,” Illya mumbles into his folded arms, before Napoleon has even said anything, before Illya has even so much as glanced up to discover who is behind him. (From the tone of his voice, it’s abundantly clear he knows it’s Napoleon, anyway).

“Well, good afternoon to you, too, Peril.”

Illya does not move an inch, does not reply. Napoleon does not bother to attempt to fight off the instinct to tease him.

“Sleeping on the job?”

It is rather odd to find Illya like this, head pillowed atop his arms and a half-complete mission report in the typewriter. It’s something that Napoleon has done on…say, a few occasions, but Illya? He’s far too much of a rule-follower for something like this.

“Go away,” is the only response Napoleon gets, and, well, if he insists.

It’s lunchtime, anyway. Napoleon grabs his jacket and heads out to the street, making his way directly to his favorite sandwich shop a block and a half away.

He eats at a small table by the window, watching the people on the sidewalk hustle by. The holiday season is fast approaching, and already many of them are carrying large department-store bags, surely laden with gifts.

He muses, idly, on the topic of holidays and whether UNCLE might host - or be open to hosting, upon his gentle suggestion - a party. He wonders whether Illya would be opposed to receiving a present. Probably.

He barely makes it back to the office before his allotted lunch time is up. He bumps into Waverly in the hall, who says nothing, merely raises an eyebrow.

Napoleon flashes him a grin and gets the barest hint of a smile in return. He’ll count that as a strong success.

He is expecting to return to business as usual in the office, but he discovers that Illya has not moved in the time that he has been gone, or, if he has, he’s come right back to the position Napoleon had left him in.

He must really be tired, Napoleon thinks. After all, he’s seen Illya take out five men in two minutes after not sleeping for three days. Now, even a simple mission report seems to be too much.

He stands behind Illya for several seconds, hoping for some acknowledgment of his presence. But nothing happens.

I’m asking for it, he thinks, but goes ahead and jostles Illya’s shoulder anyway.

He expects Illya’s head to snap up, perhaps for a punch to be thrown his way, or, at the very least, some strong words.

Instead, Illya slowly lifts his head and turns around, docile as anything. Weird.

He blinks at Napoleon, rubs a hand across his eyes.

“Were you actually asleep?” Napoleon asks, not quite willing to believe it.

Illya’s face morphs into what could be very charitably deemed a glare.

“No.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Illya shrugs. “This is not my problem. Go away.”

Undeterred, Napoleon presses on. “What did you get up to last night, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Sleeping.” Illya looks away from him. He’s angry, which is understandable, but - well, now Napoleon is really curious. And a little worried, not that anyone needs to know.

“Is something the matter?”

“Yes. You will not leave me alone.”

With this, Illya stands up. He is presumably going to stalk away and slam a door behind him. At least, this is what Napoleon expects.

But this is not what happens. Instead, as soon as Illya’s on his feet, he raises a hand to his head and then sinks right back down into his chair.

Napoleon is now a lot worried, and no longer in a jovial mood.

“What’s wrong?”

Illya does not say anything. He’s closed his eyes and he’s breathing very deeply and very deliberately.

Napoleon has an idea. He takes a step into Illya’s space, reaches out a careful hand. Illya’s forehead and cheeks are hot beneath his palm. Ah.

“You’re sick,” Napoleon says.

Illya does not say anything, but Napoleon knows that he’s right.

“For how long?”

Still nothing.

“Okay, look. You simply can’t sleep here. It’s far too uncomfortable, and sooner or later, someone a lot less caring than me is going to come by and kick your chair.”

Illya opens his eyes a little. He looks exhausted, now that Napoleon really considers him. And miserable. It makes something in his chest feel as though it is being squeezed.

A solution enters his mind. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing, and he knows Illya will not complain. “Come with me. When you’re feeling up to it.”

He waits for a few seconds before Illya very slowly pushes himself up. Napoleon wordlessly offers his arm, and Illya briefly grips it, closing his eyes. When the dizziness seems to have passed, he lets go and looks at Napoleon.

“Right. Well. Follow me.”

They go to the break room. It’s a rather forlorn space - the UNCLE agents, by and large, either do not have time to use it or would rather spend their free time anywhere else. The room is dark and has no windows. There is a rather sad bookshelf, a table with two mismatched chairs, and a couch that Napoleon firmly refuses to sit on.

But it’s a quiet space, and the couch is a better place to sleep than a desk.

Illya takes it with no protest. He does not bother to undress even slightly, tie and jacket and shoes still on. His eyes slip closed almost immediately, and Napoleon allows himself the simple indulgence of staring at his partner, just for a few seconds.

“I can feel you looking at me,” Illya mumbles, without opening his eyes.

“Sorry.”

He expects to be kicked out - needs to be, actually, so he can get back to his own work before someone realizes he’s not there.

“Will you…” Illya mumbles, on the verge of falling asleep.

“Yes?”

Tell me to leave. Please, ask me to stay.

He doesn’t get an answer either way. Illya has already fallen asleep.

He lingers a few seconds more. Wishes for a blanket to drape over Illya’s sleeping form, settles for his own jacket instead.

He turns off the lights, pulls the door shut behind him.

“Sleep well,” he whispers into the darkness, and then he gets back to work.

thanks for reading!!! love u all <3

#whumptober2023 #no.17 #leave me alone #the man from uncle #fic #sick #cared for #my writing #i say things #illya kuryakin #went to the botanical gardens today and then walked around a neighborhood i hadn't rlly been to before #(i've been there but it was dark and i did not know where i was relative to anything else)#and now i am going to the gym in a couple hours...nothing like a late in the pm workout

25 notes · View notes

ikeepwatchinghelicopters · 1 year

Text

So, I was thinking about Octopus Napoleon Rights and whether a 5+1 fic with 5 times Napoleon is wrapped around his partners and 1 time they are wrapped around him (or something) could work.

The first time could be the first time Illya and Napoleon have to share a bed. I'm kind of torn about this one because I cannot decide if Napoleon knows he'a an octopus or not. So, 3 possible scenarios:

Napoleon doesn't know he tends to expand and cuddle in bed, because he only shares his bed with people he has sex with and they either leave right after (or Napoleon leaves) or they fall asleep already kind of tangled. So, the first time he shares a bed with Illya, they are both surprised and confused to find Napoleon wrapped around him.

Napoleon knows he tends to expand and cuddle and has a crush on Illya which he doesn't want to reveal yet (and he's not sure how he'd handle sleeping wrapped around Illya), so he tries to avoid sharing a bed with him as hard as possible. Illya finds it very suspicious.

Napoleon knows he tends to expand and cuddle and he's a little shit, so he will totally share the bed with Illya and not warn him. So, in the morning Napoleon knows what to expect and Illya is left floundering.

Another time could be when they are getting shot at and Napoleon wraps himself around Gaby to protect her from a bullet. She gets angry at him because he got shot because of her.

Another time Napoleon broke his ankle and they have to run away fast. It would be impractical to carry Napoleon in a bridal carry, so instead he climbs Illya's back, wraps around him and then clings to him like a limpet. He later complains how much jostling he had to endure with a broken ankle when Illya was running. The Russian is not amused.

And since we are on the topic of whump, let's throw in some good, old hypothermia. Either Illya and Gaby got stuck/lost somewhere in bad weather or they got locked in a cooling box. Either way, Napoleon finds them, makes them move to a warmer place and then uses his octopus skills share his body heat with them.

Fluff is also good. It's evening, the three of them are sitting and reading or playing chess and talking. Just generally relaxing and being all domestic. Napoleon falls asleep leaning on Illya, but he surprisingly quickly moves to wrap himself around Illya. The position looks uncomfortable, but Napoleon seems to be perfectly content. Illya just rests his hand on Napoleon's back and endures the cuddle with fond exasperation.

As for the +1 I can see it going three possible ways:

Your classic fluff where they are content in an adorable cuddle pile.

Gaby and Illya hugging Napoleon tightly to comfort him after something bad. Like, maybe he had a terrible nightmare.

Gaby and Illya clinging to Napoleon's dead body after they were too late to save him. (Why did my mind do this to me?)

#tmfu #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin #gaby teller #octopus napoleon rights #fic idea #random thought #feel free to write the fic

23 notes · View notes

celebrities-imagines · 3 years

Text

The Man From U. N. C. L. E Preferences - Pregnancy reaction

Napoleon Solo:

When you told Napoleon you were pregnant, for once, he was scared but tried to hide his fear. The two of you didn't talk about kids much, so he didn't want any part of the pregnancy at first. He claimed he wasn't ready to settle down just yet, which hurt. A lot. Determined to raise your kid you agreed to part ways, which secretly killed Napoleon, and you started your pregnancy on your own. He regretted his decision to leave you but wasn't quite ready to swallow his pride and face his fears, so you remained apart. He'd often ask Gaby and Illya how you were doing, and constantly spied on you; he would later claim it was only to make sure you weren't in danger. One night he caught a glimpse of you holding your bump, glowing, and he knew he'd made a huge mistake. Napoleon admitted this that night and promised to try and fix what he'd done. He seemed sincere, and for the baby's sake, you allowed him to be part of the pregnancy, as co-parents. But as you progressed through your pregnancy, Napoleon glued to your side, you realized how serious he was about this and the two of you gave it another shot. Your pregnancy softened him up and his smooth demeanor changed real fast when you were around. Napoleon often stole a ticket and snuck you into fancy parties just so he could show you and your bump off. He didn't care that he didn't know anyone at the parties; he just wanted to show you off. It was his way of handling the growing pride he had for this unborn child. This would be a spoiled baby, with the best fashion no doubt. He read all of the pregnancy books, which just made him worry more. He constantly scrambled to do everything for you. Simply because the book said you shouldn't be reaching things on the top shelf at 30 weeks. Napoleon forced you on bed rest the last two weeks of your pregnancy. He was even determined to put the baby's room together, crib and all, instead of just hiring someone to do it. Napoleon wanted the full dad experience. He also read to your bump every night and jumped with excitement every time the baby kicked. In the beginning, he made mistakes, but everyone does, and he spent every day making it up to you and your unborn child.

Illya Kuryakin:

When you told Illya you were pregnant he was terrified. He refused to abandon you, but he was very distant in the beginning. Illya hardly touched you or your bump. He was just so afraid with his strength and temper he'd hurt the two of you in some way. Eventually, after much convincing on your part, Illya did start to relax a little bit. Whenever he was around you he was impossibly gentle. He always controlled his temper. Illya got teary-eyed at the first ultrasound he went to, but claims there was dust in his eye. No matter how angry he was Illya wouldn't raise his voice, even slightly, if you were near. He constantly asked if you were comfortable and bought about a million security systems. He'd do anything for you, even run for fast food at 3 am. If you ever got tired of walking or your feet hurt, Illya would just pick you up and carry you. Even pregnant you weren't too heavy for him. Surprisingly, Illya was a good cook before, but throughout your pregnancy, he learned a bunch of recipes that'd make the baby "a strong Russian boy." The two of you did have arguments about gender sometimes. Your mood swings confused him, and he was scared of them. You once told him to talk to the baby. He scoffed, mumbling something about babies can't hear. Later that night though, when he thought you were asleep, you could hear him whispering to your bump. Normally, he'd whisper things to the baby in Russian. He was just so nervous to be a dad. Illya was so protective. He baby-proofed the whole house a week after he found out you were pregnant. Illya would be a cautious father at first, but you were confident he'd be a natural. You also had faith that he'd always protect you and your growing family from any harm.

Gaby Teller:

When you told Gaby you were pregnant she was nervous, of course, but mostly excited. During the pregnancy, Gaby talked to your bump a lot, convinced that the baby would hear her in the womb. She also sang to the baby. You never had to ask for anything because before you could Gaby already knew what you needed. She never missed an ultrasound, and her normally calm persona faded into a total helicopter parent. Her favorite thing to do while you were pregnant was going shopping for the baby. Of course, she always got carried away. Gaby told every person she met that she was going to be a mother and how incredible you were. She gave you any type of massage you wanted because she felt so bad you were uncomfortable. Unlike the boys, Gaby didn't leave your side for a single second. She was almost by your side too much. Before your pregnancy, you and Gaby loved spending time together but also time apart. However, the second you told her you were pregnant "time apart" no longer existed. If Gaby wasn't right beside you then she knew exactly where you were, at all times. You understood her work was dangerous and she was just keeping you safe, but she was driving you crazy. So eventually she agreed to give you a few hours to yourself a day. You were pretty sure she was still spying on you during your "alone time," but you never brought it up. At the end of the day, the obsessive worry all came from a place of love.

403 notes · View notes

therogueheart · 2 years

Note

your post gives me ideas: a very young napoleon having nightmares about what he went through at that age. problem is he is used to dealing with things by himself and doesn’t want anyone to think he is ‘weak’. all cocky and smug stances would drop and you know his partner would hate to see him so helpless

Referring to this post.

I'd give my left tit to see Napoleon, the real Napoleon, show through the cracks if there's ever a sequel movie. Its endlessly fascinating to know that the Napoleon Solo we see is never the real Napoleon Solo. He's always wearing a mask, switching them out like chewing gum, like its a game.

And I know, I just know, that even if its in a platonic context and not a romantic one, Illya Kuryakin would be the one to peel off those masks and unearth the real person beneath them. 'Leo would fight him the entire way, but Illya just keeps pulling on those threads, one by one, until the person 'Leo crafted himself into falls apart and he's left bare beneath the scraps.

In the context of 'Leo getting de-aged I'm thinking maybe he steps out of the shower, looks in the mirror at this face. This face that came Before. When he was Napoleon Solo: Army Grunt, not Napoleon Solo: Secret Agent. His eyes are no longer hardened diamonds but scratched glass, showing the horrors of someone who left their soul behind in the mud and blood of the trenches.

This face, that belongs to this body, with the star-shaped bullet scars and the slice on his palm where dumb fucking luck and panic response saved him from getting his throat slit.

And its too much. Those eyes, this face, this body. Flayed down raw and stripped of the armor he crafted out of himself.

He hides.

Illya finds him there, in a shirt three sizes too big, red-eyed and shaking, the mirror in the bathroom nothing but fragments and sharp shards spread like ashfall across the bathroom floor. And Illya thought he'd seen all sides of 'Leo but now there's this one; the terrified boy hiding behind the mask of a man, burdened with all the pain and fear that Napoleon Solo buries deep.

This is the boy who crawled off the battlefield and vowed to live. The boy who nearly died so he became a glutton for life; fast cars, pretty women, beautiful jewels and art, always said to be the true passion of life. Art, which captures everything and holds it forever. Beauty, pain, love, sadness, joy.

Illya's never been good with words. The KGB didn't need words; words were rich men in sleek suits who sat behind tables and decided how they were going to send men to die.

The KGB needed a hammer. A gun. The silent shape of death moving from one target to the next. Death has never needed a voice.

He's not good with touch, either. These hands... They do not comfort. They are not gentle. Nobody has ever turned to them to be soothed, calmed. When he touches people, its to kill. To take. Life or objects and information that will in turn take and save other lives.

But Napoleon... Napoleon has never shied from him. From his touch or his voice. Napoleon knows exactly what his hands have done and he still leans into them when Illya pulls him up off the floor, out of the corner he'd backed into like a wounded animal.

And 'Leo is so much lighter than he was the last time Illya picked him up, bloody and beaten but smirking. Miss me, Peril?

'Leo looks away, can't meet his eyes, silent and shaking and vulnerable, truly, for the first time. Not in all the small ways he's ever granted Illya over the years, the nuggets of trust handed over like so much gold, invaluable. But broken like dropped eggshell, cracked and crumbled.

The 'old' 'Leo kept the nightmares at bay with whiskey and sex, self-medicated into a dreamless, dark slumber. Those he couldn't chase away he buried, deeper than any body, sordid secrets that marked him like scars.

This one. This one wakes up on a scream, eyes wild and wet, and immediately rolls over into the fortress of Illya's arms, nose buried in the crook of his neck where the musk of his aftershave and the thrum of his pulse stand sentry against the echoes of the gunfire and the cannons and the screams.

All his life, Illya has been the weapon, but tonight Illya is the shield.

31 notes · View notes

wendimydarling · 4 years

Text

Who’s in Charge?

Title: Who’s in Charge?

Summary: What happens when Illya’s authority gets tested?

Pairing: Illya Kuryakin x Napoleon Solo x Gaby Teller

Word Count: 3048

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Blowjob. That’s it.

A/N: Okay, a little background on this one might be needed. Gaby is in a formal Dom/Sub relationship with Illya Kuryakin. They have invited Napoleon Solo into the relationship as a second Dom, but it’s Illya that holds the reigns. This was originally written for another story but never panned out, so I changed some things around and made it a one shot. If anything’s unclear, don’t hesitate to ask! As always, I’m open to constructive criticism, and if you want to be added to the tag list or I forgot to tag you, just let me know!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gaby was exhausted. Her work day had been long and arduous, full of customer complaints and sexual innuendos from her male co-workers. Someone had let slip the nature of her relationship with Illya, and now it seemed that every human in the office with a penis was suddenly interested in her "as a person". Needless to say when she left that evening she had a headache, and she supposed a little bit of heartache too. People would never understand.

When she arrived at Illya's apartment, he and Napoleon were in the living room, arguing heatedly over whatever game was glaring at her from the iridescent tv screen. A few empty beer bottles sat abandoned on the coffee table; Gaby guessed the game was too exciting for the guys to take a break and add to the collection.

Her presence unnoticed, she wordlessly slipped into the kitchen and poured herself a large glass of wine. After downing most of it, she poured herself another full glass, then watched her lovers while she put the bottle away. Illya was standing at this point and Napoleon was so close to the edge of the couch he seemed about to fall off it, both of them yelling at their team through the television as if their words could be heard by the coaches. Gaby shook her head and smiled, conceding to the fact that she would never understand men and sports.

She pulled two beers from the fridge and opened them, took them over to the guys, and placed a bottle in each man's hand and a gentle kiss on each of their stunned lips.

"How long have you been home?" Illya asked her, clearly confused. Napoleon remained quiet as he leaned back across the couch and took a swig of his beer, quite entertained by the fact that he and Illya had been caught by surprise.

"About ten minutes ago," Gaby responded, laughing at Illya's expression. She exchanged a glance with Napoleon as he laughed with her. Illya was rarely caught off-guard and did not like it, nor did he like being laughed at, both of which she knew she would pay for later. For now though, she was enjoying her brief moment of triumph.

Napoleon was still laughing, and Gaby focused on him. He had a beautiful laugh, deep and throaty, and the lines around his eyes told her that he laughed often. She liked that about him, his enjoyment of life; she would give anything to see the world in a humorous light. His eyes twinkled and he winked at her, sending a slight pang of arousal into her now tipsy belly. She gave him her best seductive grin, then turned back to Illya.

"Work was hell today, so I'm going to take a bath," she told him. The look on Illya’s face at her lack of request kicked her submissiveness into high gear.

"Need anything else before I do, sir?" She offered, looking at the floor and hoping that it was enough to satiate him. He came over to her and tilted her head up, forcing his gaze to his.

"No, I'm fine. Next time come greet me first," he commanded her, his tone authoritative. Gaby breathed a sigh of relief and, noting the anger still lurking behind the hazel in his eyes, leaned forward to kiss him, satiating him for now.

"Yes sir. Well, I'll be in the bathroom then," she stated, and turned once again to Napoleon.

"Feel free to join me when your game is finished," she smirked at him, lingering on his gaze as long as she dared. Looking once more to Illya (who was too busy glaring at Napoleon to look back), she grabbed her wine and headed to the bathroom.

The bath was luxurious. Gaby had long since finished her wine and felt relaxed and uninhibited, letting the delicious scent of candles, the hot water, and the soft music soak away the stresses of the day. She let herself doze, her body weightless in the water. Gaby was close to sleeping when the door flew open loudly, startling her awake. Illya and Napoleon walked in, both sporting a mischievous grin on their face.

"What are you doing?" She asked, receiving no answer. The guys exchanged a glance, and then all Gaby could do was stare wide-eyed as she watched Ilya slowly begin to undress Napoleon, peeling Napoleon's shirt up over his head. Her mouth fell open into an 'O' as Illya removed Napoleon's pants at a snail’s pace, then came back up and did the same with his boxers. She tried to look away from Napoleon's erection (which was growing harder by the second at the sight of her naked in the water), but the amount of alcohol she had consumed that night prevented her from being discreet. She thought back to the few times Napoleon had joined her and Illya, and Gaby realized that though she had felt him, she had never actually seen Napoleon fully naked before.

"Boy, you really can't take your eyes off of his dick, can you?" Illya remarked, jealousy evident in his voice. It did nothing to sway Gaby's stare however, her eyes remained fixed to Napoleon's lower half. Illya addressed Napoleon.

"Told you she was a cock-lover. Look at her salivating, I bet she can't wait to take you in her mouth." Gaby’s arousal sparked at the filthy words and she squirmed, but she waited to see what Illya's plan was. She looked from him, to Napoleon, to Napoleon's cock, back to Illya, and finally landed on Napoleon's face. He met her gaze proudly, no shame written anywhere on his handsome features. Her gaze shifted down again and came to rest on his member. She licked her lower lip then bit down on it, and was rewarded with an involuntary twitch from Napoleon.

Illya seemed extremely agitated then, watching the exchange between Gaby and Napoleon.

"Well go ahead and join her, tell her what you want her to do," he huffed, perching himself on the countertop to watch. Gaby understood then; Illya wasn't punishing her, he was punishing Napoleon. Illya knew her skill, had told her more than once that she was the best blow he'd ever had, and she guessed that Illya wanted to establish who the higher-ranking Dominant in this triangle was. Gaby looked at Illya, and Illya gave her a look that told her what she was supposed to do. She became a temptress and sat up, splaying her legs and resting her hands on the floor of the tub. She pressed her breasts together with her arms, and crooked a finger towards Napoleon with a "come hither" motion.

Napoleon looked at Gaby, eyes dark with desire.

"I heard you were fairly talented with your mouth," he purred, slinking towards the tub. She inwardly laughed at his naivety as he lowered himself slowly into the hot water. He had no idea what he was in for.

"I might be," she teased, swinging her legs behind her and grazing his stomach with her breasts as she slid up to lightly kiss his jaw. "Depends on who's asking."

Gaby placed another soft kiss on Napoleon's lips this time, waiting for him to command her.

"Well then love, why don't you show me?" He retorted. She kissed him a little harder, licking a little line from inside to outside his upper lip. He responded by opening his mouth and attempting to draw her in for a deep kiss, but Gaby pulled back before he succeeded, leaving him confused.

"Doms have to be more specific," she directed him, "what talent with my mouth do you want me to show you?" For emphasis, she began sucking on the pulse point in his neck, which made him exhale heavily and throw his head back.

"I want you to- hah!" Napoleon exclaimed as Gaby's fingertips found his cock. She ever-so-gently brushed two of them along his length, relishing his reaction and the control she was being given.

Illya never let her give him a blowjob anymore. He wanted all control at all times, which was disappointing for Gaby, though she understood why. To be able to make a man become completely undone under her touch, to have him begging, to have that much power over another individual, she got why Doms chose to be Doms. The feelings of satisfaction and power were addicting, and she knew Illya much preferred to feel in charge; he did not like being powerless and at the complete mercy of someone else as she did. It's why she chose to be a Sub, the helplessness turned her on more than the power. Still, she did occasionally enjoy being the one with the power, and she took advantage of those rare moments when they were given.

Letting her thoughts come back to the present, Gaby swirled one finger around the tip of Napoleon's swollen member and trailed it lightly down the underneath to his base. Napoleon's eyes were closed and his lips were pressed tightly together. She could see him frantically trying to regain the control that he had so quickly lost, could see him wanting to be the one leading the situation, as any Dom would. She chuckled softly at that notion, knowing full well that she was calling the shots right now. She looked up at Illya, who still hadn't lost his scowl. He huffed again and spun his finger in the air, telling her to move it along.

She looked back at Napoleon, who had opened his eyes again, though his head still rested against the back of the tub.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Solo, I didn't catch what you said," she taunted, her other hand sinking beneath the water to join its teasing partner by stroking his balls. Napoleon was too fast though and caught her wrist before her fingers reached their destination, pulling her face towards him with his free hand.

"I want. Your mouth. On. My. Dick." He told her, the authority in his voice sending shivers down her spine and waves of arousal through her stomach. "Please," he amended, and she had to smile. One of Napoleons's best qualities was that he secretly hated diminishing others, and she knew he would never make a good Dom. Still, she liked him, and she had been ordered by her Dom to pleasure him, so she obliged Napoleon's request.

Gaby place a slow, steady line of kisses down Napoleon's chest, applying gentle pressure with her fingers to the backside of his legs until he got the hint and exposed his groin to the air. She was good at what she did, but still, she couldn't breathe under water. She used the pads of her fingers to steady his erection, and continued the line of kisses down his length. Napoleon's breath hitched in the back of his throat at the contact of Gaby's lips, but he kept his eyes open this time, watching her go to work.

And go to work she did. She was slow and methodical, teasing him with the lightest touches, waiting until he would close his eyes only to surprise him by taking him full in her mouth. She would alternate licking and sucking, tasting him fully. Napoleon quickly began writhing, breathing heavily and trying his best to hold still so that he wouldn't thrust up and choke her. He couldn't think straight. This woman was taking him apart seam by seam and he found that he didn't even care. He chanced a look at Illya, who's eyes were fixated on Gaby's mouth with a murderous glare. Gaby chose that moment to hum loudly, and Napoleon's head snapped back towards her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes smiled devilishly at him and she hummed again, causing Napoleon to swear in a most undignified manner.

"Told you she would take you down a peg," Illya finally spoke. Gaby smiled around Napoleon's cock at those words and grazed her teeth up his length, relishing the desperate need behind his eyes. She began to suck on just his head, and all the resolve Napoleon had not to beg disappeared.

"Oh dear god," he panted, wondering if this would never end. He had never felt such pleasure in all his life. Illya had been right, she was far more talented than he had originally guessed. He also surmised that Illya had known Napoleon would underestimate her, and had wanted to see him like this, to see him taken apart and weak in order to show his dominance over both Napoleon and Gaby. Napoleon had been reduced to an absolute mess of a man and he looked like a fool in front of Illya, but he didn't care; it felt too good. Gaby kept sucking his head. It still wasn't enough to get him off and she knew it, but Napoleon wanted to cum, so against his pride he started begging.

"Okay Illya, you win. Shit, you both win. Oh my god, please, just—Jesus Gaby, fuck!—oh god, I'm... I want to cum, I can't take it anymore, I can't; I need to—it's not enough, oh god..." Napoleon shut his eyes and leaned his head back on the wall, still babbling incoherently. Gaby ignored his pleas and continued her torturous pace, watching Illya and waiting for him to give her the go ahead. Napoleon was shaking his head at this point, moaning and gasping interrupted only by the occasional curse. Gaby's mouth was getting tired, but Illya had not yet granted her permission to give Napoleon release. She knew that she would be severely punished if she didn't wait for Illya's command, so she backed off a little and stared at him pointedly.

Illya was watching Napoleon's face with wicked satisfaction. Gaby saw the jealousy written all over Illya, and she grunted her displeasure at him, inadvertently making Napoleon gasp and jerk up. He slammed into the back of her throat and she gagged hard, doing her best to breath while her lips remained closed around his dick; giving Napoleon a break now would also result in punishment later. Napoleon groaned out his apology, but didn't open his eyes. The incident seemed to shake Illya out of his trance though, because he finally looked at Gaby, smug.

"Finish him off," he stated with an air of pride, thinking to himself that he could have lasted longer than Napoleon. Gaby gladly complied. Prepared for it this time, she relaxed her throat and took Napoleon's entire length into her mouth, sucking hard. Napoleon’s eyes shot open and he cried out, crunching his torso forward and watching Gaby swallow him whole. His face twisted in painful pleasure at the sudden sensation and he felt his release building very quickly.

" Gaby , I'm gonna, I can't hold it, I'm-" he tried to warn her but she just looked up at him and briefly put her fingers over his mouth, relentlessly sucking him to climax. He cried out as his orgasm hit him, further turned on as he watched Gaby swallow every drop of seed he shot into her mouth.

Napoleon shuddered as he finished and relaxed against the back of the tub, closing his eyes once more to savor the gentle open-mouth strokes Gaby was giving him during his post-orgasm high. Breathing heavily, he opened his eyes as she slid off him, grinning like an idiot when she slid her body along his to come up to his face. Tenderly, she cupped his face in her hand, and he responded in kind by clasping the back of her neck and bringing her in for a kiss. He moaned as he tasted himself on her lips, grunting in displeasure and pain as his cock twitched far too soon after coming.

Napoleon broke off the kiss and looked over at Illya, but all he saw was the sink, Illya was gone.

"Where did Illya go?" He asked Gaby, stroking her hair. Gaby laid her head on Napoleon's chest and sighed, knowing her Dom was off pouting somewhere.

"He gets very jealous," she admitted, tracing a finger along the lines of Napoleon's muscles. "He's probably out there on the bed, figuring out how to punish me for giving you attention."

Napoleon looked at her, confused.

"But Illya's the one who brought it up; he instigated the whole thing, said he wanted to watch you take me apart. Why would you be punished for that?"

"Because I went beyond what I should have," Gaby said vaguely, pulling the plug so that the water in the tub could escape and standing up to get out. She grabbed a towel and stepped out of the tub, wrapping herself up to keep warm.

Napoleon remained in the tub for a minute, his brain still trying to process everything that had just happened. Gaby laughed and tossed him a towel, catching him off guard.

"Don't try to understand his reasoning, sometimes he just doesn't make sense," she told him, drying off and slipping her nightshirt over her head. Napoleon stood up and joined her outside the tub, wrapping the towel around his waist. He circled his arms around her from behind, looking at her in the mirror.

"Well, thank you for the sex," he chuckled, "I can honestly say I've never had a more excellent blowjob in my life." Gaby laughed out loud.

"I believe I should be thanking you. I never get to do that anymore and I miss it. It's fun." She winked at him, then turned in his arms. He kissed her again and she kissed back, but pulled away far sooner than he wanted her to.

"I'd better go find Illya," she sighed, heading toward the door. "Better to face my punishment now rather than later."

" Gaby?" Napoleon stopped her, grabbing her hand in his.

"Yeah?"

"Would you... would you care to join me for breakfast tomorrow morning?" he asked her, heart pounding. She was someone else's Sub, and though he had been invited to join them as a third party, he couldn't believe he had just asked her out, knowing she would say no. Gaby smiled at him though, and squeezed his hand.

"I would love to," she stated firmly, and pressed one last kiss to his lips before slipping out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List: @littlefreya @sciapod @thiccgeralt

#henry cavill #henrycavill #Henry Cavill Smut #the man from uncle #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin #armie hammer #armiehammer #napoleonsolo #illyakuryakin

237 notes · View notes

el3anorrigbyworld · 4 years

Text

The one who stayed and the one who left-My unfinished Napollya fic for @bryonyashley (a rough update of the next chapter as I still need to work on it, lol)

—————————

As the wind changes direction, the sudden driving rain pounds the window, reducing visibility further. Napoleon thinks it could not get any worse when the engine suddenly gives an ominous wheeze and the propeller slows, gains speed, then stops.

“The engine,” Napoleon sighs as Illya tries to restart it.

“We will have to glide it down, Cowboy, as long as there's somewhere to land,” Illya says quietly, checking their altitude and looking out the side window. Even if he tries his best to stay calm, Napoleon still could sense that isn’t case.

“Over there is our best shot,” Napoleon says after a while, as he points to his side.

Illya sees a stretch of narrow, flat land. It will have to do.

“We’ll make it,” Illya replies, peering over Napoleon's shoulder as he turns the plane. “but it'll still be rough landing, Cowboy.”

“Do what you need to do,” Napoleon nods.

***

As the plane slowly loses height, the dull shine of what appears to be a lake which he failed to notice earlier, spreads out before them, barely visible as the rain continues to pelt the windscreen. Napoleon watches the dark forms of trees below them, disturbingly close as the plane shudders against the punishing wind.

For a moment Napoleon feels an eerie calm, then the world explods around them. A howling wind, a stomach-lurching dive, a screeching metallic sound, and the scent of pine needles fills the cabin. Cold air pools around the floor of the plane as Napoleon slowly becomes aware of what’a happening. Illya struggles to keep the plane level, but there is another thump and wrenching sound as part of a wing shears off, almost turning them around. Then they are clear of the trees, but plunging fast and steep.

***

Napoleon gasps and struggles not to black out as Illya puts one arm across his body, bracing him as the plane slaps across the water.

“We were supposed to land on the ground, Peril!” he shouts, struggling to focus as something dark looms up ahead and the plane slams to a stop and Illya's urgent voice is in his ear. He shakes his head to clear his mind, opens the door and flops like a fish onto a jetty. Quickly rolling clear as the jagged metal of the wing slices by him, he turns to see the plane lurching over and slide into the water.

***

They are by the side of the lake. Not surprisingly, Napoleon cannot remember how they had got there. Illya must have swam them ashore. It’s a miracle they are even alive.

He stretches out a hand as Illya tries to reach out for him. “I thought I'd lost you for a minute.”

Illya pulls himself up and lay down on the ground beside Napoleon, heaving deep breaths. “Not so easy to get rid of me.”

Napoleon smirks then holds up one hand to the pouring rain and laughs for a moment, before turning serious, “we need to move.”

***

“Base ops, do you copy?”

“Anything?” Napoleon asks Illya again as his friend frantically tries to contact UNCLE.

“Comms are dead,” the Russian mutters.“What is your best guess on our coordinates?”

“We can’t be more than forty minutes south-west of our destination,” Napoleon answers and when he turns to move, Illya notices he is bleeding through his right shirt sleeve. “You are hurt.”

He reaches out to check on his injured arm but Napoleon pulls back before Illya could touch him.

“I’m fine,” Napoleon immediately dismisses his concern. “Okay, we still have eight hours until our meeting with our mark. Which means on foot, we’re going to miss our window.”

Suddenly, distant engines are heard.

“That’s not good,” Napoleon says.

“THRUSH,” Illya affirmed.

They both turn and start to take whatever they could from what Illya had managed to salvage from the plane before making a dash through the hilly forest. Moments later they could see two trucks heading their way.

“They are going to see us, we’ve to move, Cowboy.”

***

“I think we’re clear,” Illya confirms after a while.

“Yes, for now.”

They stop to take a breather. But Illya has not forgotten Napoleon’s injured arm and insists that he takes a look. Napoleon gives in this time and let’s Illya roll the torn sleeves up, so he could check on his wound. Illya sucks in a breath at what he sees. He knows the wound needs to be cleaned up and tended to. But there’s no time. A makeshift bandage from Napoleon’s torn jacket would have to do. And while he works on it with hands that are too gentle, Napoleon feels a tug inside his chest. Sensing that he’s being watched, Illya tears at the cloth around Napoleon’s arm abruptly, making his partner winced.

“What’s that for?!”

“That’s for your behaviour on the plane.”

Napoleon would argue but he keeps his mouth shut.

They walk for miles after and then the silence between them starts to get a little hard for Napoleon to take. “Listen, earlier, on the plane…”

“It’s okay. Forget it, Cowboy.”

“It’s the only thing I could count on, the way it felt to be with you. How easy it was to work together. But now, that’s all gone.”

“Solo.”

“How are we supposed to get along? To be just friends again? You’re right, Illya. It’s damn right ridiculous. And after what you now know? It’s practically impossible.”

Illya narrows his eyes. This man in front of him will be the death of him, he’s sure. But he can’t keep on pretending that everything will be okay. Because it would not. Even if he wants to push Napoleon away, even if he knows that is the right thing to do, Illya could not. Death had stared them in the face and Illya doesn’t want to lose the chance of telling Napolen how he feels. Again.

#napollya #unfinished fic #my fic

31 notes · View notes

viterbofangirl · 3 years

Text

first line meme!

@fallynleaf said in her post to consider myself tagged, so I’m happily indulging in this lil’ ego boost! Thanks for the opportunity, m’dear! ^_~

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 authors!

NB- These are all unfinished and unposted WIPs. It behooves me to note that some of these are not at all recent. However, they ARE fics that have “first lines” at all, which is not necessarily a given as my Creative Muse is obnoxiously nonlinear in her inspirations.

~~~~~

1- The Gray Ghost had suffered some engine trouble somewhere on Interstate 65, so Mom and Dad hadn’t managed to make it to Chuck’s wedding. (Early Edition: ”Belly Up to the Bar”, a canon-compliant continuation of the episode “Occasionally Amber”, Gary/Toni except kinda not really because she’s totally pissed)

2- Oracle, Texas. 1878. A gnarled husk of a town still trying to deny that its glory days are past. (”Gunslinger”, my serious treatment/retelling of the Roger Corman western)

3- The gate clanged shut behind him, and Meng Yao took a deep, steadying breath. (MDZS: ”Leverage”, an Untamed AU based on inspired by pretty much continuing @littlesmartart‘s brilliant setup and concept)

4- Many, many nights would Jiang Cheng lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling and pondering the razor’s edge of chance he’d toed. (MDZS: an Untamed chengqing fic set post-canon, current working title is “Second Chances” but I don’t like it)

5- Napoleon Solo flipped though an outdated magazine with little real interest as he lounged in one of the chairs lining the lobby of the car rental establishment. (TMFU (2015): ”Girls Just Want to Have Fun”, a fic set in my “Eight Strapping Daughters” universe where it is currently 1987 and Gaby and Illya have had eight daughters, any of whom are capable of taking over the world... and all of whom are about to spend the day at a shopping mall)

6- He felt the phone vibrating in his pocket. (Sailor Moon: ”Moon Revenge”, a Minako/Kunzite bodyguard AU)

7- The Moon was visiting Earth. (Sailor Moon: ”No Miracle for the Likes of Us”- another working title- which is Venus/Kunzite-centric exploration of the end of the Silver Millenium)

8- Chibi-Usa hasn’t stayed very long after Helios departed. (Sailor Moon: ”Rebirth AU”- you guessed it... working title- a Minako/Kunzite-heavy-but-not-exclusive AU that deviates from the manga/SM Crystal canon after the end of the Dead Moon Circus arc where the Shitennou are revived and the events of Star never occur)

9- Monday, 7:00 AM: Alarm goes off.

Monday, 7:00:08 AM: Alarm thrown across room. (Sailor Moon: “Codename: Teen Idol ‘Dite”, a side arc set in the above AU where, lacking any catastrophic galactic conflicts to fight against, Minako is going out of her mind with boredom and takes an undercover job as an idol as part of a police/Interpol sting operation)

10- Normally, Salazar Slytherin took great pride in his self-control. (Harry Potter: ”Release”, a short Hogwarts founders one-shot involving a maddening magical construction project and a sudden bout of swearing)

11- It was the first truly warm day since winter had broken, and Salazar Slytherin wandered the grounds with no purpose or destination in mind, simply basking in the sunlight until he began to feel the chill of the dungeons recede from his bones. (Harry Potter: ”And Treat Them All the Same”, a Hogwarts founders story about Helga Hufflepuff’s background and why she feels very strongly about equal treatment)

12- Salazar Slytherin stared at the wardrobe for another minute before finally deciding to throw another fur over his fur-lined cloak, leather jerkin, and wool tunic. (Harry Potter: another one-shot Hogwarts founders fic with a teeny bit of Helgazar where the very cold-blooded Slytherin has to deal with a snowball fight, currently but not definitively titled “Snow Day”)

13- As the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, Brooklyn burst through the thin stone crust encasing him, his awakening roar shifting into a yawn as he stared blearily at the skyline and tried to remember what century he was in. (Gargoyles: ”Return of the Time Dancer”, Brooklyn’s return to New York- family in tow- after his Phoenix Gate adventures)

14- The couple breaking their fast that morning were strikingly handsome, if perhaps past the most fashionable age. (The Scarlet Pimpernel, Pride and Prejudice: “Scarlet Impressions”, a crossover fic that pretty much unfolded itself when I a) crunched numbers regarding the dates and years of respective storylines and b) realized that while Lizzy and Marguerite would get on like a house on fire, Darcy’s only possible reaction to Sir Percy would be unmitigated horror poorly repressed due to the latter’s much higher social standing)

15- Paris really was lovely this time of year. (MCU: “Threads and Patches: Part One”, first part of a three-part Clintasha AU set after the events of Civil War and most emphatically *not* farm-family friendly)

16- The briny air filled her lungs to bursting, but she continued to draw in breath until it hurt. (Highlander the Series: “The Mad Viking Saga”... because, frankly, EVERYONE should have an Immortal™ self-insert character and I refuse to apologize or feel ashamed of mine)

17- “Your Highness? The oracle is here.” (Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas: “Sinbad and the Garden of the Hesperides” a sequel to the animated movie that actually should be titled “Proteus and the etc., etc.” bc it’s mostly about him and giving him the ending I think he deserves, a.k.a. an OC love interest and a chance for adventure while on a quest to save his city from a plague)

18- Bare feet pounded on the hot, rough pavement as Sinbad dashed around another tight corner. (Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas: “Fast Friends”, an eight-chapter prequel telling the story of how Sinbad and Proteus met and grew up together, wherein each chapter progresses with each year they know each other from when they meet to when Sinbad leaves)

19- Reed was well-known as your stereotypical absent-minded professor. (Fantastic Four: “Shut Up and Dance With Me”, a Reed/Sue fluffy one shot where Reed is adorable because fight me)

20- The spaceport on Aruus Minor reeked of fuel, welding torches, and sweaty coveralls, but it was a welcome change from the recycled air of the Lambda shuttle. (Star Wars Legends Expanded Universe (BITE ME DISNEY): “Everything Unsaid”, a Luke/Mara chance encounter set during the we-share-an-unbearable-degree-of-compatibility-to-say-nothing-of-the-overwhelming-sexual-tension-but-both-of-our-lives-are-kind-of-a-mess-and-neither-of-us-feels-ready-to-deal-with-our-feelings-for-each-other-so-we’ve-individually-decided-to-just-ignore-said-feelings-while-simultaneously-being-drawn-to-each-other-whenever-we’re-so-much-as-in-the-same-fucking-hemisphere years)

~~~~~

WHEW! Well, it sure was fun to tease all my followers with a taste of fics that will neverrr be finished! As far as patterns go, seems I tend to prefer either set-up paragraphs or punchy one-to-three-liners intended to trick intrigue people into reading further. My favorite is definitely #9. It’s a diary/log of Minako’s day, and her POV is hilarious and sooooo much fun to write like that!

Anyone who wishes to participate should consider themselves tagged, and PLEASE TAG ME IF YOU DECIDE TO PARTICIPATE!

#fanfic #WIPs #mod's stuff #viterbofangirl thinks she can write #asks #my stuff

2 notes · View notes

cha-melodius · 2 years

Note

napollya + "We’re dating and I didn’t know you were a mobster/biker" (except replace monster/biker with "spy" or "secret police")

(Double dipping with Whumptober No. 25: "You Better Start Talking", which seemed appropriate for a fic about secrets. This is a canon-adjacent AU in which Napoleon is still an art thief and Illya is still KGB, and they start a whirlwind international affair where neither of them knows what the other is. I hope you enjoy, anon!)

A Hard Habit to Break

Read it on AO3 (M, 5.9k)

Napoleon should probably be more alarmed by being unexpectedly dragged off into a secluded corner and kissed within an inch of his life, but he’s long since passed that point by now.

It is, of course, not entirely unexpected. He’d gotten the message, called into the operator at a particular hotel in Rome, that Peril would be in Geneva for a couple of days. Given that Napoleon had been languishing in Lyon, fishing for his next job, it had been a no-brainer to make the trip. Ok, so he pretty much drops everything whenever he gets a message from Peril, but that’s beside the point. Judging by the speed at which his Russian lover sometimes appears after he leaves his own message at the hotel, the feeling is more or less mutual.

He hadn’t known for sure that Peril would be at this party, though it’s the kind of thing he often showed up at, full of political bigwigs and their trophy wives. People like that love to brag to each other about their latest art acquisitions, which makes these shindigs valuable scouting grounds for Napoleon. He’ll probably come away with at least a half a dozen good prospects, depending on what his usual fence thinks of the market. What Peril does at these parties, given that he’s neither a political bigwig nor a trophy wife, Napoleon couldn’t guess, and he doesn’t really care. They have an arrangement that works for them, and asking those kinds of questions of each other certainly is not part of it.

What is part of it is large hands dug into his hair and gripping his hip, the solid press of a muscular body against his, and the scrape of stubble across his pulse point. It’s Peril tugging him into a quiet room and locking the door behind them before he drops to his knees. It’s Napoleon being fucked hard and fast past the oversensitivity, until he’s somehow coming again with Peril’s teeth sunk into his shoulder. It’s probably-too-soft kisses stolen as they attempt to set each other to rights again, and whispered promises not to let it go so long until the next time, and knowing that they have no way to keep them. It’s a long, lingering look as Peril disappears into the crowd again, trying to commit every line of his beautiful face to memory, as if every part of him isn’t already indelibly written on Napoleon’s skin.

It’s the fact that Napoleon is hopelessly in love with him, and he doesn’t even know his name.

~~~

The first time Illya sees him, he nearly walks face-first into a column.

It is, frankly, embarrassing. Illya is a spy, the KGB’s best, he shouldn’t be distracted by a pretty face. He shouldn’t be so affected by a laugh that somehow has the ability to turn his insides positively molten. But this man exists—sharp jaw, chin dimple, sparkling eyes, full lips quirked into a mischievous smile—and everything Illya should and shouldn’t be doing apparently goes right out the window. He has a job to do tonight, contacts to make, intelligence to gather, and yet he can’t seem to keep his eyes from seeking out the dark-haired man in the immaculately tailored grey and blue plaid suit. His attention does not go unnoticed, which is also embarrassing. Illya has spent most of his life watching people without them being aware of it, but this man clocks him almost immediately. Maybe it’s just that he also seems to be watching Illya. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s not polite to stare?” teases a smooth voice from beside him, and Illya doesn’t have to turn to know it’s the dark-haired man. Just when Illya thought this situation couldn’t get any worse, it does: he’s an American.

It’s late, now, the evening winding down, and Illya normally would have left hours ago but something had kept him there. Fine, there’s no use denying it: he’d lingered because the other man was still there, chatting up young heiresses and charming diamond-encrusted septuagenarians. Why Illya had stayed was another question altogether, because he hadn’t intended on making contact with the man; there was no operational reason for him to do so, and no personal reason he could justify. Still, leaving before him felt impossible, so Illya hung back and nursed the vodka he’d allowed himself once his job that night was done.

He hadn’t banked on the man approaching him, though. Illya was, typically, nothing if not unapproachable.

“It seems your mother also did not teach you this, Cowboy,” Illya counters, watching him carefully and trying to ignore the way his stomach swoops when the American grins. He’s not sure where the nickname comes from, nor why it seems to fit despite the fact that this man could not be farther from a cowboy with his sharp suit and carefully coiffed hair.

“Cowboy,” he muses as he tips his head like he’s turning the word over in his mind. “Haven’t gotten that one before.” He pauses, and if his earlier attention had sent a thrill through Illya’s veins, getting the full brunt of it is intoxicating. “I suppose it’s not unexpected, given the source. Whatever could bring the Red Peril to a fancy gala in Rome?”

“Work,” Illya answers simply. “And you?”

Cowboy’s smirk sharpens. “Oh, you know. The same.”

As Illya suspected, there is more to him than meets the eye. Whatever he does, he’s not about to go around advertising it, which Illya can certainly understand. It’s possible that he might be a spy himself, but there’s too much flash to him, too much indulgence. This is a man who is too used to luxury and getting what he wants, and in Illya’s experience men like that have no interest in intelligence work. There are unfathomable depths in those blue eyes—one of them, with a splotch of brown—but whatever they’re hiding, it’s not state secrets. Illya feels confident about that. Still, that’s no excuse for what happens next.

“You know, I’ve got a bottle of very nice Scotch back in my room,” Cowboy says, eyeing him slyly. “It would be a shame to drink it alone.”

“It seemed to me that you were not lacking in potential companions.”

“None of them were so… intriguing.”

“It is late,” is Illya’s token protest. He can tell that it comes out about as convincingly as he attempts to make it, which is to say, not very.

Cowboy sidles closer, close enough that Illya can smell the warm spices of his cologne, and looks up at him through long, dark eyelashes. “Are you going to make me beg?” he asks in a low voice thick with innuendo, and something impossibly white-hot flames up deep in Illya’s gut.

Fuck, this is a terrible idea. A worse one is how he lets Cowboy back him up against the wall in the elevator, leaving only centimeters between their bodies, his warm breath ghosting across Illya’s skin as his mouth skims teasingly along the edge of his jaw, achingly close but never quite where Illya wants him. Illya’s eyelids flutter closed and he closes his hand in a fist, vainly trying to get a grip on himself.

“You are,” Cowboy murmurs, “quite the specimen, as I’m sure you’re aware. Christ, I wanted you the moment I saw you.” He pauses, and pulls back just enough to look Illya in the eye. “Especially since it was obvious you wanted me, too.”

That should be distressing, to say the least. Instead, it’s exhilarating. They haven’t exchanged names, never even asked each other for them, and yet Illya feels like the American sees him like no one else. Yes, Illya wants him, and for once in his life, he’s not going to deny himself. Maybe Cowboy likes to tease; Illya plays no such games. He closes the remaining gap between them and captures his lips in a blistering kiss, immediately deep and hard and desperate, and Cowboy makes pleased noise low in his throat before returning it with equal fervor.

The drinks are forgotten, at least until after they’ve taken each other apart, until after Illya has, in fact, made him beg in the most delicious way possible, the broken oh christ, Peril on his lips as he comes sending Illya over the edge after him. Once they’ve come back down to Earth and cleaned themselves up, Illya expects that’s that, but Cowboy surprises him by disappearing from the bedroom, still naked, and reappearing moments later with a crystal decanter and two tumblers.

“You are offering me a drink? Now?” Illya asks stupidly, even as Cowboy pours two glasses of the brown liquor.

“Still a shame to drink it alone,” Cowboy replies with a shrug. He hands one tumbler to Illya and sets the decanter on the side table, then pushes Illya back down onto the bed and settles himself right in Illya’s lap, knees straddling his hips.

“I see,” Illya says, though he’s not sure he does. His free hand comes up almost automatically to grasp Cowboy’s hip, and despite their recent activities he feels his spent cock twitch in interest at his proximity again. “And then?”

Cowboy quirks an eyebrow at him as he takes a sip of his whisky, then kisses Illya deeply again, the slow, sensuous kisses more intoxicating than the sweet, smoky Scotch on his tongue. “Then,” he murmurs, smiling against Illya’s lips, “we’ll see.”

~~~

Napoleon isn’t sure what possessed him to leave a message at the hotel in Rome; in his world, impulsive nights of passion don’t usually result in trying to find each other later, no matter how mind-blowing the sex had been. Because it had been, truly, and to say he wouldn’t mind another such tryst would be putting it mildly. He wasn’t, however, in the habit of giving out information on his whereabouts, much less something like a phone number. He had a feeling Peril wouldn’t have used it, anyway. Instead he’d just told the operator at the hotel that if anyone called to ask after him, he’d be in Paris in two weeks time. He hadn’t even given a time or place, just figured that if fate wanted to draw them together again it would, or something. Maybe he just didn’t want to seem too desperate.

He hadn’t expected anything to come of it, but then he’d seen a familiar figure standing on Pont Neuf two weeks later, tall and windswept and so dashingly handsome it should be illegal. Not that Napoleon is particularly concerned with obeying laws. That had been the real start of their whirlwind affair, meeting up in cities around the world, sometimes for an evening together, sometimes for a mere few stolen moments. More than a year later, he still doesn’t know what most people would consider the basics about the Russian, and yet Napoleon would argue he knows everything he needs to. He knows that Peril is brilliant, and resourceful, and has a razor-sharp sense of humor that can leave Napoleon in stitches. That he’s a voracious reader and can debate the finer points of everything from classic Russian literature to pulpy sci-fi, but is stumped when it comes to popular music. That he’s deadly serious during a chess game but surprisingly playful in the bedroom. That sometimes he calls Napoleon solnishko instead of Cowboy and holds him like he never wants to let go.

He always has to, though, in the end.

“Mm, you should call in sick,” Napoleon murmurs, his voice still deep and raspy with sleep, and underneath him, Peril snorts in response. Even if they don’t have any idea what each other does, they both know they don’t have the kind of jobs you call in sick to. “Do you ever get any days off?”

Peril hums softly, and for a moment Napoleon thinks he won’t answer. “No. Not really.”

“Not even for these?” Napoleon asks as he trails a finger along a scar arcing across Peril’s shoulder. It’s a new one, still pink against his pale skin; Napoleon had frowned disapprovingly at the stitches when Peril had shown up with them a few weeks ago.

“I think you would not like it if I got kind of injury that gives days off.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Napoleon sighs, before burying his face half in Peril’s chest and admitting, “I wish we had more time.” It’s not exactly what he wants to say, that he doesn’t want Peril to leave, that he misses him too much when they’re apart, but it’s close enough.

“Yes,” Peril says, and somehow, Napoleon gets the feeling that he’s agreeing with everything he left unsaid as well. “Me too.”

Spending the night together—the whole night, and waking in each others arms—is probably a bad habit, but a hard one to break. Their relationship has limits, which are for both of their benefits, and which have been made more explicit over the time that they’ve been lovers. There are things they don’t ask about, discussions they don’t have, like how they both know that this doesn’t have an end date, but it doesn’t have a future, either.

Wherever he has to get to must not be too pressing, because he lets Napoleon push him into the mattress and kiss him deeply. There is heat there, but smoldering embers rather than a blaze; their movements hold no urgency, just the languid roll of their bodies together and the slow exploration of every inch of each other’s mouths, as if they were not already experts on the topography. They linger in bed, just being together, and Napoleon orders breakfast to be sent up to the hotel room during a lull between kisses in a last-ditch effort to keep him a little longer. Eventually, inevitably, Peril has to go, though.

“Probably going to be in Seville in a couple of weeks,” Napoleon offers as he walks Peril to the door, where he takes the opportunity to drag him into another lingering kiss as they pause.

A pleased hum rumbles in Peril’s chest, and he smiles into it. “I’ll do my best, Cowboy.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask,” Napoleon replies lightheartedly, even though he wants to ask for so, so much more.

~~~~

When he gets the call, Illya is in Lisbon and wrapping up an operation a couple of days early in the hopes that he might get away to Seville without the KGB realizing he’s done so. He’s started pushing the limits of what he might get away with to be with Cowboy, taking bigger risks, and he finds it hard to feel bad about it. For the first time since he enlisted, he’s started wondering what it would be like to have a life outside the KGB. Not that he believes he’d ever be able to leave, but… it doesn’t hurt to dream a little, he thinks.

Until it does.

He ends up in Seville anyway, there to clean up a mess that two junior operatives had made in what should have been a simple information extraction. All they had to do is break into a vault and steal the files, yet somehow they had ended up taking someone captive, an American. Moscow feared CIA involvement and didn’t trust the other agents to find out without triggering a series of retaliatory acts neither agency could afford, so they sent Illya. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can take care of this and still have time to find Cowboy.

“They told me you found him in the vault,” Illya says to the two visibly nervous agents, barely holding back from pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“Yes, sir. He was there when we arrived,” one of them—Illya has not bothered to learn their names—confirms. “We tried to question him, but he refuses to say who he is working for.”

“What does he say?” The two agents exchange a look. “Not much, sir.”

Illya begins to understand why Moscow sent him when he sees the captive. They are holding him in an old train car in an abandoned rail yard outside of the city, tied very thoroughly to a chair inside, as if he has tried (and nearly succeeded) in escaping before. Based on his condition, the two agents have clearly already attempted to extract the information the more usual ways, and if they gained nothing then the man must have something worth hiding. Now, though, whatever fight he possessed seems to have gone out of him; he sits slumped forward in the chair, as far as his bindings will allow him, his head of dark curls drooping towards his knees. His all-black clothes no doubt mask much of the damage inflicted by the other agents, but there are drops of blood littering the floor around him, and his left shoulder is hanging at an odd angle

Illya stands in front of him, arms folded in front of his chest. “They tell me you do not want to talk.”

The man’s head snaps up immediately at his voice, blue eyes blown impossibly wide in shock, and Illya only just doesn’t voice his own distress at the bruised face that greets him.

Cowboy.

It’s not possible. It shouldn’t be possible. Cowboy isn’t— he isn’t—

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Illya doesn’t know who he is, not really. Or rather— Illya likes to think he knows who the man in front of him is, but he doesn’t know what he is. All those months ago he made a gamble that Cowboy wasn’t a spy. He supposes he’s about to find out once and for all. Before him, Cowboy’s eyes slide to the side, to the junior agents lurking in the corner of the room. They’d asked to watch, wanted to see a senior agent, the KGB’s best, at work. Illya might laugh if everything wasn’t so indescribably terrible.

“Right, well,” Cowboy says slowly, his voice rough. Illya tries not to think about what made it that way. It’s hard enough to look at his bruised face, or how his split lips quirk upward at one side—lips that Illya had delighted in kissing the last time they’d been in the same room. “Not much to say, is there?”

Distantly, Illya thinks he should have known Cowboy would be a sarcastic shit, even under torture. “I think you should reconsider that position.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Your life,” Illya answers honestly, trying to ignore the fear that flicker through the other man’s eyes. His hands curl automatically into fists against the tremors that threaten, and he takes a steadying breath. “You should start talking, Cowboy.”

Well, shit. That was an unfortunate slip. He doesn’t glance back at the other agents, doesn’t want to know what they might think of the unexpected nickname. Maybe they’ll just write it off as one of Illya’s quirks. He’s well enough known for being a bit odd as it is.

Cowboy looks back at the other agents and his tongue slips out to lick his parched lips before his gaze snaps back to Illya. “Just you,” he whispers. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. But not them.”

Illya knows it will raise questions, that his superiors will want to know why he didn’t follow protocol and he won’t be able to tell them the truth. He also knows that, as he has been from the start, Cowboy will always be the exception, the one person who can manage to make an unfailingly obedient KGB agent betray his orders. There is no question of what he is about to do, and it is not what it expected of him.

“Illya? Sir?” one of the agents prompts.

Illya sees the moment that Cowboy registers his name. It’s another thing he’ll never be able to get back, another reason that tonight spells the end of whatever they had before. He closes his eyes for a moment, then turns toward the agents. “Leave us.”

“But sir, shouldn’t we—”

“You have time-sensitive information to deliver, no?” Illya interrupts. “This”—he gestures vaguely toward Cowboy—“is a mess that could have been avoided. You are lucky I am here to clean it up so you can complete your mission. You are dismissed.”

He can practically sense the agents’ unasked questions, but they’re too well trained not to follow orders. With matching nods, they exit the train car and disappear into the night. Illya cannot afford to take any chances; he follows them, making sure they don’t see him, until he’s sure they’re not circling back around to monitor his interrogation. That’s what he would do, after all, if a fellow agent was acting as strangely as he is. Fortunately, these agents are clearly not made of the same stuff.

The moment he steps back into the train car, he can feel Cowboy’s eyes on him, watching his every movement. Cataloging all this new information and putting it together with what he knows about Illya, which, as it turns out, is quite a bit. Far more than anyone one person should know. Illya can’t bring himself to meet his gaze, not yet, and neither of them seem willing to end the heavy silence that’s settled over them, only broken by the sound of Illya’s footfalls ringing in the hollow space. He steps around the backside of the chair and pulls out his knife, slicing through the bonds in one smooth motion, before returning to kneel in front of the chair to cut the ropes at his ankles.

“So. You’re… what? KGB?” Cowboy finally asks, breaking the tension.

He rubs at his abrasions on his wrists, and it is all Illya can do not to reach out for him. Every part of him wants nothing more than to draw him close and press soothing kisses to the raw skin. Instead, he sits back on his heels, putting more space between them. Maybe he was always going to let Cowboy go, but that doesn’t mean he can afford not to find out what’s really going on here. Illya forces himself to look up and meet his eyes, their innate curiosity and spark tempered by a heartbreaking layer of wariness and fear. Even if Illya could risk letting this continue afterward—which he certainly cannot—surely there is no way that Cowboy will ever look at him again the way he used to.

“Cowboy,” he says quietly instead of answering the question. “Why were you in vault? You are working for the Americans? CIA?”

“You know—” Cowboy starts indignantly, before cutting himself off with a huff. “Of course not.”

“And I am just supposed to believe you?”

“Yes. Yes, Peril, because it’s the truth.” He makes an abortive movement, reaching out as if he’s wants to take Illya’s face in his hand, but apparently thinks better of it. “It’s the truth.”

Illya has to close his eyes in a desperate bid not to give himself away. He is still kneeling at the other man’s feet, like a supplicant come to worship at the altar of his person, praying for a measure of grace. As if Cowboy, beaten and bloody, is still the one with all the power in this scenario. In a way, he is. The effect that this man has on him is frankly terrifying.

“So answer the question. Why were you there?” he forces out through gritted teeth.

No answer. The only thing he can do now is walk away, if indeed he can manage that. Mechanically, he gets to his feet, slips his knife back into his pocket, and starts to move toward the door.

“Illya, wait,” Cowboy calls after him, Illya’s name on his lips ringing deafeningly in the small space. He turns back—what else can he do?—to see a surprising amount of desperation written on Cowboy’s face. Perhaps he thinks it’s a trick. Perhaps he doesn’t realize that he could leave at any time and Illya would not stop him. He doesn’t have to give himself away. And yet, he does. “Look, I’m an art thief, ok? I was there to steal a painting, not files or secrets.”

Illya blinks at him. “A thief.”

“Yeah. The best in the business,” he says, a shadow of his cocksure smirk flickering onto his lips.

“Why did you not say so earlier?”

“You don’t stay a thief very long if you go around telling just anyone.”

Illya lets out a huff of exasperation. “You also do not if you are dead.”

“By those two?” Cowboy counters, grinning now, as he shrugs his good shoulder. “Nah.”

His attempt at rising from the chair puts a damper on that insouciant confidence, though; he sways as he gets to his feet, and Illya has closed the gap between them and caught him around the waist before he even knows he’s moving. For a moment they just stand there in each other’s arms, achingly close once again and yet somehow not close enough.

“I have to admit I was a little worried about the guy they said they were bringing in, though,” Cowboy says into the space between them, and even though he clearly means it to come out as a joke, it very definitely is not.

“You should have been,” Illya murmurs back. His fingers itch to push back the disheveled curls from Cowboy’s forehead, and he wants nothing more than kiss him—one last kiss, before the end—but he knows if he starts he’ll never be able to stop. “Now you finally see I am not who you thought I was.”

Cowboy scoffs. “I see nothing of the sort. If you think anything about this has changed the way I feel about you, that I don’t—”

“Cowboy,” Illya interrupts before he says what Illya fears he might. He carefully extracts himself, leaving a steadying hand on Cowboy’s arm but restoring the distance he so carefully needs. “Can you walk?”

Cowboy stares at him for a moment, the realization of what Illya intends clearly dawning on him. “Yeah,” he croaks out.

“Good. You should see a doctor, tell them you got robbed. Several men beat you up, took your wallet,” Illya tells him brusquely, not meeting his eyes. “The chance that you will run into KGB again is low.”

“And what about you?” Cowboy asks. Illya pretends he doesn’t hear the tremor in his voice. “Will I see you again?”

Illya is silent, because the only possible answer is one he cannot put voice to. “Try to stay out of trouble, Cowboy,” he says instead, his own voice far too thick with suppressed emotion. Then, finally, he tears himself away and walks to the door.

“Illya,” Cowboy says again, just before he reaches it, and against his better judgement, Illya stops to look back. “My name is Napoleon.”

~~~~

It’s been two months since Seville. Two months since he’s heard anything from Peril—Illya, he reminds himself, turning the name over in his head. He’d left Napoleon with little else, beaten and broken in more ways than one. The bruises and the dislocated shoulder have long since healed, but his heart certainly has not. He can just about hear the pity in the operator’s voice whenever he calls the hotel in Rome now. It’s what he expected, of course, but he still hasn’t fully been able to cut the thread of hope that lingers on within him. Maybe if he just gives Illya enough time. Maybe things don’t have to end this way.

Maybe he should stop calling.

Napoleon can’t do it, though. He keeps on leaving messages as the weeks spell onward, though the gaps between them get longer and longer. He does a few jobs and strikes up an unlikely friendship with a mechanic in East Berlin who helps him out of a jam in her absurdly souped up car. Napoleon’s exceptionally good at smuggling stuff across the Wall, so he brings her all kinds of contraband and she doesn’t ask questions when he falls into his more sullen moods, just lets him stay at her shop and makes sure he drinks something that isn’t whiskey. He tries to keep busy, to keep his mind off it, but it doesn’t really work.

It’s five months since Seville, and Napoleon is back in Rome for a job. Because apparently he hates himself, he stays at the Plaza, room 807. It’s been nearly two years since that fateful day when he’d picked up the mysterious stranger who would upend his life in the most wonderful and terrible ways possible, and the room hasn’t changed a bit. The same ornate decorations, the same bowl of fruit, the same bedspread that Illya had pressed him into and taken him apart for the very first time. Well, maybe not the same one. They might have ruined that one.

This was a mistake. He’d come here hoping for some kind of closure, to put a bookend on that part of his life and move forward, but instead it’s more like picking a scab. The pain is just as sharp as it had been five months ago, the blood just as thick and hot as it oozes from the wound.

He’s contemplating either drinking the contents of the bar cart or going out to find company for the first time in two years—perhaps both—when there’s a knock at the door. He assumes it must be one of the hotel staff, because no one else would be visiting him, so he calls out for them to come in. Instead, the knock sounds again, as if they don’t have a key. With a sigh, Napoleon drags himself over to the door and pulls it open, then finds himself paralyzed when he sees who is on the other side.

“Peril?” Napoleon breathes, not sure he’s not imagining him.

Illya stands before him in a dark turtleneck and classic grey slacks, with a bottle of something cradled in his hands and a tiny, hopeful smile on his lips. “Same hotel room,” he says, a little tentatively. “I did not realize you were so sentimental, Cowboy.”

“What are you doing here?”

Illya’s smile falters, and Napoleon hates it, but he also can’t afford to let himself jump to conclusions. Sure, things look promising, but if Illya is just here for one last hurrah, to put things finally, unequivocally, to an end… well, he’s not sure he’d survive it this time.

“Can I come in?” Illya asks. He hefts the bottle in his hands and holds it out. “Brought a bottle of very nice Scotch. It would be a shame to drink it alone.”

Something clenches in Napoleon’s chest. “Ok,” he agrees as he accepts the whiskey, even though he probably shouldn’t. “Yeah, why not.”

He retreats into the room and heads to the bar for tumblers, trying to ignore the way his hand trembles, just a little, as he pours. The door closes with a soft snick and then Illya is standing behind him, close enough that Napoleon can smell his cologne. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath before he turns back. Illya looks a little off-kilter when Napoleon thrusts a glass into his hand, like he wanted to do something else, but he accepts the drink anyway and takes a sizable sip before almost immediately setting it to the side.

“I never apologized for what happened in Seville.”

“And after?”

Illya flinches, but defiance flickers in his gaze. “You could not have expected any different. Both of us knew this was not supposed to last forever. It was built on not knowing what each other was.”

“If you think that after all this time that I don’t know you—” Napoleon starts hotly.

“Napoleon,” Illya interrupts, his voice soft, and Napoleon abruptly feels like all the air has been knocked out of him at the sound of his name on Illya’s tongue. Moving slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away, Illya reaches up to gently brush his fingers over Napoleon’s cheek. “You are the only one who does.”

Napoleon wants to be stronger, but he can’t resist turning his face into Illya’s palm, can’t keep himself from pressing his lips to the swell of his thumb. That’s all it takes, apparently, because then he’s being pulled into a desperate kiss, and there is no hope on this planet or any other of him not melting into it. Illya kisses him with aching care and tenderness, with a softness that shouldn’t be possible, the kind of kiss that Napoleon would call a declaration if he didn’t know better. He’s missed this so much, and for a moment he just lets himself get lost in it, in the feeling that, finally, he is whole again.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s not whole, and he won’t be whole again if this goes the way he assumes it will.

Napoleon forces himself to pull back and takes a deep, shuddery breath before he looks up at Illya again. “What are we doing, Illya?” he asks, searching his eyes for answers he both hopes for and fears. “If this was always meant to end, then why are you here?”

“Because I do not care what this was meant to be. I only care what it is,” Illya says. “I only know that I tried to give you up these past months and it nearly broke me.” He ducks his head to press a gentle kiss to Napoleon’s lips as he threads his fingers into his curls. “I am in love with you, Napoleon, and I finally understand that nothing matters more than that.”

“Oh,” Napoleon breathes, stunned. “What about the KGB?”

“I did not say it would be easy,” Illya cautions, “but KGB will not be forever. This is forever, for me.” At that, his expression goes cautious. “If it is for you.”

“I think it always was,” Napoleon confesses. “Ever since I left that very first message.“

It is Illya’s turn to look stunned. “Since the beginning?”

“Yeah,” Napoleon confirms, “the whole time. It’s the truth!” he adds with a laugh when Illya narrows his eyes in playful suspicion.

“Have you ever considered covert intelligence? You would make good spy, Cowboy.”

“I may not be particularly patriotic, but I’m not defecting, darling.”

Illya lets out a huff at him, shaking his head. “Not KGB,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate until Napoleon quirks a questioning eyebrow at him. “I was approached after recent mission by former British Naval Intelligence. He wants to start independent agency. Spirit of international cooperation or something like that.”

“Will do you it?”

“Maybe,” Illya shrugs. “You should meet him.”

“You really think he’d want to recruit an art thief?” Napoleon asks skeptically. It’s almost laughable to think about: him, a spy. Giving up a lucrative, if illegal, career and going straight. Well, straight-ish. Somewhat astoundingly, he is actually thinking about it, though. After all, if it meant they could be together all the time, rather than subsisting on stolen moments… well, that’s hardly a choice at all.

“I think you would be surprised, Cowboy,” Illya tells him, a carefully encouraging expression on his face.

“But what if I absolutely hate working with you, Peril?” Napoleon teases. “You are always complaining that I talk too—mmphf!”

His words are interrupted as Illya drags him into a kiss—one of his favorite methods of shutting him up—but even as he gives himself over to the delicious pleasure of it again, the thought lingers in the back of his mind: maybe, just maybe, Illya might be on to something.

#whumptober2022 #no.25 #you better start talking #the man from u.n.c.l.e.#fic #napollya #tmfu #napoleon x illya #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin #the man from uncle #tmfu fic #napollya fic #my fic

47 notes · View notes

set-phasers-to-whump · 2 years

Text

hair's breadth from death

prompt: gun to temple, "say goodbye"

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi! here's another tmfu fic for today, hope you enjoy!

His partners are being held by four heavily armed guards. They’re unharmed for the moment, but the guns pressed to their sides make it clear how quickly this could change.

Illya, meanwhile, is facing them. He is on his knees and there’s a pistol pressing into his temple so hard that he can feel himself starting to bleed.

For once in his life, he is truly overpowered. The man holding him at gunpoint is taller and wider than him, and, as Illya had learned when he’d tried to fight him off, stronger. The man is horribly impressive. In the right hands, he’d be a powerful asset.

Unfortunately, he’s a Nazi. Who is intent on killing Illya and forcing his partners to watch him die. Illya has been threatened with having to watch them die if he tries to escape again. He knows that this guy means it, too. He’ll trade his life for theirs. He always knew that he’d go out at the wrong end of a gun, anyway.

He keeps looking at his partners as the suspense reaches a near painful intensity. Gaby is silently crying. There is an awful mixture of fear and anger on Solo’s face. It will be okay, he wants to tell them. You will have each other. Thank you, he might also add.

The guards stand there, immobile and expressionless. Then, just for a second, one of them makes eye contact with him, and there’s something there. It startles him, but then the moment passes. The guard’s face becomes blank again.

“Say goodbye,” commands the man holding the gun. Illya says nothing. He just looks at his partners and hopes that they can read what’s on his face, on his mind.

There’s a click. The sound reverberates through his head. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and bang.

The shot echoes, becomes hundreds of shots, so loud that every other noise disappears. Everything goes white. He falls to the ground and wonders whether dead people usually feel the ground when they hit it.

And then -

Then nothing. He’s conscious, sort of. He is aware of his own existence, but he can’t see anything. There are sounds, but nothing distinct. He wonders where he is. He never believed in an afterlife, but what else can this existence after death be?

“Illya, open your eyes.”

He doesn’t process the words at first, has no idea where they’re coming from.

“Открой глаза,” the words repeat, insistently. He understands them, but doesn’t know what they mean. Does he even have eyes anymore?

He supposes he must. He tries opening them and finds that this works exactly the same way as it used to.

He’s staring up at no one other than Napoleon Solo. And everything hits him like a ton of bricks.

He sits up so fast that it makes him dizzy, blinking in the harsh light.

“I am alive,” he says, the English muddled in his head but clear on his tongue. “Or else you are dead.”

“You were right the first time,” says Solo. “And as much as we’d all like to continue this little philosophical chat, we really need to go.”

Before Illya can fully process what that means, he’s being hauled to his feet and then they’re walking out of the same dilapidated old warehouse that he’d been in before, and in fact that he’s been in the entire time.

And then they’re outside and it’s pitch dark and he realizes that his head is bleeding. The side of his face is sticky with it and the pain is distant but present. He listens, for lack of anything else to do. No one is speaking to him, not right now, but there are three voices where there should be two.

Illya puts the pieces together as the group hustles through the back alleys of Ankara.

He’d caught the briefest glimpse of the mysterious third speaker inside of the warehouse, under the blinding lights. He is fairly certain that the man had been one of the guards holding Gaby and Solo hostage - the one who’d looked at him for that brief second.

Extrapolating from that, he concludes that this guard had fired the first shot he’d heard, probably at the man who’d been about to kill Illya. Following that, he guesses that the guard had turned on his fellow guards, probably with the help of Gaby and Solo. That would explain all of the other gunshots he’d heard. Then there’s the blood, which he now recalls had been present before the gunshots. It’s from the barrel of the gun pressing to his head, that’s all.

Everything is fine.

They end up back at their safehouse on the outskirts of the city, and Illya finds himself in the small living room, seated on the couch between his partners and across from the guard who’d saved their lives.

“I’m CIA,” he is explaining. “Soon to be ex-CIA, I imagine.”

As the man continues to speak, Solo turns Illya’s head towards him with a hand that is gentler than Illya thinks it should be. He begins wiping the blood off of Illya’s face with a damp cotton ball. It stings, and it’s something Illya should be doing himself. He does not need someone else to clean up a little blood.

He lets Solo continue, anyway.

“- and I’ve been with this cell about a week, not learning much of anything and wishing I had the balls to disobey orders and just kill these sons of bitches, when all of a sudden we’re getting dragged out of bed in the middle of the night and there you are. And I’m under orders not to make myself known under any circumstances, but I can’t let them kill you. So I didn’t. And for that I assume I’ll be out of a job.”

He shrugs as he says this, like it isn’t a big deal, like he hasn’t just saved three lives in direct disobedience of CIA directives. Illya is - impressed? Disbelieving? Jealous? He settles for grateful. At least for now.

Part of him doesn’t trust the man - not that he’d ever trust anyone this quickly, no matter what they’d done - but he and Solo have apparently met before. So Solo trusts him, which is good enough.

Speaking of Solo - he’s finished with his cotton ball but his hand is still on Illya’s face. He’s just kind of looking at him, which Illya finds more than a bit odd.

And then Solo is grabbing him, wrapping arms around him, and Gaby is doing the same from his other side and it startles him for a second and then is simply confusing.

Their guard coughs, and Illya’s face is currently buried in Solo’s shoulder but he can hear his footsteps quietly receding out of the room. And then the only thing there is is them.

The thought finally hits him that he’d almost died today. And yes, he’s frequently almost dying and is very much used to being in constant danger. But the danger has rarely felt so imminent. Not to mention it had involved his partners. They’d almost died, too. But they hadn’t, and he hadn’t, either. They’re all still alive.

He returns their embrace, and the three of them sit there like that for a very long time.

thanks for reading!!!! i know this was a bit light on the whump but rest assured illya has lots more pain coming his way over the next few weeks <3 hope you enjoyed and love u!

#whumptober2022 #no.3 #gun to temple #say goodbye #the man from uncle #illya kuryakin #fic #i say things #my writing #at gunpoint #cared for #also shoutout my random cia dude i had fun with him :)#anyway i had such a long day today ughhhh but now i can chill. at 10:30 pm. the pain of being a college student with Commitments

15 notes · View notes

voidselfshipp · 3 years

Text

I dont have a title for this

Quick fic abt me,illya and napoleon from the Man from u.n.c.l.e

Ok to rb

Cw: mentions of anxiety,picking at lips and bleeding.

Napoleon and illya stood there at the entrance of a popular bar around the us,theyd been assigned a quick but important mission, and their New coworker for this mission is waiting inside that bar.

They enter looking around for her,there she was,at the back, glasses slightly fogged up by the steam coming off her tea.

Jerico was sitting lost in her own thoughts, concentrated on her drink.

A sudden burst of energy snap her out of her thoughts indicating Someone was close to her

--miss von terra--napoleon said, kissing her knuckles

--oh well, hello--she said with a soft smile, stopping napoleons hand from taking off her bracelet.

Nobody had quicker reflects as hin,except her, illya sits, with a huge grin on his face-- not a good look on you mister Solo-, trying to show off?

The american Turned to his russian companion who looked away, he then sat and shrugged--just testing you...

--uh huh--jeri hummed handing them a file-- here you go gentlemen,ill be seeing you back at the hotel, zuwiromoh, xazyyzannevimoh~, (night, gentlemen)

She left the money for her drink and took her purse walking exiting the bar, the night Sky was clear, Air currents started to blow,the walk home would be long.

The men were left to their own devices, wich would result into a bit of trouble the Next day.

Loud noises and two men arguing woke jerico up, the woman jumps out of bed in her silk green pijamas, her hands seemed to glow bright green, barely being able to hit something she missed her targets.

--woah!--napoleon said--you almost kill Us!

Jerico scowled recognizing the voice--well you guys just let yourselves in, im allowed to defend myself...

--we uh , we didnt meant to wake you--illya added.

The slightly transparent fabric shone as the morning sun hit it, it made her look even more beautiful, the men there thought.

--gentlemen eyes up here, gracias--(thank you)-- jer Walked to the kitchen grumbling insults.

Napoleon shook his head and went back to work with illya marking the sightings of their target in a map laid on the round table.

Jer Ate her breakfast alone in the kitchen, sighijg she then went back to her room, changing her clothes to more presentable ones.

She gets carried away though, the morning Sky was prettier than she remembered.

She lets out a handfull of air leaning on the Windowsill, softly humming to herself.

--What is she doing?-- the russian Man asked, his companion shruggs and both go peek behind her door.

Her foot trapped as she sang -- give her sunshine

Give her pleasure all the while

Turn her thoughts from clouds of Gray

Give her strenght to face each day....--the russian tugged at the americans vest signaling its better to leave her alone.

However the american refuses, as he takes a closer look entering her room and leaning on the drawer.

-- give her laughter,be her friend

Stay besides her till the end

But,in giving all else above,

Dont forget to give her love

But,in giving all else above,

Dont forget to give her love...--as jerico finished singing napoleon claps,it mades her jump suddenly turning at him.

--nice voice, preciosa (gorgeous)

She scowls Rolling her eyes--no te enseñaron sobre la privacidad nene?, guárdate los cumplidos para las otras (they didnt teach you about privacy dude?save your compliments for the other chicks).

She took her purse, and Walked past illya--anyway we Will be late for our targets meeting in the café right infront of us--she took the map and picked up her cat who was sleeping soundly besides the chimney,the cat hissed as shes put in a purse.

--nice cat--the russian Man said petting the animal--what is her name?

Jeri cooed in her mind seeing this dangerous russian spy melt for a cat, her names Canela

--it means cinnamon In spanish da?

She nodded, Napoleon rolled his eyes and the three of them Walked to the café infront of the hotel.

They all sat in a quiet corner, ordered drinks at sat there.

Anxiously jeri makes her bones pop, picking at the skin of her lips.

--stop that--illya said putting a hand over hers-- youll make your lips bleed

Jer quickly stopped biting her lip looking away-- oh sorry..its just a habit.. a very very bad one

--ive never seen a spy that had anxiety--the american said-- are you alright?, do you want Us to take care of this?

She shook her head-- no no..ill be okay, thanks though

They quietly recorded and listened to their targets conversation.

At this Point illyas hand never left jericos wich made her smile softly, diverting her eyes to the russian Man every once in a while.

When their target left they paid for their drinks and Walked behind them.

As the russian and the terran woman held hands without noticing her free one brushed against the americans.

He played dumb and grabbed her hand too, unaware of this she walks faster almost dragging the two men behind her as the target quickly fastens their steps.

--we'll lose Him come on!

Illya in a divertion throws himself at the taxi the target was about to take

Napoleon follows behind him doing the same.

Jerico is left there to wonder --oh brother--she said amazed--...how are these two still alive?!-- she ran towards them acting all scared.

--Be more carefull!you could have ran them over!--She kneeled besides the two spies, her hands softly held the their hands--my loves! Are you alright?!..

Both men look at eachother surprised then looking back at her nodding.

They stand up--you should be more carefull! I swear my lawyer Will hear about this--Two other spies approached, who acted as cops to detain the driver and the target-- just let me get my hands on him!

--its alright my love!--illya followed her lie--we are alright

--Yes my dear theres nothing to worry about...lets go back home...come on--napoleon took her hand and illya her arm as the three of them walk back to the hotel.

Jeri starts to giggle pulling both men closer to her--nice job guys

Both men smile-- well--napoleon said-- you were great too

--da, very convincing angry Lady

Jeri rolled her eyes and didnt let go of them.

They went back to her room in the hotel, and sat on the sofá talking softly.

The night came and jerico went to change in something more comfortable, the american and the russian spies would Keep working as she decided to go to sleep.

Just as shes about to, Napoleon enters her room--excuse me...

--oh hey, come in-- he approaches her-- whats up?

--you dropped this at the cafe--he handed her a bracelet-- I wanted to give It back--she extended her forearm And he put the Jewerly on,holding her hand afterwards and kissing it.

Jerico giggles grabbing napoleons tie and pulling him down kissing him.

He kisses back hugging her waist.

--Not bad cowboy ...

The Man rolls his eyes kissing her again-- good night dear-- they smile and he leaves her alone.

Laying down on the bed she sighs turning off the lights, she makes herself comfortable as her cat curls up besides her.

Its maybe around midnight when she wakes up, her throat dry as a desert.

Her feet dragged her to the kitchen,serving herself a Cup of water chugging it down in one sip.

She then is going back to sleep,but turns around to see napoleon passed out on the table and illya still half awake.

Jerico sighs sitting besides the russian--to sleep

--nyet...

--illya its late come on

He shakes his head.

Huffing she pulls out the chair, straddling his lap by sitting on it.

--bed. Now.

The Mans cheeks turn bright red and nodds, picking her up by the legs and walking back to the room where they lay on the bed and cuddle togheter.

The russian Man is fast asleep when napoleon decided to join them.

Jeri hugged him from behind pulling him closer-- look who decided to join us

--Well.. I cant help myself with you, something About being in your arms is irresistible to me..

She rolls her eyes kissing the back of his neck--night cowboy

--Night baby

And as illya pulls her closer she falls asleep,feeling secured And happy.

#napoleon//solo #illya//kuryakin #mentions of anxiety tw #anxiety mention #bleeding mention #f/o fic

3 notes · View notes

bleedingandfeverish · 4 years

Text

Glad to See You: After the Chair

I filled this prompt on AO3 years ago, but I made a few edits and hope to keep updating it over time as I learn and grow in whump!

Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Prompt: Takes place immediately after Illya saves Napoleon from The Chair. Sure, he’s able to walk away from it… but that much electricity coursing through your body will definitely cause some lingering problems, like the fact that Napoleon has a hard time catching his breath, is experiencing heart palpitations, chest pain, dizziness, and basically just having a bit of a hard time recovering from the electrical torture he was just put through. Illya is desperate to rescue Gaby but also realizes that his partner isn’t doing so hot either. Cue him being all awkwardly worried and not sure what to do but (surprisingly) not willing to just leave Napoleon behind. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4814813

——————————————————————

He gave a groan as Rudi finally lifted his foot off the pedal, eyes falling shut in exhaustion. He hadn’t signed up for this, and he certainly didn’t have a way to stop the insane man in front of him from torturing him to death. With each jolt of electricity, Solo felt a little bit more of him slip away. The strength of it, the flickering pain throbbing through his veins, was much more than Solo could ever predicted. He was grateful for the moment of rest, even if it meant Rudi was going to start monologuing incessantly again. It was all he could do to try and catch his breath, his chest feeling like someone had lit a flame right on top of it. Of course, twisted man behind the machine knew he could take more and Solo braced himself for it, knowing Rudi was certainly not the merciful type.

Something at the back of his mind was screaming at him to flee, to pull at the restraints that were surely bruising his flesh, but another voice calmly reassured him that since it was fruitless, he had better relax his muscles and hope for the best. After every jolt, he collapsed back the moment he regained control over his limbs, which now had that pins-and-needles feeling to them that was both highly uncomfortable and painful. Beads of sweat escaped from his now disheveled hair, a piercing strike of pain running through his heart after every few breaths. As his chest rose and fell quickly, Solo did his best to look through his dizziness and the irritatingly bright light above his head to focus on the movement in the doorway. A very small spark of relief coursed through him as he thought he saw Peril in the window. His vision began to steady, which immediately made his heart drop: it was just one of Vinciguerra’s henchman, curiously peeking in to see what was happening. Of course it wasn’t Peril. The tree-sized Russian had no idea where he was and would probably only find him once he was burnt to a crisp, if he was even bothering to look for the American at all. He wouldn’t admit to himself how much he’d hoped it had been Peril in that doorway window, but before he could really begin to feel anything else, the man was suddenly pulled out of the window.

Forced down.

By who?

It had to be…. yes, it was! There was his own Illya Kuryakin (Why had he called him ‘his’? He would have to put that aside to be dissected later), watching him carefully through the window with that stupid hat on his head that Solo was now thrilled to see again. Peril had the usual scowl on his face, but even from here Solo could see the hint of determination in his eyes. For the second time in two minutes, a surge of relief coursed through him once more, this time actually lingering and helping him feel at least a bit more capable of outlasting Rudi’s torture. The stubbornness he could see in Illya started to seep into his own veins.

After all, with Illya here, Solo would be out of the chair in no time.

Solo felt like he could take anything now, knowing his rescuer would be getting him out any second now–

Rudi went to press on the peddle again and, knowing what was coming, Solo flinched and groaned, eyes falling shut. He instinctively tightened up and prepared for the electrocution once more, bracing himself for the blinding pain that would render his entire body … but it never came. Solo quietly let out the breath he’d been holding through his open mouth, eyes popping open to find Illya had quietly worked his way into the room. He didn’t want to hear Rudi, see Rudi, or give him any more of his attention than absolutely necessary now that he knew help was here.

And boy, did he need help.

Illya put a finger to his lips, and Solo mentally nodded and outwardly raised an eyebrow. Solo did as he was told for once partly due to Illya’s silent instructions to give no indication of his presence, and partly because he couldn’t physically do anything: he was tied down and spent from the chair’s wrath, drained to his last drop in ways he only ever had been a handful of times in his life.

More talking. Wasn’t Rudi finished already? Couldn’t he feel Illya’s massive frame coming up behind him?

“I never thought I’d say this…” Solo spoke, his voice uneven and betraying him completely as Illya got into position. Even now, with the world spinning before his eyes and his hair far more messy than he tended to keep it, he was still his usual charming self. He would’ve chuckled, had his chest not hurt with every breath. “I’m actually quite pleased to see you.” Illya only had eyes for him for a few moments, carefully looking Solo up and down and seeming rather disgusted at the medieval contraption he was bound to.

“You doing okay, Cowboy?”

—————————————–

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the chair cooked up some fried Rudi before the boys could decide what to do with him, which left Solo and Kuryakin focused on getting out. Illya was doing most of the scouting ahead, eagerly looking for any sign of Gaby and not minding if any other henchmen decided to try and get in his way. He was just about to round a corner when he saw it, out of the corner of his eye: Solo had paused, one hand against the hallway wall and another over his heart.

“Cowboy?”

There was a long pause, long enough for the Russian to feel his heart stutter at the sight of Solo looking so pale. He worried for the briefest of seconds that Solo was going to collapse on him, the man’s eyes glancing up to meet his own but seeming unfocused and distracted.

“’M fine, Peril.”

Solo hadn’t noticed how far back he’d lingered, his feet simply unable to keep up with Peril the way they’d used to. Even just walking at their usual brisk pace was making it hard to catch his breath. Not wanting to bring any attention to the torture he’d just suffered (really, he’d like to forget all about it as soon as possible), Solo quickly put his hands to his side and straightened up as best as he could. Fingers twitched, already eager to make their way back up again, and the American found himself taking much shallower breaths to avoid the pulsing pain that shot through his heart when he filled his lungs. He hadn’t realized how strongly the electricity had trashed his chest, but now was definitely not the time for this. He had to suck it up, get it together: they had to find Gaby.

Illya was still staring curiously at him, and if Solo hadn’t know any better he would have thought Illya was actually concerned about him underneath that rough Russian killer exterior. He shook his head to stop Illya from probing further, taking a deep breath and pushing off from the wall. They shared a look before Illya decided to give his partner the benefit of the doubt and press forward, though he slowed his pace considerably.

Solo dropped his shoulders the moment Illya’s back was turned.

This long day was getting even longer with each passing second, and the weaker man felt fear inch its way into his heart as the adrenaline rush faded.

——————————————

They were nearly out by this point, Solo could just tell by Illya’s impatient strides that they were getting close. Illya was standing at a crossroads in a maze of hallways, glancing down them and making sure they were clear.

“Down this way. Nearly there.” Illya confidently pointed the way down a hallway. He’d been keeping an eye on Solo, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye whenever he thought Solo wasn’t looking. The American had been too preoccupied with the occasional heart palpitations and pain in his chest to really care what Illya was doing, and it was taking everything he had not to ask Illya to just carry him the rest of the way.

“Illya–”

The unexpected use of his first name made the Russian stop and turn immediately to face his partner, but Kuryakin looked down as Solo suddenly clapped his hand down on the taller man’s arm. Confused, then immediately concerned, he turned back towards Solo and looked up at his face (his white-as-a-sheet face, by this point) to find the man was spiraling downwards, and fast. Solo was leaning heavily, unsteadily, to his right and ever closer to the wall with every passing second. Moving quickly, Illya reached for Solo’s other arm as Solo’s shoulder collided with the wall, and continued to keep a firm hold on him as the American pressed his back onto the cool concrete surface. Illya stood resolutely in front of Solo, abandoning all thought of personal space as big eyes watched the American with the focus of a hawk, and he immediately felt it strange that Solo hadn’t given some charismatic comment yet to ease the tension.

He’d called the Russian by his first name. Solo had yet to do such a thing. It gave him an idea of the seriousness of the situation, at the very least.

“What is wrong?” Illya glanced up and down the hallway before turning his full attention back to Solo, his eyes carefully investigating every line and curve of Solo’s face and body for obvious injuries. It was almost unbearable, Solo thought, to stare straight into Illya’s eyes with that high level of attention staring right back, looking at you like you were the only important thing in the entire world. In another circumstance, the unwavering gaze might have even made him roused him to act, in what way he couldn’t clearly say. It was no wonder Gaby seemed to like him so much.

Solo had turned and gently lowered his head back until it was resting on the wall behind him, his eyes fluttering to a close. He was far too pale even for Solo, reaching the point of gray, and that he trusted Illya enough (and felt poorly enough) to close his eyes and rest spoke volumes about his condition. The hand on Illya’s arm began to shake, and suddenly Illya was silently berating himself for believing Solo when he’d said he was fine and for not letting him stop and catch his breath earlier.

Solo silently put a hand to his chest again, and Illya easily deduced from the ragged sounds leaving his mouth that the man was having difficulty breathing. The taller man’s eyes were wide as he stood nearby, ready to catch Solo if he fell but otherwise feeling very much useless. His eyes quickly bounced from the man’s hands to his face and back, waiting for any indication that he could be of further assistance. The American’s breathing wasn’t quite right, as every breath hurt and he couldn’t take a deep enough breath to get enough oxygen to his brain.

“Dizzy,” It was all Solo could wheeze out, as it was really the dizziness that had knocked him back into the wall and was making it difficult to walk a straight path. Now that he was against something solid, cold, soothing against his back, he was already starting to feel better. It helped to ground him, a furrowed brow and beads of sweat as hi hairline proof of how hard Solo was working just to keep himself upright.

“What can I do?” Illya paused for a moment before he spoke, unsure if there was really anything that he could do besides actually pick up and carry Solo out of there. They had only just begun to work with each other, but already Illya could feel himself growing attached to the annoying American with the smart mouth. Not that he would ever in a million years admit it, but it was the reason for his sudden pang of fear at the completely exhausted look on Solo’s face.

“It’s fine, I’m fine. Go.” Solo had cracked his eyes open just a sliver, barely enough to see Illya’s worried face from underneath his hat. Illya could plainly see that the man’s legs were barely holding him up at this point, bent and trembling. “I just… need a minute. I’ll be right behind.” There was a breathless note in Solo’s rough voice, something more there scratching away at him. Illya again glanced down the hallways, thankful no one had yet come to stop them. He could easily take Solo’s advice, scout ahead and look for Gaby, perhaps come back for him later…

The thought made him extremely uncomfortable, and that was just the thought of it.

“No. I will wait. Splitting up: bad idea.”

Solo actually opened his eyes then, feeling better now that he was able to stop and take a breather. Illya looked slightly uncomfortable and very concerned, and seemed unsure of where to stand or keep his hands.

Another heart palpitation rippled through him then, just as he was about to speak, and from his open mouth came a small cry of pain instead of words. Illya, still completely unsure of what to do, kept a firm hold on Solo’s arm and squeezed it slightly, reassuring him that he was still there. There was nothing he could physically fix here, no bandages that needed to be applied: Solo just needed the kind of rest that they wouldn’t be able to get here. As the adrenaline rush from the torture wore off and they asked more of Solo’s body, so the symptoms became worse, though Illya hoped they would begin to wane once Solo had a chance to rest.

Napoleon desperately wanted to slide down the wall, to have a seat on the floor and stay there for hours until his chest stopped hurting so much. The shaking in his legs wasn’t nearly as bad as his hands, but it was a torture all over again to force himself to remain upright even when every inch of him fought to give up right then and there. He’d truly tried his best to relax during his time in the chair, knowing that the tenser his muscles were, the worse he would feel afterwords. However, knowing and doing were two very different things. After telling Illya to go, he realized just how much he’d preferred having the man stay next to him, just in case: Illya was the world’s angriest mother bear when it came to certain things, and Solo knew the man could protect him through hell itself if he felt so inclined to.

“Mmm.” He’d clenched his eyes shut again at the most recent palpitation, and opened them again now as he felt his chest pain beginning to fade. No doubt it would return, but being able to take a breather really had helped tremendously. Illya was still watching him nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and it almost made Solo laugh with how awkward Illya could be sometimes. Illya had yet to see Solo in such a debilitated state, even though Solo had been the one to practically save his life back when he’d flipped the boat and nearly drowned. Illya’s presence alone had been the most helpful thing, though Solo knew the man was one of action and it was a miracle he had gotten him to stand so still for this long.

“Alright,” Solo sighed, standing up a bit straighter and trying to focus on Illya’s face to shake off the last pangs of dizziness. His problems would have to wait: there was a mission at stake here, and possibly Gaby’s life. He reached out to give Illya’s arm a pat, still feeling just a bit like he had a car sat on top of his chest. “Let’s go.” Solo gave Illya a nod, setting his lips and pushing himself off the wall as best he could.

Illya returned the nod only after a moment, making sure to give him one last look up and down before deciding that Solo was ready. It was a look of knowing much more was to come, but there was nothing they could do about it but push through. Illya stepped out of his way, unsure of how much assistance the great charming Napoleon Solo wished from him. Although they quietly let go of each other’s stable arm support when Solo began walking, Illya silently made sure to keep his arm at an easily-reachable distance to Solo at all times.

It was as they were making their way back down the hallway again, with Solo standing up just a bit straighter and his hand no longer squeezing his chest for mercy, that Solo really appreciated the partnership and Illya’s presence. That was his little secret, of course.

“Thank you, Peril.”

“Don’t die on me now, Cowboy.”

50 notes · View notes

olderthannetfic · 4 years

Text

The Cost of Warnings

I see the “CNTW is evil” debate is going around again. I agree with the usual pro-CNTW arguments, like those laid out by @road-rhythm here.

My big picture summary is that we wrote the AO3 rules to be pretty good for a lot of people. We did not write them to be perfect for anyone, much less everyone.

Like that other post mentions, compromise is both desirable and inevitable.

There are a few points that I feel routinely get left out by people who hate CNTW. The big ones are these:

1. Warning as Genre

First, warnings don’t just tell you what’s in the story. They imply quite a lot about how that thing is. ‘Noncon’ tends to imply a standard rape recovery fic where the bottom is traumatized. It doesn’t literally mean that and it doesn’t have to mean that, but this is what it generally does mean in fandom.

I write fluffy fics, making the warning tonally dissonant. I also tend to write fics where the "aggressor” is the one who is traumatized.

I tag fics with whatever more specific tags I think are relevant like ‘Consensual Snuff’ + ‘Under-negotiated Kink’ on a Deadpool fic where Deadpool is totally fine with what’s going on, but Cable is freaking the fuck out. Frankly, I do think there’s a bunch of noncon in that fic, but it’s all the top getting mindfucked and the bottom not understanding boundaries.

In fact, the majority of my CNTW fics are that:

Jeeves freaks out about his badwrong sadistic tendencies. Bertie is cheerfully enthusiastic. Bad guys made them do it.

Crowley goes all feral on Aziraphale. Only afterwards, while Crowley is freaking out, is it revealed that he was set up to hurt him by the villains. Pity for them Aziraphale is too kinky to torture.

Connor mindfucks Gavin Reed into topping.

Hooker steals a drugged drink to save Gondorff, then finds himself hired as a... well... hooker, while too doped to stand on his own. Not that he’s complaining.

Alejandro arrives in search of violent revenge. This is straight up Too Kinky To Torture fic.

Illya’s been drugged and is feeling violent. Napoleon doesn’t mind at all but doesn’t bother to say so. Illya misreads the situation.

Comedic were-jaguar noncon bestiality where Jensen is like “Get him off me” and Aisha is like “Do you want me to shoot him? What am I supposed to do here?”

Et cetera.

2. The Purpose of Fic

So why don’t I just give detailed warnings on the fics themselves then?

It’s simple: these fics have plots, and I want you to have emotions while reading them, but... they’re also porn.

They are porn for you to masturbate to.

I find detailed author’s notes about the exact flavor of noncon or dubcon in a fic to be a gigantic lady-boner-killer. x100 if there’s any note of any kind like “This would be bad in real life”. PSAs are a mood-killer for me, both as a writer and as a reader. Not everyone is like this, but I am far from alone.

I’m certainly not going to clutter up my porn with things that ruin the entire point of the fic.

3. Different Media Types

I also have a bunch of stuff labeled ‘CNTW’ that is vids or very old fic.

The reality of AO3 is that it contains more than just fic. For some other media types, I’m not always sure where the line on ‘graphic violence’ is. Or maybe I’m vidding a source that had noncon, but it’s not totally clear in the vid. Or maybe the source had no noncon, but I feel the vid might strike an unfamiliar viewer as though it did.

“Depicted on page” and “depicted on screen” are different. A text description of an overwhelmed, overstimulated character crying often won’t read as noncon where a drawing of the same thing will. “Graphic violence” in text has to be a lot more violent to count than “graphic violence” in live action footage.

CNTW can bridge that gap in expectations between different media types without forcing a warning one finds inappropriate onto an artwork.

4. Historical Preservation

AO3 also has a lot of older, imported work. I have some stories that are either kind of long or in fandoms I now dislike. I have stories I find embarrassing to reread. Some people have hundreds and hundreds of stories to import. AO3 imports whole archives. Even people who prefer to give specific warnings sometimes just don’t have the time.

From a historical preservation perspective, it is crucial to be able to get works onto AO3 without needing to spend an age labeling them. CNTW is a convenient way to do that.

If we had no CNTW, we would save fewer historical fics.

5. The Burden of Labeling

This is the big one for me.

Labeling takes time and thought. You can rail forever about how important it is, but you won’t change that fact.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling blocked, I go write for a kink meme. I never write for ones with elaborate labeling requirements because the whole point is to let the nasty flow, posting as fast as possible.

If I have to stop to think about labels, it inhibits my creativity.

Yeah, you can hate that. Yeah, you can think that a hypothetical stranger’s triggers are more important. You won’t change the fact that:

I genuinely find it inhibiting.

It’s not something I made up as a gotcha: it’s my actual experience as a writer. Just like we would save fewer historical fics if the burden of labeling were higher, we would have fewer off-the-cuff fics. I would also get around to posting fewer of my vids.

Often, I’ll post a kink meme fill or a vid with almost no labeling at first, just to get it up on AO3. Later, when I’m feeling more analytical, I’ll come back and fill out more complete information. (In fact, some of those CNTW vids I just scrolled through could probably use a more specific label... I guess now is that “later”...)

Fanworks are not a professional project. There isn’t an intern in charge of writing blurbs or adding metadata. It’s the main creative person doing their thing alone in the time they have.

Sometimes, asking for more labeling is asking them not to post at all.

#fandom meta

69 notes · View notes

jimmyandthegiraffes · 4 years

Text

“Oh. Very well”: Alexander Waverly in Exploitation and Backstories

Waverly... bothers me. I think he’s a fascinating character and wonderfully portrayed and he’s a very intrinsic element of The Man From UNCLE that makes the show what it is, but he’s deeply and fascinatingly flawed and Damn do I want to talk about that!

Disclaimer: This is all based on my headcanons, not on concrete evidence from the show; I’m just speculating.

Disclaimer 2: I’m going to briefly reference real historical events. I do not intend to go into great detail because the last thing I want to do is to turn these into fuel for fanfiction without at least due respect to the victims of these events and their families. The 1930s and the 1950s were not really that long ago. How and if fandom should treat these kinds of tragedies is another debate, but for now: some events are still with us and I am conscious that while what I’m doing here is having fun with character analysis, not all of this is fiction. I’ve done my best to do what research I can, but if something I’ve said sounds off or disrespectful, please tell me and I will do my best to correct myself.

Waverly gives me the heebiejeebies. Whether it’s his matter-of-fact statement that his agents are expendable, his deceptions and manipulation of them, the fact that he regularly keeps them in the dark in ways that endanger them, or the fact that despite all of this they show him ultimate and unflinching loyalty - something about him throws me off.

Now the things I’m about to say about Napoleon and Illya’s pasts prior to joining UNCLE are headcanon, sometimes with basis in canon, sometimes just pulled out of nowhere for the fun of it or because I thought it fit. They might not, probably don’t, fit everyone’s headcanons. Napoleon and Illya are always shady about their pasts and I’m glad of it - it means we get So Much variety in transformative fandom. There is also a point to me getting into Napoleon and Illya’s backstories in order to talk about Waverly, and I will get to it.

I headcanon Napoleon as the only child of a fairly well off family. We know his grandfathers may have been an admiral and an ambassador respectively, although of course taking Napoleon’s word on anything is risky business. For the sake of argument, though, I’m going to say that’s canon. Napoleon is likeable and has a lot of friends. He does okay in school, but not well enough, I don’t think. He’s sporty and popular but not overly academic. He doesn’t go to college (this is arguably disputable; he states in Cherry Blossom that he threw the javelin in college - but I think that’s just him talking nonsense to get attention from girls. Pretty standard for Napoleon really!), or if he does go to college, he drops out and joins the army. I think Napoleon lying about his age in order to join up is so believably something he would do. He’s young, overconfident and desperate for a cause. We see in Secret Sceptre how he’s clung to Morgan’s ideals and assurance that the cause they’re fighting for is just, and how distraught he is to learn that his old mentor is not the moral safe ground he thought. How this must lead Napoleon to revisit his time in Korea with a new perspective - one of corruption and greed and futility! He wants reassurance that he’s doing, has done, the right thing. It’s an insecurity he masks well, but it’s there. I’d argue you can see it again in Seven Wonders of the World, for example, and even throughout season 4: war is never over, good never triumphs fully, good and evil are not black and white, how do we know that our ideals are the right ones?

I headcanon that Napoleon met his wife before he left for Korea, although I don’t think they were married until after he returned. They were both too young to get married; Napoleon in particular is immature and impulsive. Napoleon’s family did not approve. Still, I think that for what time they had together they were very poor and very happy. Whether this would have lasted, who knows? I headcanon that she died in a car crash, and that Napoleon wasn’t there when it happened. He’s home from a war he never understood, he’s full of grief and guilt, and his life is not what he thought it was going to be. What a time for Waverly to appear, to tell him that there is a concrete Good and Evil and that there are Good Guys and Bad Guys, that there’s a simple cause and Napoleon can find a career in joining it. Napoleon’s not stupid - but it’s not going to be hard at this stage in his life for Waverly to make UNCLE sound like a godsend.

How Waverly gets hold of Illya in my headcanon is if anything more unsettling. He’s born into genocide and famine, and I headcanon that he was 8 when his parents died. That he lived with a Romani family is also firmly set in fanon for many and has some good canon basis and I very much subscribe to that. What his childhood was like is frequently speculated and I haven’t come to too many conclusions myself but it’s safe to say that Illya’s childhood has taught him to be resourceful, self-reliant and wary of close connections. So he goes to Cambridge, does his Masters, does his PhD., goes back to the USSR and joins the Navy, then somehow goes from the Navy to UNCLE (in an implausibly short space of time). That’s not my concern here - what I am interested in is how his transfer from the Soviet branch of UNCLE to the New York HQ is effected.

To me, Illya is a gay character. I’d go so far as to say he’s coded as such, even if not deliberately. I won’t go into detail about that because I could write a whole post about it I think. Somehow, I think he is outed during his time with the Soviet UNCLE branch; this puts him in danger. He’s a good agent - one of their best - Waverly will have heard of him. Where Beldon fits into all this I’m not quite sure, because I got so carried away with making these headcanons that I forgot about him! But I’m sure he fits in somewhere. But I digress. UNCLE in the USSR are at a loss what to do with Illya: they can’t keep him, but he’s too valuable an asset to lose. It’s like Christmas has come early for Waverly! I’m sure he can’t get in there fast enough, to say oh well I can take him off your hands, there’s an opening in Research here in New York, or something along those lines. Maybe Illya is sent to Beldon first; but I do think Beldon and Waverly are in cahoots about getting Illya over to the USA. They probably fight over him a bit; he’s highly qualified, has excellent Survival School records, can pull the Weirdest stunts, speaks God knows how many languages.

Illya is undoubtedly in a terrifying situation; not only is his career on the line, but potentially his life as well. I don’t think anyone at the New York UNCLE branch knows he’s An Homosexual, barring Waverly (and Napoleon, eventually, of course) - but this places Waverly in a position of extreme power over Illya - and yet how can Illya be anything but loyal to this benefactor? Illya knows he is in Waverly’s debt, and that his entire position depends on Waverly’s discretion. Illya had been in danger; communications were made from East to West and back again, strings were pulled, and Illya has been quickly and quietly removed from the USSR and joined the ranks of Waverly’s remarkably devoted base of agents. It’s a win-win-win situation: Illya is saved from awkwardness at best and physical danger at worst and has a chance to put his talents as an Enforcement Agent to better use; the Soviet UNCLE folks have got rid of their outed gay agent without a scandal; Waverly has a shiny new agent. And sure, then Illya is partnered with Napoleon, everyone lives happily ever after.

But it’s Waverly’s motives that bother me; I can only speak about Illya and Napoleon because we don’t know much about any other agents, but he’s taken them both at times of great vulnerability and placed them undeniably in his debt. He’s indoctrinated Napoleon with his own ideals at a time when Napoleon was desperate for ideals, and he’s placed himself in a position of power over Illya by being his sole rescuer. He’s effectively secured both their loyalties. On a scale of Albus Dumbledore to Harold Dobey, Alexander Waverly is firmly up there with Dumbledore.

I don’t believe UNCLE is an ideologically pure organisation. I’m sure it was started with the best of intentions, but its entire motive runs on one perspective of right vs. wrong. World peace is a worthy goal - I’m sure it’s what Napoleon signed up for when he joined. But Waverly is a hard-moulded spy left over from the war. Espionage to him is uncompromising; he’ll do anything, and sacrifice anything, for the cause. For what he sees as right. He sees no need to bother his agents with trivial details: all they need to know, as is frequently demonstrated in the show (I’m thinking very much of Foxes and Hounds and Deep Six here but there are many many other examples), is what their orders are. Any superfluous information is unnecessary. He keeps them in the dark, hides, lies, deflects.

When Napoleon comes to Waverly in Concrete Overcoat, he almost has to beg for his partner’s life; Illya is collateral damage in Waverly’s plan, and Napoleon’s faith in the man is, in my opinion, irreparably damaged. When Napoleon is reported dead, by his partner of four years, in The Maze Affair, Waverly’s response is first one of shock, and then one of mild inconvenience.

“Oh. Very well,” he says.

#tl;dr. waverly's agents are tools to him and if they get hurt its collateral #did u guess that i dont like waverly much??#no fr i think he's a great character #mfu #the man from uncle #meta #alexander waverly #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin

14 notes · View notes