#┆█ ✦ – ⊰ illya kuryakin. ⊱ (starter)

[joyfulmagic]

open to established ships // muse: illya kuryakin; v: tbd

"Keep eye contact with me," Illya instructed, holding their face steady so they could more easily maintain their gaze. "I'm here, and you're safe with me," he promised them, leaning in gently to press his forehead to theirs.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

in the dark of this place, there's the glow of your face

prompt: nightmares

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi hello! this fic is a bit pre-ot3 but doesn't have to be read that way. hope you enjoy!! (title from ya hey by vampire weekend)

It isn’t often that all three of them end up sleeping in the same hotel room. For the sake of their covers, they are usually split between two rooms, sometimes even three. 

But not this time. For reasons that had sounded suspiciously to Napoleon like budget cuts, on this mission, he finds himself sharing a cramped, cheap hotel room with both Illya and Gaby. 

No big deal. Sure, he’d prefer something a little more luxurious, but when push comes to shove, there’s hot water for the shower and a thick comforter for the bed. 

Of which there is only one. 

Granted, it’s an almost unreasonably large bed, but Napoleon foresees…problems. Problems in the form of Illya. 

Napoleon and Gaby can share a bed, no problem. Sure, Gaby kicks a little, but she doesn’t take up a lot of space and she’s a heavy sleeper. This means Napoleon can spread out a little bit, and if he accidentally kicks her, she won’t wake up. 

Illya, however. Napoleon has never shared a bed with him. It’s not the most practical thing, seeing as how neither of them is what one might call small. Somehow, though, Napoleon thinks that even if there had been a mission where the two of them could have comfortably fit in the same bed, Illya would have found some way to avoid it. Probably he would insist upon taking a couch, or the floor. Napoleon and Gaby have both learned that Illya is generally wary of physical closeness when it isn’t strictly necessary. 

Napoleon gets it, really, but also - well, also, he’d kind of really like to be physically close to Illya right now, and he’s sure Gaby feels the same. For starters, it’s freezing outside, and Illya is warm. Plus, this bed, for reasons unknown to man, is massive, and can definitely fit all three of them reasonably comfortably. There’s no reason why any of them should have to suffer the discomfort of not sleeping in it.

He shares a look with Gaby that passes over Illya and the bed, and they come to an unspoken agreement. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” Napoleon announces. 

“I’m going to sleep,” Gaby replies. “Come on, Illya, the bed’s big enough for both of us.”

Contrary to Napoleon, Gaby has shared a bed with Illya before. Napoleon figures this means he’s likely to agree to it again, especially considering that there is no couch for him to offer to take. 

“What about -” Illya asks, turning towards Napoleon, who is lingering in the bathroom doorway. Napoleon shuts the door a little louder than is necessary and feigns obliviousness. 

“It’s what he gets for taking a shower,” Napoleon hears Gaby respond. “He can take the floor.” Napoleon shakes his head, smiles, then turns on the water. 

Twenty minutes later, he emerges from a pleasantly warm shower into a pleasantly dark room. He can make out the shapes of his partners in the bed - Illya on the left side, curled up into himself like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible, and Gaby lying on her side next to him, facing Napoleon. Her eyes are open and in the faint moonlight that filters through the curtains, Napoleon sees her grin. 

She’s left him plenty of room, of course, and he wastes no time in climbing into the bed beside her. The bedframe squeaks slightly as he moves, but Illya, evidently already asleep, shows no signs of being disturbed. Napoleon gets comfortable under the blanket, relishing in the warmth of its fabric and of his partners’ presence. 

“Goodnight,” he whispers to the silence. 

“Goodnight,” Gaby whispers back. 

--

Napoleon wakes up confused. It’s pitch black and everything is still and quiet, the only sound his partners’ breathing. But he’s awake, so something must be wrong. 

Something is wrong. He sits there quietly for less than a minute before he discovers the problem. 

Illya. His breathing isn’t right. It’s strained, almost. Painfully controlled. Unnatural. 

Napoleon reaches carefully across a sleeping Gaby to put a hand on Illya’s shoulder. 

As soon as Napoleon’s palm makes contact with his shoulder, Illya shoots bolt upright with a sort of choked shout, his controlled breaths becoming heaving pants. He looks around frantically, and Napoleon carefully crawls around Gaby’s curled-up form until he’s crouched by her feet, inches away from Illya. 

“Hey,” he whispers, not daring to touch his partner yet. “Hey, you’re okay.”

Illya looks at him without really seeing him, his eyes wide in the darkness. He’s shaking, Napoleon realizes. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Napoleon has never seen him like this before. 

Everything feels fragile, like if Napoleon does one thing wrong then it’s all going to shatter. He faces a moment of horrible indecision and almost painful concern, and then Gaby stirs next to him and sits up, rubbing her eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. 

Illya starts, like he’d had no idea that she was there. He turns his head to look at her, and then just as quickly looks away. He brings his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them, and presses his face to them. He’s still shaking. 

“It’s okay, it’s just Gaby,” Napoleon says quietly. 

“I’m here,” Gaby confirms, blinking slowly. “What is it?”

Illya shows no signs of hearing either of them. He just sits there, wrapped around himself. Gaby looks at Napoleon. He looks back at her. Neither of them really knows what to do. 

But they can’t sit like this forever. Not when Illya is there and clearly hurting. They have to do something. 

Napoleon is the first to break the stillness. He puts a hand on Illya’s shoulder again, cautious as anything, and when Illya doesn’t startle and he isn’t pushed away, he moves a little closer, extending his arm across Illya’s back. He rubs his hand in small circles on Illya’s shoulder blade and whispers, “it’s okay.”

Gaby moves to sit next to Napoleon. She very gently touches Illya’s hands, clasped around his knees. After a second, she pulls one hand free and laces their fingers together. Illya does not resist. 

“We’re here,” Gaby whispers. 

They sit like this for what might be a few minutes or what might be an hour. Time doesn’t have much meaning in a dark, quiet hotel room in the middle of the night. 

Eventually, Illya relaxes. Not much, but he mostly stops shaking, and he sits up a little bit, raising his head from his knees, turning ever so slightly to look at them. 

Even in the dark, Napoleon can see that his eyes are bloodshot. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat that has since dried. He looks miserable. Small. Exhausted. 

Afraid. 

Afraid like - hell. Not like the kind of afraid that comes from a nightmare, no matter how scary it might be. The kind of afraid that comes from crossing a line. The kind of afraid that asks, is everything going to fall apart because of this?

Napoleon knows this kind of afraid. Knows that, especially in their business, the answer to this question is very often yes. 

But the answer doesn’t always have to be yes. In this case, it certainly isn’t. 

Everyone gets nightmares, especially field agents. It’s a fact of life. Nightmares - fear, grief, pain - don’t mean that you’re a bad agent. They just mean that you’re still human, underneath the training, underneath the words drilled into your head. 

Napoleon can guess what those words sound like to Illya. Probably they sound something like the words that used to echo in Napoleon’s own head, the words he’d struggled to push aside for a long time before he’d felt comfortable with the actual truth - that feeling things is not a sign of anything more or less than being a person. 

He’d like to explain all of this to Illya, to tell him that there is next to nothing in the world that would make either him or Gaby ever leave. But that’s a conversation for another time. For now, he simply brushes Illya’s hair away from his forehead, gently squeezes him from the side, and tugs him downwards. 

Gaby, understanding Napoleon’s movements in that instinctual sort of way that the three of them often do, clambers over to Illya’s other side, so that he ends up lying down between them. Gaby and Napoleon each grab hold of one of his hands, as a way of grounding him to the present, as a way of reassuring him that neither one of them is going anywhere. 

“We’ve got you,” Napoleon whispers, and he hopes that Illya knows they mean it in more ways than one.

thanks for reading! i hope you liked it <3

[grimoireweavers]

Inside the Mind

          { plotted starter for Seb and Illya ;; @ataash }

♞—-» STEM was...

Fuck, Sebastian didn’t even know how to describe STEM at all. During his time in this impossible world, he’d come across documents, journal entries, and taped recordings that offered some insight on what was going on in this nightmare and why the nightmare even existed in the first place. It helped Sebastian understand that this was some sort of experiment that took its subjects to a different plain of existence, almost like a reality within a reality.

In truth, it sort of reminded him of the movie Inception. A silly thing to compare real life to, but a comparison that he couldn’t really overlook either, because the further he moved through the ever-changing and contorting environments that seemed to make no logical sense, Sebastian very much felt as if he were moving from one dream to another, further and further down until the possibility arouse that he would never be able to come back.

Letting such thoughts grab hold of him in such a way, though, brought about feelings of hopelessness. What was the point in fighting if he didn’t understand what was going on in the first place and had no real way out of the dark at all? It would be much easier to give himself over to the corruption that seemed to infect anyone who dared to brave the false-reality. He’d even watched as the corruption appeared and took root in his best friend and partner, Joseph Oda.

Yes, his relationship with Joseph had been strained as of late. Ever since Lily’s death and Myra’s disappearance after numerous attempts to convince Sebastian that Lily was alive, Sebastian’s reliance on alcohol as a means to cope grew worse and worse. Sebastian wasn’t oblivious to his problems, as many people who spoke about why Myra ran off and disappeared wrote off Sebastian’s worries and suspicions around her disappearance as her having enough of his shit. They often blamed him for chasing her off, since they both dealt with the grief of Lily’s death in their own ways and Sebastian “couldn’t be there for Myra because he was too worried about drowning his own sorrows in a liquor glass.”

The opposite, in fact, was true. Myra kept spouting off insane conspiracy theories over Lily’s death, even going as far as to claim she was still alive. She never provided Sebastian with proof and instead of sounding able-minded, she sounded crazy. Sebastian believed in the only thing they could do. Accept Lily’s death. Grieve. Deal with their loss together. Move forward. They had to accept reality before they could ever even begin to heal and as much as it pained him to say such, it’s what Myra needed to hear. Myra never listened and the further she pushed into her crazy ramblings about Lily still being alive, it drove a wedge between them. How could it not? She wouldn’t listen to him. She was picking at the wound and letting it fester and he could do nothing to stop her.

Myra ran off without him, likely to follow these leads about their daughter that she never actually shared with him, and no one would listen to him. Because it was his fault, his drinking, and his attempts to cope with the most horrific thing that could happen to a parent. Everyone thought so. He suspected that even Joseph thought so, despite how many times he reassured Sebastian that he was on his side.

Joseph worried for his friend, Sebastian knew that.

But Joseph went too far when he actually got their chief involved in Sebastian’s developing drinking problem. Seb never pretended not to have the issue, but it never interfered with work. He didn’t show up to the precinct drunk. He didn’t go on cases and investigations intoxicated. His addiction never stopped him from being efficient and effective, it was only a way to fill the silence of his loneliness when no one else was around to ground him. And Joseph had to go and run his mouth, thinking it would help the detective get better.

How, exactly? That was Sebastian’s question.

The turmoil in their relationship made watching Joseph slowly turn into a monster, reverting first to multiple suicide attempts to keep himself from losing his humanity, to actually turning on him no less horrific, though. Joseph was the one friend Sebastian still had in the world, the one person that would always have his back, and Joseph was just... gone. Boils and protruding veins spread across his flesh and the burning, red hot rage that pulsated in his eyes as he finally turned on Sebastian were not Joseph. Fuck, Seb wasn’t even sure there was anything left of Joseph in there.

And he could feel that same evil bubbling through for him as well... It was inside of him, trying desperately to claw its way out and take control. The longer people stayed inside STEM, the more they became part of STEM, and once they were part of the machine, they would have a roll to fill. Every cog had to spin, and every piece had a part to play. Once you lost yourself, you were nothing more than a cog, nothing more than a tool to keep this plain of reality as real and as authentic as possible.

So, what, again, was the point? Sebastian didn’t know how to navigate this place. The world was always changing. The second he thought he knew where he was going, he would plummet through the ground or be hurled at full force through the sky and land somewhere unrecognizable and foreign. He barely had enough time to navigate that new section before he was tossed somewhere else. A never-ending cycle that always brought about new and dangerous terrains as well as mindless creatures that only registered him as a threat.

The Haunted, as some of the notes he’d found, were the most common. That’s what he assumed happened to Joseph. They seemed to be the most normal form of corruption STEM had over a person who’d been trapped here too long. They were almost zombie-like in the way they moved and rushed people with ravenous hunger, though they didn’t actually appear to have any interest in devouring their victims and their condition didn’t spread by bite ( thank whatever God there might be, honestly ). There were other beings, though, larger, more volatile and hostile. The Keeper, with a safe for a head and the ability to kill itself and respawn from another safe elsewhere, always carrying that awful-smelling sac full of who knew what and a massive meat mallet that could crush the head of a human with one swing. The Sadist, a Haunted that was larger, stronger, and always seemed to be wielding a chainsaw as it’s weapon of choice. The Shiyo, a water monster that Sebastian never really got a good look at because it was always submerged in murky masses, unable to be seen by the naked eye. Laura, Ruvik’s mutated woman with six long, spidery limbs that moved just like a spider would. She was quick and her hands ended in curved talons that could carve flesh from bone.

Ruvik himself, a rather average looking specter who suffered severe burns all over his body. He seemed to linger in the background, pulling the strings, rather than confronting Sebastian himself. He always had an eye on the detective, but he rarely engaged firsthand.

And those were just to name a few of the many opponents Sebastian had to avoid or put down with his small arsenal of collected and modified weaponry. Thank fuck he actually knew how to use most basic firearms. Had a person less skilled than him in survival come into this world, they wouldn’t have lasted long. Which was probably why there were so many Haunted running amuck seemingly everywhere.

He finally found himself in a decrepit city. It looked like Krimson City, the place Sebastian had been born and raised and still lived to this day, but it was difficult to tell with the way the entire city seemed to float over nothing, the ground cracking apart so that anything unfortunate enough to fall into the fissures would cascade into nothingness. Buildings crumbled and sat at odd, unnatural angles, some even leaning so heavily on the building beside them, it was a wonder they didn’t send one another tumbling over like dominos.

Supplies were his top concern. After Joseph’s turning, he’d been completely alone to fend for himself, save for a boy named Leslie that wandered in and out of the picture. Leslie was... not all there. He was almost always accompanied by his doctor, who seemed to act as a carer for him in this world, though why either of them was here, he couldn’t quite discern. He’d run into them both together and separately a few times, and Sebastian had taken Leslie under his wing to protect him twice now, only to have the boy wander off again. Every time Sebastian attempted to follow him, the world would shift, and he would be dumped out into a completely new place. Alone.

Despite his worry, he knew he needed to keep moving, restock, and keep himself alive. He wouldn’t be any good to anyone if he was dead or worse, if he allowed himself to become Haunted. Why he still had the drive to fight and push through when it all seemed to hopeless, he didn’t know. Even if he did make it out of here, what did he have to go back to?

Every time those thoughts crept up, he stubbornly pushed them down and forced himself to take another step. That’s all he could do. Take another step. Step again. And again. Do the next thing, and then the next. It was the only way to navigate and survive a place like STEM, a place that didn’t make sense.

Part of him, a very little part all the way in the back of his mind, had already accepted that he must have snapped, that he’d finally lost it, and that none of this was real. Maybe a really elaborate fever dream? Maybe he was in a coma? Or maybe he’d died and gone to Hell. Sebastian always tried to be the best man that he could be, but he’d sinned enough and hurt enough in his life that if he’d woken up dead in Hell, he wouldn’t even be surprised.

‘Sorry, Mom,’ he kept finding himself thinking.

Finally, he managed to take shelter in a mostly intact office building. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay there long. The Living always had a way of attracting the creatures of STEM, no matter how well they hid, but he’d at least be able to stop, rest for a breather, and hopefully find some supplies that would prove to be useful.

Making his way inside, he rummaged through a few mailboxes and desks in the entryway, finding a couple of spare bullets, a questionable looking syringe filled with a liquid that was so bright, he wondered if it’d glow under blacklight, and a journal entry ripped from its spine. The handwriting was smudged and it was difficult to make out, but it said something about Ruvik working with the doctor that was always with Leslie. Strange...

There was also a missing persons poster hanging on the front bulletin board. He found a lot of those during his time here. Were they the people who had lost themselves in STEM, he wondered?

He made his way up a few more floors, checking drawers, closets, and cabinets as he went for anything that might be useful, though the building showed signs of already being searched. Drawers left open and doors hanging on their hinges suggested that someone had already looted this place. Not exactly surprising, seeing how many people had apparently been here, but Sebastian wondered if this building was not quite as safe as he first expected. Was the person still here? Was it even a person?

Footsteps from above him caught his attention and he quickly lowered himself down into a crouch, slowly moving along the wall for cover as he made his way to the stairwell at the end of the hall. If someone or something else was here, he needed to know, and he needed to put it down before it found him if it turned out to be a threat. He found himself hopeful that might have been Joseph or, for Fuck sake, even Kidman might have been a blessing at this point. Even if the Junior Detective working under him and Joseph had proven to be rather sketchy, she was at least still alive and herself as far as he knew.

Sneaking his way up the stairs, he emerged on the floor above him, and he slowly pulled the revolver hanging in his shoulder holster from its protective pocket. Cocking it, Sebastian moved towards the source of the sound, only to find a rather normal-looking man in one of the cubicle office rooms. Well, normal wasn’t the right word. Tall—far taller than Sebastian—and well built, he definitely wasn’t your average, run of the mill human. If Sebastian’s mind had been allowed to wander, he even would have gone as far as to say handsome. But he looked human, a human not infected with the curses of this terrible place. No signs of turning and no signs of hostility. Yet.

Was he even real? That was an important question in these parts. And if he was, who the Hell was he, and what was he doing here?

Sebastian debated whether or not to engage, pressing his back firmly against the hallway wall next to the doorframe as he peaked inside the room, watching the man flip through documents atop desks and rummage through drawers. So, he was likely the reason that there wasn’t much to actually take in this building, then? Maybe that was a confirmation that he was, in fact, real?

[prologist]

  their  meeting  is  formal  .  not  as  friends  ,  not  even  colleagues  .  simply  acquaintances  exchanging  information  .  for  kuryakin  ,  layton  assumes  ,  it’s  all  business ;  but  for  the  detective  ,  what  he’s  looking  for  is  somewhat  more  personal  .  while  hershel  hasn’t  the  slightest  idea  what  intel  the  agent  may  want  from  him  this  go  ‘round  ,  he  is  certain  that  the  other  is  fully  aware  of  what  sort  of  leads  the  professor  himself  will  be  asking  for  .  .  .  (  the  whereabouts  of  his  arch  nemesis  jean  descole !  )

  sat  across  the  table  from  the  brick  house  of  a  man  ,  he  begins  their  conversation  with  a  pleasant  smile  ,  “    you  look  like  you  could  use  a  cup  of  tea  .    ”

( ! )    puzzle .009: @sovietperil

[muiiitos-arc]

PERMANENT STARTER CALL FOR MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E'S ILLYA KURYAKIN.  AS PLAYED BY ARMIE HAMMER.

by liking this post it gives me permission to tag you in starters from illya kuyrakin at any point in time. as well, it gives me permission to send you memes, etc. at any point as well. // muse  info & tags.

[storiesofwildfire]

          { closed starter for @redperil​ }

♔—- Life had grown more and more complicated of the course of the last few years. From uncovering the truth of her heritage ( or partial truths, anyway, as she still sat in the dark on much of her past ), to falling from the edge of the Bifrst, Thanos, to invading Midgard under the Mad Titan’s control... Her defeat, imprisonment on Asgard, and succession to the throne were all just stepping stones that eventually led her and her people to this strange predicament.

To say this was not how any of them planned the future of Asgard to be would have been an understatement. Their situation was less than ideal and if Loki hadn’t been working so hard to keep a semi-hopeful and comforting vibe radiating from her for the sake of those around her, she likely would have given into some potentially dark and dangerous ideas.

Asgard was gone.

All in all, not a horrible fate for a terrible place. No, Loki didn’t believe all of Asgard was horrible, nor did she believe that all of the Aesir deserved to suffer for the wrongdoings of their corrupted king parading about as a benevolent god. Plenty of Asgardians were just like her. Misjudged, misguided, and mistreated because of where they were born, who they were related to, or what natural skills they lacked and/or possessed. Most of the realm did not know of Odin’s violent and bloody past. The Hanged God went as far as he could out of his own way to cover up the truth and present himself as someone good-natured and caring.

Regardless of being kept in the dark, though, Asgard committed atrocities that deserved retribution. Ignorance was often bliss, but it was not an excuse. Believing and understanding this fact, though, Loki prayed for a better alternative. Asgard didn’t need to be destroyed. Under her rule, she began to see change. She saw tolerance and acceptance, saw a willingness to bridge gaps between themselves and those they saw as enemies or that they had previously seen as lesser. They were capable of bettering themselves, of being true protectors for Yggdrasil as they so often claimed to be. And yet... just as Loki began to see a light at the end of the tunnel, a better future for the realm she’d grown up on and loathed so much with each passing day, something came along and took it away.

Watching the realm destroyed before her own eyes hadn’t been an easy thing to digest. Regardless of how many years she spent running away from the realm, she’d always been drawn back. Inevitably, she returned, unable to truly severe her connection with Asgard despite how badly she wished it. Part of her always remained and part of her always cared. A million reasons told her that she shouldn’t that she should simply let it all go, but she’d come to realize somewhere along the line that such a task simply wasn’t... possible.

But it wasn’t just the realm itself that was destroyed. So many lives were lost, leaving their numbers abysmally low. Fortunately, most of those Loki cared for survived and made the journey with her. Asmund and his brother, Gael, Sigurd, Inka and Inge, Fródi, Dahlia and Valencia... They were all safe, all helped secure the safety of those who managed to escape Asgard with them before the final destruction.

Spirits were at an all-time low by the time they landed on Midgard. Mortals were none too thrilled by the prospect of the Gods taking up permeant residency on their planet. The town they built for themselves, New Asgard, they called it ( so, so very creative... ) was small, grey, and overall depressing. Keeping the survivors of Hela’s brutality in anything close to a positive mindset proved challenging.

And Thor taking up as king? Many people were pleased, but there were plenty who weren’t quite so. Under Loki’s rule, despite how anyone may feel about her methods or her person, Asgard prospered. It developed healthier relationships with the other realms of Yggdrasil as they were no longer forced to be governed by a tyrannical overlord. Loki promoted nonviolent ways to deal with their problems. Less war, less death, and more time for recreational activities. Loki even invested in arts and theater rather than what had stereotypically been expected of the day-to-day Aesir. And forgetting that Thor left Asgard after the Dark Elves invasion wasn’t the simplest task. Many saw it as their prince leaving at a time when he was needed most and even if Thor’s motives were genuine, his devices and decisions didn’t leave the best taste in the mouths of most.

While Loki never enjoyed the role and responsibility of being king, it did leave her just a bit miffed that he so easily took up the title again after previously turning it down willfully. She didn’t want to admit to envy or jealousy, but for her brother to waltz back into a position of power, unquestioned and unchallenged after she kept Asgard together through crisis?

Well, who wouldn’t be annoyed by such?

At least Thor admitted to needing her, though. He didn’t simply strip Loki of her power and toss her to the curb. He listened to her, asked for her advice, and when more and more humans started poking around New Asgard, each with their own agenda and opinions on the settlers, he once again turned to her. Thor might have had many traits that could make him a good leader, but he wasn’t the best when it came to negotiations or building relationships between two groups of people, especially if said groups didn’t see eye-to-eye. An ambassador, as Heimdall and Thor both, described when pitching the idea to the Goddess.

She hadn’t been sold on the idea, still ruffled by more or less being shoved out of her position of power and, once again, falling in line behind her brother. Besides her brother, she supposed. He didn’t try to oppress her or remind her of her place now. Genuinely, he seemed to value her and understood that without her, he would not be what Asgard needed him to be, but that didn’t completely rid her of the sour taste in her mouth.

Still, she supposed what she was being offered meant a great deal, not just to Thor, but to all of New Asgard. Their survival and acceptance on this realm would depend on how well Loki could win over the mortals who decided to stick their noses where they probably shouldn’t. New Asgard needed to survive. They needed to mingle and meld with humans in a positive manner and be allowed to rebuild and improve their culture. Mortals were dangerous in large groups and there were seven billion people on this planet. They couldn’t afford anything less than friendly neighbors and as genuine as Thor’s intentions might be, he’d never been the best at making political friends.

Most of his life had been throw his hammer first, ask questions if anyone survived, and that would not help them now. Granted, he’d gotten better. Loki wouldn’t deny that, but she also couldn’t overlook the skills she possessed that her brother did not. Fortunately, Thor gained enough wisdom to not overlook those skills either.

In the end, it hadn’t taken much convincing to get Loki to agree to the new position, though it was likely Heimdall’s insistence that really enticed her to agree without more arguing. Loki always did have a soft spot for Heimdall or perhaps it was the other way around? Not many knew how close the pair actually were, or how much love and respect Loki truly possessed for the Watcher. Had Thor presented his offer alone, it would have been a much harder sell. Having Heimdall at his side proved to be... beneficial in pacifying the Goddess and detailing their plans for her role in New Asgard in a way that actually appealed to her.

Once again, Asgard owed a great debt to Heimdall and they likely wouldn’t even realize it. Just the newest addition on a very long list of all the Vanir had done for the Aesir.

Thus far, she’d met with a few people who wandered into New Asgard uninvited, but nothing formal transpired quite yet. It seemed that humanity had a difficult time deciding how best to approach New Asgard or who should do it. Governments fought with one another over who’s jurisdiction New Asgard fell under, while organizations such as SHIELD and Hydra saw opportunities to infiltrate and take advantage without the government’s approval at all. It worried her, truly, what humans might hope to benefit from worming their way into the Aesir’s good grace. What could be stolen from them or abused if fallen into the wrong hands...

She almost felt like a bodyguard for Asgard’s secrets and the survivors within the town who just wanted to rebuild and return to some resemblance of normalcy. Trying to keep those who simply believed it their right to waltz in and poke around at bay wasn’t for the faint of heart and doing so in a way that proved less hostile and more negotiable was even more so difficult.

Wearing a beautiful face with a soft voice was an advantage for her, though. Every mortal she came across underestimated her and while it did annoy her, she definitely knew how to work her way around those foolish enough to believe she was easily manipulated or walked over.

Today’s meeting, however... Well, it was different from those stray walk-ins and spies. This meeting was planned in advance. The strangers requested an audience and wished to speak on behalf of their own interests as well as New Asgard’s. Loki didn’t trust it, but Loki was not an inherently trusting person. She’d been bitten one too many times to lend her faith so easily, but she could hope that this would turn out differently from the rest. Without opening up to opportunity, there would be little in the way of actual progress made, so she would be willing to sit down and discuss with anyone who showed interest. That didn’t mean she’d let her guard down, but at least Asgard had her looking out for them when few others could spare the time.

Dressing simply, she chose to attend the meeting in form-fitted slacks, a tasteful emerald sweater that matched her eyes, and a light jacket atop the sweater to make the entire ensemble feel more like an outfit than separates thrown together. Her hair had been pulled into a series of complicated braids that all interwove together into one large braid that hung over her right shoulder. The detail work would have been lost against the dark fabric of her jacket had it not been for the tasteful pieces of gold hair jewelry that looped through some of the braids, holding them together while also decorating the complicated hairstyle. All in all, she didn’t look to be wearing enough layers for the chilly temperature, but she more or less seemed unbothered by the wickedly harsh winds that licked around her pale features as she left her private dwelling and made her way to New Asgard’s border.

She arrived early, as she typically did for most things, but she wasn’t kept waiting for long. Soon enough, she found herself face-to-face with people she’d never seen before. Judging by scent alone, they were human. Or... mostly human. They seemed harmless enough at first glance, but Loki knew better than to judge a book by its cover. After all, that’s what so many people did to her.

“Welcome to New Asgard,” she greeted, her smile bright and welcoming, with a practiced bit of reservation that people came to expect from a refugee who found it difficult to integrate. It wasn’t that she truly felt that way, but the illusion often helped in her gain sympathy or let those she dealt with drop their guards.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet someone who requested entry and an audience rather than show up and expect it—” She chuckled and rubbed the back of her neck. “Forgive me. As you can imagine, we’ve all been through quite an ordeal. It’s difficult not to feel... wary. Still, it is a delight to meet you. Please, come this way. We’ll get you out of the cold. I’ve prepared a place for use to sit and talk. We’ve got coffee and some fresh food if you’d like to partake.”

Turning back towards the town, she motioned for her guests to follow. “This way,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she still had their attention.

[mordexme-blog]

The Man from UNCLE || Open Starter

( both canon and oc muses welcome! )

               Anna stopped dancing suddenly, when a huge silhouette was placed in her way. She reached up, slender fingers grabbing onto the sides of her huge white-framed sunglasses and she lifted them up, letting out a small ‘Huh’-sound as she saw the man standing in front of her “So---” Anna said, tilting her head to the side a little bit, the bourbon coursing in her veins adding a bit more courage “You do not want to talk with me...” The intoxicated woman spoke, her green eyes focusing on her babysitter for the evening “---you do not want to DANCE...” She added, biting on the inside of her cheek for a moment, not noticing how she was slightly swaying on her feet “But do you want to FIGHT?”

[heytheredeann]

Holding my last breath

Tags: Post-Canon, Sci-Fi Elements, Immortal Napoleon Solo, Character Death, (only for like two minutes lol), Napoleon Solo Whump, Hurt Napoleon Solo, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Illya Kuryakin, (only emotionally), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Crying            

Summary: At the very least, there are worse places to die than in your partner’s arms.

Notes: For the "Prisoner" prompt from day 31 of Whumptober. Though it works also for the "Hurt & Comfort" and the "Trauma" ones LOL. Soooo this sort of works as an alternative to the first fic in this series. I'm keeping the same premise, with Napoleon being immortal and not telling anybody because they will probably only believe it if they SEE him come back from the dead, and I'm coming up with different scenarios where his partner(s) discover his little secret. Because there were a couple of mentions in the comments of how this can literally only go terribly and this concept is way too fun to play with to resist LOL. I think this can be read as a stand-alone, since it's just an alternative use of the same concept, though the first fic delved more into Napoleon’s situation I think. The title is from "My last breath" by Evanescence, because it's been stuck in my head lately and it fits LOL. Also, I tagged CNTUAW because I wasn't sure if the MCD warning should apply in this case, but none of the other major warnings apply. Enjoy!

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.

This is bad. This is really, really bad.

Granted, it’s probably not the worst situation that he could find himself in—for starters, he’ll be fine. Eventually. And there are worse ways to die than bleeding out in your partner’s arms, that’s—something.

Still, it hurts and it keeps hurting, it feels like he’s been hurting for years at this point, because gut shots are horrible and messy and not even necessarily fatal if you get treatment—which he obviously isn’t going to get, if the fact that their captors threw them in a basement and completely ignored Illya’s requests – and, at one point, downright pleads, which was pretty damn unsettling – to give him some medical help is anything to go by.

He is definitely going to die. At some point.

Which is always bad, but it’s especially bad considering that he’s in close proximity with his partner, who doesn’t know that he is going to be fine and is fighting a losing battle to keep him awake and breathing.

Well, Napoleon’s plan was to keep quiet about his immortality until an occasion such as this would arise for proof, because it’s not like anyone would believe him otherwise. But he probably would have preferred the situation to be a little less, uh—he isn’t sure, but this is slow and painful for the both of them, so it definitely could have been better.

He also should probably warn Illya. He’s tired and confused, so he doesn’t have much of a chance at getting out a good speech, but, uh—he should tell him. Better late than never.

“Peril?” he gets out, barely audible.

He’s propped up against Illya’s chest, with his head against his shoulder and not the best view of his face from that angle, but during the few moments of silence that follows he tries to take a look anyway. He doesn’t seem to be looking at him, more scanning their surroundings like he still thinks there’s something he can do to get them out.

“Yes?” he eventually answers, looking down on him with an expression that’s a whole mess, really. He probably wants to look not all that worried, but it’s not working.

There are definitely ways to phrase this well. Somewhere. In his head.

But his brain isn’t exactly cooperating right now, so— “I’ll be fine,” is what he goes with.

Illya seems thrown for a moment, but then he nods. “Yes, it’s going to be okay, I’ll—I’ll figure something out,” he says, going back to his search for solutions that aren’t there.

It takes a few moments for Napoleon to put together that no, he didn’t just react extraordinary well to his illuminating explanation, he was just too vague.

Alright, trying again.

“No, I meant—after. I’ll die, but I’ll be fine. After.”

[More on Ao3]

[joyfulmagic]

Open Starter — Muse: Illya Kuryakin — Open to Anyone — V: Detective

“You have me mistaken with someone else,” Illya stated, his voice emotionless and deadpan. “I’ve never worked for the FBI, not even in a consulting capacity,” he explained, lied.

“Even if I had, would you really think they would allow me to share that information?” The Soviet defector pointed out, “the don’t exactly like their spies’ identities being blown, based on previous court cases and events.”

He was just a college professor, nothing more. He kept telling himself that, even when a student came to him with a criminal issue that he craved to solve. Sometimes, in extreme cases, he’d step in, but it could never be traced back to him.

The killer side of him was vastly different from his professor self, and then his detective self was a different animal entirely. An apex predator, able to detect anything he came across. It was…part…of what had made him such a good agent, years ago now.

“You also don’t look like the average college student, but you don’t read as counter-intelligence either from what I studied,” he observed of his companion, wondering how they’d even accessed the gated campus. “Criminal behavior analysis extends to civilians more than you would expect,” he brushed his observation off as being part of what he taught.

[theymakehistoryarchived]

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Notes: If I follow you, I either have an idea for a thread and/or a verse for my muses that would be compatible with your muse.  If you are a Marvel/MCU/DC blog, odds are I followed you to use Illya ( @bestinhisclass ) or Jane 

Discor/d; theymakehistory#8621 Etsy store for tarot readings:  [Link]

[bestinhisclassmoved]

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As a note, Illya’s default  verse will be his Super Soviet verse unless otherwise requested/discussed.

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[muiitos-blog]

PERMANENT STARTER CALL FOR THE MOVIE ADAPTATION OF MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E’S ILLYA KYRUAKIN AS PLAYED BY ARMIE HAMMER

bio verses tags

[shesnipes-archive]

@theymakehistory​ || plotted starter inspired by x .

Amity couldn’t help the soft smirk playing across her lips as Illya entered the training room, ❝ I hope you’re ready, Kuryakin! ❞

❝          Today is the day I finally take you down. ❞

[redperil]

PLOTTED STARTER FOR >> @facemypast​

It was their fifth and U.N.C.L.E was growing more efficient with each raid. HYDRA had years behind them of hiding, control, manipulating the world to forget their being but U.N.C.L.E was not theirs to command and when S.H.I.E.L.D failed so... publicly they had been called.

Illya would not pretend no surprise when he was asked to run program. He was not a therapist and not the best with people but Waverly had wanted someone who knew that life. Someone who spoke their tongue and english who could bring both sides around. He worked with professionals, trusted, vetted but as a whole he would handle a lot of rehabilitation for HYDRA agents and forced operatives.

Today they looked for a winter. To currently knowledge HYDRA had three super programs. The Winter Soldier, Red Room and Red Star programs. Each with different order but until today they had no success in locating Winter or in infiltrating. For whatever reason, HYDRA would protect that asset first. Even handing over red room as a distraction. 

Working through the facility is slow. Their defences are many, U.N.C.L.E.S unit is smaller but they are tight knit. Clever and Illya and Napoleon take point with the American handling any security in their way as Gabrielle gave directions in his ear. 

Reaching the main chamber is -- he must take breath. Not forget where he is. It reminds him of the darker KGB cells. The chairs for reminding you not to step out of line. The training regimes that border on cruel. Every piece of equipment designed to enhance and control, to make a man stronger to the point of being part machine. 

And Illya could only begin to imagine how worse it was for a non-legal organisations pet. 

The guards are shot on sight. Bloody and brutal yes but they had learnt quickly no information would be taken from the enforcers and they were usually there by choice or controlled in some way. It is the workers that squeal, typically willing to beg, typically there by blackmail or unsuspecting of what they create. They are given half a chance and Illya leaves Gabrielle with one of them, following the sound of whispers behind hissing. 

The room is tucked behind piping, hidden away and he notes first how cold it is. Radiating from a tube in the back, like ice. It is worse than the deepest snow storms in Moscow and he barely controls a shudder as he walks in, gun trained before him, listening to the panic in the voice sounding. 

Nine.  Homecoming. 

Illya blinks at the seeming randomness of it all but as he rounds the corner to place the barrel to the scientists head he is forced to come face to face with the reality. Trigger words are so common, even in the KGB, even in the CIA but it is not that that brings him to a violent halt. 

The soldier before him is vacant. A mimic of all the commands he had seen men given in the field that broke their soul. Waiting, ready to be controlled yet he knows blue eyes. He knows them behind the mask. 

“Kuryakin? Do you have something interesting back there?” 

“Do not come in. Clear room, kill the workers. Get all information you can on Winter program first.” 

Illya sucks in a breath when his voice breaks, tightening his finger on the trigger and giving no thought when blood coats hand his jaw. He can not look away, frown drawing deeper as memories poke and prod past years he had tried to forget. A war that brought people to places they did not wish to see, a mission that did not go as planned and when he had known the Soldier they had been a civilian. They had been forbidden fruit. 

“Chto oni s toboy sdelali?“ 

With no one to see the weakness Illya drops his gun and brings up a hand instead, reaching back to remove the muzzle. Like he is a dog, a pet, something to keep on a leash to stop from biting. Tossing it aside his fingers trace a familiar jaw now sharper, rougher. Breathing in roughly before looking about. 

The man had a book in hand. Hasty written, coded but Illya scratches at the pages, looking for those first few, looking for more. It takes three times, he does not know the right order for them to work and at first he gives those two in the incorrect place but he knows when it works because empty eyes flicker to recognition. 

It is like watching a toy turn on and it makes his throat close, his chest ache. 

Ready to Comply. 

He was going to kill every last HYDRA agent he could find but first he needed to take James to safety, he needed more knowledge to help. If he could bring him back-

It is a half ditch attempt and the order may not even work but he could try.

“Zakroy glaza i idi spat'. Vspomni Dzheymsa Barnsa. Solo? Clear path for me, ready a vehicle. I am going to house six and no one but you, Gaby and Waverly are allowed.” 

“You’re what? I do hate to be the bearer of bad news but I feel that will piss off an awful lot of people.” 

“I do not care.” 

“Naturally.”

Carefully Illya scoops an arm under the body before him, lifting Bucky carefully and shouldering his way from the room. Giving Solo a withering look that has his partner stepping aside. He trusted them, even if they did not fully know yet and he knew they would let him. They would cover him until he could say properly. 

He would take James home, let him wake in a warm bed and somewhere safe and in that time Illya would gather all that he could, he would do all he could to make sure that it was Bucky who woke up there. Even if only for moment. 

His fingers are shaking when he drags them through dark hair that is now longer, messier but with the mask gone he is so much surer. He would never doubt he stood before him, it is with sudden clarity that Illya is glad to have helped other agents, perhaps he could give Bucky a new chance as well. He can not say who will walk out of this, no one comes out of HYDRA the same as they were but he would be glad to see James come out at all. Even a little.

Sinking into the chair next to the bed by the safe house, Illya opens the moleskin cover and looks to the mess of codes and covers. It would take months to fully understand it all but he did not know when the man at his side would be coherent if he ever was. So he settles, he turns over a page and he waits.

[kyberborne-a]

don’t sentence starters | accepting ! @sovietperil​ said: ❝ don’t say that to me, jyn. not you, of all people. ❞

the nature of their relationship ( if she can even call it that, she doesn’t know ) has never been strictly defined. it’s more than friends – just friends don’t fuck to blow off steam after difficult missions – but they’re not exactly lovers. . .not that she knows what that would entail, having never really had a partner of her own before. what she does know is that they don’t sleep in the same bed regularly or kiss each other good night and good morning. they don’t say ‘ i love you ‘ or hold hands or do any of the things she remembers her parents doing. truly, lyra and galen are her only model for a healthy and happy relationship ; it’s not the only way to love someone, but it’s what she’s familiar with. whenever she’s around him, there’s this feeling in her gut and her chest, her cheeks turn pink and she has a hard time holding his gaze, feeling almost – bubbly when he’s in her presence. to make the whole situation worse, she’s beginning to crave that feeling, too. is that love ? she doesn’t know, but thinks it might be. and that – that kriffing terrifies her. she doesn’t know what to do with love. 

( what she does know is how to push people away. how to put her walls up so high that no one can get in. how to use scathing words to get people to leave her. how to make all her fears come true – she pushes them to leave, confirming her belief that everyone will abandon her eventually. and if they don’t, if they stick around, if they’re stubborn ? then she’ll leave first. 

it’s all she knows how to do. ) 

“ why not ? “ she taunts, knowing that this might be it, that this might be the moment that she pushes too far and finally breaks him. it’s stupid to pick a fight right now when they’re the only two people on a tiny shuttle with hours left to go before they reach base, but she’s been itching, nervous, impatient. her affection for him has only grown in the last few weeks, but she can’t read him. does he feel the same way ? does he even care ? no, instead of risking him shutting her down, she’ll nip this in the bud. ( it’ll hurt even more than it does now if he loves you and leaves, she tells herself, trying to rationalize in her mind. ) “ are you afraid it’s true ? i can do whatever i want, kuryakin. say whatever the hell i want. and right now, i’m saying that i don’t want to work with you anymore. you’re – you’re holding me back, a liability to the rebellion when i get back to base, i’m asking for a reassignment. “ 

he can protest all he wants – is it wrong that a small part of her wants him to ? – but she can’t do this anymore. it hurts too bad, knowing the inevitable. it will be better for illya, too – no one needs a partner with trauma stacked on top of trauma, abandonment issues so strong that she can’t help but sabotage any good relationship she has. “ and this – whatever the hell it is between us, ‘cause we’ve never kriffing talked about it – this is over. it’s done. i’m, “ her voice cracks and she’s not proud of it, raising her chin and turning away from him. “ i’m done. “ 

she can’t stay here anymore ; with that, she pivots and leaves the room entirely. time to lick her wounds in private. 

[heytheredeann]

The lucky one

Tags: Post-Canon, Sci-Fi Elements, Immortal Napoleon Solo, Character Death, (he gets better in a minute though LOL), Napoleon Solo Whump, Hurt Napoleon Solo, Hurt Illya Kuryakin, Self-Sacrifice, Gen or Pre-Slash, hanging off a cliff

Summary: In hindsight, keeping his mouth shut about his immortality might have been a mistake.

Notes: For the "You have to let go" prompt from day 1 of Whumptober. Yes this was supposed to be posted on October 1st sssshhh, I had it half-finished for half a month LOL. Also, I tagged it as CNTUAW because technically there's MCD but like... not really? Basically I wasn't sure how to tag it so I took the easy way out LOL. Enjoy!

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As it turns out, Napoleon might not have handled the situation in the best possible way.

It isn’t like he had planned on keeping it a secret forever, but—it’s kinda hard to work into a conversation, and even after it was made clear that Waverly was going to keep them together as a team, permanently, and Napoleon came to the highly uncomfortable realization that he actually would trust his partners with his secret—he just figured they wouldn’t believe him.

Not that he blames them: it’s a little hard to take an immortal at his word about said condition, but the fact of the matter is that he wasn’t going to have that conversation when he was sure to have to argue to hell and back about how actually no, he isn’t drunk nor joking, he just can’t die.

So he figured he’d wait. They are spies, he’s bound to catch a bullet in his brain at some point or another—then Illya and Gaby would see him straight up resuscitate, they would have questions and he would answer them. And they would believe his answers because they literally saw him coming back from the dead. Nice and easy.

It seemed like a good plan at the time.

It really doesn’t now that he and Illya managed to find themselves hanging off a cliff and, well—the arrangement is precarious to say the least.

For starters, it’s a pretty fucking high cliff, and Napoleon knows that you are not supposed to look down, but he and rules don’t mix well and, uh—suffice to say he is not looking forward to that fall.

More worryingly, though, the only thing keeping him from falling down to the bottom of that hellpit is Illya. Illya who has just one functional arm, the left one that is currently busy keeping them both from a gruesome death, and is still holding onto him with his right hand, somehow.

Honestly, he must be seeing stars, Napoleon wouldn’t blame him if he just decided to toss him down and be done with it.

In fact, that would be—kinda what he’s going to have to make him do.

He doesn’t think they are going to last long like this: Gaby is nowhere to be seen, Illya may be tough but he is sadly not an actual robot, and the problem is that if they both fell down Napoleon would be fine.

Well, he would die and it would hurt and he is, let’s be clear, not looking forward to that, not even a little bit, but he would still wake up and go on with his life. Illya wouldn’t, and Napoleon is just not going to have that on his conscience.

So, uh—as mentioned, keeping his mouth shut about his immortality might have been a mistake.

“Peril?” he calls, because that’s a good place to start as any and, frankly, he isn’t sure how to go about any of this.

What he gets as an answer is some noncommittal and quite pained grunting, which, fair. He thinks that if he were alone Illya might somehow manage to haul himself up—and even if he couldn’t, without all the deadweight it’s going to be easier to hold on until Gaby finds him.

So, really, his is the most reasonable solution. Too bad he gets the feeling Illya isn’t going to want to hear it.

[More on Ao3]