#bestwithinthreeyears

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        (head)canon-wise napkin is particularly comfortable with ills curryking as opposed to other men because he’s found on several occasions that he can trust him. in regards to the movie, illya cooperated with him throughout the breaking in / out of the facility and intended to get them BOTH out of there alive when it would have not proved to be a problem at all for the russians if solo died. ( in fact, it would have been a benefit ). anywho, ( my ) solo usually has some measure of discomfort with trusting other men because they have generally been unpleasant figures in his life. ( superiors in the army. sanders, who constantly reminded him that his worth depended on his skill. captors and torturers, adversaries, etc.. that’s not to say women haven’t been the same, but most times a woman has been used against him, as well, has been under the orders of a man. he suspects ulterior motives most of the time. ) so the fact that illya is a man that has literally saved him ( and continues to save him on the occasions he needs it as they continue to cooperate ) has led him to see that he can literally trust him with his life. not that he’ll ever openly admit to caring for him in such a way ( platonic OR romantic, verse dependent ). additionally, he has quite a lot of respect for him, even though he won’t admit that, either. ( we tend to forget that illya is far more brains than we’re led to believe. solo respects his cunning AND his strength, though he might poke at either. he has an image to maintain. )

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@kgbredperil / :*

        That was an expectant gaze that he was getting; Solo seemed to be waiting for something. He didn’t speak to clarify, nor did he move any closer. All that his beloved Peril received was an arch of his brow, a subtle inclination of his head after they had spend days apart on their respective assignments. Well?

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@kgbredperil LAY ME TO REST. a thing for our kids.

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dumb gay spies aesthetic, three(?) / probably a lot as well. @kgbredperil is going to have an unholy amount of shit in her tag when she gets back on. I’d be a Goddamned Liar if I said i’m sorry.

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but is this for @kgbredperil or is this wholly self-indulgent? The World may never know.

        Illya does care about him, he hopes. He’s sure he can see it. Even beneath the lines of his furrowed brow, the uninviting ( and, somehow, alluring ) curve of the near-perpetual scowl, he can see it. He doesn’t think anyone else can. Not anything beyond an unlikely partnership, but, Solo realizes, that he might prefer it that way.

       It’s simply a lot less trouble to keep--- whatever they are just for them.

       It’s in the way he’s, by some miracle, not always driving a fist across Solo’s face, no matter how much needling he does. ( When they do fight, perhaps, they bear more passion in themselves than most of what they do. ) It’s how a word meant to insult has actually become a term of endearment, and it’s also in the way, Solo has found, that he may just like hearing it more than his own name.

        ( When Illya does say his name, however, he suddenly forgets the title, and he wants to hear him say it again. )

        They bicker still, and he’s sure there won’t ever be a time where they’re not butting heads. Or, rather, a time when he isn’t incessantly annoying, but it’s all deliberate. It doesn’t matter; they find themselves in bed like lovers, and they steal slivovitz-flavored kisses, walk astray, a little lost in the taste, or the liquor, or perhaps the touch that comes afterward.

        Illya does care about him, he thinks to himself. And as he presses closer, sated, tired, the way they always end up, Solo can’t quite find it in himself to admit that he cares about him, too.

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@kgbredperil / I’M SORRY FOR ALL OF THESE THREADS

        It was only a partially self-indulgent gift.

        ( Alright. Entirely self-indulgent, but it was a gift nonetheless and the sentiment behind it was genuine. )

        The tie that he had purched--purchased, not stolen!--went, Napoleon thought, exquisitely well with what he considered to be Illya's best suit. He intended to make it very clear just which one that was, and it would be delightful to fasten that tie around his collar when he was wearing exactly what it was that could quickly drive him to impatience. As if there were anything Illya could wear that wouldn't.

        Those dreadful turtlenecks, probably. But they did incite impatience for getting them off.

        It was a two bed room with only one bed in use. The first night they slept beside one another had been surreal. Now it was familiar and always difficult to unravel himself from sheets and limbs in the mornings. He returned from the outing around noon to find the bed unoccupied, purchase in tow, in the lovely suit he'd been gifted with on his birthday because, well--- he simply looked great in it.

        And it might have become his favorite.

        Dissatisfied that Illya had settled on not waiting for his return ( not that Napoleon had waited for him to wake ), he occupied himself by ordering a bottle of champagne through room service.

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@kgbredperil / :^)

        There was something incredibly endearing about the way Illya slept.

        He looked peaceful. It was far different from the natural scowl he seemed to bear, and while Napoleon had, on more than one occasion, been on the receiving end of a faint smile or a soft laugh, he found himself just a bit taken by the sight no matter how often he had woken to his partner beside him. ( Partner--- as if he weren’t more than that. As if, of course, he didn’t consider Illya far beyond an ally during a time of political tension. )

        He didn’t want to wake him, but he hoped to bring him some measure of comfort. Waking to a massage could be considered as such, couldn’t it?

        Napoleon didn’t want to disentangle himself from his arms, but he did, slowly, gaze settling on the scars upon his skin not obscured by the duvet. He drew it downward, moving over him so that his hands could find his shoulders, kneading at tense, toned muscles and inclining his head to one side in subtle admiration.

        ( He’d traced those scars with his fingers and lips beforehand. He was familiar with them now, knew them, and came to know when Illya had been adorned with new wounds easily, even when they were apart. )

        A kiss pressed to the back of his neck, he lifted his head, only to continue working at his back as he slept, torn between deliberately waking him and allowing him to relax in his sleep.