#hisfinesse

[mvnces]

Illya knew that most people celebrated their birthdays. Of course he did. It had simply been years since he had celebrated his own — Both due to the fact he did not have the means to do so and then because he was busy. And he rather wouldn't because he did not see the big deal about it. (You were simply aging another year, nothing changed aside from your age).

That only made the invitation to Napoleon's little birthday trip a bit more strange to him. And, yet, he had found himself in Italy with the American all the same. He had been assured that it wasn't anything special and that the fellow agent just wanted company on the trip.

There was no expectation that he was there for Napoleon's birthday. Just like there was no expectation that he would do anything in celebration of the birthday. It seemed more like Illya was there to make sure that the other man did not get into any trouble during the week or two that they would be in Italy. (He had even reassured Waverly to make sure that Napoleon was on his best behavior).

"Cowboy." The greeting was surprisingly soft as Illya stepped into the hotel room. There was a little rustle before he was producing a small bag and holding it out, expectantly, to the other man. It had taken a good portion of his morning to find a shop that made piroshkis. He had gotten four, two savory and two sweet. "I thought that you would be hungry." / @hisfinesse ; happy birthday to the menace <3

[kingofdirtandnothing]

hisfinesse asked: awaiting / for poe also  Prompt Meme: (Accepting)

awaiting. our muses making out and grinding while fully clothed.

Corellia is the kind of place a guy could get lost in. And Napoleon Solo? He was the kind of guy that Poe could get lost in. He liked guys like this, smooth and charming, but restrained. 

It was like getting behind the stick in an X-Wing. They were pretty, they were smooth, but you had to respect the power in your hands or you were going to end up burned. 

And maybe...maybe part of him wants to be burned. 

They’re tucked back in some corner of a smaller end shipyard, surrounded by the hum of engines and the knock of metal on metal, voices shouting in Basic and a dozen other languages. 

If sounds could be home, then this was as close to home as Poe ever got. 

“Not even a little under the clothes action?” He holds his index finger and thumb close together, and Poe is rewarded with a flicker of amusement across that strong jaw, there and gone. 

But for all the rush of victory he’s gotten for that smile, it’s stamped out by the small shake of Solo’s head. So no under the clothes action today. That’s alright. Poe can improvise. 

He presses himself up against that long, lean body, letting his hips do the talking. (He’s learned to empty his pockets before they do this, or Solo empties him for him. You can grab all you want, buddy. All you’re getting is a handful of ass.)

“So...you gonna get me off like this, boss?” He looks up through his lashes, playing at innocence that neither one of them believes in. Those big hands against him are enough to have Poe rutting, sweat starting to stick against the nape of his neck. 

“Because I’m not getting out of your space until you make me come.”

[mvnces]

time for me to give YOU psychic damage: consider. beginning of the movie? napoleon quite literally refers to napoleon as "it" when speaking to sanders. ENTIRELY dehumanizing. [the whole ''IT tore the back off my car, you should have seen IT run"... i think a Lot about this]. then going on to refer to him as Red Peril, okay, still sort of dehumanizing, but a bit more of a title... then just Peril, which is. a silly diminutive of that title, more Personal... and it's like the strike sequence at the end where he actually uses illya's name at some point... need to find it but it's Over for you when i do. and then at the END end he goes back to Peril... which now you can tell it's become an actual fond name for him... hey 💋

thanks so much for the damage? but if I say that, a couple days ago, I was thinking about illya a bit too much — and wanted to mention that exact scene of solo referring to him as an ‘it’ and pointedly referring to him as ‘red peril’ in said post? to discuss just how fucking… dehumanized he is in general? how he is quite literally just a soldier / weapon for the kgb because he probably doesn’t have anyone close to him?? (and you can’t really have anyone genuinely close in their line of work anyways).

BUT !! I also think a lot about solo calling him illya for the first time and them doing the whole fondly refers to you by title / last name trope <3 which just adds the spiciness of the potential scene where they’re in some kind of duress or something & using each others titles (peril and cowboy respectively) until they’re desperate and say each others names?? what then??

[mvnces]

"illya kuryakin." oh. what might this mean? 🎀

Solo has called him a variety of things over the course of their partnership.

The most common to hear being Peril in varying degrees of tone. From a mild kind of fondness, to disdain, to bitter annoyance. Russian has grown used to all of the different identifiers that fellow agent uses for him. It gets to a point where he has half a mind that Napoleon has made a deal with himself to never address him by his actual name. Some may have thought that the other man had simply forgot after so long of refusing to use it.

But Illya knew better than that.

He knows that Cowboy is well aware of his name. Just like he is (and has been) well aware of Cowboy's own.

It is one thing to know that, though, and another thing entirely for partner to address him with it.

Illya cannot help the way that he snaps to attention when faced with his full name. A swirl of different emotions pulses through his chest while the pure shock of being addressed in such a way keeps his attention focused on the American. It only takes half a second for a crease to form between brows, a frown settling across his features.

"What-" He starts before stopping and the crease between his brows deepens. "What is the purpose of this?"

[mvnces]

‘and for the record your analogies are very hurtful.’ / You Know........

"My analogies..." The words are echoed, dull. It is obvious from tone of voice alone that Peril does not agree with the statement. He believes that his analogies about Solo and certain behaviors of his are honest even if it is to a more brutal degree.

Illya had been intently working in one of the offices that can be found on the top floor of U.N.C.L.E's home location. (A office that he, unfortunately, shares with his newfound partner). Methodically typing up a report on one of the latest intel missions that they had returned from just days prior to this afternoon. He had made the mistake of thinking that Solo could keep himself busy with his own paperwork or, at least, keep himself entertained without bothering anyone. He should have known better than to assume.

The American seems to have found getting up and walking over to confront Peril too bothersome. It is with a small shove of feet off of the wooden floors that he comes gliding atop of his wheeled desk chair to come to a stop in front of Illya. The sound of wheels against wood is now so familiar that all the Russian does is pause his typing, gazing evenly at the other man.

"Maybe you should focus on work, Cowboy. It means less time to think about these 'hurtful' things I say."

[mvnces]

smile.  you're  ruining  the  mood. @ illya.... [fuckboy voice] 🥀

Something akin to annoyance, perhaps closer to irritation, prickles at the back of his neck. There is a reason that the Red Peril prefers stealth or recon missions. He can work alone on those, for one. And he does not have to worry about keeping up appearances toward whatever role he should be playing during an undercover mission. He does not know why Waverly insists on continuing to put him in such a position, anyways. It is obvious that Cowboy is far better suited for such a role than Peril himself.

The current mission has brought them back to Italy. At the moment, it has been nearly a two week affair to gather intel and earn the trust of the arms dealer U.N.C.L.E has been keeping tabs on. It is how they found themselves in their current situation. A nice ballroom in an obnoxiously large mansion, some sort of auction of priceless items that are undoubtedly stolen, with the soft buzz of conversation around them and music from a band off to the side floating through the air.

Napoleon fits into the crowd with such ease that Peril can almost picture him belonging there. The covers that they have been given—an art curator for a private collector and the bookkeeping partner—are simple enough and lends itself to the American's expertise. Peril feels as if he does not need to be there. Knows, with no doubt in his mind, that he is more so there to keep Napoleon on task (and safe if things were to go wrong).

"Ukusi menya," he mutters under his breath, low enough so only the two of them will hear it. He does not care if partner can understand him or not, still unfamiliar with how fluent Cowboy is in Russian. Sharp gaze remains on the people around them, scanning and alert, for another long couple of moments before gaze flicks to partner. It must feel like pulling nails if the strained way he smiles is anything to go by. "Happy now?"

[mvnces]

i thought you knew all about me. / @ peril...😌

Peril feels a warm sort of prickling along the back of his neck.

It is impossible for him to tell if the reaction comes from annoyance that partner is still so teasing, so smug, in such a situation or embarrassment of being flustered by it. He does not want to waste the time to linger on that thought. What he wants is to focus on the moment at hand and have Napoleon get on with it instead of whatever intricate, sadistic high he seems to be on.

The latest mission had been completed mere hours beforehand. All they had to do now is wait for extraction and further instructions from Waverly. In the meantime, they are free to enjoy the luxuries that came with staying in such a high end hotel instead of the little cottages and warehouses the last couple of assignments had had them in. They were, in fact, enjoying themselves in the lull of a rare late and quiet morning. Napoleon still is enjoying himself, in fact, and Illya might be too if not for the instinct to reach up and scruffing the American like a kitten for his smart mouth.

"This particular type of-" A hesitation as fingers flex against the bare skin of his partner's hips. "Information was not included in your personal file." Maybe it can be saved away in the back of his mind for Illya to make his own file later.

[mvnces]

i  told  the  truth.  just  not  all  of  it. @ mr peril 💋

"Cowboy." The nickname is hissed out between clenched teeth, voice hushed in the little space between them.

An almost routine intel and surveillance mission has landed them in some luxury mansion in the Italian country side. The cover of an art dealer, a role that thrives under Napoleon's expertise, and his bookish business partner. Majority of the night is taken up with dinner and drinks mixed in with pretending to schmooze with the sort of people that makes his skin crawl. It is not until hours of being there that the pair find an opening to slink away and poke around.

They had been in the middle of going through one of the private offices that they had found when Illya feels a hand on the back of his neck. A sharp tug as he is, despite his size and strength, all but dragged into the closest hiding place in the room. If it is a nearby closet that can barley fit one if not two grown men? Then so be it.

"That is pertinent information to what we are doing." If there had been enough room, Red Peril would wrap his hand around the American's neck and squeeze. But now there is barely enough room to breath without the risk of drawing attention to themselves.