Illya Kuryakin - Blog Posts

Hungry Eyes [v.2] based on movie "Dirty Dancing" (1987)

priest-AU: Father Illya | Prayer #soutanemylove (used here)

priest-AU: Son of a gun #soutanemylove

priest-AU: Preaching full-size #soutanemylove

priest-AU: Forgive me, Father… for I have sinned…

soulmate-AU | illustration on uncle-fest (ru) full-size

priest-AU | illustration on uncle-fest (ru)

I completely forgot! Oh, yeah... that's too mine (^.^)" illustralion on this fic ch. 6 (ru)

I completely forgot! Oh, yeah... that's too mine (^.^)" illustralion on this fic (ru)

priest-AU: Father Illya [3] wallpaper: 2060×1236 px ↗️ #soutanemylove

priest-AU: Father Illya [2] #soutanemylove

priest-AU: Father Illya I adore catholic priests (^3^)

'cause I saw [this] xD

A Rocky Start (Napoleon Solo x Reader)

A/N- This is my first drabble of sorts. Yay! I didn't edit this so I apologize for any mistakes. Please give me some feedback so that I may improve. Thanks a ton! Warnings- There's one curse and it's a minor one. And there is some violence so if that isn't your cup of tea, I'd pass this one up. Word count- 416. The air feels murky and leaden as you race down the dimly lit corridor towards the exit, your backpack swinging in the slight breeze created by your speed. Your mission had been a success but you currently have a few enemies in pursuit. Your team, U.N.C.L.E, had been tasked with retrieving a stolen nuclear warhead and some documents that contained sensitive information about Waverly. More enemies swarm in front of you but you shoot most of them and manage to scrape by the rest. You burst through the door and continue sprinting, now towards the getaway car. The enemies hang back but you aren't concerned. You just need to get out of here at this point. "Get down, Y/N!" Napoleon yells as he climbs out of the car and tackles you to the ground. A loud bang followed by a steady ringing sound floods your ears, overwhelming your senses. You continue laying on the damp pavement in shock. Now you also notice the strange perfume of burning flesh. Still deafened by the small bomb that had detonated, You manage to push Napoleon off of you only to notice that he has accumulated some pretty terrible burns, cuts, and scrapes. You're reasonably certain that there are a few other injuries you can't detect. You hear some indistinct, muffled yelling from Illya as he races out and helps Napoleon into the car, cursing in Russian. You limp into the car after, backpack mostly undamaged and in tow. Illya slams the car into gear and it rockets off to the nearest hospital. *Time skip* You had been pacing in the waiting room for four hours now after having your wounds treated yourself and Illya had gone to fetch some coffee. Although you know Napoleon would be alright, you are still worried. The hospital staff finally tells you that you can enter his room. You quickly walk in and see him mostly patched up with a few limbs splinted. "Well, Y/N, I believe a thank you is in order," Napoleon stated with a smirk. "What the Hell were you thinking?!You could have gotten yourself killed!" you exploded. " I was thinking that you hadn't noticed the device and that you needed help," Napoleon asserted evenly, "You're welcome." You sighed, "I don't know whether I should shoot you for endangering yourself or kiss you for saving me." Napoleon smiles at your comment and suggests, "How about you do the second one and let me take you out for dinner?" WARNING- I do not own "The Man from U.N.C.L.E" and you own yourself. Please do not sue me as I am poor. :)

Ohh yeah!!! There is another one. Be sure to check it out and tell me what you think.

cowboy and peril

Illya hold your partner

this is very experimental and im not sure if the quality will be great cause i used 2 kind of apps for editing.. My take on TMFU original script ending : D ( I also scrapped the other parts, but I might revisit for the 'kiss' )

fuuuuuuurry

Somewhere, sometime, in a safehouse…

Illya is trying very hard not to move and also having an identity crisis about why the others would trust him to sleep on 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Napoleon made them take this picture lol

anyways super rough sketchy thing I made bc I saw a pic of ppl doing this pose and thought of them hihi, also finally drawing Gaby!! wohoo

im really bad at dark pieces(

Napollya Leyendecker study wuuhooo!! it’s finished! let me know what u think!

my first contribution to this fandom that’s not 3yrs old yay

work in progress: leyendecker study but it’s Ilya (I’ll add napoleon too (and hopefully Gaby))

I‘ve now made it my personal mission to draw more fanart for this small fandom since I’ve been wanting to draw more again anyways and have also been obsessed with this movie for the last few years

Uhmm hello anyone there? pls take my napollya soviet propaganda poster redraw

MedWhump May - Day 2

Running out of time

Fandom - The Man from UNCLE (2015)

@medwhumpmay

Solo let out a soft: “Oh.”

Illya turned.

For one weightless moment, he saw Solo listing to the side. Head drooping. A flash of eyes, whites, rolled backwards. Illya caught him. He helped lower Solo to the floor while Solo apologized over and over.

He shouldered out of his jacket and folded it. “Here.” He murmured. He reached down and placed his hand under Solo’s head. “For your head.”

Solo lifted his head and let Illya place his jacket under it.

“Thanks.” Solo said. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” Illya settled beside Solo. He gently pulled back Solo’s shirt. Blood. A lot of blood. He found the wound on Solo’s side.

Solo hissed in pain. “It’s fine. Don’t-” Solo gasped and jumped as Illya pressed his handkerchief to the weeping wound.

“How long have you had this?” Illya looked away from the wound and leaned over Solo, looking into his eyes. Solo was still sweating from running earlier.

Solo averted his gaze, looking up at the ceiling instead. He smiled, but the lines of pain in his face told a different story. “Not sure.”

Keeping one hand on the wound, Illya placed his other hand on Solo’s cheek. “Solo.”

Solo still didn’t meet his eyes.

Illya stroked Solo’s cheek with his thumb. “Solo.” Illya repeated.

Finally, Solo met his gaze.

“This is a bad wound.” Illya stated, his fingers becoming wet as blood seeped through the handkerchief already.

“It’s not.” Solo panted softly. “It’s not.”

“You should not have hidden it. You just had surgery-”

“We were busy!” Solo ground out. He was paler than before.

“You are taking blood thinners!”

“I was covering you!”

Illya sighed. He got up. “I’m going to see if there’s any medical supplies.” He took Solo's hand and placed it over the wound to keep pressure on it.

Illya didn’t find much, a few band-aids, expired aspirin, and an ancient thermometer. He found some old bedsheets however and carried them back to Solo’s side.

When he returned, Solo was a few shades paler, sweat beading on his forehead. Illya held his hand to Solo’s cheek again.

“You’re cold.”

“No, I’m good. I’m good. I just need a minute to rest.” Solo murmured. His hand had fallen away from his side, no longer putting pressure. There was a small pool of blood on the floor beneath him.

Illya began to rip the bedsheets and press them to the wound. Illya piled more makeshift bandages on top. He looked back at Solo's face. His head was sagging to the side. His eyes were half closed.

“You are running out of time. As soon as you’re out, I’m picking you up and we’re going.”

Solo was deathly white. “M’fine.” He sighed.

Illya bandaged the leaking wound as best as he could with the bedsheets. He tied it as tight as he dared around Solo’s ribs.

“We are getting out of here now.”

No answer.

“Solo?” Illya looked up from his work.

Napoleon’s eyes were closed and he lay very still.

“Napoleon?” Illya reached up and pressed two fingers to the pulse point on Solo’s neck. His heart rate was quick. Much too quick.

Illya grabbed Solo and pulled him into his arms. “We’re going.”

Solo said nothing, limp and clammy against Illya’s body.

Whumpay - Day 1

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Strapped To An Operating Table Mini Challenge 1 - Torture - Tortured For Information Fandom - The Man from UNCLE (2015)

When the two telephone calls came, one after another with a twelve second pause in between them, Solo shrugged into his coat. Then sat back down in the armchair and looked up to the clock. Three o’clock. He would have to wait until nightfall, roughly three more hours.

Coat on, knee bouncing, and barely reading his paperback book, Solo waited the three requisite hours.

When the distant cathedral bell began to ring out six o’clock, Solo was out of his chair at the first toll, and out of the front door by the third toll.

When he stepped out into the chilly night air he forced himself to slow down, lit a cigarette, and begin a slow and circuitous route towards the dead drop.

Finally, he wandered into the abandoned brickyard. The city was quiet around him.

Ears pricked, Solo flicked his cigarette away, and crouched by a low, crumbling wall. He pulled out the specific brick. It grated pleasantly against its brothers. Solo retrieved the small package from the hollow and replaced the brick.

It was done. He straightened up.

Then the world exploded.

Bright light.

A blow to his nose. Another to a kidney.

Solo found his face pressed into the gravel of the ground. He could taste the brick dust. And the blood gushing from his nose and down his throat.

“Tie his hands.” Someone hissed.

Solo was grabbed and pulled to his feet.

The searing light was shone into his eyes again and Solo groaned. He panted around a mouthful of blood. His hands were roughly tied. Then, with a firm grip on each arm, he was frog-marched to a nearby car and shoved into the trunk.

The door was slammed shut. Complete darkness.

Moments later, the engine roared to life.

Solo caught his breath. He only had a few minutes to puzzle through this. The first order of business was to untie his hands. This was easy enough. They had made the mistake in tying them in front instead of behind his back.

As soon as his hands were free, he blindly reached out and explored the trunk’s locking mechanism as best as he could. The back of his head throbbed in time with his racing heart. The jolting car ride caused wave after wave of nausea and dizziness.

He vomited. His skull rang out, hot with agony.

Solo spat, groaned, and with shaky hands got back to work on the lock. They must have hit him pretty hard.

After a few minutes, and with the help of a lockpick he had in the lining of his coat, Solo popped open the trunk. He was careful not to open the trunk fully and eyed his surroundings. They were bouncing down an old dirt road with only trees on either side. Lovely. The middle of nowhere.

Well, no time like the present.

Solo thrust the trunk door open fully and jumped.

The guidance of 'tuck and roll' felt more like wishful thinking at that moment.

It was a whirlwind of pain.

Finally he found himself flat on his back, looking at the night sky. So many stars.

Solo rolled over and retched again but nothing came up. His head, obviously, was still very painful. He gasped for air, keening with every inhale.

The sound of screeching brakes and slamming care doors.

Shit.

The sound of boots pounding the dirt road. Towards him.

Solo tried to get his legs under him but fell, pain lancing up his left leg. He hit the ground, hard. As rough hands grabbed him again, he saw that his foot stuck out at an odd angle. Broken.

Time dilated. Solo could only focus on breathing. At one moment, he found himself in the backseat of a car, held upright between two men. The next, he was being pulled from the car, foot dragging on the ground. He screamed. And retched. His skull felt as though it would explode. Solo blacked out.

It was the grating agony of his ankle and foot that woke him. Blackness. Until Solo cracked his eyes. A dim room. He could not move.

A moment later he was a little more awake.

He was bound tightly to a table, the ceiling and it’s lone light-bulb looming over him.

The door at the far end of the room opened and two men stepped through; one was older with gray hair and rolled up shirt sleeves and the other was younger, fair-haired, and tall.

And then the questions began.

The haze of his broken ankle and throbbing skull covered Solo like a pall. He could not keep up. As soon as he understood what they were asking him, they were on to the next question. And when they did not get answers quick enough, they cut off his clothes and resorted to other methods of persuasion.

Why were you at that brickyard after dark?

They pulled a cloth over his head and drowned him in cold water.

Who planted the information you retrieved?

They put out their cigarettes on his bare skin.

Who do you work for?

They pressed hard upon his broken ankle and made him scream. They ground the bones against each other. His left lower leg was swollen and almost black with bruises.

Solo did not talk.

He fell into a stupor and woke only to pain. He wished for death. Anything but this.

Hours passed. Maybe even days. He lost track. He did not care. It was eternity either way.

So when he felt the shackles around his wrists removed and someone beginning to work on the shackles about his ankles, he lay there quietly and let them do as they wished.

He gasped when the band about his broken ankle fell off and the blood began to flow again under the bruised flesh.

A warm hand was pressed to his cheek. Gently. That was odd.

“You are awake?” A soft voice.

Maybe he had gone insane. Or maybe this was a new way to torture him.

Solo opened his eyes and saw the blurry face of Illya hovering there.

He certainly hadn’t expected that.

Solo licked his cracked, dry lips. “It’s difficult to tell.” He rasped. In the harsh light from above, Solo could see the lines about Illya’s mouth tighten.

“Come.” Illya began the process of helping Solo off the operating table. “We must go. Where are your clothes?”

Solo had begun to violently shake, his muscles cramping hard, as he tried to stand. He could not speak through the shivering and only shook his head.

Another frown from Illya.

Solo became afraid. The shivering made him ache. The room spun about him. If he was not helpful, would Illya leave him behind? If he was too slow, would Illya decide he was just too much trouble to rescue?

Solo swallowed hard against a dry throat.

Then he straightened up. He tried to still his shaking. And he only leaned on Illya for a little support. Finally, he was able to speak. “They cut them off me. They’re gone.”

Solo felt rather than saw Illya nod. “I have a blanket in the car.”

“Let’s go.” Solo hissed.

Solo had one arm across Illya’s shoulders, while Illya held Solo close to him with a warm grip on his waist. Illya’s hand on his bare, bruised skin was so warm. And gentle. Together, they limped slowly out.

Solo stared only at the floor was they went, focusing on keeping his balance and moving as fast as he could.

He didn’t want to be left behind.

The cold night air hit him and Solo suppressed another bout of violent shivers, groaning with the effort to stay upright.

“Nearly there.” Illya murmured softy, his voice rumbling against Solo’s bruised chest.

Illya sounded almost like he was trying to comfort him.

Solo heard a car door open and he was lifted inside, laid across the backseat. The door closed. Then the other back door opened, another gust of cold wind, and Illya slipped in beside Solo.

“The blanket.” Illya whispered as he laid something warm over Solo’s bare limbs.

Maybe Illya said something else. Solo wasn’t sure. His ears were ringing. And he was sinking. He was falling. He felt the warm hand on his face again. Then nothing.