justabigoldnerd reblogged
Oddly specifically relatable right now, as I have my Smut No One Asked For doc OPEN while politely pretending that my multi-chapter WIPs don't exist (/hj)
It's WIP Wednesday, folks!! And I'm trying to hold myself accountable and get some progress done on my seemingly endless WIP pile 😅 So here's one inspired by a Tumblr post I saw and a conversation in the TMFU Discord Server 💕
No pressure tagging @huggiebird @happybean17 @falling-into-peril @heytheredeann @pippinoftheshire
And an Open Tag for anyone else who wants to join!! 💕💕💕
⚠️🌶Slight NSFW🌶⚠️ So I'll put it under the cut 💕
By JustABigOldNerd on Ao3
Tags:
Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Feels, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort
Characters:
Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo
Word Count:
956
Summary:
"The roof is a place of morbid comfort, for him. When things felt too heavy, he would climb the stairs to the hatch and just sit on the ledge. He would lean back on his palms, letting the bite of gravel ground him, and just trace constellations, listening to the night birds call." ••• Illya likes to sit on the rooftop when his thoughts get too much. Solo tends to join him.
Excerpt:
Behind him, he hears the entrance to the roof open, and Illya doesn't have to turn to know whose footsteps are approaching him. “Anything specific, tonight?” Illya swallows thickly and shakes his head. He can feel the dark circles under his eyes, he knows how empty his stare will be, so he keeps his gaze on the couple– they've almost made it to the next corner. “Okay,” Solo assess, pausing at his side, “Can I sit with you?” Illya spares him a glance, then, and sees the soft, encouraging smile on Solo's lips. He nods subtly, imperceptible to most. But not to Solo.
Thank you so much @kcscribbler for the tag 💕
Unfortunately, I may be on hiatus from everything for a little while, so instead of a WIP excerpt, have an unpublished nightmare drabble based on a new reoccurring dream I've been having that I of course had to shove onto my favorite punching bag ✨️
(Also, the fancy divider is from @enchanthings , go check them out 💕)
In the meantime, no pressure tagging @huggiebird @happybean17 @falling-into-peril @heytheredeann @pippinoftheshire
And an Open Tag for anyone who wants to join!!
Character: Illya Kuryakin
Warnings: Angst, Nightmares, emotional hurt/no comfort
"Open Your Eyes (Or Just Try To)"
Illya had never been a dreamer. When he slept, only blackness greeted his consciousness. Nightmares weren't uncommon, however they were often replays of unsavory memories or missions gone wrong. Near death experiences, fearing for his partners’ lives, the abuse of old handlers, his father's screams and his mother's belt. They were never abstract, like those of his peers. Monsters never haunted him, imaginary killers or threats that were laughable once awakened never manifested.
But recently, they've been changing.
Now, they often begin with the chaotic sounds of agony and brutality that herald a battle. It's faint at first; distant, just out of reach, but still close enough to make his heart pound. Then the echoing gunshots encroach, the shouting grows louder, death looms over the horizon. Adrenaline pulses through his veins and he tries to ready himself for whatever hell is approaching. Illya tries to ready himself, to take in his surroundings and make a plan, but it's too dark. Thick, inky black clouds his vision, and while he's able to get his weapon armed and in his hands, he can't see anything around him. And when the war drums are upon him, its not his own scream that reaches his ears first.
It's Gaby's.
Or Solo's.
Or sometimes they both give their cry of pain or effort from either side of him, before the distorted clashes of metal and flesh drown him. But no matter what he hears, the darkness prevails. He can claw at his eyes, try to rip the wool off or shred his eyelids enough to see, but all can glimpse is fractured images and light before its darkness once again.
Other nights, he drifts into the warmth and safety of a London flat, though he can never tell which one. He can feel the cushioned couch or armchair beneath him, hear the music crackling from the radio, the laughter of his partners as they bicker in the kitchen or dance in the living room. Illya wants nothing more than to see for himself this beautiful reality, one he hadn't let himself believe to be possible. But yet again, something keeps his vision blackened. Yet again, he's robbed of the sense that was drilled into him to keep on high alert at all times. He scrubs at his eyes until they burn, rinses them with water, tries to manually pry open his heavy eyelids, but nothing works. He's tormented by the almosts, the golden lighting that creeps through the tiny cracks between his lashes. He feels someone tug at his arm, with words of encouragement he can never quite remember. But his mind is clouded.
All he can think about is that his eyes are glued shut.
The scenarios change, but that single recurring fact is what unnerves him the most. Illya is never able to open his eyes. This simple task, something instinctual, that he shouldn't even have to think to achieve, he has somehow failed over and over and over again.
Illya wakes up in a cold sweat, disoriented, eyes wide and wild. He tracks every inch of his bedroom, memorizing the space repeatedly until the blood stops marching in his ears and his chest stops heaving.
He's never been able to get back to sleep after those nightmares. Mostly because, as childish as it sounds, he doesn't want to risk closing his eyes. So he just sits up, knees drawn to his chest, and stares at the slit in the curtains over his window, watching indigo fade into gray, gray into lilac, lilac into orange, and orange into blue.
And he keeps his eyes open for as long as he can stand it.
I am *very* late to this, but thank you so much @the-golden-comet for the tag!!!
Here's the last seven lines I wrote for a drabble based on a message sent by @prettyboynapoleonsolo about the missing time between Solo's vest being buttoned in The Chair, and unbuttoned in The Chopper ajsgsjkagsgshsk 💕💕💕💕
The contact is almost comforting, grounding him to the moment. His partner's skin is warm, in a pleasant way rather than the searing of the chair. And his hands are surprisingly steady as he diligently and carefully unbuttons Solo's vest. His touch is cordial, focused on keeping his hands from brushing too close to Solo's body. The result is each unclasped button tugging Solo minutely closer to him, until he can smell the spice of his cologne mingling with the heady musk of sweat. Until his heart hammers in the back of his throat. Until he has to rest the hand not gripping Illya's wrist on the Russian's upper arm to ground himself, knuckles white where they've twisted in the fabric of his jacket sleeve.
No pressure tagging @huggiebird @happybean17 @falling-into-peril @heytheredeann @pippinoftheshire
And an Open Tag for anyone who wants to join!!!
justabigoldnerd reblogged
the true cycle of life
Y'know what, I'm not even gonna be defensive about this one, you're correct as fuck LMAOOO 😅😅😅😅😅
Whew, it's been a hot minute 😅 But I've actually been writing again!!! And I have a kiss to share!!!
Thank you so much @the-golden-comet for the tag!!!
From "You're Afraid (However Could You Not Be?)", the sequel (AHHHHH🤩🤩💕💕💕) to @pippinoftheshire 's STUNNING fic, "And So, In Darkness, It Lies Watching. It Lies Waiting"
A low drone like a thousand hornets shakes his diaphragm. The arm he's holding moves, the drone picking up in bass and volume. A feeling like frozen shards of glass skirts along his jawline, then a sharp pain pierces his scalp. Illya barely has time to hiss in a breath before a mouth seals over his own. Goosebumps flood his body as Solo claws at his skin, pushing him backwards and stealing breathtaking kisses. Confusion wars with need in Illya's mind. He wants this, he knows he does, but when had the fear and anger melted into desire, into care? Why does Solo want him, too? Why does the pain he knows will leave behind crimson ravines and the taste of iron on Solo's tongue not dissuade him? His knees hit the bed and he falls back onto it with a gasp caught between pleasure and pain. Claws rake up his side, pushing up his turtleneck, and Solo breaks the kiss to whisper against the shell of Illya's ear, “Don't open your eyes.” The command sounds like it comes from deep within Illya's skull. He nods wordlessly, allowing his hands to roam as much of Solo's otherworldly skin and hair as he'll let him. Solo kisses him like a wolf tears at the carcass of a bear; starving, desperate, steeped in violence. It's like he wants to eat him alive, and Illya has the startling revelation that that may be exactly what Solo intends to do.
No pressure tagging @huggiebird @happybean17 @falling-into-peril @heytheredeann @pippinoftheshire
And an Open Tag for anyone else who wants to join!!
justabigoldnerd reblogged
*UNHOLY SCREECHING*
GO READ THIS ITS SO FUCKING COOL!!!!!!
I saw that people were making masterposts, and decided I wanted to do one, too 🥰
Day One: Lost Pet Meet Cute
"Adventure Is Out There"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 3,129
Day Two: "Left. Other Left!"
"And It Will All Be Fine"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin, Gaby Teller × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 499
Day Three: Favorite Scent
"All Of My Intentions Are Exposed"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 911
Day Four: Market Day
"Little By Little We Cross The Line"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin, Gaby Teller × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 896
Day Six: Mistaken Identity
"Waste The Night"
Fandom: Gravity Falls
Pairing: Fiddleford McGucket × Stanford Pines
Word Count: 749
Day Eight: Chopping and Piling Wood
"Impossible To Ignore"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Gaby Teller × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 1,548
Day Eleven: Ingredients and Spells
"Capitalist Decadence"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 1,443
Day Thirteen: Attic, Cellar, Hidden Room
"It Runs In The Family"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 604
Day Fourteen: Fantasy AU / Mundane AU
"To Be Built Back Up Again"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 3,823
Day Sixteen: Yes No Maybe
"In The Place Where It All Began"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin, Gaby Teller × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 1,882
Day Eighteen: Bewitched
"Lost In A Haze"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin, Gaby Teller × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 3,546
Day Twenty: Paw
"To Share The Space With Simple Living Things"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 2,336
Day Twenty-Seven: Afternoon Stroll
"I Picked Wildflowers And Put 'Em In Her Hair"
Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Pairing: Napoleon Solo × Illya Kuryakin, Gaby Teller × Illya Kuryakin
Word Count: 1,908
justabigoldnerd reblogged
gallya - warm please :)
“Just try them on.”
“Gaby, I already have—”
“Yes, for work,” Gaby says, pushing them into his chest. “These are for you.”
Illya turns the gloves over, and over again. The palms are black leather, the top a thick grey wool. Four risen seams stretch subtly from knuckle to cuff. A classic cut, inoffensive. Practical. He imagines how they would pair with his black winter coat, and the ushanka she insists he wears with even the slightest wind chill. He hasn’t yet decided whether she really likes that hat or if she’s only making fun of him.
“Go on,” she urges, peering up at him. “Or don’t you like them?”
He can’t fathom what he has done to deserve a gift, always feels uncomfortable accepting them, but clearly it matters to her that he at least puts them on.
Illya slips the first over his left hand, wriggles his fingers. The cuff sits comfortably on top of his watch, the wool protecting the glass face. It’s as if he has worn them in for months, as snug and as tailored a fit as he could pick for himself.
“I didn’t know your size,” she hurries, as if having heard him. “I just asked for the biggest they had. They thought I was joking.”
Illya’s lips quirk with the slightest smile. “Your kidskin gloves, Milan,” he remembers, and wonders if she does too. “I asked for the smallest.”
Gaby either pretends not to hear or isn’t really listening at all. She has already taken the second glove from him and is tugging it onto his right hand. Illya straightens his fingers, lets her pat around the cuff and pinch at his palm until it sits properly.
“You would never have bought them for yourself,” she goes on, avoiding his eye. “And your hands are always so cold. You said you were going to Moscow again soon. So. I think you should take them with you. Keep you warm.”
When she finally finishes prodding at him, Illya grasps her hand before she can drop it. The glove moulds effortlessly, the leather of the palms soft enough to feel the shape of her fingers. He imagines the warmth. “Thank you. It is — thoughtful.”
“Yes, well,” Gaby begins, with a dismissive huff of a laugh, but she tapers off as soon as her eyes meet his. Something she sees makes up her mind; she slows, and she gentles. Carefully, Gaby turns his gloved hand in hers. She pushes her fingertips down his wrist and under the cuff, runs them softly over the calloused heel of his palm.
Illya peers quizzically down at her, something too strong surging in his chest.
By JustABigOldNerd on Ao3
Tags:
Fluff, Picnics, Butterflies, Flowers, Established Relationship
Characters:
Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo, Gaby Teller
Word Count:
1,908
Summary:
Flufftober Day Twenty-Seven: Afternoon Stroll --- Solo and Gaby convince Illya to go on a picnic with them.
Excerpt:
It is a beautiful afternoon, Illya has to admit. Spring is in full swing, and the air is aromatic with blossoming flowers. Birds sing brightly, insects buzz by harmlessly, and a pack of children scream joyously in the distance. He takes a deep breath and tries to relax, but the ache in his ribs reminds him of the back-to-back string of long and excruciating missions they'd been put through. The breath catches in his throat and he shoves his hands into his pockets, turning his attention to his care-free partners.
Featuring Picrews of the Trio in this fic!!!
justabigoldnerd reblogged
There are a lot of abuse and recovery stories out there in fandom. A lot of them are written by people who’ve never been in an abusive relationship. That’s fine, that certainly doesn’t mean you can't write it, especially when it’s present in canon. Unfortunately, it does mean that a lot of people get it wrong.
The usual abuse narrative you see in fandom is a story about absence. The lack of safety. The lack of freedom. The lack of love, or of hope, or of trust. They try to characterize the life of an abused kid, or an abused partner, based on what’s missing. They characterize recovery based on getting things back: finding safety, discovering freedom, and slowly regaining the ability to trust–other people, the security of the world, themselves.
That doesn’t work. That is not how it works.
Lives cannot be characterized by negative space. This is a statement about writing. It’s also a statement about life.
You can’t write about somebody by describing what isn’t there. Or you can, but you’ll get a strange, inverted, abstracted picture of a life, with none of the right detail. A silhouette. The gaps are real but they're not the point.
If you’re writing a story, you need to make it about the things that are there. Don’t try to tell me about the absence of safety. Safety is relative. There are moments of more or less safety all throughout your character’s day. Absolute safety doesn’t exist in anyone’s life, abusive situation or not.
If you are trying to tell me a story about not feeling safe, then the question you need to be thinking about is, when safety is gone, what grows in the space it left behind?
Don’t try to tell me a story about a life characterized by the lack of safety. Tell me a story about a life defined by the presence of fear.
What's there in somebody’s life when their safety, their freedom, their hope and trust are all gone? It’s not just gaps waiting to be filled when everything comes out right in the end. It’s not just a void.
The absence of safety is the presence of fear. The absence of freedom is the presence of rules, the constant litany of must do this and don’t do that and a very very complicated kind of math beneath every single decision. The lack of love feels like self-loathing. The lack of trust translates as learning skills and strategies and skepticism, how to get what you need because you can’t be sure it’ll be there otherwise.
You don’t draw the lack of hope by telling me how your character rarely dares to dream about having better. You draw it by telling me all the ways your character is up to their neck in what it takes to survive this life, this now, by telling me all the plans they do have and never once in any of them mentioning the idea of getting out.
This is of major importance when it comes to aftermath stories, too. Your character isn’t a hollow shell to be filled with trust and affection and security. Your character is full. They are brimming over with coping mechanisms and certainties about the world. They are packed with strategies and quickfire risk-reward assessments, and depending on the person it may look more calculated or more instinctual, but it’s there. It’s always there. You’re not filling holes or teaching your teenage/adult character basic facts of life like they’re a child. You’re taking a human being out of one culture and trying to immerse them in another. People who are abused make choices. In a world where the ‘wrong’ choice means pain and injury, they make a damn career out of figuring out and trying to make the right choice, again and again and again. People who are abused have a framework for the world, they are not utterly baffled by everyone else, they make assumptions and fit observations together in a way that corresponds with the world they know.
They’re not little lost children. They’re not empty. They’re human beings trying to live in a way that’s as natural for them as life is for anybody, and if you’re going to write abuse/recovery, you need to know that in your bones.
Don’t tell me about gaps. Tell me about what’s there instead.
#as someone who has survived abuse i was initially really put off by this#because the gaps *are* what difine my life#what im missing *is* my story#but then i kept reading and i realized that i was taking it to literally#this is absolutely correct. voids need to be filled. the absence of safety *definitely* created the presence of fear.#this is a wonderful resource to read through if you're wanting to write abusive situations/surviving abuse#very well written#♡♡♡#writing#writing advice#fic writing#fanfic writing#fanfiction
justabigoldnerd reblogged
i made a whump wheel
want to beat up a character but don't know how you wanna do it? same here, friend. behold, the whump wheel! it currently has 60 different prompts/tropes on it and is ready for use! 🎉 i...love this thing. it is wonderful for writing exercises. (if you wanna know what's on it before using it, take a peak at the screenshot below)
Ohohoho I LOVE this, I can see myself going to injure a character, tapping a pencil to my chin in dramatic thought (I write on Google Docs lmao), and going, "Let us see what fate The Wheel has decided for you today~"
justabigoldnerd reblogged
@justabigoldnerd this is a callout post /affectionate
LISSSTTEEEEN I DON'T MEAN FOR THEM TO SPIRAL AWAY FROM ME 😆😆😆💕💕💕
By JustABigOldNerd on Ao3
Tags:
Pets, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Cats, Dogs, Assumptions, Misunderstandings, Communication
Characters:
Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo
Word Count:
2,336
Summary:
Flufftober Day Twenty: Paw --- The story, more or less, of how Solo and Illya ended up with six fluffy children.
Excerpt:
“We could kick them off, you know,” Solo suggests half-heartedly, setting down his coffee to take one of Princess's paws in his hand and giving her soft, pink toe beans a squeeze. She purrs and nuzzles closer to him. “I could kick you out,” Illya shoots back, even though he pulls Solo to him with an arm around his shoulders, pressing a kiss into his curls. “I know, lapochka, the kids come first,” he laughs, twisting as far as he can to give Illya a chaste kiss. He doesn't know how he ended up with all of this. Well, the animals, he does.
This fic was entirely inspired by this GORGEOUS piece of art by @nye_igneous on Twitter 💕💕💕
justabigoldnerd reblogged
The Bittersweet Tragedy
summary:
It’s his first time actually hugging Illya, so really, it makes sense for him to be nervous. He just might be overdoing it a tad.
notes:
I am not a good hugger. Tonight my friend hugged me and I dropped some crackers I was holding and just gently said “my crackers” while waiting for the hug to end. (from a twitter post sent in the tmfu!! discord server by @myfatherswatch) - tyty to @justabigoldnerd for inspiring the title <3
tags:
Established Relationship, Hugs, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Crack Treated Seriously
excerpt:
Having finally finished reorganizing his lock picks, Napoleon leaves their shared study and finds Illya in the living area of their New York apartment with a box of Triscuits on the counter in front of him. It makes something warm and painfully vulnerable blossom in his chest. It makes him ache to see it, this picturesque picture of domesticity right here in his living room. He doesn’t think he deserves it and is completely floored by the fact that it’s his. I love you, he wants to say, and the knowledge that he can makes his heart feel full to bursting. He longs to take a Illya in his arms, so he crosses over to him and does just that.
read more on ao3
GO READ THIS it's as hysterical and sweet as it is heartwrenching AGKFSKFSJFSFJ 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕