damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
CHARACTER INTERVIEW Repost. Don’t reblog.
NAME: Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin
NICKNAME(S): Peril
AGE: 33
SPECIES: human
personal.
MORALITY: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true
RELIGIOUS BELIEF: atheist
SINS: greed / gluttony / sloth / lust / pride / envy / wrath
VIRTUES: chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice
PRIMARY GOALS IN LIFE: to not die, to become a man his mother would’ve been proud of, to not become his father, to marry Gaby and raise a family with her
LANGUAGES KNOWN: Russian, English, German, French
SECRETS: his father was sent to the gulag for embezzling party funds, and following this event, his mother went into prostitution, he’s afraid of committing to a relationship, he works for a secret international intelligence agency
SAVVIES: sambo, judo, power boating, chess
physical.
BUILD: scrawny / bony / slender / fit / athletic / curvy / herculean / pudgy / average
HEIGHT: 196 cm / 6'5″
WEIGHT: 95kg / 210lbs
SCARS/BIRTHMARKS: scar to the side of right eye
ABILITIES/POWERS: skilled in combat and tech
RESTRICTIONS: borderline personality disorder
favourites.
FOOD: vatrushka
PIZZA TOPPING: fish
COLOR: green
MUSIC GENRE: classical
BOOK GENRE: historical fiction
MOVIE GENRE: historical drama
SEASON: spring
CURSE WORD: cowboy shit
SCENT(S): gaby’s perfume, napoleon’s cooking, fresh baked bread
fun stuff.
BOTTOM OR TOP: ,,,prbly bottom but I didn’t say that
SINGS IN THE SHOWER: no
LIKES BAD PUNS: no
TAGGED BY: @strangcrdoctor tysm!
TAGGING: @kingmcker @chopshopchic @goddessnanna @superswankspy @kingsmanmakings @tellermechanic and anyone else who wants to do it!
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
“I got in here, didn’t I?” He wished that this could have been resolved differently, but he wasn’t going to walk out with his secrecy in tact if the Russian brick wall he was facing had anything to speak for it. Some people were too stalwart to be talked around, and in spite of some better efforts it was obvious this was going to be one of those cases. He raised his hand, slowly enough to make the other man sure he wasn’t moving to strike him, but he called the gun out of the other man’s hands and transported it into his own.
He hated the damn things, so before the other could jump him, he released the catch and popped out the clip, tossing the gun back at the soldier and throwing the magazine away from them. “I think I’m able to handle this powerful thing because that powerful thing is magic,” he answered, looking the other man square in the eye. “And I am one hell of a magician. So you can keep threatening me. You could even beat the crap out of me, pretty damn well I’d wager. Or you can listen to me, because I’m willing to exchange information for the object if it will help you trust me that it’s not going to be misused.”
“And because frankly, I have the sneaking suspicion that if I don’t do that, you’re exactly the type that would hunt me down.”
{ 🔫 } —- ; The hand movement registered too late for Illya to have a proper reaction, leaving him startled and largely unarmed. In no way had he expected the other man to be able to perform some sort of telekinesis, but despite this the experience left him thrown off guard for longer than he should’ve been. Illya narrowed his eyes, glaring at the other man. He was far more dangerous than originally anticipated. Without knowing what else he was capable of Illya didn’t dare move closer.
“What was that?” Magician, he called himself. Illya had never found himself convinced of the existence of anything close to magic. Throughout his life, concrete fact had been what he’d relied on. This man was no longer threatening just his organization, but Illya’s very worldview. Quick thinking would be needed if he wanted to come out of this on top, and at the present, talking could go only one of two ways. One, he would receive valuable information, or two, the man would have more time to think up a better plan. Considering his options, Illya was left to begrudgingly accept Stephen’s offer.
“Fine. Talk.”
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
“Suppose we should,” she says with the faintest of smirks, taking up her own menu and pretending to look at it. “Though if it’s as you say, I can order anything at all and it will far surpass my wildest expectations.” Now Gaby is, of course, laying it on quite thick. This is the game; each new remark is more absurd than the last, each claim more outlandish.
That Illya is still playing along is nothing short of shocking, but Gaby’s having a wonderful time, so she’ll continue to press for more. She won’t take complete credit for the Russian’s ability to be more playful than he used to be - it was always in him, of course, and she can remember a time or two when he’d been in the mood for a joke and she had not - but she’ll accept some praise for her good work.
Honestly, unless she holds any particular dislike for it, she will probably ask for whatever it is Illya is having. Gaby enjoys fine dining, adores the atmosphere and the good wine, but it’s the overall experience she prefers to the food. Most importantly, she knows she ought to have something in her stomach to soak up everything she tends to drink when such a social occasion comes to call.
{ 🔫 } ---- ; She should take the credit where it's deserved, and Illya's more relaxed demeanor is in large thanks to Gaby and in part to Napoleon. There's something akin to a frog being brought to a slow boil about having confidants in his partners. Company is pleasant, and trust is like building warmth, but in the end, like all good things, they will burn.
( It's one thing his father taught him. )
However, Illya happens to be the frog of this analogy, making it simple to stay put in the simmering pot of companionship. He supposes that's what makes it so dangerous- the fact that Gaby and Napoleon are so good at enticing the heart to the point of reckless attachment.
Illya leafs through the menu, pretending to be engrossed in the lines of French script. He hums periodically in thought before finally, looking back to Gaby and folding his menu back on the table. With a purse of his lips and a tilt of his head, he says, "Is difficult choice when every dish is exceptional quality, but I have made choice. I will get the beef bourguignon."
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
instead of sleeping, i scribbled the ot3
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
negasonics-deactivated20160815
my love should wear a warning sign, damn right i remember you
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
“You’ve heard of us?” The young man, young compared to most other agents, did not mention the name of his organization; it could have been a clever ploy to make him divulge sensitive information as easily as it could have been a compliment.
“Rescuing the doctor is our top priority; she created the virus, she’s the only one that can cure it.” Not even Merlin had more than a way to slow the deadly symptoms of the mysterious illness ripping through large parts of several countries.
{ 🔫 } —- ; “I was briefed.” Illya finished curtly, not bothering to hand out more than was needed. He found that there were certain similarities between this agent and others he’d known who were fond of smiles and smooth words as a disarming techniques.
It would be fascinating to see what else he had in store.
“I have some information, but I was told you would have file with more. Should we look it over and make plan of action?” Sooner was always better, after all.
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
This complete stranger was right, wandering alone at night in the streets was never a good idea but she needed to get her mission down and track down her target. In her mind the mission was always important, no matter what and she wasn’t going to to blow her cover unless she didn’t have a choice.
Looking over at the man, she decided to reply to him and see how he would react to her answer.
" Maybe not, but I’m currently on the prowl.“
{ 🔫 } —- ; Illya was bound to be suspicious of the greater majority of the world’s population. The fact that this woman was questioning him, and then proceeding to provide him with cryptic answers to his own inquiries was only heightening that natural skepticism.
He watched her, expression unreadable though his gaze, scrutinizing. “Lost something then, Miss?”
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
“I sent me.” The response was likely a bit too abrupt, and he held his breath, waiting to call up the shield he would need to keep the bullet from cleaving through his skull when the other man got tired of his less than satisfactory answers. It was just a twitch of his broken fingers away, just like he knew him blowing his feeble cover would be. “That is, no one else sent me. I came on my own, and I found you on my own. And it is my sincere hope that no one else knows what you have in here, though realistically I have to stress the likelihood of that to be very slim.”
Whether or not he wanted to divulge the technical aspects of just how he’d found them was something he hadn’t decided on yet. The man seemed on edge beyond what was reasonable even for a paranoid espionage agent, and Stephen suspected the other had a bad feeling about him. There was, after all, only so much paranoia that was warranted when Stephen was lesser in stature and arms. “Rest assured, if it didn’t take me long to figure this out, it won’t take others long either. And they won’t show up unarmed like I did. And that is not a threat - that’s a statement of fact.”
{ 🔫 } —- ; Illya had a bad feeling about men who managed fairly smooth answers when at gunpoint and managed to break into top-of-the-line security systems with seemingly nothing. They reminded him too much of other similarly deceitful people he’d met in his life, and he found it best to stay far away from men such as him. Additionally, Stephen would’ve been more than correct in his analysis of Illya himself as well. Paranoia happened to be his middle name.
“Who do you think you are that you believe you can handle some ‘powerful thing’ you believe we possess? I give you chance to leave now, or I shoot.” He was tired of waiting, and this man spoke in too many riddles. Strangely enough, doing exactly that was one of the best ways to get on Illya’s nerves especially if you were someone who’d just so happened to break in to his headquarters.
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
She almost made a commend about sitting in the front. It was sitting in the front that had saved her body guard - and posing as a chauffer that had saved her. The poor woman in the back…her life had not continued as a result of being in the Princess position in the car.
Nanna looked to the car. It was a good place to park it - any windows from the building would be looking at the back of the stable, and the small herb garden. Tall trees hid them, and the mainview was the opposite way. There was not much to look at.
“I suppose we will find out.” The blonde replied to his question, her hand unconciously pressed to her side. Her rib fractures ached, likely because her heart rate was up, her breathing increased. She did her best to disguise it. How she wanted to be held. To be wrapped up and comforted. How she wanted to be told it would be okay. Balder was good at that. They had been lovers, even if not romantically in love. They had been very dear friends. Partners. He’d made her feel safe and cared for even if he could not make her feel romance. But he was dead too. Dead friends are not very hepful. “If I am not alright in the car, then I will have to be. Unless we grow wings - it is the only way out.”
{ 🔫 } —- ; He nodded in response, taking her for her word. Illya couldn’t be called the most observant of men or the most subtle, and thus, her wishes for comfort passed largely unnoticed. Even if they had been acknowledged, it was doubtful he would’ve been much assistance.
Moving towards the car, he kept his eyes scanning for possible threats, pausing only when they reached the car. He moved around to the side to open her door, waiting for her to enter first before he moved to the driver’s side. Now that they’d left the palace building, the mission was truly about to begin.
“After you.” He found himself searching for signs of hesitance. It couldn’t be easy leaving everything you knew, but despite this, Nanna was showing few signs of fear. It was something to be admired, something that would come in handy later on during this mission.
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“Revolution takes time,” she responds, gladly re-adopting her own language for the sake of having this conversation. It’s an optimistic thought; she has hopes and dreams for her own country, and by virtue of knowing Illya - and caring about him, as it turns out - she’s got those same hopes for his homeland, naive though they might be. There is much about war and politics she can’t quite wrap her head around and doesn’t care to try, though she considers her new lease on life to be a significant advantage in terms of getting a read on the global political climate as a whole.
That, and living more or less above the law isn’t half bad.
“In any case, I’ve never been. Don’t tell me you weren’t excited your first time.” Illya appears to be finished at the desk, and she takes that as her cue to approach him again with Napoleon trailing along, ready to head upstairs. “Just a little?”
Each new adventure has its own novelty; some cities are better than others. More beautiful, more charming, more inhabitable. What counts is the experience, and setting foot on Russian soil is no different, even if spotting too many Soviet men together makes her terribly anxious.
@damnbourgeoisie
{ 🔫 } —- ; Illya finally turns back to face his two companions. Despite how he’s attempting to keep his reactions under control, his face has clearly hardened into a very thin layer of indifference over a simmering interior. He jerks his head towards the stairs in a gesture for them to follow, starting towards them without a word. He doesn’t particularly want to play their games, and though he recognizes that in a way he still is, he can’t be bothered to take a step back thanks to pride.
Part of it is that Russia has put him on edge. He’d never admit it to either of them, but as much as he wants to show them the wonders of his homeland, there’s concern where there should be anticipation.
He moves up the stairs, carrying the suitcases up to the floor where they’ll be staying without so much as a shift in expression. They can drink if they’d like. It isn’t as if Illya cares. It isn’t as if he should be upset when clearly they should be allowed to participate in relaxing activities of which they know he doesn’t enjoy. Besides, it’s not as if he doesn’t enjoy a quiet evening with a book now and then.
@kingmcker
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
Gaby regards him coolly, looking wholly unimpressed, before turning her head to one side and then the other to take in the staff. It’s comical in that it could not in a million years be true, and if you ask Illya, he wouldn’t be prepared to take responsibility for any of them anyhow. The waiter that passes them by in that moment is rather scrawny, and a waitress nearby refreshing glasses for a pair of gentlemen is so incredibly dainty and petite that even Gaby could probably overpower her physically.
“Interesting,” she tells him, once she’s deigned to return her attention back to him, taking Napoleon’s lessons to heart and tilting her head just so, the better to gaze up at him through her lashes. Gaby knows when she’s captivated someone, and she’s unwilling to let that go when it comes to the poor man across from her. The poor man who, for the record, could easily evade her teasing or reject her obvious advances if he wished to. She’d invited herself out this evening, and if he hadn’t felt like accompanying her, he could have simply told her now. It’s not as though he hasn’t done so before.
“Trained in Russia, you say? The pride of the Soviet culinary world?” Her fingers toy with the stem of her glass. “You’ve set the bar high, now. Hopefully the service here exceeds my new expectations.”
{ 🔫 } --- ; Illya recognizes the trap he's laid for himself, and while this is only Gaby, he sincerely hopes the restaurant's servers do indeed live up to his words despite the absurdity of both their claims. It isn't a mission where misspeaking will lead to mission failure, but his pride will still be injured if he's completely wrong.
It's clear that this pause in their missions and their growing time together has led him to be more open to lighthearted teasing. A part of him is beginning to think that possibly she might be attached to him in the way that he's attached to her, but a larger part holds to the belief that this can never be. Etiquette aside Gaby is someone far too bright, far too talented, far too phenomenal to be tied to someone like Illya. He may be seeing things he's only wanting to find, but either way, if it is the truth, and this really isn't just a game, she will still move on.
"I am sure they will." Illya responded, tone assured as he kept his gaze fixed on Gaby despite her scanning of their surroundings. "I may be spy, but I am not liar when it comes to things like this. But-” He picked up the menu, pursing his lips in an attempt to seem impassive. “-should we look at menu before night is over?"
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
“If I do, will you tell me about it, or will you make something up for fun?” she teases, recalling all too well how difficult she’d made things for him. Illya in all his superior glory, stumbling to keep up with her questions, so distracted he’d hardly been able to master simple math in his head while she’d looked on, expectant.
“Let me guess,” Gaby continues, eyes sparkling with mischief, “This French restaurant was built by Russians. And all of the chefs are from St. Petersburg. Am I close?” She’s trying hard not to grin, but her smile is easy. Not all of them are; often she puts real, honest effort into maintaining an air of casual indifference. It’s been proven that a certain aloofness can serve to either repel unwanted attention, or draw the eye of those who are forever chasing after what they cannot have.
“And the wine,” now she leans forward a bit, chin still in her hands, though she lowers her voice as if telling him a secret. “The pride of Moscow’s most prestigious vinyards.”
{ 🔫 } —- ; He wishes he could convince himself it’d be impossible for him not to become a tongue tied mess at the subtle tilt of her chin and cool voice drilling him with carefully aimed prods. Yet it’s for that reason exactly he’s become so concerned. The KGB’s best shouldn’t be one to fall at the feet of a little German mechanic and her confident gaze.
However, Illya, in the present, is captivated by her lowered voice and playful bearing. He lets his lips curve upwards just so as he joins her in her conspiratorial whispering.
“Very close. You must count me impressed, but-” He straightened up, his face the picture of smug superiority as he played along with her jest. “You missed one thing. All waiters and waitresses of this restaraunts are also Russian or trained in Russia. Clearly, I would not take you to second-class establishment.”
Whispering some compliments to people around assisted, certainly, in naturalising him to the environment. But like all dangerous things, the crowd eventually ended, and Napoleon felt rather strange out of the world of chatter. Illya was finished with his words long before he looked up in acknowledgement. ‘One of us loitering around would only arouse suspicion. The sooner we vanish, the better.’ A rookie mistake- people were more concerned with security than they needed to be.
Besides, the guards around would be drunk off their derrières soon enough.
Napoleon followed his comrade’s form with relatively less enthusiasm. Evenings in suits put him in a frame of mind from which it was difficult to destroy. And each time these things spiralled into covert operations, he had to take a moment to regain his objectives. It was a fortunate thing that he’d kept his lock-picking kit close at hand. If he were feeling particularly cocky, or particularly pessimistic, he’d have left it where it belonged- buried in a case among other ugly things that were necessary for the job.
It’d been a while since he’d had to cooperate in such matters.
{ 🔫 } —- ; Illya, on the contrary, breathed an internal sigh of relief as they exited the crowd. While he was aware of the fact that crowds made for a wonderful veil when one was looking to stay hidden, party goers were bothersome, and when they were rich, they were not only bothersome, but conceited and frivolous- two things he looked down upon in people.
Illya gave a subtle nod at Napoleon’s response, moving confidently towards the stairs. The key in situations such as these was to appear as if this was where you were meant to be, and few would be bothered to question it.
“I take it you brought necessary tools needed for this... operation?” He kept his gaze fixed ahead as he addressed his partner beneath his breath. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say he’d brought anything for a lock-picking job which was admittedly carelessness on his part.
damnbourgeoisie-blog reblogged
I tripped and this fell out of my pocket and I swear don’t know what it was doing in there, officer. I must have been reverse-pickpocketed… put-pocketed. I’ve been put-pocketed. Can I go now
Source: ofsparrows
Hiatus until December
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