(The link takes you to AO3).
If you've missed reading any of them you'll find the most recent at the top of the pages when you click on these links. If you need more reading material, just keep scrolling down and enjoy some nice MFU fic today.
Short_Affair or Short Affair I think the correct tag short_affair, so perhaps we could all use that one in future.
A Little Drabble Do Ya
( The Rules... )
The prompts for this month's challenge are "Keep Bleeding Love" and "Run." You can click on the links for the lyrics.
Napoleon and Illya sat in silence as they waited for their boss. Eventually, the old man gave them his attention.
“I am informed that the Section 7 secretarial pool are not filing your reports when they should be,” he told them. “Why would this be?”
“I honestly couldn’t say Sir,” Napoleon replied, with a shrug.
“I believe there are varying reasons,” Illya stated. “Many have recently had a lot more to do, some are having health issues, while others seem to be a little unmotivated. These are all things which happen in an office from time to time but, this time, it all appears to have occurred simultaneously.”
“How would either of you suggest we resolve this issue?”
A grin appeared on Napoleon’s face.
“I’m sure that, between us, Illya and I can provide inspiration.”
Illya emerged from the ‘life-drawing’ class wearing his terry cloth robe and looking quite smug.
As expected, leaning against the opposite was was his partner who’d lied to him, telling the Russian he was going into a nice relaxing sauna...not that Illya wanted to, but when Napoleon insisted, it was hard to say no.
Solo immediately grinned. “Enjoy the sauna, I’m sure it was warm enough as you were on the hot seat.”
“Spare me your ridiculous puns. As a matter of fact I enjoyed the session; I have no reservations disrobing in front of women, regardless of their age. Since they were there to sketch a handsome nude male, they had no qualms either.
Solo noticed writing on Illya’s arms...numbers, telephone numbers?
“Oh, that, “ Illya snickered.”The ladies thought I might enjoy dating some of their daughters...their photos indicated they were quite pretty; plenty of blondes, a brunette and even a red head.”
Napoleon’s jaw dropped as he stared at Kuryakin in envy.
“Perhaps you should model for the class next door?” Illya suggested.
“Another class? Sounds good to me,” Solo grinned. Finding the dressing room, he changed, slipping into a robe.
Napoleon sauntered into the classroom, grinning from ear to ear. He was going to enjoy outdoing his partner as he was sure he'd get more phone numbers.
The room was filled with elderly men...
(sorry about this one. It wrote itself. I couldn't resist)
“Are you sure about this Napoleon?”
Illya was clearly unsure. Napoleon grinned impishly.
“Absolutely, nothing to worry about. I come here all the time. It’s a great way to relax after a heavy workout.”
“Napoleon, I’d sooner shower. What is so great about a sauna? I dislike hot temperatures.”
Napoleon opened a door and shoved his partner through.
“Through that other door there. Trust me, Illya. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Frequently!” Illya stepped through the door. He was met with a bevy of elderly ladies with easels. The teacher steered him to a chair.
“Welcome to our life-drawing class!”
THRUSH was at it again, trying to manipulate the weather with one of their outrageous scientific inventions. Weather machines were the stuff of science fiction, and yet here was one in the hands of the most dangerous criminal organization in the world.( Read more... )
(Just to let you know, those who have been following this story, I may come back to it...tell a little more about Millie and Carrie, and what if anything came next...)
A Letter, part 12
Napoleon, his surviving daughter Carrie and her grandparents stood watching the coffin lowering slowly into the grave. Carrie dropped a single white rose onto the lid of the coffin, tears on her cheeks. Tom and Elsie led her away to wait by the car. Illya moved in beside Napoleon, fighting memories of his own. Napoleon’s shoulders were shaking, but he was making no sound.
“We’ll destroy THRUSH one day, my friend.” Illya said softly. “I swear we’ll make them pay for killing Millie.”
“Millicent Rose Solo, fifteen years old, killed by THRUSH.” He raised red eyes to Illya.
“This is not over!”
Just popping in to put up the guidelines for our last LIFECYCLE Challenge of the year, which has a theme of DENIAL.
The theme of DENIAL is pretty wide-open when it comes to the life of spies who constantly have to consider life-and-death situations. Do the guys sometimes purposely (or subconsciously) deny what the after-effects of one of their missions might be on "regular folks" who might be involved? Or do they indeed deny how those missions change their own personalities, perhaps not for the better? Those are questions to ponder indeed.
With that in mind, here are the guidelines for the LIFECYCLE: Denial seasonal challenge that will run from Saturday, September 16th through Saturday, September 23rd.
CHALLENGE: Write an MFU fanfic story regarding the idea of DENIAL. The story doesn't have to necessarily mention or include the actual term; just embody a scenario that fits the concept behind it. Do, however, place the term DENIAL in a comment at the start of the story for clarity.
STATISTICAL STUFF: Minimum of 500 words with no set maximum. (Drabbles are not incorporated in this particular challenge.) Must fit into the overall concepts of this community, i.e., contain no explicit adult material and reflect the 1960s series in style and content. Please tag your story with the lifecycle tag.
Title: Just Desserts
Author: Rose of Pollux
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Takes place during the second year of the partnership. When a jealous rival agent uses his father’s Section I influence to get a cushy assignment while Napoleon gets a less desirable one, Illya sees red. Napoleon, meanwhile, makes the best of it.
Gen version is available at my DreamWidth
Couldn’t be difficult
It was more interesting to watch the birdlife over the course. Trailing after the two men; pulling their trolleys full of clubs, one in each hand; or holding the flag while they each tried to persuade a small white ball to drop into an almost invisible hole, using entirely unsuitable instruments – it was beyond tedium.
“Hi, you’re in the way. Fore!”
“Leave him alone, Mr Solo. Mr Kuryakin, perhaps you’d be good enough to move a little to your left, while your partner plays his shot.”
And so it went. Hours of it. His job was to keep a weather eye out for a certain kind of bird, known to inhabit rough places and suspected of having started to nest nearby.
Once, looking up at a passing buzzard, a dark predator against the high cloud of a silver sky, he stepped back and fell into a bunker. His partner’s mirth added little to his enjoyment of the day.
The scientist in him, however, had begun to observe the mechanics of the business. ( Read more... )