Snapshots~"Sticks and Stones"

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

                         

“Hey that move wasn’t legal Kuryakin!” His opponent called out, wiping the blood from his mouth.

Illya was dancing around the man who stood at least a good ten inches taller than him.

“All is fair in love and war,” Illya shot back,  his statement followed by a roundhouse kick to his sparring partner’s solar plexus, doubling him over with an ‘ooof’ as he fell to the floor.

The Russian offered him a hand up, but in return when his guard was down for that split second of gentlemanly behavior, the agent swept his legs out from under him, sending Kuryakin flying backwards to the mat.

“So how do you like that, you pinko piece of crap Russkie? We Americans can fight dirty too.”

( Read more... )

Reminder for Song Story This Weekend

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

I hope there are stories swirling around, almost ready for posting.  Here's the original prompt in case you missed it.  Posting begins tomorrow and runs through the weekend.
The Way You Look Tonight

A Stressful Morning, A Sugar & Spies Tale

[alynwa.livejournal.com]

Napoleon woke up in his own bed for the first time in what seemed like years, but had actually been about six weeks between time away on a mission and then time spent in Medical. Dr. Jameson released him to recuperate at home yesterday after he had threatened to walk out of Medical in his gown with his backside proudly displayed to whoever cared to look.

( Read more... )

Reflections on a Snapshot...

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

mrua7 posted one of her Snapshots earlier today, and it made me start thinking of the blond, on a beach, with a sunburn...  It's a little bit of silliness, and .. well ... Okay, you understand.
~~~~~:~~~~~:~~~~:

Illya Kuryakin was a man born to the northern climes, as evidenced by his clearly Nordic characteristics.  Blond and blue eyed, he exemplified the image of someone from snowy peaks and Northern European gene pools.
And therein lay the problem, because at this moment the pale Russian was sweltering in the heat of the equator on a strand of South Pacific beach intended for luxurious vacations, not THRUSH interrogations.

"You will tell me the formula, Mr. Kuryakin, or I will leave you here in this heat until your blood begins to boil.  When the tide comes in this evening you will most likely drown."  The threats were empty, Illya knew that because he was the only person left who could recite the formula being sought by Van Cleef, a notorious THRUSH chief.

"I doubt very much that you will let me die here, Van Cleef.  You want the formula and I alone possess it.  Perhaps if you were to let me up from this ridiculous contraption I might be persuaded to give you a hint."  The Russian was bluffing, of course.  He had no intention of disclosing the formula.  He did want to get off of this piece of driftwood that was being used as an instrument of torture.  It was on this rough planking that Illya was tied, his bare body turning several shades of pink as his skin absorbed the punishing equatorial rays.  He had no illusions about how he would come out of this should Van Cleef hold him here much longer.  Sun poisoning was an absolute possibility, and he was envisioning the signs of it in swollen extremities and severe burns.  His eyes were also in danger as he tried to keep his lids closed, something that was hampered by stinging sweat dripping from his forehead.

( Read more... )