#Update: She called off ahhhhhhHHHHHH

[imnotrevealingmyname]

For fanfic writer questions: All. Of. Them. Alternatively: 15. 21 and 25

Lmao 😂😂😂😂❤️❤️❤️❤️ I'm doing all of them.

1. Phone, on Google docs. My phone is an absolute mess.

2. Fanfiction? About two years ago. Don't ask about original stuff. Oof

3. Loki fics, poems.

4. Both? Both. Both is good.

5. Terrible. Ok I'm kidding, I'd describe it as poetic, in a way? Overly poetic is good, ig. But it's also overly dramatic- something I hate seeing in people. Which makes me a hypocrite, ig. Lmao.

But in all honesty, I'm pretty flexible in my writing. Even while writing poems, I can easily shift from writing about EXTREMELY dark stuff (trust me, you don't wanna know) to something light and fluffy, which is a good thing, I guess? But it also feels a bit suffocating sometimes because I have a habit of reading my stuff from the POV of a reader, once I'm done with writing it. So I try to make it as bearable as possible. People nowadays don't always like intense stuff, and since I'm a freaky gal who started reading Shakespeare in third grade, it becomes difficult for me to give up my very intense style of writing. I probably don't make sense, but, uh. Whatever. Point is, I'm not perfect.

6. Random stuff. Seriously. My cupboard can set me off in a writing frenzy- most of the time,however, I don't even know what inspiration is. I meet her very infrequently- so infrequently that she's very forgettable :')

7. No? Sometimes? A couple of my fics were inspired by songs, I suppose. I also unpublished one, if I remember correctly.

8. The title. Oh god, that always makes me lose sleep. And also, the descriptions. Either I'm overly descriptive, or I end up writing a whole one shot in less than 300 words. Why Am I An Idiom is going to be the name of my autobiography, if I ever write one. (And yes, it's is Idiom. Long story.)

9. I don't really have any fixed place for writing. I've been known to write poems in the bathroom, so

10. Do I have a current WIP? I honestly have no idea what I'm doing with them. All I've been writing lately are one shots.

11. I don't count, but I have over 45 drafts

12. If you're talking about fics, then there's this fic I wrote, called Alien Ardour, a few months ago. I unpublished it due to several reasons, but I honestly love it. Also, I really like my one shots Scandalous and Silenced.

13. Like in total? What's 63+48+9? And it's ongoing.

14. Loki. Duh. And death. I love writing about death :')

15. OCs if it's multichapter, reader insert (NO Y/N, PLEASE, TAKE THAT AS FAR AWAY FROM ME AS POSSIBLE) if it's a one shot.

16. Repetitive question.

17. The Soul Trade. A few chapters were for aesthetics, but ok.

18. Loki. Only Loki. And uh.... Drarry. That's my fricking OTP.

19. @caffiend-queen. I love several other authors but she's always the first to come to my mind when I'm asked this question.

20. No

21. Coffee shop AU 😂 I don't even regret this

22. Idiots to lovers

23. 2 years. Fun fact: my first fic was a Drarry fic. I love it so much that it's still on Wattpad, even though I've not updated it in like a year.

24. Haven't we all?

25. Motivation? Who? What? Okay I'm kidding, I read fanfics. Seriously. Either I reread my own and edit them to sorta get back the feel of writing, or I end up reading a new fic. Smut who?

26. I was eight when I started writing, for heaven's sake. I don't remember.

27. If you're talking about fanfiction, then it's definitely @ohhhmyloki and @latent-thoughts (Tumblr won't let me tag y'all, for some reason). I used to write before I read their works but I quite literally began my journey with smut after reading their fics. And I don't think any of my fics written before that even exist anymore. But if we're talking about writing in general, then it's O Henry and Bernard Shaw. Maybe Gerald Durrell. Did I mention that I love Gerald Durrell?

28. Loki.

29. Idiotic. Messy. Freaky.

30. Um, I don't really wanna say this, but it's Just A Kiss Goodnight. It may be my most 'famous' fic, but it's definitely not the best. For one thing, I wrote it in less than a week, and I haven't edited it. And there's no fucking smut. I'm not saying that smut is necessary to make a fic good, but it doesn't have any intimacy in it. It's definitely not boring, I'll give it that, but it's childish.

31. Wtf is the difference

32. What kinda question is this

33. One shot? Depends. I can be freaky fast and write one in less than fifteen minutes, or I can take literal weeks to finish one.

34. Dude, what's the normal font in android? I have no idea. But one of my favourites is monotype corsiva, when I'm on my laptop.

35. Both.

36. I don't

37. All of my works, oof 😂 well, no. But there's this fic I've written, called Let's Get Drunk Together. And another. It's called Three Isn't A Crowd, After All. Cringy af

38. Smut. Dark poetry.

39. WHY ARE SO MANY QUESTIONS REPEATED? It's idiots to lovers, ffs

40. On Tumblr? Average is 60, I think.

41. Yes

42. Writing.

43. All the time

44. Yes

45. I can be as thirsty and smutty as I want without being judged, bless fanfiction.

46. The "WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO MY HEART WHAT ARE YOU DOING AHHHHHHHHHHHH AND WHY AM I SO AROUSED AT THIS TIME OF ALL TIMES AND WHY IS THIS ANGSTY GIVE ME FLUFF" feeling. Not to brag, but I'm very good at that.

47. I can do anything and everything I want. I can make a unicorn fuck a werewolf and nobody will judge me. Or maybe they will.

48. Yes- Wattpad and Ao3.

49. Google docs, word.

50. Fucking Y/N. Like, not literally fucking Y/N, but uh- I mean, I'd totally fuck my clone? But Y/N isn't me, I hate Y/N. And I hate people who just comment on your fic to promote their own fics. We write for your happiness, please at least do the courtesy of appreciating that and not disrespecting our efforts. Most of us spend nights lying awake to give you stuff to read. And also, people who just comment to say,"Update," two minutes after you've just updated. That's RUDE.

51. High school AU

52. Cock, pussy, salacious, sepulchral, pulchritudinous....... I don't have a one track mind I swear

53. Giggled. FUCKING GIGGLED. I don't understand WHY people have this tendency of writing,"she giggled," and,"he chuckled." I don't know why but GIGGLED sounds like something not EVEN a simpering schoolgirl would do. I don't giggle. Not once have I seen peeps who write GIGGLE associate GIGGLE with men, which is something that I find very disturbing and sexist. Call me biased, go on. But I might not even have been here now because I'm from THAT orthodox and sexist a family, and if they'd been any more sexist, I'd have been killed after birth, so don't even dare to come near me with a ten foot pole if you're sexist.

54. Well, yes, I think. I certainly don't hate it, or I wouldn't write.

Dang, I spent over half an hour writing that. Hope that made even an iota of sense.

[rose-of-pollux]

The Deadly Admirer Affair (MFU fic), part 2/10

Title: The Deadly Admirer Affair Rating: PG13 (for action/danger) Chapter summary: Illya’s disappearance has not gone unnoticed, and it’s a long night for Napoleon and the others as they find him under shocking and baffling circumstances.

If you prefer reading on FFN, you can read it here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12338876/2/ If you prefer reading on AO3, you can read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9472766/chapters/21604133

                                      Act II: Early Morning Vigils

Napoleon was relieved when Waverly finally seemed satisfied with the debriefing—it was still a long session, nearly ninety minutes, and he breathed a sigh of relief once he left Waverly’s office, still holding Baba Yaga in his arms.  That cat purred contentedly, enjoying not having to walk.

“Remember to send Mr. Kuryakin here once you’ve finished your bagels,” Waverly called after him.

“…Yes, Sir…”

“And you go home and rest,” Waverly added.  “In fact, it probably wouldn’t go amiss to have Medical check you before you go--”

“I’m fine, Sir—really!” Napoleon insisted, and he darted off down the hallway before Waverly could tell him anything else.

He carried Baba Yaga back to the office he shared with Illya, ignoring the people in the hallway trying to catch his eye or speak to him.

“Hey, Illya, I’m finished, so I’ll have that bagel now…”  He trailed off as he found the office empty; Baba Yaga let out a murowr of puzzlement, also wondering where Illya was.  “…Now where’d he go…?”

Puzzled, he left their office, deciding to check out Section VIII, but stopped as he saw April and Mandy heading his way.

“Have you seen Illya?” they all asked, in unison.

“…Well, I guess that answers that,” April sighed.  “He was supposed to pick up the latest batch of reports for Mandy to translate.”

“And that was over an hour ago,” Mandy added.  “He said he’d pick them up along with the bagels.”

Napoleon bit his lip.

“Hopefully, it’s just traffic slowing him down,” he said, but there was an unexplained worry growing in his voice, and, still holding onto the cat with one arm, he pulled out his communicator.  “Open Channel D.  Illya, you alright?”

Silence.

“…Illya?”

“Maybe…  Maybe he’s preoccupied with something?” April asked, but her voice lacked any conviction, as well.

Napoleon exhaled as the feeling in his gut increased.

“…April, can you--?”

“I’ll get Mark; we’ll meet you at the front entrance,” she said, immediately, and she gave Mandy’s shoulder a squeeze before heading down the corridor.

“Thank you!” Napoleon called after her.  He turned to Mandy.  “Mandy, can you and George use Illya’s homing device signal to help us get a location on him?”

“Right,” she said, her reports forgotten.

Napoleon sighed and now placed Baba Yaga back in the office, in her basket.  She let out a concerned meow, prompting him to gently scratch the spot behind her ears.

“I know,” he sighed.  “I’m worried about him too.”

She meowed again, and Napoleon managed a wan smile.

“I’ll bring him back,” he said, softly.  I hope…

He bid the cat farewell and headed out, meeting Mark and April there, and the three of them headed downtown. They had checked out both the message drop as well as the bagel shop; finding the former empty and the latter confirming that Illya had been there nearly an hour ago, it left many question still unanswered for the other U.N.C.L.E. agents, and more for them to worry about.

Napoleon’s communicator went off as George called him.

“The good news is that I’ve located the signal from Illya’s homing device,” he said, relaying the coordinates to Napoleon.

“Thanks, George.  …And what’s the bad news?”

“…The signal isn’t moving—hasn’t moved in a while, according to the data.”

Napoleon exhaled and began to run, with April and Mark right behind him, turning into the alley. Napoleon paused, seeing nothing in his line of vision first, but then glanced down—

“ILLYA!”

He was at his partner’s side in an instant, checking his pulse and breathing.

“Is he…?” April began.

“He’s alive, but he’s been shot,” Napoleon said.  “Mark, contact Medical.”

“Right,” he replied, reaching for his communicator.

Napoleon didn’t respond to him or to April, who was now inspecting the items around Illya; Napoleon instead focused his attention on his partner.

“Illya,” he said, softly. “Illya, can you hear me?”

Illya was unresponsive, and Napoleon just held him close, trying to stop the bleeding as the world continued on around him—yet stopped for himself.

                                         ***********************************

 Time never seemed to be real when worrying over an injured partner, and Napoleon paid no attention to it. He merely waited outside the operating room doors as the Medical staff worked to remove the bullet from his partner—a place where he had stood before, far too many times.

Beside him stood Baba Yaga, subdued and clearly upset; she didn’t even react as people filed in and out, querying about Illya—maddeningly enough, about the rumors in addition to his condition. Napoleon didn’t answer them, either, and he was grateful when Mark, April, Mandy, and George showed up, shooing the curious away.

“Any update on him?” Mark asked.

Napoleon shook his head.

“They’re still working on him.”

“Napoleon, I’m so sorry,” Mandy said, unable to look him in the eyes.  “This whole thing is my fault…  If I hadn’t asked him to get the reports for me--”

“He volunteered, Mandy; he didn’t want you going downtown after midnight,” April said, placing a hand on her shoulder again.  “And this wasn’t about the reports.”

Napoleon blinked in confusion.

“It wasn’t?” he asked.  “I’d just assumed that THRUSH or whoever attacked him had gone after the reports…”

“That was my first thought, too, but the envelope with the reports was still there beside him, and the seal was still intact,” April said.

“Then, why was he attacked?” George asked.  “Just because they recognized him as an U.N.C.L.E. agent?”

“I don’t know whether or not they knew he was from U.N.C.L.E., but they were after the bagels,” April said.

“What?” everyone else asked, in unison.

“I can’t explain it, either,” April said.  “But when I noticed that the envelope with the reports was untouched, on a whim, I looked in the bagel bag.  A piece from one of the bagels was missing—the jalapeño-and-asiago one with the herb cream cheese.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Illya was shot for a piece of my bagel?” Napoleon asked.

“Perhaps whoever did it thought that the envelope was a decoy and a real message was in a bagel,” George said. “I can’t possibly think of any other reason.”

“Then why wouldn’t they take the entire bagel bag and the reports just to make sure?” Mandy asked.

“THRUSH were never ones for rational thought,” Napoleon said, darkly.

“Steady on,” Mark said.  “I know you’re angry, Napoleon; we all are. We will find who did this.”

“Indeed, we will, Mr. Slate,” Waverly said, joining them now.  “And we shall all require our wits about us to do so.  Any word on Mr. Kuryakin’s condition?”

Before Napoleon could reply, the doors of the operating room opened, and he now focused as a stretcher was wheeled out, his partner lying on it, wide-eyed on account of whatever painkillers he’d been given.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked, hastening to his side as the orderlies began to wheel him to the recovery ward.

“Hmmmmmm?” Illya asked, airily, as he tried to focus on Napoleon; it took him a moment to recognize him. “…Dorogoy…!  …Ahh, ‘Poleon, ‘m sorry…”

“Sorry?  For what?” Napoleon asked, incredulously.

“…Lost th’bagles…”  Illya trailed off as his sedated mind recognized the others crowding around the stretcher.  “Ahh, Mandy, and ‘m sorry I lost th’ ‘ports…”

“We have the reports, Illya, but never mind those,” she said.  “I’m just glad you’re okay…”  She trailed off and looked to the orderlies.  “…He is going to be okay, right?”

“We got the bullet out and gave him a transfusion,” one of the orderlies replied.  “He should be fine.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” George sighed.

“You can say that again,” April said.  “Now we can focus on finding out who did this to him.”

“Quite right, Miss Dancer,” Waverly said.  “Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Sirrrrrrr…?” Illya slurred.

“Mr. Kuryakin, is there anything you can tell us about your attacker?”

“‘Twas verrrrrrrrrrry stealthy.”

“Any specific details? Identifying features or anything else you observed?” Waverly asked.

Illya responded with a long, drawn-out “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh” that ended up being a prelude to a song that he started to hum.

“Ah, Sir, I can speak from experience and say that we are not likely to get any coherent details from him until he sleeps it off,” Napoleon said.

“Oh.  Yes, I suppose you would know best,” Waverly agreed.  “Very well, we’ll do what can for now—and we’ll need everyone’s talents for this.  Miss Dancer, Mr. Slate—I want the both of you to search downtown for any possible leads, and do be careful while you’re there.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Miss Stevenson, I want you to go over those reports with a metaphorical fine-toothed comb and see if there’s anything out of the ordinary about them.”

“Right, Sir.”

“Mr. Dennell, though it seems unlikely, I would like for you and the lab technicians to analyze those two bagels and make sure they aren’t amiss in some way.”

“I’ll get on that right away, Sir.”

“And lastly, Mr. Solo, you will continue to look after Mr. Kuryakin, and let me know when he is able to give some details about the attack.”

“Thank you, Sir; I will certainly do that.”

“Right, we’ve all got work to do,” Waverly said.  “For Mr. Kuryakin’s sake, let’s hope we get some results.”

The others went their separate ways, and Waverly went back to his office; Napoleon followed the orderlies to the recovery ward and, after the orderlies had left Illya in one of the beds and left, Napoleon snuck Baba Yaga into the room.

“They say a cat’s purr promotes healing,” he said to her.  “So if you want to help your papa, here’s how.”

Baba Yaga meowed at him and then leaped up onto the bed, curling up against Illya’s side and purring away. Illya grinned and gave her some rather uncoordinated scritches that were supposed to be behind her ears but ended up on her back—she appreciated them all the same, and Illya glanced back at his partner.

“She ‘llowed to be here?” he asked.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Napoleon promised.

“Da, da—th’ word is mum,” Illya slurred, giving a vigorous nod that only ended up making him dizzier.  “Ooh…” He placed his other hand on his forehead.

“Okay, okay,” Napoleon said, gently placing Illya’s hand back down by his side.  “You need to sleep.”

“Mmmmhhh,” the Russian protested. “You going home, then?”

“Of course not; I’m staying right here.”  Napoleon paused, now putting together the pieces—the rumors he had heard flying after his debriefing, and now, despite his partner’s reputation as the Ice Prince, they would have surely bothered him nonetheless.  “Illya…  I’m so sorry for all of this.”

“You’re s’rry?” Illya asked. “S’my fault.  Got distracted.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Napoleon said.  “You did everything by the book on our last mission—everything I would have done if our situations had been reversed.  But, somehow, so many people here think you’re suddenly Vlad the Impaler—you wouldn’t have been distracted if that hadn’t been going on.  And I should have realized that anyone outside of Section II who doesn’t know you would have been spreading those rumors.  Maybe I am a bit too idealistic, like everyone says.”

“You’re wonderful.”

Napoleon smiled at him.

“And so are you.  Now get some sleep—you need it.”

Illya exhaled and relaxed, and Napoleon brushed away the strands of hair falling over his face.

“I meant that,” Napoleon said, softly.  “…And I know you meant it, too.”

And he sat there, maintaining his vigil.