Valentine Wishes and Visions of Love. Or Lovers.

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

The American was always as hot as a pistol, and eventually the blond warmed up to his sexy status, although the kisses are fewer and more difficult to spot.  We can't deny that women are falling at their feet, and the men from UNCLE don't generally turn them away.  Happy Valentines Day to all of us who love these guys and dream of being the girl in the picture, we're entitled to a little fantasy on this of all days.  I think they're at the door now...
( gallery of love :D )

Night Visions

[glenmered]

 

 

In his dreams, Illya Kuryakin was running through a maze of arches that hovered atop flagstone paths and dark, forbiding caverns.  Darkness intersected the small pockets of light as he darted from one pillar to another, always searching for the way out that never materialized.

He knew he was sleeping, was aware of the futility of trying to escape the dream state he was in.  Even in his dreams, there was a sense of foreboding that plagued the Russian; it was maddening to be held captive like this.

Illya saw her.  This was his fantasy, this waif like creature in the costume of Russia’s highest art.  His best hope for salvation lay in the dream of capturing her.  The unattainable.  The purity of soul was  expressed by this virginal apparition.

And Kuryakin knew he would not be saved.  She would not come to him, yield to him or offer him the solace he so desperately needed.  Mother Russia was not a virgin, was no longer his mother.  She would not succor him, nor would she take him to her bed.  He would continue to hunger after the comfort only she could offer, would shed his tears in the wake of her refusal.

Illya awoke from the dream, his body wracked with fever, the shirt he wore clinging to his body and soaked with sweat. 

Where had she gone?  Into the night, pale and unable to satisfy this abandoned child of neither czars, nor despot.  Kuryakin called Master those who wore the uniform of the peasant while wielding the whip of the oppressor.

The dancer was no longer his, her performance an illusion he continued to hold in his heart without hope of being loved.

Perhaps someday…

( follow this... )