SUNSET

1/4/13 10:54
avery11: (white cat)

Author: Avery11
Genre:Slash

To be happy takes a lifetime, for one sparrow does not make Spring.”
Aristotle

SUNSET 1


Sunset

They lounged on the porch of the cliffside cottage they had built, watching the sun set over the waters of Limestone Bay. Below them on the beach, a frigatebird preened, wings outstretched, its soft red belly exposed. Tradewinds rustled the nearby palm trees, shaking loose a few fronds. Illya threw his head back, filling his lungs with the sweet scent of acacia blossoms. He felt utterly free, pleasantly sated, magnificently content.

He touched the simple silver ring adorning his left hand, the first jewelry he had worn since losing his plain gold band during the Thor Affair so many years ago. He twisted the ring this way and that, feeling its solidity, reliving the moment when Napoleon had slipped it onto his finger. Married. We are married. Legally! It was indeed a brave new world.

He glanced over at Napoleon, snoring softly in his wicker lounge chair. In retirement, his face was relaxed, peaceful, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Illya decided that it was worth waiting forty years just to see him like that. He thought about waking him, but relented. After all, we were up half the night. And at our age! The thought made him blush with pleasure.

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WAITING

30/12/12 04:46
avery11: (basset hound)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Slash, also explicit Het
A gift for Svetlanacat, to say thank you for all the lovely photos and gorgeous manips she's given us over the years. This story is inspired by one of her photos. The opening pic is from Lisa' s Screencaps Library.


WAITING



Waiting

He is not coming.

I did not expect him to, not really. It is New Year's Eve after all, and he has his women to amuse him, dozens of them, beautiful and smart and willing. More than enough women to keep him occupied.

Still, I had hoped...

“Bartender, another vodka, if you please.”


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avery11: (Default)

Author: Avery11
Genre:
Slash

EIGHT DAYS A WEEK

 

Eight Days a Week 

     They carried the last of the boxes down the icy steps of Illya's Village brownstone and packed them, along with the rest of his meager possessions, in the trunk of Napoleon's car. Illya returned the house keys to his landlady, a dear old thing who cried endless tears at the thought of her favorite tenant leaving.

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avery11: (basset hound)

Author: Avery11
Genre: Slash
           
 

Graduation Day  

  Illya passed through the ancient stone portal of Trinity College, his black doctoral robes flapping rather comically in the stiff breeze. Under his arm, he carried his mortarboard, gratefully redundant now, and the folder holding his PhD in Quantum Mechanics, primi ordinis -- the youngest candidate in the history of the College to achieve the distinction. He strode on, past the statue of Henry VIII with its missing, pilfered leg, and the rooms of Isaac Newton, preserved from the days when he had been a student there.

   As he crossed the Great Court, the carillon in the Clock Tower tolled the hour. A few undergraduates lounged outside, soaking up the warm May sunshine; they waved to him from their benches beside the Fountain. He returned their greetings with a brisk nod and moved on. The door to the Chapel was ajar and, as he hurried past, he caught snatches of the choir rehearsing a motet by Palestrina, Tui Sunt Coeli. There would be a concert this evening, a celebration for the graduates and their families. Illya had considered attending, but decided instead to spend the evening -- and quite possibly the entire weekend -- in a cheap flat somewhere, nursing a bottle of vodka.



   

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DESSERT

25/4/11 09:37
avery11: (Default)
Genre: Slash

DESSERT


     Napoleon sat back with a sigh, savoring the last of the 1959 Haut Brion Graves with its rich ruby color and magnificent topnotes of roasted chestnut and sweet black cherry. The rare vintage had provided the perfect accompaniment to his thick T-bone steak, a specialty of the house at Incognito, Manhattan's trendy new restaurant on the Upper West Side. Across the table Illya, sipping his Hermitage LaChapelle '62, ordered at Napoleon's insistence, dolefully regarded the remains of the three pound lobster he had systematically demolished.

     “Don't tell me you're still hungry?” Napoleon inquired with a fond smile. “Honestly, I don't know where you put it all.”

     Illya shrugged. “I am always hungry when I get out of Medical. The food is terrible there.”

     “You're always hungry. Period.”

     “I must keep up my strength. Who knows when I may be called upon to rescue you from the dastardly clutches of THRUSH.”

     Napoleon nearly choked on his wine. “Excuse me, tovarisch but, as I recall, I was the one saving your butt on our last mission. You were the one hanging from the rafters in your underwear.”

     “True, but only because you were late.” Illya paused to suck a morsel of meat from one of the tiny walking claws. It was a highly erotic gesture.

     Napoleon stared. The man has no idea how beautiful he is. And to think that he nearly died -- “The traffic was terrible getting out of Istanbul, tovarisch. However, it was considerate of you to still be alive when I got there.”

     “I do what I can.”
    
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