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fey_fireWhat makes you warm?
The sun on your skin
Or a summer storm?
Rain? Rain on your face
Rain that you can taste
Slowly as it drips
Down your lips
Like a kiss
From the one you love
(flashback to June of 1998)
Rory had agreed to come with me on the Washington assignment, which was nice from more standpoints than just the readily available sex. The magazine that was leasing Ben Wentworth's illustrious photographic skills had also graciously agreed to pay an assistant to hump my equipment around and pose tiny in the corners of panoramic shots, and Rory had always been accommodating about both. Besides, hacking around the Olympic Peninsula for five months without sight of familiar company would annoy even the antisocial beast I can sometimes be.
Our first day out in the Hoh Rain Forest, however, my lens kept drifting toward Rory's natural beauty instead of the gorgeous scenery. I'd encountered the phenomenon before. Rory MacEibhir has never modeled professionally as far as I know, but something about him still attracted a camera like a magnet, something beyond that cat-pretty face of his. I gave in, knowing that if I let myself grab a shot of the long drink of musician when I felt like it, I'd wind up with about half my pics usable for my assignment and the other half in my growing personal collection. Tomorrow I could focus fully on work.
Rory looked even more feline giving me a narrow-eyed look of amusement while my camera again pointed in his direction. He'd given me the exact same look last night when I'd shot him sprawled enticingly across the sheets after we'd inaugurated the bedroom of the little place I'd rented in Forks. The memory started a slow throb behind my fly, which Rory oh-so-thoughtfully helped along by setting his pack down to have a good stretch, lean muscles flexing under his jeans and sleeveless tee.
“Behave,” I said, tossing a chunk of bark at him. He laughed and came over to reel me in for a lingering kiss. I'm six feet, but it was Rory who had to lower his head. “You know, Ben,” he murmured against my lips, “you can't waste all your film on me.”
“That was the digital,” I murmured right back. Oh yes, it was nice having Rory along.
“Memory card then.” Rory's mouth felt as warm and humid as the air surrounding us and tasted even better.
“Mmm.” I indulged myself for another minute before giving him a swat on the butt. “Unless you packed condoms when I wasn't looking, slick, I'd better get back to work.” And wouldn't that be a scene for some patrolling ranger to stumble across ...
We continued on, working our way up along one of the many tributary streams of the Hoh River, getting off the normal tourist paths. The grizzled trees and June wildflowers were spectacular enough to distract me from my preoccupation with my assistant, most of the time at least. I wouldn't have thought we were far enough away from civilization for the birds and beasties to have lost their fear of man, but jays, grouse, raccoons, Douglas squirrels and even a black-tailed doe lingered within ten or so yards of us. The usually overcast skies had blessed me by clearing for a precious couple of hours, so I made full use of the shafts of light.
As I played with f/stop, shutter speed and distance, switching filters and lenses as needed, I had plenty of brainpower left to mull over me, Rory and our now-and-then thing that seemed to have settled into now mode for the time being. I don't normally go for exceedingly pretty guys, finding those beautiful faces too often attached to a lack of decent conversation, an excess of attitude or both. (And to you mellow, erudite pretty boys out there, my apologies, okay? I'm just taking about my own experience.)
But a very sharp mind lived behind Rory's big brown eyes, and his attitude came in a form comfortably familiar to me: artistic temperament, though his focused on sounds instead of pictures. I liked sharing space with a guy who would completely understand if I vanished into my darkroom for the day, not even coming out for meals, because he'd do the same thing with his keyboard and guitars. We seemed to fit fairly well together, though we weren't 100% exclusive or anything.
I'd been tracking the changes of light caused by the clouds once more reclaiming the sky, so the low growl of thunder that announced the first patter of raindrops didn't surprise me. We ducked under a gnarled old maple whose moss-draped foliage allowed only a drip or two to hit the ground underneath it, and I pulled out a rain hood for my already plastic-bagged Nikon. The summer months are when it rains the least in the rain forest, but that doesn't mean no rain at all. I'd come prepared to capture the location in all its moods and weathers.
“Such a shame,” Rory said, his Irish accent making his words lilt as he watched my preparations. “Here I thought I might be able to entice you into quitting for the day.” The amused glimmer in his dark eyes showed he wasn't serious, but his smile still oozed temptation.
Unfazed, I grinned back at him. “Are you kidding? This is the easy part; wait until you're out in this with my Rollei and extra lenses added to your load.” And he was lucky I'd long since given up trying to lug a bulky view camera into the bush. I nodded at his pack as I switched filters yet again. “We've got ponchos in there; we'll stay more or less dry.”
“Hmm.” The amusement in his eyes changed subtly, becoming more mischievous and ... hotter. “That's assuming I feel like wearing a poncho.” He reached for the laces on his hiking boots.
“You're kidding.” I watched perplexed as he shucked his footwear, stuffing socks into boots and setting them beside him against the tree trunk. “Rory, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Isn't it obvious, Ben?” His smile this time dazzled. “I'm giving you a photo opportunity.”
And with that he walked out into the rain.
Photographer's reflexes must have taken over, because the next thing I knew I was watching through a viewfinder while my lover got soaked to the skin. That muscle tee had been snug to begin with, and as it wet through it molded to pecs, back and abdomen, leaving not a whole hell of a lot to the imagination. His jeans went through a similar process, looking less like denim and more like a coating of blue paint over his thighs and ass.
I shot pictures, of course I did. Rory gave me the opportunity and I took it, zooming in to capture thick dark hair plastering to his head and neck, pulling back to take in the full length of his body leaning against the tilted trunk of a slowly falling tree. He moved, he posed, equally graceful in motion or stillness.
I had no idea how much time had passed when he stopped suddenly a few yards away from me, in his poise looking much like the deer had earlier. He smiled into the camera lens ... and reached for the bottom hem of his shirt.
Thank god for photographer's reflexes. My mouth dried, my heart pounded, the throb in my own jeans swelled to near-discomfort, but I kept shooting as he peeled the sopping cotton off his torso and tossed it to one side. Kept shooting as he tilted his head back, receiving the raindrops like a benediction on his face. Kept shooting as his hands reached up to cup his freckled shoulders before skimming slowly down over chest, over belly, to the front of his jeans.
Yeah, that would be the logical next step, wouldn't it? Button opened, zipper slid down to reveal tantalizing skin and a soft thatch of hair―damned if he hadn't decided to leave off the underwear that day. Shucking a sodden pair of jeans would make most men look clumsy and awkward, but Rory's movements stayed slow, seduction by inches as the wet denim slid over his hips and down his long legs.
When he stepped out of the puddle of fabric, he looked like he stepped into another world. It would be easy to say he shed civilization with his clothes, but as I watched he left behind even more than that. My Nikon captured the process as Rory moved through the rain-drenched glade, climbing a mossy rock, splashing in the stream, kneeling in the clearing with his arms outstretched. With each motion he became something―something that belonged in that hoary, ancient forest, belonged far more than any human being of European ancestry should.
I gave him no suggestions or directions; he needed none. He simply was. Hypnotic. Primal.
And god, the way the water graced his body, sheeting over his shoulders, runneling down his torso to his crotch, where some primal parts of my own noted that the downpour had done nothing to quench his lust. His ass and legs looked sleek, strokable, pale marble or silk that I wanted to touch, to taste ...
He couldn't see me lick my lips under the rain hood, but he turned and walked toward me anyway, intent. With intent. I had just enough time to snap a couple more shots, fumble off the hood and shove the Nikon to dry safety in my pack before he was on me, pinning my body against the old maple's trunk, hips grinding against mine unashamedly. He should have been chilled through, should have been fucking freezing but no. Warmth seeped through the front of my clothes with the water, his mouth was still sultry-sweet in its demand, and the hands stripping me of my clothes sent hot thrills straight through me.
As it turned out, two rain ponchos laid end-to-end are just long enough for two guys of six feet and more to stretch out on, park rangers do have sense enough to stay out of the rain unless necessary, and Rory had packed the condoms after all.
He earned another butt-swat for singing “Kiss Me In the Rain”, though.
Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 1693
The sun on your skin
Or a summer storm?
Rain? Rain on your face
Rain that you can taste
Slowly as it drips
Down your lips
Like a kiss
From the one you love
(flashback to June of 1998)
Rory had agreed to come with me on the Washington assignment, which was nice from more standpoints than just the readily available sex. The magazine that was leasing Ben Wentworth's illustrious photographic skills had also graciously agreed to pay an assistant to hump my equipment around and pose tiny in the corners of panoramic shots, and Rory had always been accommodating about both. Besides, hacking around the Olympic Peninsula for five months without sight of familiar company would annoy even the antisocial beast I can sometimes be.
Our first day out in the Hoh Rain Forest, however, my lens kept drifting toward Rory's natural beauty instead of the gorgeous scenery. I'd encountered the phenomenon before. Rory MacEibhir has never modeled professionally as far as I know, but something about him still attracted a camera like a magnet, something beyond that cat-pretty face of his. I gave in, knowing that if I let myself grab a shot of the long drink of musician when I felt like it, I'd wind up with about half my pics usable for my assignment and the other half in my growing personal collection. Tomorrow I could focus fully on work.
Rory looked even more feline giving me a narrow-eyed look of amusement while my camera again pointed in his direction. He'd given me the exact same look last night when I'd shot him sprawled enticingly across the sheets after we'd inaugurated the bedroom of the little place I'd rented in Forks. The memory started a slow throb behind my fly, which Rory oh-so-thoughtfully helped along by setting his pack down to have a good stretch, lean muscles flexing under his jeans and sleeveless tee.
“Behave,” I said, tossing a chunk of bark at him. He laughed and came over to reel me in for a lingering kiss. I'm six feet, but it was Rory who had to lower his head. “You know, Ben,” he murmured against my lips, “you can't waste all your film on me.”
“That was the digital,” I murmured right back. Oh yes, it was nice having Rory along.
“Memory card then.” Rory's mouth felt as warm and humid as the air surrounding us and tasted even better.
“Mmm.” I indulged myself for another minute before giving him a swat on the butt. “Unless you packed condoms when I wasn't looking, slick, I'd better get back to work.” And wouldn't that be a scene for some patrolling ranger to stumble across ...
We continued on, working our way up along one of the many tributary streams of the Hoh River, getting off the normal tourist paths. The grizzled trees and June wildflowers were spectacular enough to distract me from my preoccupation with my assistant, most of the time at least. I wouldn't have thought we were far enough away from civilization for the birds and beasties to have lost their fear of man, but jays, grouse, raccoons, Douglas squirrels and even a black-tailed doe lingered within ten or so yards of us. The usually overcast skies had blessed me by clearing for a precious couple of hours, so I made full use of the shafts of light.
As I played with f/stop, shutter speed and distance, switching filters and lenses as needed, I had plenty of brainpower left to mull over me, Rory and our now-and-then thing that seemed to have settled into now mode for the time being. I don't normally go for exceedingly pretty guys, finding those beautiful faces too often attached to a lack of decent conversation, an excess of attitude or both. (And to you mellow, erudite pretty boys out there, my apologies, okay? I'm just taking about my own experience.)
But a very sharp mind lived behind Rory's big brown eyes, and his attitude came in a form comfortably familiar to me: artistic temperament, though his focused on sounds instead of pictures. I liked sharing space with a guy who would completely understand if I vanished into my darkroom for the day, not even coming out for meals, because he'd do the same thing with his keyboard and guitars. We seemed to fit fairly well together, though we weren't 100% exclusive or anything.
I'd been tracking the changes of light caused by the clouds once more reclaiming the sky, so the low growl of thunder that announced the first patter of raindrops didn't surprise me. We ducked under a gnarled old maple whose moss-draped foliage allowed only a drip or two to hit the ground underneath it, and I pulled out a rain hood for my already plastic-bagged Nikon. The summer months are when it rains the least in the rain forest, but that doesn't mean no rain at all. I'd come prepared to capture the location in all its moods and weathers.
“Such a shame,” Rory said, his Irish accent making his words lilt as he watched my preparations. “Here I thought I might be able to entice you into quitting for the day.” The amused glimmer in his dark eyes showed he wasn't serious, but his smile still oozed temptation.
Unfazed, I grinned back at him. “Are you kidding? This is the easy part; wait until you're out in this with my Rollei and extra lenses added to your load.” And he was lucky I'd long since given up trying to lug a bulky view camera into the bush. I nodded at his pack as I switched filters yet again. “We've got ponchos in there; we'll stay more or less dry.”
“Hmm.” The amusement in his eyes changed subtly, becoming more mischievous and ... hotter. “That's assuming I feel like wearing a poncho.” He reached for the laces on his hiking boots.
“You're kidding.” I watched perplexed as he shucked his footwear, stuffing socks into boots and setting them beside him against the tree trunk. “Rory, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Isn't it obvious, Ben?” His smile this time dazzled. “I'm giving you a photo opportunity.”
And with that he walked out into the rain.
Photographer's reflexes must have taken over, because the next thing I knew I was watching through a viewfinder while my lover got soaked to the skin. That muscle tee had been snug to begin with, and as it wet through it molded to pecs, back and abdomen, leaving not a whole hell of a lot to the imagination. His jeans went through a similar process, looking less like denim and more like a coating of blue paint over his thighs and ass.
I shot pictures, of course I did. Rory gave me the opportunity and I took it, zooming in to capture thick dark hair plastering to his head and neck, pulling back to take in the full length of his body leaning against the tilted trunk of a slowly falling tree. He moved, he posed, equally graceful in motion or stillness.
I had no idea how much time had passed when he stopped suddenly a few yards away from me, in his poise looking much like the deer had earlier. He smiled into the camera lens ... and reached for the bottom hem of his shirt.
Thank god for photographer's reflexes. My mouth dried, my heart pounded, the throb in my own jeans swelled to near-discomfort, but I kept shooting as he peeled the sopping cotton off his torso and tossed it to one side. Kept shooting as he tilted his head back, receiving the raindrops like a benediction on his face. Kept shooting as his hands reached up to cup his freckled shoulders before skimming slowly down over chest, over belly, to the front of his jeans.
Yeah, that would be the logical next step, wouldn't it? Button opened, zipper slid down to reveal tantalizing skin and a soft thatch of hair―damned if he hadn't decided to leave off the underwear that day. Shucking a sodden pair of jeans would make most men look clumsy and awkward, but Rory's movements stayed slow, seduction by inches as the wet denim slid over his hips and down his long legs.
When he stepped out of the puddle of fabric, he looked like he stepped into another world. It would be easy to say he shed civilization with his clothes, but as I watched he left behind even more than that. My Nikon captured the process as Rory moved through the rain-drenched glade, climbing a mossy rock, splashing in the stream, kneeling in the clearing with his arms outstretched. With each motion he became something―something that belonged in that hoary, ancient forest, belonged far more than any human being of European ancestry should.
I gave him no suggestions or directions; he needed none. He simply was. Hypnotic. Primal.
And god, the way the water graced his body, sheeting over his shoulders, runneling down his torso to his crotch, where some primal parts of my own noted that the downpour had done nothing to quench his lust. His ass and legs looked sleek, strokable, pale marble or silk that I wanted to touch, to taste ...
He couldn't see me lick my lips under the rain hood, but he turned and walked toward me anyway, intent. With intent. I had just enough time to snap a couple more shots, fumble off the hood and shove the Nikon to dry safety in my pack before he was on me, pinning my body against the old maple's trunk, hips grinding against mine unashamedly. He should have been chilled through, should have been fucking freezing but no. Warmth seeped through the front of my clothes with the water, his mouth was still sultry-sweet in its demand, and the hands stripping me of my clothes sent hot thrills straight through me.
As it turned out, two rain ponchos laid end-to-end are just long enough for two guys of six feet and more to stretch out on, park rangers do have sense enough to stay out of the rain unless necessary, and Rory had packed the condoms after all.
He earned another butt-swat for singing “Kiss Me In the Rain”, though.
Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 1693
