elrhiarhodan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elrhiarhodan) wrote2014-07-27 09:00 am
elrhiarhodan) wrote2014-07-27 09:00 am
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Thirty Day Photo Meme - Day 27
Day 27 - A Photo (Or Photos) That Tells A Story
March, 2014
New York, New York
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Normally, I wouldn’t use two photos from the same event on back-to-back days, but this one – also taken at the Dendur Pavilion. It’s not a great photo, and on first glance, it really doesn’t seem to tell much of a story. What it does do is illustrate a story. The first story I ever wrote for White Collar (it was anon in the Kink Meme, and predates my official first story by a week or so)
Click here for the rest of the fic
March, 2014
New York, New York
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Normally, I wouldn’t use two photos from the same event on back-to-back days, but this one – also taken at the Dendur Pavilion. It’s not a great photo, and on first glance, it really doesn’t seem to tell much of a story. What it does do is illustrate a story. The first story I ever wrote for White Collar (it was anon in the Kink Meme, and predates my official first story by a week or so)
Neal loved the airy, glass enclosed pavilion that housed the ancient stone temple. He also loved that the building was a gift from the Egyptian government – preserved for everyone when it otherwise would have been lost to the new gods of progress. He loved that this was something he couldn’t steal or forge or con someone out of. He loved the ancientness of it, the permanence, and the odd perfection of the modern glass enclosure and the great green park just outside.
... ... ...
So Neal sat there, on the stone benches, half-heartedly sketching - trying not to think about Peter. Trying not to think about Elizabeth. Trying not to think about fucking and breathing and fucking.
So absorbed in his own thoughts - his own not-thoughts, that he didn’t even look up when someone sat down next to him, facing out to the windows.
“Hello Neal.”
Neal’s brain recognized the voice, but his eyes were playing tricks on him. The voice was Peter’s, but the man sitting next to him was not Peter, at least not any version of Peter that occupied daytime reality. This not-Peter was dressed in all black, tailored in casual elegance was nothing like the rumpled FBI agent he thought he knew. The only thing that was familiar were the unfashionable aviator-style sunglasses that hid Peter’s eyes.
“Peter?” A wealth of questions filled that one word.
“Whatcha’ doing?” Not-Peter leaned in and planted a hand between Neal’s legs, his thumb an inch from Neal’s cock (and if Neal couldn’t exercise better control, he’s be closing that distance very soon). Neal closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again - expecting to see Real-Peter, in a badly fitting cotton sports shirt and off the rack pants or whatever he normally wore during non-work hours (Neal didn’t think Elizabeth, as tolerate as she may be, would let Peter anywhere outside their Brooklyn townhouse in old college tee-shirts and sweatpants). But no, it was still Not-Peter, dressed like something out of Neal’s darkest wet dreams.
“Umm, sketching...what are you doing here, Peter?”
“Oh, just enjoying the lovely weather. Elizabeth wanted to come to the Met.” If it was possible to vocalize a smirk, then Peter/Not-Peter certainly did on the word “come.”
“Elizabeth’s here?” Neal was relieved - if Peter’s wife was here, then he could keep his reactions (including his unruly cock) in check by focusing on Elizabeth or on Peter/Elizabeth - husband and wife.
“Honey - look what I found” Peter’s voice, from Not-Peter’s mouth called out, against all basic tenets of museum etiquette, and sure enough, Elizabeth Burke skipped into view. But like Not-Peter, this was Not-Elizabeth - instead of the casual elegance of a successful businesswoman or a suburban wife out for a weekend date with her husband, this not-Elizabeth was dressed like some demented sex-fairy. She twirled in front of Neal, and the sunlight pouring into the courtyard turned the sheer cotton of her blouse practically transparent.
“Hiya Neal. Been here long?” Elizabeth chirped - no - that had to be wrong, Elizabeth Burke did not chirp.
“About a hour, why? I was just getting ready to leave...” It wasn’t hard to miss the sharp looks between husband and wife, even if Peter’s face was half-hidden by those damn sunglasses. “What? What’s going on here?” Neal suddenly knew how Alice felt, tumbling down the rabbit hole. As Peter leaned in closer, Neal started to sweat - this wasn’t happening. Then he felt it, Peter’s thumb - just his thumb, slowly stroking his cock. And Elizabeth was standing there - watching her husband masturbate him in public.
... ... ...
So Neal sat there, on the stone benches, half-heartedly sketching - trying not to think about Peter. Trying not to think about Elizabeth. Trying not to think about fucking and breathing and fucking.
So absorbed in his own thoughts - his own not-thoughts, that he didn’t even look up when someone sat down next to him, facing out to the windows.
“Hello Neal.”
Neal’s brain recognized the voice, but his eyes were playing tricks on him. The voice was Peter’s, but the man sitting next to him was not Peter, at least not any version of Peter that occupied daytime reality. This not-Peter was dressed in all black, tailored in casual elegance was nothing like the rumpled FBI agent he thought he knew. The only thing that was familiar were the unfashionable aviator-style sunglasses that hid Peter’s eyes.
“Peter?” A wealth of questions filled that one word.
“Whatcha’ doing?” Not-Peter leaned in and planted a hand between Neal’s legs, his thumb an inch from Neal’s cock (and if Neal couldn’t exercise better control, he’s be closing that distance very soon). Neal closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again - expecting to see Real-Peter, in a badly fitting cotton sports shirt and off the rack pants or whatever he normally wore during non-work hours (Neal didn’t think Elizabeth, as tolerate as she may be, would let Peter anywhere outside their Brooklyn townhouse in old college tee-shirts and sweatpants). But no, it was still Not-Peter, dressed like something out of Neal’s darkest wet dreams.
“Umm, sketching...what are you doing here, Peter?”
“Oh, just enjoying the lovely weather. Elizabeth wanted to come to the Met.” If it was possible to vocalize a smirk, then Peter/Not-Peter certainly did on the word “come.”
“Elizabeth’s here?” Neal was relieved - if Peter’s wife was here, then he could keep his reactions (including his unruly cock) in check by focusing on Elizabeth or on Peter/Elizabeth - husband and wife.
“Honey - look what I found” Peter’s voice, from Not-Peter’s mouth called out, against all basic tenets of museum etiquette, and sure enough, Elizabeth Burke skipped into view. But like Not-Peter, this was Not-Elizabeth - instead of the casual elegance of a successful businesswoman or a suburban wife out for a weekend date with her husband, this not-Elizabeth was dressed like some demented sex-fairy. She twirled in front of Neal, and the sunlight pouring into the courtyard turned the sheer cotton of her blouse practically transparent.
“Hiya Neal. Been here long?” Elizabeth chirped - no - that had to be wrong, Elizabeth Burke did not chirp.
“About a hour, why? I was just getting ready to leave...” It wasn’t hard to miss the sharp looks between husband and wife, even if Peter’s face was half-hidden by those damn sunglasses. “What? What’s going on here?” Neal suddenly knew how Alice felt, tumbling down the rabbit hole. As Peter leaned in closer, Neal started to sweat - this wasn’t happening. Then he felt it, Peter’s thumb - just his thumb, slowly stroking his cock. And Elizabeth was standing there - watching her husband masturbate him in public.
Click here for the rest of the fic