An eighth gold is in the air...
And there are more words for me.
By the way, if you're looking for more swimmer porn you should check out my partner-in-crime datenshiblue. She doesn't label her pairs (for shame) but she's got some beautiful swimmer love over in her sandbox. Er, poolbox. ^^
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, US Men's Swimming, PG11. Unbeta'ed.
08.16.2008 (9:41 AM)
"There Are No Lanes In the Ocean"
The fourteenth time Michael falls off the surfboard-and Ryan's counting-he drags himself onto the beach with a disgusted look on his face and falls onto his back in the cool, damp sand. The surf brushes up around his legs.
Ryan rides the wave in. His toes dig into the sand near Mike's thigh as he jumps off the board; it floats another few feet before catching tension from the cord around his ankle and stopping. "You're pathetic."
Mike throws a long arm over his eyes, cutting off the low orange sun. "Say that again when you can beat me in the fly." Under the crook of his elbow he's grinning and Ryan kicks him lightly in the ribs before sitting down on the sand, hip to hip.
Arm coming down, Mike brushes sand off of his stomach. Ryan drapes his own arms loosely over his knees. Twilight's creeping in around the edges of the late day, a dark on the horizon and in the stretching shadows of the dunes. They are alone on the beach.
Under the soothing crash of the low surf, the sound of Ryan's wet-suit zipper is unrecognizable. But the hot breeze off the land hits newly bared skin and drags goosebumps up his back. Mike doesn't stop unzippering until the pull is dangling against the sand and the dip of Ryan's lowest back muscles are visable. It's easy for the younger swimmer to reach up, even in his reclined position, and push away damp wet-suit to finger tattooed Greek letters.
FIRST.
Ryan looks over his shoulder. His blue eyes are quiet-something that the ocean does for him that the pool can't. The still surface of the pool is a canvas; it waits for a fast body, it waits for wake to be made. It is all uphill.
There is no first with the ocean. It's humbling. And it puts a calm light in Ryan's eyes that Mike doesn't notice anywhere else.
He sits up, damp sand sticking to showing skin-neck, elbows-in a brown crust that is slow to crumble. When his fingertips catch Ryan's jaw and his thumb skates up a high cheekbone it's like brushing sandpaper. Ryan tastes like saltwater. It's so different than the chemical-tang of chlorine that Michael sucks Ryan's lower lip into his mouth for a moment to get more of it. Ryan pushes back and it's a little like the tide rising to meet him.
Ryan might just be Michael's personal ocean-a force that affects him without having to be anything but itself.
By the way, if you're looking for more swimmer porn you should check out my partner-in-crime datenshiblue. She doesn't label her pairs (for shame) but she's got some beautiful swimmer love over in her sandbox. Er, poolbox. ^^
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, US Men's Swimming, PG11. Unbeta'ed.
08.16.2008 (9:41 AM)
"There Are No Lanes In the Ocean"
The fourteenth time Michael falls off the surfboard-and Ryan's counting-he drags himself onto the beach with a disgusted look on his face and falls onto his back in the cool, damp sand. The surf brushes up around his legs.
Ryan rides the wave in. His toes dig into the sand near Mike's thigh as he jumps off the board; it floats another few feet before catching tension from the cord around his ankle and stopping. "You're pathetic."
Mike throws a long arm over his eyes, cutting off the low orange sun. "Say that again when you can beat me in the fly." Under the crook of his elbow he's grinning and Ryan kicks him lightly in the ribs before sitting down on the sand, hip to hip.
Arm coming down, Mike brushes sand off of his stomach. Ryan drapes his own arms loosely over his knees. Twilight's creeping in around the edges of the late day, a dark on the horizon and in the stretching shadows of the dunes. They are alone on the beach.
Under the soothing crash of the low surf, the sound of Ryan's wet-suit zipper is unrecognizable. But the hot breeze off the land hits newly bared skin and drags goosebumps up his back. Mike doesn't stop unzippering until the pull is dangling against the sand and the dip of Ryan's lowest back muscles are visable. It's easy for the younger swimmer to reach up, even in his reclined position, and push away damp wet-suit to finger tattooed Greek letters.
FIRST.
Ryan looks over his shoulder. His blue eyes are quiet-something that the ocean does for him that the pool can't. The still surface of the pool is a canvas; it waits for a fast body, it waits for wake to be made. It is all uphill.
There is no first with the ocean. It's humbling. And it puts a calm light in Ryan's eyes that Mike doesn't notice anywhere else.
He sits up, damp sand sticking to showing skin-neck, elbows-in a brown crust that is slow to crumble. When his fingertips catch Ryan's jaw and his thumb skates up a high cheekbone it's like brushing sandpaper. Ryan tastes like saltwater. It's so different than the chemical-tang of chlorine that Michael sucks Ryan's lower lip into his mouth for a moment to get more of it. Ryan pushes back and it's a little like the tide rising to meet him.
Ryan might just be Michael's personal ocean-a force that affects him without having to be anything but itself.