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Pict Nae Scot by Inkscribe
Reina Biro, PhD Pathology (Honours), wasn’t observant for nothing. She was accustomed to taking note of the many morphologic and biochemical manifestations of disease in human, and now occasionally, non-human patients. She was also accustomed to performing detailed analysis of post-mortem subjects, usually on a tight, if not extreme (pardon the pun) deadline. She had observational skills in spades, and the analytical wit to come to conclusions quickly and accurately with nary a blink, and usually a joke or two to go with them. Clinical pathology was invariably interesting, but her first love was cell-cycle regulation and apoptosis, an incredibly fortunate aspect of her training to have available here in the Pegasus Galaxy, where for some reason that baffled her completely, almost to the point of being a (pardon the pun) killjoy of her joy, an entire species existed sans apoptosis, provided the damn things were able to suck the life out of good ol’ fashioned humans. So Reina knew without a doubt she should have noticed the sudden (pardon the pun) colour on Carson Beckett one day. Not that he was flushed or anything – no, nothing like that. He was his usual, affable self – friendly and helpful and compassionate like a doctor straight out of a soap opera. The consummate professional, both in research and clinical practise. No, his colour was fine, but one morning he had colour. Reina realised that he had sported colour on more than one occasion, in fact, since their last brush with city-wide nanite infections, something she (pardon the almost-pun-but-more-an-interesting-rhyme) nanite-panite-demic. That was the time most everyone went insane and thought people were blowing up left, right, and centre, their heads full of images of colleagues and friends dying from the most ridiculous reasons imaginable, and Reina could imagine many things from the ridiculous to the sublime. No, Carson sported colour many times since that day, and Reina was surprised just how long it took her to realise that something about that was ... odd. Odd because she had never known Carson to be involved in the arts beyond an appreciation for classical music and a good draught, pulled from the taps by an expert hand. Once she noticed the colour, it did, in fact, take her nary a blink to analyse the evidence and come to a conclusion that would, she was confident, prove to be correct: Carson Beckett was stepping out with Evan Lorne, Atlantis’ only resident painter. oOo On that fateful day, Carson flitted about from friend to friend as he tried to find a replacement to join him for a day of fishing. He was surprised to discover that Major Evan Lorne had an artistic bent, and a rather good one at that, if Carson did think so himself. Not that Carson knew that much about art, but he knew what he liked. Yes, Evan Lorne was talented. How much talent and in how many ways, Carson did not discover until a week after the nanite pandemic ended. He took Evan’s invitation to paint him in the nude as a joke at first, and then realised the man was serious. Carson suspected he wouldn’t get a second chance with the man, so he readily accepted. He arrived at Evan’s room on the appointed day at the appointed time, shucked his clothes quickly and folded each item neatly into a small stack on a chair to the side of the room. Evan had his easel set up, his paints mixed – and Carson was impressed that the man not only had an appreciation and talent for the art, but understood the value of knowing how to compound his own pigments – and his brushes close to hand, ready to start. Carson only meant to tease when he joked, “So you’re planning on using a canvas then, lad?” Evan responded with an expression of faint surprise followed by a slow, lazy smile that rapidly resulted in Carson simultaneously losing the ability to stand erect in the attitude of attention as his muscles and bones somehow lost their purpose as well as another part of his body suddenly gaining the ability to jut erect from his weakening body with no possible hope of deflation any time soon. Using every ounce of strength he could muster, Carson managed to remain standing after all, trembling with nervous anticipation as Evan looked at him closely, considering for a moment. He stepped forward, daubbed his brush on his palette, and stroked a line of blue in a long curve from the rotator cuff, over the clavicle, and trailing off below Carson’s pectorals. “Yes,” Evan said softly, nodding in satisfaction. “That’s the perfect contrast for the red.” Indeed, Carson was blushing. Blushing red, although Carson would later learn that to Evan’s discerning eyes, Carson might be crimson, ruby, cherry, cerise, scarlet, or even pink. He learned that day that the perfect contrast was azure, not sky-blue or peacock or cerulean or lazuline or even sapphire. Today, Evan began with azure. Carson felt the paint, viscous and sticky and cold as it slid across his skin, the brushtip wet and sensuous against him, a small tongue trailing its colour as it licked him in a single, long stroke. Carson trembled against the sensations it raised in him, causing Evan to frown slightly, placing a hand on Carson’s other shoulder and saying quietly “Shhh, there – be still.” He wanted to be still, oh God how he wanted to be still. The brush was saturated in wet colour, cold against his skin at first but warming rapidly against Carson’s heat. A dry brush might tickle, he supposed, but there was nothing ticklish in Evan’s deft yet languid strokes. Carson felt a quiver run through his body, a quiver that ended at the arrow-point of the wet brushtip. He bit his lip and willed himself to remain still. Carson felt the wet trace delineate shape from space, hinting to his imagination circles and lines and whorls. He closed his eyes, gathering his energies against the onslaught of sensation that threatened to bring him, shuddering, to his knees. Evan continued to paint, continued to mark his skin in patterns unseen but imagined within Carson’s mind – his medical mind, concerned with arcus of bone and linea of muscle, the locus of shape and form drying rapidly on his epidermis. “Open your eyes,” Evan whispered, his breath hot and damp and tight against Carson’s ear. He obeyed, his eyes opening to the look of satisfied completion from the painter, satisfaction concealing only slightly the raw hunger on his face. Evan crooked his fingers, silently bidding Carson follow him, the two men entering the washroom in careful, measured steps, the steps of men carrying between them a precious and fragile masterwork. At the mirror, Carson stood, dumbstruck. Rendered in colours vivid and subtle were beasts and fowl – geese, fish, wolves, and bears, connected by sigmoid colour lacking angularity. “It’s beautiful,” Carson breathed, wonder in every syllable. “Absolutely beautiful.” Evan nodded, standing behind him, looking also at Carson’s reflection in the silver mirror. “As is the raw material,” he said. Carson felt a thrill course through his body as Evan drew a finger down his spine, felt an answering throb in his loins, rigid and urgent and painful after so many minutes, nae, hours?, of stimulation. He melted against Evan’s touch, the finger changing to a hand, hot and dry and slightly abrasive against the sensitive skin of his back. Carson moaned. Wet and warm velvet brushed across his neck; not a paintbrush this time but the tongue of the artist himself. Moist breath ghosted hot by his neck, then – he felt the man bite down gently first, then harder, signing his mark over Carson’s trapezius. Evan’s hands moved to envelop Carson in an embrace. “May I?” he whispered. “Please,” Carson answered, just as quiet, just as intense, just as hungry. Carson watched in the mirror as Evan’s hands traced the renderings on his body, awakening and enlivening the fantastic bestiary described in chromatic colours over his body. He felt the scratch of bears digging for grubs, the padding of wolves walking their territories. He felt the wriggle and splash of fish leaping and breaching the surface of the sea, and the brush of pinions from geese in flight. He felt the heat of Evan’s arousal as the man traced the patterns on his skin, felt the answering innervation of his cock, straining harder and higher and more rigid than Carson had ever imagined possible. He moaned, trembling under Evan’s touch, shivering against the sensations solicited by the artist’s movements across his skin. Evan kissed him then – sternocleidomastoid, Levator scapulae, Splenius capitus, and back again to the trapezius. The artist’s hands stroked firm against Carson’s flanks, tracing now the muscles of his chosen canvas, the arrangement of things common to humans but unique to Carson. Carson moaned and pushed himself back into Evan’s body. In their images across from them, Evan’s eyes burned, intense – ravenous. Carson realised his own eyes reflected the same burning, the same ravenous hunger. Their eyes met in the mirror. “Stay,” Evan whispered, a command, not a request. Carson nodded. Evan returned quickly, stepping again tight against Carson’s back, a small jar held in his hand. Ah, Carson thought. Evan placed the jar on the counter, returned his empty hands to fulfilling their exploration of Carson’s body. He felt now how Evan’s clothes rasped against his skin, how the urgent need of the man’s cock was still clear and rigid through layers of cloth. Carson pushed his hips back, snugging his arse against the promise of Evan’s heat. “Oh god,” he moaned. “Please.” He whispered the last. “Shhh,” Evan soothed, his breath again tight to Carson’s ear. “Patience.” Carson groaned, wordless, feeling his own need rising again further, again beyond what he imagined possible. Evan pulled back then and Carson felt worry flash through his mind before registering that the man was removing clothing, tugging off shirt and trousers and – everything. Carson did not realise he was holding his breath until he gasped, a gasp from feeling skin-on-skin as Evan stepped again hard to his back, nestled himself firmly between Carson’s buttocks, hands kneading his hips, thighs, and arse. His cock leaking now, Carson bit back a scream as Evan slid his hands to Carson’s anterior, met at the medial, and grasped his cock firmly in the left, his balls firmly with the right. Evan pumped him, stroking long and slow, firm pressure with just the correct amount of change at root and tip. Five strokes, ten strokes, maybe more – then Carson was coming, hard and hot – white striping the mirror. He watched Evan’s smile widen in pleasure and heard the man hum in satisfaction, his own body humming now with relieved tension yet unresolved expectations. He wondered whether he could truly survive the something more he knew would come next. Evan’s hands – those hands then moved yet again to delineate the patterns and colours of Carson’s body, the fantastic migration of animals ancient and holy, the beauty of shape and form and body – hands that described them all in all their glory. He felt himself tremble still with desire, shocked at his ability to remain standing, never mind his ability to respond to to sensations coursing through him at the touch of Evan’s skilled fingertips. Evan worked semen into skin, blending dried pigment with fluid, reworking patterns, changing the designs. His hands stroked around Carson’s body, now posterior, now anterior, now posterior, now posterior medial. He felt the hard edge of Evan’s hand slide hard and firm through the crease of his buttocks, felt the cloying stickiness of his own come worked deep down to his anus. A fingertip touched him then, there, around the tight circle of muscle. Carson shivered – the touch so long expected was nonethelss surprising, demanding, pleasing. The tickle, absent from the creation of the painted masterwork, came now, deep and enticing, a tickle of anticipation, a tickle of desire. Carson moaned and pushed himself back, tried to impale himself on Evan’s finger. “I want to be inside you,” Evan whispered. “God yes,” Carson gasped. “I want to come inside you.” Carson considered for a moment. It was at least five long years since he had been with anyone, since anyone had entered him, since anyone had loved him past the easy camaradarie and infinitely simpler rules of close friendship. “It’s been awhile,” Carson admitted quietly. “I know,” Evan said, and Carson boggled at his words, realising that their time together now was not entirely by chance, but by design. The designs of an artist, Carson realised, are unfathomable to mere mortals. Evan reached then to the counter, took the jar and opened it. Carson detected the distinct aroma of herbs but compounded into a blend he did not recognise. He saw Evan scoop some gel from the jar, replace it on the counter. The cool, wet stickiness of the lubricant was suddenly slicked between his buttocks, and he twitched from the change in sensation. Then Evan’s finger pressed again at his entrance, again awoke the tickle within his anal muscles. Carson moaned, wordless with mounting desire. Evan pressed forward, his finger slipping through the ring, slipping in and up and just right until Carson gasped and bucked as the finger worked its magic against his prostate. Again and again Evan added the herb-scented lubricant to Carson’s anus, again and again he teased his anus, stroked his prostrate, entered and withdrew in varying rhythms that caused Carson’s tension to mount and mount. One finger then became two. Two fingers that drove in and out, stroked hard or gentle, two fingers that scissored and stretched him, wider and softer, as Carson relaxed and opened in anticipation of welcoming Evan deep within. “Please,” Carson begged, thrusting his arse back against Evan, raising his head to meet Evan’s gaze in the mirror, confirming with that look what his body and voice were trying to scream. “Please, Evan. Please!” Evan again took lubricant, this time liberally slicking himself. Then Carson felt Evan’s blunt head hard against his entrance; felt a moment of fear, a moment of pain as he was broached, then the strange sensation of tightness and openness, balanced around the heat and hardness of the man within him. Now Evan groaned, “So hot. So tight.” Carson shivered at the voice, sultry in its lower registers. He pushed his arse back, wanting Evan within him hard and fast and without any hesitation. “In me,” he gasped. “I need you. I need you in me.” He felt Evan’s hands grasp his hips, felt the man adjust his stance, then felt nothing but the pounding pleasure of the man as he drove deep within Carson. He heard the slap of Evan’s balls against his arse, felt the tickle and scratch of pubic hair as it whispered against his skin. Evan grasped his hips hard, then – Carson knew bruises would form – and with a shout, he came, shuddering against Carson’s back, collapsing against him and the two falling forward, soft but inevitable, until resting, joined and splayed over the counter before the mirror. Long moments passed marked only by their harsh breathing, Carson surprised at the noise of the blood rushing in his ears. Evan pushed back, standing; drew Carson upright with him. Withdrew his cock, dripping, from Carson’s arse. Carson felt himself grasped hard about the shoulders and turned, swiftly, coming face to face with Evan. The artist pulled him close, demanded entrance to his mouth with his tongue. Their bodies were sweaty, doubtless melting the remaining paint, marking both lover and loved in the patterns so lovingly painted there only minutes hours? before. Carson felt Evan’s tongue explore his mouth, take everything Carson had to give. He felt Evan’s hands around his body, hands stroking his flanks, hands stroking his buttocks, his spine. Carson felt his own hands explore Evan the same way, stroking, pressing, touching. Desire still coursed through Carson, thrummed through his veins like a medication recently administered, but he was too tired and too sated to pursue the urges his body chemistry so desperately wanted to instil. Their kisses softened, their hands stopped their ceaseless exploration, stopping to cup each other’s faces in their palms. Evan pulled back slightly, glanced down at the space between them, and chuckled. “I think we need a shower,” he said. Carson chuckled with him. “Aye.” They moved to the shower, turned on the endless supply of warm water, and stepped into the cleansing spray. Water and soap and hands and mouths and tongues and cocks – they were soon exploring again, soon ready again, and were joined again. And again. When they were finished, the shower was stained from a dozen different colours, three handprints and seven footprints that lasted for a month afterward. It was worth it. Every single time. End Pict Nae Scot |
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Title: Pict Nae Scot Pairings: Beckett/Lorne Summary: Lorne is a painter. Warnings: none Rating: NC-17 Words: ~2900 Spoilers: for my own best-parts version of the events of Sunday, depicted in The Thing About Sunday Awards: Nominated for the LORNE/OTHER category in the 2007 Stargate DiversiFICation Awards Author’s Notes: For the LiveJournal community slashing_lorne’s challenge, “Realisation,” where somebody becomes aware that Lorne and another character are a pair. While based in part on a scene from my own AU fic, this story may stand entirely on its own. I don’t paint, but at a guess I’d say situations depicted in this fic involve some highly-toxic materials. For the sake of storytelling, let’s all pretend that toxicity isn’t an issue. ;-) Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine; please don’t sue, we’ll both regret it in the morning. |
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