Ficness
A short snippet of Len's student life with Tree. Needs a title. NC-17 for porn, naturally.
Many thanks to hibem for the idea of Tree as an art student and for the beta *hugs*
The piece just wasn’t happening. Reds were either too cold or bled into dull brown, everything felt heavy and cluttered, darker spots looked vague and sticky. There still was that certain something he felt that morning when he woke up, it was here, in the picture, lurking in the corners and around the bare spots of light, but it was slipping further and further away. Tree sighed and put the brush down, itching with frustration. He needed to take a step back, center himself.
The room was gloriously messy as it always got when it was about his turn to clean. Mostly his stuff, strewn over the floor, spilled around, tangled around tidy clusters of Leonard’s belongings. He often thought about painting just that, lazy shameless underbelly of his life and psyche, lush beauty of clutter and creases. Random patterns and intersections, the two of them as sides of the prism, something light and crisp as long as it didn’t come out too Kandinsky. But today the inspiration was simply out of reach. He didn’t give up: yes, it’s not all divine intervention, it’s perspiration, technique and experience, and he kept working, but today it just felt depressingly like work.
Maybe it was too quiet. Most of the neighbours went to lectures, there was just an odd string of footsteps from the hall, hum of birds and distant voices from outside, dry hissing rustle of pages Len was flipping through. Some music might help. Len could study through it.
Tree glanced at his roommate’s long naked back, hunched over several ridiculously thick books at once. Leonard was dressed only in his thin grey sweatpants, barefoot. Tree could see one big toe thoughtfully tapping the floor under the desk. Muscles moved subtly under Len’s skin every time he turned the page. Those pearly glowing shadows that only could be seen on flesh in motion had to be painted somehow. One day.
“Hey man,” said Tree, wiping his hands on a rag that was getting stiff with old paint. Time for a new one. “I seriously need some good vibes here. Help?”
“I’m taking a break in ten minutes,” said Leonard. “Can you wait?”
That wasn’t a question, but Tree could use the time to cap his paints and clean his brushes, so just as well.
“So dude, what do you feel like doing?” he asked, arranging the small tubes in a wide rainbow inside the case. “I guess you wouldn’t want to bottom so soon after yesterday.”
Leonard shifted in the chair, uncomfortably crossing and uncrossing his legs. Tree grinned broadly behind his back.
“I feel fine,” said Leonard with his eyes still glued to the page. “Could do that, if you like. That was - really interesting, actually. Now, please, let me finish this chapter.”
“Sure, sure,” murmured Tree, trying, by force of habit, to figure out the combination of paints to capture the exact shade of Len’s pale skin glowing in the rays of midday sun. “I’ll keep busy.”
He picked up the last brush, not part of the new set, one of his old ones with a darkened, scratched handle, but instead of cleaning it dipped in into a small glossy lump of Verdant #3 he still had sitting on his plastic palette.
Leonard flinched when the cool paint touched his skin, but not so much as to ruin the stroke. Tree pulled back, admiring the colour contrast.
“Can’t afford new canvas?” enquired Len lightly and glanced at him over his shoulder. “Does it wash off?”
“It’s only acrylics,” said Tree reassuringly. “You just keep still, okay? Do it for the Art.”
Leonard smiled tightly and turned away, grabbing the book with both hands. Tree rounded the first stroke, added another one, tilted the brush and drew a thin line along Leonard’s rib, following the arch of the bone down the side and up, almost to the nipple.
“This tickles, Tree,” said Leonard, politely and furiously.
“Just relax, man.”
Another sweeping stroke, several small dots, just taps of bristles on flesh, twirl of the brush to complete the semicircle. The paint was sliding onto Leonard’s skin smoothly and beautifully, glossier than on paper, edges of strokes turned out sharper and more fluid. Tree firmly dragged the brush up Len’s spine, turned it sideways between the shoulder blades and leaned in closer to do some finer detailing. By the time small green leaves he painted there looked crisp and vibrant Leonard wasn’t still any more, arching under the brush, jerking his shoulder blades like a big angry cat.
Tree paused, keeping the brush poised there: “Am I distracting you? Hey, if I’m distracting you, just say so.”
“Not at all,” said Len, grabbed the pencil and started frantically writing down notes. “Please, carry on if this is amusing for you.”
Tree grinned, loaded his brush again and started working on the stems. They swept over the whole expanse of Leonard’s back, winding and crossing, curled around his lean biceps, sprouting leaves as he went along. He returned to the base of Leonard’s neck, thinking of adding another colour there, red or gold, something for accent, and Len growled, abruptly got up, kicking the chair away, and leaned over the desk, braced on his locked arms.
Tree wiped his hand on his t-shirt, carefully pulled down Leonard’s sweats, trying not to get any paint on them, kissed the small of Len’s back and tied the vines into an elaborate Celtic knot there with one long sweep of the brush. Len’s ass was even paler than his back, smooth and beautiful, but knowing when to stop was an essential skill in painting, one Tree had pretty much sassed out by now.
He slightly parted Len’s ass cheeks and thoughtfully twirled the brush in his fingers.
“Don’t, please,” said Leonard, producing the emergency lube from the desk drawer. “It’s acrylic paint. Can’t be good for you or, more to the point, for me.”
Tree shrugged, set the brush down and squeezed some spice-scented gel over Len’s crack.
“All right. Finger-painting is a valid form of art, too.”
“Of course,” nodded Leonard, moving slightly on his fingers, so tight and hot inside. His knuckles were white where he was clutching to the edge of the desk. “If you are trying to evoke primal responses, simple forms of expression are probably best to use.”
Tree curled his fingers, making Len choke on the words and bounce on the balls of his feet.
“Like this?”
“Something like that, yes,” breathed Leonard, bending lower, maybe for better access, maybe to hide his burning face. The vines twisted and shifted with his every move. Tree quickly got himself out and ready, took some calming breaths to stop his heart pounding like that, and slowly slowly sank into his friend, listening to his strained breathing for any indication of pain. Leonard took him in one, pressed back on his cock, cautiously but firmly. Another heartbeat - and they were fucking in unhurried, shallow smooth movements, and Len breathed hard and moaned softly every time Tree pushed in just right and tightened his fist on Len’s cock. Sweat started to bead on his back, smudging the design and giving it a new dimension.
Len didn’t scream when he came, just growled low in his chest and sagged against the desk, still holding himself up so Tree could finish. Tree thought about spilling on his back, coating the glossy vines in himself, but didn’t pull out fast enough and ended up mopping the sperm from the back of Leonard’s legs with his paint rag.
Leonard straightened up, pulled the sweats just high enough for modesty, clear of the paint. They kissed for a short while, and then Len grinned and winked, grabbed a towel and walked out, still barefoot, still obviously glowy.
“Hey Leonard, love the new look!” laughed somebody in the hall.
“Perks of living with the art major,” answered Len in a low, purring voice, heading in the direction of the showers.
Tree smiled, turned back to his canvas and uncapped the fresh tube of green paint.
Many thanks to hibem for the idea of Tree as an art student and for the beta *hugs*
The piece just wasn’t happening. Reds were either too cold or bled into dull brown, everything felt heavy and cluttered, darker spots looked vague and sticky. There still was that certain something he felt that morning when he woke up, it was here, in the picture, lurking in the corners and around the bare spots of light, but it was slipping further and further away. Tree sighed and put the brush down, itching with frustration. He needed to take a step back, center himself.
The room was gloriously messy as it always got when it was about his turn to clean. Mostly his stuff, strewn over the floor, spilled around, tangled around tidy clusters of Leonard’s belongings. He often thought about painting just that, lazy shameless underbelly of his life and psyche, lush beauty of clutter and creases. Random patterns and intersections, the two of them as sides of the prism, something light and crisp as long as it didn’t come out too Kandinsky. But today the inspiration was simply out of reach. He didn’t give up: yes, it’s not all divine intervention, it’s perspiration, technique and experience, and he kept working, but today it just felt depressingly like work.
Maybe it was too quiet. Most of the neighbours went to lectures, there was just an odd string of footsteps from the hall, hum of birds and distant voices from outside, dry hissing rustle of pages Len was flipping through. Some music might help. Len could study through it.
Tree glanced at his roommate’s long naked back, hunched over several ridiculously thick books at once. Leonard was dressed only in his thin grey sweatpants, barefoot. Tree could see one big toe thoughtfully tapping the floor under the desk. Muscles moved subtly under Len’s skin every time he turned the page. Those pearly glowing shadows that only could be seen on flesh in motion had to be painted somehow. One day.
“Hey man,” said Tree, wiping his hands on a rag that was getting stiff with old paint. Time for a new one. “I seriously need some good vibes here. Help?”
“I’m taking a break in ten minutes,” said Leonard. “Can you wait?”
That wasn’t a question, but Tree could use the time to cap his paints and clean his brushes, so just as well.
“So dude, what do you feel like doing?” he asked, arranging the small tubes in a wide rainbow inside the case. “I guess you wouldn’t want to bottom so soon after yesterday.”
Leonard shifted in the chair, uncomfortably crossing and uncrossing his legs. Tree grinned broadly behind his back.
“I feel fine,” said Leonard with his eyes still glued to the page. “Could do that, if you like. That was - really interesting, actually. Now, please, let me finish this chapter.”
“Sure, sure,” murmured Tree, trying, by force of habit, to figure out the combination of paints to capture the exact shade of Len’s pale skin glowing in the rays of midday sun. “I’ll keep busy.”
He picked up the last brush, not part of the new set, one of his old ones with a darkened, scratched handle, but instead of cleaning it dipped in into a small glossy lump of Verdant #3 he still had sitting on his plastic palette.
Leonard flinched when the cool paint touched his skin, but not so much as to ruin the stroke. Tree pulled back, admiring the colour contrast.
“Can’t afford new canvas?” enquired Len lightly and glanced at him over his shoulder. “Does it wash off?”
“It’s only acrylics,” said Tree reassuringly. “You just keep still, okay? Do it for the Art.”
Leonard smiled tightly and turned away, grabbing the book with both hands. Tree rounded the first stroke, added another one, tilted the brush and drew a thin line along Leonard’s rib, following the arch of the bone down the side and up, almost to the nipple.
“This tickles, Tree,” said Leonard, politely and furiously.
“Just relax, man.”
Another sweeping stroke, several small dots, just taps of bristles on flesh, twirl of the brush to complete the semicircle. The paint was sliding onto Leonard’s skin smoothly and beautifully, glossier than on paper, edges of strokes turned out sharper and more fluid. Tree firmly dragged the brush up Len’s spine, turned it sideways between the shoulder blades and leaned in closer to do some finer detailing. By the time small green leaves he painted there looked crisp and vibrant Leonard wasn’t still any more, arching under the brush, jerking his shoulder blades like a big angry cat.
Tree paused, keeping the brush poised there: “Am I distracting you? Hey, if I’m distracting you, just say so.”
“Not at all,” said Len, grabbed the pencil and started frantically writing down notes. “Please, carry on if this is amusing for you.”
Tree grinned, loaded his brush again and started working on the stems. They swept over the whole expanse of Leonard’s back, winding and crossing, curled around his lean biceps, sprouting leaves as he went along. He returned to the base of Leonard’s neck, thinking of adding another colour there, red or gold, something for accent, and Len growled, abruptly got up, kicking the chair away, and leaned over the desk, braced on his locked arms.
Tree wiped his hand on his t-shirt, carefully pulled down Leonard’s sweats, trying not to get any paint on them, kissed the small of Len’s back and tied the vines into an elaborate Celtic knot there with one long sweep of the brush. Len’s ass was even paler than his back, smooth and beautiful, but knowing when to stop was an essential skill in painting, one Tree had pretty much sassed out by now.
He slightly parted Len’s ass cheeks and thoughtfully twirled the brush in his fingers.
“Don’t, please,” said Leonard, producing the emergency lube from the desk drawer. “It’s acrylic paint. Can’t be good for you or, more to the point, for me.”
Tree shrugged, set the brush down and squeezed some spice-scented gel over Len’s crack.
“All right. Finger-painting is a valid form of art, too.”
“Of course,” nodded Leonard, moving slightly on his fingers, so tight and hot inside. His knuckles were white where he was clutching to the edge of the desk. “If you are trying to evoke primal responses, simple forms of expression are probably best to use.”
Tree curled his fingers, making Len choke on the words and bounce on the balls of his feet.
“Like this?”
“Something like that, yes,” breathed Leonard, bending lower, maybe for better access, maybe to hide his burning face. The vines twisted and shifted with his every move. Tree quickly got himself out and ready, took some calming breaths to stop his heart pounding like that, and slowly slowly sank into his friend, listening to his strained breathing for any indication of pain. Leonard took him in one, pressed back on his cock, cautiously but firmly. Another heartbeat - and they were fucking in unhurried, shallow smooth movements, and Len breathed hard and moaned softly every time Tree pushed in just right and tightened his fist on Len’s cock. Sweat started to bead on his back, smudging the design and giving it a new dimension.
Len didn’t scream when he came, just growled low in his chest and sagged against the desk, still holding himself up so Tree could finish. Tree thought about spilling on his back, coating the glossy vines in himself, but didn’t pull out fast enough and ended up mopping the sperm from the back of Leonard’s legs with his paint rag.
Leonard straightened up, pulled the sweats just high enough for modesty, clear of the paint. They kissed for a short while, and then Len grinned and winked, grabbed a towel and walked out, still barefoot, still obviously glowy.
“Hey Leonard, love the new look!” laughed somebody in the hall.
“Perks of living with the art major,” answered Len in a low, purring voice, heading in the direction of the showers.
Tree smiled, turned back to his canvas and uncapped the fresh tube of green paint.