An Artist's Touch - Part Three

[elise_509]

Series: An Artist's Touch
Part: 3/5
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Spoilers: None - AU
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Previous Parts: 1 | 2

Jack stirs very slowly from sleep, feeling too warm and comfortable to open his eyes. He had arrived late last night to James’ loft already tired, and James’ greeting had worn him out completely. It had been wordless but passionate, James silencing Jack’s every attempt to speak with another deep and insistent kiss. Jack quickly realized how this particular visit was going to go and had let James take him without question.

He can hear James now, very much not in bed beside him. Jack twists his head slightly to search him out, then rolls over onto his side when he finds James across the room, staring down at the ground and tapping a paint brush against his palm. Jack watches him for a moment before sitting up. He runs his hand over his short hair, his brow furrowing as he scans the floor for his clothes. He knows James had dropped them bedside last night after he eagerly undressed him; now they are mysteriously absent.

Gathering the bed sheet around his waist, Jack climbs up from the mattress and makes his way over to where James is standing. Jack stops beside him but James doesn’t seem to notice his presence, concentrating intently on the wet paint on the large canvas he has stretched across the floor in front of him.

“James? Um…have you seen my clothes anywhere?”

James doesn’t respond, instead suddenly bending down, crouching and running the flat of his hand through an area of dark mustard yellow, pushing some of the heavy paint to meet the deep forest green that runs alongside it. The colors seem to swirl together but they don’t mix, keeping their own integrity in winding strands of individual color. When it becomes clear that James is going to continue to ignore him, Jack turns and heads for the bathroom.

Jack closes the door gently behind him and lets the sheet fall from around his hips. He makes a small effort to fold it before setting it on the edge of the counter, not wanting to leave it in a crumpled heap on the tile floor. He then turns to look at himself in the mirror and is surprised to see evidence of James clearly reflected on his body; his lips still swollen from James’ crushing kisses, his neck lightly marked where James had sucked and nipped the night before, faint bruises on his hips where James had held him tightly while his mouth worked him up and down.

Waiting for the water in the shower to warm up, Jack inwardly thanks god that he had already had the good sense to break up with Connie. He never would have been able to explain away someone else’s fingerprints on his skin. Breaking things off had been both easy and difficult. It wasn’t until he was walking from her apartment for the last time that he realized how he had been ready to end things for a long time; knowing that it was over felt like a relief. Connie didn’t view it that way and had made that abundantly clear.

She never was one to keep her opinions to herself.

She asked him if there was someone else and he hadn’t lied, though he didn’t tell her who that someone else was. He didn’t think she needed to know and he wasn’t really that sure he was ready to tell her.

Everything going on between him and James is new and confusing. Strangely though, it isn’t the fact that he had spent the last three weeks of his life impatiently racing through his time at work in order to get to James’ place that keeps him awake at night. It’s that it all came so easily, felt so natural. The thought that this is something he had maybe secretly wanted his entire life is startling and he can’t help but wonder if he’d wasted years of his life in one unhappy relationship after another merely out of denial.

But he’d never denied anything because he had never been aware. He never caught himself looking at another man until he met James. He never let his touch linger on another guy’s arm, never wondered what it might be like to kiss him. There was never any desire to sublimate, no urges to ignore. And he never disliked being with women either. Usually it was their individual personalities, their tendencies, that made him crazy, and he figured that was just because he was dating women his parents wanted him to, always the “right kind of girl.”

As Jack picks up James’ bottle of shampoo and the familiar smell fills the shower, Jack thinks of twining his fingers in James’ hair, feeling the gentle tickle of the silky strands brushing against his cheeks as they kissed last night in bed, James’ hard, lithe body moving on top of his. He knows it’s far too early to be thinking such things, but he wonders if the reason everything feels so right with James is because it is right. That it wasn’t about making the choice between a guy or a girl, but about it being James.

He can feel himself falling for him, constantly catching himself thinking about James whenever his life afforded him a quiet moment for his thoughts to be his own. He tries to stop because he doesn’t have a clue what James is thinking about their entire relationship, if he can even dare to call it that. It seems entirely about the sex for James, the occasional cup of coffee down at the corner only a short preamble to a wild night between the sheets. Their conversations are superficial and all too short, often dissolving into kisses and touches before they even get beyond the basic chit chat of how their respective days went.

James doesn’t seem to mind this and that’s why Jack remains silent on the point, suspecting that an evening spent entirely in one another’s company without getting each other off was not something on James’ agenda. So whenever he gets the urge to kiss James like it all means something, Jack purposefully reminds himself to push his lips harder, to touch him more roughly, to groan loudly about how good being inside him feels. Anything to keep his emotions grounded in the purely physical.

Judging from how James is acting this morning, getting ensnared in his feelings is not a problem he is having. Jack finishes his shower quickly, deciding that it might be best for him to leave before he starts to resent the fact that James clearly wants him gone.

Stepping out of the tub he snags one of James’ faded towels from the rack and dries off hurriedly. Then he wraps it around his waist, a suitable replacement for the sheet until he can locate his clothes. He brushes his teeth the best he can, using his finger and James’ toothpaste in a lame replacement for the toothbrush he hasn’t had the nerve to bring over yet, and then follows up with James’ mouthwash.

Gathering the sheet from the floor and taking one last glance at the mirror, he steps back out of the bathroom. James is exactly where he had left him ten minutes ago, staring down at the ground. Sighing, Jack crosses the room and dumps the sheet back onto James’ makeshift bed, purposely ignoring the impulse to straighten it properly.

“James?” He says his name brokenly as he walks back toward him, self-consciously tightening the towel around his waist. James shifts on his feet but Jack doesn’t know if he’s supposed to take that as a signal that he heard him or not. “What are you doing?” Jack asks, stopping behind him and looking from James down to the painting on the ground. He receives no answer and after waiting a few minutes for one, Jack decides there’s no point anymore. “I guess…I guess I’m just going to go then. I need to get to work. I just…I kinda need to know where my clothes are.”

When Jack leaves James’ loft fifteen minutes later, he tries not to think about how ridiculous he must look wearing one of James’ ratty t-shirts and a pair of paint-stained ripped jeans. James’ silence had left him with little choice though and if James had any objection to Jack grabbing some clothes from among his things, he certainly didn’t voice them.

*******

Jack opens his locker with a harsh tug, accidentally sending it slamming loudly against the locker door next to it. His whole locker smells like James, turpentine and cologne, not the usual scent of leather and aftershave. Jack lets out a long breath, having almost forgotten the fact that he didn’t have his own clothes to change into. His day had been stressful and taxing and his muscles ache, his head throbbing with the threat of a headache that will surely only grow worse.

The shrill sound of his cell phone going off seems much louder than usual when he hears it.

“Jack Shephard.” He greets the caller gruffly, having not bothered to look at the caller ID before bringing it to his ear.

“Doc, hey.” Jack frowns and closes his eyes at hearing James’ voice, not prepared to deal with him any more today. He turns and leans his back against the row of lockers, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “You still at work?”

“You’re talking now?” Jack asks, a bit surprised by how annoyed he sounds and continues before James can answer the question. “I’m just getting ready to leave. Can I call you back? I shouldn’t be on my cell.”

“What, your boss doesn’t let you take personal calls? You’re off shift, ain’t you?” James asks skeptically. Jack shakes his head even though James can’t see him.

“No, because I’m in a hospital, James,” he states, thinking that would be enough explanation. Judging by James’ confused silence, it’s not. “Generally cell phones aren’t allowed on premises. I forgot to turn mine off. I…Nevermind. Can I give you a call when I’m heading home?”

“Why don’t you forget calling me back and head over here instead?” James suggests flirtatiously and for the first time Jack has the urge to tell James to fuck off, that he wouldn’t be coming over for a late night booty call this time, not after how he’d been treated that morning. But instead he hears himself agreeing weakly.

Jack hangs up feeling somehow like he’d just made a mistake. He ignores it and tosses his cell phone into his bag with a quiet curse before pulling the bag out and dropping it unceremoniously onto the bench behind him. He yanks out the blue t-shirt and beat-up jeans he had taken from James and tugs his scrubs off, letting them fall onto the floor.

“That’s a new look.” Jack finishes pulling the shirt down over his head and looks toward the voice, finding Sanjay looking at him with amusement plastered over his face. He rolls his eyes at his co-worker and shrugs, adjusting the ragged hem of the tee down over the waistline of his borrowed jeans, feeling them pinch just a bit too tightly around his hips as he zips them up. “Have you taken up a new hobby we should know about, Shep?”

Jack bites back the urge to reveal exactly what, or who, his new hobby is and really throw his friend for a loop, but quickly opts for the less complicated solution and shrugs.

“It’s a long story. Had to borrow some clothes from a friend.”

“Oh. Cause I have to say, you and painting? Not two things I ever thought I’d see together.”

“Yeah. Well.” Jack shrugs again, reaching back behind his neck and tucking in the tag of the shirt which he can feel tickling his skin above the collar. He reaches down and picks up his bag from the ground, slinging it over his shoulder. “I gotta run. See you tomorrow, Jay.”

“Yeah, see ya. Oh - “ Sanjay remembers something as Jack brushes past him. “And good job today on that little boy. That was some amazing work, man. We were taking bets that you wouldn’t pull it off.”

“Good to know you guys have my back.” Jack shakes his head in disbelief, never one to take part in the rest of the staff’s need to relieve the stress by trivializing the importance of what they do.

“Hey, I bet that you'd do just fine.” Jay defends himself.

“I win you any money?”

“Fifty bucks.”

“Ah. Well, see ya.”

“Yeah, see ya.” Sanjay seems downtrodden, perhaps having expected Jack to be more thrilled with the results of his win, maybe grateful that he bet on his success. But Jack just walks away, his thoughts already elsewhere.

Twenty minutes later James’ door opens to reveal an entirely different man than the one he had left this morning. His smile is wide and inviting and his eyes are alight, twinkling with delight where they had previously been dark with brooding intensity. James grabs him by the front of his t-shirt and pulls him inside, shutting the door and pushing him back against it.

“Those my clothes?” He murmurs, chuckling against Jack’s neck as his lips find the skin there, his fingers still tugging on the fabric covering Jack’s chest.

“Couldn’t exactly find mine.” Jack states flatly, avoiding James’ mouth when it moves to capture his. James frowns, having expected this but hoping that maybe he’d be wrong.

“Sorry about this mornin’.” He lets go of Jack’s shirt and reaches down, taking Jack’s hand instead. He steps back, pulling Jack with him, and nods his head behind them, leading him inside. “I didn’t mean to be a prick.”

“I don’t think anyone ever means to,” Jack comments and James grins.

“No, I guarantee you there’s times when I definitely mean to. I just…” He stops in front of his canvas and gestures downward. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been trying to push myself in a new direction and I don’t think I can handle it.”

“And pretending I don’t exist is going to solve that…how?” Jack asks harshly, not looking down at the painting, not about to reassure James’ insecurities. He doesn't particularly feel like caring about James’ feelings at this moment. James crosses his arms over his chest and tugs on the rolled up sleeve of his white shirt and Jack notices that with every touch the stain of purple paint on the fabric grows larger, the color smearing further.

“Look. I don’t have an explanation for ya. I …I act the way I act and I dunno why. Sometimes I just get so damn focused that this-“ He points down toward his painting. “Is the only thing I see. It’s like I got tunnel vision or something. And you gotta understand, it ain’t personal. This morning wasn’t about you.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty clear, thanks.” Jack turns away and walks toward the windows casting his gaze out across the blanket of twinkling yellow-gold lights of night in the city, each one a different story, another person coming home after a long day, some to their loved ones, some to nothing but an empty apartment, and some not going home at all, choosing to spend their extra hours in the tiny offices in the skyscrapers which dominate the rest of the skyline. Jack knows the last two feelings very well, the echo of nothingness when he drops his keys onto the barren kitchen counter, the click of his shoes on linoleum as he strolls the lonely hospital halls in the early hours of the morning. He’d never come home to anyone he wanted to see, never felt eager to leave work because there was nowhere he really wanted to go.

But he wants to be here, in James’ loft, sleeping night after night on his lumpy mattress just inches off the ground, to drink James' horrible coffee every morning and spend his entire ride to work trying to get the eraser dust and charcoal stains off his hands. He wants James to want him here as well and not just because he’s a good lay.

He’s never been good at casual sex and apparently even though every other aspect of his sex life has changed, that is still the same.

“You know, usually if someone has a problem with me, I don’t bother. I am the way I am and I don’t apologize for it.” James’ voice interrupts his thoughts and Jack tears his gaze away from the night sky to look at him, arching an eyebrow.

“Am I supposed to feel flattered?” Jack snaps. James sighs.

“No, you ain’t. You just ain’t supposed to be pissed off. I’m a fuckin’ artist, Jack, don’t you know the shit that comes with that? Some of the stereotypes are stereotypes for a freakin’ reason.” He laughs as if it's supposed to be a joke, but Jack doesn't smile. “I’m fucking moody, okay? If we’re gonna have a relationship or whatever, you gotta deal with that.”

“I wasn’t aware that coming over almost every night for sex could be considered a relationship,” Jack replies. James rolls his eyes and steps toward Jack.

“I wasn’t aware that coming over almost every night for sex wasn’t considered a relationship,” he counters. Jack doesn’t reply, not sure what he wants to say. Part of him is pleased to hear that James is taking this more seriously than he had expected, but James’ definition of a relationship differs from Jack’s in a way he’s not sure he’s comfortable with. Because as much as he enjoys his nights with James, they aren’t enough if that’s all he’s ever going to get.

Jack walks toward James but continues past him, stopping in front of the canvas stretched across the wooden floor and eying the rivulets of paint running through it, faint lines streaming their way through valleys between much heavier peaks of impasto, a topography as varied as any map but with colors you’d never find in any atlas. Jack doesn’t like it; he’s not sure why.

“It was an experiment,” James says, walking over to the window now himself, switching positions with Jack. “What do you think?”

“Does it matter what I think?” Jack inquires and James smiles knowingly. He leans his head against the window next to him, resigned willingly to Jack’s assessment of his work.

“Don’t worry, I don’t like it either.”

“I didn’t say that I-“ James waves Jack off, signaling his feelings aren’t hurt.

“But it feels good to have it done, have it out there, not up here,” James gestures loosely toward his head and then shrugs. He glances out the window and then turns back to Jack, walking back toward him. “Now I can think about other things.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Jack asks, ignoring James’ come-on. The piece is huge and the amount of paint on it is devastating, a colossal waste of expensive color. James doesn’t seem to care that much. He comes to a sauntering stop next to Jack and reaches out, running his hand across the far side of Jack’s face, feeling two day’s worth of stubble underneath his fingertips as he turns Jack to look at him.

“You didn’t shave today,” James comments, moving his thumb down the sharp angle of Jack’s jaw line.

“I didn’t have time to go home between here and work,” Jack says even though James doesn’t need an explanation.

“I like it,” James comments and then smiles slowly. “You better watch it…with those clothes you got on, it’s seriously startin’ to look like I’m rubbing off on ya.”

“Yeah…” Jack looks down at his clothes sheepishly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Where are my clothes, by the way?”

“I came all over them last night, ‘member?” James reminds him, moving closer, pressing his body against Jack’s. His voice drops to a low growl in Jack’s ear. “I came all over you and then you fucked me, you fucked me ‘til I couldn’t think straight…” He slides the flat of his hand down the front of Jack’s body, stopping between his legs and cupping him hard through his jeans.

“James-“

“After ya fell asleep I rinsed them in the tub and hung ‘em up out on the clothesline up on the roof to dry out, quit worryin’,” James mumbles, amused by how tense Jack is underneath his hands. “You know, watchin’ you sleep gets me all worked up.” He starts kissing Jack behind his ear and Jack lets his eyes drift closed, urging his hips gently into the now familiar push of James’ hand against his erection. “So damn pretty, lyin’ there naked…I wanted to climb on top of you and suck you hard, get you off, have you wake up comin’ in my mouth.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jack asks breathlessly, turned on by the idea of it, loving almost nothing more than the sight of James’ head bobbing between his legs, those perfect lips wrapped around his thick length and begging him to let go.

“Didn’t think you’d appreciate it. Decided to go paint instead,” James nods his head toward the painting once before gripping Jack by the hips and turning Jack’s entire body toward his, slipping his hands over Jack’s ass and dipping his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans, urging him closer.

“I wish you hadn’t,” Jack murmurs, brushing his lips against James’, giving in, dropping the guard he’d had up when he had walked in, prepared to fend off James’ advances. He welcomes them now, his fingers edging underneath the hem of James’ white dress shirt to feel his hot skin, to dip into the deep dimples on his lower back. James matches his action, his hands warm against Jack's skin as they slide underneath his shirt.

“You don’t got no underwear on, do you, Doc?” James asks, knowing he’d left Jack’s boxers up on the clothesline as well. Jack blushes and starts to murmur an apology but James continues, cutting him off. “I think I like that, you wearin’ my jeans with no boxers on…” He slides his hands underneath the denim and runs his fingers over Jack’s ass for emphasis. “I think I like you wearin’ my clothes, period. You look damn hot in ‘em.”

“You don’t look so bad in them yourself,” Jack replies and James smiles against his lips.

“Thanks,” he chuckles, urging Jack backward slowly until he hits the table behind them with a jarring thud, the back of his thighs connecting with its edge. James keeps pressing forward until Jack has no choice but to lift himself up and sit on the table top, letting James spread his legs apart and fit himself in between. The newspaper that James has laid out over the wooden tabletop crinkles underneath Jack’s weight and the cans of paint jostle against one another, threatening to tip as the rickety table moves.

James kisses him hard, thrusting his tongue into his mouth before Jack has a chance to situate his body in this new position. Jack reaches a hand back to steady himself and places his hand directly on top of one of James’ wet paint brushes, his fingers instantly coated with thick dark blue acrylic. Jack looks back disgustedly, not sure what he’d just put his hand in, and James smiles.

“It’ll wash off,” James assures him in a whisper, not giving Jack time to think about it as he kisses him again, this time accompanying his mouth with the touch of his fingers, sliding underneath Jack’s tee and lifting it upward. He hesitates when he has Jack’s shirt halfway off, seemingly too enthralled with the feel of Jack’s skin underneath his hands to break contact for even just a moment. “God, how does anyone look at you and not want to fuck you, Doc? I want to fuck you, can’t look at you without wanting it.”

Jack pulls back and strips his shirt over his head and quickly unbuttons James’ shirt, eager for James to follow through on his desire. As often as James whispered that huskily to him, he had never actually done so. They always wound up getting one another off with their mouths and their hands, or with Jack thrusting into James’ tight body until they both lost control.

He pushes open James’ white button-down shirt, his hand leaving faint blue traces on both the fabric and on James’ tan skin, light smudges of fingerprints evidence of his touch. James looks down at Jack’s paint covered fingers and purposely reaches behind Jack’s body, dipping his own fingers into an open container of the same blue paint. He smiles as he runs his index finger down the muscular line of Jack’s abdomen, dipping his finger just slightly below the waistband of his jeans.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks quietly and James gives him a little shrug that Jack can feel more than see.

“Just highlightin' my fav'rite parts,” he whispers, scraping a fingernail down the ridge of Jack's muscles with a crooked, lazy smile, keeping his eyes focused on Jack's trembling abs as he runs his fingers along his waist. James looks up at Jack and finds Jack watching him as he slides the button of his jeans through the hole; Jack bites the edge of his lip in anticipation and James realizes he is doing the same, unconsciously mimicking him. He completes the action teasingly, painstakingly and deliberately pulling down Jack’s zipper one tiny bit at a time. The movement is so slow that Jack actually groans and urges his hips upward, begging for James to finish playing and just touch him.

James complies in answer to Jack’s helpless moan, pushing aside the tight denim of his own jeans on Jack’s body and wrapping his clean hand around Jack’s cock, tugging his entire length free of its confines in one movement. He involuntarily tightens his grip and lets out a small gasp, feeling his own cock jump at the sight and feel of Jack throbbing in his palm.

He wants to fist Jack, to drop to his knees and take him in his mouth, to have Jack plunge every inch of his length into his body, but Jack doesn’t wait for him to decide. He pushes James’ hands away from him and reaches for James’ jeans. He takes no time at all in shoving them down James’ angular hips and taking his hardness in hand.

James steps back and pulls Jack from the table, stumbling slightly as he and Jack grab for one another’s bodies simultaneously, colliding and ricocheting back against the table, James pressed against it now. Jack hears the canister hit the table top with a metallic bang but James feels it, bright yellow paint spreading over the newspaper as quickly as a rush of water and dripping down onto the floor, splattering onto his bare feet and Jack’s.

James pushes on Jack’s shoulders hard and they both slip on the messy floor, moving clumsily away from the table, hands groping and grabbing blindly, too wrapped up in one another’s kiss to pay careful attention, just knowing they have to be touching.

“I wish we’d done this this morning,” James mumbles against Jack’s mouth and Jack nods, pushing James’ shirt off his shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. James drops to his knees and Jack follows.

“Not my fault,” Jack replies and James nips at his lip in response, knowing full well whose fault it was and not needing a reminder.

“Another reason to hate the damn painting.” James nudges Jack toward it, edging their bodies toward the offensive piece in question.

“It’s not that bad.” Jack points out, no longer able to muster any anger over it. “You never like anything you do.”

“I like you,” James says, nipping at Jack’s bottom lip again, this time playfully, and Jack lets his mouth dance across his, their kisses laughing. “I should paint you.”

“Don’t think so,” Jack shoots him down quickly and silences him with a deeper kiss, plunging back into it fully and leaving thoughts of talk behind. James pushes Jack onto his back and it isn’t until Jack feels the wet paint and the roughness of canvas on his back that he realizes what he’s against. He attempts to push James off of him but James resists.

“Your painting…James…!” Jack tries again but James pins him down, grinding down hard against him and running his freshly paint-covered hands over Jack’s sculpted biceps, a mess of colors staining his skin. “Fuck.”

“I like it better on you,” James murmurs and Jack protests.

“We’re gonna ruin it, James, stop, we-fuck!” His words are cut off when James wraps his mouth around Jack’s hard cock, placing his hands on the insides of Jack’s thighs and spreading them wide, leaving well-formed hand prints on the denim there. Jack bucks into the wetness of James’ mouth, James’ tongue surging down his length and pressing firmly along the throbbing vein underneath. “Oh god, oh god, fuck, James…James.”

He reaches out desperately to find something to hang onto and he only finds his fingers running through wide swaths of paint, his fingernails scraping on the gessoed canvas hidden underneath as he digs deep to gain purchase. He can’t help but color strands of James’ golden hair with traces of red when he finally runs his fingers through it, can’t help it when he touches James’ face and leaves a streak of maroon over his cheek.

James’ hand snakes around the base of his cock and then slides downward, gripping his balls and squeezing them gently in rhythm with his mouth, evidently trying to get Jack to come as fast as possible. Jack groans but resists, not wanting it to be over so fast.

Jack places his hands on James’ broad shoulders, a mess of blue and green mixing underneath his fingers and spreading over his skin, dipping into the well of his sharp collarbone as his palms slip. Too breathless now to speak, he instead tries to get James to understand by pushing him away, pulling him up his body, wanting him on top. James doesn’t follow his lead immediately, first pausing to strip the jeans from Jack’s body. Wet with paint, they stick to his thighs and James lets the colors stain Jack’s skin as he tugs off the denim.

He casts them aside and takes a moment to take the sight of Jack in, his body quivering before him in blatant arousal, streaks of paint covering his chest, his abs, the hard lines of muscle in his arms and thighs, James’ fingerprints evident all over every inch of him, claiming him in hues and tints that had looked awful on the canvas, yet now seem positively brilliant against Jack’s tan skin.

James climbs on top of Jack but rolls them both on their sides, facing one another, believing that’s what Jack had wanted when he had stopped him before. He urges Jack’s leg over his hip and thrusts, their cocks rubbing against one another, all soft skin and pulsating hardness, thick and full and dripping, evidence of their shared excitement a creamy white joining the shades of blues and yellows already smeared across their stomachs. Jack rocks harder and James’ hands grip his hips, his fingers now leaving muddy prints over the purple-blue bruises from the night before.

The canvas buckles underneath their weight and James can feel it, the slight give and the dip of their bodies just a couple of inches toward the floor. Something rips and Jack turns his head to look at what has happened, but James quickly grabs his chin and forces his attention back to him, shaking his head before kissing him again.

“I don’t give a damn,” he murmurs, slipping his hands over Jack’s ass, wanting so badly to slide his fingers inside him, work him open, feel him give. But his hands are covered in paint and he certainly has no desire to stop what they are doing to he can wash them off. “Turn over,” he murmurs to Jack. “On your stomach.”

To his surprise Jack does so without even asking why, pliable and willing. Hands on Jack’s waist, he guides Jack’s hips upward, urging Jack onto all fours on his elbows and knees. He thought Jack knew what was coming but when his tongue finds Jack’s tight entrance and circles around it lightly, Jack’s entire body tenses and he curses, asking James what he’s doing.

James answers him by dipping his tongue inside shallowly, not able to go too far but just enough to let Jack know exactly what’s happening. He repeats the motion until he feels Jack relax, a groan pushing past his lips as he opens up to James’ searching mouth.

Soon he is fucking Jack with his tongue, Jack thrusting back slightly toward him and trying to get him deeper, panting and moaning uncontrollably as his hands slide through the layers of paint, pushing it around the canvas haphazardly. Knowing Jack has to be nearing the edge, he reaches around and takes Jack’s rock hard cock in his hand, thrilling at the feel of him throbbing and rocking into his tight grasp.

He pulls his mouth away, sliding the only finger he has that's not covered in paint into Jack's body and bending to kiss the small of Jack’s back, tasting the sweat gathered there and whispering pleas against his skin.

“Come on Jack, come for me, please come for me.” He pumps Jack hard, wanting to feel him let it all go, and matches his movements on Jack’s cock to his movements inside his body.

“Want you…want you inside me…god damn…fuck…god I want you to fuck me, James.” The words don’t even register for a moment and when they do a surge of lust jolts through James’ entire body and ends directly between his legs. He comes before he even knows what hit him, hot and hard against the back of Jack’s thighs. He grips Jack with his left hand and pushes deep inside him with his right, hitting against that perfect spot and then Jack is coming too, erupting violently over the canvas underneath his body.

Jack’s world goes completely black and then blinding white, the room spinning away from him until he collides with it again, the heavy crash of coming back down from the highest peak he’d ever reached. The acrylic of James’ painting is cold against his cheek as he leans his face against it, struggling to breathe, almost forgetting how.

James is still holding onto his cock, his finger still buried inside his body, and it takes him a minute to let go, disentangling himself from Jack slowly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, collapsing next to Jack on his side as Jack lies down as well, no longer able to hold his own weight. He rolls onto his back beside James, his entire body feeling warm and spent. “That was amazing.”

James reaches over and places his hand flat on Jack’s stomach, feeling him breathe, feeling his muscles tremble with aftershocks. Jack lies there for awhile silently and James surprises himself by wondering what Jack is thinking, a question so distinctly unlike him that he shoves it from his thoughts as quickly as possible.

Jack finally moves, covering James’ hand with his on his stomach and brushing his fingers over James’ knuckles. He wants to say something, to ask James why he won’t fuck him, what else he needs to do or say to make it obvious that that’s what he wants. It had taken every ounce of courage he had to beg for it just moments before and Jack doesn’t know if he’ll ever have that courage again.

Asking someone to fuck him is an experience he has never had and never thought he would have. He looks down as James draws random patterns in the paint on his flat stomach and disregards his need for an answer, instead raising his head and leaning forward, pressing his lips gently to James’.

“We wrecked your painting.”

“We made it better.”

“I came all over it,” Jack says with a sheepish, embarrassed smile and James rubs his thumb across Jack’s cheekbone, grinning widely himself.

“Consider it your artistic contribution.” James says. “I mean, Warhol painted with piss, maybe I’ll start a new thing and paint with come.”

Jack wrinkles his nose in disgust but laughs out loud and James joins in.

“You ever ask me to piss on anything and I’m out the door,” Jack states, tucking one arm behind his head and smiling up at James. James rolls on top of him and dips his head to kiss him playfully.

“Naw, I think I like this whole coming thing too much for that,” James teases, emphasizing coming with the downward thrust of his hips. “Hell, maybe I’ll start making terrible paintings just so we can have fun ruining ‘em.”

“I have a feeling that you might change your mind once we try to get this paint off,” Jack comments, running his hand through James’ hair. “It’s all over you.”

“It’s all over you too,” James retorts. “And I had a good time putting it there.”

“We should shower before it dries.” Jack suggests and James nods reluctantly, quite liking the sight of Jack’s body colored in every shade of the rainbow and wishing Jack wasn't so damn practical all the time. He would love nothing more than to twine his body with Jack's and fall asleep this way, a perfect mess. Instead he climbs off of Jack and helps him up, both of them turning to survey the damage they’ve done. James stoops to pick up their discarded clothes and smiles.

“Guess it’s a good thing you were wearin’ my clothes. Would’ve hated to ruin your fancy threads.”

“I kinda liked wearing yours,” Jack says, heading for the bathroom, leaving a trail of yellow footprints across the hardwood floor. “I raised a lot of eyebrows at the hospital. I don’t think they knew what to do, seeing me wear jeans.”

“Well they made your ass look hot, so maybe you should think about wearin’ ‘em more often.”

“Oh yeah?” Jack stops in the doorway and waits for James to join him, a smile playing on his lips. James punches him lightly in the arm and then shoves him inside.

“Kay, I think I’ve stroked your ego enough for one night. Let’s go get clean, cowboy.”

------->THIS PART CONTINUED