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Painting

Triciaqaf

Inspired by a plot bunny from paddies
Post season 4, but no spoilers whatsoever for S5
Not much plot either… ;)

Many thanks to plumsuede for reading the first version of this story (which was totally different) and being honest. Hope this one's more true to form, babe! :)


Part 1

I can hear him around me, behind me, puttering around the loft. Not that he’d ever call it puttering. Or obsessively making everything just so… No, he’d never admit to that level of anal behaviour. Even though we both know he does it. He just hides it less than he used to before we lived together. This time.

I turn my attention back to the colours in front of me. Try to focus on letting them flow, letting it come. Fuck. Try again. Let it go, Justin… breathe…

When the cramp hits my hand, I watch the brush fall to the floor in slow motion. I can’t help the curse even though I know Brian’s watching me now. Fucking god-damn hand! After this many years you’d think it wouldn’t happen anymore. Wouldn’t bug me anymore either…

I bend down to wipe up the splatters on the hardwood. Can’t have Mr. Obsessive-Compulsive see oil paint on the floors. I know it’s not fair to be mad at him, but fuck! I have to be mad at someone right now. And it left a huge fucking streak of red down the canvas. Fuck.

Suddenly he’s behind me, his warmth and his scent reaching me before I even see him. I feel the muscles in my body start to relax just from his proximity.

“You look fucking hot when you work, you know that?” his voice is soft in my ear, his breath making me shiver a bit. I can feel the anger starting to drain away but I fight it. Fuck it – I want to be mad. I need to be mad right now.

His hands are on my waist, slipping under my shirt to brush the skin of my back. It makes me arch a little, pushing my ass back ‘till I feel him behind me.

“Brian.” I don’t want this right now. “Don’t. I’m not in the mood.” My voice sounds angrier than I feel, but I don’t care.

He doesn’t stop though, doesn’t pull away. His fingers rest softly in the hollow of my lower back. Then one hand comes around to the front of my body, sliding down my arm. I shift a bit, annoyed that he’s touching me, wanting to get away from him.

Wanting to sink back into his arms. But I can’t.

“Brian. Fuck off. I’m working.” His hand keeps moving.

“Let go. What the fuck are you doing?” He’s holding my brush, his hand inside mine.

“Show me.” His lips against my ear make me shudder, even when I don’t want to. Betrayed by my own fucking cock. I can feel his behind me, pressing gently into me. I will not push back into him. I’m working.

“Show you what? That you’re an asshole and you’re bugging me when I’m trying to work?” God, I’m a bitch today. So sue me.

His hand starts to move the brush. I huff, grabbing his hand tighter to stop him.

“How to paint…” he murmurs softly behind me. Now his other hand is moving. Shit. How he can do that is beyond me. I try not to close my eyes but his fingers are in the cleft of my ass, stroking me in that way he knows I can’t ignore. My cock is fully hard now. Crap.

“Don’t patronize me, Brian.” My voice sounds a lot less angry. Asshole.

“Show me what it feels like…” His words go straight to my dick. God, why do I always hate him and love him at the same fucking time? His hips are rocking gently against me. And I’m really trying not to follow them.

Fine.

He wants a painting lesson? Fine.

“Let go, Brian. You’re holding too tight. Loosen your wrist.” I shake his hand a bit, rotating his wrist slightly. “You need it to move the way you want it to feel. Long, slow strokes for flow, for calmness. Short, choppy strokes for speed, for intensity.” I mimic my words with our hands. He’s surprisingly fluid under my grip.

“You don’t have to be exact on the length and the direction of the brush until you’re doing the final strokes for that section of the canvas. You can throw the colour down first, let it go where it wants to. Then neaten it up when you’re happy with the feel of it.”

I’m pulling the brush across the canvas, his longer arm allowing me to reach almost all of it even though he’s behind me. I’ve forgotten about his other hand until I feel warm, smooth skin on my bare back. I try to ignore it but then it rubs against me and I realize it’s the head of his cock. I breathe in, continuing with my lesson.

He appears to be paying total attention to the painting, but I feel his other arm moving behind me, his knuckles brushing against me. I close my eyes for a second. He’s not…

I resist the urge to look, clenching the hand with the brush a bit more, moving it back to the right side of the canvas. I’m talking about underpainting now, weaving an image as a layer, intending to cover it up with another image, or a colour, or a texture. His breath is increasing a tiny bit in my ear. I look at our hands and realize I’m stroking the canvas at the same speed as his hand behind me. Shit. I move the brush to a different spot.

The intakes of his breath are getting louder, the small catch before he releases the air is just about to happen. I can feel my body moving in response to his before I can stop it.

“Brian.” A whisper is all I can get out.

“So hot.” He whispers back. “Tortured artist and art teacher, all rolled into one…”

He’s teasing me, but I laugh anyway. “Didn’t know you had a thing for art teachers. Or tortured artists…”

“Only one.” He still makes my breath stop when he does that. And he does it all the time now.

I feel his hands pushing the back of my pants lower, exposing more skin. Why do I wear pants that are loose enough for him to do this? I feel a small trail of liquid cooling on my skin as he rubs his cock across my ass. Huh. That’s why I wear pants like this. They fall to the ground, pooling around my ankles. I’m going to trip if I move. He doesn’t mind. He likes it when I can’t move.

He also likes it when I don’t wear underwear. I smile as I hear his stuttered breath. I try to turn around but he keeps his hand on the brush, the brush on the canvas. “Keep going…” he says.

New kink – art-sex? Teacher-sex? Whatever… I don’t mind, as long as he keeps rubbing his knuckles over the crack of my ass as he jerks himself off. He knows how much I love it when he jerks himself off in front of me. Or behind me…

I can’t think of anything to say, so I just steer his hand, sweeping the brush over the surface in front of me. It’s a little tricky to pick up more paint from the palette hooked to the side of the easel, but we’re managing. I start to focus on it more, feel it more. It’s weird to guide his hand rather than just using my own, but I’ve got the hang of it now.

He’s so compliant. I wish I could get his hand to be like this when we’re in bed. He can’t help but take the lead there. Not that I mind, but I like being in charge. He lets me do it so rarely. But I like it when he’s in charge too, and he knows it…

He’s making these little noises in my ear, warm, wet noises. I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it. Then his cock is pushing lower, his hand guiding it between my legs. He’s rubbing the head lower, making me arch my back, push my hips into him. God.

“Want you…” he whispers, his body pulling away for a moment while he reaches for something.

Then he’s back, his cock slick and cold from the lube. I gasp as it slides into my crack. Still not used to it, no matter how long it’s been since we became monogamous, since we got tested, since the condom box got dusty in the closet.

I’m not moving our hands now, the brush pressing hard into the canvas as we lean against it. Then he pulls our hands back a bit, setting the brush straight.

“Keep painting…” he murmurs.

“Uh…” I try to articulate something more than that but his cock is pressing against my hole.

“Can’t…” I mutter.

“Show me what it feels like…” he whispers. He’s rolling his hips, pushing the head in the tiniest bit on each forward roll.

I want to remind him that he knows full well what it feels like, that he’s had my cock in his ass enough times to know, but I suck in a breath as he pushes further into me. He wiggles his hand in mine, so I try to focus on doing something with it. Don’t really care what.

I watch our hands slide the brush back and forth as he pushes further, my eyes squinting as I try to lean forward more to get his cock at the angle I want it without pressing my face into the paint.

He stops when he’s all the way inside me, our bodies pressed tight. His free arm wraps around my waist, holding me snug to him. “Paint…” he prompts.

I take a breath, letting my body still around him. I start to move our hands but he wiggles the brush again, nudging it into my hand and pulling his own away. I stand there holding the brush, looking over my shoulder at him as much as I can. I hear him. He knows I’m ok now.

“Paint.” He whispers again, his lips hot against my ear. Both of his hands wrap around my hipbones, holding me still. I close my eyes – I know he’s going to fuck me slowly, he’s going to hold me where he wants me and uh… huh… I moan as he starts to move, pleasure lighting up inside me as the head of his cock pushes against the inside of my body.

I make a few half-hearted strokes with the brush, but I can’t focus. I let the brush fall. Fuck the paint splatters this time. I grip the edges of the canvas with my hands, needing to hold onto something.

“You’ll get paint on your hands…” he whispers as he finds a rhythm behind me.

“Fuck it.” I mutter.

He starts to move in earnest, his body finding a familiar speed. I try not to tip the easel over, try to keep my knees from giving out. I’m moaning every time his cock drags past my prostate. I want him to touch my dick now. God.

“Wanna fuck you like this…” he stutters. I love it when his voice sounds like that.

“You… are…” I answer, my words coming in gasps.

“Tied like this…” he grunts as he says it. His foot pushes against mine, shoving it to the leg of the easel. He does the same with the other side, spreading my legs so they’re against the bottom of the easel legs. I moan.

“Would be so hot…” he murmurs as his hand reaches around to my cock. I can only nod. I know I’ll marvel later at how it can still seem titillating and erotic and exciting for him to do this – to talk dirty to me, to restrain me, to take me, no matter how many times we’ve done that.

“Tomorrow…” I whisper. “I’ve gotta paint first…” I hear his laugh as I start to come.

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