Surprise Monogamy, Part Two

The house stank of sex. Not just the scent of it, the traces in the air left over as part of the aftermath. Not the feather touch of it, elusive and brushing across cheeks and sinus passages. No, it hits you like a tidal wave and maybe with just as much power, when you walk through the door and it smells better than the lattes you went out for. Better than anything you could put name to. No, it smells incredible. Hot. Even if the thought of another round with Justin makes most of your body ache in protest.

You find Justin still sprawled out face first on the sofa in his studio and he's offering an incredibly sweet and sleepy smile either at you or the lattes. You're hoping it's you and not just the promise of a meal before getting it on again. Since your rear isn't as sore as his, sitting on the floor by his head's no big deal. Leaving him to hog all the sofa he wants. "I got a couple of muffins too, for your bottomless pit. How d'you feel?"

He sits up just enough to accept the take away coffee cup and slurps a bit into his mouth through the plastic lid before replying. The coffee's good, damned good, and it shows all over his face. He looks like he's climaxing all over again for just a bare instant. "Flooded." It makes you smile and makes him laugh and reach for the paper bag you brought up with you to examine the contents. There are two muffins, but it's pretty much understood that he'd inhale both of them. "But that's not a surprise, since you came like fifty times in my ass and I only got to come like three in yours."

"If I came fifty times in two days, my dick would fall off. It's sore as it is." Still, he does have a point. You're sure at this point that there isn't a single surface in the entire house, up to and including one of his wet canvases, that you have fucked him against. You're pretty sure that you've never had a work out like that, given how loudly your muscles are protesting their abuse. And all because feeling him, really feeling him, got to you in a way that almost nothing else ever has. Your chin's resting on the couch cushions by his face, since holding up your head takes so much damned energy and he's smiling sleepily. "I think you need a day to recover." You think you need a day to recover.

"From the fuckfest? Mm. I'll be fine in a couple of hours. The last time was just .. intense." He's wrong there. All of them were intense. Because all of them lacked a certain something. Namely, a condom. And with the promise of every single time from here on being just as intense, well, you're willing to change a couple of ideas on monogamy. Who knew it could be so interesting? Apparently, you did, or at least your body did, though it didn't see fit to clue you in on it till the other afternoon, when it just struck you, struck you hard, that you hadn't ... in that long... Sort of scary, really. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, way up high, high enough to steal air from your lungs.

"This is how you look when you're finished a big deal important painting." Sated and pleased. A bit of blond hair wraps easily around your finger and then slides off. It needs to be washed, his hair. So does yours, for that matter. You both need to shower, badly, but neither one of you wants to shower alone and if you went together ... well. Another round would be touched off. At least, that's what you thought, but given the utter exhaustion in his face and the utter exhaustion just going down the block for coffee caused in you, you might be wrong. It's stupid, acting this way, but you can't help it and furthermore, you're not sure you want to help it.

"Like the one that got smeared over your back?" Either the latte, the muffin, or both were helping to revive Justin, because he was pushing himself up on elbows to eye a mess of reds and golds that once had tiny and impressive details to it. Once. The details were now smeared over your back in some sort of weird paint on tattoo. It's sort of uncomfortable, but it was worth it to see just how hot having his painting on you made him. Like you were his canvas, his art, his life. It's something you want to try purposefully one night, instead of accidentally. "I'm putting that in the next show I do. I'll call it ... ah. I'll call it.. huh. I don't know. Afterglow or something."

"You're delirious, eat your muffin. There's almost nothing left on the canvas. Just a huge mess." But you're both grinning like idiots through the entire exchange. You grinned like an idiot at the coffee shop down the block, stinking of sex and sweat and the paint that was making your shirt cling to your back. It scared the coffee girls behind the counter, that's for sure. Only crazy people smiled that much in New York. And you were crazy. It's official. The ones that weren't scared were turned on.

"I can't. I'm too tired." For once in his life he was pushing food away and laying back down. So much for caffeine. A bit of his hair draped over his eye and you reached out to wrap it around your finger again.

"Then sleep. But don't expect me to carry you to bed or anything." You did need sleep, the both of you. Fucking takes it out of you.

"Lesbionic?"

"No, my arms are too sore." A tired chuckle is coaxed out of him for that, and he's pillowing his head in his arms. "What's wrong with here?" The studio, the sofa. Wouldn't be the first time you've done it.

"Not a thing. You know, lesbionic always makes me think of bionic lesbians. I should call Michael and we should put them in the comic." You're sliding out of clothing you shouldn't be caught dead in and sliding onto the couch, fitting yourself around his curves and angles and pulling down a god awful throw over the both of you.

"You're really delirious. Gayopolis doesn't need mechanical twats." It's ridiculous how quickly you both fall asleep, like sleep was just waiting for you to give in. It snatched the both of you up with surprisingly gentle fingers, leaving his voice fading in your ears, still babbling about bionic munchers. It's better than music.