Notes: Prompt:"Sherlock probably keeps body paint in his bedside drawers so after he and john have had sex he can just use john as a canvas and sometimes john jus because seriously i have to wash this all off you unbearable arse but most of the time he just smiles and lies there all sated and comfy and occasionally takes some paint and puts little marks on sherlock's nose or forehead or neck."

Paint Me Softly

John lay listening to the sound of the busy London streets below. The window by their bad was cracked open a bit; it was a nice, cool night and the fresh air felt good against his skin. He could hear almost everything going on outside. It was late, but just because people should be at home asleep, doesn't mean they were going to be.

But then, he supposed, it was getting dangerously close to Christmas Day. They were probably getting some last minute shopping done. Sneaking out late so their families wouldn't know what they were doing. What they were buying. John's mind automatically thought of the presents he had wrapped for Sherlock earlier that day, now hidden safely with Mr. Hudson. Nothing fancy; just some new art supplies. John had noticed Sherlock running a bit low on a few things and deemed it the perfect gift.

"Stop thinking." Sherlock groaned, rolling onto his stomach. With a smile, John let his fingers fall from the artist's hair as the Sherlock rested his chin against John's bare stomach, looking up at him through his long lashes. Suddenly, a light sparked behind his multi-colored eyes and John sighed.

"No, Sherlock." But he was already reaching for the nightstand, groping for the few supplies he kept there. "Sherlock, come on. It's been a long day. We both need sleep."

Sherlock wasn't listening to him. He sat up and straddled John's waist. "Stay still." John sighed again, but couldn't really be annoyed. He could have Sherlock wash it all off later. His lips quirked up at the thought and Sherlock swatted his arm. "I know what you're thinking. Stop it."

"Why?"

"Because it's going to distract me. And you. I need your body relaxed for this, John. You know the drill." He set about balancing little paint jars across John's torso, and John propped himself up on his elbows forcing himself not to shudder at the feeling of the first stroke of paint going across his stomach. Sherlock started with red - he nearly always did with John - and from this angle, it was hard to decipher what it was Sherlock was starting to paint.

If he was painting anything particular, anyway.

Everything has purpose. Reason. His boyfriend's voice echoed inside his head, causing his smile to widen. It's not always evident , or clear, but it's always there.

He watched Sherlock, with his tongue sticking out just slightly and his eyes squinted in concentration, somehow able to look frustrated and completely calm all at once.

As he moved further up John's body, John allowed himself to fall back against the pillows, careful not to disturb the paint (or Sherlock, for that matter.) Sherlock was hovering right over him now, concentrated on outlining specific angles on John's face. He felt some of the paint slid from the edge of his lips down his neck and it was too perfect to resist.

He swiped the rouge paint with his index finger and quickly brought it to Sherlock's cheek, allowing his finger to trace from Sherlock's temple, all the way down to the base of his neck. Sherlock groaned and sat back, his head falling backward in annoyance. "Jo-o-o-ohn, I was almost done. Now the pattern is ruined because you moved. You couldn't have waited five more minutes?"

John grinned and propped himself up again. "Sorry, no." Sherlock straightened his neck to glare at John and the med student took that as an invitation. He captured Sherlock's lips in his before reaching over and dipping his finger in the blue. Still kissing the younger man, he traced his finger from where he'd stopped the red, all the way down to Sherlock's navel.

Sherlock groaned again but John knew this one, too. This wasn't frustration. This was want. It was lust. And if that wasn't enough proof, the hardness pressing against his stomach sure as hell was.

John allowed his paint covered fingers to travel everywhere, and he had to keep reminding himself not to run them through Sherlock's hair. Though after a while. that thought became invisible.

"Is this how it feels when I paint you?" Sherlock almost growled against John's mouth.

"It's actually worse." John admitted. He wanted to explain how having those long, pale, expert fingers tracing his bare skin for sometimes hours on end was nothing but pure torture for him, but his lips were captured again and that thought vanished, too.

Notes: Okay, so to those of you who are following WATT, it will be updated soon. I have a crazy rehearsal schedule for the next week and a half, and am getting to write bits and pieces of it at a time. Until then, I'll be writing lots of random snippets, so feel free to request one.