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"Rhysie, hold still."
Rhys was pretty sure he hadn't moved half an inch since the last time Jack had told him that. but if he protested or nodded his head, it would count as moving and give jack a legitimate reason to snap at him.
The horse hair paintbrush tickled Rhys' skin with every stroke. He had gotten so used to it he no longer felt the urge to pull away or rub the spot. Likewise, the sensation of paint covering his skin wasn't an irritation. The familiar feeling actually helped him zone out while Jack worked on him, making the hours melt away.
"Spread your legs."
Rhys obeyed, careful not to smudge the swirls of luminescent color painted on his thighs. He could only see a portion of Jack's work, since it was painted on his skin. but from what he could see when Jack allowed him to move his head, this painting was shaping up to be his best yet.
Jack always left the space between Rhys legs for last. If he didn't, the painting would be left unfinished, because that was always the point when passion for creation gave way to pleasures of the flesh.
Rhys tried to be quiet as the brush glided up the full length of his cock, leaving a trail of pure black in it's wake. Jack left only a small spot on the underside unpainted, and after the full twenty strokes, Rhys was sporting a full hard-on.
Jack painted in the detailing next, adding splashes of color that contrasted the black starkly. This time he used yellow, but his palette had contained every color under the sun tonight.
"and…. I'm done."
Jack dropped his brush and wooden palette down on the floor so quickly you would think they had caught fire. He stood and took a few steps back, drinking in the full picture for the first time.
"Stand up."
When Rhys got to his feet, a smile crossed Jack's lips. Rhys' heart jumped in his chest. Genuine smiles were becoming rarer and rarer in the last few months, ever since the reviews had come out for Jack's latest gallery opening.
Rhys wasn't usually a violent person. but if he ever ran into one of those critics on the street, he wasn't sure if he could resist the temptation to punch them in the jaw. Just to make them feel even a fraction of the pain he had felt when he found Jack one and a half bottles of whisky deep and slumped under his sketching desk.
Jack poured his heart into his work and he took knocks against it very personally. Probably a lot more then he should. Though at this stage, there was no helping it.
When painting Jack was more wild animal then human. Acting on instinct and driven by a calm fury that wouldn't brake until he had finished the last stroke.
"Don't move. The lighting is perfect. I'll be back with the camera."
Rhys bit down on the tip of his tongue. He still didn't know how he felt about this part. Jack was halfway through this new collection, and soon it would be time to put them on display. Thinking of all those people seeing him naked turned Rhys' stomach, but he didn't have the heart to refuse Jack when he was in the throws of his muse.
The camera snapped an artificial shutter sound with every picture taken. Rhys counted them in his head between changing his posing at Jack's request, but he lost count somewhere after 160.
Jack placed the black DSLR camera down on the tiny table he used to rest his paint brushes on when he painted on canvas made of cloth and not living skin.
He came over and grabbed Rhys' hips. The paint was dry now and it didn't smudge, even when Jack dug his thumbs into the groove where Rhys thighs met his torso.
"I love you," Jack purred. He pulled Rhys in so his painted hips were flush against his own. "Every time I think I've made you as beautiful as possible; inspiration strikes, and I outdo myself all over again."
Jack let go and took Rhys by the wrist. Rhys knew exactly where they were going, but he let Jack lead him all the same.
Their bedroom had a mirror in it. Well, "in it" might have been an understatement. To be more accurate, one of the walls was completely covered by a mirror.
Seeing his reflection, Rhys stopped dead in his tracks. Even after seeing a preview, the full effect was striking. He could hardly believe the creature in the mirror was him, and not some mythical monster pulled wholesale from the pages of a children storybook.
Scale-like patterns of yellow and orange stretched up his legs and his sides. Jack had somehow managed to weave sunset and fire into them and they almost glimmered with every move of his body. Similarly, his chest bore a sparkling rainbow, segmented into sections like the belly of a snake.
The scales reached up from his cheeks to his hairline. the colors blended in to the brown of his hair so naturally it was impossible to tell where Jack's painting ended and he began.
"You understand, don't you Rhys? This is what I see when I look at you. This and so many more possibilities."
Jack rested his chin on Rhys shoulder, meting his eyes through the mirror's reflection. "Sometimes I can practically hear your pretty pale skin screaming for me to run my brush over it and bring out the magnificence beneath. And you want to know the best part? After I'm finished, I get to wash it off and start all over again. Paving the way for something even better."
Rhys' arousal had faded a bit since Jack had painted it. but at Jack's touch, it came right back with a vengeance. All four of Jack's fingers wrapped around him, while his thumb pressed down on the sensitive tip of Rhys' cock.
"All you need is the final touch. The artist's signature."
Rhys swallowed. This happened every time he was painted, and he knew to expect it, but predictability had yet to overwrite the excitement of each encounter.
They kept a chaise lounge pushed up against the mirror for exactly this purpose. Jack shoved Rhys down onto it with a sharp intake of breath. Rhys let one leg dangle off the side, while the other pressed up against the mirror as he held himself open for Jack to take.
He watched himself in the mirror the whole time. From when Jack was preparing him, until he finally sunk his hard cock inside.
"God, if only I had realized sooner how fantastic it would be to fuck my own masterpieces," Jack purred. "You are pure perfection, exactly how I envisioned it."
Rhys was sure that he was blushing under the paint on his cheeks. He nodded, too distracted by how hard Jack was screwing him to think of anything else to say.
They came together, and Jack pulled out right after he finished inside Rhys. The younger man lay back, panting heavily as he looked up at his boyfriend. Jack didn't lose a second to bask in afterglow, and in a moment he had gone and then returned with his camera.
Rhys swallowed, but held his legs open obediently. He showed off his painted body, the trail of come leaking from his well-fucked hole, and the patterns he had left on his own stomach. Jack loved seeing Rhys like this. Painted, claimed, and filled. He had all the pictures on his phone, so he could look at them anytime he wanted.
Jack promised that these were personal use only. So Rhys let him take them. Anything to keep him in the mood to paint and away from the dark pit he sunk into when his muse failed him.
Afterwards, Jack led Rhys into the bathroom, ready to clean his slate.
Then three weeks later, Rhys discovered jack had been lying to him.
It was raining and dark, Rhys had been at the real-estate office longer then he had been planning. But this was a fairly unusual visit, so he really should have expected it.
He pulled on the drawstring around his neck, tugging his hoodie closer around his ears. He was starting to shiver, but It was only a fifteen-minute walk back to his hotel and he could keep himself warm if he moved fast.
Rhys wished he had a warmer outer layer to wear, but all his clothing was still back in Jack's apartment and none of it was really worth going back there for.
He had bought enough essentials from a local department store to last him a few weeks, and by tomorrow he would be on a flight to California. So, a winter jacket hadn't been a priority.
He had found a nice condo that he could move into right away, and since he was moving with only the clothes on his back; he could start trying to find a new job right after he landed.
That is, if anyone would still hire him for a business management position with those pictures on display, and booked to start as a traveling exhibit in the spring.
Rhys had played and replayed that fateful night in his head so many times that it almost seemed like a television episode more then a real memory.
But the twist of despair and betrayal in his chest when he saw the pictures of himself, laid out in graphic detail for the world to see, made it hit home every time. A permanent reminder that this wasn't a bad dream, and there was no waking up.
All the intimate moments he had shared with Jack over the past months had been printed, framed, and put on display. None of the pictures Rhys had intentionally posed for had actually made it in.
Apparently they weren't perfect until after Jack had added his signature, and he just couldn't bare not to show his paintings at their best. Even though he had promised Rhys he would keep the final pictures to himself. Even though he knew Rhys didn't want himself exposed like that.
Now it was far to late to take it back. The opening had been an undisputable hit. The fact the pictures were basically porn had scored bonus controversy points, and everyone who was anyone knew about them and had seen them.
Rhys could open a court case against Jack. But it would be messy, draw even more media attention to the pictures, and the legal battle could stretch on for years as both sides argued what Rhys had consented to and what he hadn't, and where to draw lines.
Right now all Rhys really wanted was to get as far away from Jack as possible and start again. He could change his name, grow his hair out, get a beard. Eventually those pictures would be forgotten, and if he was really lucky, Jack would finally give into his depression and jump off a bridge.
It was an awful thing to think, but Rhys couldn't find it in his heart to feel bad about it. Not after what Jack had done to him.
Rhys needed to leave to protect himself, but in a way, this was also his revenge against Jack. Depriving him of his precious canvas. The missing piece that had reawakened his will to create. Rhys hoped it tore Jack up inside just as it had destroyed him when he realized he was nothing more than a tool in Jack's eyes.
A splash jerked Rhys out of his thoughts. Someone was walking behind him and had just stepped into a puddle.
Rhys started to turn to look. It was probably nothing, but the dark and the rain was fuelling his paranoia.
A hand lashed out and fingers like iron dug into Rhys' throat. Then Rhys' shoulder exploded in pain as the flesh was pierced by a hypodermic syringe.
The plunger was pressed down. Then the needle was jerked free and tossed carelessly into the empty street.
The last thing Rhys saw before he passed out; was green and blue eyes staring into his own, and a smile on a familiar face that scared him absolutely shitless.
Jack drained the last few drops out of a whisky bottle, pulled it back from his lips, and smashed it hard against the bedroom wall.
The shatter was loud enough to hurt Rhys ears, and he whimpered softly. Whatever jack had injected into him had not completely faded. His body still felt impossibly heavy and his head ached with every sound above a whisper.
"Don't fret baby doll, that's just to keep my hand steady," Jack said, as he sat down on the bed next to Rhys' hip. The younger man's hands were tied tightly behind his back, as were his ankles.
"Can't you feel it Rhysie? We are on the cusp of something amazing, something truly extraordinary."
Jack's hand rested on Rhys' cheek. Rhys tried to shift away from it, but Jack cupped his face with both hands instead, forcing him to meet his eyes.
"I know exactly what my next masterpiece is going to be, and once I complete it, everything I've been working for will seem like mere stepping stones on the way to my greatest work. This will be what I'm remembered for, this is how I will gain immortality!"
Jack leaned in and kissed Rhys' resisting lips. The sign of affection used to make Rhys' heart leap, but now he just felt sick.
Jack pulled back and licked his lips.
"-And none of it would be possible without you. My canvas, the base on which I sculpt heaven and earth."
"I'm not your fucking canvas anymore, you psychopath!" Rhys screamed, but his dry throat made it come out in a broken murmur.
Jack ignored him and reached over to the bedside table. It was covered in bottles of paint and bushes in every size and shape. But when jack took his hand back, he was holding something that was clearly neither.
Jack pressed the sharp blade of his pocket knife against the underside of Rhys' throat. Cutting in just deep enough to pierce the outer layer of skin and draw a thin red line across his windpipe.
"Yellow may be my favorite color, but red comes in a very close second. I could never mix it perfectly enough to match the visceral shade of blood. But thanks to you, babe, I'll have all I need."