Someone wrote in [community profile] biotrash 2014-03-25 01:32 am (UTC)

Portraiture (in which sander cohen keeps workin' and starts jerkin')

Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. The man’s image is everywhere in Rapture, and yet somehow it never finds its way to the audience of Sander Cohen’s shows any more. To his galleries or openings. Not even to his bedroom.

The damned man couldn’t possibly think of Cohen as one of his many mistresses, to be fucked in summer and cast aside in fall. That possibility is out of the question. He’s Sander Cohen, and even the mighty landlord of Rapture itself doesn’t treat him that way. And yet… the pattern is the same. In the summer of their relationship, Andrew Ryan could often be seen striding up the mosaiced paths of Fort Frolic to visit his artist. And now, only leaves lie on the ground.

Cohen scrapes his brush across the canvas, drawing the cruel line of an eyebrow. Then he snarls and flings his paintbrush against the wall.

The face! He can’t get the damned face right!

Trying to paint the man from photographs and memories — it’s useless!


The young pianist opens the studio door as if it’s rigged to explode.

“Mr Cohen?”

“Don’t creep, Fitzpatrick, come in!” Cohen orders, keeping his voice to a very reasonable shout. “Why must everybody around me creep? Are you mice? Look at this canvas, Fitzpatrick. What do you see?”

Fitzpatrick turns wary eyes on the canvas. He knows the answer, Cohen can tell he knows the answer, and the fact that he doesn’t reply straight away is infuriating.

“It’s Andrew Ryan,” says Fitzpatrick at last.

“Andrew Ryan,” repeats Cohen. He draws out the syllables for so much longer than Fitzpatrick did, though he no longer knows if he desires or detests their flavour. “And what do you not see?”

The man looks at the canvas for longer this time, his good eye wide, his lazy eye doing a desperate little search of its own.


“Andrew Ryan is not sitting for it,” Cohen thunders. “Has he replied to my message?”

“He said he was busy,” says Fitzpatrick, looking Cohen in the face, but only just.

Cohen breathes out heavily.

Busy. Cohen sends him a personal invitation that most of Rapture’s elite would kill for, and the man is busy.

“Get out of my sight.”

Fitzpatrick gratefully escapes.

Cohen turns his glare back on the canvas. Just like the man himself, the image he wants to paint keeps changing. Should it be kind or cruel? Should the eyes look at him, or beyond him? Should the mouth be tight and stern, or should its lips be parted, leading the eye to blushing skin and a delicate sheen of sweat?

Right now it’s a mess. A fractured amalgam of impressions.

Perhaps that’s appropriate.

He loads another brush with paint, and attacks the canvas, painting with more fever than before. Disregarding those parts of the face that look down at him with stirring iron. Disregarding those parts of the face that stare past him as if he’s not there. Letting them fracture away, and focusing on the last image he had of Ryan.

Of Ryan’s eyelids half-lowered, and the breath warm and sweet in his mouth. Of Ryan’s lower lip trapped between his teeth, coming away pink and wet. Of Ryan’s eyes rolled back and his voice escaping in climax.

Cohen drags in a heavy breath, stroking himself through his trousers as he paints.

Soon he’s hard, and the head of his cock presses uncomfortably against his fly. He opens his trousers and lets it jump free, curving up towards the somber face and waiting mouth of the painted Andrew Ryan. He adds small white beads of moisture to Ryan’s tongue, and while he does so he licks his fingers and draws a wet stripe up the underside of his own cock. The breath shudders in and out of his throat.

If only Ryan would arrive now. If only he’d come in and see Cohen, erect and beautiful and full of the fire of creation, and remember what he’s been neglecting. If only he’d take out his own thick manhood and let Cohen take it in his mouth, let him taste the power and drive that built this city.

He starts stroking his own cock in long, powerful movements, pretending that the hand around it is Ryan’s. Pretending that he can feel Ryan’s fingers at his entrance, slicked and cold. The strokes of paint on the canvas are getting messier, but that’s passion. That’s emotion. Let the realists keep their dead canvases full of colour and empty of lust. He paints a thick burgandy line around the outline of Ryan’s face and imagines it’s the blood warming his veins.

He feels tight all over now, feverishly warm, his hand squeezing his swollen cock. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. His painting is still wrong. There’s still something missing, some artistic leap he has to make. It’s his burden as an artist to always be innovating, always working, never satisfied. It’s a burden that Ryan understands, because he shares that fire.

They’re joined. One.

Cohen pictures the man right behind him, chest pressed to Cohen’s shoulderblades, manhood pushing inside him. Demanding. Impossible to refuse. He moans and the hand around his cock moves in fast, jerky rhythm.

And then he understands what he has to do. His muse finally whispers to him what this painting needs to be complete.

He squeezes himself with one hand. He brings the other to his own throat, brush still threaded between his fingers, and pretends that it’s Ryan’s strong hand cutting off his air. His face prickles as if touched by ghosts. The painting before his eyes sharpens, then blurs, and he can almost feel Ryan’s hot breath on the back of his neck.

Everything focuses itself on the twisting knot of intensity in his low abdomen. The feeling of pleasure swells and swells, and his lungs begin to pull for air, and at last he comes hard with Andrew Ryan’s name on his lips.

Flashing lights chase him through his orgasm. It leaves him panting and trembling with his trousers around his knees.

Cohen flexes his hands to get the stiffness out, and refocuses his eyes. The canvas in front of him is streaked with new lines of dribbling white.

The pride that fills him is almost erotic in its own right.

It’s finished.

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