Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5505782.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Jack_and_Jill_-_Louisa_May_Alcott
  Relationship:
      Jack_Minot/Ralph_Evans
  Character:
      Jack_Minot, Ralph_Evans
  Additional Tags:
      Hand_Jobs, Frottage, Yuleporn, Yuletide_Treat, Age_Difference
  Collections:
      Yuletide_2015
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-23 Words: 2475
****** The Artist's Model ******
by mayhap
Summary
     Jack is always eager to lend a friend a hand any way he can.
Ralph, deep in the pages of the heavy book with the red cover, uttered a deep
and despairing sigh. As everyone else was busy about their own books or
knitting or, in his brother Frank’s case, a whirligig that Ralph had brought a
new part for that had to be fitted, only Jack seemed to notice this sigh. He
wondered what sort of book could make Ralph despair, for the older boy’s cheer
and industry had always seemed indefatigable to him, and he reached out a hand
for it with a friendly “What have you got there?”
Jack was shocked when Ralph snatched the book back away from him, snapping it
shut. “Nothing,” Ralph said, sounding snappish and guilty, all at once.
“I only ask because it seemed to be putting you out of sorts,” Jack said
humbly, “but say no more about it if you’d rather not.”
Ralph relented and held the book up so that Jack could read the gilt lettering
on the spine that read Art of the Italian Renaissance. “I was only looking at
the works of these great masters and thinking how far behind I must be falling,
trapped in this tiny village so far away from where I long to be, in Italy.”
“Nonsense,” Jack cried. “I say your work is all first-rate.”
Ralph smiled at this piece of kindness from his young friend, but there was
still sadness in it. “I do work just about as hard as I can on them, which is
all I can do until my chance comes, and then I mean to seize it with both
hands. But it is discouraging to see how far I have yet to go.”
“Let me see that book,” Jack said, reaching for the offending article again,
and this time Ralph surrendered the book to him reluctantly.
Jack began to flip through the pages of text, looking for the illustrations
that had so discouraged his talented friend. The first plate that the book fell
open to was an engraving of Michelangelo’s David, which so arrested his
attention that he quite forgot why he had opened the book in the first place.
Jack’s only prior experience with what might be termed “artistic” nudity was
infant cupids bedizened with floating ribbons, a far cry from from this
beautifully-muscled young man who stood fully exposed to the viewer’s gaze. He
began to grasp what Ralph meant when he said that Harmony Village was far from
Italy, beyond the mere distance indicated in the pages of the big atlas.
Ralph, looking over Jack’s shoulder, saw what he was staring at and flicked the
pages until nothing but sober text was showing again, caught by a different
sort of shame than that which had prompted him to snatch the book away earlier.
Jack scarcely seemed to notice, for he was thinking hard, following a train of
thought that quite astonished Ralph when he produced its conclusion.
“I could pose for you,” Jack proposed. “You know. Like that.” He nodded at the
book.
Ralph was gaping at him in dumb astonishment, so Jack hurried on, “I’m not
nearly so fine-looking as that fellow, especially after I put myself out of
commission for most of the winter with my broken leg, but I could give you
something to practice on until you get your chance to go to Italy, at least.”
He flexed his right arm, attempting to display the fine mould of his biceps,
though he was somewhat hampered by the presence of his shirt. For a moment
Ralph thought Jack might strip to the waist then and there and quite astonish
the other occupants of the room, none of whom seemed to be taking the least
notice of their conversation thus far, but he refrained from any further
demonstration of his suitability as a model.
Now, Ralph had not been thinking along any lines such as these before Jack’s
extraordinary suggestion, but once the funny proposal had been put before him
he could not deny that it appealed to him. It would be grand to try his hands
at the representation of the whole of the human form, from head to toe, and he
thought Jack would be a splendid model from which to work, and not merely
because of the physique which was Jack’s pride and joy. Though he was not all
that much younger, having sixteen years to Ralph’s nineteen, Jack had a sort of
rosy, cherished innocence about him, and Ralph longed to take up the challenge
of capturing it.
“Better not,” he said, regretfully. “You’d have to sit for me—stand for me,
that is—for hours. Look at how long it’s taken me to do the bust of Jill, and
that’s only from her shoulders up. I couldn’t ask it of you.”
“Pooh,” said Jack. “I’ll stand for days and never move a muscle if it’ll be any
help to you, and happy to do it.”
Ralph could see that he was happy to do it, too, for Jack loved to make himself
useful to his friends by any means that he could contrive. A part of him still
felt that he should refuse, but it was Jack’s shining eyes that made him say,
“Well, then, I’ll do some preliminary sketches and you can see how you like the
life of an artist’s model, which I’m told is very difficult.”
“I won’t mind it a bit,” Jack said sturdily. “Only you won’t tell Frank about
it, will you? He already says I’m vain as a peacock, and so does Jill. They’d
tease me about it no end.”
“Just as you like,” Ralph promised him at once, but then thought better of it.
“Hadn’t we better not do it at all, though, if it must be kept secret?”
Jack did pause then to give the matter some thought. His conscience was a keen
one, but he found that it did not offer him much in the way of guidance in his
present situation, where he could not see any particular right or wrong. “I
think it’s all right,” he said at last. “If they do find it out and make fun of
me, I can bear it. I’ve had enough practice.”
His expression was so stoic and long-suffering that Ralph could not repress his
mirth, and Jack rejoiced that he had put his jolly friend back in countenance
again. They made their secret plans together, with Ralph assuring Jack that it
was only his own busy schedule that made him limit their first session to an
hour on Saturday morning.
Jack turned up promptly, of course, with his bright morning face freshly
scrubbed and his hair carefully combed into two shining parts, with the little
quirrels lying carefully upon his forehead. Ralph had rearranged his little
room to accommodate his model, moving his few furnishings up against the walls
and leaving only a small stool for himself, but when his new model arrived he
felt a strong urge to send him away again, hiding behind one of his comic
personæ, which would would have distracted Jack with merriment.
His opportunity for comedy and diversion was lost, however, for no sooner had
Jack come in and exchanged brief, chipper greetings with his friend than he
stripped off all of his clothes with boyish efficiency, tossing them in a pile
that would not have made his mother proud.
“There, I’m ready,” he announced, holding his chin up high, and Ralph abandoned
all thought of playing any role other than the one that he cherished most.
In the sunlight that filtered through the drawn curtains, Jack’s pale skin
looked like it had already been carved from the marble that Ralph dreamed of
one day being able to turn his hands to. As he studied his subject more
closely, though, he could see that Jack’s skin was dusted with fine blond hair,
just visible on his sleek chest and his fine limbs, darkening to golden curls
at his groin.
“I’ll do, won’t I?” Jack inquired anxiously, as no mere marble statue ever did.
“Oh, yes,” Ralph breathed.
“Good! I’m so glad,” Jack said, fairly glowing with pleasure, but he soon
attempted to school his features to seriousness. “I wanted to pose like that
boy from the book. There’s something about him that just makes you want to keep
looking at him.”
Ralph did not need any further inducement to keep looking at Jack, but he
nodded assent to this proposal. Jack did his best impression of the young
David, raising one hand to his shoulder while the other curled loosely at his
side, gazing off to one side, but with both of his feet planted firmly on the
floor.
“Like this?” he asked, turning his head back to where Ralph was standing.
“Very nearly,” Ralph said. “You just need to alter your stance—here, let me—”
He reached out to pull Jack into place, as he would make a quick adjustment to
one of his inventions, placing his hands firmly on Jack’s hips.
“Hi!” Jack said sharply, and Ralph pulled away at once, as though he had
touched a battery that had been fully cranked, wondering what had possessed him
to do it in the first place.
“You needn’t tickle a fellow,” Jack added, rather plaintively. That was not
quite the word that he wanted, but he could find no other for the peculiar
sensation he had felt when Ralph had put his hands on him.
“Sorry,” Ralph said at once.
“It’s all right,” Jack hastened to reverse himself. “I was startled, is all.
You can put me any way you want me, now I’m ready for it.”
“What I meant is for you to put all your weight on your right leg as if you
were stepping forward. Like so.”
Ralph demonstrated the contrapasso that Michelangelo had employed in imitation
of his own antique masters, and Jack followed his example.
“Lucky thing it’s the right leg,” Jack observed. “I don’t know if the left leg
could be up to it just yet, but the right one’s all right.”
“I had forgotten,” Ralph said, guiltily. “Can you stretch the left leg out any
further, or will it not bear it?”
“O, I wish I hadn’t said anything about my leg! It’s very nearly as good as it
was before I broke it now,” Jack said. Ralph hesitated. “Put it how it ought to
go and I’ll tell you if I think I can hold it there or not. Truly.”
Ralph stooped to touch him again. He meant only to adjust the pose as Jack had
suggested, turning him into his own private David, but even though Jack was
prepared this time, he gave a little cry of astonishment, and Ralph felt him
trembling beneath his touch. He forgot his intentions entirely, stroking Jack’s
leg as though he were seeing it with his sculptor’s hands, feeling the muscles
and how they moved beneath the skin as Jack abandoned the pose, uttering the
most exquisite moan.
Awaiting no further encouragement, Ralph straightened and pressed his own lips
to Jack’s rosy ones in a crushing kiss. He had no more experience with this
sort of kissing than Jack had, and yet he felt as though he had always known
it, somehow, as Jack’s mouth opened up softly beneath his. His hands were
roaming over Jack’s body, greedily exploring every exposed inch of him, as
though Jack really were a sculpture that he was working on, except that he was
already perfect in every way. He felt Jack’s excitement hard up against his
thigh as they rutted together and he reached down between them to take it in
his hand. Ralph had barely stroked the length of it, his thumb grazing the tip,
when Jack gasped and spurted all over Ralph’s shirt and down the front of his
trousers.
“Look what a mess I’ve made,” Jack said when his eyes were open again and he
saw the sticky rivulets. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ralph said, but Jack’s fingers were already inside his
waistband, pulling his dirty shirt up. “What are you doing?”
“Clearing away your dirty laundry for you,” Jack said cheerfully. He relieved
Ralph of his shirt, his fingers quick at the buttons, tugging the sleeves over
Ralph’s hands, which he now held awkwardly at his sides, uncertain as to what
he ought to be doing with them. “At least when I wake up and my nightshirt’s
all sticky it’s all right, because I can just strip the bed and bundle it in
with my sheets, but I’m afraid you’re going to need a fresh suit of clothes.”
Jack’s hands found their way back to Ralph’s waistband, and this time he undid
the buttons. Ralph’s own erection spilled out of the fly, pressing damply up
against the front of his drawers. Jack pulled these down a few inches as well
and then forgot all about collecting laundry.
Ralph tried to step back, to clear his head, but his trousers down around his
thighs hampered him and anyway Jack stayed with him, using his other hand to
keep him steady.
“Aren’t I doing it right?” Jack asked, his clear blue eyes clouded with worry.
“It was so nice when you did it for me that I thought—”
“No!” Ralph cried. “I mean, no, don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” Jack pledged fervently.
Ralph wrapped his own hand around Jack’s, feeling Jack’s fingers tighten around
his shaft as he squeezed them, and then began to stroke himself with both of
their hands together.
“That’s good, that’s so good,” he babbled, and Jack gave him the brightest,
sunniest smile. Ralph reached over and drew Jack’s face closer so that he could
ravish those lips again, bringing his neat golden hair into disarray. In so
doing he exposed the ugly scar on his forehead which Jack labored so diligently
with his comb to conceal each morning, but to Ralph’s eyes there was nothing
ugly about it.
Jack’s grip grew firmer, his hands quicker. The more assured he became, the
more Ralph came undone, until he was the one spilling his seed in hot rushes.
It dribbled down Jack’s belly, catching in the fine golden hairs.
“There, that’s another mess I’ve made,” Jack said, looking inordinately pleased
with himself. He dragged his sticky fingers along his own skin, as if he were
painting with them. “Of course, I shall only need a sponge-bath to put myself
to rights again, whereas you still need a fresh suit of clothes before you can
get back to work again.”
“Back to work?” Ralph repeated, still in a haze of satiated bewilderment.
“Of course,” Jack said earnestly. “I still mean to model for you. That’s all
right, isn’t it?”
And once again, Ralph found that he could not refuse him.
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