Fluffy, emotional, smutty, and new plots almost every chapter, from ancient vampires to teenage angst. Pretentious layout. Trigger warnings at the beginnings of chapters.
Begun fall of 2016.
(since Wattpad only lets me load one picture for the whole chapter, I'm just gonna put some reference photos that I drew for this a while ago—sorry that neither of the drawings are perfect)
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I slipped my hands under my pants and bucked into my own hand, humming in temporary contentment. All the flashes of skin he'd shown me in real life, the expressions, his actions... fuck, I wasn't entitled to him or anything but it drove me nuts, the way he acted, the way he moved, even stood.
Gerard's ink eyes from the magazine paper bored into mine. It was sad that I'd bothered to learn anything about the model other than his name, but somehow the unattainability of Gerard just made me want him. The way the waist of his skirt hung just below his v-line, a bit of the coarse, dark hair poking out from between his legs. I could imagine myself between his legs, gently nipping at the black fabric, letting it snap back against his skin as he asked me to give him something, anything.
I wondered if he had any kinks. I wonder if he liked to be hurt, if he liked voyeurism, maybe even blood. God, the image of him covered in sanguine, moaning in pain... Consensually, of course. A shiver went down my spine.
I jutted up into my hand, my forehead creasing as I felt myself tense and let go, holding back a moan and splattering my own cum against the image. The ink ran and everything but Gerard's face was covered in my repulsive orgasm. His work was ruined. No big deal. The magazine had been free. I'd been given it by his small team as a piece of Gerard's work, so I could formulate ideas as to what I wanted to do with the model later.
I let the pointless magazine slip out of my hands and into the trash. Sex, sex, sex. That's all life was anymore, and I was just so tired of all that build up, just for a high in the fraction of the time spent trying to reach it, even if I did crave it so much. It had lost any meaning it once had for me, making a person feel good, making myself come. Any illusions of love held with it were useless, I'd learned. Any illusions of making a person feel any differently just by making them cum... Fucking them wasn't gonna change how they felt about me. Having sex with someone wasn't gonna change me. I had always been just Frank, the art guy who fit into the art guy box—nerdy, lonely, single, starving.
