Chapter 5 - Alexei
The room was almost completely dark. Only a beam of moonlight came through the curtains of my room, cutting a pale silver line across the carpet and the armchair where I sat.
A cigarette burned between my fingers, the glowing tip brightening each time I took a drag, the smoke curling upward.
In my other hand, I held the single page I had torn from Marco’s notebook, the same one I had given back to him earlier that day, now stained with my own blood where I had deliberately smeared it across the monstrous drawings he had made of me.
The little star had drawn me.
Catastrophic, haunting sketches that captured the truth no one else dared to see.
I had pored over them for hours after taking the notebook from where he had dropped it that day in the hallway collision I had engineered.
Page after page showed me as the monster I was.
In one, I stood over the rooftop corpse, blood on my hands, gaze lifted and locked onto the small figure in the doorway exactly as it had happened a year ago.
The lines were pressed so hard they tore the paper in places.
Beautiful. He feared me so deeply that even his art bled terror.
But this page… this one was different.
In the margins and across the back was the poem. I read it twice, then a third time, the words settling into my bones like frost.
He stands alone, a frozen devil.
Green eyes watch the body fade,
Wishing death had come much slower.
Black hair falls like midnight ink,
Following where lost souls wander.
No mercy hides behind his smile,
Only regret the pain has ended.
His gaze cuts deeper than any blade,
Leaving fear that never heals.
He wrote of me as inevitable. As frost in his veins. As the end he couldn’t escape.
My little star had made me his muse.
The cigarette burned down to the filter as I exhaled another plume of smoke. I traced one finger over the lines of the poem. I could feel something growing in my pants.
My cock hardened as I pictured him curled up in his tiny room right now. So innocent. So breakable.
I knew he would find my blood on the drawings of me. The thought sent fresh heat coiling low in my gut.
I set the cigarette aside in the ashtray and leaned back deeper into the chair, legs spreading wider.
One large hand slid down my chest, over my abdomen, and palmed the growing bulge straining against my slacks.
I squeezed, feeling myself throb against my palm, the pressure sending a spark up my spine.
I pulled the zipper down slowly, freeing my cock. It was already leaking at the tip. I wrapped my fingers around the shaft and began to stroke. Base to tip, twisting at the head the way I liked, spreading the wetness with my thumb on every upward pull.
My eyes stayed fixed on the poem in my other hand as I worked myself, the words echoing in my head like a chant.
I imagined Marco on his knees in front of me right here in this chair. I pictured him looking up with those wide eyes, terrified and ashamed.
I would press my cock against his soft cheek first, smearing it across his skin, forcing him to feel exactly how hard he made me. I would make him open his mouth. I would make him take me until tears ran down those pretty cheeks and the ribbon came loose again.
I would mark him inside and out, cum on his tongue, on his face, until every part of him carried my scent, my taste, my claim.
A groan rumbled in my chest. I stroked harder, hips rolling up into my fist, chasing the tightening coil in my gut.
I came hard. Cum spilled over my fingers and onto my abdomen. My head tipped back against the chair, a low growl escaping my throat as the release crashed through me.
But the relief was temporary. I was never fully sated when it came to him.
I folded the page carefully and slipped it into the inner pocket of my jacket.
My little star was probably curled up in panic right now, realizing what I had left for him. The thought made me hard again.