𝗗𝗥𝗔𝗙𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚; 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘! - ᴍᴀʟᴇ ғᴀɴ x ᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴡᴇʙᴄᴏᴍɪᴄ ᴀʀᴛɪsᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
𝗗𝗥𝗔𝗙𝗧 𝟭.𝟬
"And you don't seem to understand
A shame you seemed an honest man
And all the fears you hold so dear
Will turn to whisper in your ear
And you know what they say might hurt you
And you know that it means so much
And you don't even feel a thing"
𝗗𝘂𝘃𝗲𝘁 — 𝗕𝗼̂𝗮
"Ugh— ngh...!"
“Don’t stop,” the stranger said, already breathing faster. He didn’t bother looking at M/n; his gaze was fixed somewhere beyond, on the rhythm of the moment.
The stranger only focused on having his desire put first. He thrusted in and out of M/n, not caring if the lad was uncomfortable.
M/n moved as instructed, exactly like those he'd seen in movies and fictions. His body was tense, jaw clenched more than he realized. A dull sting pulsed under the surface, growing slowly, insistently.
It wasn’t a pleasure he could name only a pressure that tightened every few seconds.
“It hurts a bit,” M/n said, keeping his voice level. He tested the words, unsure if they mattered.
The stranger hardly blinked.
“You're fine,” he said, almost impatiently.
“It’s supposed to feel intense. Just keep going.”
M/n swallowed. He wanted to protest, to ask whether he could slow down, but the stranger’s tone shut that down before it could even form.
Besides, M/n had a purpose, he was here to understand, not to argue.
He focused on his breathing, on the methodical motion. Experience, he reminded himself.
“Yeah, that’s it,” the stranger said, voice thickening with satisfaction.
“You’re really good.” the man smirked. The look on M/n's face, burried on the mattress as he wreck him, puts some kind of superiority on his mind.
M/n paused for half a heartbeat. Good, he echoed silently. He didn’t feel good. His rear felt abused. His jaw ached. He felt the sting of something pushing past his limits, and yet the stranger’s pleasure glossed right over it.
“I don’t think I’m feeling what I’m supposed to,” M/n said quietly. The stranger let out a short laugh, sounding annoyed now.
“Stop overthinking,” he snapped.
“I hate brats who complains.”
M/n obeyed and kept quiet, willing the pain to lessen, willing some spark of the described pleasure to appear. The stranger’s breathing grew louder, his hands gripping the sheets as if to anchor himself.
Fictions always framed moments like this as overwhelming. Pleasure written in every line, every gasp, Ecstasy, Satisfaction—
Connection.
M/n waited for that rush to arrive. But It didn’t.
Instead, there was only discomfort. Like holding a pose for too long, like forcing a smile until your cheeks hurt. a faint sting blooming where there was apparently meant to be pleasure.
His throat felt tight. His head throbbed faintly. Every movement felt like his body was getting dug out from the inside.
“Feels amazing,” the stranger said, almost to himself. “Seriously, so good~”
M/n listened to the stranger’s words, searching for some reflection of what he should be feeling. There was none. Only the stranger, completely absorbed in his own satisfaction.
“Almost there,” the stranger urged, voice urgent. "Fuck, I'm close...”
M/n’s vision blurred slightly at the edges. He forced himself to stay steady.
"Don't—Urgh...cum inside..." M/n slightly pleaded. His voice muffled by the sheets.
"Nah, y-you can clean yourself up after— fuck!"
The stranger clammed his hands around M/n's neck, cutting his air way temporarily.
"Ngh—! I-I can't breathe...!" M/n held the strangers wrist, trying to pry it off of his neck. Though his attempts were futile.
Moments later, M/n felt something burst inside him. the stranger let out a long, satisfied sigh and flopped back against the pillows, smiling to himself.
“Wow,” he said, still grinning.
“That was really good.” M/n leaned back slowly, taking heavy breathes like this was his first time inhaling oxygen, the ache dulling but not vanished. He wrapped the blanket around himself, moving with a stiffness that wasn’t just physical.
“I see,” he murmured. The stranger didn’t ask if he was okay. He didn’t notice the tightness in M/n’s shoulders or the way M/n’s eyes glanced away, searching the room for something, anything, to distract from the emptiness he felt inside.
Nothing balanced the one‑sidedness. No warmth. No shared satisfaction. No connection. Just a strange, quiet relief that it was over, and the certainty that whatever he had been chasing was still beyond reach.
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of a single lamp near the bed. Clothes lay scattered across the floor, abandoned wherever they had fallen.
M/n sat on the edge of the mattress, wrapped tightly in a blanket. His phone rested in his hands, thumbs moving quickly. His expression was blank, calm in a way that felt almost out of place.
“Hey… what’re you doing?” the stranger said, leaning closer.
“You don’t even wanna stay a bit? Round two?” M/n didn’t look up. He finished typing, locked his phone, and slid it into his pocket.
“No,” he said.
“I already got what I needed.” There was a pause. The stranger scoffed.
“What does that even mean?”
M/n stood and began searching for his bag, eyes scanning the floor as if the conversation were secondary.
“There’s no point in prolonging this...” he said, his tone unintentionally cold.
“I’m done. I need to go home.”
The stranger pushed himself upright, confusion quickly turning into offense.
“Wait—what? That’s it? You’re seriously leaving?”
M/n hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if double-checking his own logic. Then he nodded.
“Yes. Thank you for your cooperation.”
He bowed with formality, before turning and walking out. The door closed behind him, leaving the stranger staring at it in disbelief.
THE city greeted M/n with neon lights and damp pavement. Reflections shimmered in puddles as he walked, hands tucked into his pockets. The night was alive around him.
Couples passed by, sharing umbrellas.
Friends laughed loudly outside cafés.
A family walked by carrying bags of takeout, tired but content.
M/n watched them as he moved forward.
'I never understand anything unless I experience it myself.'
'People always said you could imagine how things felt. That you didn’t need to go through something to understand it.'
But his mind didn’t work that way.
He slowed when he saw a couple stop under a streetlight, heads leaning together as they whispered and smiled. Whatever passed between them looked warm.
'I don’t understand romance, or affection, or whatever that is.'
He had tried learning the usual way, books, movies, observation. He studied people carefully, the way he studied anatomy for his art.
But it never made sense. It felt like everyone else was speaking a language he could hear but never truly understand.
So he had thought maybe experience was the answer.
Physical intimacy. People liked it. People said it made them feel closer. More connected.
Tonight was supposed to help.
He met with a stranger and had a one night stand.
But as he replayed it in his head, there was nothing to hold onto. No lingering warmth. No emotional shift.
It was just a compilation of sensations, movements and utterly painful mess.
'I want to be a successful comic artist.'
The thought settled heavily in his chest. Readers always said the same thing.
'Something’s missing.'
'That scene feels empty.'
'There’s no chemistry.'
He had noticed early on that intimate scenes drew attention. So he studied them. Carefully. He copied what he saw in popular webcomics and movies, breaking them down panel by panel.
If that was what people wanted, then it had to be important.
But no matter what he did, the response never changed.
“There’s no feeling.”
He slowed his steps, watching a group of friends burst into laughter nearby. One of them nearly dropped their drink, and the others teased him for it.
M/n looked down at his hands.
'I don’t understand feelings.'
So he tried to collect them the only way he knew how, through experience. Different people, Different nights.
One-night stands. Clean starts. Clean exits.
Every time, it felt the same, Empty. Just something that happened.
And tonight was no exception.
That guy was clearly not his type, not what he's looking for. And yet he did it, to gather knowledge, to hopefully understand what he couldn't.
He exhaled quietly.
'Is there something wrong with me?'
The question wasn’t dramatic. That was the repeating question that always filtered in his head.
—Or maybe he wasn’t broken at all.
Maybe he was just missing something everyone else seemed to have.
M/n continued walking, the city alive around him, full of emotions he still couldn’t quite reach.
THE door clicks shut behind him.
M/n drops his bag by the entrance. It lands with a dull thud, forgotten almost immediately. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights.
He walks straight to his desk, taps the power button on his tablet, and the screen blooms to life, washing his face in cold white light.
'Whatever. It doesn’t matter.' He exhales through his nose, shoulders stiff.
'I got what I needed.'
The stylus hits the screen, lines forming fast
'I’ll turn tonight into a scene, Maybe this time it’ll feel real.'
His strokes grow sharper, more deliberate.
'Maybe this time, I’ll understand enough to make other people feel something… even if I can’t.'
The tablet glows softly on the desk, the canvas filled with half-finished panels. M/n zooms out, then back in, fingers steady on the screen. His stylus hovers as if he’s unsure where to place the next line. He opens the character sheet.
QUILLAN.
The name sits there, plain and unassuming.
Quillan is the main character, M/n thinks.
Which means he has to carry the story.
He redraws Quillan’s posture, slightly hunched, shoulders pulled inward. Quillan doesn’t talk much. Not because he’s shy, but because talking feels inefficient. He listens instead.
Observes. Notices things other people miss, then stores them away without comment.
M/n adjusts the eyes. Quillan doesn’t hate people. He just doesn’t understand them.
Crowds exhaust him.
Conversations feel like navigating a script he was never given. He’s not sad all the time, just neutral. Calm in a way that makes others assume he’s cold.
M/n pauses, stylus resting against the glass.
Quillan wants happiness. He just doesn’t know what it looks like.
He knows what loneliness is, though. Not the dramatic kind, rather, the quiet kind. The type that sits beside you even when you’re not technically alone.
That’s why Quillan keeps moving forward. Not because he’s hopeful, but because stopping feels worse. M/n switches to the next character.
EVANDER.
The contrast is immediate.
Evander stands straighter. His posture is relaxed, confident without being imposing. His presence fills space naturally, like he belongs wherever he is.
M/n refines the jawline, softens the eyes.
Evander is calm. The kind of calm that isn’t forced. When things go wrong, he doesn’t panic. Instead, he adapts. He’s steady when others unravel.
People gravitate toward him without realizing why. M/n zooms in on Evander’s expression in one panel. a faint smile, barely there.
But he’s not loud. Not flashy. Evander is gentle.
He doesn’t push. He waits. He notices when people withdraw and gives them space instead of demanding explanations. He understands emotions instinctively, the way some people understand music without needing theory.
M/n swallows.
Evander is shy about affection, not because he dislikes it, but because it means something to him. When he blushes, it’s genuine. When he reaches out, it’s purposeful.
He’s warm in a way that doesn’t burn.
M/n stares at the two characters side by side.
Quillan and Evander.
On the surface, they don’t make sense together.
One struggles to feel, The other feels too easily.
But that’s exactly why they work.
Evander doesn’t demand that Quillan change. He doesn’t try to “fix” him. He simply exist for Quillan…
Quillan learns by watching.
He doesn’t suddenly understand love. He doesn’t transform overnight. But through Evander, he begins to recognize patterns, what care looks like when it’s quiet, what connection feels like when it doesn’t overwhelm.
M/n realizes his grip on the stylus has tightened.
'Quillan is me...' he thinks.
'But Evander…' He hesitates.
Evander is what I imagine warmth to be.
Not an ideal. Not perfection. Just… someone real.
'Evander is... What I've always wanted to be...'
M/n adds a small detail to Evander’s design—a habit of looking at Quillan when he thinks Quillan isn’t paying attention. He stops,
'I don’t know if people like Evander actually exist...'
The thought isn’t bitter. It’s factual. But if they don’t, then this comic is the only place I can meet him.
M/n saves the file.
Two characters, born from M/n's desires. Quillan was him, Evander is what he wants to understand.
And somewhere between them, a story M/n is still trying to learn how to tell.
The comic posts.
For a few seconds, M/n just stares at the screen, watching the numbers tick upward. Views climb fast. Likes follow. Everything looks normal. successful, even.
He scrolls.
“AHHH I LOVE THIS UPDATE!! Your art keeps getting better!"
“The shy seme is ADORABLEEEE.”
“The pacing is soooo good this chapter 😭❤️”
His thumb keeps moving, Praise washes over him without resistance, but it doesn’t stay. It never does. Compliments feel thin now, like they’re resting on the surface of something hollow.
Then his eyes catch.
“Too many intimate scenes again…? Where’s the romance build-up?”
“I love smexy scenes but it’s starting to feel disconnected…”
“It’s like they jump into passion without actual emotional development??”
His thumb stops.
There it is.
That familiar, sinking feeling settles in his chest, Like something quietly pulling him downward.
Again.
They keep saying that.
Disconnected, Empty, No romance.
It’s not even anger he feels. It’s something worse, recognition. The awful clarity that they’re noticing the same absence he’s been circling for months.
'They can see it,' he thinks.
'Even if they don’t know what it is, they can feel it.' His brows knit together slightly. He rereads the comments, not hoping they’ll change, hoping he’ll suddenly understand what they mean.
'What am I supposed to do?'
The question echoes uselessly.
'How do you draw something you’ve never felt?'
He closes the page and leans back in his chair, head tipping up until he’s staring at the ceiling. The room feels too quiet.
I can draw poses.
I can draw bodies that look close.
I can draw hands that intertwine, mouths that almost meet.
I can make it look like intimacy.
He’s good at that. He’s always been good at replicating what he sees.
Scenes come easily. Atmosphere, pacing, composition, those are problems with solutions. Things you can fix if you study hard enough.
But he can't make it feel intimate.
Feelings don’t work like that. There’s no reference folder for warmth.
'I don’t know what it feels like when your chest loosens instead of tightening. I don’t know what it’s like to want someone and not feel trapped by it.'
His jaw tightens.
'That’s why I tried today.'
Not because he wanted to, Because he needed to.
Because every comment like that feels like a warning, it was unavoidable.
'Your work is starting to stagnate.'
'You’re missing something essential.'
But nothing worked.
No matter how far he went, how much he endured, the result was always the same;
emptiness.
Observation without understanding. Experience without meaning.
He turns his head slightly and looks at the tablet on his desk. The screen is dim now, but the image is still there: Evander, blushing softly, eyes gentle and patient.
Readers love him. Because Evander feels real.
'Maybe I just need a better reference.'
'A real one. Someone who naturally carries the warmth I keep trying to fake. Someone whose emotions make sense without being dissected.'
'Someone who could show me what I’m missing instead of making me guess.'
Someone—
No.
He exhales slowly.
That’s not realistic.
'People like that don’t exist in my life. If they did, I wouldn’t be here, counting failures, chasing feelings like they’re data points I can collect if I try hard enough.'
He turns off the tablet.
The room darkens, and with it comes the weight of exhaustion.
Later, he finds himself lying on his bed, phone hovering above his face. His eyes are tired, unfocused. He scrolls without interest, letting posts blur together.
When suddenly, an ad popped up
“Rent a Boyfriend — Your Ideal Date Experience!”
M/n blinks.
'…A boyfriend.'
He sits up slowly, rereading the words as if they might rearrange themselves.
If people understand romance by experiencing it…
Then this should work. This isn’t messy, It’s structured.
For the first time that night, his chest feels lighter, His fingers hover over the screen.
'If this doesn’t work…'
He pauses.
'Then I don’t know what else to do.'
I’m tired of searching in the dark, Tired of guessing, Tired of watching my work slowly hollow out because of something I can’t name.
I don’t want my comic to fade.
I don’t want to lose the one thing I’m good at.
I want it to grow.
I want it to shine.
His thumb presses down. He sent a request.
M/n locks his phone and sets it beside him, lying back against the mattress. The ceiling looks the same as before.
Hope.
He could only hope this will finally be his answer.
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