Pure smut story. What a shock. 18+ material ahead, but not yet.

Body and Soul, I'm a freak. I'm a freak. - Silverchair

DARIA'S POV

I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a moment in my life where I hadn't been thinking clearly. As far as my reputation goes, I've got without a shred of a doubt the cleanest and, arguably, most boring slate. I'm an ironed out, buttoned up, flesh-formed contracted drone ready to be distributed into society accordingly. Free from acts of misconduct and a past associated with any form of drugs or alcohol abuse, I am a desirable troop in the world that is awaiting and eager to receive my hard labor, whatever form that may take.

Only they forgot one detail.

For all the hard work they've put into me, training us all in the educational system to be like Pavlovian mutts, ready to get up, go, work and sleep to the sound of a bell, I dare question such motives in the factory line. I am the black sheep. The individual.

I'm a freak.

I always have been. Always will be.

Not a day passes without me taking at least a slither of pride in my actions or choice of words, be they deliberately heretical or otherwise. I am who I am. Least my reasoning or judgement is logically proven wrong, I bow to no-one. I'm not surprised that people single me out, avoid me, ignore me. But, I'm not seeking anyone's approval, I'm just making my own way in life. So long as no-one gets in my way or sees to it that I'm hurt in whatever I choose to pursue or standby what I believe in, I remain a firm pacifist.

As a lone wolf, it can feel good to be so firm and sure of who you are and what you believe in and, luckily for me, I have another lone wolf in my midst who I wouldn't trade or betray for anything on Earth.

"Hook, line and sink-him! Man-eating mermaids next, on Sick Sad World!" blares the television dully.

While the madness of the world radiates brightly from the dusty screen, attempting to reel my attention in, I find myself more drawn to the artwork of my friend. For the first time in a long while, she's laid aside her trusty oils and acrylics and returned to basics. Life drawing. I'd forgotten how impressive the 'primitive' tools of a mere pencil and paper could be, seeing as nowadays the world is governed and run by digital images. No doubt, whatever road Jane takes eventually, she may have to take up with that reality check and be forced to abandon her materials and give in to the domination of the world of virtual reality and 3-Dimensions, at least in a 'professional' sense. By professional, I of course mean profitable. It's pretty sad.

"God, charcoal's a pain in the ass!" griped the artist, looking over her decorative palm and fingertip smears getting progressively further and further up her forearms.

"I figured making a mess wouldn't bother you so much" I droned with a hint of surprise.

"It is if it interferes with the quality of the work. Things can be corrected, brushed over or whatever, but then there's stuff like charcoal, which just gets fucking everywhere"

I blinked, unphased. "And you're using it because...?"

"I'm using it because it best demonstrates the insipidness of a pretentious world I intended to encapsulate and ultimately replicate" she expresses dramatically, with a goofy 'woe is me' expression. Then follows the real reasoning, lowly and pathetically "It was a birthday gift and I've yet to give the stuff a try. It's the usual case with any skill: more experienced folks just make it look so easy"

"Stupid, rich people make life look easy, but I'm not eager to become like them given the chance" I said with some attempt to bring positivity to her angered face. It works. She shakes her head with a cheeky smile.

"Oh, Morgendorffer. With such a cynical mind, you can only hope to expand upon the richness of the mind and soul"

Smirking, I shoot back at her. I love these word games. "Yep. No gold coins to be running through these fingertips any time soon. I am done for" I say, maintaining my typical monotone, emphasizing my sarcasm.

As she resumes with her piece aggressively, I take the time to have a gander at some previous results, flicking through some of the canvases lined up against the wall. I notice beside them is a small, sealed black box with "rough sketches" written onto a sticker on the side. She must've applied the sticker first and then written afterwards for it to appear so weirdly wonky.

"Be right back. Gonna bin this shit and clean up" the raven haired teen mutters crossly, snatching the box of broken and crushed charcoal sticks and marching out the room.

With her absent, I debate whether or not to take a peek. I should think myself lucky for seeing what I'm able to with what Jane has done and has presented in the bedroom. With so much to see, in plain sight and so vibrant and diverse in technique, colour and mood, I think I'm just being flat out greedy; like some kid who's had a taste of something and wants more, until they learn the hard way that indulgence comes at a painful price... Mindless self-indulgence.

I think back to when Trent requested me to go pick up his book and felt like an asshole for giving in to my morbid curiosities and reading some of it. You're better than this, Daria... or at least you would like to think yourself to be at the very least.

Sighing with surrender, I listen out and hear that Jane is still downstairs, disposing of her charcoal. There's some noise, like an exchange of friendly murmurs that hum through the floor faintly. She's probably talking to Trent. With that distraction, I give in to my demons and kneel down to open the box. Its a fat bundle of lined paper with scrawled doodles, phrases and minor notes for reference. That's all I think of it at least, until I reach down into the bottom and my fingertips find something thick. A book. I'm being as discreet as possible, keeping dead quiet, as if she had supernatural senses and could hear a pin drop. I pile the notes to the side and see a small, A5 sized black workbook. Opening up to see, I immediately feel my face wash over with shock and regret.

The images are very clean, polished off with a nice ink line-work and certainly reveal a different side to Jane I didn't think I'd ever see. I'd seen nude drawings and sketches from her before, so neither of us are exactly prudes but we're not perverts either..., at least that's what I gathered, but the nature of the life drawings were unmistakably explicit in sexual nature. I was honestly gobsmacked. Although, despite my surprise when coming across such revealing images... I couldn't deny how good they were in quality. I found myself flicking through the book, feeling my cheeks burn more intensely with every turn of a page. It also dawned a new reality on me... or more accurately delivered me a message with the blatant force of a sledgehammer to the cranium. All the figures were female. ALL of them. And each and every one of them were lewdly posed, exposing themselves or engaging in some form 'activity' with another girlfriend... or several.

Hearing her boots clomp up the staircase, I hurriedly jam the collection back into the box and tuck it back near to the canvases. I then prop myself back onto the bed with a book, laying on my side. She emerges through the door, her mitts squeaky clean from the bathroom, still drying off her fingertips with greyed disposable wipes.

I can't so much as manage a paragraph clearly, with my head consisting of nothing but those female 'Tom of Finland' renditions I had previously discovered a minute ago.

"Geez, if Mary Shelley's Frankenstein has a saucy section, that's certainly news to me" grinned the artist with amusement.

"Huh?"

"Your face is flushed, Einstein" she informs, rolling her eyes. "You feeling okay?"

"Um... I guess" I respond, almost biting my tongue. I can't look at her now, having been a dirt-bag and rooted through her private drawings.

She hands me a glass of water she'd fetched for herself and I take some gulps, greatly appreciating the coolness and realizing just how freakishly hot I'm burning up. Now I'm just stuck with the hideous weight in my chest... and a stirring in my stomach. She brings to her easel a fresh A1 sheet and resumes with a regular pencil. As she progressively invests herself in her work, I, for whatever reason, sneak glances at her from behind my book.

End of Part One.

(Had a bunch of ideas for this one, so I'm gonna compile them together in a roughly 3 chapter smut story. Enjoy!)