A/N:
I'm going to have to say first that to be able to understand this fic you should first read guilty pleasure or else you'll end up going "?!" Also that's usukus
Another thing: Additional warning for this fic being pre-usukus, meaning uk and us are not in any way in a relationship, uk being involved (sexually) with multiple partners (purely consensual, btw), fail!masturbations and mentions of incestous rape
I should be working on the epilogue of guilty pleasure, I know. And I actually am, really but a certain part is being an ass and won't let itself be written so I opened a new doc and scribbled these down. Just to give some more context on how Arthur coped with sex. I've been writing this bit by bit whenever I'm sort-of free.
Uh..yea. Prolly won't take too long to finish this one and get the epilogue out...it'll come eventually.
For now, enjoy five chapters or something of this...stuff
At some point, Arthur actually tried to masturbate again, just curious to know what it used to feel like, to know why he was so obsessed with it in the past when he was a mere child who doesn't know anything about sex.
In his trials to do so, a problem came to be.
He can't get himself hard.
It was strange, really. He remembers how it was so easy before, because if it wasn't he really wouldn't be spending most of his time alone as child in places no one will see him to stroke himself to completion, not knowing that peak he was aiming for was an orgasm, or that white thing he used to be afraid of to see spurt of him was actually his semen by the time he reached puberty.
Most of the time, his flatmates are barely home, and even if they were, they're mostly asleep while Arthur's up, or vice-versa, so he doesn't have any problems in stripping himself bare waist down and lie on his bed, stroke himself in hopes it'll make do. It has to.
But then, it doesn't.
He stroked himself, let his thoughts drift off somewhere to get him into the mood, because maybe it will help, but then as his eyes remained fixed on his ceiling, eyes unfocused, he felt his insides go warm and his skin go cold. It was a mix of different sensations, and somehow regardless of the blinding fluorescent light above him, everything was so dark and damp.
His bed felt a tad different, and his room smaller, fit for one instead of two people.
He felt his fingers tremble against his cock, almost hard in his palm, warm and heavy.
He tried stroking faster, but it seemed to make him feel worse. Nausea accompanied the furnace-like heat of his insides while his skin on the outside felt cold; oh-so very cold he was shaking. His palms started sweating, but they felt so cold on his softening cock.
In the end, he was left with a nauseous feeling, his body hot yet cold at the same time and trembling. The precum in his fingers left it wet.
He licked it clean, feeling hollow. Absently running his tongue over his come-stained fingers he thought silently to himself, his other hand seeking out his underwear, neatly folded next to him.
No orgasm.
He did not feel anything.
What does that make him then?
He bites at his fingers and tastes blood.