Wow. Thank you for reading this. I was pretty much overwhelmed by the response. I'm sorry this took so long to update. The anon who requested this wanted this to be as smexy as possible, so I obliged, plot be damned. Well, there is a bit of plot. Somewhere. Clichés abound. Possibly OOC. IDK. IDK. This was partly inspired by a one-shot yaoi manga. Bonus if you can identify which manga. And no, it's not Junjou Romantica. Or Vassalord. I'm sorry this took a while to get out. Haha.
"A writer's block? You left me hanging with one of the steamiest scenes you've done in a while and you're telling me you can't write more because you have a writer's block?"
"I never thought you could be so cruel. Darling was terribly impressed by it and wanted more, he'd be so disappointed–"
"Elizabeta, listen," Arthur cut in when his editor took a brief pause from her rant to breathe. He leaned back against the wall, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand as he gripped the phone tighter in the other. His head hurt, and not just from his editor's babbling and the alcohol he'd enthusiastically imbibed. "While I am overwhelmed with the enthusiasm of your response, the story is simply not coming together in my head yet. I warned you that it wasn't finished, and that you would have to wait and see."
"And I don't understand what the bleeding fuss is all about. I have already two manuscripts with you that you can work on. There's no need to rush this one."
"Well, yes. But this one is very interesting, and you know how vampires are very hot property now, thanks to Tw–"
"Elizabeth, I swear to God and the Queen, if you dare compare my work to that–that–filthy abomination I shall stop writing this and leave things hanging forever."
"Is this about Fra–"
"No, Elizabeta, no. That frog has nothing to do with this. With any of this."
"Oh, Arthur," Elizabeta sighed in that exasperating way of hers that told Arthur she has let things go for now, but she'd hound him further in the future on this matter. "Have it your way. Just keep me posted if you have updates, 'kay?"
"Fine." He didn't bother saying goodbye and just slammed the phone down, eager to get away in case Elizabeta would say something more. After a moment's hesitation, with a vicious yank, he tore the phone off the wall, snapping the wire into two, effectively disconnecting his landline phone. Then he slumped on the nearest chair, his headache now worse than ever.
"Dammit." Arthur buried his head in his hands, refusing to look at his desk and the reason behind his current misery—the reason why he wasn't sleeping well, why he was drinking himself into oblivion, and why he was so testy with Elizabeta (but then he was always testy with Elizabeta).
On his desk were sheets of paper, some crumpled into tight balls, others in pieces, scattered all across the table and the floor below it, filled with the delirious scribbles and writings he made in the middle of the several nights while he experienced some kind of possessed, incontrollable compulsion to write out his dreams upon waking up, vivid dreams that had been increasing in intensity these past few days since he had written the wretched draft his editor liked and pestered him about so much.
Dreams where he found himself being fucked senseless by a man whose face he never sees.
Arthur didn't know when he'd stopped denying he was the green-eyed man in his dreams, didn't know when he accepted it, only that it felt eerily true.
Always, in these dreams, he being fucked senseless by the same faceless man on every surface and place imaginable—against the wall, on the floor, on the bed, amongst bales of hay in the stables, even in the dining room table in some unknown house. Dreams of him crying out in want and pleasure, writhing and begging for more. Harder harder harder! His dream self would cry out, as he twisted in that man's grasp, hips rocking against each thrust, Fuck me, take me, yes yes yes!
And then a sweet, sweet voice would always whisper his name against his ear, and then the man bites him hard on his shoulder, his amused chuckles reverberating against his skin as Arthur cries out when he comes, panting for breath.
What was worse was that every dream seemed so damn real, so damn lucid–every touch, every breath, every fucking caress felt true and right–as if were some forgotten memory buried within him.
Arthur felt his face heat up at the memory and he gripped his locks tighter, welcoming the pain, any distraction from this unwelcome arousal. God, I sounded like a wanton wench in one of those purple-prosed bodice-rippers. He presses the heel on his hand on his crotch, willing himself to not get aroused at the memories, to not once again wank to them, as he did time and time again after a dream; he always wakes up so painfully hard and wet with want, smelling of his own sweat and musk.
What the bloody hell is going on? This cannot be in any spectrum of normalcy. If someone tells me this is from sexual frustration or from my break up with Francis, I shall kill them. With my bare hands. By ripping off their entrails and then their still-beating heart. And maybe their spine, Arthur thinks to himself. He's never experienced anything like this, even in his childhood, when strange things occurred in his life every now and then. He'd thought himself past that stage now.
"Fuck this!" He abruptly rose form his chair, nearly overturning it. He doesn't want to think about this now.
He wanders to his bar, searching for more alcohol. Not that it helped. Sometimes it even made things worse. But he was fast running out of ideas how to stop this stupid dreams, and desperate from any sort of relief. He'd love to try sleep medication, but alcohol and pills and his current state never made good combinations. He wanted the dreams to end, not for him to die of an overdose (and leave people to think he killed himself over Francis, fuck no.)
After fruitlessly searching every corner of his bar, he found, much to disappointment, that he had no alcohol left.
Thank God for the nearby pubs then.
Yeah. Next chapter, we see Alfred. I promise.