Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
Thanks to anon's suggestions we are now enforcing a past-part fills post
Fresh past-part fills post HERE
Comments and Suggestions go here
Don't forget to link your new fill at the fill index over here.
Remember though that you need not post your updates unless you posted in a new part
Keep yourself up to date -- check out the NEWS HERE
“If you write anything dirty, I’ll be very annoyed.”
“I know,” Alfred beamed “Don’t worry, is nothing bad.”
He bit the pen again. He had written ‘The Awesome America Will Protect You’, but now he had more space and he was a little out of ideas. And he had to be careful, because Arthur would be reading it later. He smiled. He pressed the pen against one of Arthur’s buttocks, but the Englishman screamed.
“Not there! Write on my back, you- you pervert!”
“Just two words, I swear! And then you can write whatever you want in any place you want.”
Arthur paused:
“Whatever I want?”
“Any place you want.”
Arthur gave in. So Alfred scribbled as fast as he could, before Arthur could change his mind, “America’s Property”.
“Ha,” he said, unable to hold back “I just claimed your vital regions!”
“I noticed,” Arthur mumbled “Now, give me this pen.”
“But I want to write more!”
“Later. Now is my turn.”
He sat down. Alfred gave him the pen, pouting a little.
“Let’s see,” Arthur said “You’ll have to lay on your back.”
Alfred did. Arthur thought for a few moments, a little too long for Alfred’s liking, and then started to write on his chest.
And Alfred started to squirm.
“Hey! Stand still or you make me mess this up!”
“I’m ticklish! And you’re writing more than I did.”
Arthur was biting his lower lip, and the weak light from the moon played trick on his hair and eyes, making the golden almost white, the green a little more silvery. Alfred kinda wanted to kiss him again, but Arthur was so focused at his writing that he would probably get mad. He finally finished, sitting back on his heels.
“There,” he said, but didn’t look too pleased.
“What did you write?”
“Can’t you read it?”
“No, you make it too small, and it’s upside down anyway. And anyway I like to hear you.”
“You could have fooled me,” Arthur mumbled, blushing a little “It’s part of a poem. The More Loving One, from Auden.”
“One of yours, right? One that moved here later?”
“Yes. So you know the poem, and I don’t need to read it.”
“I don’t know the thing, I just remember the guy. Come on, now I want to know!”
“But now I don’t want to read it.”
Alfred rolled his eyes. Arthur was staring straight ahead, and he looked like- like he hadn’t quite decided what he wanted to look like, because his eyes were all guarded again. Now Alfred was worried. What if he had written a dirty limerick or something?
Sighing loudly, he opened his closet and searched until he found a small hand-mirror Francis had given him for some unfathomable reason. It took him some effort, but he finally deciphered the sentences “How should we like it were stars to burn with a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me”.
Well.
No wonder Arthur didn’t want to read it out loud. He had just opened a very secret part of his soul, something raw and fragile and very painful, probably, and that would obviously require all of Alfred’s respect and kindness and consideration.
So he threw the mirror at him and grabbed Arthur by his shoulders:
“What the hell is that?” he screamed “Why did you write something so terrible?”
Reply
Leave a comment