Bad Boy (2a/?)
anonymous
March 4 2010, 01:47:51 UTC
Arthur soon discovered that deciding to seduce Alfred Jones did not mean Jones was seduced. This confused him. It had never happened to him before. Good-looking, rich, and powerful, generally all he had to do was crook a finger and eager partners jumped into his bed. The problem was chasing them away after. (That was not much of a problem, Arthur was very good at it. In fact he found it rather fun - more fun, at times, than the sex had been.)
Jones did not understand why Arthur, who had wrenched away from Jones’ friendly pats-on-the-shoulders and rufflings-of-the-hair with scowls and bad language, all of a sudden wanted to ruffle Jones’ hair (it was soft as the downy feathers on Gilbert Weillschmidt’s pet chick) and pat his shoulders in return; and more - to lean against him, to sit close and ask for help with diagramming the make-up of a hydrogen atom, to cluck and make disapproving noises as he unbuttoned Jones’ shirt to do the buttons up again properly, to yank Jones’ head down close to Arthur’s own by his necktie while Arthur tied it the correct way, to get his attention with pokes and grabs rather than with shouts and curses. Jones not only did not understand, he did not even seem to notice the change; he accepted all of Arthur’s actions with the pleased simplicity of a well-petted, belly-rubbed dog.
It was driving Arthur mad.
“Well, of course, you silly boy,” purred Francis, who had stopped in to have some of Arthur’s never-ending supply of alcohol. He sipped at a snifter half-full of cognac and continued: “You have bedded boys and girls. Alfred is not a boy nor a girl. He is a man - a most foolish man, true, but a man nonetheless. Furthermore, he is our teacher. He does not grovel for your approval, as do our undignified schoolmates. He does not even look at you as a potential lover. You are jejune - most callow to his eyes.” He spoke with the tone of a judge giving judgment. Arthur saw sex as an amusement; Francis saw it as an art and that was why - he was convinced - he would always be above his English friend in its practice and theory. (Francis and Arthur had never slept together; what they had between them, blows and insults and all, was something rare and - neither would admit it on pain of death - needful to their souls, and they did not dare alter it by sleeping together. They each saw how the other treated bed-partners. Besides, it was not as if there was a lack of willing lovers/fuckbuddies for both of them)
Arthur snarled, “Who said you could call him Alfred?”
Francis rolled his eyes. “That is what your concern is? And for your information, my little friend, I have called him that to his face and he does not mind. It was when I was scolding him for what he had allowed to be tied around his neck - a necktie with polka dots, mon ami, can you credit it? But I tell you he truly had the audacity to wear such a thing...”
“The devil take the polka-dots, and you too!” Arthur replied, bolting to his feet. He glared at Francis, paced his dorm-room (it was more luxuriously-appointed than a flat at Kensington) with quick, angry steps, and his face was like the dark clouds before a storm.
Francis looked and he saw - he saw many things. And he laughed to himself, quietly, because he predicted a good deal of amusement to be extracted from Arthur in the coming days - and, at the end, either heartbreak or something else, both of which, he thought, would be good for the arrogant little English boy.
Bad Boy (2b/?)
anonymous
March 4 2010, 04:09:56 UTC
“Don’t laugh, you --!” Arthur shouted when he saw Francis smiling to himself over the cognac. He called Francis many bad names, in English and in deliberately-mangled French, but even calling him a “fills day pyoot” did nothing to ruffle Francis’ feathers.
“We are straying from the point, mon ami,” Francis interrupted Arthur’s angry explanation of how Francis’ mother had met his father, and what staples of German pornography had been involved. “My point is, if you wish to have M. Jones - see, I do not call him Alfred (even if I could) - if you wish to have that Adonis with the polka-dot ties in your bed, you will need to be more mature about it. Show him that you desire him - none of this close-mouthed hinting around - and, moreover, you must show him that you will not be a child about it. You have been as a child to him - a sulky little child, who must be coaxed and petted into coming to class, who is very rude - as little children are rude - and who must be taken care of. Do not blow your nostrils out like that, Arthur, it is most unattractive. I tell you these things so that you can be helped. He nurses you after you drink too much, and he helps you with the work you ignore in favor of larking about. He defends you in front of the other teachers, and he worries about your health. He has been taking care of you, I say again - he has been babysitting you. Now you must shift his perception of you, and only then will you have a chance at his dick.” Having ended his dispensation of sage advice, Francis re-dedicated himself to the enjoyment of the cognac. Whatever else he might say about Arthur - and he did say a lot - the boy knew his drinks.
Arthur, his face darker than ever, grabbed the bottle of cognac and swigged straight from it, hoping to annoy the more decorous Francis. Babysitter! A sulky child! Arthur’s feelings were hurt, and he did, in fact, sulk. But other thoughts - Francis’s last sentence was very distracting - and the sweet warmth of the cognac soon distracted him, and he fell to musing, his gaze absently fixed on a new bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon displayed prominently in the wet-bar he’d had installed in his room.
Francis, following his gaze, grinned. “Most unoriginal, Arthur, half-a-dozen students have already given him bottles; Kiku Honda (from the Honda zaibatsu, you know) gave him a crateful of the stuff. You shouldn’t have shouted so loudly that he liked Wild Turkey, they’d never have known otherwise.” Arthur scowled, about to demand clarification, when he remembered an episode in the dorms - Alfred mildly suggesting that he’d had enough rhum for one night and Arthur yelling back that he was sure Jones would do the same if he had Wild Turkey.
“And Karpusi - out of the shipping Karpusis - he actually gave him a wild turkey, as in the bird, all plucked and ready for roasting, and suggested sleepily that he have it stuffed with rice and raisins.”
Arthur’s impressive brows drew together, as the gray storm-clouds gather at the mountain peak. Then he smirked. “Well, I’m sure he won’t refuse my gift, at any rate.”
Francis regarded him with narrowed eyes and raised brow from over his snifter. Then he shrugged, a Gallic shrug of surpassing elegance. Having advised him, he would now leave Arthur alone to conduct his campaign as he willed. He made a note to advise Erzsébet, the Hungarian girl, to keep her video-camera handy, and a healthy supply of memory cards too. This promised to be most amusing.
*** Notes: Arthur’s insult was supposed to be “fils de pute”, son of a bitch.
Recaptcha says radio zombies. Recaptcha, how did you know Arthur's plan was to summon the undead and command them to bring Alfred to him? Now he'll have to change his plans!
Re: Bad Boy (2b/?)
anonymous
March 4 2010, 05:45:14 UTC
I love this fill so much; I'm surprised glad you updated so quickly!
I adore how you wrote Francis and Arthur's relationship. I've always had a soft spot for the whole hate-each-other-but-need-each-other dynamic. :D
I wonder what Arthur's going to do next? (reCaptcha: area chasers)
By the by, is this going to be student/teacher or teacher/student? Because every time I make a prediction, somehow it turns upside down with the next paragraph. XD I guess I'm just that bad at reading the atmosphere. :D
Re: Bad Boy (2b/?)
anonymous
March 4 2010, 06:32:03 UTC
This is one of those awesome things that I read through with a giant, face-breaking grin on my face, because that's how much I love it. Arthur's fail!seduction in the face of oblivious!Alfred is just one of those things that never get old. As long as it eventually ends in smut, of course.
Ah, if only we could but have access to Hungary's videos.
Arthur: They're fine, they're fine. *hands roaming over Alfred's chest, pushing his leather jacket off* Oh, professor, look, you've buttoned your shirt up wrong again.
Alfred: Have I? *craning his neck to look at himself*
Arthur: Yes, you have. *very slowly, sensually unbuttoning Alfred's shirt*
Alfred: Ah man, it's a good thing I have you and Francis to remind me about these things. *sheepish grin*
Arthur: *paused at the mention of Francis, but resumes his slow undressing of the professor* Quite.
Alfred: *babbling happily, even lifting his arms to push the jacket off fully and make things easier for Arthur, as easy and unconcerned as a small child being undressed by a nursemaid rather than as a handsome young man being pawed at by another handsome young man* I guess I was in a bit of a hurry this morning. Rushed to dress. I woke up a bit late - I was up late last night, see...
Arthur: *a bit of a bite to his voice* With who?
Alfred: With Augustus P. Cleaver!
Arthur: ...who?
Alfred: He's, like, THE god of astrophysics! He should have won the Nobel Prize for his work with LaGrange points, I swear, he was robbed. Discover Channel was running a marathon on his work! And there was this new interview with him.... :DDDD *excitedly*
Arthur: I...ah...
Alfred: *continues chattering to a disappointed looking Arthur* And then, he proved that the old equations had neglected to take into account the effects of gravitational pull from the moons of Mars....can you imagine, we'd all forgotten that? What a guy!
Arthur: *has completely unbuttoned Alfred's shirt, but is looking discomfited by Alfred's utter ignorance of that fact* Look, professor....
Alfred: And then he...
Arthur: Professor, I...
Alfred: *head comes up as a bell rings* Oooh! There's the bell! Oh man, we're gonna be late. See ya at class this afternoon, Artie! *charges off with his jacket half-off and his chest bared through the unbuttoned shirt*
Jones did not understand why Arthur, who had wrenched away from Jones’ friendly pats-on-the-shoulders and rufflings-of-the-hair with scowls and bad language, all of a sudden wanted to ruffle Jones’ hair (it was soft as the downy feathers on Gilbert Weillschmidt’s pet chick) and pat his shoulders in return; and more - to lean against him, to sit close and ask for help with diagramming the make-up of a hydrogen atom, to cluck and make disapproving noises as he unbuttoned Jones’ shirt to do the buttons up again properly, to yank Jones’ head down close to Arthur’s own by his necktie while Arthur tied it the correct way, to get his attention with pokes and grabs rather than with shouts and curses. Jones not only did not understand, he did not even seem to notice the change; he accepted all of Arthur’s actions with the pleased simplicity of a well-petted, belly-rubbed dog.
It was driving Arthur mad.
“Well, of course, you silly boy,” purred Francis, who had stopped in to have some of Arthur’s never-ending supply of alcohol. He sipped at a snifter half-full of cognac and continued: “You have bedded boys and girls. Alfred is not a boy nor a girl. He is a man - a most foolish man, true, but a man nonetheless. Furthermore, he is our teacher. He does not grovel for your approval, as do our undignified schoolmates. He does not even look at you as a potential lover. You are jejune - most callow to his eyes.” He spoke with the tone of a judge giving judgment. Arthur saw sex as an amusement; Francis saw it as an art and that was why - he was convinced - he would always be above his English friend in its practice and theory. (Francis and Arthur had never slept together; what they had between them, blows and insults and all, was something rare and - neither would admit it on pain of death - needful to their souls, and they did not dare alter it by sleeping together. They each saw how the other treated bed-partners. Besides, it was not as if there was a lack of willing lovers/fuckbuddies for both of them)
Arthur snarled, “Who said you could call him Alfred?”
Francis rolled his eyes. “That is what your concern is? And for your information, my little friend, I have called him that to his face and he does not mind. It was when I was scolding him for what he had allowed to be tied around his neck - a necktie with polka dots, mon ami, can you credit it? But I tell you he truly had the audacity to wear such a thing...”
“The devil take the polka-dots, and you too!” Arthur replied, bolting to his feet. He glared at Francis, paced his dorm-room (it was more luxuriously-appointed than a flat at Kensington) with quick, angry steps, and his face was like the dark clouds before a storm.
Francis looked and he saw - he saw many things. And he laughed to himself, quietly, because he predicted a good deal of amusement to be extracted from Arthur in the coming days - and, at the end, either heartbreak or something else, both of which, he thought, would be good for the arrogant little English boy.
Reply
“Don’t laugh, you --!” Arthur shouted when he saw Francis smiling to himself over the cognac. He called Francis many bad names, in English and in deliberately-mangled French, but even calling him a “fills day pyoot” did nothing to ruffle Francis’ feathers.
“We are straying from the point, mon ami,” Francis interrupted Arthur’s angry explanation of how Francis’ mother had met his father, and what staples of German pornography had been involved. “My point is, if you wish to have M. Jones - see, I do not call him Alfred (even if I could) - if you wish to have that Adonis with the polka-dot ties in your bed, you will need to be more mature about it. Show him that you desire him - none of this close-mouthed hinting around - and, moreover, you must show him that you will not be a child about it. You have been as a child to him - a sulky little child, who must be coaxed and petted into coming to class, who is very rude - as little children are rude - and who must be taken care of. Do not blow your nostrils out like that, Arthur, it is most unattractive. I tell you these things so that you can be helped. He nurses you after you drink too much, and he helps you with the work you ignore in favor of larking about. He defends you in front of the other teachers, and he worries about your health. He has been taking care of you, I say again - he has been babysitting you. Now you must shift his perception of you, and only then will you have a chance at his dick.” Having ended his dispensation of sage advice, Francis re-dedicated himself to the enjoyment of the cognac. Whatever else he might say about Arthur - and he did say a lot - the boy knew his drinks.
Arthur, his face darker than ever, grabbed the bottle of cognac and swigged straight from it, hoping to annoy the more decorous Francis. Babysitter! A sulky child! Arthur’s feelings were hurt, and he did, in fact, sulk. But other thoughts - Francis’s last sentence was very distracting - and the sweet warmth of the cognac soon distracted him, and he fell to musing, his gaze absently fixed on a new bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon displayed prominently in the wet-bar he’d had installed in his room.
Francis, following his gaze, grinned. “Most unoriginal, Arthur, half-a-dozen students have already given him bottles; Kiku Honda (from the Honda zaibatsu, you know) gave him a crateful of the stuff. You shouldn’t have shouted so loudly that he liked Wild Turkey, they’d never have known otherwise.” Arthur scowled, about to demand clarification, when he remembered an episode in the dorms - Alfred mildly suggesting that he’d had enough rhum for one night and Arthur yelling back that he was sure Jones would do the same if he had Wild Turkey.
“And Karpusi - out of the shipping Karpusis - he actually gave him a wild turkey, as in the bird, all plucked and ready for roasting, and suggested sleepily that he have it stuffed with rice and raisins.”
Arthur’s impressive brows drew together, as the gray storm-clouds gather at the mountain peak. Then he smirked. “Well, I’m sure he won’t refuse my gift, at any rate.”
Francis regarded him with narrowed eyes and raised brow from over his snifter. Then he shrugged, a Gallic shrug of surpassing elegance. Having advised him, he would now leave Arthur alone to conduct his campaign as he willed. He made a note to advise Erzsébet, the Hungarian girl, to keep her video-camera handy, and a healthy supply of memory cards too. This promised to be most amusing.
***
Notes: Arthur’s insult was supposed to be “fils de pute”, son of a bitch.
Recaptcha says radio zombies. Recaptcha, how did you know Arthur's plan was to summon the undead and command them to bring Alfred to him? Now he'll have to change his plans!
Reply
I adore how you wrote Francis and Arthur's relationship. I've always had a soft spot for the whole hate-each-other-but-need-each-other dynamic. :D
I wonder what Arthur's going to do next? (reCaptcha: area chasers)
By the by, is this going to be student/teacher or teacher/student? Because every time I make a prediction, somehow it turns upside down with the next paragraph. XD I guess I'm just that bad at reading the atmosphere. :D
Reply
Well done, I look forward to the next chapter!
Reply
Ah, if only we could but have access to Hungary's videos.
Reply
And Hungary's videos? They go something like this:
Arthur: *drapes himself all over Alfred* Hullo, Professor Jones. *in slow, beautifully British accent*
Alfred: *all smiles :D :D :D * Oh hey, Artie! How's tricks?
Arthur: They're fine, they're fine. *hands roaming over Alfred's chest, pushing his leather jacket off* Oh, professor, look, you've buttoned your shirt up wrong again.
Alfred: Have I? *craning his neck to look at himself*
Arthur: Yes, you have. *very slowly, sensually unbuttoning Alfred's shirt*
Alfred: Ah man, it's a good thing I have you and Francis to remind me about these things. *sheepish grin*
Arthur: *paused at the mention of Francis, but resumes his slow undressing of the professor* Quite.
Alfred: *babbling happily, even lifting his arms to push the jacket off fully and make things easier for Arthur, as easy and unconcerned as a small child being undressed by a nursemaid rather than as a handsome young man being pawed at by another handsome young man* I guess I was in a bit of a hurry this morning. Rushed to dress. I woke up a bit late - I was up late last night, see...
Arthur: *a bit of a bite to his voice* With who?
Alfred: With Augustus P. Cleaver!
Arthur: ...who?
Alfred: He's, like, THE god of astrophysics! He should have won the Nobel Prize for his work with LaGrange points, I swear, he was robbed. Discover Channel was running a marathon on his work! And there was this new interview with him.... :DDDD *excitedly*
Arthur: I...ah...
Alfred: *continues chattering to a disappointed looking Arthur* And then, he proved that the old equations had neglected to take into account the effects of gravitational pull from the moons of Mars....can you imagine, we'd all forgotten that? What a guy!
Arthur: *has completely unbuttoned Alfred's shirt, but is looking discomfited by Alfred's utter ignorance of that fact* Look, professor....
Alfred: And then he...
Arthur: Professor, I...
Alfred: *head comes up as a bell rings* Oooh! There's the bell! Oh man, we're gonna be late. See ya at class this afternoon, Artie! *charges off with his jacket half-off and his chest bared through the unbuttoned shirt*
Arthur: *slumps*
Reply
reCaptcha: unloose House. Interesting. XD
Reply
This is all so good~
Reply
Reply
couldn't find it :(
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment