Rules (1c/?)
anonymous
September 17 2010, 11:32:31 UTC
Fuck. The aftermath is always the worst. There is one,
The pain that spikes through his thighs and wrist as he stands up, pants shifting and pooling at his ankles. Arthur reaches for a tissue and wipes his hands before two,
The guilt sets in, sets his teeth on edge, makes him cringe at the sudden appearance of his own face in the mirror, flushed and disheveled, eyes speaking-
Oh
It’s his eyes that are dark, dark, now.
When he was younger, and a bit less…now, Arthur used to go out when he felt these aches.
He forced himself away, away from the quiet parts of town, the playgrounds, the swinging porch chairs and warm windows of home. Towards the clatter and shriek of neon streets that go all night long. Hey, he had thick rings on his fingers, dull silver loops through his lip, streaks of bloody pink/green/screamingblue in his hair because he was young. And as wild as his brothers pushed him to be. (although they were nowhere to be found, anymore, this was college)
As much self-hatred as now, full of drugs that tasted like speed, and power and hate.
(part of him thinks, now, that he probably still had suicidal tendencies. sees the shit he got himself into and wonder why anyone half-way sober didn’t stop. him)
Even those nights, when the last of his dignity and reason and power had been stripped away and soaked in vodka for taste, the rules were still there. Painful. They bit into his skin, deeper than anything he could willfully offer to his nightly companions (his body, his words, his promises)
Arthur always chose a guy bigger than him, always bottomed. Closed his eyes and tried to feel something.
Never did.
Hey.
It is past 2:20 in the morning. Arthur closes his laptop with a soft groan, shuttering himself in total darkness. In this chapter, Avery (spunky heroine) had just discovered the body of a dead cat nailed to her science teacher’s front door. The science teacher who she had been sleeping with and who had gone missing three days ago.
Arthur hates this story.
What he really wants to write is far different, but he keeps coming back to this, the only words coming out on the paper are ones that can bleed out the darkness in his soul, to give it a form and a weakness that can be controlled.
He has drunk five cups of tea in the past hour, so he’s wide awake. For a shivery second, he considers ringing up Francis, decides it’s too much of a bother (although the enjoyment of interrupting the sleazy fucker in the middle of a hot date is worth considering), and, instead, shrugs on a Burberry coat to take a walk outside.
The grounds (he has a considerable estate, really) are misty-dark in the moonlight. Wet crunches under his feet. Arthur opens his mouth to taste the air.
It’s not all bad, not really.
The life he leads is cozy, quiet, organized and slow. He can close his eyes and watch his life drift by.
Arthur spends the next three hours potting marigolds in his greenhouse, preparing to transfer them into the garden out back. He hums quietly to himself.
By the time he gets back into the house, he is ready for a shower, to collapse in bed and not wake up for weeks. But, the red light of his phone is blinking furiously. Arthur had five missed calls.
It was Francis. Arthur doesn’t want to hear that bastard’s voice right now, so he doesn’t even bother to press the button. Curiosity doesn’t win out until the next morning, and by then, there are three more blinking messages.
Reluctantly, a mug of calming tea clenched tightly in his hands, Arthur presses the ‘play’ button.
Oh.
Some big-name studio wants to turn his latest bestseller into a movie. Francis sounds very excited, anticipating a juicy cut of 10%, most likely. Arthur very much wants to meet with the producer, simply to tell the man that he really shouldn’t undertake the project. Very few of Arthur’s books would make a good movie.
Francis starts speaking in French for some reason, and Arthur hangs up.
Re: Rules (1c/?)
anonymous
September 17 2010, 21:40:49 UTC
Oh God, Arthur's guilt! I really love your style of writing here. It's so...., I can't even describe it, like I see everything clearly in my head, and hear the tone in Arthur's voice. And awww, his childhood, nooo~ And OMG his fantasies, the NA twins and HK (or at least I figure it's him)~ ....<3 LOL at Francis calling him all excited, and Arthur hanging up when Francis starts speaking french~ Awesome update, and please update soon!
Re: Rules (1c/?)
anonymous
September 18 2010, 01:20:51 UTC
I just become more and more interesting. I am incredibly impressed by your ability to make Arthur almost likable and definitely someone the reader can empathized with, given our cultures view of pedophiles that's pretty amazing. I liked Arthur's fantasies and how they where almost sweet in their own way. I'm starting to feel sorry for Arthur because he's trying so hard to keep himself in check and really deal with his sexual desires in a safe, legal way and I know that late on in the story all his best intentions will probably go to hell.
Re: Rules (1c/?)
anonymous
September 22 2010, 19:05:18 UTC
You know what I love about this fic so far?
How much it echoes Nabokov's Lolita. Vladimir Nabokov had a very good writing pattern when it came to Humbert, his male protagonist.
He would write a bit from Humbert's perspective, about how he loved young girls, and then explain a bit about his life. Before you knew it, you were falling in love with Humbert, feeling pity for him and his life so far. And then, out of nowhere, Nabokov pops up with Humbert noticing something pedophilia related, a "GOTCHA" moment, which jars the reader into remembering, "Oh yeah, he's a sick bastard."
And you write like this, anon. It's beautiful, and I can get caught up in it, feeling strongly for Arthur, until you, with your lovely, lovely timing yell "GOTCHA" and show me part of Arthur's obsession with young boys.
Fuck. The aftermath is always the worst. There is one,
The pain that spikes through his thighs and wrist as he stands up, pants shifting and pooling at his ankles. Arthur reaches for a tissue and wipes his hands before two,
The guilt sets in, sets his teeth on edge, makes him cringe at the sudden appearance of his own face in the mirror, flushed and disheveled, eyes speaking-
Oh
It’s his eyes that are dark, dark, now.
When he was younger, and a bit less…now, Arthur used to go out when he felt these aches.
He forced himself away, away from the quiet parts of town, the playgrounds, the swinging porch chairs and warm windows of home. Towards the clatter and shriek of neon streets that go all night long. Hey, he had thick rings on his fingers, dull silver loops through his lip, streaks of bloody pink/green/screamingblue in his hair because he was young. And as wild as his brothers pushed him to be. (although they were nowhere to be found, anymore, this was college)
As much self-hatred as now, full of drugs that tasted like speed, and power and hate.
(part of him thinks, now, that he probably still had suicidal tendencies. sees the shit he got himself into and wonder why anyone half-way sober didn’t stop. him)
Even those nights, when the last of his dignity and reason and power had been stripped away and soaked in vodka for taste, the rules were still there. Painful. They bit into his skin, deeper than anything he could willfully offer to his nightly companions (his body, his words, his promises)
Arthur always chose a guy bigger than him, always bottomed. Closed his eyes and tried to feel something.
Never did.
Hey.
It is past 2:20 in the morning. Arthur closes his laptop with a soft groan, shuttering himself in total darkness. In this chapter, Avery (spunky heroine) had just discovered the body of a dead cat nailed to her science teacher’s front door. The science teacher who she had been sleeping with and who had gone missing three days ago.
Arthur hates this story.
What he really wants to write is far different, but he keeps coming back to this, the only words coming out on the paper are ones that can bleed out the darkness in his soul, to give it a form and a weakness that can be controlled.
He has drunk five cups of tea in the past hour, so he’s wide awake. For a shivery second, he considers ringing up Francis, decides it’s too much of a bother (although the enjoyment of interrupting the sleazy fucker in the middle of a hot date is worth considering), and, instead, shrugs on a Burberry coat to take a walk outside.
The grounds (he has a considerable estate, really) are misty-dark in the moonlight. Wet crunches under his feet. Arthur opens his mouth to taste the air.
It’s not all bad, not really.
The life he leads is cozy, quiet, organized and slow. He can close his eyes and watch his life drift by.
Arthur spends the next three hours potting marigolds in his greenhouse, preparing to transfer them into the garden out back. He hums quietly to himself.
By the time he gets back into the house, he is ready for a shower, to collapse in bed and not wake up for weeks. But, the red light of his phone is blinking furiously. Arthur had five missed calls.
It was Francis. Arthur doesn’t want to hear that bastard’s voice right now, so he doesn’t even bother to press the button. Curiosity doesn’t win out until the next morning, and by then, there are three more blinking messages.
Reluctantly, a mug of calming tea clenched tightly in his hands, Arthur presses the ‘play’ button.
Oh.
Some big-name studio wants to turn his latest bestseller into a movie. Francis sounds very excited, anticipating a juicy cut of 10%, most likely. Arthur very much wants to meet with the producer, simply to tell the man that he really shouldn’t undertake the project. Very few of Arthur’s books would make a good movie.
Francis starts speaking in French for some reason, and Arthur hangs up.
Reply
I really love your style of writing here. It's so...., I can't even describe it, like I see everything clearly in my head, and hear the tone in Arthur's voice.
And awww, his childhood, nooo~
And OMG his fantasies, the NA twins and HK (or at least I figure it's him)~ ....<3
LOL at Francis calling him all excited, and Arthur hanging up when Francis starts speaking french~
Awesome update, and please update soon!
Reply
Reply
How much it echoes Nabokov's Lolita. Vladimir Nabokov had a very good writing pattern when it came to Humbert, his male protagonist.
He would write a bit from Humbert's perspective, about how he loved young girls, and then explain a bit about his life. Before you knew it, you were falling in love with Humbert, feeling pity for him and his life so far. And then, out of nowhere, Nabokov pops up with Humbert noticing something pedophilia related, a "GOTCHA" moment, which jars the reader into remembering, "Oh yeah, he's a sick bastard."
And you write like this, anon. It's beautiful, and I can get caught up in it, feeling strongly for Arthur, until you, with your lovely, lovely timing yell "GOTCHA" and show me part of Arthur's obsession with young boys.
I applaud you, anon, and hope you continue.
Sincerely,
Russian Literature Major!Anon
Reply
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