never ballpoints [77/?]
anonymous
February 14 2011, 06:53:22 UTC
He's thinking of resignation. A phone call, a suitcase, himself. Wouldn't he be happier, that way? Wouldn't Arthur? Just-Arthur.
(It is Arthur, in the end. Hasn't it always been.)
Alfred has everything half-packed by the Friday, under his bed, splayed open. Suits, jeans, life. And he's really-really thinking about it, disappearing, phoning up to hand himself away. Nobody would know anything. He could tell them it was family matters, ugly complexities. And he could tell Matt how easily he got bored, y'know, of the same places and the same names.
(He fucked Arthur over.)
And Alfred is thinking this, just of this, desertion. On a Friday, in the afternoon, pumping himself up. It would be so easy. So simple. Life would be so simple. Alfred could work at an office, another school, anywhere.
Fifth period. Hot. Alfred isn't trying to look at anything but the work on his desk, his fingertips, the rumble of hidden conversation. Alfred knows if he looks up that it's over. That it could so easily bring him back, tie him down. Arthur does not know the control he has over Alfred.
He looks up.
Arthur is frowning, beautifully. The sun highlights his eyelashes gold, hair gold, skin gold. Gold all over. He works himself between Alfred’s thoughts and glows there. It wouldn't be fair to go without saying goodbye to Arthur, just once, Alfred thinks. It wouldn't be fair for him to-ghost the skin of Arthur's thighs one more time, bite at the curve of muscle. If Alfred could explain just what Arthur did to him.
(And Francis, watching him all lesson, till Alfred draws a hand to his work. Focus, Bonnefoy.)
When Alfred goes home, he smooths the wrinkles from his shirts, and puts the case away, and hates himself.
never ballpoints [78/?]
anonymous
February 14 2011, 06:54:41 UTC
Sometimes-because sometimes the need overtakes him, because sometimes, he'd like to see Arthur without that fear-sometimes, Alfred watches Arthur at lunchtime. The window of his office is wide, and convenient, and easy enough to hide behind.
Maybe it's pathetic that it's come to this. Alfred would like to think he could stop, if he wanted. Like-he could leave, after all. If he put his mind to it. He could tease Arthur from himself, the coils of his mind.
Arthur is sitting with someone, a dark smudge of hair beside him. His head is bobbing, the tell-tale snakes of earphones against his jaw. A bookmark, between his fingers, Tolkein on his forearm.
Moments like this are the world, to Alfred. He knows-oh, Alfred knows-he will not get to experience them first-hand, not now.
Not ever. Not after-everything.
Alfred twists them up behind his teeth, to keep, and lets them rot there.
never ballpoints [79/?]
anonymous
February 14 2011, 06:56:08 UTC
He lets Arthur off that Friday, with a wave of his hand, no eye-contact. Arthur seems almost-surprised, when Alfred smiles, tilts his head. Go on. I'm busy tonight.
He's not busy. There's a meeting due, in the teachers' lounge, but who goes to those? Ha. Alfred will, because he has nothing else to do today. He makes bad coffee and bad conversation with Mr. Braginski, and thinks of Arthur, there, in the strange muzz between day and evening.
He thinks of-Francis, and Arthur, the anger it provokes in him. How it shouldn't. How Alfred got there first, and that matters, the limp, the marks. How Alfred shouldn't be thinking about this, the sickness that winds deep, when he's in company, because he can feel how his jaw goes tight. Because it is obvious, in the way Braginski frowns at him.
Ms. Héderváry is complaining, not subtly, in the corner. Alfred lets himself listens over Braginski's empty threats.
"-working weekends again," he hears. Someone tuts. "I swear, I better be getting a raise. I can't remember the last time I had a real break."
Alfred feels a sympathy rise up for her; weekends are a tough grind. A lot of corridor stalking, listening, ruining fun. Alfred cannot remember the last time he did it.
And then: a thought, a wrong one, born from long nightmares, dreams, fantasies spun off the wall.
"I'll do it for you," Alfred says, without thinking. Or. Thinking too much. "If you want some time off, Liz," and he smiles, to take the edge of his eagerness off.
There's a moment of blinkered surprise-who offers to work weekends?-before she jumps, cooing and grateful. Alfred brushes her off. He is not doing this out of the goodness of his heart, after all.
never ballpoints [80/?]
anonymous
February 14 2011, 06:57:06 UTC
Alfred is given a list of troublemakers before Saturday night, a number of marks beside each one. Three strikes equals detention. Six are a phone call home. Would you believe it-Francis is teetering on five, Arthur three. He remembers-though it takes a moment to pull back-that Arthur's other room mate is that boy he saw him with, dark hair, Spanish.
Fernandez. A matching five with Francis.
Alfred smiles. Doesn't everything just fit.
-
By the time it is lights out (a vague term; it is not literally lights out, but a suggestion to be quiet, please) Alfred is finding his way around Arthur's corridor, a plan seeded under his scalp. It's all a matter of waiting. Alfred might not have patience, but he's determined, half-way in love and all-way fucked up.
There is a couch, for convenience and visitors. Alfred allows himself to settle in it, arms tucked over his stomach.
It takes twenty minutes.
Alfred hears the tell-tale creak of a door, whispering. Footsteps. He pretends to be asleep at the sound of Bonnefoy's voice. Fernandez's. He even hears Arthur, in the background, an angry hiss of him from inside their room.
A thrill runs through Alfred at the perfection of it, the footsteps disappearing down the length of the corridor. Alfred waits, just a little more. In case they come back. In case-he can change his own mind, here, just himself, wet eyelids, bad thoughts.
(He cannot. How could he.)
Alfred rises, familiar nausea and arousal churning up his stomach. Perhaps it's the dark that does this to him, the warmth and intimacy of it, the shaft of yellow under Arthur's door more welcoming by comparison. Maybe it's because he can have Arthur on his bed, this time, on his back, between his thighs, the milk light and love. The tightness. The briefness.
Alfred wonders how much time he'll get. He raps on the door. Arthur is half-asleep when he answers, a hand under his shirt, scratching a mark Alfred left last time.
(Just above his naval. A little teeth.)
He is wide awake as he takes in Alfred.
-
You know what? It totally doesn't feel like half a year since I updated this. The most I can offer is an apology! I hope some of my old readers are still around, and that they accept my begging and pleading, haha! For what it's worth, I still love you guys (especially you, OP!), and I'm sorry for the slowness and the shortness and the terribleness ♥
Re: never ballpoints [80/?]
anonymous
February 14 2011, 07:24:43 UTC
Oh, anon, you have no idea how happy I am. I thought this fill would never be continued and my soul died a little at that idea. This is one of my favourite stories in the meme and one of those I have re-read multiple times.
I don't think I have enough words to explain how perfect this is, how terrifying it is to be in Alfred's mine where everything makes sense and yet everything is so intrinsically wrong.
It takes a lot of talent to make a human paedophile and child rapist and you have succeeded where many others have failed. There's an unavoidable and unadulterated horror in what Alfred is and yet you kept him 3D and real.
Re: never ballpoints [80/?]
anonymous
February 14 2011, 15:13:52 UTC
OMG I just checked this fill yesterday and very sad that it didn't update And today! Still a wonderful update~ Hope to see another update soon XD
Well yeah, I suck at making comments, just want to let you know that I love this fill and I hope you can finish it. No matter how long it takes I would wait for you TAT
Re: never ballpoints [80/?]
anonymous
February 14 2011, 15:37:28 UTC
that said, you're Alfred is as magnificent as ever, all twistedly in love and desperate. ;A; I've really missed this writing anon! no one conveys these kinds of feelings as well as you. please tell me Alfred does something really drastic next we'll always be waiting, anon! <3
Re: never ballpoints [80/?]
anonymous
February 16 2011, 06:18:47 UTC
Author!Anon, I have been waiting for this!!! Thank you for not dropping it! It hits all the wrong places in the worst possible ways. But I just can't turn away from it!
This... This...! (x_x)
anonymous
February 22 2011, 04:57:33 UTC
AuthorAnon, this fill is absolutely awesome. Your writing style in this story is amazing and incredibly effective. The rhythm, the word choice, the imagery, the descriptions… I was completely immersed in the story from top to bottom. Plus, your decision to write from Alfred's point of view makes the whole thing very intense and interesting - in a terrifying way. The realism is both heartbreaking and sickening.
In the first chapters, I felt pity for Alfred, because you made him so alive and lovable, and the poor guy was fighting so hard against his twisted urges that it was hard not to be sorry for him despite his creepy ways, especially since he himself knew that what he was thinking was oh so wrong. But then he started doing instead of just thinking, and it was gone. All that remained was disgust and distress. Disgust because no one should make a child suffer this kind of horror (I honestly felt nauseous while reading the latest chapters… oh god, poor Arthur!), and distress because it is painful to witness a loved character become this wicked and deranged and plain revolting. Oh Alfred, what have you done?
Despite the fact that shota and non-con are major squicks for me, I can't help but keep reading to see what happens. I'm hoping that Alfred will just give himself away, and soon. That would be the best ending I see. If not, then I can only rely on Francis and Matthew. Poor Arthur has been broken enough, and Alfred needs to stop and needs help before he fucks up both their lives even more - if that is even possible.
Anyway, it is a testament to your writing skills that I'm so moved by this story. (How come a story can be so shockingly wrong and utterly wonderful at the same time? XD) So thank you for this fill, and please keep writing! I'll be waiting eagerly for updates, biting my nails anxiously. (Because you cliffhangers are pure torture! I hope you know it!)
Oh my god, you're back authornon! How I've missed your lovely writing and your lovely self! I'm so glad rl hasn't eaten you up whole!! All your readers still love you muchly too <3 <3 <3 And don't worry about writing speed--just know that when you do update, you make a hell lot of people fall off their chair fapping in joy, like I just did.
(Oh god, and the dorm scene unravels. *shudders* Your writing is as cutting as always. <3)
(It is Arthur, in the end. Hasn't it always been.)
Alfred has everything half-packed by the Friday, under his bed, splayed open. Suits, jeans, life. And he's really-really thinking about it, disappearing, phoning up to hand himself away. Nobody would know anything. He could tell them it was family matters, ugly complexities. And he could tell Matt how easily he got bored, y'know, of the same places and the same names.
(He fucked Arthur over.)
And Alfred is thinking this, just of this, desertion. On a Friday, in the afternoon, pumping himself up. It would be so easy. So simple. Life would be so simple. Alfred could work at an office, another school, anywhere.
Fifth period. Hot. Alfred isn't trying to look at anything but the work on his desk, his fingertips, the rumble of hidden conversation. Alfred knows if he looks up that it's over. That it could so easily bring him back, tie him down. Arthur does not know the control he has over Alfred.
He looks up.
Arthur is frowning, beautifully. The sun highlights his eyelashes gold, hair gold, skin gold. Gold all over. He works himself between Alfred’s thoughts and glows there. It wouldn't be fair to go without saying goodbye to Arthur, just once, Alfred thinks. It wouldn't be fair for him to-ghost the skin of Arthur's thighs one more time, bite at the curve of muscle. If Alfred could explain just what Arthur did to him.
(And Francis, watching him all lesson, till Alfred draws a hand to his work. Focus, Bonnefoy.)
When Alfred goes home, he smooths the wrinkles from his shirts, and puts the case away, and hates himself.
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Maybe it's pathetic that it's come to this. Alfred would like to think he could stop, if he wanted. Like-he could leave, after all. If he put his mind to it. He could tease Arthur from himself, the coils of his mind.
Arthur is sitting with someone, a dark smudge of hair beside him. His head is bobbing, the tell-tale snakes of earphones against his jaw. A bookmark, between his fingers, Tolkein on his forearm.
Moments like this are the world, to Alfred. He knows-oh, Alfred knows-he will not get to experience them first-hand, not now.
Not ever. Not after-everything.
Alfred twists them up behind his teeth, to keep, and lets them rot there.
Reply
He's not busy. There's a meeting due, in the teachers' lounge, but who goes to those? Ha. Alfred will, because he has nothing else to do today. He makes bad coffee and bad conversation with Mr. Braginski, and thinks of Arthur, there, in the strange muzz between day and evening.
He thinks of-Francis, and Arthur, the anger it provokes in him. How it shouldn't. How Alfred got there first, and that matters, the limp, the marks. How Alfred shouldn't be thinking about this, the sickness that winds deep, when he's in company, because he can feel how his jaw goes tight. Because it is obvious, in the way Braginski frowns at him.
Ms. Héderváry is complaining, not subtly, in the corner. Alfred lets himself listens over Braginski's empty threats.
"-working weekends again," he hears. Someone tuts. "I swear, I better be getting a raise. I can't remember the last time I had a real break."
Alfred feels a sympathy rise up for her; weekends are a tough grind. A lot of corridor stalking, listening, ruining fun. Alfred cannot remember the last time he did it.
And then: a thought, a wrong one, born from long nightmares, dreams, fantasies spun off the wall.
"I'll do it for you," Alfred says, without thinking. Or. Thinking too much. "If you want some time off, Liz," and he smiles, to take the edge of his eagerness off.
There's a moment of blinkered surprise-who offers to work weekends?-before she jumps, cooing and grateful. Alfred brushes her off. He is not doing this out of the goodness of his heart, after all.
(A room, alone, silence. The dark.)
Reply
Fernandez. A matching five with Francis.
Alfred smiles. Doesn't everything just fit.
-
By the time it is lights out (a vague term; it is not literally lights out, but a suggestion to be quiet, please) Alfred is finding his way around Arthur's corridor, a plan seeded under his scalp. It's all a matter of waiting. Alfred might not have patience, but he's determined, half-way in love and all-way fucked up.
There is a couch, for convenience and visitors. Alfred allows himself to settle in it, arms tucked over his stomach.
It takes twenty minutes.
Alfred hears the tell-tale creak of a door, whispering. Footsteps. He pretends to be asleep at the sound of Bonnefoy's voice. Fernandez's. He even hears Arthur, in the background, an angry hiss of him from inside their room.
A thrill runs through Alfred at the perfection of it, the footsteps disappearing down the length of the corridor. Alfred waits, just a little more. In case they come back. In case-he can change his own mind, here, just himself, wet eyelids, bad thoughts.
(He cannot. How could he.)
Alfred rises, familiar nausea and arousal churning up his stomach. Perhaps it's the dark that does this to him, the warmth and intimacy of it, the shaft of yellow under Arthur's door more welcoming by comparison. Maybe it's because he can have Arthur on his bed, this time, on his back, between his thighs, the milk light and love. The tightness. The briefness.
Alfred wonders how much time he'll get. He raps on the door. Arthur is half-asleep when he answers, a hand under his shirt, scratching a mark Alfred left last time.
(Just above his naval. A little teeth.)
He is wide awake as he takes in Alfred.
-
You know what? It totally doesn't feel like half a year since I updated this. The most I can offer is an apology! I hope some of my old readers are still around, and that they accept my begging and pleading, haha! For what it's worth, I still love you guys (especially you, OP!), and I'm sorry for the slowness and the shortness and the terribleness ♥
Reply
I don't think I have enough words to explain how perfect this is, how terrifying it is to be in Alfred's mine where everything makes sense and yet everything is so intrinsically wrong.
It takes a lot of talent to make a human paedophile and child rapist and you have succeeded where many others have failed. There's an unavoidable and unadulterated horror in what Alfred is and yet you kept him 3D and real.
Thank you, anon, for this marvellous experience.
A faithful fan.
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Anon, the link to previous parts links to Sweet Child of Mine
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Go to sleep? <3
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Don't worry, author!anon; I'm just glad you're back. Life happens to us, too, so I understand. Glad school and/or work didn't eat you alive! XD
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I just checked this fill yesterday and very sad that it didn't update
And today!
Still a wonderful update~
Hope to see another update soon XD
Well yeah, I suck at making comments, just want to let you know that I love this fill and I hope you can finish it. No matter how long it takes I would wait for you TAT
Reply
that said, you're Alfred is as magnificent as ever, all twistedly in love and desperate. ;A; I've really missed this writing anon! no one conveys these kinds of feelings as well as you. please tell me Alfred does something really drastic next we'll always be waiting, anon! <3
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In the first chapters, I felt pity for Alfred, because you made him so alive and lovable, and the poor guy was fighting so hard against his twisted urges that it was hard not to be sorry for him despite his creepy ways, especially since he himself knew that what he was thinking was oh so wrong. But then he started doing instead of just thinking, and it was gone. All that remained was disgust and distress. Disgust because no one should make a child suffer this kind of horror (I honestly felt nauseous while reading the latest chapters… oh god, poor Arthur!), and distress because it is painful to witness a loved character become this wicked and deranged and plain revolting. Oh Alfred, what have you done?
Despite the fact that shota and non-con are major squicks for me, I can't help but keep reading to see what happens. I'm hoping that Alfred will just give himself away, and soon. That would be the best ending I see. If not, then I can only rely on Francis and Matthew. Poor Arthur has been broken enough, and Alfred needs to stop and needs help before he fucks up both their lives even more - if that is even possible.
Anyway, it is a testament to your writing skills that I'm so moved by this story. (How come a story can be so shockingly wrong and utterly wonderful at the same time? XD) So thank you for this fill, and please keep writing! I'll be waiting eagerly for updates, biting my nails anxiously. (Because you cliffhangers are pure torture! I hope you know it!)
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(Oh god, and the dorm scene unravels. *shudders* Your writing is as cutting as always. <3)
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