never ballpoints [57/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:44:03 UTC
Arthur comes, a knot in his throat and a spasm that runs his length. Alfred simply holds, and waits, and by the time it's over, the walls are falling around them.
Too soon, Alfred thinks, too soon too fast and it's just-that, like something shattered across the floor. In all fairness: Arthur is young, and probably-inexperienced-but that just seems to prickle more questions to the roof of Alfred's mouth. He wants to ask, are you, and he wants to be Arthur's first and last and never.
"Good boy," he says, instead, and retracts his fingers and Arthur's and presses shhhs with his other hand. Arthur's eyes are closed. "That wasn't-"
-and he's meaning, that wasn't too bad, was it, because it truly wasn't, and Alfred can still see the trembles over Arthur's muscles. He's broken off by a knocking, though, wet and sharp in the silence, and Alfred suddenly feels more: his cock, hard pressed into Arthur's leg, and the high pink of Arthur's face, and the white across the round of his stomach and Alfred's fingers.
never ballpoints [58/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:44:49 UTC
Panic over, Alfred slips into the nearest bathroom and locks himself in a stall. He has-five minutes-and it's faster than that, because on his mind is all pink and heavy and yes and it takes four quick strokes. He's silent as he comes.
(Alfred thinks, Arthur came in this fist, and scrubs his hands till the soap stings his bones.)
His face, next, and he splashes himself with cold water and gasps, working the ache through it. He feels old, and scared, and exhilarated. He has to get to his classroom because the lesson, right, and.
And Francis will stare for the whole hour and come up with questions and ask, and Alfred was always fond of students like that. The curious ones.
never ballpoints [59/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:45:25 UTC
The lesson comes and goes, and then the weekend's the same, and Alfred lets it. He talks to Matthew, some time, and their conversation skirts between the weather and work. He sounds worried, and Alfred doesn't ask why.
He dreams more, and wakes up sticky those nights. He tries to sleep less. Alfred whittles it down to four hours a night, because that's probably the same that Arthur's getting.
"A problem shared is a problem halved," Matthew says, at one point, the cliché rolling easily off and Alfred cannot remember what topic brought them to this
( ... )
never ballpoints [60/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:46:03 UTC
It's just like it used to be, because the sun is casting tall monsters from the chair legs and paper towers and Arthur is fumbling to his desk at the end of the hour. He nudges a chair close and drops his bag at his feet.
"Feeling better?" Alfred asks, and stands to shut the door. Arthur stutters over his yes. He's holding his pen too tight, and his fingers are going white at the joints. Alfred touches his shoulder, gently, and smiles wide.
"Great!" he says, and Arthur seems to breathe when Alfred turns to the window. He taps at a dirt fleck. "Back to work, then."
He slides a sheet of questions under Arthur's nose and steps back, to the glass. It's cool to his forehead. Somewhere, in this all-consuming silence, Alfred is missing something.
(Arthur's bag zip is bare, is why, and he's thinking a thousand things like; I deserve that it was a gift it might have fallen off did he crush it. It preys on his insides
( ... )
never ballpoints [61/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:46:35 UTC
Of course, they are far beyond talking at this point. A shame, because that was always one of the things Alfred was good at: talking, and being talked to, and-perhaps pretending-but he was a good listener. He liked to listen.
This isn't one of those talk-able things, is it.
Alfred doesn't find this fair. It was never fair. From Arthur's view point-a child's view point-he wouldn't understand. But for Alfred, it's-
-because it was Arthur who caught his attention in the first place. It was Arthur who dragged him this far. It was Arthur, and Arthur is so strange and out-of-place and different, once you peel the mask away. He's so many things, and Alfred was never any good at not having what he wants.
Because Arthur was just-there, always, and he still is. Arthur is talking in an afternoon gone golden, and his writing that slopes left once and right the other, and football-soccer, and these things untouchable
( ... )
never ballpoints [62/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:47:11 UTC
"Slow progress," Alfred tells the phone, between mouthfuls. Spaghetti, and it tastes pretty good because he made it. "S'boring, as usual."
"Mhm, yeah," Matthew says back, and then, "are you eating? While on the phone?"
Alfred forks and twirls, and tomato sauce goes flying. "You're the one that called at a bad time. Your fault, not mine."
Matthew sighs. "You could have just, I dunno, told me you were having dinner." There's a silence, and Alfred assumes his brother is making faces. "I'll talk to you later, I guess."
The dial tone starts just as Alfred says bye. Every conversation of theirs ends this way; stilted, and neither really following, and Alfred knows something's up.
It's scary, but Alfred has lost the nerve to try anymore.
-
He gets no phone calls for the rest of the week, and that's fine. He doesn't need Matt to call him. Alfred is busy, anyway, because students are starting to get edgier the more the year progresses, and that's the way it has always been. He could do with some time to himself
( ... )
Re: never ballpoints [63/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 01:01:41 UTC
And Francis will stare for the whole hour and come up with questions and ask, and Alfred was always fond of students like that. The curious ones.
(Not so much anymore.)
Ugh, just like his deteriorating relationship with Mattie, this is just one more reminder that Alfred's mind is riddled with this sickness like a diseased organ with tumors. Just ... augh. You're breaking my heart, Alfred, gdi.
Re: never ballpoints [63/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 01:53:05 UTC
askljsfsdlkg;dslgksdjgdl;fkgdfh
I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS FILL FOREVER AND IT IS LOVELY AND HORRIFYING IN WAYS I CAN'T DESCRIBE BUT HOLY FUCKING SHIT ALFRED what are you doing son oh my god.
parts 1 - 56: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15068.html?thread=45877212#t45877212
Reply
Too soon, Alfred thinks, too soon too fast and it's just-that, like something shattered across the floor. In all fairness: Arthur is young, and probably-inexperienced-but that just seems to prickle more questions to the roof of Alfred's mouth. He wants to ask, are you, and he wants to be Arthur's first and last and never.
"Good boy," he says, instead, and retracts his fingers and Arthur's and presses shhhs with his other hand. Arthur's eyes are closed. "That wasn't-"
-and he's meaning, that wasn't too bad, was it, because it truly wasn't, and Alfred can still see the trembles over Arthur's muscles. He's broken off by a knocking, though, wet and sharp in the silence, and Alfred suddenly feels more: his cock, hard pressed into Arthur's leg, and the high pink of Arthur's face, and the white across the round of his stomach and Alfred's fingers.
"Shit," he hisses. His hands ( ... )
Reply
(Alfred thinks, Arthur came in this fist, and scrubs his hands till the soap stings his bones.)
His face, next, and he splashes himself with cold water and gasps, working the ache through it. He feels old, and scared, and exhilarated. He has to get to his classroom because the lesson, right, and.
And Francis will stare for the whole hour and come up with questions and ask, and Alfred was always fond of students like that. The curious ones.
(Not so much anymore.)
Reply
He dreams more, and wakes up sticky those nights. He tries to sleep less. Alfred whittles it down to four hours a night, because that's probably the same that Arthur's getting.
"A problem shared is a problem halved," Matthew says, at one point, the cliché rolling easily off and Alfred cannot remember what topic brought them to this ( ... )
Reply
"Feeling better?" Alfred asks, and stands to shut the door. Arthur stutters over his yes. He's holding his pen too tight, and his fingers are going white at the joints. Alfred touches his shoulder, gently, and smiles wide.
"Great!" he says, and Arthur seems to breathe when Alfred turns to the window. He taps at a dirt fleck. "Back to work, then."
He slides a sheet of questions under Arthur's nose and steps back, to the glass. It's cool to his forehead. Somewhere, in this all-consuming silence, Alfred is missing something.
(Arthur's bag zip is bare, is why, and he's thinking a thousand things like; I deserve that it was a gift it might have fallen off did he crush it. It preys on his insides ( ... )
Reply
This isn't one of those talk-able things, is it.
Alfred doesn't find this fair. It was never fair. From Arthur's view point-a child's view point-he wouldn't understand. But for Alfred, it's-
-because it was Arthur who caught his attention in the first place. It was Arthur who dragged him this far. It was Arthur, and Arthur is so strange and out-of-place and different, once you peel the mask away. He's so many things, and Alfred was never any good at not having what he wants.
Because Arthur was just-there, always, and he still is. Arthur is talking in an afternoon gone golden, and his writing that slopes left once and right the other, and football-soccer, and these things untouchable ( ... )
Reply
"Mhm, yeah," Matthew says back, and then, "are you eating? While on the phone?"
Alfred forks and twirls, and tomato sauce goes flying. "You're the one that called at a bad time. Your fault, not mine."
Matthew sighs. "You could have just, I dunno, told me you were having dinner." There's a silence, and Alfred assumes his brother is making faces. "I'll talk to you later, I guess."
The dial tone starts just as Alfred says bye. Every conversation of theirs ends this way; stilted, and neither really following, and Alfred knows something's up.
It's scary, but Alfred has lost the nerve to try anymore.
-
He gets no phone calls for the rest of the week, and that's fine. He doesn't need Matt to call him. Alfred is busy, anyway, because students are starting to get edgier the more the year progresses, and that's the way it has always been. He could do with some time to himself ( ... )
Reply
Reply
(Not so much anymore.)
Ugh, just like his deteriorating relationship with Mattie, this is just one more reminder that Alfred's mind is riddled with this sickness like a diseased organ with tumors. Just ... augh. You're breaking my heart, Alfred, gdi.
... *pats you on the head <3*
Reply
Reply
I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS FILL FOREVER AND IT IS LOVELY AND HORRIFYING IN WAYS I CAN'T DESCRIBE BUT HOLY FUCKING SHIT ALFRED what are you doing son oh my god.
on the edge of my seat, writeranon.
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Reply
BAD END, ALFRED.
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is just so amazing. I'm loving it author anon!
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