It is absurd to blame a child for one’s own shortcomings, but late at night, when the boy is muffling his own sobs a room away, Arthur tells himself it is Alfred’s fault.
How is it Alfred’s fault?
Well, Arthur tells his glass of whiskey, obviously it because the boy is so soft. so pure. so trusting, and how dare he be that way? How dare he have those soft soft thighs that are so damn touchable, how dare he be so unclaimed (even though the boy is far from virginity by now), so white and clean and new. So unlike all the others, with their callouses and scars.
Damn that child with his wide blue eyes and soft red lips.
Damn him to hell.
(And Arthur will be there, waiting, if God ever has the sense to strike him down. He will be waiting with open arms.)
Lucidity [2a/2]
anonymous
March 30 2011, 01:31:36 UTC
Alfred still wonders why Arthur insists on Sundays. After Arthur and Mattie and he have gone to church, and Arthur has engaged in awkward small talk with the priest, smiled gently at the frumpy housewives ushering their respective children home, and deposited Mattie at the after-church youth meeting, he takes Al back to their empty apartment
( ... )
Lucidity [2b/*3]
anonymous
March 30 2011, 01:33:39 UTC
unless it’s like now, and Arthur isn’t pushing, he’s ramming, thrusting hard and fast with a hand clamped over Alfred’s mouth to stop the shrieks of masochism as the boy clenches and relaxes, caught between so desperately wanting this and knowing so clearly that this is wrong wrong it’s wrong.
At some point one of Arthur’s hands moves to Alfred’s erection, and it more so grinds against the sensitive flesh rather than stroking it. The heel of Arthur’s palm rocks against Alfred’s crotch until Alfred starts to cry, and he always hates this part, because it makes him feel so weak when he’s not, except on Sundays.
Except on Sundays.
Alfred isn’t really sure when he comes, he just knows it was before Arthur, and it was fast and hard, and when he does, Arthur grips his face presses kiss after kiss to his lips. He’s lucid enough by the time Arthur gives his final desperate thrust and whispers Alfred’s praise, barely audible.
“You’re such a good boy, Alfred.”
freaking character limits. also, a!anon can't count.
Lucidity [3/3]
anonymous
March 30 2011, 01:35:13 UTC
One day when Mattie was away, it was dark and late, so Arthur sat Alfred down, and told him his favorite things about him, and Alfred was so happy. Not because of the litany of lewd compliments that Arthur murmured to him that night, or the warm touch that traced over every favorite part, but because now Alfred knew what he could do stop it. He could stop it all
( ... )
Re: Lucidity [3/3]
anonymous
March 30 2011, 23:51:32 UTC
Wow I really liked this. Dark and so much desperation for poor Alfred! Plus Arthur's desire really shows through, 'cherry lips' indeed. If you ever want to write more, I would definitely read it. Thanks for writing!!!
Warning for dark/angsty shota non-con.
It is absurd to blame a child for one’s own shortcomings, but late at night, when the boy is muffling his own sobs a room away, Arthur tells himself it is Alfred’s fault.
How is it Alfred’s fault?
Well, Arthur tells his glass of whiskey, obviously it because the boy is so soft. so pure. so trusting, and how dare he be that way? How dare he have those soft soft thighs that are so damn touchable, how dare he be so unclaimed (even though the boy is far from virginity by now), so white and clean and new. So unlike all the others, with their callouses and scars.
Damn that child with his wide blue eyes and soft red lips.
Damn him to hell.
(And Arthur will be there, waiting, if God ever has the sense to strike him down. He will be waiting with open arms.)
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At some point one of Arthur’s hands moves to Alfred’s erection, and it more so grinds against the sensitive flesh rather than stroking it. The heel of Arthur’s palm rocks against Alfred’s crotch until Alfred starts to cry, and he always hates this part, because it makes him feel so weak when he’s not, except on Sundays.
Except on Sundays.
Alfred isn’t really sure when he comes, he just knows it was before Arthur, and it was fast and hard, and when he does, Arthur grips his face presses kiss after kiss to his lips. He’s lucid enough by the time Arthur gives his final desperate thrust and whispers Alfred’s praise, barely audible.
“You’re such a good boy, Alfred.”
freaking character limits. also, a!anon can't count.
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Wow. Dark, I really, really liked this.
Thank you so much!
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