Deceptions
An Alex Rider Fanfiction.
A/N: Based on "Deceptions" by Philip Larkin. A REALLY good poet who have his quirks. Really love his poem and I am doing his poems for A-Levels which is approaching steadily in like... 15 days. This is, perhaps, the last one I would post till 25 November. Please comment if you like this. Please leave some reviews if you do not understand the poem or need some help in close analysis and I will try to help you to the best of my abilities. I MIGHT possibly continue this but only if there are people who really want to read a continuition.
No beta.
Warning: Non-con. No explicit content but mentions of it.
Disclaimer: I own nothing here- not the poem, not the characters.
"Of course I was drugged, and so heavily I did not regain
consciousness until the next morning. I was horrified to
discover that I had been ruined, and for some days I was inconsolable,
and cried like a child to be killed or sent back to my aunt."
—Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor
Alex laughed again. A sheen of sweat covered his chalky white forehead. He glanced down at his torn and tattered shirt; his pants was riddled with mud and blood. He gave another laugh; teeth chattering from… was it fear or nervousness or pain? Alex did not know. All he knew was that he had to keep on moving.
Even so distant, I can taste the grief,
Bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gulp.
Alex gulped, when Ches-Him, touched Alex. His disgustingly tender fingers traced Alex's collarbone as his shirt was ripped apart. Alex felt that the entire world was against him; the world was spinning: he was drugged.
The sun's occasional print, the brisk brief
Worry of wheels along the street outside
Where bridal London bows the other way,
The sun was shining into the cold, dark room. Alex could hear the loud noises of the cars and motorcycles and… Perhaps Tom was walking past… Perhaps Ben was still looking for him—Alex was sure that he left his dark black bag outside at that alley.
But how could Ben possibly trace Alex back to this shop house in the middle of London?
As He kissed Alex's naked body feverously, tears leaked out of Alex's eyes. He could not do anything. He could not have done anything—for he was drugged. He was so out of it yet he knew… he knew he was being r-ra…
And light, unanswerable and tall and wide,
Forbids the scar to heal, and drives
Shame out of hiding. All the unhurried day,
Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
Alex was wanted nothing but to murder this man… have him dead. He wanted to move when He moved towards his pelvis, placing light kisses on his member as if his 'love' could pass through that thick of trousers he was wearing.
As if it was thick.
The supposedly 3mm thick pair jeans –"definitely a must-buy, sir! It is comfortable –look at the material! Here, touch!—and more often than not, you don't see such thick trousers being so airy yet protects you from the cold!"—was nothing but just a flimsy thin cloth at the moment. Nothing mattered. Nothing in the world mattered and Alex wished… how he wished that he could just get his wrists out of the handcuffs that was pressing in. His eyes clenched tight—would it be like how Che.. Chester would press into him later?
Who knew?
But Alex would know.
Slums, years, have buried you. I would not dare
Console you if I could. What can be said,
So indeed, Alex had cried out involuntarily when the other's member pressed into his hole. He had screamed and yet, no one could have heard him. The bed rocked and he heard his own name being called out disgustingly. He heard his own name… moaned by the other.
He had cringed and he bit down hard onto his lips.
He was so sure his wrists were cuffed; the skin was definitely broken for he felt thick liquid oozing. Yet the pain on his wrists was incomparable to the pain down there… between his legs.
He had passed out.
/
Two days later, Alex was crying again, but this time into the shoulder of Ben Daniels. The latter's shirt was stained wet and even Ben was crying. He voice cracked as he tried so hard to console Alex, and yet he knew that he could not.
Alex was feeling so much pain; His member had been rubbed raw and his hole had been torn. Alex could not walk and he could not help but flinch whenever someone touched him or even brushed past him.
Yet… was Alex the more deceived?
Except that suffering is exact, but where
Desire takes charge, readings will grow erratic?
As Alex was feeling pain and that pain is measurable… And Chester? The man who had raped Alex.
Chester had the desire to make love with a younger boy, and that desire was what drove him to kidnap Alex. It was desire who made him who he was…
For you would hardly care
That you were less deceived, out on that bed,
Than he was, stumbling up the breathless stair
To burst into fulfillment's desolate attic.
It was desire who made him who he was… where he lay in the cold, dark room. Where he had raped the younger boy of his innocence, thinking that it could possibly make himself feel better if he ejaculated.
But who was the more deceived?
For after Chester had ejaculated, he lay on the bed, beside the blonde boy who had passed out. He laid on the boy, thinking that he was happy, but there was nothing more to it.
He was not happy for the attic was "desolate" and that desire made him who he was.
It was desire who made him who he was… where he lay dead in the cold, dark room, murdered by the younger boy he had raped, still in the disillusion that he had his 'fun' that after he ejaculated there was more to his 'desire'.
There was none.
fin.
- till further notice