AN: I should be updating Don't go off with him, you're better with me, but that's obviously not happening right now. What is happening is this short little one shot – something I wrote for a class assignment, heh.
This is told from Alfred's POV, by the way. In a human AU.
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When I was about five or six years old, I used to have a friend named Arthur that came to my bedside each night and read me a story.
Arthur was a grown man that, remembering him now, looked only about twenty years old. But whenever I met him at night, I always viewed him as an experienced adult that was my superior, and would always be my superior, no matter what.
To this day, I'm not sure what convinced me to let him do as he pleased with me - maybe it was the deep, lilting voice that he spoke in as the words of the soothing fairy tales rolled off his lips? Or maybe it was his hard, acidic, absinthe eyes that seemed to stare into the very depths of my soul. The eyes that made me feel like I could hide nothing, nothing from him.
One thing is for sure. Those cool, feathery touches, those large, roaming hands, those nipping, biting teeth - it seemed so harmless then, but every time I think of them now, I feel the urge to scrub my skin raw and cleanse myself to rid of the marks he would make.
Yet, I was always so excited for his arrival. He would always come eight-thirty, sharp, because that was the time my parents had said little children like me always went to bed at.
The fairy tale he read was always something different. He never told me the names of the stories he read from, nor did he ever tell me where he got them. I've tried to search up these stories by their plots countless times, but I always return empty handed.
Listening to Arthur read the stories felt so hypnotic, and I think he knew that it was a surefire way for me to become nothing but putty in his hands.
One day, I slept over at one of my school friend's house. He was an exceptional host and playmate; I'm still friends with him now, even after all those years.
But Arthur didn't think so. The next night, when I slept in my own bed, Arthur screamed at me vehemently for what felt like an eternity or two. I remember wondering why my parents couldn't hear his curses and insults, and why they didn't come to my rescue.
I tried so hard, so much, to just calm him down. I can't recount how many times I begged for forgiveness, apologized for leaving him alone the previous night, and tugged at the edges of his old-fashioned button-down shirt in pleading questioning.
My efforts were in vain, I quickly realized. I persisted anyway, but that only got me into more trouble.
I'll never forget the look on his face - that ravenous, possessively controlling look - when he took me that night. It hurt something fierce; nothing like the gentle caresses and the playful nips. But he forced it upon me, and I was powerless against his iron grip.
When I went to school the next day, my friends noticed the limp in my gait and the pain on my face. They asked about it. None of them would ever know the truth, though.
That night, just before I went to bed, I decided that I didn't want to meet Arthur anymore. I told my parents, but they looked at me strangely, and told me that there was no one there. I begged them to let me sleep with them that night. They looked annoyed, but finally consented when I pulled out the infamous puppy dog eyes.
The next day, my parents had me stay at my neighbor's house after they were suddenly called in to their workplace for an impromptu meeting concerning urgent and important matters that I would never know about. Thinking I would get better answers if I asked my kindly old neighbor, I told her all about Arthur.
Her pale face told all as she realized with horror that her deceased husband had stayed true to his old promise to terrorize the neighbors.
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AN: hahahaha… leave a review and pretty pretty pleaseeee? Tell me what you thought of it ;)