Ohhh, SWTWC, my poor baby. I haven't updated you since Halloween 2010. I knew this would happen to you. I totally called it. D:
Guys, this fic is going to be slow-going update-wise, as should be obvious by now. The poor thing always gets shunted to the back of my ficcage queue. However, this chapter finally made it after many longs months of patiently waiting its turn to be written and I really hope you a.) enjoy it and b.) feel that it was worth the wait! Please forgive me. It's been crying in the Unloved and Unwanted Corner alongside The Ghost in the Machine for a while now, haha – and as with The Ghost in the Machine, while updates will be slow, I really am determined to get it done come hell or high water. Booyah.
Thank you to: TheWonderBunny, Insane-Writer-of-Doom, andthenshesaid, Peirl, WhiteCrow10, Anastasya Debbie, Charles Grey, Kita Kitsune, OneWithManyNames, YourFloatingAngel, Koi Fish, PikaNecoMico, TenkunoMeiou, ileana425, critter141151, Chibi Chibi Sami, Keyboard Smash, silimanchiflavor, mudkiprox, Threnna, Altair718, rae1112, xCherryFever, tAcOfAiL13, Synonymous Brian and Mia!
Today's Shakespearean title, 'Thy Rotten Jaws', is from my favourite, Romeo and Juliet. The line is spoken by Romeo... to Juliet's tomb. XD
Something Wicked This Way Comes
Thy Rotten Jaws
"Wait here," Arthur breathed, leaning in close to Alfred's ear. "I shan't be long. Be a love and keep watch for me."
"Ah, al-alright."
Alfred didn't have much of a choice; Arthur trotted lightly away from him, his thick travelling cloak (glossy velvet with a shimmering interior of finest silk) fanning out behind him over the silver-frost ground. The clock had just struck eight and it was already dark, the moon high and bright in the clear sky. For them, it was breakfast time—
And Arthur, his green eyes a much duller shade than they had been this morning, was hungry.
Alfred glanced up and down the gaslit street for any sort of law-enforcement figure. Nothing; in fact, there were very few passers-by at all. This area, not the best in the town, was really confined to various types of nightwalkers, the kinds of people who nobody looked twice at, who wouldn't be missed, and was an excellent hunting-ground. They didn't make too great a habit of it lest they draw suspicion – but Arthur always veered in this direction if he was particularly starving upon waking and couldn't wait.
Alfred leaned as nonchalantly as possible against a streetlamp as Arthur approached one of the girls. Though he couldn't hear him, he knew he was laying on the gentlemanly act, taking off his top hat to greet her, charming in his manner in a bid to get her to accompany him down some dark alleyway. This particular girl looked a little rough around the edges, her low-cut red dress rather bedraggled and her hair somewhat unkempt, but her worn face, which might once have been very pretty, broke into a smile as Arthur spoke in low and luscious tones to her. At length he offered her his hand and gestured vaguely to a nearby alley, smiling handsomely at her all the while; she did not hesitate in the slightest, slipping her small hand into his and allowing him to lead her off the street.
Alfred quietly followed, taking up guard at the entrance to the narrow, crooked alleyway, his back pressed against the wall. He could hear Arthur's voice, the clipped smoothness of his accent, muttering something to the girl, probably some filthy promise he had no intention of fulfilling as he lathed his tongue over her neck and got his first taste of her. The girl moaned a little, panted, and Alfred heard the shifting of heavy material, likely the swish of her skirts as she was relieved of them. Alfred checked the street again as the girl gasped. Nothing—
A sharp little cry. Arthur had bitten her, no doubt.
There was his voice again, tumbling easily over his lips like a brook. Apologising. Alfred folded his arms and looked up at the sky. Arthur didn't mean a fucking word of it.
More rustling. The two-step of changing positions. The girl whispered something. She was enjoying herself—
Operative word being was.
She gave a sudden gurgling scream, more than muffled by Arthur's quickness, his expertise, in silencing his victims; there was an audible snap, a thud and then a sudden moment of silence.
And pleasure pulsed through Alfred's body.
Arthur was beginning to eat already, sinking his sharp teeth deep into her warm flesh and pulling – Alfred could feel it, feel every rend and tear at the girl-turned-meal shudder throughout his frame in an echo of the delight Arthur was getting from feeding. Arthur was a beast for whom even sexual pleasure was second to filling his belly with someone who had died screaming and the bliss for him in doing so was such that it resonated off him in waves. Alfred, this self-same creature (dormant though he may have been) couldn't help but feel that burst of sensation shiver within his own body. It knotted at his own stomach – empty itself – and simmered in his crotch, making his knees buckle together. He leaned his head back against the wall and fought to stay upright, his breath flaring out through his nose as he bit at his bottom lip. His eyes were squeezed shut behind his glasses.
Hurry up, England, he thought desperately. His breeches were beginning to grow tight and he twisted his hands behind his back to stop them from touching, from rubbing, from unfastening. It was an utterly unnatural spike in his libido, only occurring recently and at times like these, but it was torture. All he wanted to do was turn and rut against the wall to release the pressure, matching the thrusts in time to Arthur's every mouthful—
And then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Footsteps; Alfred hastily straightened himself up, twitching his cloak about himself, as Arthur emerged from the alleyway. He was completely unruffled, not a speck of blood anywhere on his person, and he tilted his hat to just the right angle as he glanced at Alfred.
His eyes were back to their usual-unusual blazing green.
"Better?" Alfred asked weakly.
Arthur nodded.
"Very much so," he said. He offered Alfred his arm. "Thank you for your patience, America. Shall we proceed? It is not fair for me to have had my hunger sated when you have not yet broken fast yourself."
Alfred took his arm and they continued down the street, heading towards the brighter, more acceptable part of town (the sort of place beings like them didn't exactly belong).
"Did you enjoy that?" Arthur asked in a low voice.
Alfred blinked at him; colour flushed into his face and he looked away, embarrassed. He couldn't speak.
"You needn't hide it," Arthur went on lightly. "I can feel it, you know." He rubbed playfully at Alfred's elbow and nudged close, affectionate due to being full. "We have a special connection, you and I, after all."
—
"Is that good?" Arthur asked politely over his dainty teacup.
His mouth full, Alfred simply nodded; he lowered his fork and chewed more urgently in an effort to quicker swallow and affirm verbally. Arthur saw him doing it and gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Ah, do not hurry yourself on my account," he said pleasantly. "Savour it. Enjoy it. It is your breakfast, after all."
And a strange breakfast it was – though typical of their reversed lifestyle. To most, this was a hearty evening meal – lamb (he was fairly sure it was lamb, anyway, judging by the taste; Arthur had ordered for him), selection of vegetables, fresh rustic bread on the side – but Alfred most often started the "day" like this. This was the kind of food restaurants and clubs were serving at this time of the evening, after all.
It was always the best money could buy, too. Arthur was given an allowance by the Empire to take care of both of their needs, more than enough, and so price was no object. They always dined in the finest establishments, surrounded by delicate crystal and social butterflies. Well, Alfred dined. Arthur rarely ate anything like this, perhaps picking absently at some bread now and then or, on a mad whim, ordering a prawn cocktail or the like to nibble uninterestedly at. Mostly (like tonight) he simply asked for a pot of tea and sat opposite Alfred, watching him eat with utmost interest; and sometimes (like tonight) he liked to order for him, carefully scouring the menu and choosing what he thought best for his precious charge.
Alfred had to admit, he had never made a bad decision.
But he knew why Arthur found him so interesting to watch. It was because his taste, his appetite, was changing. Once he had honestly liked everything equally; now he found that he really preferred meat and, whilst he still ate the vegetables and enjoyed them well enough, he often couldn't help but feel that he could eat a whole platter of cooked meats, all kinds, just as easily. More easily. That, and the fact that his preference for the way his meat was cooked had altered too were the source of Arthur's smug curiosity; he had once liked his meat very well done but had gradually begun to ease it downwards, finding that he liked it better a little pinker, a littler rawer, a little... bloodier.
Arthur sat and smiled knowingly at him across the table. He was in a very good mood. Well, perhaps it was to be expected from a creature whose disposition relied solely on how full his belly was. Arthur was rather more than a little grouchy when he was hungry. Sharp-tongued. Nasty. Dangerous, even.
"I am very glad that you like my choice," he went on smoothly. "I thought that you would."
Alfred finally swallowed, nodding all the while.
"It is excellent," he agreed.
Arthur stirred absently at his tea, shooting Alfred a strange, sultry look.
"Tell me about it," he said.
Alfred faltered.
"W-well, it's... it's, ah..." He frowned and speared another mouthful with his fork, chewing more carefully this time to properly assess the flavour as best he could.
Arthur, meanwhile, became impatient.
"Come now, it is a simple enough question," he said. "And leave out the vegetables, I care little for them. The meat, boy. Is it exactly as you like it?"
"It is perfect," Alfred replied a little bit desperately. "The sauce... I do not know, it is rather spicy? Somewhat sharp—"
"Something fermented, I expect. Spices and herbs, too. And red wine vinegar."
"Yes, something fermented, perhaps," Alfred agreed. "And the meat... Is it lamb?"
"It is. Matured shoulder cut. Slow-roasted with rosemary so that it falls off the bone at the merest touch of your fork – but not too much, of course. You like it a bit pink nowadays, do you not?"
Alfred reddened as though he ought to be ashamed of it.
"It is a damn sight better than your burnt offerings!" he said crossly. "I am rebelling against you!"
Arthur leaned back and laughed.
"Ah, and a fitting rebellion," he sighed agreeably. "As if I would know how to cook. I try now and then only because you have not yet developed a proper and decent appetite. With that said, that you are beginning to enjoy your meat so rare is promising." He leant forward again, resting his chin on his linked hands. "And of the rare meat, rose-pink and cooked to utter perfection especially for you... Is it tender?"
"Ah, yes."
"Succulent?"
"...Yes, you might say that."
"Is it an utter delight to sink your teeth into? Do your tastebuds spark and sizzle at its flavour? Does it melt in—?"
"Yes, damn it!" Alfred hissed at him. "Stop acting as though you are seducing me with naughty words!"
Arthur arched an eyebrow.
"But is that not what I am doing?" he inquired innocently. He kicked playfully at Alfred's shins under the table. "Come, America, do indulge me."
"I am eating, if you don't mind."
"Oh, you have much to learn still!" Arthur huffed, going back to his tea. He stirred it thoughtfully for a moment and Alfred gratefully went back to his meal.
There was a moment of silence.
"Well," Arthur went on conversationally a moment later, "all this talk of food has rekindled my appetite."
Alfred blinked at him.
"You ate barely an hour ago!" he said irritably.
But he wasn't surprised.
Arthur suddenly looked rather wistful, an odd, almost sad expression flickering briefly across his face.
"There must be a battle going on somewhere," he said blandly. "You know perfectly well how my appetite works. The more bloodshed, the hungrier I am. I can go for days without feeling even a twinge of hunger if the fronts all lie quiet."
This was true; and, in fact, when he had been younger and in Arthur's care in the years before the Turn-of-the-Century War began, Alfred had known Arthur to quite contentedly go for months without eating—
But that wasn't the case now. Arthur had been hungrier and hungrier these past few weeks – an unmistakeable sign that the war was worsening and the dead were falling in droves.
"Do you want to go back out to the alleys?" Alfred asked resignedly. "Or...?"
Arthur smirked at him.
"Shall we go to the club?" he asked lightly. "I feel like dining rather more classily this time – you can put on that pretty smile of yours and lure me something nice."
"And what do you suppose is going on over there?" Francis asked in a low voice, pausing with a hand on one hip.
Matthew stopped at his side, following the direction of his gaze with caution. They were in the less-reputable part of town and oddities in both persons and behaviour were not uncommon around here (Francis' pistol was always in his pocket, loaded). He noticed, however, that Francis was nodding towards a small cluster of people gathered tightly at the opening to one of the many alleyways – several women in long, ragged, low-cut dresses (presumably prostitutes), a well-dressed man (likely a reporter) and a police officer in his blue and brass.
"Do you think there has been another of those murders?" Matthew asked quietly. "The Penny-Ripper ones?"
Francis shot him a bleak smile.
"Shall we go and find out?"
He was already striding away as he spoke, his long blue coat fluttering after him like a flag. Matthew followed hastily, pushing up his glasses and coming to Francis' side as the Frenchman addressed the distracted policeman.
"Bon soir." The French was a mere triviality, the final dregs of his conversation with Matthew, for Francis switched to English to further his inquiry. "What, pray tell, is the subject of this evening's... ah, entertainment?"
The policeman twitched his moustache and looked Francis up and down with dislike.
"That's police business," he said gruffly; and, glancing again at the gold buttons and elaborate flourishings of bright threads and jewels on Francis's clothing, added, "Are you Empire or Continent, sir?"
Francis, who got asked this a lot due to a flamboyant dress-sense more akin to that of the Empire Army's officers than that of the Continent's (something which, as before, had never escaped Matthew's notice), didn't seem too offended, reaching into his coat for his official crest.
"Continent, sir," he replied politely, "and here is my proof."
The crest – pure silver mounted on white leather – glinted in the gaslight as Francis held it up. In its presence, the policeman looked rather embarrassed.
"My apologies, sir," he said meekly, clearly knowing full well that only those in the employ of the Continent Army were in possession of the force's crest as a form of identification. "Can't be too careful, though."
"Clearly not," Francis replied pleasantly, pocketing his crest again. He nodded behind the policeman to the alleyway. "What have we here?"
The policeman's moustache gave another thoughtful twitch, though he had changed his tune since having the crest flashed at him.
"Prostitute killed," he said, shooting a sidelong glance at the reporter (who was sidling closer whilst trying to give the appearance of being more interested in the opposite wall). "Third one this month alone." He gave a sigh. "Not to mention the spate of foreign sailors disappearing... 'Course, we're not finding out about it until weeks later when their bodies turn up dumped in the river. Clever, see, this murderer. Picks the ones that won't be missed."
"Do you think they are linked?" the reporter suddenly piped up, elbowing Matthew out of the way to insert himself into the discussion. "The killing of prostitutes and sailors, I mean? Those are two very different groups of people."
"Aside from the fact that they won't be missed," the policeman reiterated irritably.
"Quite," the reporter said blandly, taking out a pocketbook.
"That," the policeman went on, folding his arms, "and the fact that all these bodies, prostitutes and sailors both, turn up with bits missing. Like they've been eaten, you know?" He scowled at the reporter, who was madly scribbling everything down. "You can have that for free, you vulture. Put it in the damned papers, see if it puts the fear of the chase into the Penny-Ripper."
"How very... interesting." Francis nodded again towards the alley. "Might I take a look?"
"Be my guest, sir." The policeman stepped aside to let him through but smugly barred the reporter. "Not you, sonny-jim."
"It is most gracious of you," Francis sang. "Matthew, please assist me."
Matthew pushed past the grumbling reporter and twittering, terrified prostitutes and followed Francis down the narrow alleyway. It was dark, barely illuminated by the dim light from the street, and smelt strongly of filth and rot. The girl was crumpled at the furthest end of it, her ragged red dress of a flare of colour on the dirty ground; she was twisted, face-down, her throat torn out and her hair matted with congealing blood. There was further damage to her breast and abdomen, evident by the plentiful blood and slimy spill of organs, but her position made it (thankfully) difficult to really assess the damage.
His heart pounding, Matthew glanced at Francis, who was deeply frowning.
"What does this look like to you, Mathieu?" he asked in low French.
Matthew swallowed. He knew. He just didn't want to say it.
"Well?" Francis prompted. "Your silence will not stay the truth."
Matthew shut his eyes.
"It looks... like she was eaten." He exhaled. "As though...she was attacked by something that killed her, partly ate her and then..."
"And then dumped her here for someone else to find," Francis sighed, running a hand through his hair. "And I think you and I both know who it was."
Matthew looked away.
"Do you really think... that he would be here?" he asked. "In the Continent's capital?"
"Hide in the enemy's heart – the last place they would think to look." Francis clenched his fists. "This changes much. He may be on an Empire assignment and who knows what that may be – perhaps an assassination order on Continent generals. This..." He gestured to the girl. "These murders, prostitutes and foreign sailors, are mere fuel for his appetite. I doubt he came here solely to "enjoy the cuisine", as it were."
"What about the killings in Morocco?" Matthew asked. "Feliciano and Ludwig—"
"A decoy, I expect," Francis said. "The Empire no doubt sent him over there to kill Continent soldiers and redirect the hunt for him while he came here to carry out his orders." He shook his head. "Nations are vile creatures but they are also weapons. Left to their own devices, they will merely satisfy their appetite; it is in the hands of a strategic enemy that they are at their most dangerous."
"Can..." Matthew hesitated. "Can we be sure that it is him?"
Francis nodded.
"Unless the Empire has another Nation that we are not aware of," he said gravely. "They only had two – England and Russia – and we captured Russia some years ago. Antonio says that he heard rumours that Russia was later sold to a Chinese businessman as a bodyguard but we have no proof of it."
"Might it be Russia?"
Again, Francis shook his head.
"I doubt it. Despite the rumours, I expect that Russia is still under Continent Army lock-up. No, this reeks of Empire conspiracy and England is their greatest weapon. We can only pray that they do not have another."
"And what about what you said earlier?" Matthew asked. "About... about my brother? Do you really think he is still with England, helping him with all these horrible murders? It seems so... impossible." He shook his head. "I mean, Alfred used to talk about being heroic and good and I just... I cannot..."
"I cannot be certain, of course," Francis said smoothly, turning to Matthew and touching his trembling cheek. "But shall we hunt the Nation down and find out?"
"What do you want?" Alfred asked. "Is there anything in particular that you have an appetite for?"
"Ah, yes," Arthur replied gently, taking off his gloves. "Since you asked... I should quite like a soldier." He gave Alfred a little pat on the backside. "Right then, I will secure us a private room and you can lure me some supper. Off you go."
Alfred sidled over to a nearby booth and sat down, taking off his cloak; he watched Arthur stride over to the bar and lean over it, speaking in low tones to a member of staff. At length a wedge of Empire-supplied Continent banknotes came out of his pocket and were exchanged for a key, which Arthur took in his hand and, with his prize firmly in his possession, leaned back away from the bar again. He searched briefly for Alfred, his eyes a luminous and jealous shade of green across the room; holding up three fingers to indicate the room number before he turned and was gone, melting into the crowd.
Alfred leaned back against the booth and sighed. Arthur was, in fact, much better at making his meal gravitate towards him than Alfred, possessing about him that same allure which he had cast over the prostitute earlier that evening; however, he often liked to make Alfred "earn his keep", so to speak, and employed him to give the appearance of being a prostitute himself to entice some poor fool or other into one of the back rooms where Arthur was waiting like a spider crouched in the corner of its web.
Still, it wasn't much of a chore, he had to admit. Burton's Gentleman's Club, part-alehouse and part-brothel, was Arthur's favourite hunting ground if he wanted something a little heartier; the place was always packed with on-leave Continent soldiers looking to relax with a few drinks and a girl – or a boy – on their lap. Again, the two of them tried not to make too much of a habit of it for unwant of rousing suspicion about themselves but for now the newspapers had picked up the string of brutal murders they had taken to calling the 'Penny-Ripper Case' with no suspects or leads to follow up on. Arthur was much too careful to leave a trail and, with the protection of the Empire Army, was good at making himself and Alfred disappear if need be. They were mere spectres in the night, existing outside of society with laws all their own.
So Alfred, sitting alone, waited. A few soldiers passed by him but didn't spare him a glance, distracted already by the girls in bright, low-cut dresses simpering on their arms. He frowned impatiently, hoping he wouldn't have to wait long for a taker. He wasn't bothered about looks, personal hygiene or how violent his prospective "customer" looked given that all he was going to do was falsely flirt with him a little bit before leading him to the slaughter. He straightened his cravat and brushed down his blue pinstriped waistcoat in an effort to neaten himself up and attract someone. Arthur was probably pacing the room with hunger and Alfred hated to keep him waiting when his appetite was like this.
And perhaps, once he had eaten, he would be satisfied enough to go the whole way with Alfred tonight. It had been weeks since they had last had sex properly, Arthur constantly complaining that he was too hungry to trust himself. Alfred grumbled but was grateful that Arthur cared enough for his wellbeing that he didn't want to risk sinking his teeth into him.
Still, it was frustrating.
A shadow came over him and Alfred glanced up. A high-ranking officer, his uniform sparkling with prestigious decorations, was at his table, giving him the once-over. He seemed to like what he saw.
Jackpot.
"Are you waiting for someone in particular?" the officer asked; he was broad, dark hair and moustache, with grey eyes and a pompous air about him.
Alfred shook his head, his own handsome smile spreading across his face.
"No, sir," he replied.
"Excellent," the officer said briskly. "You can come along with me and show me a good time – depending on your fee, that is. How much do you charge an army man?"
And now the reeling-in.
"Oh, no charge at all for an army man," Alfred said sweetly, standing. "You all do such a good job of protecting us that I could not possibly bring myself to ask you for payment."
The officer puffed up impressively, seeming extremely pleased with his find.
"Very good, very good indeed," he brayed. "Lovely work ethic you have there. What, pray, is your name?"
"Alfred, sir."
"Very well, Alfred. You will understand that I do not like to disclose my own name. Nonetheless, I like you. If you service me well, I might keep you for the night."
"That is most kind of you, sir." Alfred gestured towards the back of the club's main parlour. "I have a private room reserved for use, if you would care to follow."
"Lead on."
Alfred took up his cloak over one arm and made his way across the parlour, the officer close at his elbow; the man smelt strongly of alcohol and some kind of cheap chemical aftershave and Alfred could only hope that Arthur wouldn't complain about how he tasted the way he had with the hapless Finn sailor last night. Of course, killing soldiers on leave was risky, far riskier than said hapless Finn sailors and prostitutes on the street, but one of the reasons Arthur favoured this establishment was that it was illegal. Well, the brothel-element of it was – and so visitors did not sign in and out when they came here. There was no record whatsoever of who had been to the club and who hadn't. There was no evidence that Arthur had ever been here and the same went for his victims.
Stepping out into the back corridor, Alfred checked that his catch was still behind him before turning back to the row of doors. Behind each was a cramped, dirty little room with a bed in it. He found number three, the painted digit peeling off, and took the officer by the wrist to lead him to it; he smiled winningly at him, trying to look eager, to look sincere, as he knocked at the door.
"Knocking?" the officer asked, frowning. "Have you a colleague with you?"
"Something like that." Alfred clung onto him, for fear that he might change his mind and back away in light of the unexpected company, as the door opened a crack and Arthur's green eyes gleamed out at him.
Alfred gestured subtly, watching for approval.
The door opened wider, Arthur fixing his own most charming smile upon the officer.
"Good boy, Alfred," he said warmly. "You have done very well. Please, do come in."
Alfred pulled the officer – who, looking over Arthur with interest, didn't put up much of a fight – into the room and Arthur closed the door behind them.
"Well," the officer said briskly, drawing himself up, "I must say this is an impeccable service that I have yet to experience at this club! Alfred, you should not have been so shy as to neglect to mention that you had a lovely little friend with you." Again he looked from Alfred to Arthur (the latter of whom was dressed particularly finely tonight, his red velvet waistcoat delicately embroidered with gold so that it flashed and glittered whenever he moved), his eyes roving over the pair of them greedily. "Do I truly get to play with you both?"
"In time, in time." Arthur, the apparent "lovely little friend", was looking at the officer just as ravenously, something which Alfred felt the man was tragically misreading as lust; his eyes were not quite as bright as they had been at dinner, losing their spark the hungrier he became. "First you will satisfy me." He glanced at Alfred, playing it up. "If I can persuade dearest Alfred to wait his turn, that is."
Alfred gave a gracious smile.
"He is all yours, Arthur," he replied.
"How generous of you, love," Arthur sighed. "I will see to it that you are rewarded for your patience."
He went to the door and locked it, checking it before turning back to his tiny audience; he unpinned the glimmering circle of jewels from his cravat and pocketed it, beginning to untie the silk to pull it loose from his collar.
"Now then," he went on lightly, "patience itself is the key here. There will be turns taken. I am in no mood for a mad rush – a free-for-all, if you will. Is that agreeable, gentlemen?"
Alfred frowned at the cravat in Arthur's hands but nodded; the officer, who was used to giving orders but not taking them, seemed a little more disgruntled.
"Is there need for such rigidity in our conduct?" he griped. "I come here to get away from all that."
"I prefer not to have limbs flying about the place, if it is all the same to you. It makes life difficult for me." Arthur didn't look at the officer, tugging at Alfred and drawing him towards the bed. "Now, Alfred, lie down. I am going to restrain you."
This was new. This was very new and startling. Alfred narrowed his eyes.
"Why?" he asked. "What do you intend to do to me?"
"Nothing whatsoever," Arthur replied. "That is entirely the point. You will be restrained until your turn comes. I am curious about something."
"Is this necessary?" the officer interjected. "Let the boy join us—"
"No." Arthur's absinthe eyes – dull, misty, starving – didn't leave Alfred's. "He will do as he is told."
Alfred lay down on the bed, though he did it sulkily, looking away at the wall. Arthur leant over him and lashed his wrists overhead to the shaky metal headboard with the cravat, giving it a few tugs to ensure that it was secure. Alfred debated complaining that it was too tight to be annoying but he could see how hungry Arthur was and decided not to push him, instead only nodding mutely when Arthur curtly asked if he was comfortable.
The officer, he noticed, didn't seem very interested in him anymore; he was far more interested in Arthur, watching his every move admiringly, longingly, his fingers twitching at his sides as though he ached to put them about the delicate monster before him and draw him close. Such was the behaviour of Arthur's victims – drawn sickeningly and inexplicably by something about him that Alfred had never quite been able to put his finger on but was charmed by himself. It was unnatural but there really was just something about him, whether it was his eyes or his manner or his angelic smile, that made you not mind terribly that he didn't want anything from you other than to eat you.
Arthur leant down again and lifted Alfred's glasses off his face, carefully folding them and putting them on the windowsill. He pulled the pin from Alfred's cravat and began to unknot it. Alfred twisted irritably, pulling at the restraint of the first necktie. It held fast, his struggles only making the bed-frame rattle scandalously.
"This really is not necessary, Arthur," he groused.
"Oh, but I rather think that it is," Arthur replied lightly, tugging the cravat loose. He brought it up to Alfred's face and carefully tied it over his eyes, blindfolding him. "I do not want you to see with your eyes a sight that is so commonplace to you by now. Something has begun to stir in you but it is not triggered by sight, by any sense whatsoever – but rather flickers in your blood at my insistence and at my pleasure. Your system is beginning to activate and you do not need your eyes in order to encourage it."
Alfred could see nothing now. He exhaled and gave a brief, discomfited nod – but could not see if Arthur returned or even acknowledged it. It was a claustrophobic feeling, his eyelashes brushing frantically against the silk as he blinked behind it; he wasn't afraid, exactly, but it did leave him feeling a bit helpless, much more so than being restrained. The world had been reduced completely to the tight weave of his own navy-blue cravat.
He felt the mattress shift as Arthur moved away; silence, a pause, and then he felt him leaning over him, fingertips brushing his forehead.
"Are you quite alright?" Arthur asked in a low voice. "You are comfortable?"
Alfred swallowed, his throat suddenly terribly dry, and gave a nod. Arthur inclined closer still and, a moment later, Alfred felt the dry, warm press of his lips against his brow.
"Well then, I shan't be long," Arthur promised. "Do enjoy yourself."
He was gone, Alfred hearing the crease and crinkle of his crisp shirt as he walked away, the gentle, confident tap of his feet on the rough wooden floor. Frowning, Alfred wriggled on the lumpy mattress to get a little more comfortable, listening instead of watching; he heard Arthur speaking in low and sultry tones to the officer, apologising for the wait, asking if he didn't think that Alfred looked quite delectable all tied up like that. He was leading him away from the bed; Alfred could hear the gentle tick-tock stride across the floor as they retreated to the other side of the tiny room. He could barely pick out what they were saying anymore, so low were their voices, so transparent were Arthur's rehearsed lines; and over them like an opaque film was the rustle of clothing, the click and clatter of buckles, the peeling back of layer after layer so that Arthur could set in for the kill with ease.
Alfred felt the heat begin to simmer in his belly already, embroidered deep at the base of it; his heart, too, began to quicken and pound. He lay still and blinked against the blindfold, focusing on Arthur and the officer, on what he could hear, what he could feel. The footsteps stopped and he supposed that Arthur had backed the officer against the far wall, probably purring against him, nuzzling, nudging, pawing so affectionately that the officer couldn't believe his luck, probably with his hands in Arthur's gold hair or arms around his back, holding him tight and close, no longer concerned with Alfred now that he had this creature in his grasp—
A thud. The belt hitting the floor. The buttons were now all that stood between Arthur and the torso of his victim. Alfred could feel Arthur's excitement mounting, twisting a little himself. One knee jerked up almost reflexively and he made a conscious effort to flatten it out again.
"Arthur," he bleated forlornly, beginning to feel quite sorry for himself.
"It'll be your turn in a minute, love, I promise," Arthur replied gently. "Relax."
"I think he needs better discipline," the officer put in reprovingly.
"Mm." Arthur was no longer interested in making small-talk with the man; there was another lull, that crucial moment during which Arthur, smiling sweetly all the while, analysed his victim, considered where best to attack and how.
And then he struck.
It was quick. Alfred trembled as Arthur's teeth went in, probably to the neck, and, at the blood bursting forth, a narrow and intense spike of pleasure came cleaving through him; his legs parted and his back arched, all of him feeling open, spread apart as though dissected, every nerve ending of every organ alive and quivering as he gasped for breath. The edges of his jaw ached and saliva welled. There was a muffled yell and a bit of a struggle, brief and weak, and Arthur pulled and snapped and won. The corpse fell and Alfred saw the blood blistering behind his eyelids, his sudden aching want painting the pictures into his mind's eye with a vivid precision; he imagined how it would spread on the floorboards, how it would collect in the splinters, soak into the grains, drip into the gaps between the crooked boards, how it would congeal and putrefy as it moulded itself there, long forgotten after they had left. He twisted and exhaled, half-groaning, and listened to Arthur compose himself for a moment.
"Arthur," he whined again. "England..."
"Let me eat," Arthur replied shortly. Alfred heard more rustling and didn't know whether it was the officer's clothing or Arthur's own; he listened intently and caught the sound of Arthur gently going onto his knees, leaning over his prey.
Alfred held his breath.
Arthur began eating, sinking his teeth into warm flesh again deeply and powerfully, tearing at his meal like an animal; he was always like this when he was ravenous, tearing to tatters his kill as though he was some kind of wild cat with only his teeth and his nails. The flesh ripped with a sound like wet paper, veins and sinew pulled and snapped like elastic and bone tinkled and crunched – Arthur had a very strong jaw and an even stronger stomach. He could eat anything at all, Alfred having seen him devour soldiers riddled with bullets and shrapnel without first separating the debris from his meal; here, Alfred heard his teeth scrape on a stray medal from the officer's bloodied jacket and could only presume that Arthur had simply swallowed that up as well. It all tasted the same to him, bullets and their singed wounds, these nods to bravery and service coupled with the corpses of their wearers. It all tasted like war.
Alfred pulled at the cravat binding his hands, wanting desperately to twist, to turn over onto his stomach and squirm and grind against the mattress; he couldn't and the frame rattled again as he struggled. His pulse beat frantically in his neck and at his wrists like a bird and he arched his back again and writhed. Both knees came up, his feet flat against the mattress, his legs parting as wide as he could spread them. It was more intense than ever because he had no outlet, couldn't see, couldn't touch, could only imagine. He was hardening now, his velvet breeches tightening over his crotch, every bite Arthur took, every swallow of bloodied gore, they all echoed in Alfred's body as faithfully as the ticking of a clock, flowering in his libido until he was on the very verge of thrashing and cursing. He turned his head aside and forced himself to breathe calmly, inhaling the musty scent of the old pillow, and his trembling hips lifted briefly before he was able to anchor them to the sheets again. He felt rather like a cork on the verge of popping out of a champagne bottle, tightly-wedged but not for much longer, the aphrodisiac of Arthur's appetite fizzing and frothing in every square inch of him until even his skin, hot and tight, felt too small to possibly confine him. Imagining that he might burst suddenly at any moment, leaving behind only another red smear for Arthur to lick up and complain about how dirty and chemical he tasted, he bit at his bottom lip to hold in a shriek of frustration and of want. It was all he could do.
(And there was something moving in him, beginning to shift, to stir; inching and spreading up his spinal cord, touching oh-so-gently to nerve-endings to make them spark, the tiny jolts surging and bouncing throughout his body. He could feel it but it was barely physical, more a strange and innate knowledge that it was happening, a pushing and prickling like an itch—)
And then it all stopped. Alfred collapsed onto the bed with a choked gasp, panting for breath. All that remained was the tight swell between his legs – everything else had fallen completely still and silent.
"England?" he asked shakily, almost breathless.
"I'm here, poppet." There was pressure on the mattress and Alfred suddenly felt Arthur's presence next to him, leaning over to free his wrists. "Did you enjoy that?"
"No," Alfred grumbled.
Arthur laughed.
"Are you quite sure about that?" He pulled the cravat loose and nudged his knee against Alfred's crotch, making him hiss. "It looks to me that it was hardly a wasted venture."
"What on earth is happening to my body?" Alfred scowled behind the cravat as he rubbed at his sore wrists. "And do not lie. I know that you know."
Arthur gave another pleasant little laugh. His mood was much better now; Alfred could tell just by listening to him.
"As before, the Nation in you is awakening, that is all," he said, reaching behind Alfred's head to untie the blindfold. "America, that is. It is perfectly understandable. The fighting is worsening with each passing day and I grow hungry on behalf of all of the Empire's armies, not merely Britain's. An echo as intense as that which you just felt from my feeding was no doubt due to the North American Army becoming embroiled in battle."
The cravat came away and Alfred blinked open his eyes, looking up at Arthur. The Nation was far messier this time, blood smeared about his mouth and staining his crescent-moon smile, with further splatters on his shirt and darker blotches on his crimson waistcoat; his hair was rather wild and his eyes were very green, bright and electric, almost glowing.
Alfred leant up towards him, pressing his lips to the corner of Arthur's mouth; there was a sharp bite of iron and Alfred opened his mouth as Arthur lazily turned into the kiss, tasted the blood on his tongue and between his teeth. Usually it made him pull away in disgust but tonight he wanted it, gripping tightly at Arthur's shirt collar and hanging onto him.
"My, you're eager," Arthur sighed amusedly, pulling away.
"You know why." Alfred nuzzled at him insistently, pressing open-mouthed kisses on his neck to lap at the splashes of blood. "England, England—"
"Yes, you are turned on." Arthur patted at Alfred's back. "In so many ways, one might say."
Alfred pulled back and looked at Arthur very intently.
"Are you full?"
"As a bleeding tick."
Alfred pawed at him.
"I want—"
"Yes, I know what you want." Arthur took Alfred's hand and kissed it. "I am the Penny-Ripper, dear boy. I haven't much of a reputation for anything other than ripping—"
"I have been patient!" Alfred scraped at Arthur's velvet waistcoat. "You said that I would have my turn, that I would be rewarded! You promised!""
"America, when do I ever break my promises to you?" Arthur lay back on the bed, getting comfortable; his belt was already undone, probably to have given himself more room to utterly gorge himself on gore. "Just give me a moment more. I need to digest if I am to get my strength back. All that bloody fighting makes me feel like I've been through the wars myself."
Alfred sighed and lay down with him, sprawling between his legs with his head on Arthur's stomach. He could feel it moving beneath his cheek, pulsing, grinding, crushing with a faint whirr like machinery. It was familiar, an exhaustive process that Arthur's body went through every time he ate excessively to quell his erratic and violent appetite, siphoning its strength from the bloody debris he had taken into his system, and Alfred suddenly felt rather guilty for being so demanding. He could wait ten more minutes.
Arthur closed his eyes with a tired sigh and put his hand in Alfred's hair, rubbing at his scalp.
"Is it painful, England?" Alfred asked quietly, settling more comfortably.
"Stirring" though he might have been, he was glad that he was not yet entirely like Arthur; he knew enough of Arthur's behaviour to think that Arthur himself often wished that he was not as he was, either. Though he delighted in the hunt and revelled in the kill, living this way was not as easy as he made it look.
"A little bit, at times," Arthur replied, his eyes opening again the slightest bit; the green of his eyes blazed on his white cheeks as he looked down at Alfred. "But this is war and such is the price of victory."
Sexytiems next time but you have to want it~! XD
Arthur's tabloid title of "the Penny-Ripper": This is a portmanteau, of sorts, of 'Penny Dreadful' and 'Jack the Ripper', the latter being the popular title for the Victorian era murderer who killed five women (but perhaps more) in the Whitechapel area of London. All were prostitutes – not that that makes it okay at all – but he had a definite MO. Penny Dreadfuls (sometimes called Penny Bloods) were trashy pulp horror papers printed cheaply in this period, full of ridiculous and outlandishly gruesome stories often in a vein similar to the Jack the Ripper case. Notably, an incarnation of the Sweeney Todd story (which itself has roots in earlier literature/urban legend) appeared in a Penny Dreadful under the ongoing title of The String of Pearls. In the story (and the Sondheim musical/Burton adaptation of it), Todd and Lovett are careful to kill customers who won't be missed, usually foreign sailors. D:
Speaking of Tim Burton (sort of!), Burton's Gentleman's Club is named partly for him (given his love of the macabre) and partly for one of the magazines which Edgar Allan Poe used to edit, Burton's Gentleman's Magazine (...given his love of the macabre). Tee hee.
Soooooo, everyone, I wonder if I can now ask for a favour. I am running a bit of an experiment with the posting of this chapter, hoping to confirm as to whether or not there is something wrong with FFNet's alert system. I might be wrong but I think a lot of people aren't being sent author/story update alerts by the site, not just for my fics, obviously, but for the entire site. SO, you don't have to "review", per se, and I really hate to ask and beg for comments because I don't like to pressure people to review, but if you had this on Story Alert, could I please ask you to leave a message confirming it? :3
Here, I even made you a ready-to-go copy-and-paste template: I got an alert. I'm on to you, you review whore. That's all – you don't have to add anything to it. Just that is fine. It would be very helpful to me!
Again, I'm REALLY sorry to ask for "reviews" but I don't know how else to confirm whether or not the alerts are down/sporadic/are completely fine and it's just that no-one likes me anymore. XD
(Of course, if you want to leave an actual comment, you can, haha.)
Laaaaastly, I meant to mention last time, with regards to my overuse of 'absinthe' to describe Arthur's eyes, absinthe itself is often nicknamed 'the Green Fairy'. He wears green. He sees fairies. Is there a better nickname for him to go by? No. No, there is not. Please feel free to make other kinds of fairy jokes at your leisure. XD
Thank you for the wait and thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Hopefully the wait for the next chapter won't be as long!
RR
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