Crew of Horrors

A/N: I've just been pumping out these oneshots, haven't I? Well, I suppose when inspiration hits, you best catch it before it's gone!

If you want something more lighthearted than this oneshot, please feel free to check out The Last Airbender, Part of the Band, and Of Gods and Mortals as well! They are all stories that I have already written for this archive.

I... am not altogether sure how this one came about. But regardless of its origins, I hope that you all enjoy. There is simply not enough Pirate!America in this archive!

Summary:

Warnings: Quite dark, hinted incest, and a bit graphic. Also comes quite close to being lemony.

Pairing: UKUS

He was scheduled to die in the morning.

Ah, death, the greatest mystery, the other world, the next adventure. He had been born staring it in the face. Growing up, he had witnessed the fruits of its labor on the pathetic, shriveled corpses of the villagers. He had even seen it in something as common as food, radiating off his dishes in small black waves.

In short, he was quite used to death by now. So used to it, in fact, that he was mildly surprised that this had not come sooner. After all, what sort of sick village would simply allow a child such as himself to grow up within its walls, sacrificing its people and resources to upkeep this child, when it was quite obvious that the village would be much better off killing the boy?

It was his face, no doubt about it. He was said to have the face of an angel, irresistible and unyielding. He had heard the whispers in the evenings, where those who caught sight of his wheat-gold locks would immediately become weak in the knees. If the unfortunate soul had not already surrendered his heart to the boy, a single look in the large, perfect sky-blue eyes would win them over in an instant.

Yes, Alfred F. Jones was a dangerous lad. It was rumored that his mother had consorted with a daemon to replace the son she had lost years ago and bore the boy as a result of the union, dying as punishment. As a babe, he had been taken care of by numerous households, all of whom reared him and raised him. His angelic face and sky blue eyes made always made them forget about the great danger he posed until it was too late.

He grew into a man of twenty-one, and his looks only seemed to be enhanced with age. The eyes that promised the freedom of blue skies became brighter and more piercing. The once round face became finely chiseled and strong. His smile, whenever it was flashed, was enough to make even the strongest of men fall to their knees.

But as his looks enhanced with age, so too did his appetite.

You see, Alfred F. Jones did not quite eat the food that others ate. Sure, he was quite willing to partake in the consumption of fine breads and cheeses and meats, but what was the point in doing all of that? Such foods were consumed purely for pleasure, and were expensive as well. No, Alfred F. Jones preferred a very special kind of meat, the kind that he could never survive without.

Alfred F. Jones consumed hearts.

When he was younger, he would merely need them once every half-year. And even then, they did not necessarily have to be fresh. Whatever family he was being raised by at the time would be happy to go to the churchyard for him to excavate the rotting body and remove the heart from its rotting flesh. They would bring this dry, stinking lump of an organ to the little boy, who would greedily swallow it whole. There was no need to do this more than once every half-year, so the boy Alfred lived a sustainable existence.

But of course, nothing could ever last for long.

Alfred grew older, and his tastes changed. He began to yearn for the sweet hearts of others, fresh ones, ones that were ripped from the chest of the victim as they ran screaming for mercy. Oh yes, he loved how he could sink his teeth into the tender flesh of the still-beating heart, his own blood racing as he ripped chunks out of it and laughed into the night. He needed this taste, craved it, every night. If he did not get his precious meat each and every night, then he would surely die.

He did not need a family to hunt for him anymore, oh no. He was perfectly capable of hunting for his food himself. In fact, just about every night, he would climb out of his window with his freshly sharpened knives and hunt for the night's meal.

It was during one of those hunts that he had finally been subdued. The young man had climbed out of his window as usual, armed with his favorite knife. It was nicely sharpened, to the point where a single hair falling upon it split in half. Oh yes, it would do quite nicely for the hunt.

He saw the girl in white, who had just come fresh from the May Day dance. Ah yes, little Anna Marie, the May Day Queen. A virgin, through and through. Virgins always tasted the best, in his opinion, because they were just so pure and so very rare.

He had approached this girl, this little Anna Marie, and bowed to her, leering at her with his eyes the color of the sky. He was handsome tonight and he knew it; except for one cowlick that defied gravity, his wheat-gold locks were neatly combed. He was dressed in some of his finest attire. He kept his expression eager and seductive.

She had started with surprise, of course. After all, what was a man such as he doing out so late, speaking to a homely little country-girl such as she? May Day was infamous for its rapes in the dead of night, but Alfred F. Jones was a gentleman. He never allowed his eyes to wander anywhere near her milk-white breasts, hidden not-so-gently under the collar of her gown.

Seducing her had been easy enough, and it was not long before little Anna Marie had quite forgotten to question why the adults had told her to stay away from Mr. Alfred F. Jones. After all, why should she stay away from a man so sweet, so respectful, so gentle when the other boys in the village were coarse and violent?

He had invited her to dance, and dance they did. She was a wonderful dancer, her supple curves gently twisting in the bright light of the moon. He led her in a gentle waltz, her bare feet skimming over the dew-soaked grass. Her white, virginal, beautiful dress flowed about in the wind, her gorgeous dark locks danced tantalizingly within his reach. Perfect pink lips smiled up at him and, using naught but her big brown eyes, she offered herself to him then and there.

He had staked his claim by plunging the knife deep into her left breast.

She had so much blood. It spurted out of her in waves. As the delicate body collapsed to the ground, her last scream dying in her throat, he had nearly drowned himself in the sweet red liquid that spurted out of her bosom. He leaped atop her, ripping apart her dress and her breasts, desperate to taste the sweet tang of her heart between his lips.

They had found him the next day, his face so covered in blood that his angelic features could not reach them. They saw for the first time the horrors he committed and were disgusted by them. Though his sky blue eyes still held some in their mesmerizing spell, they had managed to conquer them long enough to place him in a mask of iron and bind his hands and knees.

He was being led out now, to the gallows, where he could see the rope already dangling. What a way for him to die. If he did not die immediately, then he would simply hang there for days, until his end was finally brought upon him by starvation and thirst. The people would be there every day, no doubt, throwing things and jeering and screaming in horror at the man who they had once seen as an angel.

He mounted the steps and stood still as the rope wound around his neck. He vaguely heard the mayor in the distance, fat lips listing off his numerous crimes. The women and children all wept for the death of little Anna Marie, who was worshipped as a goddess as they buried her mangled corpse. Alfred licked his lips as the mayor prattled on, still tasting the sweetness of her heart.

"Let it be known now that Alfred F. Jones, the Angel of Beauty, will be no more, thanks to the efforts of your mayor. We shall sleep soundly at last..."

How pathetic. The disgusting ball of lard was using his execution to promote his campaign. Alfred was tempted to spit at him, but it would do him no good with his face encased in the iron mask. Instead, he merely waited for the executioner to pull the lever and for the trapdoor beneath his feet to open up, allowing either his choking body or his corpse to sway in the breeze.

In the front row, a little girl began reciting a nursery rhyme. Though the jeers of the crowd were loud, the little girl's voice was loudest of all. Alfred found himself listening intently to the gentle undulation of her whispered words, his curdling in pleasure at the sound of her voice.

"Beware the Crew of Horrors, my dear,

Who watch over all that's far and near..."

A scream pierced the air, followed by three more. The men of the village shouted as the sickening crunch of breaking bones filled Alfred's ears. Heavy footsteps pounded on the earth as the villagers dispersed, cowardly trying to take cover from whatever horror had descended upon them. Alfred vaguely wondered if it was his alleged demon father coming for him, ready to take him down to Hell.

Rough hands grabbed him by the head and began undoing the screws of his mask. From the tiny slit that allowed Alfred to see out, he could see stitches set against pale skin. These stitches, he realized, were holding a slit of a mouth shut.

Large brown eyes met his own, dark auburn hair with a single curl blowing in the wind. He saw the hate buried deep in those eyes. The sewn mouth was a punishment, obviously, and the young man standing before him was forced to speak only in loud, drawn-out moans. But Alfred understood these noises as clearly as he understood any spoken word.

"Your time has come, Alfred F. Jones. I am Lovino Vargas, the Unspoken One. We have been waiting for you."

"Beware the one whose mouth is sewn,

Who speaks in curses, shrieks, and moans."

Another male joined him now, green eyes an inferno of menace. His mouth was drawn back in a smile much to large for his face, revealing sharp canines and bits of flesh in between his teeth. A hand- no, a claw- ripped the bonds from his wrists and knees. Brown locks blew wildly in the wind. As Alfred was freed, he flipped off the platform, tongue lolling, a guttural howl ripping forth from his throat.

Antonio Carriedo, who was bitten once, then never again. Legend had it that he had been cast out, only to return and seek revenge. The full moon was his domain; once caught outside, it would spell doom to any child. It was rumored that he hunted with his teeth, but tracked with his claws.

"Beware the one who at the moon doth howl,

Whose night is forever his to prowl."

Alfred leaped off the platform, his laughter ringing through the air. He contorted his body in a million different ways, not aiming for anything, but hitting his mark each time. He was laughing- yes, laughing- and dancing. He loved to dance and laugh and sing.

Blood rained down and soaked the ground red. His laughter became the music to which the newcomers and villagers danced. This was a deathly waltz that they were performing, and as each man, woman, maiden, and tramp fell, they fell down screaming, more instruments to add to the symphony of his laugh.

Alfred F. Jones feasted like he had never feasted before.

He was wrapped in bandages from head to toe, leaving only golden tresses and piercing sapphire eyes. His mouth, when he opened it, reeked of decay. He had lived a thousand years and would live thousands more. His story was a tragedy; he had been encased in this prison alive, because his beauty was so great. Even now, it was suspected that his beauty was beyond compare, enough to bring the world to its knees.

They called him Francis, because he had no other name.

"Beware the bandaged monster's pride,

Whose beauty can never be denied."

Francis led him onto the ship, his hands unbound, his eyes free to roam as they pleased. It was a ship unlike any other; jet black and menacing to its core. It had no name, this horrible ship, because it did not need one. The mere touch of the ship upon water would turn it red with blood.

His other guide was Gilbert, a silver-haired daemon, a creature that did not belong in this world. He had been born of hate and spite of those whose vengeance was left unfulfilled. The magic he carried in his breast was enough to drown the world by storm. The hate he carried in his heart was enough to set fire to any lake. The blood that rained from his red eyes with his every kill was the dead weeping for their vengeance, for sins to be paid.

"Beware the eyes that rain down blood,

That call down the storm and thunder to flood."

He was brought before the daemon's brother, Ludwig, a skilled practitioner of magic over blood. It was said that he could make the heart burst, or destroy every vessel, drowning the victim in blood. He was a strict, disciplined demon on most nights, but when blood bathed his face, he became a monster unlike any other. He was the brother of the daemon, yes, but he was a menace all on his own.

"Beware the daemon of genocide,

Whose love for blood rises with tide."

The daemon examined him for wounds and weapons. Ice met the sky as the two regarded each other. Alfred could sense this daemon's heart, which beat only for one other creature upon this ship. A flash of white wings clouded his vision, as sweet brown eyes and brunette locks with a single curl smiled up at him.

Feliciano Vargas, brother of Lovino, who sacrificed his heavenly soul in exchange for the life of his brother. Tragedy struck them on that day, however, and both brothers perished by fire. Lovino, whose tongue had been cut out, would be called The Unspoken One. Feliciano came to be known as Heaven's Curse.

The look in the winged one's eyes spelt murder.

"Beware the smile of one with wings,

And the songs that his lips doth sing."

A green spirit danced by, bringing with him the earthly scents of flowers and spring. When Alfred's eyes followed the ebony-haired man, he saw only a childish smile and a pair of sparkling eyes. The man spun and bowed to him, never speaking, and placed a finger to his lips.

He had been Wang Yao, who fell for his nephew. The boy had been taken away from him by his parents' command. Yao took the child and raised him as his own. Then he took more, and more children. They were obedient to him. They learned how to please him. They were reborn, free of their parents' influence, ready to obey Yao's every command.

"Beware the spirit of the earth,

Whose command brings about a strange rebirth."

A blade silently slipped by as Alfred was taken deeper into the ship, the wielder's form flickering for a moment before diminishing. When the wielder appeared again, he saw more ebony hair and deep, soulless eyes. This man was cold, murderous, and dangerous. Even in death, he was capable of killing anything with ease.

Honda Kiku, samurai, who chose not to die for his shogun. For his insolence, he had been cursed, made to wander the earth until he made amends to the memories of his shogun. But rather than seeking repentance, he had turned his blade on innocents instead.

"Beware the ghost of the blade,

Whose anger will never, ever fade."

A cat wound its tail around Alfred's legs, its dark eyes piercing him as they regarded each other. Whispering seemed to radiate from this cat, a dull, alluring drone that promised the gentle comforts of a deep sleep. Or, to be more exact, the Last Sleep.

Heracles, who knew naught but sleep. Heracles, who slept through the war, the rape, the death, and the decay. He slept through all things but one: his own death.

"Beware the whispers of the beast,

Upon your flesh will he doth feast."

Thunder rocked the ship. Lightning ripped through the sky. Rain pounded the earth. These joined the symphony of death, decay, and crunching bone, of shriveled flesh and curdled blood. And this silver-haired giant, this Ivan, sat there on the floor, playing with his sunflower, counting the seeds one by one.

They knew not where he had come from.

"Beware the one who stands up tall,

For he is the most dangerous of them all."

Dame Elizabeta. It had been said that she was so beautiful, the church deemed it a sin. There were those that would come near and far to see her dance, to hear the music Lord Roderich ,her dear husband, played. It was said that those who heard the music would be entranced, and they would follow her anywhere. Her meat pies were famous, they said, because they were made of bits not found anywhere else.

"Beware the cackle of the beauteous witch,

Whose husband's music children bewitch."

They brought him before a door made of brass, guarded by but one ghost. This ghost, whose golden hair flowed gently, whose vacant violet eyes stared straight ahead, smiled at Alfred as he approached. Alfred grinned back and bowed, kissing the floor before the spirit.

The scream that followed nearly stopped his heart, nearly caused his bones to break. The two who walked with him remained unfazed, but Alfred shook as he was brought forward. The ghost smiled, all anger gone, and bowed out of the way as the door flew open.

Beware the terror of the ghost unnamed,

The anger within him remains untamed.

"My, my, my," the shorter blonde purred. "You were quite hard to obtain, weren't you?"

He was handsome, no doubt about it. His skin was a sickly pale color, as if he had never seen sun. Large eyebrows stood out prominently, covered slightly by an ashy-blonde fringe. Perfect pink lips flared out into a smile, revealing glittering white fangs. Green eyes, poisonous and alluring, flashed hungrily as Alfred's heart rate increased.

He was clad in a long red coat, gold and black creating the trimming. Underneath this coat, he wore a white shirt and black leggings, which emphasized his slim form. Brown leather boots encased his feet. At his belt, Arthur could see his pistol and his sabre. Atop his head, he wore a triangular fold hat adorned with ostrich feathers. It cast his eyes in a black shadow, causing them to glow even brighter than they were able to.

He had no heartbeat.

"You were destined to join us, you know," the captain whispered, "From the day you were born, we knew. We knew that we would one day bring you aboard our ship." the emeralds upon his face glittered in glee. "Are you hungry, Alfred?"

Yes, he was hungry. He had been hungry from the moment he stepped foot on this ship. But no matter where he looked, he would see nothing. Very few people on this ship had heartbeats. Those that did were unappetizing. He yearned for a maiden, not a monster; purity, not taint.

"I'm hungry as well," the captain strode forward and nuzzled his neck, inhaling deeply, taking in Alfred's rich scent. Cold hands wandered all around, slipping under his shirt, trailing up his chest. A hot tongue shot forward and licked gently, tasting his flesh, eliciting a moan from the young man.

The captain pulled away and smiled, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. "You smell amazing, my dear Alfred. More wonderful than anyone here."

For the first time, he spoke. "Who are you, captain?"

"We are the Crew of Horrors, unwanted and untamed. We are the ones who prowl in the night, to make ourselves known to all. They say we target only children, but that is a lie. It does not matter who we hunt, as long as we continue hunting. We are the answer to what humanity believes is sane and good. There is no God; there is only us and those who choose not to heed our call. After all, we are all monsters here, aboard this ship. We are all damned to wander this world because as long as there is goodness, there is us. We are here to flush out goodness, to deter dreams, and to keep the humans in line. We are all monsters here on this ship, and I..." the green eyes flashed. "Am the worst of us all."

"My fate was to join you?"

"But of course," the grin widened, fangs flashing in the dim light. "You and your brother were sired to do so, after all. Your mother was a fool of a woman to accept the terms of a daemon, but you two were born from that union. With you here, our crew is complete. We can truly begin our reign of blood. No longer will our purpose be to merely scare little children at night. Now we will feast and we will dance, we will waltz with the devil's tongue and consume the goodness of this world. We are no mere nursery rhyme any longer; today, all humans shall rue our name. Tonight is the beginning of a world ruled by horror."

He could hear it: the power in the other man's voice. This was the voice that called to him in his sleep, enticing him out of his bed every night. This was the voice that whispered sweet nothings to him as he consumed heart after heart, the one that screamed as his blood lust became near orgasmic.

This was the voice he had loved all his life.

"I will be cursed as well, won't I?" Alfred asked. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man, inhaling the sweet scent of blood and decay. It was so sweet, sweeter than any maiden's heart. "Damned to roam the world with you."

"If you were not damned already, you will be," was the answer. "The hearts you consumed- all of them- cry out for goodness, for the repayment of sin. You must therefore continue consuming hearts, especially those whose goodness knows no bounds. If you stop consuming, you will know naught but pain. Should this world fade, you will gain no entrance to heaven, nor will you gain entrance to hell. You will be made to wander in eternal darkness, with no light to guide you to the next place you must go. It is a high price to pay... but in exchange, you will be granted eternity."

He leaned down and touched their lips together, tracing the other's bottom lip with his tongue. The captain's lips parted, allowing him access to explore every nook and cranny. He tasted sweet, like freshly brewed tea. It was a taste almost as addictive as a maiden's blood. They pulled apart, sensuous and needy. Emeralds met the sky as Alfred spoke.

"I belong here, with you, always with you, ruling over me as my master."

They kissed again, hungrier this time, hands roaming. It was now Alfred's turn to open his mouth, to have a tongue explore his own nooks and crannies. He moaned, his body growing warmer, his skin flushed with excitement. The captain pulled away and touched his lips to the younger man's neck.

"And I belong here, with you, always with you, commanding you as my servant."

They fell to the floor now, Alfred underneath, the heat of his body masking the cold of the other's. His captain leaned down, their tongues mingled, their hands desperately explored each other. Alfred's heat was becoming unbearable, his need for the cool touch of his new master quickly transforming into an insatiable hunger, a wild and raw lust.

"Consider this your initiation, my dear first mate," his fangs broke the skin at Alfred's neck, lapping up the blood as it welled up. He straightened and straddled him with a smile, green eyes glittering. Alfred found himself smiling back, his heart racing, his need welling up inside him, stronger than ever before.

"Consider this my reward," Alfred crooned back.

"Consider this your rebirth."

The night was young, black, and cold. The moon shone silver against the ink black of the sky. In the distance, an owl took flight, silently winging its way towards its prey.

A man's scream pierced the air.

He crawled forward using his arms; his legs had been sawed off only moments ago. Blood leaked from the stumps of his knees as he tried desperately to crawl away. The sickeningly sweet scent of decay filled his nostrils as his pursuer approached.

Crazed, maniacal laughter rang in his ears.

"Don't stop now!" a voice cackled over the roar of the silvery chainsaw. "We're just getting started!"

Another flash of silver lit up the night sky, redness spattered the ground before him. The man screamed in horror as he watched his arms separate from where his elbows once were, the pathetic stumps of the limbs leaking deep red liquid.

The man was sobbing now. He was in pain. He was cold. He was hungry. He wanted it all to end.

"Kill me!" he cried. "Kill me now! I beg of you!"

A giggle sounded behind him. "Silly! It's no fun if I just end you all quickly like that before Master Iggy gets his fill!"

"Git. I told you to call me by my proper name when we are out hunting," a new voice hissed. The man trembled as he saw the hem of a long red coat enter his vision.

Before him stood a man who looked no older than twenty-five, clad in a red and black coat with gold trimming. Messy blonde locks were covered by a triangular fold hat, ostrich feathers cascading out of the top in a rather lovely waterfall of color. Startling green eyes, framed with golden lashes and the largest eyebrows the man had ever seen, gleamed down menacingly at the victim.

The man trembled at the sight of this newcomer, who smirked. Pale lips pulled back to reveal glittering white fangs. The expression in those green eyes became even more menacing, even hungrier than before. His nostrils flared and the man became aware that he was inhaling the coppery stench of his blood, as if it was the sweetest aroma he had ever smelled.

As the black lines at the edge of his vision moved closer to him, the man was suddenly struck by an old memory. Yes, he was sitting in his grandmother's lap, listening to the gentle throes of her voice. The old woman's lips quavered as she whispered the nursery rhyme, a story meant to make sure that all little children behaved:

"Beware the Crew of Horrors, my dear,

Who watch over all that's far and near.

Beware the one whose mouth is sewn,

Who speaks in curses, shrieks, and moans.

Beware the one who at the moon doth howl,

Whose night is forever his to prowl.

Beware the bandaged monster's pride,

Whose beauty can never be denied.

Beware the eyes that rain down blood,

That call down the storm and thunder to flood.

Beware the daemon of genocide,

Whose love for blood rises with tide.

Beware the smile of one with wings,

And the songs that his lips doth sing.

Beware the spirit of the earth,

Whose command brings about a strange rebirth.

Beware the ghost of the blade,

Whose anger will never, ever fade.

Beware the whispers of the beast,

Upon your flesh will he doth feast.

Beware the one who stands up tall,

For he is the most dangerous of them all.

Beware the cackle of the beauteous witch,

Whose husband's music children bewitch.

Beware the terror of the ghost unnamed,

The anger within him remains untamed.

And last, beware the ones your blood shall sate,

The feared Captain Kirkland and his beloved first mate."