Well, well, well – come one, come all to my sixth annual Halloween fanfic event here on FFNet! This year Hetalia: Axis Powers, which I ironically hated this time last year, gets the dubious honour, slapped up here with a title snatched shamelessly from William Shakespeare's Macbeth.
(All the chapters will be named after quotes from Shakespeare to keep in the pattern of the overall fic title. This chapter's is "Ill met by moonlight", part of the first line spoken by Oberon, the king of the fairies, to his wife Titania, the queen, in A Midsummer Night's Dream.)
Before we begin, a little about this fic: The original idea I had quite a few months ago was a oneshot. The principle idea was basically the same but the plot was, to put it frankly, complete bollocks. I thought it over for a while and resurfaced with this – a little gem of a storyline that does, unfortunately, need more than a oneshot format to do it justice. The fact is that I don't really have time to be embarking on another multi-chapter fic right now but it's either this or write the oneshot and the oneshot sucks so here we are. XD
In a similar manner to another of my 'Halloween specials' from a few years ago, Nevarmore for the Teen Titans section, this fic is a Victorian/Edwardian-set story in the vein of "oh noes people are dying in horrible and mysterious ways someone send for Buffy/Icabod Crane/Ghostbusters pls". Naturally this makes it an AU.
So here's where it gets interesting. It's an AU in the most literal sense of an AU – this is a world in which history is different. Very different. I won't reveal too much up here because I feel like my chapter ought to do that for me providing I wrote it properly but to set one thing perfectly straight before we start: The American Revolution hasn't happened. No, it didn't fail. It just hasn't happened yet.
However... the most "canon" thing about Hetalia is the existence of characters as nations – as immortal representations of their countries. Now I've turned that on its head a little – this is a Halloween horror story, yanno – but the fact that "nations" exist is preserved in this fic.
Lastly... the main pairing of this fic is UKUS and therefore America and England feature very prominently in the story; however, in a really weird, roundabout way, the protagonist is actually sort of... Canada.
I don't how the fuck it happened either.
Something Wicked This Way Comes
Ill Met By Moonlight
"You take so long to get ready to retire," Alfred moaned, rolling over in bed and propping himself up on one elbow, watching Arthur carefully peeling away layer after layer of rich silk and richer velvet, unbuttoning this and unbuckling that. "If you did not insist on dressing up so, there would be no need for you to take this long."
Arthur paused, glancing briefly over his shoulder at him; he smiled that strange pretty smile at him, his green eyes gleaming.
Absinthe. After much consideration, that was what Alfred had concluded his eyes were akin to, that peculiar green glint that twinkled and darkened under different lights, all mysterious and forbidden and wrong.
It was something Alfred had been drinking of for much too long now.
"Your impatience is as amusing as always," Arthur sighed, turning away from him again. "Good things come to those who wait, my lovely boy."
"But I shall fall asleep if you do not make haste!" Alfred pouted, looking away briefly for something else to amuse himself with.
His gaze fell on the window. He squinted at the chink in the curtains. Light. Ah, that would never do. Morning light was particularly unforgiving if one was trying to drift off to sleep. He'd lie awake and stare at it all day if it was not dealt with.
He pushed back the covers and got out of bed again, picking up his glasses from the nightstand and slipping them on as he crossed to the window.
"You seem quite restless to me," Arthur pointed out calmly, finally getting down to his shirt.
"It's the light," Alfred explained, stretching up to catch at the heavy curtains and close the gap between them. There – that was better. Now, with only the gaslamp at the bedside to light the blacked-out bed chamber, it might as well have been night outside.
Alfred didn't particularly like being nocturnal but their routine demanded it and he supposed, after all these years, he really had gotten used to it. Every now and then he'd stay up past his bedtime to watch the sun rise, to trot through the marketplace with the bright morning glow on his face and in his hair, as he bought fresh apples or pears, one to eat on the walk home and one for his breakfast when they got up at seven that evening – and when he did it was always glorious, always wonderful. He couldn't help it. He loved the sun.
Arthur didn't. Oh, he wasn't allergic to it or anything. It didn't hurt him, didn't make his flesh burn and twist and melt. There was no call for them to be nocturnal other than the fact that it was much easier to get away with their lifestyle at night. The clock struck midnight and everything began to get weird and sordid and perfectly acceptable.
And Arthur needed to eat, after all.
(Speaking of...)
Alfred went to the wardrobe and opened it, putting a hand on his hip and rolling his eyes as the corpse slid and half tumbled to the floor. It was a young man, not much more than a boy, with pale blonde hair and wide eyes permanently welded open in terror. The blood at his throat and at his belly had congealed already, dark clots of gunk festering around the wounds that had killed him. Finnish, they had decided. Tino something. They'd found him walking alone late last night, close to midnight, and Arthur had been very hungry by then.
("Scandinavian," Arthur noted in a low voice, sniffing the air. "Finnish, if I'm not much mistaken. I'm certain I smell Swedish on him, though..."
"Finnish," Alfred repeated breathily, his hand closing around the hilt of his knife. "Will that do?"
"Certainly," Arthur replied, daintily taking off his white silk gloves. "I cannot recall if I've eaten Finnish before. It will make a pleasant change.")
"England," Alfred said, nudging the body with his bare foot, "are you going to finish this?"
Arthur, who had been much closer to him than Alfred had realised, embraced him from behind.
"My, my, America," he hummed against his spine, the sound tremoring through Alfred's core like a dragonfly. "I do believe that you just made a joke."
"Wha...?" Alfred blinked. "Oh, right. Finish, Finnish." He laughed, feeling Arthur's arms constrict more tightly around his chest. "Well, are you?"
Arthur exhaled and looked around Alfred's shoulder at the corpse.
"I suppose I might pick at him later," he said thoughtfully. "Truth be told, however, he doesn't taste terribly good – nothing at all like that delicious little Italian priest we picked off last week. The German he was with was bloody awful, though. They all were – he was the only one that tasted any good. I couldn't stomach even a bite of the others. A lot of the prey seems to be that way these days. Too much of this blasted industrialism smog in their blood and bones, one might say. If I wanted my meat smoked, I'd go to the butcher's, would I not?"
"Does that mean we're going hunting again tonight?" Alfred sighed.
"Perhaps. We shall see. I might not be hungry."
"Well, I do wish you would make up your mind about these things beforehand," Alfred said. "If I do not need the rest for tonight then perhaps I might go and spend a few hours outside during the day."
"In whose company, America?" Arthur asked sweetly. "You have no friends. You only have me."
"Perhaps I shall make some!" Alfred replied haughtily. "Or... or perhaps you might join me, England! We could go for a walk, we could—"
"Enough," Arthur cut in curtly, "of your peculiar brand of fantasies, boy. You know as well as I do that I cannot possibly govern when I shall be hungry and when I shan't. Now come."
He kissed Alfred's bare shoulder, scraping his teeth – just sharper than a human's – over the bone of the blade, making Alfred shudder half in delight and half in fear.
He'd seen what those teeth could do, after all. And those hands – the ones currently rubbing possessive circles on his belly before briefly dipping lower, just enough to make his knees buckle a bit.
"To bed with you," Arthur whispered in his ear, "and I shall make it worth your while."
The Danish man was good at telling stories.
Matthew didn't know his name but he liked to listen to him; in the evenings in the tavern, everyone would cluster around the loud, boisterous, expressive Dane and cling to his every word. He certainly had a very vivid imagination, his sagas ranging from fanciful fairytales that he invented on the spot to supposedly-true stories about his own adventures – often to be taken with a pinch of salt, of course, given that he claimed that he had beheaded dragons and slain ogres with the very axe he always left sitting by the fireplace. Still, even his blatant lies were thoroughly entertaining.
Nobody noticed Matthew, of course. It was easy for him to float at the edges of the crowd, unseen and unheard, drinking in every word whilst he waited for Francis, who knew practically every patron who frequented the place. The last time Matthew had seen him, he had been talking to Roderich and leering at Elizaveta, the two respective halves of the married couple who owned the tavern. Now, however, Matthew glanced briefly at the bar and saw only Elizaveta wiping it down, being hassled by Gilbert Beilschmidt as she did so. There was no sign of Roderich and no sign of Francis.
Not too worried – Francis was practically famous for disappearing – Matthew turned his attention back to the Dane and his adoring audience, sipping at his mug of hot spiced wine as he listened.
"And so," the storyteller said, getting to the conclusion of his last tale – a strange, sad, beautiful story about a mermaid who gave up everything for the love of a human prince and an immortal soul – "being that she loved him so, she could not kill him, even though it would have saved her life and turned her back into a mermaid; instead she threw herself over the side of the wedding ship, where her body turned to the foam that crowns the waves."
There was applause. The Dane grinned and gave a mocking bow. There were toasts to him and somebody called for more beer to wet their beloved bard's throat. Matthew clapped quietly at the back but no-one looked at him.
"Another, another!" called a soldier, raising his glass. His friends and comrades cheered his suggestion.
Soldiers. That was right. The war. Matthew glanced around. Continent Army, by the looks of it. That made sense, too. There were a lot of them in here tonight. They had to be on leave.
"Another?" the Dane mused, taking a fresh mug of beer brought to him by a barmaid. "Alright, let me think. Three tales I have told tonight have been unreal. What say you fellows to one with a dash of truth to it?"
More cheering and clapping. The Danish storyteller took a huge swig of his beer and set it down heavily next to him, taking a deep breath.
"Fine," he said with a grin. "Here's one for you. It happened right here in this plain little town thirteen years ago – a quiet town it was, you see, nothing weird or wonderful, nothing strange or supernatural ever happened until this one night. Of course, you might say back then was the beginning of the war – or the seeds of it beginning to be planted, at least. This particular night, two Empire Army generals – husband and wife – were brutally murdered in their home, torn to pieces by a strange creature who charmed his way over their threshold with the looks and act of a perfect gentleman. He killed them both, trained soldiers that they were, and ripped them open as though he was searching for something. Then his attention fell upon the children – two children, you see. Twin boys. They were six years old."
Matthew dropped his mug. No-one looked at him.
"Now you may think you know where this is going," the Dane went on, slamming a fist down on the table and making several patrons around him jump. "You think this vile beast devoured the children there and then, do you not? Wrong! I agree that that might be a better conclusion to the tale but this tale is true and so, with regret, I inform you that the creature merely took one of the children that night and stole him away. The other child was left absolutely untouched and, being orphaned, grew up in the care of our own Francis Bonnefoy. Some of you may even know this young protégé, though it must be said that he is easy to overlook." The storyteller here dropped his voice. "And what of the boy taken that fateful night? Did he meet a terrible end mere hours afterwards – do his half-eaten bones lie concealed in the woods somewhere still? Or perhaps still he resides with our fiendish friend, who disappeared that night with nary a trace left behind of his wicked presence? Indeed, to this day, whilst the tale of what happened that night spread all through the town – for many saw the creature that evening, a bewildering stranger with an intoxicating presence and eyes like that banned poison absinthe – all they ever found of him was his calling card. He was sent by the Empire Army." The Danish man rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Generals Washington and Liberty Jones were, of course, North Americans – part of the Empire, wearing the Empire Army's uniform. It was an assassination – but to what end? Therein the mystery still lies."
There was silence. The storyteller leaned back in satisfaction and took up his beer again, drinking long and deep. Matthew shakily got up and left the crowd. No-one noticed him go.
Outside, he threw up into the drain. It wasn't the wine. God, God, God, why couldn't people forget about that terrible night? True, it was the town's only real gossip, a brutal mystery well over a decade old that had never been solved; nothing like it had ever happened before or since. But even so, it was no excuse, none at all, for him to be able to begin to push it out of his mind only for some damned baker or butcher or storyteller in a tavern to dig it up again and wave it in his face. Every now and then he heard snatches of the story, more and more garbled every time, flung between passers-by; it lived on in the brutal hearsay of the townsfolk even all these years later.
The Dane, of course, had told that story merely for the benefit of the soldiers, most of whom were not from the town. Everyone else knew the tale. Everyone. It was almost as though they were glad it had happened, that Matthew had clung to his brother and his brother to him as they had cowered in the corner and seen their parents murdered in front of them – and then that the creature had risen and approached them, had taken very firm hold of his brother and pulled them apart, had lifted his chosen child up and wrapped him carefully in his cloak and then had very calmly walked out—
That Alfred hadn't screamed or struggled or cried.
Matthew leaned against the tavern wall and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Alfred was dead. Of course he was dead. That thing had probably eaten him before even a day had gone by. Two fully-grown adult army generals hadn't stood a chance against that creature. What kind of hope in hell would a six-year-old boy have had? Matthew couldn't stand the horror and revulsion and pain that welled in him when he thought of that night, when he remembered and realised that he was the only one of the family left, that his twin had been dead for thirteen years, no doubt ripped apart in the same fashion as their parents by that beast who showed up out of nowhere—
"There you are!"
The voice addressing him was abrasive, thickly-accented and familiar. Matthew opened his eyes and found Lovino Vargas standing in front of him, scowling and with his arms folded.
"I was sent to find you!" Lovino snapped. "Bonnefoy said you were down in the tavern but when I go to fetch you, are you there?"
"S-sorry," Matthew mumbled, pushing off the wall.
"Well, come on," Lovino went on sharply, turning on his heel. "Bonnefoy wants you. Bastard Antonio and I only just arrived and I was immediately sent on errands – first to fetch that moronic Beilschmidt and then to find you! I am not a messenger boy and I shall be sure to tell that tomato-bastard exactly that when I return!"
There didn't seem to be much point in interrupting the irritable Italian's rant, so Matthew just nodded politely as he followed him back into the tavern (glancing briefly at the Dane, who was engaged in telling yet another story), out into the hall and up the narrow, rickety staircase that led to the room upstairs. Lovino muttered hotly to himself all the way, Matthew catching a profanity here and there but realising, after a moment, that Antonio Carriedo's apprentice was actually speaking Italian, no longer bothering to even try and accommodate Matthew by using the English he had a moment ago. Matthew doubted that Lovino knew any French, although he'd heard him speaking Spanish with Antonio many times, his tone no different to this one.
The room upstairs was small and empty – Roderich and Elizaveta lived next door to the tavern and let this room gather dust between allowing the "Bad Friends Trio", as they had taken to dubbing themselves, to use it as a meeting place. Their meetings were actually somewhat seldom; since being taken on officially by the Continent Army, the trio were not often together, sent on missions to different parts of the world on behalf of the army's interests as the war spread across the globe like wildfire.
The "Bad" part of their title was also (Matthew had always felt) sort of ironic. Sure, they weren't exactly model citizens – but they weren't bad, per se, and their self-invented occupation, the one that had caught the Continent Army's attention in the first place, was not without its merits.
Dedicating themselves to hunting down and capturing those demonic creatures – Nations – wasn't a bad thing in Matthew's opinion—
Particularly since it had been a Nation that had murdered his parents and his brother all those years ago.
Luckily they weren't terribly common – Matthew had, in fact, only ever seen Francis and his partners capture one in all the time he'd been with him – but being a hunter of them was, in part, also being a detective. The chase could go on for years given that Nations were very, very good at covering their tracks. Oh, and that they often killed those who hunted them. More than often.
Shutting the door behind him, Matthew stepped into the room with Lovino. The other three were already assembled and there was a grave silence overhanging the gathering; even loud-mouthed Gilbert was quiet, not bragging about how he had fought off three Nations single-handedly with but a toothpick as a weapon only the night before.
This didn't look good. Matthew went to Francis' side, speaking to him in low, gentle French as Lovino stormed straight up to Antonio and began to assail him in Spanish.
"Has something happened?" Matthew asked. "The atmosphere amongst you seems so very... sombre."
"We shall get to it," Francis replied in a hushed tone, reaching back and pulling the black ribbon from his hair as he spoke, letting it fall loosely around his shoulders. "As you know, Antonio has only just arrived back from Rome. He has some dreadful news."
Matthew felt his heart sink. Not much got these three down, not even the things they saw in their occupation, not even the ongoing bloodshed of the Turn-of-the-Century War. He stayed close to Francis, fidgeting idly with the hem of his waistcoat, but his gaze fell upon Lovino, who was being held by his elbows by Antonio and being spoken to in firm, quiet Spanish. He appeared to have stilled and quietened, although he was still scowling considerably. In his brown shirt and matching breeches and boots, he looked very drab against Antonio – who, as usual, was regaled in the scarlets and golds native to his homeland.
Gilbert, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, gave a deep sigh. He had no apprentice like Antonio and Francis, often proclaiming that he had never come across a lonely orphaned whelp deserving enough of his tuition, although he did have a companion, an odd little bird that sometimes sat his shoulder and sometimes sat on his head.
Matthew glanced at Gilbert. He didn't look very happy. At all.
"Antonio!" Gilbert spoke sharply. "Get on with it, for pity's sake! I do not know how much longer you intend to make me brace myself to hear your tale of woe once more!"
Antonio let go of Lovino, straightened himself and cleared his throat.
"Very well," he said. "Lovi, you must listen closely, for what I have to say is unpleasant and I know it will anger and upset you."
Lovino scowled deeper but Matthew noticed the slight veil of worry flicker over his set features. Unnerved – because it was unlike Antonio to be so serious – Matthew reached for Francis' hand, clutching at it nervously; Francis closed his around it comfortingly and gave it a squeeze.
"As you all well know, I have just returned from Morocco, near the frontlines of the war," Antonio went on. "I was sent by the Continent Army on a lead regarding the whereabouts of our number one priority, the Nation known as England. Alas! I arrived too late. Our devilish friend had long since departed and left in his wake two entire Continent Army companies, torn to pieces as is his particular method, and..."
He paused, briefly glancing at Lovino.
"Spit it out, for God's sake!" Gilbert exploded, pushing off the wall. "You cannot protect him from it! Mein Gott, was my brother not torn to shreds as well?"
Lovino's amber eyes widened. Matthew felt his stomach plummet somewhere down near his feet.
"Lovino," Antonio said briskly, grabbing at Lovino again in an attempt to repair the damage caused by Gilbert's outburst. "Your brother, Feliciano, was sent by the church he was serving in to help at the frontlines, nursing the injured soldiers."
"I know," Lovino said dully. "I know that, stupid bastard. He wrote to me and told me. He was very excited."
"Well..." Antonio took a deep breath. "He went out to fetch water that night, accompanied by a friend of his – well, you know him. Gilbert's brother, Major Ludwig Beilschmidt. It seems that they were the first to be killed, picked off less than a mile from the camp on their way back. The Nation devoured almost... well, almost all of his organs."
"So he fed on little Feli," Gilbert hummed dangerously. "You said he barely took a bite out of West?"
Antonio nodded, turning his attention away from Lovino (who, Matthew noticed, was quivering silently, his pale fists clenched at his sides).
"And the rest. He simply killed them – probably just carrying out his orders, I expect. But he was hungry when he killed Feliciano."
"It must have been orders," Gilbert agreed gruffly. "Two whole companies is excessive, even for a Nation. They tend not to kill on a full stomach, either – for him to have done it after he had eaten would be strange unless he had been given the order by the Empire Army to do so."
"Two whole companies seems excessive anyway," Francis pointed out; Matthew glanced at him, the news barely sinking in even now. "Are you quite certain that he was alone?"
Antonio glanced at him.
"He must have been," he said. "I saw no trace whatsoever of Empire Army soldiers and I do not know of any other Nations in the Empire Army's arsenal. We already captured Russia four years ago and handed him over to the Continent Generals—"
Lovino screamed and threw himself at Antonio, pounding furiously at his chest. He wailed at him in Italian, his tone and expression and body language so, so angry – but he was crying, too, the tears streaming down his face and his chest bucking with the effort of shouting and sobbing at the same time.
The only word Matthew could pick out was a strangled screech of "fratello!" over and over again.
Antonio put his arms around Lovino and pulled him close to his chest; Lovino fought him at first, kicking and scratching, twisting madly in his arms, but Antonio held on and eventually Lovino fell still in his grasp, weeping more quietly. For a long moment, his stifled sobs were the only sound in the room.
Matthew didn't know what to say except perhaps "I know how you feel"; but he said nothing because it wasn't the time or the place to say it, really. Despite the fact that it hurt to have Danes bringing it up in casual conversation, using it as a fireside horror-story, Matthew's pain had dulled over the years. Lovino's – and Gilbert's, perhaps, even if he wouldn't show it – was fresh and raw and new and ugly.
"Well," Gilbert said suddenly, shattering the spell, "sitting about here weeping and wailing about it won't get us that bastard Nation's head on a stick. Antonio, are you heading back out there?"
Antonio glanced at him, stroking Lovino's hair.
"Yes," he said. "I have no army missions at present, so I had planned to go back out to the frontlines. There have been no more reports of any more massacres along the frontlines but the Nation is likely on an assignment to kill as many of our soldiers as possible and is perhaps biding his time before striking again when the soldiers feel safe once more and let down their guard. The frontlines seem the best place to hunt him."
"I shall join you," Gilbert said firmly. "Two heads – and two guns – are better than one." He looked at Francis. "And what of you, Francis?"
Francis shook his head apologetically.
"I cannot join you, I am afraid," he said. "I am stationed here. You know this is where the soldiers on leave return to. This town is my protectorate."
"Well, I suppose it's good to have someone to hold down the fort," Antonio sighed; he looked down at Lovino. "Lovi, given that this is not an official assignment from the army, having you with us would not be a problem. I would be greatly honoured if you would join us."
Lovino didn't speak but, after a long moment, he nodded into Antonio's chest.
"Then we shall be a trio after all," Gilbert noted dryly. He started towards the door. "I expect we leave on the morrow?"
"That would be for the best," Antonio said. "It would be in our interest to catch the first train in the morning, given that it will be several days' travelling."
Gilbert nodded.
"Very well," he said stiffly. "I shall meet you at the station first thing. For now, gentlemen, goodnight."
He bowed mockingly to them and left the room, banging the old door behind him. There was a spell of silence in his absence; even Lovino had gone quiet, but was still clinging to Antonio, something which Matthew had never seen him do before. He supposed that it was a good thing that Lovino at least sought comfort in Antonio's arms – he'd always felt that the two were probably closer than Lovino liked to pretend with his aggressive behaviour.
Francis moved closer to the pair, pulling Matthew with him by the hand.
"Lovino, mon cher," Francis said in a low voice, putting a hand on Lovino's shoulder, "I am deeply sorry for your loss. I was very fond of your brother."
Lovino shrugged his hand away.
"Yes, we all know how fond you were of him, wine-bastard," he snarled. "Keep your hands to yourself and your toy."
Matthew flinched a bit at his abrasiveness but neither Francis nor Antonio seemed particularly perturbed by Lovino's tone; their gazes met.
"Be safe, mon ami," Francis said.
"And you, mi amor," Antonio replied.
Francis leaned in and kissed Antonio on the mouth; Matthew had seen him do it before and knew it was just a (peculiar) gesture of friendship between them. Lovino, conversely, was irritated by the action and parted them forcibly, pushing Francis away and swearing at him in Italian.
"Ah, I see we have outstayed our welcome," Francis said glibly. "Come, then, Mathieu. Let us depart. Antonio, Lovino, au revoir." He blew them both a kiss and led Matthew away briskly before he could say goodbye himself, pushing him down the narrow staircase before him as Antonio called something indistinct after Francis in Spanish.
"Mathieu," Francis purred, switching back to French as they entered the street and wrapping an arm about his young apprentice, "you must not be so shy. Why, you did not endeavour to speak even a word. It is no wonder that people take no notice of you."
Matthew pulled away from Francis and moved to stand in front of him in the deserted misty street; looking at his master, his saviour, in all of his grandeur, his long blue coat embellished with gold, his silk necktie of deepest purple with his favourite pearl pin, his velvet waistcoat and white leather boots—
He worked for the Continent Army but he had Empire in him somewhere. Matthew didn't know why he felt it but he did and always had.
"Very well," Matthew said icily, drawing his own pale cream-coloured coat around himself. "I shall speak out, Francis. Why is it that the beast which killed my parents and my brother is still at large thirteen years later – and at large enough to be devouring the brothers of our companions?"
Francis kneaded at his forehead.
"Mathieu, pray do not be so unfair," he said wearily. "You know well that the business of capturing Nations is not an easy one. Do you think I would allow England to run free if I had the choice? The fact is that I have not even seen him since that night thirteen years ago. For years he disappeared without a trace. It is only recently, with the outbreak of the war, that he has appeared again on our doorsteps to torment us. Also, you must remember that he is in the service of the Empire – it is his shield."
Matthew didn't back down, even when Francis got walking again and stepped past him.
"You do not think that he is alone, either," he said.
Francis paused, glancing back at Matthew in the dull light of the gaslamp swinging in the breeze a few feet away.
"Well, that might be jumping to conclusions," he admitted, "but the fact is that I do not believe that your twin is dead."
"You'll kill me!" Alfred cried, throwing his head back against the pillow. "Oh, how my heart hammers fit to burst – England, I swear to you that you shall kill me!"
"Ah?" England lifted his head from between Alfred's legs. "How so, my boy?" His tongue flickered across Alfred's inner thigh, making him writhe. "With pleasure, you insinuate?"
"Yes, yes," Alfred panted. "Death or madness – either, either!"
"Oh, you are so dramatic," Arthur sighed; he breathed the words out against Alfred's thigh and lower still, feeling him squirm again. "Still, your waxing poetic at times like these has always amused me. How quick and ready you are to confuse death with pleasure, pleasure with death. You quite remind me of that poet who shares your North American blood, Edgar Allan Poe. I very much enjoyed his recitations in Massachusetts and New York before his untimely death some fifty-odd years ago."
"Y-you attended them?" Alfred stammered, propping himself up enough to look down at Arthur.
"Naturally," Arthur hummed. "When I was in the area, of course." He laughed gently. "Do you forget my age at times, America?"
Alfred grinned at him.
"No," he replied. "I recall that you are an old man – how could I forget?"
Arthur smirked, his green eyes positively glittering with a delighted tint of malice.
"How indeed," he agreed, "when all I seek is to devour you for your youth?"
"Is that all?" Alfred teased. "Do you only want to eat me?"
"Of course – though I admit that I do not usually take the time to admire my meal quite so much as this." He ran his gaze appreciatively over Alfred's naked form. "You really are quite lovely, America."
"What, all marked like this?" Alfred's fingers ghosted mockingly over a few of the permanent rose-shaped scars scattered over his body – one low on his neck, one at his shoulder, one over his heart, one floating just under his navel. "You see beauty in these blemishes?"
"Of course, since I was the one to put them there." Arthur kissed the one closest to him – on the inside of Alfred's right thigh, close to his knee-joint. "These are your birthday presents, given once a year to mark the anniversary of the day you became mine. Counting this year's, you have thirteen." He took Alfred's left wrist, turned it up and kissed the bloom there too. "The rose is my flower – my thirteen claims upon you take its shape. Lovelier blemishes you will never see, I quite assure you."
His blonde head dipped again; struck speechless, Alfred couldn't see what he was doing but moments later he felt the hot breath on his dick, the slick swathe of tongue and sudden scrape of teeth against his swollen sensitive flesh—
Oh, those teeth, those hands that spread now over his thighs, stroking him in time with the flicks of talented tongue – Alfred had seen what they could do. He had seen them devour women, tear apart men; this was what he did, this was what Arthur Kirkland did – England, Britain, British Empire, this godawful creature whom Alfred loved more than anything. He lulled you into a secret sense of security with his lovely voice and his charming manners, with his bewitching eyes and his promise-sewn smile, you fell into his arms and into his lies, you opened your door or purse or legs for him and then his voice and manners and eyes and smile completely changed and he murdered you, oh, how he murdered you, swift but spectacular, silent but sensational (and if he was especially hungry sometimes he started eating you before you were even dead—)
Alfred had seen it. He'd seen it hundreds of times. And he wasn't afraid.
After all, he trusted Arthur to not eat him.
Still, Arthur was hungry. His scant nibbling at the unsavoury Finn hadn't satisfied his appetite at all and it was obvious in the way he used his mouth on Alfred now, interested in every vein, every fold, every swell, exploring Alfred as though he'd never tasted him before; his tongue pressed against the root of Alfred's dick as he went lower, over his balls, a hot wet swipe at his entrance and then higher again, Alfred wincing as he felt those sharp teeth graze his sac and then—
"Ow!" Alfred kicked at him. "Don't bite!"
Arthur laughed, clearly amused, and glanced up to meet Alfred's gaze; those guilty teeth flashed in his grin.
"Do you not trust me?" he sang.
"O-of course I do," Alfred replied, still with his foot pressed against Arthur's hip, ready to shove him away if he tried to pounce. "But sometimes... sometimes I think you forget just how sharp your teeth are, you know. Not down there, please."
"Ah, not where it is sensitive?" Arthur hummed, sinking a third time. "You have no adventure about you, boy – but here, I shall kiss it better."
He did indeed press a kiss to the tip of Alfred's cock, just enough to make him sink back to the bed with a groan; Alfred's head hit the pillow again as Arthur finally made good on his teasing promise and took him into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around him. His teeth – with edges like needles – scraped again as he moved his head and Alfred groaned, his heart pounding heavier still and his back arching off the mattress. His hips pushed up into Arthur's every ministration almost without his consent, his whole body quivering, shuddering with the shockwaves that radiated throughout him as Arthur sucked and licked and nipped at him, positively savoured him.
Of course, Alfred knew nothing about human lovemaking. He had been sleeping with Arthur for years but Arthur had been his first and only; Arthur, with inhuman strength and sharp nails and teeth like knives. His jaw, too, was exceptionally strong, rendering him able to pull and tear at flesh and bones and innards without the help of a blade if he was particularly starving. He had bruised Alfred with kisses and blowjobs before – cut him, too, with his teeth, with his claws, cracked a rib or two whilst being too rough.
Those teeth. Alfred knew that all Arthur had to do was snap his mouth shut and he'd castrate him; he'd probably swallow it too, the bastard...
As though reading his mind (and Alfred had never been entirely sure that Arthur was incapable of intercepting his thoughts), Arthur suddenly shifted forwards and Alfred felt himself slip partway down his throat; hot, narrow confines that had given way to gore earlier that night, Alfred had watched him kill and eat Tino with the same strange, horrified fascination he always did, and to be fucking that throat, to have his cock where usually only the torn bloodied flesh that satisfied Arthur's grotesque appetite passed fleetingly as he swallowed it—
Alfred shuddered and came very suddenly, shivering long after he fell still on the sheets; he felt Arthur swallow around him and was suddenly frightened enough to pull back himself, his limp wretched dick drenched with saliva, a morsel Arthur had more-or-less spat out because he didn't want it anymore, having taken everything good from it.
Arthur kneeled back and wiped his mouth on his sleeve; he tilted his head and smirked at Alfred.
"Well," he said quietly, "that was interesting." He leaned forwards again, his hands pressing to the mattress either side of Alfred's chest, and kissed his belly, tongue dipping teasingly into his navel. "I suppose it is high time you began to show signs of stirring."
"Do... do not be so ridiculous," Alfred panted, looking away. He lifted one bare foot and put it against Arthur's crotch, toes curling against it in search of arousal. "Ah, sh-shall we...?"
"No." Arthur pushed Alfred's foot away at the exact moment that Alfred realised his monstrous lover was not aroused in the slightest. "Not tonight, love. Truth be told, I am really rather hungry."
"That's because you did not eat your supper," Alfred huffed.
"I know, it is my own fault," Arthur conceded pleasantly, reaching behind him and surfacing with Alfred's underwear. "But he was, as I said at the time, bloody awful. Now come along, put your knickers back on so that you do not tempt me." He took Alfred's feet, one at a time, and fed them through the legs of his underwear, pulling them up to his knees. "I think you can do the rest yourself."
He slid off the bed, leaving Alfred to sulkily pull his underwear back up.
"I do not see why everything we do has to be governed by your peculiar eating habits," Alfred grumbled, getting under the covers and watching Arthur finally undo his belt and slip out of his breeches.
"Oh, America," Arthur sighed impatiently, not looking at him, "I have told you why time and time again. For Nations, our greatest pleasure is the kill – and we do, of course, kill to eat, feeding by and large on humans. If I am hungry, the pleasure of intercourse will, without a doubt, trigger my instinct to kill and eat whatever I am fucking – and if you do not wish for that 'whatever' to be you, then we will continue our regime of only having requited relations when I am full."
"But I am not human either!" Alfred said earnestly. "You have told me so yourself so many times that I cannot count! I am a Nation too – America, remember? That is what you call me. Why, I cannot recollect that last time you called me by my birth-name."
"Even so," Arthur said blandly, "that would not stop me taking a bite out of you. I have killed other Nations before."
Alfred gave a disgusted groan and rolled over, facing the wall.
"But your strange diet is inconvenient," he muttered. "I am a Nation too and yet I have no overwhelming desire to eat every living thing that comes within two feet of me."
(Even if... God, well, the whispers in his brain, the fact that he had orgasmed on the knowledge that Arthur had murdered and devoured an innocent young man earlier that night—)
"Well, no," Arthur agreed breathily, leaning over Alfred and kissing him on the cheek – a sweet, gentle little gesture that belied the monster lurking beneath that lovely face, that charismatic smile and those intoxicating absinthian eyes. "That is because you have yet to be awakened, America."
sharp teeth are sharp and absinthe eyes are absinthe, yo.
Tch, Let me have my fun. At least my own quasi-original take on the notion of "pre-existing (more or less) fictional monster" isn't 'and when he went out into the sunlight, he sparkled like Tinker-Bell had sneezed all over him'. XD
Well, absinthe seemed like a good comparison for the (in-canon) green eyes of this creature that Alfred can't help but be drawn to; absinthe suffers from demonisation, having been accused of being hallucinatory and dangerous and god knows what else, and had in fact been banned in North America and most of Europe well before WWI.
The exception? Great Britain. Apparently we never banned it because that's how we roll. Or something.
"The Dane" is, of course, Denmark. Denmark, who has no human name. Poor, poor Denmark. :( Incidentally, the first story he was telling was the original 'The Little Mermaid' by Hans Christian Anderson – a Dane. ^^ My head-canon for Hetalia is a wonderful place where Denmark, Germany and England are all really good at telling stories because the former has Anderson, the middle has the Brothers Grimm and the latter (us) has... well, Shakespeare, King Arthur and Robin Hood, amongst other things. Need I go on? XD
That said, I bet Greece has a good story or two to tell when he's not busy sleeping(withjapanlol).
As I said up top, this is an AU in the "literal" sense of an Alternate Universe (I'm sure you've gathered that by now) but it notably contains parallels to actual history (read: Hetalia's canon storyline). The most important example in this chapter was the place England killed Italy – Morocco, which is, as I'm sure you know, in North Africa. ^^
Also, America's thirteen marks – England's claims of ownership on him – ought to be pretty self-explanatory. As a note, the rose is the national flower of both England and the United States.
Don't hold your breath for more of Spain, Romano and Prussia – I may surprise myself but for now I'm fairly confident that I was getting rid of them by sending them back to the frontlines. There will be much, much more of France and Canada, though. Yayz!
Well, I think that is all for now! Thankyou for reading the first chapter of my little Halloween wannabe spook-fest. Hope you all have a wonderful day today, whatever you do! Halloween greetings from YaoiCon in beautiful San Francisco, California, USA!
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!11111!111111!1
RobinRocks
xXx
P.S: I'm certain this is obvious but just fyi: England is NOT a vampire. (Nor is he a cannibal since he's not human himself. Just throwing that out there.)
P.P.S: YES AN EDGAR ALLAN POE REFERENCE SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE I LIKE HIM