Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4869977.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      Canada_(Hetalia)/Prussia_(Hetalia), England_(Hetalia)/France_(Hetalia),
      Bulgaria_(Hetalia)/Romania_(Hetalia), Greece_(Hetalia)/Japan_(Hetalia),
      Denmark_(Hetalia)/Norway_(Hetalia), Hong_Kong_(Hetalia)/Iceland_
      (Hetalia), Norway_(Hetalia)/Romania_(Hetalia), Finland_(Hetalia)/Sweden_
      (Hetalia), South_Italy_(Hetalia)/Spain_(Hetalia), Germany_(Hetalia)/North
      Italy_(Hetalia), America_(Hetalia)/Canada_(Hetalia), England_(Hetalia)/
      Scotland_(Hetalia), Canada/England/France_(Hetalia)
  Character:
      America_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Canada_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Male
      Liechtenstein_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), France_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers),
      Norway_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), England_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Romania_
      (Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Japan_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), China_(Hetalia:
      Axis_Powers), Spain_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Prussia_(Hetalia:_Axis
      Powers), Russia_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Hong_Kong_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers),
      Iceland_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Finland_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Denmark_
      (Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Sweden_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), South_Italy_
      (Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), North_Italy_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Germany_
      (Hetalia:_Axis_Powers)
  Additional Tags:
      Prostitution, Underage_Sex, Incest, Violence, Organized_Crime, Explicit
      Sexual_Content, Yaoi
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-25 Updated: 2015-12-05 Chapters: 4/? Words: 13766
****** Pretty Boys Taste Sweet ******
by killerkitty15
Summary
     When pretty boys are at their wits end, trying to make ends meet and
     have to stoop to the lowest level of employment, there is "Paradise".
     Here, Oliver and Francis offer food, shelter, clothing, safety,
     kindness and love, but not everything is perfect in paradise,
     especially with romance in the air and the threats from the mafia,
     both new and old.
Notes
     Sorry for any grammar/spelling errors! I hope you enjoy it, though!
***** Prologue *****
-2007-March-
A sixteen year old boy with pale, freckled covered skin, big blue eyes,
strawberry blonde hair and a scrawny, feminine figure walked along crowded,
city streets. A blue hoodie beneath a brown jacket protected him from the moody
wind and he walked with the same quick paced gaunt as everyone else.
Ease out a five.
Ease out a watch.
Ease out a hastily put away credit card.
Don't apologize when you bump into them.
The pick pocket's feminine, slender fingers made their way into pockets and
purses with little effort. He slid his hand into the back pocket of a man's
jeans, felt the bulging wallet-.
His wrists were grabbed and he was tossed into an alley that smelled of beer,
piss and week old garbage. He struggled, kicking and trying to wiggle his way
out of the man's grasp, but his wrists were pinned to the rough exterior of
some sort of public works building, the man's grip strong and painful enough to
bruise.
"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" the man snapped, his heavy French
accent an indication of his immigrant status.
The teen let his eyes travel up the man's body. Plain white sneakers, jeans, a
black t-shirt, a black wind breaker and a purple scarf; the man had a strong,
built body that spoke volumes and a handsome face, he had five o'clock shadow
all over his face, a slightly pointy nose, a defined jawline, dark blue eyes
that seemed purple at some angles with dark circles beneath them and golden
blonde hair that hung in limp waves around his face and down to his shoulders.
"I don't know-."
"Cut the crap," he snapped, a heavy scowl on his face, "Do you even know who
the fuck I am?"
The kid shook his head, until his eyes caught on the tattoo on his neck that
had been covered by the scarf, before they were in the alley and their struggle
caused it to fall out of place. On the side of the Frenchman's neck was the
tattoo of a tattoo of a black bull impaling the side of a brown bull with its
long horns. That tattoo was given to high ranking members of the Fernandez
Crime Family. The Boss and the Boss' heir had a head of a bull tattooed on
their back. The teen's eyes widened, "Jesus, Mary, Joseph..."
"Oui, you dumbass" -the Frenchman pauses, narrowing his eyes -"...how old are
you, anyway? Your name?"
"Ollie," the teen spoke, "I'm nineteen-."
The older man's grip tightened. "Try again."
Oliver swallowed thickly, "Pl-Please, I can show you a good time! I'll suck you
off, call you 'sir", whatever you want, all for free-."
Both of Oliver's wrists were in one of the stranger's hands, while the free
hand now clutched at the fragile column of Oliver's throat. "Tell me your real
age or I will strangle you."
Tears blurred Oliver's vision and he whimpered, like a wounded animal, "S-
Sixteen, Sir!"
Almost immediately, the older man released Oliver, face ashen as he watched the
boy stumble and cough. "Jesus, you're just a child...Jesus..." he murmured,
running a hand through his tangled hair, "How do you even know about that shit-
?"
"I'm not just a pick pocket, Sir," Oliver wheezed, massaging his neck, "I'm a
whore, too."
"Where the fuck are your parents-?!"
"Dead," Oliver answered, dry eyes and monotonously, but he cast his gaze on his
shoes, "My brother, Aliaster, was supposed to take care of me...but..."
"Your brother is Aliaster Kirkland...am I correct?" he breathed, incredulous,
"he's a Jackrabbit...he...he pimped you out, didn't he."
It wasn't a question.
"...Yes."
The man inhaled sharply, brow furrowed and continuously running his hands
through his hair, a torn expression on his face. "Look, boy-."
"-not a boy-."
"-Ollie. I am Francis and I will make you a deal. You stay with me, I will
protect you and make sure another man, or woman, will never touch your body for
money again. I will give you anything and everything you want. If I can."
Oliver looked up for the first time, "And what do you get out of all of this?"
They made eye contact.
"You."
===============================================================================
 
-2007-September-
A man quivered on the rain damp pavement of a dank alley, his pants unzipped,
cock hanging out limply, bruises littering his face and scratches marring his
naked back. "I-I-I'm sorry! I-I don't have the money now, but-but tell Mr.
Kirkland that I'll-."
"Mr. Kirkland is done with your bullshit," a boy with a Norwegian accent spoke,
cocking his gun, "He has been kind, giving you chance after chance, and time
and again you spit on that kindness" -he pressed the gun to the man's forehead,
looking at the bruises he had made when he had punched the man's face, the
imprint of his ring, with sick satisfaction -"if you cannot pay for the
services of Mr. Kirkland'sBoys" -this came out as a snarl -"with money then you
will pay with your life."
"N-No, wait-!"
"Mr. Kirkland sends his regards."
"N-No-!"
The boy fired his gun, the bullet turning the man's brain to jelly and
exploding his skull all over the pavement.
"Lukas."
It took the Norwegian a minute, the name was not one that had been given to him
by his parents but one given to him during his baptism into Hell, but
eventually he turned, blinking in surprise as a handkerchief was thrust in his
face. "I-?"
"Good job, lad!" the older man, a homely Scottish fellow with thick brunette
hair and matching beard, containing highlights of silver, said as "Lukas" used
the handkerchief to wipe the victim's blood and brain matter off his face and
neck. "That ending bit was quite dramatic, though, don't ya think?"
The Norwegian shrugged, handing the blue plaid cloth back to his superior and
mentor. "Eh, I like to go out with a bang every once and a while."
His superior stared at him dumbly before letting out a roar of deep, hearty,
laughter. "Oi! Looks like Lukas does have a sense of humor!" he exclaimed,
clapping his companion on the shoulder, the young boy maintaining his neutral
expression. "You have a real talent for this bullocks, lad, I'm tellin' ya:
you'll be promoted from cheap whore to henchman soon enough!"
The brand on Lukas' shoulder blade ached and he grit his teeth. "Thank you,
sir."
"Go back to the car, now, and see how those two boys are," he said, slapping
Lukas' shoulder, "Let us geezers handle the dumpin', eh?"
"Ja, thank you, sir," 'Lukas' said, quickly walking away from the alley to the
car they had parked a block away. It was a small, black number with a rusty
front bumper and, inside, were two people that made a bright smile form on
Lukas' usually neutral face. His brother, Egil, was an eleven year old too
smart for his own good with a head of beige-blonde hair and grey eyes. At the
moment, he was asleep, his head on Vlad's shoulder, his hair being stroked
lovingly.
"Vlad," 'Lukas' said quietly, "everything is fine. I handled it."
In truth, "Lukas" had just executed a somewhat innocent man. He had started to
repay his debt but "Lukas" hadn't given the money to Mr. Kirkland, instead,
keeping it in a P.O. Box under a fake name. Aliaster didn't suspect a thing; he
didn't think his Boys were smart enough or ballsy enough to pull off such a
stunt. "Lukas" had done all of this for Vladimir and Egil. The Norwegian could
already tell that his Icelandic half brother would grow up to be pretty and
would soon be made into one of Mr. Kirkland's Boys, too. "Lukas" didn't want
that. "Lukas" was one of those Boys and knew all too well what would happen;
"Lukas" was lucky, most of his customers wanted a "topping from the bottom"
sort of boy, giving "Lukas" some sort of control. But, he knew not everyone had
such luck. Like Vlad. For some reason, the Romanian received the worst of it
and had to deal with all matters of perversions. Some were little things, like
men that wanted to be called "Daddy" or women that wanted to be fucked by a man
in drag. Others...were not, like women that whipped him until he bled or men
that pissed on him. Mr. Kirkland had even baptized him with the new name
"Lucifer" to make matters worse. It had been on one night, seemingly like any
other that, "Lukas" had reached some sort of breaking point.
He had entered the room that he shared with Vlad and Egil, this bedroom used
for sleeping and getting dressed, not fucking, and had seen the Romanian naked
and sobbing on his bed, blood beneath his nose and bruises on his face and
neck. As it turned out, a customer had begun to strangle Vlad with a belt as
they fucked. Had almost killed him. Mr. Kirkland had beat him, giving Vlad the
bloody nose and bruised face, when Vlad had cried in front of the customer
then...then Mr. Kirkland raped him. That was when "Lukas" noticed the blood on
Vlad's thighs and on the sheets.
That had been Lukas' last straw and now Vlad's regular, the man who had choked
him with the belt, had his brains splattered like modern art in an alley way.
Vlad smiled, adjusting Egil's body and sliding out of the car. Vlad had a
slender, feminine body, as all males had to have in order to be one of Mr.
Kirkland's Boys, shaggy strawberry blonde hair, red eyes and pointed canines,
wearing a black corset with red piping and laces, a black, fake fur jacket that
ended at the bottom of his rib cage, black short shorts, sheer, red nylon
stockings with lace at the top where they ended at his thighs and black,
leather, stiletto boots. "Loki...thank you," he said, saying
"Lukas's" real name, eyes scanning the Norwegian worriedly, red gaze stopping
at Loki'sknuckles, "Your knuckles are bleeding."
"Oh, don't-."
"Shhhhhhh...Thank you for taking care of me," Vlad said, grabbing his friend's
hand; be brought the bloody knuckles to his lips, kissing and licking the raw
and crimson smudged skin. This was one weird thing the Romanian willingly took
part in. Blood play. Maybe it was this weird fetish that made Mr. Kirkland
think that it was ok to put Vlad through Hell by giving the teen all the
freaks.
"Vlad..."
"Sorry to ruin the moment, gentlemen, but I'd like a word."
Loki removed his gun from the waistband of his jeans, spinning around, only to
see his gun between a pair of blue eyes and the feeling of cold steel against
the side of his neck. The Norwegian blinked in recognition, his eyes widening
and his lips parting in shock. "O-Ollie?"
A big smile, that revealed Oliver's dimples, spread across his face and he
giggled, tilting his head to the side, "Hello, dearies~!"
Loki and Vlad shared a shocked look with each other. Six months ago, Oliver had
been sent out by Mr. Kirkland to do some petty pick pocketing, but hadn't
returned by nightfall, to start his shift of whoring. Mr. Kirkland had flown
into a rage, but Vlad and Loki were glad that their friend no longer had to
suffer a fate such as theirs, even though the teen could've been dead. Now,
after months of being MIA, they were once again reunited, Oliver looking better
than ever.
Before he had been all twig legs, wide hips, sharp hip bones, defined collar
bones and poking out ribs. He had been so pale, he had looked sick, and so
exhausted. Now, as he stood in the crisp, September night air, Vlad and Loki
had to acknowledge how...good andhealthy Oliver looked now. He still had a
feminine body, but he was softer with shapely legs and a nice, full ass. He was
still pale but he didn't look like he had been run ragged or was dead on his
feet. It seemed like he had been pampered, given good food and treated like a
prince.
"I..." Loki mumbled, lowering his gun quickly, causing Oliver to drop his knife
-a slender switch blade with a pink handle and vines and roses on the cold
blade -and tuck it away, "Ollie, where the Hell have you been?!"
"Who fucking cares?!" Vlad exclaimed, his voice cracking as he surged forward,
his full body crashing into Oliver, arms like leeches as they wrapped around
the Brit, "Our Ollie's alive, he's ok! Just look at him! He looks so healthy,
he's even wearing expensive clothes! You look so nice!"
Indeed, Oliver was dressed in a way that was classy but still attractive. He
had on a light pink trench coat, black pants that hugged his legs, a beige
turtle neck, grey ankle boots, a purple scarf and emerald teardrop earrings
hanging from his earlobes. The Brit blushed. "Thank you, dearie," he said,
booping Vlad's nose, "Sadly, this isn't a social call, loves, and we don't have
much time left."
"What do you mean?" Vlad questioned, taking a step back to better look Oliver
in his eyes.
"I want to take you and Loki away from here," the Brit said, his voice soothing
and gentle and soft, his "Mum Voice", the voice he used when nights got too
rough, too loud, and Egil could hear through the paper thin walls and cried. "I
want to give you a better life, one without fear or pain. I've...I-I've met
someone who can give you that, give us that. He's...He's kind and will protect
us."
"How do you know we can trust him?" Loki asked, licking his suddenly dry lips
as his heart skipped a beat.
"Because..." -Oliver's eyes became warmer and got a far away look, his smile
softer and his face content as if remembering sweet, old, sensations and the
pang of feelings that accompanied them -"because he's been taking care of me
all this time. I trust him..."
Loki pressed his lips together, heart beat erratic with hope and, God, it was
painful. He looked over his shoulder at his little brother, who was still sound
asleep in the black car. "I-."
"Egil can come with us," Oliver said and, at Loki's shocked look, Oliver
giggled, "Francis and I talked it over and we've set up a temporary place for
him."
"...Temporary?"
"Yes! We have a plan to get a great, big house, so, if you say yes, where we
will be staying will only be temporary."
Loki gnawed on his bottom lip, lost in his thoughts until he felt Vlad's
fingers brush over his arms. "Loki...please...this is our chance," the Romanian
said, sliding his hands up Loki's arms to his shoulders, up his neck to cup his
cheeks, "we can start a new life" -he used his thumbs to gently rub beneath
Loki's eyes -"we can behappy. You, me, Ollie, Egil -all of us."
At Vlad's touch, the Norwegian relaxed, grabbing one of the hands Vlad had on
his cheeks and squeezing it. "...Alright..." he said quietly, "can you carry
Egil?"
"Of course~!" Vlad said happily, giving his friend a peck in between the eyes
before hurrying to the black car. Carefully, he slid the child, who was
unusually small for his age, out from the back seat; Vlad placed Egil on his
hip, the Icelandic's head falling limply onto Vlad's shoulder and nuzzling into
Vlad's neck, still asleep.
"Ollie-."
"Shhhhhhh," Oliver said, placing his finger on the assassin-in-training's lips.
Once he was sure Loki wouldn't speak again, he removed his finger from Loki's
lips; he ran his thumb beneath Loki's bottom lip while his right hand brushed
up and down Loki's hip -a familiar gesture that Oliver used to comfort Vlad, on
Vlad's bad nights, and Loki on the rare occasions that he ended up cracking.
"Can you take out your gun again, dearie?"
Loki understood, could see the nervousness in Oliver's eyes, and he nodded,
once again taking out his Glock 19, equipped with a silencer, from the
waistband of his pants.
The Brit lead them down the side walk, walking quickly, Loki walking in the
middle with Vlad, shielding him from the alleys and store fronts.
"Lukas? What-?"
Without any hesitation, Loki shot the blonde haired American, one of the lower
level henchmen that was supposed to be getting rid of the body with the others.
Vlad flinched as Oliver said, "Oh, goodness gracious!" -he said it viciously,
as if he were saying "fuck" instead -"Let's go, lads, we have to hurry!" The
three teens all practically ran to the car that was waiting for them, a
nondescript station wagon. Loki and Vlad slid into the backseat, the Romanian
hugging Egil tightly to his chest, the boy remarkably still asleep.
They took note of the driver, an older man with golden hair tied back, black
slacks, a black trench coat, polished, black shoes and a red scarf; he hadfive
o'clock shadow, a healthy glow to his skin and blue eyes. He looked at the
three passengers through the rear view mirror, pausing his casual smoking of a
cigarette to smile at them and say pleasantly, "Bonjour~."
Not a second later, Oliver slid in beside the stranger and said, "Hello, love"
before placing a dainty hand on the back of the stranger's neck and pulling him
in for a kiss. Ok, so not a stranger. When Oliver pulled away to turn to his
friends, he held a look in his eyes that was one part wicked and another part
warmth. "Dearies, this is Francis. He's going to be taking care of us."
"Th-Thank you," Vlad rasped, still shaken from the man he had seen Loki shoot.
"No problem, mon cher."
"You just met him and already he's 'mon cher'?!" Oliver suddenly snapped,
practically fuming as he glared at the man beside him.
"Oui. Why? Are you jealous?"
"Of course n-!"
Suddenly, Francis grabbed Oliver's chin, causing the Norwegian's body to tense
up with anxiety. "Ollie, you forget," the Frenchman said, leaning in so their
lips were only half of an inch apart, "you are my lapin. Mine and only mine."
Oliver's face was scarlet, eyes hazing and his entire body vibrating. He leaned
in closer, the Brit's breath audibly catching in his throat; but, instead of
kissing Oliver on the lips, which the Brit so clearly craved, Francis smirked
and kissed Oliver's neck chastely, instead. Francis pulled away, chuckling as
he started the car.
Oliver sat back, gulping loudly and giving a small huff of indignation. "You,
Sir, are a monster."
"Oui, and do not forget it."
The Brit giggled abruptly as Loki watched them intently, but silently. Oliver
and this Frenchman just seemed to...to fit. Whenever they looked at each other,
it was warm and affectionate. Loki hoped -prayed -that he would find safety and
happiness with them, that this all wasn't two lovers' honeymoon phase delusion.
===============================================================================
 
-2008-February-
Aliaster sat in his private room, decorated with dark browns, black leather,
grey-green suede and a roaring, stone fireplace, smoking a cigar with scotch on
his breath. On the floor beneath him, his whores were getting ready for the
night shift. Since September, his Boys had started to go missing. First it was
Lukas, Lukas' brother and Lucifer; then it was Lick, the Twins, Sakura and
Snowflake. His favorites. The ones that brought in the most profit.
Worst of all, it had been almost a year since his brother, Oliver, had
disappeared. He missed his favorite play thing, his heart aching with every
beat. When Aliaster was drunk or brooding, he remembered Oliver's pale skin,
how easily it flushed, and the coppery freckles that were scattered like
constellations across his slender, skinny body. He remembered how gentle Oliver
was to the other whores, almost motherly, and how he laughed and smiled easily
when in their presence. All of this Aliaster watched from a distance; in
Aliaster's presence, Oliver didn't laugh as often, when he smiled it wasn't as
broad and his eyes took on an emotion that Aliaster couldn't place but didn't
like.
The red head exhaled the smoke of his cigar, reaching for his scotch and, once
again, yearning for Oliver's presence. There was a knock on his door and one of
his underlings stuck his head into the room. "U-Uhm, Mr. Kirkland?"
"What?"
"It's...well, you should see for yourself..."
With a grunt of annoyance, Aliaster placed his cigar between his lips and
stood, following his employee down the stairs. In the foyer, where clients
usually sat to wait for their whore, standing awkwardly, was Oliver. He wore a
trench coat that was too big for him, his feet bare, and bruises littering the
skin Aliaster could see. "O-Oliver...?" he questioned, taking the cigar from
his mouth, eyes wide and jaw slack from shock, "I...where did you-?"
"A-Aliaster!" Oliver cried, running to his older brother, sobbing. He collapsed
on the stair in front of the Scot, knees making a painful thumping sound as
they made contact with the hard wood, and hugged Aliaster's legs. "I-I-I'm so
sorry! I'm sorry! I-I -They came out of no where and-and I tried to get away! I
really did! B-But they gave me this stuff and I couldn't move! Th-Then
they...Then th-they-!"
"Hush now," the red head said softly, sensing where the conversation was going
as he lifted Oliver up, bridal style. "You're safe back here with me." Meekly,
Oliver nodded, rubbing his still flowing tears away with his fists. Aliaster
looked down at his men and ordered, "Make sure the others stay in line. Don't
disturb us," before taking Oliver up the stairs, to his private room. He sat
his little brother on a black leather couch before reclaiming his seat in the
matching black chair. "Oliver..." he breathed, reaching for his glass of scotch
and draining it, "Do you know why they freed you?"
Oliver chewed his bottom lip, face red and looking down at the accent rug.
"They...They s-said that I was a u-used up w-whore an-and that they g-grew
tired of me. And-And" -Oliver's voice cracked and he choked on a sob -"they c-
called me a-a...a...th-they said they w-wanted you to see your br-broken t-
toy." Oliver sobbed into his hands, causing Aliaster's chest to hurt.
Over time, Aliaster had gained a long list of enemies and there was a number of
them that wouldn't hesitate to kidnap Oliver, rape him then throw him away like
trash -just to hurt Aliaster. Aliaster stubbed out his cigar before standing
and sitting down next to his little brother on the couch. "Oliver, I'm so sorry
these men hurt you because of me," the Scot said, tilting up Oliver's chin as
he spoke sincerely. His little brother was precious to him. His. All his.
"Aliaster-."
There was a sudden, loud bang that made Aliaster jolt out of his guilt induced
haze. "What-?"
Aliaster made to get up but was stopped as he suddenly found himself with an
arm full of brother. Oliver had straddled his lap, arms around Aliasters neck
as he buried his face in the spot behind the Scot's jaw. "Allie, please d-don't
leave..." he whimpered, "W-What if...what if they come back?"
The red head's heart melted and he, gently, wrapped his arms around his
treasure. "Of course, Oliver, I promise I won't leave you."
"Allie..." Oliver whimpered, sounding vulnerable; the Scot had always hated
that nickname but, from Oliver, it sounded as sweet as honey. "I can
still feel them...all over me...make me clean again...please?" How could he say
no? Aliaster drew Oliver closer by the hips, leaning forward to brush his lips
against the blonde's.
Suddenly, there were shouts and the quick pop-pop-pop of gun fire. There was no
way Aliaster could ignore that and he stood, quickly, moving to the door.
"Aliaster, wait-!"
Oliver's plea was cut short as the door banged open, hanging loosely from its
hinges after it was kicked in. There in the doorway -wearing a red shirt
unbuttoned to he middle of his chest, a black sports jacket, black slacks and
expensive black shoes -was an intimidating figure smoking a cigarette. He was
not intimidating for his height, which was average, or bulk, which was decent;
it was the man's hard eyes and the tattoo on the side of his neck that
intimidated Aliaster.
"I-."
"Mon lapin, you have done such a good job! Is he armed?"
"Not any more~!"
Aliaster's eyes widened and he looked at Oliver, face clearly displaying his
shock and hurt. The Brit had Aliaster's Glock, waving it around with a wicked
grin and an evil glint in his pretty eyes. "Oliver-?"
"Shut up," the Frenchman snapped, sounding as pissed off as a wild badger. "Who
said you can fucking speak to him?"
Despite everything, the red head sneered, "He'smy brother-."
"And you are a rapist and a pervert -do you want to continue stating the
obvious?" he asked sarcastically, making sure his automatic gun was aimed at
Aliaster's heart. "Mon lapin, come here."
"Yes, of course, love~" Oliver said skipping out from behind the Scot to
Francis' side. Aliaster watched with an aching chest as Oliver stood on his
tippy toes to give the Frenchman a peck on the cheek.
"Oliver, what is the meaning of-?"
"I didn't say you could speak to him," the Frenchman once again snapped with a
harsh glare.
"Now, now, love," the Brit playfully scolded, slipping the gun into the
waistband of Francis' slacks, "Maybe he wants to know how well you take care of
me." The question was a lofty purr that made even Aliaster blush as he watched
Oliver press himself against the older man's side and cup the front of the
man's pants.
Aliaster suddenly felt like lead was in his chest, like he was suffocating. His
love was betraying him right before his very eyes! He had left home to escape
his desire for Oliver, had basically sold his soul to the mafia, had taken
Oliver in when their parents died -anything important, or life changing, that
Aliaster had done had been for Oliver...and this was how he was
beingrepaid?! "You bitch!" the Scot shouted, lunging at his brother, his eyes
trained on the Brit's impish grin. A harsh, painful blow, accompanied by an
animalistic snarl, sent Aliaster reeling backwards. The red head's skull
throbbed and bled from where Francis had pistol whipped him.
"Don't," Francis placed his foot on Aliaster's skull, right on the wound,
aiming his gun at his red head, "ever go near Oliver. Don't touch him, don't
look at him, don't speak to him. If you so much as breathe in Ollie's
direction, I'll beat you.Hurt him? Hurt him and I'll break ever bone in your
motherfucking body before I kill you. Understood?"
Before Aliaster could answer, the door opened, cutting through the thick
atmosphere. "Ollie," 'Lukas', said walking into the room, a gun in his left
hand and one of Aliaster's new boys beneath his right arm, "All of his men have
been taken care of."
"Oh~ excellent!" Oliver giggled, clapping his hands excitedly. Suddenly, his
expression softened as he looked at the new boy and bent to be eye level with
the boy. "And who might you be?"
"N-Noah..." he whimpered, tears running down his bruised cheeks, his split
bottom lip quivering. He was wrapped in a fuzzy, green blanket and, as his
bare, bruised legs suggested, he was naked beneath it.
"What are you doing here?"
"M-My Papa d-died leaving a-a lot of debt s-so Mr. Kirkland beat up my b-big
sister and took me as p-payment," Noah sobbed, 'Lukas' pulling him close.
"Oh, no, a boy like you shouldn't be here," Oliver tsked, brushing aside the
long fringe of Noah's bangs, "Dear, Loki is going to find your sister and bring
you back to her. How does that sound?"
"I-I would like that v-very much, m-mister..." the boy hiccuped, rubbing away
his tears with the back of his hand. Loki whispered sweet thins in Noah's ear,
leading him from the room.
If looks could kill, the glare Oliver sent Aliaster would've done the trick.
"You took a little boy from his home and you sold him off to be raped," he
hissed, gritting his teeth, "I swear to God, I'll never let you see the light
of day."
===============================================================================
 
-2011-November-
Matthew sat in the corner of his living room, hugging his knees to his chest.
Papers, boxes, clothes, shoes, toys, plastic bags, empty jars, empty food and
candy wrappers, books, accessories, blankets, spare tires, cables, garbage,
anything you could think of was piled up to the ceiling by his shop-o-holic,
hoarder mother. He watched, as a bystander, as a ghost, his mother and brother
scream at each other.
"I didn't say you could throw those away!"
"They were a pair of sneakers, Ma, and they were falling apart!"
"But I could've still-!"
"No, you wouldn't have used them for shit! You never do! You have so much
'usable' crap, we can't even see the fucking couch!"
"Watch your language! I am your mother!"
"Then fucking act like it!"
Alfred was several years older than Matthew, a product of their mother's first
marriage to an alcoholic son of a bitch. Luckily, Matthew and Alfred took after
their mother in the looks department, so they both shared many characteristics.
At least physically. Alfred was an athletic jock, now a college frat boy
getting a business and a law degree. Matthew, however was still in high school,
being a fifteen year old with a sweet, baby doll face and a bookish
personality.
Matthew watched numbly as his mother angrily reached for a half empty bottle of
vodka. "I give you kids everything-!"
"Like Hell you do!" Alfred screamed, grabbing the bottle before their mother
could drink from it and throwing it against the wall, "You don't do shit! I can
barely pay my tuition, thanks to you and this shit hole!"
"This isn't any of your business, Alfred!"
"Yes it is my mother fucking business, when my baby brother is the one stuck in
this hoard!" Alfred slammed their mother against the wall, face splotchy with
rage and gripping her petite shoulders so hard, his knuckles were white. This
was enough to shock Matthew out of his stupor -his brother had never physically
assaulted their mother -as realization hit him all at once. Things were never
going to get better and he would be trapped in piles and piles ofstuff just
like his mother. He would be trapped if he stayed. Trapped playing middle man
between Alfred and his mother, trapped with his mother and her hoard, trapped
with his brother who barely paid him any attention.
Matthew slowly stood on wobbly legs, navigating through the piles to the
stairs, miraculously kept clutter free. His room was the only clean one in the
house; his mother's room was filled with her clothes and Alfred's room had
filled up quickly after he decided to live on campus. Matthew grabbed a
backpack and threw in four pairs of pants, four shirts, a pair of dress shoes,
five pairs of underwear, five pairs of socks, energy bars, bottles of water and
the coffee cans, jars and plastic bottles filled with dollar bills and loose
change. He put on a pair of skinny jeans, a black turtle neck, a new pair of
hiking boots, a red hooded sweatshirt and a tan winter coat before putting on
his big, somewhat heavy bag.
The blonde looked around his room with the peeling yellow wallpaper and teddy
bear boarder, his twin bed with the brown sheets and the polar bear plushie
sitting on his pillows. He felt no regret as he turned his back to his room,
only bone deep weariness. Matthew hurried down the stairs only to see Alfred
and their mother brawling -hitting, kicking, biting, hair pulling, drawing
blood. Alfred locked gazes with his half brother as he yanked at their mother's
golden hair, tugging and pulling. "M-Mattie?! What-?"
He didn't let himself hear the rest, running to the back door and shoving it
open. I have to run. I have to get out...
"No, Mattie!" Alfred yelled, releasing their mother and running after his
younger brother. "W-Wait -ah!" Their mother grabbed his legs, tackling him to
the ground, not aware of her youngest son running from the house. "You damn
cunt!"
The teen didn't look back, watching his breath turn to white fog in the air as
he ran down the street. The neighbors didn't spare Matthew, or his house, a
second glance, used to the screaming and arguing between his mother and brother
at this point. He saw the bus at the bus stop and he picked up the pace,
wheezing as he ran.
"Mattie!"
He jumped on the bus right before the doors closed, pulling out his school
public transit card. Matthew swiped his card, looking out the window to see
Alfred chasing after the bus. Pulling up his hood, Matthew ignored his big
brother and took a seat.
===============================================================================
 
-2012-August-
Matthew sat with his knees to his chest, his back against the brick exterior of
a building, a disintegrating foam cup by his feet. He had no more money and the
most he could call home at the moment was a cardboard box and a ratty blanket.
His hair, once bouncy and golden, was now stringy and dirty, he was thin, tired
and his skin was streaked in grime. He whimpered pathetically, not that anyone
would hear. Being homeless, he was as much of a ghost as he had been with his
mother, her hoard and Alfred.
A bark alerted Matthew to the presence of his companion. The white, fluffy, dog
had begun to hang around Matthew ever since the teen had given the scrawny,
starving dog some of his food. It wasn't even a lot of food, but Matthew
couldn't really complain; he appreciated the company. He even went so far as to
name the stray dog Kuma.
"I'm sorry, Kuma," Matthew whimpered, scratching behind Kuma's ears with a
rueful smile, "today's...sort of an off day..." Kuma responded with an
answering whimper, licking Matthew's fingers before nuzzling beneath Matthew's
chin. He hugged the dog's neck, hiding his face in the animal's fur...until he
heard the familiar thunk of a few coins, that is. His head jerked up, doe-like
eyes wide with gratitude. "I -thank you! Thank you so much!" He looked up and
his cheeks colored. At first, he thought it was a woman, the person was so
beautiful, but he was clearly a man somewhere in his twenties. He had an
angelic face and longish hair, an emerald earring dangling from one ear, a pink
trench coat, a green scarf, limb hugging jeans and slightly heeled black boots.
He was...a pretty, gorgeous, angelic man.
"Oh, my..." the strawberry blonde murmured, eyes wide as they roamed Matthew's
face, "What are you doing out here, cupcake? The streets are no place for a
pretty, young boy like yourself."
"I...I don't have anywhere else..."
The stranger's eyes softened and he bent down, extending his hand, "Come with
me then."
"W-What?"
"I'll take care of you, feed you, let you rest, give you nice, clean clothes.
You can even bring your dog. All you have to do is work for me but, if you
truly wish it, you can leave at any time, all you have to do is say so."
Now, Matthew wasn't naive and he wasn't an idiot, either. He knew this
was...stupid, dangerous, but he was desperate, willing to try anything.
With happy tears in is eyes, Matthew smiled, nodded, and took the older man's
hand.
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     When pretty boys are at their wits end, trying to make ends meet and
     have to stoop to the lowest level of employment, there is "Paradise".
     Here, Oliver and Francis offer food, shelter, clothing, safety,
     kindness and love but not everything is perfect in paradise,
     especially with romance in the air and the threats from the mafia,
     both new and old.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the grammar and spelling errors (again) and please leave
     comments and what not!
-2013-August-
A sixteen year old with beige-blonde hair and grey eyes walked down the hot
sidewalk. It was nearing the time when the sun set and cast warm orange, yellow
and violet hues across the landscape, but it had yet to begin cooling off. The
farmer's market was busy but not as busy as it was during the day when the
housewives were out and about. The sixteen year old already had a canvas bag
full of groceries and he only had one more stop before he was able to go back
home.
"Egil!"
The Icelandic smiled, walking up to the brightly colored booth selling brightly
colored flowers. At the helm of said booth was Noah, the boy Loki and Oliver
had saved five years ago and he was now nineteen, working with his sister
selling flowers. His sister ran their business, which they lived above, but
what really drew in the money was the flower booth Noah ran at the farmer's
market. Despite the years, Noah had kept his pretty face and desirable body
that were the reasons why Mr. Kirkland took him away to begin with, and his
looks continued to draw people in. Luckily, Noah had his co-worker, a Belarus
immigrant named Nikolai, to protect him from the creeps.
"Hi, Noah. Nikolai," Egil said, addressing the two florists, "How's your sister
doing? How'reyou doing?"
"She's wonderful and her boyfriend is soo like her, it's almost scary~!"
"Does he treat her right?"
"Oh, yeah. Trust me, if he didn't I'd tell you," he said, face turning serious
for a moment before he smiled again, "Anyway, enough of all that gloom and
doom~! What would you like?"
"Something pink -maybe those carnations? -uhm, Romanian peonies, those dark red
roses, oh, and some of those white roses, too..."
"So these aren't just for Ollie then?" Noah giggled as he grabbed half a dozen
pink carnations and wrapped them in glittery plastic.
Egil blushed, ducking his head. "N-No, they're for Vlad and Big Brother..."
"And...?"
"A-And Matthew..." he admitted with a blush.
"Oooohh~ does Egil have a crush~?" Noah cooed teasingly.
"N-No!" Egil blushed, anxiety making his hands shake, "I-It's just...h-he's
only a year older than me but he's already one of the favorites..." In truth,
that didn't even begin to explain Egil's feelings in regards to Matthew. Sure,
it was in part admiration for Matthew, his talent, despite his young age; but,
it was more than that. Ever since Matthew's first day, the Icelandic had felt
drawn to him. It was hard to pin point what it was, exactly, that Egil found
appealing, perhaps Matthew's truthfulness or aura of kindness and
understanding. There was just...something.
"Sure," he teased, handing Egil the four bouquets but only making him pay for
two. The blonde turned to his coworker as Egil left. "I think Egil's lying to
us," Noah said with a smile.
"...Yeah..."
===============================================================================
Egil returned shortly before night fall, much to Loki's relief. "Egil! What
took you so long?" Loki demanded, running into the brightly lit foyer in his
whore-ing garb; he wore a pair of tight leather pants, a matching vest and
black lace, finger-less gloves. His clients loved how the black contradicted
with his pale skin.
"Sorry, I got caught up with talking to Noah," he said, taking the groceries to
the kitchen, "His sister is seeing someone."
"Oh?"
"Ja, but he reassured us that he treats her right."
"Good," Loki said, shoulders sagging in relief, "They've been through so much,
they deserve some peace."
We do, too, Egil wanted to say as he put the groceries away. Things had
gotten...better, since he was a kid, but it still wasn't peaceful. Egil was a
high school student, doing regular teenager-like things, except he shared a
house with a shit ton of people he wasn't even related to and his brother, his
friends, people he considered his family, fucked strangers while Egil holed
himself up in his room and did his homework. "Ja."
"Hello, Egil, darling," Oliver said, practically floating into the room. He was
dressed rather outlandishly, but not scantily like his prostitutes; Oliver wore
black leggings, black heeled boots, a tight fitting white button down, green
teardrop earrings dangling from his earlobes and a pink feathered boa hung
around his neck. His outfit was in part to delight and attract customers, and
in part because that was just his personality. "How was Noah? His sister? That
lovely Belarusian boy he's fucking? What flowers did you get us? Oh, there's
more than usual; why is that, dear?"
Egil was a bit overwhelmed by the rapid fire questions and blinked dumbly for a
moment. "Noah and his sister are fine, she's dating a nice man. Nikolai didn't
talk much, not that he ever does, and I don't think they're fucking-."
"Language!" Loki scolded, getting a juice from the fridge.
"...anyway, I got carnations, peonies and roses. This time I got some for M-
Matthew, too..."
"Oh?" Oliver said, surprised, his eyebrow raising as he placed his hands on his
feminine hips, "Tell me, Egil, do you have a crush on my Mattie?" Ever since
Oliver had found Matthew and brought him home, he had taken a special liking to
the shy boy. Hearing Matthew's background story was the cherry on top, sealing
the fact that Oliver became a sort of pseudo-mother to Matthew and, in turn,
Francis became a healthy father figure to Matthew. Well...healthier than
Matthew's biological father had been. In a way, Oliver had become sort of a
maternal figure to everyone, but more so with Matthew. On the other hand, Loki
and Vlad were like aunts or uncles to the prostitutes, Egil being the lone
nephew everyone -annoyingly -showered with affection.
So...that made Oliver his...grandmother? What?
Whatever, you get the point.
Egil blushed bright red, scoffing and looking away from the Brit. Why does
everyone think that?! "No! I-I just...he's been working really hard lately and
I thought-!"
"Egil, you're so sweet."
The Icelandic jumped, whipping around to see Matthew leaning in the doorway, a
small smile on his face. All the blood, and color, in Egil's face drained away
so quickly, it made him dizzy. "M-Matthew, I-!"
"It's ok, I love them!" he said, walking to the counter and picking up the
bouquet of white roses, "And it was really nice of you! I didn't think anyone
besides Ollie noticed!"
Egil really thought he would faint from embarrassment. "I-."
"Enough chit-chat, darlings!" Oliver interrupted, clapping his hands together
to gain their attention, "We must hurry and get ourselves ready for tonight! My
dearest husband" -Francis -"said we have more customers than usual tonight~!"
"Ok, ok, Mum, we're going," Matthew said, rolling his eyes as he kissed the
Brit's cheek. He turned, smirking. "Bye, Egil," he hummed, winking and running
his hand through the younger teen's hair.
"Go to your room now, Egil," Loki said, handing his younger brother a bag of
licorice, "and start on your homework."
The Icelandic huffed, hating how everyone made him feel like a child,
especially Loki. He loved his big brother dearly, but Loki had a habit of
treating him as if he was still the sobbing child he had been at their parents'
funeral. He wanted to be as strong, powerful and independent as Oliver, Vlad,
Matthew, his big brother, all the people that lived and worked in the house.
"Fine," Egil said, grabbing his snack and heading to his room.
After Aliaster had been dealt with, they had built a mansion with two floors,
an attic and a cellar. Officially, it was a type of "abuse shelter" when it was
really a whore house. On the first floor was a foyer for customers, a kitchen,
a dinning room, a rec room and bedrooms for sleeping only, the second floor had
the bedrooms for clients and the attic was Oliver and Francis' room. Egil's was
at the end of the hallway, his name elegantly carved in the wood of the door.
He entered the navy blue and grey vertically striped room, sitting at his desk
and pulling out U.S history book. He heard the movements of other members of
the house, the sounds strangely domestic, and he was filled with bone deep
loneliness.
===============================================================================
"Bernie A.?" Oliver looked up from his clipboard to see a man -who resembled
John C. Reilly only with thinner, straighter hair and large, round glasses,
wearing khakis, brown loafers, a pale blue collared shirt and a sweater vest -
stand up from one of the pale pink sofas.
"I-I believe that's me."
"Alright then, dearie," Oliver said, plastering a smile on his face; this man
was probably married with some kids, both probably walked all over him, and a
dead end office job. Those kind of men sickened Oliver, the men that cheated on
their spouse -repressed sexuality or not. "My darling husband will show you to
Maple's room."
He watched the man follow Francis, getting negative vibes from the client.
Quickly, he sent a text to his love, warning Francis to keep on eye on Matthew,
to make sure he stayed safe. After that, he had no choice but to look down at
his clipboard and call up the next client.
===============================================================================
Matthew loved his job. He did. Yeah, it wasn't an honorable job in the least,
but it gave him a sense of power. Power he didn't have when he was living with
his mother, being bullied at school or forsaken by his brother. People took
notice of him, praised him -he even had a few regulars.
He straightened out his outfit, an unusual request for him. Usually it would be
Feliciano alone or with Lovino who'd dress a little Lolita-like, but,
apparently, the client -Bernie Abbernathy -had asked for a boy with natural
blonde hair, blue eyes, a young, pretty face, small stature, feminine figure
and freckles -although, he did state that he was ok if they didn't have a
prostitute with freckles as long as they had everything else. Matthew was the
only one that fit all the criteria and had agreed to "service" the man.
He did one last once over. His golden, wavy hair perfectly framed his face,
glasses drawing attention to his deep, shifting hued, blue eyes and he wore a
tight fitting white polo, ass hugging navy blue booty shorts, white knee high
stockings and black Mary Jane shoes. A picture of innocence. Smirking, Matthew
sauntered down the hall to his room. The blonde took a deep breath, preparing
himself for what was to come. Papa Francis had already warned him that the man
wasn't handsome, not even strangely handsome, just...tired and worn out
looking. Really, the fact that not every client could look like Channing Tatum,
Morgue from that AMC show or Shemar Moore was the hardest thing about Matthew's
job. Seriously, how was he supposed to get it up if the guy looked like a worn
out gymshoe?
He opened the door to his room, an innocent smile on his face. His room was
truly spectacular with wine red wallpaper with a silver maple leaf print, tan
carpeting, a silver stripper pole to Matthew's immediate left, a red arm chair
to his immediate right and, in the middle of the room, was a king sized bed
with red sheets and a brown plaid quilt. On that bed awkwardly sat his client,
twisting his hands in his lap.
...Tonight was not his lucky night.
"O-Oh, uh, good evening..." the client said, clearing his throat.
Matthew remembered what this man wanted from the list Papa Francis gave him,
the Frenchman always doing an in-person interview with someone who had a
specific fantasy and needed to make an appointment.
Dress like an innocent school boy? Check!
Daddy fetish?
"Hi, Daddy~!" Matthew said excitedly in a sing-song voice, stepping inside and
closing the door behind him. "U-Uhm, Daddy, I gotta tell you somethin'..." he
said, putting his hands behind his back, looking down at the ground and toeing
the carpet.
Check!
"Uh-uh, w-what is it, sw-sweetie?" the client stammered awkwardly, blushing and
unsure.
Like to punish?
"I've been naughty..." Matthew said, biting the tip of his nail and looking up
from beneath his eyelashes. A picture of innocence.
Check!
"I-I guess I'll have to p-punish you then..." he said, could this guy be
anymore unsure of himself, "C-Come lay across my-my knee."
Matthew wanted to roll his eyes but, of course, refrained, his hips swaying as
he approached his client.
After that, things went...normally. For Matthew, that meant it was boring. He
made sure to make the appropriate noises as he was spanked, as he gave a
blowjob, but it was boring. Stuff he had done before. Lots of times. While he
was being fucked from behind -Matthew really wished he had a book or his
cellphone or something to entertain himself with -his throat was suddenly
grabbed by what felt like leather. "W-What are you doing?!" he squeaked,
grabbing at the belt around his neck. Papa Francis always made it clear what
wasn't allowed and this...choking business was definitely among that list.
Sure, there were those that were ok with it but Matthew wasn't one of them. "R-
Red!" The code was explained -thoroughly -how "yellow" meant, "You it's getting
uncomfortable, calm yo self" and "red" meant, "Holy fuck, I'm going to die if
he don't stop this shit".
He didn't listen, only increasing the pressure on Matthew's airway as he
thrusted.
The blonde gasped, clawing at his client-turned-attacker's hands and arms.
Matthew's vision swam and fear gripped him. I'm going to die. He's going to
kill me and I'm naked with his dick in my ass... With a final surge of
strength, Matthew managed to get two fingers between his neck and the belt
before jerking forward to press the emergency button hidden beneath the edge of
the nightstand. He was violently tugged back, making Matthew gag and gasp for
breath, throat flexing and saliva dripping off his chin. His vision began to
fade, eyelids heavy, mind and hearing swimming -contorting -as he began to lose
consciousness.
Noises.
Screaming.
Yelling.
"Matthew!"
Air rushed into his lungs, head spinning even more as he collapsed, gagging and
trying to suck down more air all at once. I can breathe? I can breathe!
"Matthew!" slender arms held him, the blonde engulfed by Oliver's warm smell -
the smell ofhome -before he drifted off into unconsciousness and blissful
sleep.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     I just wrote this today and I have no beta so...I think you know the
     drill?
"Doctor, how is he?" Oliver asked, handkerchief clutched in his fist and held
against his collarbone.
Dr. Karpussi began packing up his medical instruments, yawning as he did so.
"He'll be fine," he said calmly, placing his medical bag in a larger satchel,
"His throat is bruised and he shouldn't eat anything tough. Stick with soft
foods that are easy to swallow. Nothing like chips. No large chunks of meat.
Most importantly" -he yawned -"lots of rest. No sex."
"How long?" Matthew croaked with a grimace.
"Two to three weeks. And don't talk too much," the Greek man put on his
satchel, turning to Francis and Oliver, "I'll be going now. You know my rate
and how to transfer the money."
"Oui," Francis said, nodding and rubbing Oliver's back soothingly, "thank you
for coming, Heracles."
The doctor -whose legal job was a vet at an animal hospital -flashed a small,
quick, rare smile. "Always a pleasure. As long as it's not during my work
hours."
"You'll be paid soon," Oliver said, his voice cracking, "Now go get yourself
some sleep. It's late."
"Thank you. I can show myself out," he said, inclining his head at the brothel
owners before turning to Matthew for a final time, "Remember what I said. Lots
of rest, little talking and no working for two to three weeks. Yes?"
Matthew rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, but he nodded, leaning back in
his bed.
"Good," the doctor replied, walking passed Oliver and Francis, "Good night."
"And good night to you as well," Francis returned as Oliver went to sit next to
Matthew, stroking Matthew's chest lovingly -something Francis had learned the
Brit did when nervous or some sort of upset. "Oliver, mon amour, let us leave
Matthieu to rest, hm? He must be exhausted."
Taking one look at Matthew's dark circles beneath his eyes, Oliver nodded,
slowly rising from Matthew's bedside. "Ok...poppet, if you need anything, come
grab us." The Frenchman lead Oliver out of the room, a hand on his waist, and
immediately up to their room. As soon as the door shut behind them, Oliver
began to pace. "That son of a bitch! How could he do that to one of our lads?!
I wish you would have beat his head into the blood ground! Or at least kill
that filthy, no good, cun-!"
"Ollie, mon lapin, you know that would be impossible," Francis said, pouring
himself a glass of wine, "Not even our connections in law enforcement would be
enough to cover up a homicide. Now, they'll simply say it was a brutal mugging.
Case closed."
"Matthew is not a product! He cannot be replaced!" the Brit screamed, stomping
his food on the red carpet, "None of them can! I want that man dead! Dead!
Dead! Dead!" Oliver's fit only silenced when Francis had shoved him, face
first, onto their extravagant, canopy bed.
"Mon lapin," Francis purred, his hot breath caressing the back of the younger
male's neck, "I think you should behave or I'll have to punish you for being
naughty~."
The strawberry blonde shivered, willingly spreading his legs and allowing
Francis' hand to slide between them, rubbing his entrance and behind his balls
with familiar fingers. Oh, how Oliver loved these moments! The moments when his
attentive, darling husband chose to fuck him into nirvana instead of making
love to him...now...if he only could get them both pants-less... "Punish me,"
he begged, gasping when he felt Francis' hips grind into his backside, "Oh,
Francis, please~!"
The Frenchman smirked, beginning to pull down the fabric of Oliver's pants.
===============================================================================
Kiku, better known as "Sakura", walked into the kitchen wearing only a pair of
black boxer briefs and a pink, satin robe tied tightly around his lithe body.
Because of the whole accident with Matthew, no walk ins were accepted and most
were allowed to "punch out" right after their scheduled clients. Kiku was
included, much to his relief; he knew no other life and, while he appreciated
Oliver's kindness, this whoring job was getting tiring. The Japanese man wasn't
getting any younger, at twenty three, and he wanted to retire. Go sight seeing
and, perhaps, get a small apartment -or a small house -in Japan.
He poured himself some ice tea from the pitcher in the fridge, leaning against
the counter and sipping it slowly. He was old and easily worn out. Perhaps,
somehow, someone would hire an illegal, Japanese man as a shopkeeper? Or clerk?
Which was the proper term again?
"Excuse me?"
Kiku nearly choked on his drink at the deep, unfamiliar, masculine voice. He
held his robe to his body, spinning around to stare, wide eyed, at the tall,
imposing man with a sleepy look in his eyes. "What are you doing here?" Kiku
demanded, voice firm, "Clients are not allowed here."
"No, no, I'm a doctor!" he said, eyes widening in shock, "Francis called me to
make sure Matthew was ok. If not for him, I wouldn't be here. Of course, that
isn't a slight against you or your profession."
"Oh...hai, of course," Kiku blinked, quickly regaining his composure and trying
to cover up his exposed legs and neck. This man was nothing if not truthful, no
client knew Matthew's real name. "That doesn't explain why you are here,
however."
"...I got lost?"
"Oh, my," Kiku said, blushing in embarrassment for the man. How rude of him!
"I-I suppose I can show you out..."
"Thank you," the stranger said, watching the sexy legs of Kiku walk over to the
sink. He set his glass down before hesitantly, self consciously, elegantly
making his way towards the brunette. "I am Heracles, by the way."
"Sakura," Kiku said automatically but the thought of another man -a truthful
man, a doctor of some sort, most likely -calling him by that fake name made him
ill, "but my real name is Kiku. Call me that. Kiku." Was he rambling?
"Kiku...that's a lovely name. I wounder what it means..." the doctor pondered.
"I, too, have asked myself this question, but I do not know," he admitted, his
shoulder brushing Heracles' as they walked down the hallway. "So...you are a
doctor?"
"A vet but I know enough about human anatomy to be of use," he said, looking at
Kiku out of the corner of his eye, "Matthew will be alright, if that's what
you're trying to indirectly ask me."
"Good." It hadn't been what he was trying to ask. Kiku's question was blurted
out due to a confusing mesh of feelings. For Matthew's sake, he was glad
Heracles was qualified, but that wasn't Kiku's motivation; part of him wanted
to know what kind of living an obvious immigrant could make. How much Heracles
made. How wealthy he was.
And a light went off in Kiku's head. His ticket to an easier life, his
retirement, was walking beside him. All he had to do was get Heracles to fall
madly in love -or lust, or obsession -with him, and that was simple. Kiku faked
love every night. The younger man made sure to make the creamy skin of his legs
-which he had noticed Heracles ogling -brush against Heracles' pant leg. "How
old are you, Heracles-san?"
"Twenty six."
"And when did you come to America, if you don't mind me asking?"
"When I was eighteen with my mother. We lived in Greece before..." the vet
sighed dreamily, "it is a beautiful country but my mother believed there was
more opportunity in America, and I followed to make sure she was safe. Well
taken care of. A part of me feels that she believed stories as real as those
about the Greek gods."
"I came here when I was sixteen -seven years ago -because of those very myths,"
he admitted, "I felt like I could bring honor to my honor less family
but...instead" -Kiku felt a phantom ache in his side, where his old, healed
Jackrabbit branding lay -"this was what America gave me." Old bitterness licked
at his bones but Kiku quickly began to oppress it. Things could be worse.
He could be working for Mr. Kirkland again.
"I am...I am sorry that you have had to see the darkest parts of life,"
Heracles said, voice smothered in genuine remorse and regret. Unexpectedly,
Kiku wished he didn't want to retire, wished he would change his mind and not
lead Heracles on.
But he knew he wouldn't.
Luckily, Kiku didn't have to dwell on his feelings because they came into the
pastel foyer, usually bright with lights but now dim.
"Heracles-san," he said, making sure desperation was slightly in his tone as he
unlocked the front door, "Heracles-san, I hope you will visit again. I...I
enjoy talking to you." Despite himself, he blushed and ducked his head; Kiku
was ashamed to find that he had spoken the truth -he liked talking to Heracles.
"I enjoy talking to you, too," the Greek said, eyes burning holes into Kiku's
hesitant form. "You have a beautiful mind, Kiku, don't be afraid to show it.
You are not simply a vessel to be fucked and toyed with..."
The black haired male's head jerked up, eyes wide and feeling stripped to the
bone. It was as if Heracles could see more than just him but something...more.
Indescribable. "I..." speechless and exposed, Kiku looked at the Greek man's
chest and hugged his robe tighter to himself, "Good night, Heracles-san."
"Good night, Kiku."
Heracles let himself out and the twenty three year old locked the door behind
him.
"Don't let Vlad find out about your new toy."
He jumped, spinning around to see Lovino leaning in the doorway wearing a
hoodie and flannel pajama pants. Although he wore his characteristic scowl, his
eyes were gentle -even sorrowful. "Lovino-."
"You know how Vlad is about this place."
Kiku flinched, knowing that Vladimir had an unwavering, violent, loyalty
towards Oliver and the business.
"Just stay quiet...I don't want to see you hurt..." For a moment, the Italian
looked ready to cry before he looked over his shoulder and regained his
composure. "...Feliciano still has nightmares...he cries in his sleep..."
Kiku nodded, "Thank you, Lovino-kun."
"Don't mention it."
===============================================================================
"What is the meaning of this, Francis?" Gilbert spoke first, voice gruff, "I
don't enjoy being woken up so fucking late."
"Unfortunately, I'd have to agree with Gil, amigo..." Antonio seconded, "What's
so important that it couldn't wait until morning?"
Francis and Oliver's bedroom contained a giant canopy bed, two dressers, two
walk in closets, an elaborate, full body mirror for Oliver, multiple chairs,
couches, tables and pillows -all of which had been fucked on at one point. In
the bed sat Francis, purple blankets covering his lower half, leaving his
hickey and clawed torso exposed; beside him laid Oliver, cocooned in blankets,
sound asleep and making cute little kitten snores, one arm slung loosely around
Francis' waist.
In two chairs facing the bed sat Antonio, boss of the Fernandez crime family, a
title which he had inherited from his father, and Gilbert, the boss of a
fierce, bloodthirsty crime family known simply as the Black Eagles, he didn't
inherit his title as mob boss, instead having to kill the previous boss in
order to gain it; both men looked rumpled, having been woken up and summoned
from their beds by their long time friend.
"Today we had an...incident with a man that got too rough with one of our
workers."
"Who?" Antonio demanded, concerned. If anyone had touched his sweet, little
Italian-.
"Matthieu. The poor boy cannot talk, eat or work," Francis sighed, trying to
hide how much this had effected him but the fact that he was drinking brandy -
not wine -spoke volumes, "As you can imagine, the...incident frightened Oliver,
let alone the others. I realized that, unfortunately, my protection alone will
not be enough."
Gilbert and Antonio gave each other a look.
"So, you want us to provide you with body guards?" Gilbert questioned
skeptically.
"Oui."
"I am willing to do it," Antonio stated; anything to keep his Lovino safe...
"How many do you need?"
"One from each of you to start with," the Frenchman stated, finishing off his
brandy, "They need to be strong, loyal and they must not be the type to force
themselves on our boys. Tell them they will be paid, however, so
their charity will not be for not."
"We'll get right on it," Antonio said, rising to his feet, "Now I must get
going. There's a lot of men that I have to sort through." With that, the
Spaniard left, determined to find someone competent enough to keep Lovino safe
from all the sick perverts out there.
"I'm going to go, too," Gilbert said, standing up and stretching out his arms,
"I'll call my guys tomorrow-."
"Wait..." Francis sighed, running a hand through his tangled hair, "I need you
to do one more thing..."
"What?"
"This is the man that hurt our darling Matthieu," the Frenchman said, handing
Gilbert a folder full of paper work, "I don't want him dead and I already
roughed him up a bit, so somewhere in between would be most appreciated."
"So...put him in a coma?"
"Oui, Gilbert, you always know what is best..." Francis said tiredly, laying
back in bed, Oliver immediately snuggling into his hairy chest.
The albino cackled, loud and raspy, his tongue piercing glinting in the dim
light. "Only when it comes to blood and violence, mein freund," he said before
exiting the room. He walked down the stairs, passing the rooms that reeked of
sex and appearing in the foyer. Though he was glad Francis met Oliver and got
his shit together, he really wished Francis hadn't become all soft and
sentimental. It made it hard to hang out like they used to.
Gilbert entered the hallway that would lead him to the bedrooms of the whores.
Everything was quiet, everyone presumably asleep after a long night's work of
fucking. When Gilbert found the door he was looking for, it was similar to all
the other doors except for the name "Matthew" pained in red on the door; he
wiped his damp palms on his jeans, cursing his nervousness to the depths of
Hell, before slowly opening the door. The walls were the color of hot
chocolate, the carpet cream and the furniture was constructed from a rich, dark
wood that looked almost black. In the queen sized bed laid Matthew, blonde hair
fanned out on his white pillow case and red plaid blankets tucked snugly around
him, a white dog sleeping by Matthew's feet. With the full moon's light
streaming in through the window, Matthew looked divine. Angelic. Untouchable.
The blonde stirred, pink lips parting soundlessly as he turned, blankets
bunching up around his leg, showing off its long, milky beauty, the fleshy,
meaty parts of his thigh, his perky, soft ass cheek-.
Gilbert got hard as he realized that the prostitute was sleeping naked,
fighting the urge to watch Matthew sleep, to jerk off and watch his cum stick
to Matthew's pretty face. Mentally, he cursed himself for turning into a
creepy, obsessed fucker like Antonio. He shut the door, not wanting to wake
Matthew -let alone the dog -before walking back the way he came. He would make
sure Matthew was protected all the time.
He wouldn't let anyone harm such a darling, addictive, boy.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     Hello once again! I tried to get rid of all the typos and what not
     this time. Be warned, however, I do use Spanish in this text and I am
     not a Spanish speaker. Some of the Spanish may be wrong and, for
     that, I greatly apologize!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Matthias sat in the dimly lit bar, nursing his third beer. The Dane was going
broke very quickly, as he often was now a days; the only time "private
contractors" -such as himself -were rolling in dough was when gangs and crime
families were at each other's throats. Which wasn't the case lately.
He sighed into his beer. To top it all off, he was so horny. The Dane knew the
only things that could make him hard were violence and blood shed, the rush of
a kill. Which was -again -lacking in his life.
The door to the bar creaked open and a familiar cackle filled Matthias' ears.
"Thought I might find you here, Arschloch."
"Gil!" Matthias exclaimed, grabbing Gilbert's hand and pulling him in for a bro
hug, "Nice to see you, man! How long has it been?"
"Too long," the albino said with his infamous, shark like grin, "but -hey -this
isn't for shits and giggles. I'm here to talk business."
"Of course! You got a car?"
Gilbert rolled his eyes, "Ja, let's go." As expected, the car was right out
front and Gilbert, briefly, ducked down to make sure there was no bomb on the
underside of his car -which had happened to him before. After making sure it
was all clear, the albino jumped in the back, Matthias on his heels. "Toris,
drive around a bit," he commanded his driver.
"Y-Yes, sir!"
"Jumpy isn't he?" Matthias commented as soon as the clear, bullet proof and
sound proof partican had been raised.
The mob boss flashed the Dane another shark like grin. "I know right!" he
cackled, "But ol' Toris here is a loyal guy. Knows what's good for him."
Matthias huffed, accessing this "Toris" out of the corner of his eye.
"So...Gil" -the blonde turned to fully look at his savior -"you got a job for
me?"
"Ja, but not what you would think," the older man sighed, rubbing the kinks
from his neck, "A buddy of mine owns a whore house and he needs some guys to
make sure the whores stay safe."
"From...other crime families?"
"Nein. On the street, they're under to protection of the Fernandez's and I.
He's more concerned with clients killing one of them."
Matthias shrugged, "Sounds easy enough. Besides" -a hungry grin formed on his
face -"who wouldn't want to work in a whore house?"
"I think Americans would classify you as a 'horn dog' or something stupid like
that," Gilbert chuckled, "but be warned, if you force yourself on one of the
whores, your head was promised."
The Dane shook his head with a fond smile. "Of course." If Gilbert willed it,
he'd do it, and the opposite was also true -if Gilbert forbade it, he wouldn't
do it. When it came to the Prussian, Matthias' loyalty wasn't bought by money.
Simply devotion. Gilbert had saved him from starvation and thugs and rape and
homelessness; Gilbert, who was not much older than he, who had seen what rested
within him and first introduced him to mercenary work. A job that exploited his
love for violence and gore.
A dream come true, really.
"So you will do it?"
"Ja, of course! As long as I get money for the bacon on my plate and beer in my
glass, I'm all yours."
"Awesome! That's my man!" Gilbert cackled, reaching in a hidden compartment and
producing a box full of cigars, "Want one? I got these from Toni -one of his
guys has connections in Cuba."
Matthias smiled, all at once feeling awed and envious of the older man; wishing
to somehow be him and have him. "How can I pass up an offer like that?"
===============================================================================
"No, no, no! None of these bastardos will do!" Antonio shouted, slamming his
glass of tequila on the side table, "There is no way any of these idiotas can
keep mi amor safe!"
"Hermano, please calm down," his sister, Alejandra, said as she came back into
the living room, a box of Mexican sugar bread in her hands. Alejandra had flown
in from Texas, as she tended to do once a year for two weeks, just to make sure
her big brother was ok, smuggling in tequila and sugar bread; they may have
only been half siblings and Alejandra may have been the only one to have gone
on the straight and narrow, but she cared for Antonio very much. "¿Qué es el
mal?" (What is wrong?)
"¿Qué es el mal? Everything!" he sighed, running a hand through his crazy,
curly hair, "At Francis' place, one of his workers got attacked and he wants
bodyguards..."
"¿Está preocupado por su pequeño italiano?" (Are you worried about your little
Italian?)
"¡Sí!" Antonio lamented loudly, putting his face in his hands, "A whore was
already hurt -almost killed -what if that happens to Lovino? I don't know how
I'd live without him!"
"Hush, hush," Alejandra cooed, caressing her older brother's face and hair,
"Let me see who you have narrowed down."
Defeated, Antonio handed over the files on his men he kept, technology too hard
to get rid of; they were detailed, so he knew who was in his organization,
their skills, connections and information he would need in case blackmail was
necessary.
Quietly, Alejandra shifted through the files; the mob boss trusted his sister
because, even though she was a good girl who was married with two children, she
did grow up around Antonio, their half brothers and their father, around guns
and dangerous men. She was a good, Catholic, girl, yes, but she was smart and
had shaken hands with demons and looked through files written in the devil's
hand writing. "Him," she finally said, handing Antonio a file.
The Spaniard opened it, looking at the file belonging to...Carlos Machado. A
man from Cuba, he wanted to bring his family to the United States -legally. He
had connections in Cuba to get guns and finely crafted cigars. "Why him?"
"He has a family," she said, taking out a piece of Mexican sugar bread, "He
will not risk defying you, hurting your corazón."
Antonio nodded, picking up his glass of tequila. "I'll give him a call," he
said, "but, first, come here by big brother."
She rolled her eyes. "I am twenty one years old, Tonio," the Latina huffed,
but, nevertheless, she got up and sat on his knee, "you don't have to be doing
this."
"I know."
The Spaniard held his little sister close, touching her hair and humming a
lullaby from Spain that his mother used to sing him before she died. Alejandra
wondered when he decided it was his job to do such fatherly things.
===============================================================================
The room was dim, candles in red, paper lanterns the only things keeping the
room from being swallowed by total blackness. Below the room were the opium
dens that people traveled to in order to exchange one pain for another. He sang
a lullaby used long ago, but not forgotten, elegant, slim, black cigarette
holder between the middle and index finger of his right hand, his left hand
fingering the ivory knight on his chess board.
"Little child, be not afraid/The rain pounds harsh against the glass/Like an
unwanted stranger/There is no danger/I am here tonight..."
The song reminded him of better nights. Nights when his bed was occupied by a
tiny one, one with brown eyes that shared a shade with him but were completely
different in origin. Nights that were cold, damp, and rattled with thunder,
brightened by lightening. He remembered the little ones that came -nestled in
his arms, nuzzling against his chest -and went, leaving his embrace for the
earth's, for they had no breast to feed on and there was no money to buy
formula, rare as it may have been in their tiny village back in those days.
He swore that, if he had breasts, he would have given all of his milk to those
young ones. And, perhaps, the persistent ache in his chest would not have
formed.
"Mr. Wang," a man said, knocking on the door.
"Enter."
The Chinese-American did, bowing in respect. "Mr. Wang, we have apprehended the
filth that has decided not to pay you."
"N-No, please!" the blonde man shouted, sobbing like an infant as he was
dragged into the room,"I-I can't pay you now, b-but I'll pay you next month-!"
"You have been saying that for three months," he said, rising from the chair in
his office and looking down at the sniveling, kneeling man whose body already
showed signs of opium addiction. "Clearly you think I am stupid if you expect
me to believe your lies." The immigrant took a final puff of his cigarette
before smashing it into the black and gold ash tray on his desk, walking around
it so that there was nothing in between he and the man.
"N-No, never!" the American exclaimed frantically, shaking his head, "You are
merciful! Kind-!"
"My mercy and kindness have their limits, Doctor," Mr. Wang said, picking a
hair off the elaborately embroidered fabric of the gold robes with green
accents. "You have not paid me, even though I have given you release. Your wife
would be ashamed! To think that the father of her two little boys wasn't a man
of his word...tsk, tsk, tsk!"
"How...How do you know about them?"
"Oh, I know much more than that!" he said with a sudden smile filled with
venom, none of the "mercy" or "kindness" the American claimed he had, "I know
where you live, where your children go to school, your friends, your enemies,
your internet history. Doctor, I make it my mission, my pleasure, really, to
find out everything" -the drug dealer leaned forward, trapping the man's chin
between his inch long fingernails painted red with diamonds by the cuticles -
"everything about the people that attempt to screw me over."
"Oh, you made Yao very mad, da?" a deep, masculine voice questioned, "Is hard
to do."
Yao Wang, local and popular distributor of opium, looked up sharply at the
intruder; when he saw who it was, however, his face simultaneously brightened
and softened, a happy smile spreading across his face. "Aiyah, Ivan! Do not
startle me like that!" he laughed, the Russian man walking closer to him. Yao
pulled away from the kneeling man, only to be swept and crushed into Ivan's
bear hug.
"Jao, I missed you~!" the intimidating man said in a sing-song tone, "Who is
this insect?"
"Ivan, he hasn't been paying me," he said with a pout, hand caressing Ivan's
face, chest and arms, "Isn't that mean?"
"Da. Very," Ivan suddenly scowled, glaring down at the doctor. The Russian's
glare was down right terrifying, so much so that the American found himself
pissing his pants.
Instead of blaming Ivan, as someone normally would, Yao looked at the American
angrily. "Aiyah, you pig!" Yao exclaimed, sending a scorching look at his three
henchman. "One of you fools mop and clean this mess! You two, take him to
Natalya!"
"So harsh," the Russian giggled, grabbing Yao by the throat and pulling him in
for a kiss.
Yao's men dragged the American out the door, kicking and screaming; he didn't
have to worry about the racket. Beneath the rooms were the opium dens, yes, but
beyond Yao's office was a small shop that sold old Chinese statues, herbs and
many of the other traditional Chinese items that Americans liked to buy that
let them believe China was governed only by tradition and wasn't the growing,
industrial nation that it was. Yao's second cousin, who he grew up with and
helped raise, Im Young Soo, ran the shop and knew of Yao's illegal activities.
Always had.
"Let's get out of here, my love," he panted, breaking away from the bigger male
and running the tips of his slender fingers along the seam of Ivan's lips, "You
remember where I live?"
"Of course~" Ivan said cheerfully, sweeping the older male into his arms,
bridal style. The older male cupped Ivan's face in his hands, sprinkling kisses
all over its pale expanse, making Ivan giggle madly.
They left Yao's office, stepping across the puddle of piss and entered the
shop. Young Soo sat behind the counter, flipping through his college textbook
for his fashion designing major; he looked up when they entered the space and
smiled teasingly. "You want me to close up?"
"Shi," Yao blushed, refusing to make eye contact.
"Have fun! But remember Leon is home, you already traumatized him twice!"
The Chinese male hummed, the bell above the door ringing as they left. The
August night was cool due to a gentle rain and Yao held out his hand to catch
the stray raindrops. "Nights like these remind me of China."
"Good or bad?"
"Mostly good," he said, laying his head on the Russian's broad shoulder, "What
would you do if I said the opposite?"
"Put an end to nights like these."
"You cannot control the weather, Ivan."
"I would if I could. For you. Only you."
"I know." Yao did know. He knew that Ivan's love -obsession -ran deep; it was a
force that old, Chinese poets would've loved to paint a picture of with words.
It was strong and constant, something Yao was deeply, secretly, greatful for.
He closed his eyes. "These nights remind me of Kiku." It reminded Yao of a
warm, small body pressed against his, of lullabyes and the baby he nurtured,
helped grow into a teenager, a young man. It reminded Yao of all his scars and
the loneliness in his chest that threatened to smother him.
"I am still looking for him," the younger man said, voice betraying the
desperation he felt to make Yao happy, "I will find him."
"I know you will, my love," Yao said, even though he didn't fully believe it,
"thank you" -Yao kissed the Russian's cheek -"thank you" -he kissed Ivan's nose
-"thank you." He kissed the sensitive neck Ivan kept hidden from the rest of
the world. Ivan moaned, the smaller male dropping to his feet and pushing his
companion into an alley. The expensive robes got wet as Yao knelt down on the
pavement, his experienced hands opening the Russian's trousers and working his
cock. It didn't take long for it to be ready for his mouth and, soon enough,
Yao was expertly deep throating the impressive length.
Yao didn't know if he "loved" Ivan. All he knew was that Ivan was useful, Ivan
was the key to finding Kiku and being reunited. The older man was willing to go
to any lengths for his family. In China, he had sold his body to make ends
meet. In America, he loved a Russian mob boss to find his lost brother.
===============================================================================
Kiku entered his bedroom, which was painted a calming green and decorated with
anime and other Japanese related paraphanilia. He sighed, trying to work the
kinks out of his neck and back but failing. So, instead, he gave up and
continued his nightly routine. He triple-checked that his window was locked and
closed the beige curtains, before stripping of his whoreish, pink, fake kimono,
letting it pool at his feet and vowing to wash it -for it had to be hand washed
-in the morning. Kiku walked to the mirror above his vanity and cleaned off the
non-traditional make up smeared across his face like a child's fingerpainting.
Once his face was to his standards of cleanliness, he pulled out a pair of
sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, the soft fabric of which was automatically
comforting; Kiku checked his window a forth time before peeling back the sheets
of his bed and settling beneath them. The Japanese male knew that every window
remained locked and that there were several locks on all the doors that let the
outside in.
These facts quieted the anxious rattling in his chest, quieting it enough that
it allowed Kiku to settle down into a deep sleep.
He knew his brother would go to great lengths to retrieve him. Perhaps as far
as kidnapping, Kiku trully didn't know any more, but he didn't desire to take
the chance. That night, Kiku was haunted by lullabyes and the memory of his
elder brother -a "respectable" whore, which he quickly learned there was no
such thing, only a good whore, a professional -naked and drenched in the blood
of the corpse on the bed. Their father's.
"For you know, once even I/ Was a little child/ And I was afraid/ But a gentle
someone always came/ To dry all my tears/ Trade sweet sleep the fears/ And to
give a kiss goodnight..."
Chapter End Notes
     Alejandra is Mexico and the song lyrics are not mine. They belong to
     the song "Lullaby for a Stormy Night" by Vienna Teng. A good song if
     you want to check it out.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!