Work Text:
"Maybe next toime you'll actually manage t' catch me!"
Frederick Albert Godfrey watched as his nemesis ran off across a rooftop, spilling out obscenities under his breath as he heard the boy bark out a laugh in the distance. The teen vaguely registered the former combatant he had hired at his side, asking if he should give chase. Frederick waved a hand dismissively, storming off. Such impolite behaviour had become typical as Charles continued to escape him.
There was a carriage awaiting him, and for a moment, the young man considered walking home, not even wanting to make eye contact with the attendant escorting him. The idea of having to bear even more humiliation at yet another scheme failed made his stomach turn. Yet, the glaring weakness signified by a low aching in his leg made Frederick well aware that going home on foot with no assistance from this distance would be near impossible. Begrudgingly, he stepped inside.
The ride didn't particularly clear his mind, more than anything, it left him to stew. Another plan he had masterfully put together was crushed beneath the urchin's feet. Who was he to know the boy would go as far as to scale the side of a three story building just to avoid his clutches? It was yet another skill he'd have to keep in mind, a reminder that those of the street Arab's class were hardly the same as himself if they were to go to such extents. And, of course, it was a deterrent to his capture.
By the time his carriage had arrived home, Frederick felt as though he was on the precipice of boiling over. Unfortunate Lenore was the first person to greet him, and thus, the first to face his shouting. As much as his intimidation ceased with cracks and shrill tone, the charwoman still apologised, and rushed away as soon as she was able. Not even a thought of fighting back. It almost looked as if she pitied him.
Other servants seemed clever enough to stay out of Frederick's way as he walked to his study. The teen slammed the door as hard as he was able after he entered, leaving a harsh echo to resound throughout the room and down the accompanying corridor. He sat down at his desk, chair scraping loudly on the floor, and he swiped all the papers off his desk with little care.
[Some of the papers were notes and other such things for school, and he'd later fuss over having to sort through what he needed, and what were former failed attempts on Charles' life].
He laid his head in his arms on the cleared wooden surface, squeezing his eyes shut and yelling in frustration. Charles continually evaded him, over and over. No matter what Frederick did, no matter how many men he sent after him, or how contrived a plot he conceived, a lowly street urchin somehow managed to end up one step ahead. Shameful.
It wasn't uncommon for Frederick to fantasize about what he'd do when he finally, finally got his hands on Charles. Countless times his mind had thought of his capture, the boy being given no other choice but to be dragged back to Frederick's home. He'd lock them both together in one of the countless bedrooms of his manor, in one of the corridors where servants rarely came. Then, the fantasy would branch off.
He could hold Charles down, seizing his wrists and bending his petulant fingers back until they cracked. Choke him, and watch the boy fruitlessly claw at the hands on his neck. Grab a pair of pliers, God knows where he'd find any, and pull out one of his seemingly feculent teeth. Write his name onto the waif's skin with a razor and watch the blood drip down through the grime that permeated his squalid, starved body. Take a knife and simply-
For some odd reason, Frederick's mind never let him actually finish the deed. In great contrast to his usual fright of the sight of violence, he could fantasize endlessly about torturing Charles, making him bleed, cry, beg, and break. But he could never snuff out the light completely. It didn't feel attainable. Father would call it weakness.
Just as he would call not being able to capture the child, the wastrel who murdered him a disgrace. Frederick was spitting on his family's legacy with how long it was taking to dispose of a single boy. Never would he surpass his father's image when he couldn't even surpass his father's killer.
Sitting up, the young man's half-lidded eyes scanned across the empty room. There was hardly anything to distract him from his spiraling thoughts, the only thing his mind could focus on was the large bookcase against the back wall.
Charles had only been in his study once before, and had made a comment about how there was no way Frederick had actually read that many books, and just had the bookshelf put up to look intelligent. He could hear his voice, see his snarky, putrid grin.
The boy was only partially right about the bookcase. Frederick hadn't read all of the books on the tall shelf, few of them were of any interest, all texts relating to politics and war. Things that pertained to his father's intrigues. The study belonged to him after all. Had belonged to him. Father had urged him to read more 'important' things, pushing him away from novels and prose, and towards historical accounts. Nevertheless, the bookshelf instead sat nearly untouched, another reminder of something the boy couldn't do.
If his father was there, it was certain he'd face far more than a reprimand for his weakness. Henry Godfrey wouldn't stand for a moment to see his son acting as such a failure. He had gotten quite good at discipline since he came to expect such behaviours from his fragile off-spring. Frederick's father's low expectations were being upheld even in death. Alas, he couldn't be around to set the boy back into place.
Absent-mindedly, the young man had begun chewing his nails. An awful habit he hadn't been able to break, even after years of discouragement. The thin, faded scars on his wrists should have been enough to stop him, but despite many authorities' best efforts, he continued in the childish vice.
Frederick's thoughts always drifted back to the boy, inexplicably caught in his non-existent orbit. Charles' nails were notably longer than his own, if not equally chipped and ragged. Dirt and soot lay underneath them, and Frederick had cerebrated that the filth must be the reason he doesn't chew on them. Surely, he had more than enough anxieties to warrant nail biting. Or perhaps he was just as inhuman as his ragamuffin appearance suggested.
Either way, thinking of Charles' hands was often a dangerous route to go down. They were really so small. Frederick wasn't particularly large in any sense of the word, but seeing Charles' hand next to his own was staggering. The imp's size in comparison to his own felt obscene
His hands were always soiled and filthy, as was the rest of him. Charles' knuckles were knobby, scratched and scarred. Fingers and palms covered in thick callouses, a few of which he had seen split and crack. Burns that littered tiny, bony hands, leaving bare skin secondary to previous pains gained from his trade.
There was a polarity between how Frederick's stomach turned at the thought of Charles' pain, and how his face began to heat up simultaneously. James often pointed out Frederick's deep hypocrisy on various topics, and he likely would if he had been there to do so. But Lord forbid if he were to think of James as well.
He bit at the edge of his thumb's nail bed. The pain that bloomed made him wince. Frederick had always had an incredibly low pain tolerance. Weak. The stinging in his hand made him think about how remarkable it was that Charles could manage to pop right back up from most injuries. He had once watched one of his men strike him in his stomach, and the ragamuffin had only stumbled back before seemingly shaking away the pain and hurrying off. He was always running.
It was the catch that proved hard. It was easy to keep the boy in place when you managed to get a hold on him. Charles was frail, his diminutive form easy to physically dominate, even for a weak man such as himself. Frederick found his thoughts sinking deeper. He remembered what it was like to press Charles against a wall and hold him there. To feel him struggling as hard as he was able, having no choice but to yet the one who had trapped him have his way.
Soon enough, Frederick found himself having come to a stand. If the heat that had risen to his face didn't tell him, the sudden tightness of his trousers certainly did. Such things tended to happen when his thoughts related to Charles were permitted to run awry. It was disgraceful how quickly he undid his belt, tugging down his trousers and drawers to submit to base instinct. The young man was already demonstrating a grievous lack of propriety, there was no point in stopping his mind from wandering further.
His head felt light as he pictured the urchin laid out beneath him. Fighting, surely. If not with actions, then with his foul tongue. It seemed as if Charles could never be stifled, even when he was being screwed as rough as Frederick could find it in himself to manage, his partner would still slur out insults and demands to the tune of pleas. To that thought, the young man began to stroke himself.
Perhaps he could get the gamin to take his cock down his throat. Pushing him onto scarred knees would hardly be a struggle, and with the intrusion thick on his tongue he wouldn't be able to say a thing. He'd be below Frederick, eyes wide and pleasing, groaning around the intrusion being pressed down his gullet, being guided back and forth, used like nothing more than a puppet.
Or, he could dress Charles up. Frederick already did dress Charles in a way, assigning him finer clothes to wear for their dinners, though nowhere near his own magnitude of respectability. But at times, he yearned for more control over the boy's filthy and fetid image.
A thought crossed his mind of bathing him. It wouldn't be practical, focusing on Charles' scent alone for too long could make Frederick gag, and he couldn't imagine seeing the grime come up off him would be much better for his sensibilities. But, he couldn't deny the appeal of seeing what was finally underneath it all. Being able to map out each burn, scratch, and scar without any hindrance.
He could grace Charles with a nightgown. One of his mother's that was kept in the highest drawer to not be touched. And the boy would loathe it. Not understanding that his place wasn't to be a woman or wife, far below that. But to be struck through and shown his place before being discarded.
Satin would slip from the boy's shoulders, the gown would not fit his emaciated frame, never being meant for him, and he'd be all the better for it. Charles would bark out protests, disgust on his face. It would be a miracle if he didn't claw one of Fredericks eyes out in his fight. But his weakness is his physical abundance thereof, and the young man would eventually receive the upper hand, hiking up the skirt and tearing through petals while his partner grasped at the sheets.
Further whines and remonstrances would follow whilst Charles' cunt was split open. He'd continue to attempt to remove the dress, until he was left so feeble from his fucking that he wouldn't be able to do anything but moan and shake. Tears streaming down, blush coating his cheeks, as if he was a maiden on her wedding night.
Yet another thought speared through his temple. Forcing the boy to take upon his child. It was even less achievable than his former fantasies, and brought a near sickness to his stomach. It was likely impossible, Charles had not even seemed to have reached pubescence, and that was ignoring the countless other factors impeding his fertility. But Frederick couldn't stop himself from pushing further. Beads of wetness spilled past his tip as his breath heavied.
He would make Charles beg. Beg for him to pull away. Not inside, I don't want it, get off of me, please don't, useless pleas that would mean nothing. He'd grab the boy's waist and hilt his mast deep enough to bruise. Forcefully weaken his cervix. Fuck his spend into the painfully tight entrance he'd battered his way into whilst he kept down tiny wrists with one hand. Frederick would watch the tears stream down his befouled visage while he went limp with defeat at his violation with fertile seed.
Frankly speaking, the young man didn't even wish for a child, much less an heir born from a street urchin. One who was far from one he'd desire as a woman. What he wanted was to stake his claim. Make every part of Charles his, down to his soft entrails. On occasion, Frederick thought about tearing the boy apart just to carve his initials into his bones.
The sounds of slick skin sliding and heavy, breathy whines filled the room as Frederick's pace had heightened into him fully thrusting into his fist. A mess, the boy's glasses laid askew on his face, slipping down his nose from sweat. His carefully combed hair had strands slipping out of place, far too many for Father to fix. With a whimper, he tried to picture Charles. If he was there, Frederick could make him help.
Or, perhaps he would stay just out of reach. Intentionally leaving his nemesis esurient, longing. Spitting out degradation and humiliating him for his shameful ways. Throwing out accusations of libertinism, with his rough, loud laugh that always sounded like it would become a cough, but hardly ever did. He would call him pathetic. A waste. If he was truly pushing his limits, he'd pack his pipe and begin smoking right there.
If he was lucky, Frederick would feel burning hot remains spill onto his bare neck.
The boy bit his lower lip hard as he spent in his hand, a moan barely muffled. Sparks cornered his vision when his eyes were pressed shut, orgasm leaving him shivering and overwhelmed. He sat in the crushed bliss, ragged breaths escaping him, before Frederick forced himself to open his eyes.
As soon as he saw the state of himself, Frederick cringed and grabbed a handkerchief to wipe off his hand, as well as a small portion of his desk. The cloth went immediately to the floor, only to be acknowledged later by some truly unfortunate maid. The boy righted himself, stuffing his soft length into his trousers and promising himself a long wash quite soon.
Well, his anger had subsided. It was replaced with a deep self-loathing, and a strong swatch of embarrassment. These were quite usual emotions that occurred whenever he chose to pleasure himself, especially when Charles was involved. But he felt even more hatred from how he went from plotting the boy's murder to thinking the most degenerate thoughts about him.
He had conjured up sullying his mother's clothing with the boy's filth. And worse yet was whatever hysteria took him to wanting the boy to carry a child. The thought made him feel nauseated, and he couldn't let himself linger on the dozens of reasons why without wanting to hurl up bile.
Looking down at the scattered papers on the floor, Frederick stood and slowly walked around them. Another result of his fit. Sorting them could wait, he needed a wash desperately. If for no other reason than to give the illusion of cleaning himself from his own sinfulness.
In an almost cruel coincidence, Paul happened to be about to knock on the door to Frederick's study right as the boy opened the door to leave. The two stared at each other for a moment, narrow green eyes meeting grey, before the valet smiled.
"Good evening. I take it your sweep catching didn't go so well? I did suggest last month you leave it to the men to do the physical work," Paul's smile didn't falter even slightly as Frederick's surprised expression dropped into a sour grimace. Of course, the only one in his home who would dare toy with his mood at this time would be Paul.
Frederick huffed, turning his chin up and looking away from the older man as he spoke, "My endeavours are none of your concern. If you have any care for my mood, you can prepare the wash basin for me."
With a turn of the heel, Paul asked the boy to follow him, walking at a speed that Frederick felt was intentionally trying to get him to trip over himself. In the end, he was able to wash, and clean himself of his previous filth in fluids and musings, convincing himself it was an effective solution to cure him of his profane reverie, at least in the moment.
Though, the next time he encountered Charles, it was almost impossible to keep his eyes from the pipe hanging off the boy's lips when he stepped out of his house. Watching the still burning debris slip out as the boy ran home from dinner with his pipe clenched between his crooked teeth.
Frederick would write off this fixation as an annoyance, and quite surely nothing more.