fellowshippers | FIC: The Dark Streets of London (AS/EW AU) NC17/R *warnings*

Title: The Dark Streets of London (1/1)

Pairing: AS/EW – but see Author’s Note #1 below

Beta: precious_rosie – my wonderful little sausage *g*

Rating: NC-17/R

Warning: Non-consensual sex/rapefic; fictional characters

Disclaimer: See above – this story features fictional characters embodied as the people concerned – how can this story therefore be rooted in any kind of reality? *bg*

Summary: Master Jack Dawkins discovers that it’s not wise to arouse suspicion...

Author’s Note #1: This is what happens when you wonder what would happen if Elijah’s Artful Dodger met Andy’s Bill Sikes...

Author’s Note #2: “Flash houses” = pubs used exclusively by prostitutes, criminals, & juvenile pickpockets.

Dedication: To Rosie Posie Danderfluff for encouraging me and for the inspiring discussion about p115 in Carlton’s “The Making of Oliver Twist” book... *grins*

X-posted to rockabilly_blue

Spring 1837

You kick your way through the filth and the debris in the gutter, worn boots pushing aside rotten vegetables and fruit and things you’d really rather not examine too closely. Any heat of the day looks as though it’s never going to reach this dark corner of Whitechapel and you pull your coat a little tighter around your thin shoulders.

Pale sunlight strikes through the over-reaching buildings and touches your face gently, the bustling market seeming brighter and more cheerful as your hand stretches out and slides a small loaf of bread and an old, shrivelled apple into the poacher’s pocket stitched into the lining of your overcoat. You tip your hat to a young girl as you pass and she giggles, her painted face breaking into a smile as she gathers her ragged Sunday best and pushes open the door of The Blind Cock, screeching for gin.

Taking hungry bites at your apple, you ignore its speckled skin and wormholes as you wander through the streets, past the stalls and shops and flash houses, using the cover of your own nonchalant progress and the lack of concentration of distracted pedestrians to filch a couple of handkerchiefs (one silk and monogrammed, one cotton and perfumed) and a finely-engraved fob-watch. Nothing and no-one can touch you and today your strutting walk echoes your conviction that you are the cock of the Whitechapel walk.

At one of the few better-class shops in the area you pause. You look in at your reflection and in the window see a deceptively slight, slim youth of indeterminate age clad in tatterdemalion finery, your long coat seeming to emphasise your slender frame. Fine brown hair falls to your neck, framing a face that is dirty but, as yet, mostly free from scars and pock marks. Admiring the view of yourself, you straighten the squashed velveteen hat that pokes up jauntily on your head – then adjust it until it sits at a rakish angle that pleases you, before sticking out your tongue at the toffs in the shop who are staring at you in horror.

“Get away from here, urchin!” you hear as you saunter away, grinning to yourself and briefly lifting the tails of your coat to flash your arse at your audience.

You’re pleased with how you look; you’re too young to be called “handsome” yet, but you don’t mind. Nancy says your eyes are the colour of periwinkles and bigger than hen’s eggs, and that you're even prettier than she is – which must mean you’re a very fine thing indeed because Nancy is the most beautiful girl in the whole of England.

Some of the others think you’re pretty, too. Sometimes at night in the gloom of the sprawling den in the rookeries a shy little hand will touch yours and it’s “Dodger, please will you...?” And you do, and you let them, and then afterwards you lie in the darkness all warm and sticky and sated and you think to yourself that the rewards of “being pretty” might just be better than those of being a good filcher.

But above all, Nancy thinks you’re pretty. She ruffles your hair and calls you “Me ‘andsome” and “Me darlin’” and “Me pretty little soldier boy” and makes you feel special. You’re sure – quite sure, that you’re in love with her and you would marry her when you were old enough if it weren’t for... You shake your head. If it weren’t for the fact she’s already spoken for...

Fagin laughs when Nancy calls you pretty. “’E’s a boy!” he’ll say. ‘E can’t be pretty, my dear!” Says being pretty is not helpful for a pickpocket because people will remember a pretty face.

And then there’ll be a low, sour growl from the corner. “There’s ways of makin’ sure it don’t stay pretty for long...”

And you’ll shiver at that but not be quite sure whether it’s because you’re scared or because of something else...

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s turning into a very good day. Your pockets are stuffed with tasty bits and bobs and no-one is any the wiser. The sun is higher in the sky now and its warmth is welcome on your face as you chew at your loaf of bread and alternate it with gulps of watered gin and sharp, cloying cheese. Once or twice you think you’ve caught a glimpse of a bulky, barrel-shaped dog and for a moment you pause – then dismiss it as a trick of the light and continue on your way, winking and waving surreptitiously to your friends and fellow filchers.

Just as you’re thinking about turning back towards the rookeries and aim a kick at the cat hissing and clawing at your trousers, you hear the slap-slap-slap of running feet and then Jerry Chawble is at your side, all anxious and pale and breathing heavily.

“Dodger!” he gasps, looking as though he’s being chased by all the devils in Hell. “Be on yer guard, Dodger!”

“What for!” you scoff, daring him to pour ashes on your day.

“’E’s lookin’ for yer, Dodger.”

You stare at him blankly, and then laugh. “’Oo is, Jerry? The Devil ‘Imself, is it?”

Jerry gulps and shakes his shaggy head. “Might as well be, Dodger.”

And suddenly your gizzard twists and your innards turn to water. You know exactly who Jerry means and you know that he’s right. It might just as well be the Devil Himself who’s looking for you – and if truth be told, you’d sooner face that Devil than the devil who hunts you.

“What’s ‘e want me for?” you demand, affecting a disdain you certainly don’t feel.

“’E finks you’ve peached on ‘im.”

“Why should ‘e fink that?”

“’E’s ‘eard as some beadle’s bin askin’ questions ‘bout that ‘ouse ‘e screwed over Nine Elms way – says the beadle reckons ‘e’d ‘eard it was ‘im’ an’ now ‘e finks you’ve told on ’im!”

“I’d never!” you exclaim, trying to sound indignant, but just for a moment inwardly giddy with terror. “’E knows as I’d never!”

“Nor you wouldn’t, neivver,” Jerry agrees. “I knows that. But you stay out of ‘is way, Dodger – you go back to Fagin’s as soon as y’can. It’ll be safer there.”

“Yeah, but ‘e can find me there easy, Jerry. If I runs away somewhere ‘as ‘e don’t know about – where ‘e won’t find me...”

Jerry shakes his head sadly. “It won’t ‘elp yer to run, Dodger. ‘E’ll find yer, no matter where y’go. ‘E always does.”

Yes, he does...and again you’re not sure if it’s terror or temptation you’re feeling...

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s late afternoon now and despite your meeting with Jerry Chawble you’re feeling as mellow and at peace with the world as you possibly could. Not long now till you can go home to the rickety safety of the rookeries and swap tall tales with your friends and accept Fagin’s praise for your hard work.

You stop to watch two dogs fighting and lose yourself in the shouts and yells of their owners, strolling away when your interest wanes. You wonder what there might be for supper tonight and dream about the tasty meals you’d have if you had the money and someone to cook them for you.

You turn with a start when you think you hear someone yelling your name; then continue on your way when you see that you’re mistaken – but not before your eye is drawn to a narrow side-street and the dark, brooding shadow that lingers for a double heart-beat and then vanishes. Not before you’re sure you saw a black dog follow the shadow down and into the darkness.

Not before you’re sure there’s a hunt in progress and that you are the prey.

Heart beating faster, you quicken your step and half-run, half-walk towards the rookeries, all joy in the day finally draining away. You could hide among the people brushing past you if you weren’t so scared; instead they’re a hindrance and you fight your way through them, expecting at any minute to feel that vice-like hand on your shoulder.

Faces swim past you and soon you’re running, seized with a panic that shames you. You’re the Artful Dodger – and the Dodger is scared of nothing and no-one; he can use his wits and sharp tongue to get himself out of any situation. But the hunter you fear is not swayed by clever words and a razor-sharp wit – and against the weapons he wields you have no defence.

Ahead of you is a sign for a pie shop and beyond that the steps leading to the safety of Fagin’s den. Your heart is pounding as you increase your speed, eyes darting this way and that to make sure your path is clear. You’re sure that your panic is due to your imagination and nothing more, and yet still you feel heat in your shoulders, as though eyes are boring into your back. You’re sure you just saw a low-slung black shadow – you’re certain that there’s a black dog at your heels and that if there is...

Still running you turn to look over your shoulder, but see nothing. The only faces you see behind and ahead and to the sides of you are those of strangers and neighbours. For the moment it takes for this information to sink in you pause, gasping for breath; then, seeing that you’re practically home and dry, you relax, feeling foolish and almost light-headed with relief. You’ll tell the others about this when you get home – turn it into a funny story against yourself to make everyone laugh and exorcise the demon that possessed you.

And then in the split second it takes for you to finish the thought and then take a breath before finishing your journey, you see it. Weaving its way towards you through the stream of pedestrians on the pavement is a broad, black dog.

No. Not merely a dog, but a familiar – truly a hound of Hell. Because you know who owns this bull-terrier and that if the dog is here then its owner cannot be far behind. Legs like water and lungs bursting in your chest, you force yourself on and past a needle-thin alley which marks the boundary between the safety of the rookeries and the danger of the streets beyond.

* * * * * * * * * *

You don’t see or hear anything at first so much as feel a great, malevolent presence. You are practically on the steps up to Fagin’s den when you feel yourself over-shadowed by a force so powerful and oppressive that it stops you in your tracks, your feet pinned to the pavement slabs.

“To me,

Bullseye...”

There’s no mistaking that low snarl of a voice, as raw and ragged as razor wounds and as menacing as any knife in the dark. And now you are scared, wondering if your death will be quick and clean or if he’ll make you suffer first.

The powerful black bull-terrier swaggers past you into the narrow alley – and then a huge black shape looms out of the darkness and seizes you by the scruff of your coat before hauling you into the crack between the buildings and hurling you down bodily onto the hard ground.

“The Artful Dodger if I’m not mistaken...” The voice is rasping, sneering, as much an act of violence as any physical assault. Bill Sikes doesn’t need to raise his voice to be utterly terrifying. The quiet, measured calm of him is when he’s at his most dangerous and you find yourself wanting to beg him to mete out whatever punishment it is he has planned for you just so that it might all be over.

“Bill...!” you stammer, trying to smile, scrabbling crab-like on the ground as the big man leans over you, a nightmarish figure in battered felt hat and long black greatcoat that fills your field of vision until you can see nothing else. “I was just talkin’ about you!” You go to retrieve your fallen hat, but one look at his face stays your hand.

His voice is still low, measured, menacing. “I’m sure you was, Dodger. In fact, I ‘ear as you’ve been talkin’ about me quite a lot, young Master Dawkins.”

“I ain’t told no-one anyfin’ as might get you into trouble Bill, I swears I ain’t! I mean, what would I wanna go an’ do that for, now, eh?”

“I should ‘ope you ain’t, Master Jack. ‘Cos you knows what I does to them what peaches on me, don’t yer...”

Your eyes are drawn to the broken-bottle scar running from his brow down to below his right eye. “Bill, on my life I swear as I ain’t said nuffin’ to nobody. Jerry Chawble told me as there’s a beadle been askin’ after you over that ‘ouse at Nine Elms, but I ain’t seen ‘im, an’ I wouldn’t say nuffin’ to ‘im if I ‘ad. I ain’t said nuffin’ to a soul. You knows I wouldn’t, Bill – why would I want to go an’ do a fing like that for, now, eh?”

“Wouldn’t wanna see me transported, now, would yer?” He leans forward, further over you, and you’re transfixed by those brilliantly cold, blue eyes. He snatches at his neckerchief and pulls upwards. “Wouldn’t wanna see me ‘ang?”

You laugh, but inside you’re shaking. “Course not, Bill! Why would I?”

“Why indeed,” he mutters, eyeing you as though you’re something that’s just come from Bullseye’s arse. “Why indeed...”

Everything about Bill Sikes is black, deepest funereal black; save for a flash of colour at his throat and breast and the glint of gold in his left ear. You know that Nancy loves him more than life itself and that she describes him as the knight who came to her aid when she needed it most. You don’t really believe that’s possible, but because it’s Nancy who told you, you’re prepared to accept that it’s true.

But you – you are transfixed by this man, watching him pace and growl deep in his throat just as his dog might and petrified by the surges of dark, elemental energy you can feel coming off him: kept pinned to the ground by the sheer force of his personality. Because you don’t know what’s going through his head – don’t know if he believes you or not. If he does believe you, all well and good: if he doesn’t – then God help you.

And then he’s grabbing you by the lapels of your coat once more, dragging you upright as your feet fumble for purchase on the ground and pushing his face into yours. Up that close you can see the hacked-at black hair sticking out from beneath his hat and the dark, thick sideburns; his stained teeth and the gin-addict’s broken veins: smell the filth and poverty and squalor of the Whitechapel slums on him.

And yet all you can really see are his eyes – as big and as blue as the sky and you’re surprised to see that they’re fringed with almost absurdly long black eyelashes. You don’t expect it; but when his fist winds tighter in the fabric of your coat and you gasp for breath you see something flicker in those eyes that could almost be recognition – a memory? – a surprising glimpse of someone younger and scared who’s been where you are now and knows how this feels.

“You don’t wanna ‘urt me now, do you, Bill?” you say, trying to appease him. “You know I ain’t gonna dob you in to the law.”

“But I don’t know that, do I...” The eyes are shuttered and dark once more, his grip on you tightening. “In fact, I fink I ought to teach you a lesson to make sure as you don’t go singin’ to the law like some pretty little canary.” He takes one hand from your lapels and you flinch, expecting a blow. But instead he just mocks you, mimicking the way you shied away from him, and wiggles his fingers at you. “I ain’t gunner ‘it you,” he adds, in a soft crooning voice which sends a shiver you don’t want to think about running down your spine.

And then your gaze is following his free hand down towards the fastenings on his trousers. “Bill...” Your voice is no more than a hoarse whisper as you watch him unfasten the buttons. “I ain’t gonna tell anyone, you know it. Let me go, Bill. I won’t peach on you. I swear.”

“That’s why I’m gonna make sure as you don’t, Dodger,” he replies, eyes heavy-lidded now as he undoes the last button. He reaches into his trousers and your throat is suddenly dry, staring as he releases the biggest, hardest cock you’ve ever seen in your life.

Before you have time to fully register the size of him there are hands on your shoulders and you’re being smacked against the alley wall, your eyes watering as your face grazes the bricks and the skin on your hands scraping against grit as you raise them to protect yourself.

“Don’t, Bill,” you whimper. “Ain’t my word good enough for yer? I swear on my life as I’d never tell on you.”

And then you’re seeing stars as his closed fist hits the back of your head, making your forehead bounce against the russet-coloured bricks. He hisses obscenities at you as tears of pain fill your eyes, telling you to shut up as arms like steel bands trap you against him. His erection rubs against your arse as he reaches round and unfastens your trousers, loosely sewn-on buttons being torn off in his haste. Bill pulls your trousers down to the tops of your thighs and you’re ashamed to feel yourself respond when you feel his cock against the bared cheeks of your arse.

You want to protest further when he spits on his hand and you hear him slicking his cock with saliva – but the words get stuck in your throat as he begins digging his fingers between the cheeks of your arse, separating them to find what he wants. You feel the head of his cock pressing against the tight ring of muscle and your mind is screaming don’tdon’tdon’tdon'tdon’t as you feel it begin to push home.

And then there is pain – blinding, white hot pain – as he enters you, pain tempered by shame as he pulls you tighter against him, filling you totally until you feel his balls and his shirt against the top of your thighs and your cock jerks erect in response. You’re no virgin and you’ve done this before– but only with boys of your own age and younger and certainly never with anyone as big as Bill. You’re terrified that he’s going to split you in two – and yet as he begins to thrust into your raw arse the pain begins to ease and a low moan of unexpected pleasure escapes from between your dry lips as you feel that huge cock move inside you.

“Like that, do yer, Master Dawkins?” he growls into your hair.

“No – no...” you gasp, not sure if you’re lying or not.

His chuckle against your ear is at once disturbing and arousing as he reaches down and takes your hard, jerking cock in his hand. “Oh I think you likes it all right, Master Dawkins...”

And you lower your head, tears blurring your eyes, because you know he’s right.

* * * * * * * * * *

Time seems to have stopped as you stand there in that dark, deserted alley, letting Bill Sikes fuck you into next week while you try to ignore the cramp seizing the muscles in your forearms as you brace yourself against the wall and wonder just how much more of this abuse of your body you can take.

It’s no surprise to you that he’s not the tender, clumsy lover you’re used to and that instead of kisses and soft words and promises he gives you animalistic grunts and obscenities while he fills your arse and seems to be trying to pummel you through the wall. And yet – and yet while this is meant to be a punishment, a way of ensuring you never tell on him, you’re not sure that it’s having the effect Bill had intended.

Because he’s buried deep inside you now, forcing you up onto your toes with every powerful thrust and you’re screaming pleasepleaseplease and you don’t know if it’s because you want him to stop or because you want him to thrust into you more fiercely – to fuck you harder, harder so that you know beyond doubt that it’s his cock ramming into your arse like a bull at a heifer, his body slamming your hands against the rough, crumbling brick as he pounds into you, his calloused hand wrapped around your shamefully erect cock and pumping you brutally to the same rhythm as his jerking body.

You can barely breathe because he still has you clasped against his chest and because every time he drives into you the sheer power of his body slapping against yours knocks the very breath from your lungs. Every violent plunge inwards threatens to take your legs from under you and you might just as well be a rag doll as he grinds into your arse, every thick, hard inch of him seeming even now to be sinking in ever deeper.

And as you gasp and howl and pound back against him you know that for you this is not the act of degrading chastisement it was intended to be. Not when all you can think of is the huge length of him buried deep inside you and his merciless hand on your cock. You don’t want him to stop; you don’t want it to end and you think you could die here like this, knowing that it’s not him you’re scared of, so much as scared of how he makes you feel – and of letting him know it.

As his hips begin to pound more furiously, you can feel he’s close to coming. The raw, regular grunts against your ear serve only to bring you closer to your own orgasm – and despite the pain and discomfort and humiliation you actually regret it because you feel brilliantly alive, your senses sharper and keener than you’ve ever known before.

Suddenly you feel him shudder – and then he pulls you even tighter against him as you feel his cock spasm and fill your bruised arse with warm, sticky spunk while your own cock convulses as you come with a violence that almost makes you faint.

And when it’s all over and your jism stains the brick dust and your clothes, you experience a genuine sense of loss when his softened cock slips from your raw, violated arse and you feel his semen and what could be blood dripping like honey down your thighs before his hand whips away from your still-bucking dick, rubbing your come against his trousers. Then, still uttering breathless threats and imprecations, he shoves you aside, sending you sprawling lifelessly on the ground. But you can’t look at him – can’t look at his face. You don’t want him to see what’s in your eyes because you can’t bear to think of what might happen if he should.

You watch with dull eyes as he buttons up his stained trousers. You know there’ll be no more words as you part, save for more threats from Bill and your promise never ever to peach on him. You’ll be forgotten now – until the next time he suspects you. With Bill Sikes there’s no tenderness, no kindness, no soft kisses in the dark as there are with the boys you lie with in Fagin’s den. He’ll take you and fuck you blind whether you want him or no and he’ll never apologise or even think twice.

And yet you know now, as sure as one or other of you is going to hang one day, that if you were Nancy you’d never want to leave him either...

* * * * * * * * * *

FIC: The Dark Streets of London (AS/EW AU) NC17/R warnings

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