Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Warnings: Non-con/dub-con, slavery, violence
—
Crown tilted rakishly askew, Francis Bonnefoy stroked the golden band on his wrist as he stood in the shadows, watching the fight going on before him. The bracelet's appearance belied its true worth: although plain, it was beyond priceless. After all, it was the transformed halo—willingly given, gleaming with pure magic—that granted its possessor the complete, unconditional loyalty of Arthur Kirkland, one of the Light side's most powerful generals. In Francis' hands, it would all but ensure the demons' victory over the forces of Heaven.
It had not been easy to procure the halo. Angels were notoriously cautious about who they revealed their haloes to, and it was unheard of for any angel to allow another to touch the glowing circlet. The thought that an angel would give it away—let alone to a demon—was ridiculous. A pipe dream.
But Demon King Francis had made the dream into a reality, and now he had his prize and much more besides. He chuckled as the figure battling Arthur dropped to the ground with a cry. The demons who had been observing from the forest moved to restrain the fallen angel. Francis held up a hand. He'd let Arthur be the one to bind the boy, wanted to see the bitterness and grief in those acid green eyes as he personally delivered his beloved, brilliant once-protégé to a long lifetime of servitude under the demonic reign.
Francis smirked. He had no need for another angel in his bed—not with Arthur already as his spitfire consort—but Alfred F. Jones was beautiful by any standard, and he could think of quite a few delightful uses for the young general, indeed.
—
Francis hummed to himself as he walked through the palace. The day was absolutely stunning through the windows, and a messenger had just arrived with excellent news of the war. Since the capture of one of their last generals six months ago, what remained of the angelic army had more or less scattered to the four winds. Without a competent officer to issue commands and unite the dwindling group, the soldiers were easily picked off.
The campaign in Heaven was as good as over. In fact, the demon general in charge of the latest efforts would be returning from the battlefront today, and Francis intended to receive him lavishly. Down in the kitchens, the chefs were busy at work. Maids had changed the sheets and carefully gone over every surface of the guest chambers with a fine-toothed comb. Francis had even confirmed that his vaults were filled to the brim. Not only would the general have a magnificent feast and the best of lodgings, but he would leave the palace tomorrow with whatever his heart most desired. If gold was what he wanted, Francis thought smugly, then he would have as much of it as he could take.
Now, there was just one more matter to attend to…
"Alfred, dear, where are you?" Francis' call echoed through the halls. A guard in a room down the corridor cracked open the door. Seeing the monarch, he bowed deeply. "Alfred is in here, sir." He held open the door and Francis gave a nod of thanks.
The demon king brightened immediately when he stepped inside and saw the angel sprawled on the grey divan with a bowl of strawberries in his lap. "No visitors today, mon chéri?"
"Francis, you know your guards can't keep their horny hands off of me," Alfred said, rolling his eyes as he popped a strawberry into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed. "I'm taking a break. My jaw is stiff and my ass hurts." The former officer dropped his golden head over the edge of the divan so that he was looking at Francis upside down. His blue-rimmed glasses slid down a little, but stayed on. "And I'm starving." Slim fingers reached for another strawberry.
"You're always starving," Francis chuckled. He plopped down next to Alfred, careful to avoid ruffling feathery wings. "Well, don't overexert yourself today. We are in need of your services tonight for a very special guest."
"Oh?" Alfred examined the strawberry with a critical gaze. "Special guest… Another general, then. Antonio was here last week, so it wouldn't be him." He tapped the strawberry against his lips thoughtfully. "Ludwig? Or is it Gil?"
"Neither, love. I assume that you're acquainted with our dear General Braginski?"
"What." Alfred narrowed his eyes and jolted up. The bowl swayed, though no fruit spilled out. "That bastard Braginski is coming here?" He hissed.
"Language, Alfred!" Francis chided. "I do hope that you'll more cordial when you meet with him tonight. He has spent many a harsh evening alone on the battlefield, and is in dire need of your comforts. Won't you put aside your childish animosity towards him for one night?" Maybe Francis was laying it on a bit thick, but Alfred could be so stubborn.
"Yeah, get bent, Francis. He's cold as fuck, he's a total jackass, and I promised I was going to tear him a new one the last time we saw each other."
Francis sighed. "I won't pretend I know why you two are so against each other. But you are familiar with the ancient codes of hospitality, and you know your role in this palace. You have no choice in this matter, Alfred," he said sternly, ignoring Alfred's grimace.
"You will please Braginski tonight, or you will be punished. And besides," he pinched Alfred's cheek before Alfred could swat him away, "you have to earn those strawberries you're so fond of somehow. I will send for maids to freshen you up before tonight comes. In the meantime, I have to look into some last minute arrangements."
Before Alfred could even open his mouth to reply, Francis had strode over to the door, hand raised in farewell. "Remember," he spun around to wink at the angel, "be good!" The door closed behind him.
"…fuck," Alfred frowned at the berries in his lap, appetite suddenly gone.
—
Ivan Braginski—Terror of the North, commander of legions, general extraordinaire—sank into the plush armchair with a steaming mug of chamomile tea and a grateful sigh. The festivities in his honor had yet to begin, and already he was exhausted. He and his men had scarcely entered the place before servants whisked him away to the guest chambers. They would fetch him in a few hours for the feast. Before then, he would take the precious time to rest and relax.
He tilted his head back in the chair. Dull lavender eyes, disheveled silver locks, and deathly pale skin greeted him. Ivan stared absently at the dark circles under the eyes of his reflection above. Of course Bonnefoy would have a mirror as the ceiling.
Truth be told, he found the suite ostentatious. Something simple would have been nice, but he doubted that Francis would even hear of it. The demon king practically lived for over-the-top displays—life is meaningless without a touch of hedonism, mon chéri, as he would often say. We must indulge in the small pleasures.
And on the subject of pleasures… Ivan's thoughts turned to the companion who would share his bed for the evening. As a host who adhered to the ancient demonic codes, Francis was obliged to provide a bedmate for his most honored guests. It would be an angel: the king made no secret of his partiality towards the fairer species in carnal affairs, having always found the celestial beings' divine glamour beguiling. Ivan hadn't seen any angels around the palace on his way to the chambers, though.
So who, then, did Francis select for him tonight?
Certainly not Kirkland, Ivan mused. Bonnefoy was far too protective of his emerald-eyed consort. And the last time that he saw Gilbert, the other demon mentioned that Francis had a new disciple to train in l'art de l'amour. He was having a tough time, Gilbert said, smirking, because this angel was apparently particularly resistant to Francis' methods—obstinate in the way that military types tend to be, according to the monarch.
It was a soldier, then. Could it be…?
Ivan settled deeper into the chair and took a long draft of his cooling tea. No. Impossible. The last time that he had spoken to Francis, the king had been quite adamant that Jones be executed. The havoc that the trigger-happy angel wreaked on the demon forces was beyond reprehensible. If not stopped, there was a chance that he could single-handedly win the war for Heaven, or at the very least, stall the demons' advance for several years. There would be no mercy, Francis and Ivan had agreed. He was a problem that needed to be taken care of, and soon. Alfred Jones was too dangerous to let live.
—
Francis may have had one too many glasses of the excellent Chambolle-Musigny, but there was no mistaking the giddy feeling in his chest for anything other than pleasure at a job well done. The celebrations had gone more smoothly than he had dared dream of. His chefs had truly outdone themselves with the feast—seven courses of scrumptious delicacies that culminated in a sublime croquembouche—and the musicians in the live band were exceptional. He mentally patted himself on the back for including a few of the better vodkas in the alcohol selection: Ivan had even given him a rare smile of gratitude. It had been terrifying, Francis recalled with a shudder.
Ivan was probably heading to his suite now, ready to retire for the evening. After such a long day, Francis certainly was. He began the short walk to his chambers when a sudden pang of regret hit him: with the bustle of the festivities, he hadn't had a chance to check in with Alfred. But wait! Francis caught the faint scent of apricots and cardamom.
The tantalizing scent grew stronger, and Francis could see two figures approaching from the other end of the corridor. "Alfred!" Francis cried happily when they came closer.
Alfred lifted his head, and Francis inwardly crooned in delight. The boy looked ravishing. A touch of rouge to add color to his full lips and emphasize his high cheekbones, a few strokes of liner to make those sapphire eyes pop, a little mascara on those long, curling lashes. The maids had not forgotten to cast a minor spell to enhance his angelic glamour: Alfred's subtle scent was more noticeable, and every inch of his tanned flesh glowed brighter.
The pleasure slave no longer wore the light white tunic that he had on in the morning. Instead, he was draped in flowing silks, which were cinched with a silver belt to show off his trim waist. Besides the gold carved bands around his wrists—enchanted with runes to restrain his power and magicked to perform a few other functions—the former general was unadorned. Alfred looked very natural, the demon king thought approvingly. He had fantastic taste.
"Hi, Francis," Alfred said. His eyes—clearer and brighter now that they were no longer hidden behind glasses—slid to Francis' left. "Arthur," he said coolly.
Arthur, trailing several steps behind Francis, nodded in greeting, but said nothing. Alfred and the guard passed by, turned the corner. The smell of apricot and cardamom vanished.
"Francis," Arthur said, voice low. Francis inclined his head to show that he was listening. "This will not end well. They will tear each other apart."
"Always such a pessimist, mon amour," Francis teased. "Have some faith." His tone turned more serious. "I know Alfred, and after so many years, I have a few guesses about Braginski. If I'm as right as I think I am, then you have nothing to fear. In fact," the corners of monarch's lips quirked upward—"you may even be pleasantly surprised."
Arthur released a long exhale. "I hope you are, Francis. Otherwise, may the gods help us all."
—
The duo paused in front of a familiar ornate door. The guard knocked three times. When no one answered, he unlocked the door, pushed Alfred in, and unceremoniously tossed him onto the cream sheets. Alfred flipped himself over and leveled an even stare at demon. "Still pissed I bit your dick last week, Jacques?"
"Shut up, slut," Jacques snarled. He snapped his fingers, and fine but unbreakable gold chains shot out from Alfred's enchanted bracelets to wrap around the headboard posts. He grinned cruelly. "I hope Braginski destroys you."
"And I hope Francis cuts your pay," Alfred called out as the door slammed. Pouting, the angel nestled into the bed, trying to get comfortable. The room was quiet and dark, lit only by the soft glow of candles scattered around the bed. Alfred looked at the reflections of the flickering lights on the ceiling. This room was one of his favorites in the palace, even though he resented what he had to do in here. The mirror made the space feel infinite, like he was floating. The sensation was the closest that he could come to flying while under Francis' thumb.
Alfred sighed with longing. He hasn't felt the wind beneath his wings in forever—not since Arthur had struck him down in the forest.
Arthur. Alfred scowled at one of the lights on the ceiling. Whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, the brief encounter with Arthur had left him shaken. His former mentor's betrayal was a wound that still smarted. Alfred used to think that he knew his one-time superior after years spent fighting together. Well, he had been wrong, and he paid dearly for it. If Arthur hadn't done what he did—if he hadn't given Francis his halo and not only abandoned his men, but condemned the angelic forces and Alfred in one fell swoop—then none of this would have happened. Alfred wouldn't be chained to a bed, waiting for the man he despised most in the world to claim him like a good little whore.
Why did Arthur give his halo to Francis, of all people? Angels couldn't be compelled to give their halos, and the fact that Arthur deliberately chose Francis was something that Alfred just couldn't wrap his head around. Arthur had practically turned his hatred of the monarch into a full-time job, constantly criticizing and mocking everything from the way that Francis wielded his rapier to the way that Francis drank wine. Alfred never figured out how Arthur even knew Francis' preferences when it came to libations. It was probably best not to think about it; the normally uptight angel had no scruples when it came to humiliating the demon king, and Arthur was very good at getting information when he wanted to.
It didn't make any sense. No, there had to have been something else, something that neither Arthur nor Francis were telling him—
The door cracked open to let in a sliver of light. Alfred shivered as the temperature in the room abruptly dropped. "Well," a deceptively gentle voice murmured. "Look who it is."
Alfred snapped his head up and met amused lavender eyes with fire in his sapphire glare.
