Summary: Ivan enjoys Francis' hospitality; Alfred discovers Arthur's reasons.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Warnings: Rape, mentions of gore


The door shut with a click, and the demon general's tall, broad-shouldered form crossed through the dim space to the bed. Alfred could see the outline of his enormous leathery wings and the glint of candlelight on curved horns, could hear the swish of the scarf that the other always had wrapped around his neck.

A voice like ice cut through the darkness. "Jones."

"Braginski." Alfred's lip curled in disdain. "I was sure that you'd be rotting in a deserted battlefield by now."

"And I was under the impression that Francis was going to personally execute you, then incinerate your corpse for good measure," Ivan bit back.

"Yeah, well, if you weren't a complete imbecile, you might have noticed that he changed his mind."

Ivan ignored the dig at his intelligence and moved to the edge of the bed. He leaned down until a jet-black horn bumped lightly against Alfred's cheek. Besides the vodka on Ivan's breath, Alfred faintly registered a sweet, crisp scent. Huh. So Braginski smelled like sugar plums, pine, and snow, not like death and bloodshed. Who would have thought?

"Now, why would he do that?" the demon's whisper was a brush of chilled air that sent a shiver up the angel's spine. "He saw Olympus, the massacre there. We walked through the fields of Abistum together, stepping around the bullet-riddled bodies of my men."

The whisper grew into a venom-saturated hiss.

"He remembers the remains of the demon soldiers at Caelum, layered so thick that by the time the morticians showed up and dragged away the ones at the top, the ones buried underneath were unidentifiable, liquid"—Ivan straightened up with a ragged inhale—"All of it your handiwork."

Alfred raised his chin defiantly at the figure looming over him.

"You have no one but yourself to blame for your failures, Braginski," he spat. "My duty was to defend Heaven from demon scum, and I did it. By any means necessary. If you're so torn up about your losses"—his tone turned mocking—"then maybe you shouldn't have invaded in the first place."

"You are more than a menace, Jones," Ivan snarled as he unbuttoned his coat, unwound his scarf.

"You're a monster. You killed soldiers who had already surrendered. You showed men—honorable, good men—no mercy even as they begged for their lives."

The bed sunk with the general's weight.

"Maybe Francis was right about keeping you as a harlot. You deserve to be on either your knees or your back for the rest of your pathetic life, serving each and every one of the demon scum who wants a turn with your filthy hole."

The demon's lips stretched into a malicious smirk as he studied his bedmate. Francis always did have an eye for beauty. Long legs, smooth, sun-kissed skin, those fiery eyes that glittered with hatred… Ivan felt himself getting hard.

"I'm going to relish breaking you in."

Alfred grunted as he was abruptly flipped over onto his stomach. Strong hands forced apart his legs and Alfred twisted, opening his mouth to protest, when he saw what was behind him and froze.

Alfred was no stranger to big cocks—maybe he was even a little of a size queen, he hadn't felt an ounce of remorse when he chomped down on Jacques' tiny pecker last week—but…

"What the fuck, Braginski? Did your whore of a mother fuck a horse?"

"Impressed?" Ivan purred. "I've been told it feels larger than it looks."

Alfred shook his head frantically. "This is not happening. Oh my gods," Alfred's voice was almost hysterical. "I'm going to be ripped apart by Braginski's horse dick. Francis made me a sex slave so I could be fucked to death. By Braginski. The guards are going to think it's hilarious when they find my dead body tomorrow—"

"Jones, shut up," Ivan growled. "Gods, you are so annoying."

He shoved Alfred's head into the pillow, tightened his grip on the angel's hips, and, with one ruthless thrust, slid in to the hilt.

Alfred choked on his cry, back arching in pain. His hands clawed futilely at the chains binding him. Cold. Braginski was impossibly cold. It was as if he had been penetrated to his core by an enormous icicle. Had the maids not so thoroughly prepared him beforehand, had they not stretched him open with two, then three, then four oil-drenched fingers, he would have torn, Alfred realized vaguely.

He had fallen through the surface of the winter lake, was freezing, was drowning. Battered by a hailstorm from the inside out.

Alfred's entire body shuddered.

With a low grunt, Ivan pulled out slightly, then thrust back in, deeper. "You're so fucking tight, Jones," he gasped.

"So fucking hot."

He buried his nose in Alfred's silky golden hair, breathed in the intoxicating scent of apricot and cardamom and something more, something fresh and earthy and light.

Alfred struggled weakly, but Braginski was unrelenting. He set up a brutal pace, pounding into the lithe body that was now glistening with sweat. Ivan inhaled, once more, of the fresh, earthy scent that he couldn't quite identify.

It was something excruciatingly familiar, something important. It reminded him, inexplicably, of the fringes of Heaven where Ivan had lurked for almost five years, searching for a chink in the armor in the angelic forces' defense that he could exploit with his soldiers. The temperature in the area just outside of Heaven proper was perpetually subzero, a natural deterrent against invaders.

That tundra had been both Ivan's prison and refuge—had both offered him respite from the chaos and violence of the battlefield, and served as the theater of the war that he came closest to losing.

For how many nights had Ivan kneeled in the snow, huddled over a dying flame? How many evenings had he reluctantly accepted the inevitable chill in his bones as he alternatively cursed at and played to the gods for any gap—a single weakness—through which he could slip through and turn the tide of the war?

And, in turning the tide, Ivan would be granted salvation; he would be allowed to escape the bitter cold and return to his castle, return to the patch of sunflowers that he cultivated by hand in the garden directly underneath the balcony of his chambers. Return to the peaceful, long afternoons of looking up at the cloudless sky from beneath the shadows of his sunflowers. The petals would be swaying in the breeze.

The demon general gave an involuntary jerk; underneath him, Alfred let out a sharp gasp. It couldn't be, but it was: Jones smelled unmistakably of his memories of those afternoons. Sunshine and sunflowers, vibrancy and life.

Those long winter nights at the warfront, when not even the small mountain of fading embers could keep him warm, when only his recollections of afternoons spent in his sunflower garden saved him from becoming yet another cadaver covered in acres of frostbite-blackened flesh. He had been so sure, back then, that his heart would slow in the hours after midnight until it became nothing but a miniature glacier in his chest, and the rest of him would follow. He would be a glacier that snapped into shards at the first rosy streaks of dawn.

Suddenly overcome, Ivan stifled a sob.

Gods, he wanted to go home. He wanted the war to end, wanted to no longer fear the idea of snowflakes that wouldn't melt on his cheeks. He wanted the ice in his marrow to thaw until the blood in his veins only knew spring and summer, the first few fragrant days of fall. He wanted to sleep under the nodding heads of his sunflowers again, safe and content. He wanted, he wanted, he just wanted—Ivan sped up his final thrusts, slammed into the trembling angel one last time, came in the unbelievable heat with a guttural groan—he wanted to be warm.


Alfred stirred awake a few hours after dawn. Without his glasses, the sex-mussed hair and disheveled feathers of his reflection on the ceiling were blurry, but the empty spot next to him on the bed was unmissable. Chains no longer restrained him to the headboard; he threw an arm over his face, dug at bleary eyes with the heel of his hand. Sunlight glinted off the enchanted cuff.

Fuck, when was the last time he had been fucked like that? It was bad enough that Braginski was brutish in bed, but he had to have that stupid giant cock, too. Alfred shifted experimentally, then muttered a curse under his breath. It felt like a herd of bison had stampeded across his lower back.

He'd need painkillers—maybe Francis would be a saint today and slip him a couple of extras. The guards would be unbearable otherwise.

"Oy, Jones, get up!" Great. Alfred glared upwards, meeting the blue smudge of his own resentful gaze. Here comes Jacques.


Francis stared at the demon who stood before him in the throne room.

"Are you sure?"

"Da."

"Very well," Francis said slowly, "I am a man of my word. I promised you a boon, and if that is what you most desire, then I shall fulfill your request. The necessary preparations will be made. All will be ready by the time that you leave."

"I am grateful." Ivan bowed his head, then straightened and turned around to leave.

"General Braginski," Francis called as Ivan reached the door.

"My king?"

"You may do with him as you will, but you are not to kill him. His life remains under my protection, even as his body is yours."

"Yes, sir."

"And one more thing: a warning. Do not be careless. Do not let your guard down. You are one of my finest officers. I would be displeased to hear that you have been injured or otherwise…indisposed."

Ivan bowed his head again. "I will exercise caution, my king."

The door closed behind the shadow of leathery wings.

Francis stroked his chin in thought. Ivan's request had been surprising, certainly—from what he had heard, the general was not an impulsive man. He made decisions only after a significant amount of consideration, examined issues from all possible angles, planned for contingencies with a fervor that bordered on obsession. His penchant for strategy had doubtlessly played a major role in his success at the outskirts of Heaven.

Yet Ivan had chosen the bed slave that he spent a single evening with over untold material riches, over the opportunity to expand his influence, over something tangible that would cement his legacy and power in the demon kingdom and its history.

Had Alfred somehow managed to tap into the sentimental streak that Braginski concealed so well behind his frozen exterior? From years of observing the man, Francis knew that it existed, although he would not be so bold—nor so foolish—as to speculate as to how deeply it ran.

Or, Francis mused, Ivan might have simply wished to crush the boy, to see the golden once-general broken and submissive at his feet. The monarch almost chuckled at the thought. If the latter were the case, Braginski had his work cut out for him.

"Well, at any rate," Francis murmured to himself, rising from the throne. "Alfred will be livid." Perhaps dear Arthur could be so kind as to break the news. Or, if Arthur were not feeling particularly amicable, perhaps he could be persuaded.


"What did you say? I must have not heard right."

Arthur closed his eyes, massaged his temples, and sent a quick prayer to the gods above for just a smidgen more of patience.

"You have a new master, lad," he bit out. "I have told you this three times now. General Braginski has requested you as a reward for his years of service. You will be leaving with him today. The guards will be coming by to collect you soon."

Alfred's eyes narrowed behind blue frames. "If this is some sort of a sick joke, it's not funny, man."

"I assure you, I am completely serious," Arthur sighed. "I am as dismayed by the situation as you are, but, unfortunately, neither of us has any say in the matter. Francis did promise Braginski anything that he desired, and what he desires is apparently you, Alfred."

"I didn't even do anything last night," the golden blond scowled darkly. "Sure, I goaded him on a little, but I didn't bite him or try to kick him or anything, and now"—he slumped backwards into the divan—"I'm going to have that iceberg shoved up my ass every night for the rest of time. Gods, what did I ever do to deserve this?"

Arthur's fine features softened. "There, there, poppet," he said, sympathy heavy in his voice. It truly pained him to see his former protégée so distraught—Arthur had practically raised the boy, had taught him all that he knew about warfare and everything besides. There was a time when Alfred was the only thing that kept him grounded through the years of bloodshed and violence. As much as it hurt, Arthur couldn't be indifferent to Alfred's agony.

"Alfred," the green-eyed angel started again, "I can't say for certain that you won't be injured, but Braginski will not kill you. Even in his care, you will be safe—"

"Safe?" Alfred repeated incredulously, sitting up. "Yeah, I'm sure I'll be real safe trapped with that pipe-wielding manic in his doom castle."

The younger angel let out a bitter bark of laughter.

"I stopped being safe the second I was dragged into the Underworld and cuffed with those enchanted bands, Arthur. And you know what? This whole mess happened because of you. I stopped being safe the moment you gave Francis your halo and turned your back on your own people, you traitor."

Arthur seethed.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Jones," he spat. "You don't know how many demons would gladly tear you limb from limb if they had the chance. You have no idea what you've done, with your proclivity for shooting first and thinking later. You don't know what it cost me, what I had to do before I could convince Francis to extend his protection over you, to grant you a sheltered life as a pampered bed slave instead of allowing you to be simply ripped apart by the demonic hordes—"

"Wait," Alfred interjected sharply. "What do you mean, 'what it cost'?"

"I did not wish to tell you this, but you are being so difficult right now." Arthur closed his eyes again, dragged a hand down his face.

"Damn Francis for Compelling me to have this conversation," he grumbled.

His emerald eyes snapped open and pinned Alfred to where he sat.

"I gave Francis my halo in exchange for your life."

Alfred froze. "You what?" He whispered.

Arthur nodded, expression grim. "Francis would not consider anything else. I offered everything I had, everything I could give"— he swallowed hard, looking away—"and he rejected it all, save for my halo. My halo was the only thing that he saw as equivalent in value to your life."

"So you gave it to him," Alfred said hollowly.

"I could not let you die."

Alfred opened his mouth, but before he could ask Arthur the question on the tip of his tongue—"Why?"—the doors to the room burst open, revealing Jacques and another guard.

"All right, Jones," Jacques drawled. "Time to go. We're here to escort you to your new master."