Summary: Alfred makes for a poor prisoner, and Ivan's patience runs thin.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warnings: Rape, violence
Arthur gave Francis his halo so that Francis would spare my life.
Francis controls Arthur's magic and power because of me.
Because of me, Heaven will lose the war.
"You are being very quiet, Jones," his new master observed from the other side of the carriage. "What happened to the mouthy brat from last night?"
"Fuck off, Braginsky," Alfred said absently. "I'm not in the mood for your bullshit right now."
The demon general narrowed his eyes, but did not say more.
Alfred tucked his wings around himself, then curled up into a ball and buried his head in his knees. What a fucking mess.
The rest of the carriage ride passed in silence.
"Get up. We're almost here."
Alfred looked up from where he had been wallowing in self-loathing for the past few hours.
Outside the carriage window, a colorful, domed building came into view. It was a magnificent structure, he acknowledged reluctantly—perhaps not as elaborate as Francis' palace, but there was a frigid, austere beauty to it.
Or, Alfred shivered, that could have just been the chill that pervaded the air. The Northern Territories were mired in winter for at least nine months a year, Francis had mentioned once. Alfred had said that it sounded like torture, and Francis had chuckled.
Well, Alfred certainly didn't feel like laughing now as he took in the scene outside the window. In his silk tunic and delicate sandals—more fitting for lounging about in the sunshine than traipsing about in the snow—Alfred felt woefully underdressed.
If Ivan noticed the angel's light trembling, he didn't comment. Instead, the general stalked off of the carriage the moment it came to a stop before heavy golden doors. The doors creaked open; Alfred saw a mousy-looking brunet duck out from behind them and greet the tall demon as he walked into the castle.
Alfred heaved a sigh and untangled his limbs. He was probably meant to follow in Ivan's wake. Maybe it would be warmer inside?
No such luck, Alfred thought morosely as he trailed behind his new master. The cold wasn't completely unbearable inside the castle walls, but he could still see the faint outline of his breath.
He'd get used to it—he wouldn't show any weakness to Braginsky, of all people. If that asshole was fine with it, then Alfred was fine with it. In fact, he was more than fine with it! Alfred nodded to himself. Heroes loved the cold!
Y-yeah.
The general in front of him halted at a set of mahogany doors, and Alfred's eyes widened when he saw the room that they opened into. Spacious and opulent, the room—slightly warmer than the rest of the castle—was furnished with pieces carved from rich woods. In the fireplace next to which a luxurious rug was spread, a fire crackled merrily. Abundant sunlight poured in through enormous bay windows, highlighting dust motes and the fibers of the red velvet finish on the elegant settee and armchair. Two boxes, one long and flat and the other large and round, rested on a round table near the windows.
"Ah, Toris must have had a servant unload the carriage," the demon murmured as he inspected the boxes. "These are your personal effects, Jones. Francis gave them to me." He took out a small copper key from the pocket of his military coat and unlocked the flat box.
A divine light instantly emitted from the inside. Alfred gasped. His sword. He hadn't seen it since his capture. Striding over, Alfred reached for the Light-forged blade, only to have his hand slapped away.
"Nyet," Ivan said sharply. He examined the contents of the box for a minute more—a neatly folded uniform and dog tags, besides the sword—before closing the lid and turning to the other box.
"Oh?" He raised a silver eyebrow as he took in the array of carefully-labeled creams, oils, jarred spells, and makeup. "I don't recall you carting this around the battlefield," he said, amused.
Alfred flushed in embarrassment. "Shut up, bastard. There's no way in Tartarus I'm putting any of that shit on for you."
Silently, he sent an apology to Emma and Lucille—he didn't even get to say goodbye to his favorite maids at the palace—for badmouthing the fruits of their hard labor. It had taken hours for them to get the spell for upping his glamour right, and some of the creams had taken literal weeks to perfect. He loved those creams, but he'd die before he told Braginsky that.
The bastard was still looking at Alfred with that terrible amused expression.
"Take what you want, Jones. Don't be shy. They're yours, after all."
Alfred crossed his arms and glared meaningfully. Ivan stared back.
"Really. You want me to look away?"
Alfred glared harder.
"Fine," Ivan grumbled, but turned around. "I think I might actually prefer you on the battlefield. You didn't give a shit when you were caked in blood and grime."
"Yes, well, times have changed," the angel said drily as he plucked a few of his most treasured creams from the box and slipped them into his tunic. He wouldn't primp himself for Braginsky, but Alfred liked looking good. He was vain—so what?
Biting his lip in thought, he snagged a bottle of unscented oil as well. Braginsky probably wouldn't bother preparing him, and he didn't particularly look forward to being torn apart by that massive cock.
"Hey, Braginsky," Alfred suddenly peered at Ivan. "You could use a few of these yourself. You look awful." He couldn't be sure—the demon's back was to him—but from the few glimpses that he'd caught on the way to the room, the war had not been kind to the other general.
Ivan spun around, confirming Alfred's suspicions. Wasn't his face chubby at some point? There was no baby fat now, only sunken eyes and a nose that jutted prominently out of a gaunt face.
"No need, Jones," Ivan said cheerfully. "I'm not a whore who's been spoiled rotten by the very foes I swore to kill."
Alfred bristled. He wasn't proud of what he had to do in Francis' palace, had hated himself for doing it, actually, but—Arthur gave Francis his halo for my life.
Heaven's gonna lose the war because of me.
"Fuck you. I'll make you regret bringing me here if it's the last thing I do, master," Alfred sneered. "I will make your life miserable."
"Ah, Master Braginsky?" The door to Ivan's office cracked open.
The general glanced up from the report he had been reading. "What is it, Toris?"
The brunet shifted nervously. "Mister Alfred tried to escape again."
"…And what was his ingenious plan this time?"
"He tried to walk out of the front gates this morning, Master Braginsky."
"He tried to walk out of the front gates. This morning. While all of the guards were on duty." Ivan felt a headache coming on.
"Mister Alfred seemed convinced that it would have worked, had the guards not seen his wings."
Ivan set down his paperwork, pushed back from his desk, and stormed back to his quarters, one hand reaching for the pipe perpetually stowed in his coat.
Alfred was batting his eyelashes at a guard when the platinum blond entered the suite.
"Jones," Ivan ground out, "have you learned nothing from your last escape attempt, when you tried to seduce the guard whose brother you murdered in cold blood?"
"Nope!" the angel chirruped with an infuriating grin. Ivan waved his hand to dismiss the guard, who scurried away gratefully.
"A week ago, you flirted with Toris, my Head Housekeeper, to get him to defy my direct orders and allow you out. That was followed by your asinine attempt to escape by stealing a maid's uniform from the laundry. You planned to leave through the servants' entrance. You failed when you got distracted by apples in the kitchen and Toris spotted you. Two days ago, you made that spectacularly foolish break for freedom with the guard. He nearly shot you. Now, I hear that you tried to escape by walking out of the castle in broad daylight."
Ivan slammed his pipe on the floor next to the armchair that Alfred sat on.
"How in Tartarus were you a general? Are you really this dumb, Jones?"
Alfred frowned, an offended expression on his face. "Hey, it totally would have worked! If you look confident enough, no one will stop you!"
"Everyone here knows that you are my prisoner."
Ivan leaned back and massaged the bridge of his nose. He should have accepted Francis' offer of endless wealth. Gold wouldn't have tried to run away in the stupidest ways imaginable.
"All right, Jones." Ivan snatched Alfred's wrist and started to drag him in the direction of the bedroom. "You know what's next."
Alfred resisted—Ivan could feel him pulling back—but his abnormal strength was diminished by the golden bands around his wrists, and Ivan was far from weak. He unlocked the door and threw the angel bodily onto the cream and silver bed, then clicked his fingers. Chains instantly bound Alfred to the bedposts of the headboard.
Francis knew what he was doing when he had the bracelets enchanted, Ivan mused as he undressed to prevent blood from splattering on his clothes. They had proven to be remarkably useful. For one, they stopped Jones from bringing his arms down to protect himself as Ivan brought the pipe down on his ribs.
Alfred smirked. "Is that the best you can do, Braginsky?" He taunted. "You're losing your touch."
Ivan growled and swung his pipe again, this time aiming for the angel's right wing. Alfred laughed even as the sound of sickening crack filled the room and blood spotted his feathers. "No wonder your men were so easy to mow down, if their commander was this weak."
The demon dropped the pipe at the side of his bed. The scowl on his face abruptly transformed into a saccharine smile.
"Oh, Alfred," Ivan cooed, "you're such a charmer. You know exactly what to say to get me to want to rip you to pieces."
Alfred stiffened as strong hands wrapped around his throat, but the cocky smirk stayed on his lips. "Anything for you, babe."
"I should just leave you chained you to the bed, so you can't make yet another foolish break for it. Or," the platinum blond looked thoughtful, "I should just toss you to the barracks and let my men have at you. It'll be hard to escape with a cock up your ass all hours of the day, and some of them hold quite a grudge against you."
Ivan hummed. "But you'll probably just end up enjoying it too much… Oh!" His violet eyes lit up. "I'll clip your wings! That way, you won't be able to get far, even if you do end up escaping!"
Alfred's eyes flashed. Was that fear Ivan saw? It dissipated as quickly as it came.
"You wouldn't dare, Braginsky. I'll tear out your fucking throat."
Giggling at the empty threat, Ivan tightened his grip and settled between the angel's legs.
Without his magic, Alfred was like a declawed house cat, pretty to look at and utterly harmless. Well, maybe less than a pet, Ivan amended in his head. A pet was good for companionship, sometimes stress relief, and Jones was infuriating on the best days. He was only really good for one thing.
The head of his cock prodded Alfred's entrance, then pressed into the slick heat.
Alfred tensed briefly before he forced himself to relax. The large hands around his throat had moved to tangle themselves firmly in his hair.
"Such a good little whore, Alfred," the demon praised lowly. "Always stretched and oiled, ready for my cock. You were just waiting for me to get angry, weren't you?"
He drove his hips forward.
Alfred grunted as he was filled. It wasn't the first time Braginsky had fucked him like this—the beating and what followed was practically routine after each of his escape attempts—but the sudden shock of having the cold penetrate him so deeply hasn't faded.
The harsh tugging at his cowlick, though, was new.
An unbidden moan slipped out of Alfred's throat.
Ivan's eyes widened and the angel silently cursed himself. "Alfred," he murmured, "are you enjoying this?"
Alfred sank his teeth into his tongue and spat a mouthful of blood at the demon atop him.
Ivan wiped it off with a smile. "Who could have guessed that the ruthless General Jones was a perfect slut?" He marveled. "My other bedmates have all lain bleeding and broken after I've gotten upset, but you were made for being fucked, Alfred. You're the only one who has taken my cock like this and moaned for more." He gave a particularly harsh thrust into the warm body underneath his.
"Do you think about my cock filling you when you stretch your slutty hole open for me? When you pour oil on your fingers, do you think about how much you want this?"
Alfred snarled, showing his teeth. "Fine, take me dry next time, you bastard," he snapped. "See if I fucking care."
Ivan laughed, high-pitched and soft. He could feel an orgasm building in his lower belly, and reached for the pipe that he had left at the base of the bed.
Ivan put down the last of the reports and sighed in relief. After taking care of the…minor angelic problem, he had returned to his office with a full bottle of vodka. Ivan hadn't opened it—he did not have room for error when it came to work—but the temptation was gnawing at him. Had been gnawing at him. He slid open a drawer of his oak executive desk to grab a tumbler.
Pouring himself a generous glass, Ivan leaned back in his chair. He'd have to remember to ask Toris to replace the headboard. Was it the fourth one already?
The demon frowned. Maybe he should get a metal headboard this time; Jones was feisty, and a fifth headboard seemed a bit excessive, considering that fewer than two weeks had gone by since he had acquired the rival general.
A long sip of vodka chased those thoughts out of his mind. It was time for Dostoevsky.
Being Braginsky's prisoner must be the dullest thing in the world, Alfred reflected glumly as he watched the clouds float by overhead. All he could do was wander around the freezing grounds, and only the area near the pond and sunflower garden were marginally inviting. At least at Francis' palace there had been the maids to talk to and the guards to mess with. Sometimes they even slipped him a book or two. But Ivan kept his library locked, and the bookshelves in his suite were lined solely with depressing Russian novels.
Besides drinking atrocious amounts of vodka, doing paperwork, and poring over Crime and Punishment like it held the secret to life, the demon general did nothing except get pissed over Alfred's escape attempts. What a ray of sunshine, Alfred thought sardonically.
Worst of all, Braginsky either didn't know the first thing about caring for an angel, or was being intentionally malicious. Alfred hadn't eaten in almost two weeks—his captor gave him nothing but strange Russian food, which he never touched. Toris took away what Alfred didn't throw out without a word.
His stomach rumbled, as if on cue.
"Shut up," Alfred told it crossly.
Fat chance he was mentioning anything about it to Braginsky. Sure, his rate of healing was slowed down and he was losing weight, but he was a hero, and heroes would rather feel the dull ache of pain and shed a few pounds than show their demonic masters any sign of weakness. Alfred would starve, and he'd do so happily if it meant not seeing that bastard's ugly mug for a second longer than he had to.
