Summary: Alfred makes for a poor prisoner, and Ivan's patience runs thin.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warning: Rape
Alfred twisted away from him on the bed, as the angel did every evening. His wrists were restrained, but Ivan had allowed the chains to gain some slack. The scent of apricot and cardamom, which tended to flare up whenever Alfred was agitated, was becoming subdued.
There was a fragility to the former general in his bed that Ivan had never seen on the battlefield. In the moonlight, Alfred seemed ethereal, untouchable.
Well, almost untouchable, Ivan noted with a slight frown. Alfred's throat was still ringed with bruises from last week, and the bites that Ivan had left along the curve of his neck several days ago were just beginning to fade from purple.
Shouldn't they have healed already?
During the war, there had been rare occasions when something got close enough to scratch Jones. He was always pristine by the morrow, Ivan's horrified spies had informed him.
The enchanted bands were supposed to inhibit Alfred's strength and magic, yes, but not his body's naturally prodigious ability to heal.
Ivan inched closer, curious. His sharp eyes caught the shadows of fingerprint bruises on Alfred's back, shallow gouges left by Ivan's nails scattered around the base of his wings and spine. Alfred was lithe the first night that Ivan had him. Under the glow of the moon, however, the bumps of the angel's vertebrae stood out starkly.
Ivan's frown deepened. Was Alfred eating? It was too late to investigate tonight; he would keep a close eye on the other tomorrow.
Odd—Ivan was usually gone by the time that Alfred woke up. Today, Alfred had felt the chill of that violet gaze on him all morning. Braginsky was on to him, probably, but if he nestled up on the ledge of the bay windows and didn't get up, Ivan couldn't see him limping or wincing.
The food was an issue, though. He couldn't send it back without Ivan noticing; he'd have to get rid of it somehow.
No signs of weakness. He wouldn't show Braginsky any weakness at all.
Alfred was purposefully keeping a low profile, Ivan was sure of it. The blue-eyed blond hadn't shifted from his spot on the windowsill for hours, and the kasha that was his breakfast had long grown cold.
Was Alfred waiting for something?
Toris knocked at the door of Ivan's suite. A minute later, he entered with a tray for lunch. Ivan nodded his thanks, briefly putting aside his paperwork to accept the olivye, borscht, and golubtsy, along with a mug of chamomile tea. Toris set down a platter of pelmeni next to Alfred and dipped to pick up the kasha.
"That's all right, Toris," Alfred said, "I'll have it later."
Toris straightened. "As you wish, Mister Alfred."
"Thanks!" Alfred grinned. "And I told you before, just Alfred is fine."
Toris answered with a small smile of his own and left.
Time passed. Ivan leisurely finished his golubtsy and stacked the empty plates onto the tray. Alfred hadn't moved a muscle.
"Alfred," Ivan said, "why are you not eating?"
"I lose my appetite when I'm in the same room as you." Alfred stood up, taking the plates with him. "I'm going to have lunch outside. Don't bother following me."
He swayed as he rose up, but quickly caught his balance and walked out of the chambers.
Ivan didn't react. When the sound of Alfred's footsteps disappeared, he headed to the balcony in his bedroom, unlocked the French patio doors, and flew outside to hide before Alfred arrived.
Humming softly to himself, Alfred picked apart another pelmen and flicked the meat-and-onion filling into the open mouth of a large fish. The crowd of awaiting carp ate everything; theyhad already demolished the kasha. Ivan must not feed his fish enough, Alfred thought disapprovingly. The buckwheat had been gulped down in seconds, and they were making quick work of the Russian dumplings.
The pelmeni were almost gone when Ivan stepped out of the shadow of the trees.
"Why are your meals being eaten by fish, Jones?" The demon's eyes were violet slits, and the air was positively frigid.
Alfred tensed. Ivan was furious.
"None of your business."
"I should think it is, seeing as I'm the one providing them to you." Ivan snatched up and chewed the last two pelmeni before Alfred could chuck them into the pond.
"You're coming with me." Ivan threw the angel over his shoulder easily and, with a few flaps of his leathery wings, returned to his chambers. Dropping Alfred—who quickly put a hand to the wall to steady himself—Ivan closed and locked the glass doors of the balcony with a brass key.
"I didn't do anything wrong," Alfred said, scowling.
Ivan backhanded him across the face. The force of the slap sent Alfred to the floor. He brushed his fingers against his already-bruising cheek, stunned.
"People starved during the war, you wasteful brat." Ivan was shaking with rage. "Do you know how many times we ran low on rations? How many of my own men died of hunger in that accursed tundra? I found and counted their emaciated corpses every day, Jones," he snarled. "They were barely more than skin stretched over bones when they died."
Ivan was unbuttoning his military coat now. With rough hands, he pulled Alfred up by the roots of his hair until he was kneeling at the demon's crotch.
"If you won't eat the food that I give you, then you'll drink my cum." Braginsky's voice was ice. "Bite me, and I'll break your jaw." He shoved his hardening cock against Alfred's full lips, which reluctantly parted.
Ivan groaned as his cock was enveloped by the hot mouth. The sight of his sworn enemy on his knees before him, sapphire eyes gleaming with resentment, sent a jolt of electricity straight to his loins.
Ivan rammed his cock down Alfred's throat until the angel's nose was buried in platinum curls.
The angel spluttered briefly, but didn't choke. Instead, he relaxed his throat and swallowed. Ivan's eyes rolled to the back of his head at the sensation. Despite himself, he was impressed—Francis had trained Jones very well, if he could take Ivan without gagging. Did Alfred even have a gag reflex?
But no, this was punishment, not something for the spoiled slut to enjoy. Ivan clutched the angel's cheekbones—jostling his glasses—and began to brutally fuck his throat.
Beneath him, Alfred struggled to adjust to the sudden change in pace. He could feel the muscles in his throat protesting. He glanced up. Braginsky was actually insane, Alfred realized with a start. His captor's violet eyes were devoid of anything but cruelty.
The freezing organ in his mouth stilled, and hot liquid spurted out. Alfred coughed as he gulped down the semen.
When no more came, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, picked himself up, and glowered.
"Gods, you're such an asshole," Alfred hissed out hoarsely, seething. "Don't you know that angels can't eat anything in the Underworld except for fruit?"
Ivan's brow furrowed as he tucked himself away. "What?"
"You can't really be this stupid, Braginsky. Are you playing dumb to mess with me? All of the food produced in the Underworld contains dark magic that's toxic to angels. Something about the sugars in fruit neutralizes the dark magic, but anything else is like poison to us. It causes terrible indigestion if consumed, and could even be lethal!"
Ivan's eyes widened at the new information. The bruises that hadn't vanished, the way that Alfred winced when he thought Ivan wasn't looking—things suddenly made a lot more sense. Alfred was healing so slowly due to malnutrition. And the escape attempt that failed because he was distracted by apples… Ah, Alfred must have been ravenous, but was too proud to show it.
A few more pieces of the puzzle came together in his mind. For a while, Ivan had been wondering why the former general looked so different; the last time that he saw Jones at the battlefront, he had filled out his uniform with broad shoulders and bulging biceps.
In the months since, he had clearly lost weight, becoming toned and slender where before he had been bulky and solid. There was a fresh delicacy to his features, a certain type of sylphlike grace to his movements. If Alfred had truly been eating nothing but fruit since his capture—well, that would definitely explain it.
Ivan had been surprised that night in Francis' palace when he saw Alfred. After having the angel in his castle and observing him at close quarters, he was even more surprised at how comfortable Alfred was in this body. He had yielded to his circumstances in the Underworld with a startling lack of resistance.
Except…
"Why didn't you say anything before you starved for almost half a month?" Ivan asked sharply.
Alfred huffed and looked away.
Ivan kneaded his temples with his fingertips when it became evident that Alfred would not reply. "What kinds of fruit should I get?"
"I don't care, just whatever is seasonal," Alfred gave a half-shrug. "I like strawberries."
"It's not strawberry season here, Jones. It will never be strawberry season here. The climates in the Northern Territories are not suitable for growing them."
"Francis had a greenhouse for Arthur and me."
"I am not constructing an entire greenhouse just to satisfy your inane cravings. You will eat whatever my servants find at the local market."
With that, Ivan made a beeline for the cellarette, where he grabbed three unopened bottles of vodka to drink alone in the quiet dark of his office.
Jones was absolutely insufferable.
Alfred was pretending to be asleep when Ivan entered the bedroom. Even curled up under the sheets, the angel shivered at the abrupt drop in temperature.
Ivan reeked of vodka. Slowly, so that Ivan wouldn't catch the movement, Alfred tilted his head to sneak a peek at the general.
Alfred swallowed. Braginsky was reallydrunk and really, really angry.
At least he doesn't have that damn pipe in his hand.
"Jones, I know you're awake," Ivan's speech was slurred, heated. "You are such a pain in my ass. You come to my castle, make all those dumb escape attempts, waste my food, and then you have the gall to be so tight-lipped about the basic fact that you haven't eaten for half a month."
He fell heavily on top of Alfred and pinned his wrists to the headboard with his huge hands.
"I didn't ask to be here," Alfred spat.
Ivan continued as if he hadn't spoken. "What is it with you and your obsession with defense? You are so needlessly defensive about every single fucking thing, Jones. You're always overdoing it. You had a knack for overdoing it during the war, too."
Ivan shook his head in frustration. Alfred heard the sound of a zipper. But Braginsky hadn't even taken off his coat, so what—
Alfred's lips parted in a silent scream as Ivan took him without any preparation. The pain was agonizing. He hadn't used the oil since that last time he tried to escape, since Ivan had taunted him; had borne the pain, which had been barely tolerable, every night since. But why hadn't he at least stretched himself tonight?
He hadn't expected Braginsky to want him, not after the throat-fucking. He hadn't planned for the worst. Alfred could feel tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.
He was such a fool. The harsh fabric of the coat pressed against his ass as Ivan plunged into him.
"You had such a nasty habit of shooting on sight, you know. You killed so many demon soldiers," Ivan was rambling now. "Jones, they were my men—I trained them, led them, fought with them. I had to pen the letters home to their families, informing mothers and sons and daughters that their husbands and fathers were dead. Because of a bullet from you. An excessive, unnecessary bullet, all because you're some kind of sick freak who can't stand having anything outside of your control. You keep it all bottled up and nicely preserved inside, and destroy everything outside of your perfect little world."
Ivan's fingers dug into Alfred's shoulders.
"Contrary. Ignorant. Egotistical. Brat." The demon punctuated each word with a forceful thrust. Alfred felt his passage tearing. Ivan had never fucked him so hard that he bled before. He let out a low whimper as Ivan released inside him. It stung.
Vaguely, he could feel that the sheets were wet beneath his cheeks, and bit his lip. Alfred had promised himself, back when he had been first dragged into Francis' palace to become a pleasure slave, that he'd never cry because of sex, no matter how painful. Being hurt was one thing, but showing that he was hurt was another. He would never show weakness to the demons who owned him.
Well, he thought deliriously, there goes that. One hard fuck, courtesy of his worst enemy, and he was done.
He wasn't even capable of keeping that one simple promise—couldn't even trust himself to keep one single promise—so why the fuck did Arthur trust him so much?
Arthur believed in him. Arthur believed in him enough to save his life. Arthur believed in him enough to give his halo to the monarch of the demons, believed in him enough to give up the war for him, and believing in someone enough to sacrifice everything was kind of like trusting someone, right?
Oh, Artie, you're as much of an idiot as I am.
Alfred slipped out of the bed as soon as he heard Ivan slam the doors to the suite outside. The bleeding had stopped at around one or two in the morning, he wasn't quite sure. He had spent all the hours before dawn lost in thought as Ivan used him as a pillow.
Ignoring the ache in his lower back, Alfred padded inside the bathroom and straight to the large drop-in soaking tub. He turned the faucets on and, as he waited for the tub to fill, took a quick shower to cleanse off the remnants of last night.
When the water in the soaking tub was ready, Alfred slid in with a pleased hum. The hot water soothed the soreness in his muscles. He closed his eyes. One shitty decision made by Arthur several months ago, and Alfred was the fucktoy of the demon he despised most in the world. Heaven would fall to the Dark horde because the one in charge of guarding it was warming the bed of a rival general. Really, Alfred could have laughed at the absurdity of it all.
He squinted at the clock above the mirror. It was blurry without his glasses—he had set them on the nightstand before Ivan came in, roaring drunk—but the short hand looked like it was at seven. Toris would stop by with breakfast in an hour, and Braginsky would return in six hours to take his lunch.
Alfred opened his hand and studied the two keys in his palm. One was copper, and the other brass. Ivan had been so out of it that he had never noticed the slim fingers probing around in his pockets, nor that he had neglected to give the enchanted bands their unspoken command.
It was seven in the morning on his fourteenth day of being Ivan's captive, and Alfred only knew three things for sure: Heaven was going to lose the war because of him; Braginsky was a madman; and, by this time tomorrow, Alfred would be free.
