Bloody Severance
by WhiteWings9

Gilbert could only glare from the floor at his captor. His hands hung useless shackled above his head, the cold stone wall pressing hard into his back. Ivan returned his sullen hatred with his usual blank smile. Dressed in a Red Army uniform, he exuded authority and bitter victory. He took off his hat as he knelt in front of Gilbert, careful to hold his unflinching gaze.

“Your boss is dead,” he said simply. The war is over. You have lost.”

Gilbert remained silent. Ivan eyed the bruises on his face, the cut above his temple crusted in red. His forearm sported a makeshift bandage, blood still seeping from within the fabric.

With a rustle of his clothes, Ivan reached for his canteen and unscrewed the top. He offered it to Gilbert, pressing it to his lips, but Gilbert turned away. Without warning, Ivan wrenched his face forward; Gilbert looked in fury as Ivan took a swig from his canteen before locking their lips together. A gloved hand squeezed Gilbert’s jaw, forcing his mouth open, and vodka flooded into him. He gagged as the spirit hit the back of his throat, and when Ivan pulled away he begin to splutter violently.

“You bastard!” he cursed in between choking coughs. Unperturbed, Ivan tore open Gilbert’s blood-soaked sleeve and, ignoring his whimpering protests, undid the knotted bandage.

The wound was a messy gaping hole. Someone had dug out the bullet in haste ad stemmed the bleeding with a rag. It was crude first aid, likely to have been conducted in the midst of battle.

“A flesh wound,” Ivan murmured as he inspected it. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle.

From his breast pocket Ivan pulled a clean handkerchief. He shook it loose and soaked it in alcohol. Gilbert winced as it was applied to his wound, hissing in pain as Ivan tied and tightened it into a new bandage.

“Who was the person who took out the bullet?” It was an offhand question, but Gilbert physically stiffened at the inquiry. Surprised, Ivan hazarded with a growing smile, “Was it your little brother?”

Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he grounded savagely.

“You are lying.”

A pause, then, “If you ever lay a finger on West – ”

“Ah, so it was your little brother!”

Gilbert’s mouth snapped shut.

“He is precious to you, da?”

Gilbert looked away.

They had been on equal terms before. The rendezvous in Poland’s house had marked their partnership in the beginning of war.

-

“I see you have everything under control,” Ivan had commended in an admiring tone. “My troops met hardly any resistance. This pleases my boss.”

“We made a pact,” Gilbert had shrugged non-committally. “As per the contract, we leave you with one half of the land.”

He stood from his chair and began clearing the table. Ivan seemed to be scrutinising him as he packed away his papers, and finally he spoke, “You have been very generous to us in dividing the land.”

Gilbert regard him coolly, trying to discern any note of suspicion in that throwaway comment.

“As long as you keep to your side of the bargain, we will continue to be generous.” It was an impudent retort, but Ivan continued to smile.

When Ivan extended a gloved hand, Gilbert was hesitant to take it at first. He gave it a brief shake, hurriedly letting go, and strode out of the room.

-

Ivan stroked Gilbert’s face with the back of his fingers, tucking back a loose strand of hair. Gilbert’s jaw clenched, his facial muscles rippling as he jerked from the cold touch.

“How precious?”

“What?”

“How precious is your little brother?”

Gilbert stared at Ivan, trying to penetrate into his thoughts, but all he could read was the same maddeningly vacant smile giving nothing away. Ivan gently thumbed over Gilbert’s lips. He drew close and kissed the corner of his mouth. When he met no resistance, he deepened the kiss, tilting his head and demanding entry. Gilbert opened his mouth and accepted Ivan’s intruding tongue. Their teeth clicked together as Ivan pulled Gilbert into the kiss, pressing needily as he moaned in soft pleasure.

-

He had been receiving intelligence of an impending German attack, but his boss had dismissed them, convinced that it was all a conspiracy sowed by the enemy to sour their pact with Germany. No pre-emptive measures were taken. When the tanks rolled in and the fighter planes swooped into their territory, they were not even prepared to defend themselves.

Ivan was not at the front line during the raid. He never witnessed the slaughter of his children. Instead he received report of the betrayal at his home, where he was powerless to strike back. He lost all of his closest associates in one fell swoop.

-

Roughly he tugged at Gilbert’s hair, inciting a grunt of pain, and breathed upon his pale, exposed neck, “You betrayed me.”

“I was never your ally!”

Ivan froze at the outburst. Gilbert swallowed hard.

“But I believed you,” Ivan said quietly.

Gilbert let out a short, nasty laugh. “Then you were a fool,” he spat.

-

He had not meant to fraternise with the enemy. It was just difficult to avoid him, especially since they frequented the same pub situated on the divisive border drawn across Poland. At first he ignored Ivan and drank alone. One evening he felt in the mood for company.

“Why do you drink in this squalid dump?” he had asked, and none too quietly to the landlord’s indignation.

Ivan smiled, and evasively returned the question, “Why do you drink here, comrade?”

Gilbert blinked. “Hey, don’t give me that ‘comrade’ shit,” he sniffed, returning to his beer.

-

Ivan’s lips brushed against Gilbert’s artery, breathing hot, moist breath which caused Gilbert to tremble. Abruptly he latched his mouth over it and began to suckle, teething and licking so as to raise a stinging mark that was both loving and possessive. He smiled at the keening sound reverberating up Gilbert’s throat.

-

Gilbert took one swallow of vodka and grimaced. “My God!” he exclaimed, feeling his chest constrict from the burn. He doubled over, gasping, in an attempt to alleviate the sensation.

Ivan laughed as he took away the drink, patting Gilbert lightly on the back.

“What do you think?” he asked mildly.

“Tastes like nail polish,” Gilbert decided after a while.

“You know what nail polish tastes like?”

“Christ, Braginski, it tastes like what you’d expect nail polish to taste like!”

-

“Ah!” Gilbert cried before he could bite it back. His chest tingled from the lingering kisses visited upon them; now his body tautened at the feel of Ivan pressing his hand in between his legs.

“You’re hard,” Ivan accused softly.

Gilbert flushed. “L-Let go,” he demanded with a shuddering breath. He gasped as Ivan tightened his grip.

“I think not,” Ivan said with a leering grin.

-

The raid was planned to launch this spring. Gilbert had been growing restless as the date approached, when he received a telegram from Ludwig.

Trouble with Greece. Italy screwed up. Operation on halt until further notice.
DO NOT GO INTO BATTLE ALONE

Gilbert smiled as he perused the message. “You go save your boyfriend,” he murmured. He was oddly relieved.

-

He could not stop the pleasured sighs tumbling unchecked from his lips. Ivan had cruelly teased him into submission, lapping at his fountaining tip and nipping the side of his length to elicit from him frustrated groans. When he tried to thrust into Ivan’s mouth, he felt gloved hands hold down his thighs, keeping him in place.

“Stop!” he begged, his breath hitching.

“Do you want me to take you?”

The question hung as Gilbert fought to salvage the last of his pride. It disintegrated when Ivan dragged his tongue along his length.

“Yes,” he whispered, weak with shame.

Ivan enveloped his entire length in wet warmth, soft lips wrapped at his aching base as the tip prodded the back of his throat. His mind clamped down as he ejaculated with a hoarse cry, and Ivan caught and swallowed the mess, sucking tight.

When Ivan pleaded for a kiss, Gilbert permitted it easily this time. He could taste himself on Ivan’s lips.

-

He was about to leave, trusting that the front line was in no need of his personal command, when his children brought to him a German soldier who had crossed the frontier. The soldier warned of an attack. Mistrustful of the information, Ivan nevertheless relayed the message dutifully to his boss. His boss ordered for the soldier’s execution.

“I’m telling the truth!” the soldier screamed as he was dragged away. “The message comes from Herr Weilschmidt! He wants you to know – ”

The soldier faltered as Ivan raised a gun to his head, thumbing back the hammer with a decisive click. “Gilbert Weilschmidt would never betray me.”

He pulled the trigger. The bullet lodged into flesh and bone. At point black range, blood spattered over his clothes, his hand, his face. The shot rang in his ear.

Mutely, he lowered the gun.

-

“Ngh!”

“That’s two fingers.”

Gilbert arched his back, legs spread wide open to Ivan’s administrations. He could feel Ivan’s calloused fingers scissoring within him, circling and spreading his entrance, those violet eyes fixed hollowly upon his contorted expression. He gritted his teeth from the pain; he hated himself for the pleasure.

“Don’t bite your lip,” Ivan said suddenly. With his free hand he forced Gilbert’s mouth open, to his choking protests, still gloved. “Use this if you need to bite down.”

The leather glove had a rubbery texture. Gingerly, Gilbert relaxed his bite and took the glove between his teeth, pulling it free of Ivan’s hand. Letting the article drop, he nuzzled into Ivan’s naked palm, only just discovering the warmth of his skin.

Ivan traced a finger just below Gilbert’s bottom lip, then steeled himself and inserted another digit.

“Haah!”

“That’s three.”

-

His boss was pacing the room like a caged lion, hands folded behind his back. “Why have you come?” he muttered.

“Boss, please return to the Kremlin and lead us,” Ivan pleaded. When his boss paid not the slightest attention, he pressed, “I promise you, I will crush the enemy.”

-

Gilbert took a sharp intake of breath as Ivan’s length filled him whole. The chains on his wrists clinked together, cutting into skin. He let out another breathless gasp as Ivan thrust into him, hard, piercing deep in a glorious stretch of flesh that was so much more than those fingers had been.

Ivan slowed, twitching bodily at the feel of Gilbert’s spasmodic tightening. He gripped a handful of Gilbert’s hair and drew their heads close.

“Say my name,” he panted, “Please.”

Gilbert swallowed. “B-Braginski,” he ventured.

“Again,” Ivan whispered.

“Braginski.”

“Yes.” It came out in a hiss.

He held tight to Gilbert and continued to thrust. With one hand he stroked Gilbert, coaxing him into another orgasm. Gilbert could only let out helpless moans, his perspiring hands sliding against the metal restraints, unable to grip.

“Braginski...” he sighed. Ivan watched as tears collected at the corners of his eyes, lips parted, trembling.

They came together.

-

The sky rumbled, grey clouds tumbling and rolling, threatening to fall. Gilbert stumbled drunkenly out of the pub and Ivan followed, concerned.

“You are not yourself today, comrade,” he said. Gilbert merely laughed.

“Not myself?” he snorted derisively as he continued to stagger forward.

Suddenly he gripped the front of Ivan’s jacket and shoved into his face, darkening.

“You said I am not like me,” he breathed. “Then what is like me?”

A flash of lightning split the sky, followed by crashing thunder. Rain began to spit, falling onto their bare faces. It looked like tears on Gilbert’s, twisted as it was in heartbreaking pain.

Ivan carefully cupped his face in his warm gloved hands, lowering himself to kiss him. Gilbert moved to accommodate him. They sighed, their breaths mingling, Gilbert giving way to real tears as it rained over them.

They kissed several times, deepening, then releasing, and coming back for more, panting, as they shared the hurt. The war effort did not matter in that moment. Neither did their enmity.

THE END

A/n:

This started out as a simple yaoi lemon based on this über kinky pic: http : // i237 . photobucket . com / albums / ff39 / WhiteWings9 / gilbo _ whip . png (without the spaces)

Ugh, I totally failed to give Ivan that sexy Russian accent. I can't do it! I've never tried to write people with accents. Well I did with Ivan, but it just sounded stupid so I reverted and made him speak properly. Same with Gilbo and his German accent. Sorry Ivan, Gilbo...

I insisted to myself that Ivan and Gilbert should be in uniform, hence Ivan in the Red Army get-up and Gilbert in his panzer uniform, and somehow it winded up being a deeper story then I initially intended it to be.

The story takes place right after Nazi Germany’s downfall in 1945, when the Red Army surrounded Berlin and Hitler committed suicide.

Some historical notes (I tried to make it interesting, so please read):

The Treaty of Non-aggression between Germany and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

The intercuts in the story in italics are flashbacks to the beginning of the Second World War (officially in the west it started it 1939 with the blitzkrieg invasion of Poland by Nazi forces). Then, Russia was Germany’s ally. They signed the Ribbentrop-Molotov pact a.k.a Nazi-Soviet pact in 1939, which also illicitly implied they invade and divide Poland. Basically, Hitler and Stalin were, like, “Let’s be best friends forever!” and cut up Poland like a wedding cake.

Even though Germany did most of the fighting in Poland, Russia ended up having the bigger share of the spoils, on top of the Pale Settlement made up of Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Byelorussia (Belarus) and the Ukraine.

However, Germany never intended to be content with just half of Poland. They coveted Russia’s possessions on the western front and even Russia’s own vast lands. Also, far-right Nazism could not abide by far-left Communism; Germany signed the pact with every intention of violating it in the future. In other words, Hitler signed into what was effectively a marriage of two nations with every intention of calling it off; Operation Barbarossa, launched in the early summer of 1941, goes down as the bloodiest divorce in history.

Betrayal: Operation Barbarossa

Operation Barbarossa was planned since the summer of 1940, and was initially meant to launch in spring of 1941. The delay was Mussolini’s fault; Italy tried to invade Greece, but Greece put up a bloody good fight and drove out all his troops, necessitating a second punch from Germany who succeeded in occupying Greece. Only then did Germany turn to face Russia.

It was not difficult to foresee this act of betrayal. The British caught wind of it when they broke Germany’s famed Enigma code, and Churchill went so far as to tell Stalin, like, Hitler is gonna backstab yous! Stalin himself had spies in Germany who all told him of the plan, but incredibly he never believed any of the reports, dismissing them all as a conspiracy cooked up by the British and Americans ‘to worsen the relations between the USSR and Germany’.

Stalin was well-known for his pathological paranoia, not trusting even his own party members. Yet ironically, the one person he put all of his trust into, Hitler, was the one least trustworthy person in the whole of the twentieth century. For his blunder as ‘the most completely out-witted bungler of the whole Second World War’, as Churchill very sympathetically put it, up to 3 million Russian men were captured by the autumn of 1941, all of whom were either executed on the spot or sent to concentration camps. He also lost Russia the western front that is Lithuania and co.

On a side note, Germany and Italy had signed an Anti-Comintern pact a.k.a Rome-Berlin Axis, and Japan came on board in 1936, giving birth to the three Axis Powers. In Hetaliaverse, that translates into: Germany was two-timing Italy and Russia, only for him to break off with Russia and get Japan in a new threesome with only himself as a dominating seme xDD

The Lone Soldier

The German soldier in the story was real; he crossed over to the Russia side on the eve of the day before the Operation to warn them, but he was not believed and, under Stalin’s orders, executed on the spot.

The Ugly Side of War

Gilbert’s insanity in the last section of the story is meant to reflect the plunging morale of Germany’s eastern troops. It was not so bad in the west when they invaded France, because the French were deemed ‘Aryan enough’ to continue living; in the east they sorted the populations of the invaded lands into ‘Aryan enough’ and ‘not Aryan’, the latter group being executed along with the Jews by being shot individually. It got to a point where German soldiers were given vodka in the afternoon to ‘refresh’ themselves.

Russia was not innocent of such crimes. They crammed some of the populations of their invaded lands into cattle trains bound for Siberia and Kazakhstan. Almost half of those on board died en route from starvation (they were neither fed nor watered), overexposure to extreme weathers, and diseases.

Dedications:

To ladylawliet, thank you for always supporting my work! I always write with you in mind =P

To LadyKnightOfHollyross, you were the perv who gave me that inspirationally sexy Gilbo pic xDD I hijacks him again, mwahaha! Oh, and thanks to your sister for the awesome line about vodka and nail polish =P

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it :)

Ivan Braginski (Russia) and Gilbert Weilschmidt (Prussia) from Axis Powers Hetalia (c) Himaruya Hidekaz