I'm a great supporter of MotherlandxFatherland! I really need to do more with these two, but Russia is so new to me to write. As usual it has suggestive/dark themes. This is an alternate ending fic also, even though its sorta historically accurate.
For any nation, seasons were like fluctuating days of a particularily eccentric week.
So winter came and went just as naturally, and nations were unperturbed by its coming and going. Even nations whose childhoods remained a little loose in the details thanks to a brother who neglected trips to Memory Lane. And Germany was no stranger to the season of winter. But it did not prepare Ludwig, suffering silently in his house – whose windows were blown inwards from the shells – for the harshness to come.
This winter following his defeat had a different feel to it. The sour taste in his mouth from his daily treatment from the others, the exhaustion in his bones as he fought for his recovery – these may had contributed. The fact there were no festivals full of crafts and hot beverages, and there was no lingering smell of freshly baked bread glazed with sugars or packed with fruit. The fact he had to gaze out of empty windows, shattered glass crunching under his feet, a few shards of shell-metal occasionally hiding in the mix.
The fact that there were no parades of chest-swollen men, fathers and sons, breasts glittering with awards. No longer was Ludwig required to have active tactical and logistical contribution, no longer had a duty that was emblazoned on flags or banners.
Maybe the fact his house was riddled with intruders, unwelcomed but unchallenged, and suddenly the Vaterland seemed an awful lot more empty than it used to be.
And his brother was gone. Taken. Dead? Ludwig didn't know, but it wrenched at his insides. His only friend, stolen, had turned his back, had run away again. Would he ever get to see him again? His other ally…communication had been severed, and he was too far away now. All his other allies? Not so far but just as distant, just as segregated.
Was it any of this, was it loneliness that made this winter particularily bitter? Was it the blisters on his hands or the bandages on his body that were more frequently falling from his body from blood and dirt than actually being replaced?
Ludwig, standing alone but always watched, cast a steely gaze out over his capital. No. This winter had been born somewhere foreign, had been bred to wield claws. The chill in the air bit and gnawed at his face, slipped inside his torn clothes invasively to spread itself deeper.
"What are you doing standing there?" Kraut. Came a demanding curtness just inside the room.
He gripped the handle of his shovel, worn from the months of clearing, the last thing in his hands before the thin quilt of his bed. He ignored the Englishmen.
Arthur's presence had always had made unorthodox feelings inside him stir. His characteristic rudeness and distain used to irk him, like a softer-mannered Romano. But back when he was trying to be Great, Arthur had always been the last one he had wanted to cause lasting damage to. And as usual, Arthur's viciousness to him had never been more than namecalling and supporting Francis during both of Ludwig's efforts. Nowadays he was too weary to even acknowledge the hidden abuse in the words directed at him. With a huff and a few swears, the Englishmen left.
Left back alone Ludwig could center his attention to his surroundings. His thoughts wandered back to the world around him as he felt uneasiness that made his skin tingle from something other than cold, made everything seem sharper in his vision. His jaw set, glaring now as he listened to the wind moan as it whistled through the skeletal capital, catching inbetween the ribs of buildings and calling out with a gentle melancholy. The sound was alien to Ludwig, who tensed, having never experienced such a winter, the grip on his shovel becoming almost defensive. This feeling was bizarre; how could this winter be so brutal yet so sad…..
Ludwig heard glass crunch behind him, and just as he raised the digging tool in his hand and whipped around on instinct, something collided brutally with his temple and everything went white.
Ludwig stumbled downstairs, each step very much a slope instead of an individual component of a staircase. His legs shook with effort, and his vision was swimming, which Ludwig decided firmly was from the blood seeping from his head and the dizzyness thereafter. Upstairs was his room left in the state he had been found him, himself flanked by the Allies escorting him down the hall. The Allies themselves looked rough, the signs of war not leaving them out. But, Ludwig thought distantly, they didn't compare to the injuries marring his body, or the sudden profuse bleeding from his head – the sound of a Luger still ringing in his ears even though it was tucked under his mattress and he was still alive.
They bodily wrestled him into a room of his house which was suffering the least destruction, and forced him into a chair. Much to his surprise he was not bound or held down, but instead the Allies left with complaints in his direction, running for a radio to transmit their victory.
The door closed behind him. Ludwig took advantage of this alonetime to gather himself, suddenly the shame of his appearance and his situation becoming unbearable for a split second as it hit him. He rubbed furiously at his face to ride of the tears and the saliva, wiping his hands hurriedly on his trousers before realising he was very much visible. He gasped to himself in outrage at having not noticed, blinking the stupor from his eyes as he shakingly did up his pants and tugged his braces back onto his shoulders.
Hands went to his knees and he breathed out with a shudder. The pounding had left his head, just the steady bleeding on the edges of his vision. Two outstanding figures of his existance were gone, disappeared or dead, just like that. He was tired, so very tired, but he had his people to think of. Even in unconditional defeat, he wasn't going to give those bastards an inch of leeway.
He still ached from his encounter with Him. Still felt the lingering, fresh sensation of filth. And of abandonment. He gripped his hands into fists in his lap. Ludwig scowled. Now he had a whole new war to wage.
He heard the door behind him open and close. Nothing. No taunts. Maybe they were deciding instead to just glare holes into his back. But still, very odd for people who shared such a passionate hatred for him. Ludwig tried not to pay attention to the foreign hesitation as he turned, his gaze tentative and on the floor first – his subdued mannerism ending when he remembered he was not going to be saved. His glacier eyes shot up in askance of who was watching him in silence.
A giant loomed there and for a second Ludwig was intimidated from his lowered sitting position. Larger booted feet stepped forward curiously towards him, and a rusty pipe dragged on the concrete. The sound made all the hairs on Ludwig's arms and neck stand on end.
Out of the gloom came a cheerful, distant expression. "I got here first! I fought and fought, I didn't think I would, but I got here first!"
Ivan. Tall and demented, and Ludwig was in no state to be left alone with him. Maybe the Allies had stepped back on purpo—
A backhanded strike across the face forced the weakened man from the chair onto a knee, grunting in effort to remain there, before a steel-toed boot found his navel. Ludwig rolled onto his back and wheezed, hoping for a minute respite to be filled with the Russian's unhinged comments. But instinct seized him and he rolled sharply to the side, and an awful sound of hollow metal jarring violently off concrete inches away savaged his ears.
Ludwig should have known. He should definitely have anticipated such a sudden attack ( which he had thankfully just narrowly avoided).This was Ivan they were talking about. Ludwig gritted his teeth and set his face in determination – like hell he wasn't going to retaliate!
Not allowing this abuse without a degree of fight, Ludwig kicked out with a furious shout and caught Ivan in the knee. Had the force been directed with focus and with more strength, the Russian would have been in danger of having his leg broken inward. But in this situation it simply made him loose his footing, and Ludwig took this opportunity to scrabble to the wall and use it as purchase to get to his feet. He felt that bastard pipe connect with his thigh, then his ankle, and with recoiled leaps to avoid the blows Ludwig yelped and spat abuse. But before he could even turn fingers gripped his hair so hard he felt some of it get torn out, and with a cry Ludwig's face was smashed into the wall. Blood gushed from his brutalised nose and his head rebounded, only for the action to be repeated. Ludwig had the sense to force his head a little sideways before this happened, sparing himself the agony of having his nasal cartilage being crushed backwards into his skull and having his breathing permanantly crippled – only to be sure Ivan might have fractured his cheekbone.
His face was ground there, and the agony of the hairline fracture being crushed against concrete made Ludwig emit an escalating yell. He tore himself from Ivan's grip, turning around and punching him clean in the face. No sooner had his fist returned back into his personal space did Ludwig see he had triggered some real anger, seeing the smile disappear for a fraction of a second. By then the damn pipe had been pressed to the wall by both hands, the bar pushing against his throat as he wrestled with it to breathe.
The pressure eased so that Ludwig was allowed to wheeze and emit tiny sounds of agony, blood still seeping into his mouth, dripping down his chin and over the curve of the pipe on his neck. This seemed to calm the enormous man, who regarded the smaller nation fondly.
"Hmm, you always did have fight in you. Gilbert was always the same. But he's mine now and things that are mine do as they are told." Ivan mused aloud, freeing a hand to stroke through flazen strands, lingering over the bleeding in his forehead. Ludwig tried to protest but the pipe was pressed further and he couldn't speak.
"You're very bad, Ludwig," Ivan went on, intense gaze settled back onto his. "Very bad. Do you know what you have done? So many bad things. Bad people need to be punished, da? Your brother, that Italian, even Kiku. But you the most."
Ludwig's struggles started all over again with renewed energy, writhing and wrenching, his efforts fruitless and met only with soft petting and encouraging coo's. The contradicting attention disorientated him, tickling a state of mind reserved only for when He was home. Noticing this, Ludwig looked up at the demented Russian, trying to gauge what to do. Just like before, Ludwig was too weak to struggle. Just like before, he was taller and armed. Just like before, he was not afraid to be cruel.
For a moment Ludwig was too shocked to move. But then it turned into outrage. He snarled and shoved fiercely at the body trapping him.
"Get off of me!" Ludwig roared, throwing all his strength into shoving Ivan back. He quickly set his body against the wall for support before throwing Ivan away from him, escaping the pipe's deadly grip and dashing around the monster of a man.
His muscles protested but rage and survival had pumped his body with the last of his adrenaline, making straight for the wooden chair in the middle of the room and gripping onto the headrest. One good swing should fell the damn Russian! The wooden headrest where he gripped it wheezed a little in protest to his grip and he got into an appropriate stance.
Just as he began to turn the pipe connected with the back of his head.
The pain bloomed over his skull. Enveloped it, took hold, swept like bloody fog to obscure the entirety of his vision. The adrenaline faded, his knees gave out. He fell awkwardly onto his hands and knees with a late groan, blinking lethargically and trying to figure out that it was the floor he was staring at.
The pipe clattered to the ground. He turned his head in its direction, bemused. There was a wrenching crack, and he felt splinters on his face. Huh. Turned out the chair had been bolted down. Before he could wonder why the pipe was on the floor, the chair was brought down onto his back with the loud snap of wood splintering and Ludwig yelled. The breath was driven out of him and Ludwig wheezed as he collapsed into the concrete, littered with pieces of the broken chair. The top half where it had been gripped dropped down beside him and Ivan retrieved his pipe.
Ivan circled the collapsed man curiously, watching him cough with the dust on the floor, too damaged to move.
"This is just like before, da?" The voice floated and circed above, like a predatory poltergeist.
"You took and took, were so sure you could keep taking, thought you were invincible. You tried to take from me. So naughty." There was a definite cruel-edged purr this time, but Ludwig stirred. Stalingrad…
"It really was quite bad," Ivan continued, twisting his lip a little in thought. "It really was quite grim towards the end of it. The General always was like that."
He turned on his heel and circled in the other direction.
"I thought we were friends. But you betrayed me. Hurt me. Hurt those around you."
Ludwig groaned on the floor, but Ivan carried on, almost talking to himself now.
"It was so interesting too! You started being so ruthless! I didn't know you really had it in you, but I don't blame you at all. Some things just really are too tempting, aren't they?" The giant man swung the head of the pipe into his open palm with a cheerful, light laugh. He carried on circling as he continued.
"And little Italia, he must've been such a burden, such an annoyance. I'm surprised you didn't turn on him sooner, make him a perfect subordinate. Probably would have done anything you asked," Ludwig felt his stomach roil. "If he hadn't technically become an Ally, I would have wanted to become one with him, da?"
Ludwig wanted to end this sick tirade. But he felt sick himself and far too disorientated, blinking stupidly at his sideways-view of the floor. And he feared the Russian would start to build a faster tempo and excite himself.
"And now you see! The consequences of your selfish little actions. Everyone is dead! I can see it on your body…and everyone else is starving to death, slowly but surely. I'm sure you're finally getting a nice bitter taste of hardship," He heard fondness in the tone now, and a hand began to caress at his head, provoking the dreadful pounding inside. "But not enough, I'm afraid. You're still so rebellious, so arrogant. That'll soon change, I promise."
Ludwig turned on his side and punched the russian in the face. Or, at least he would have if his muscles had listened to him. Instead he dragged one arm across the dusty concrete weakly about a foot. The pathetic motion simply seemed to amuse the Russian. He felt his braces get tugged one by one down his shoulders to lie limp on the floor, and felt the bump of a metal tube drag at the hem of his slackened trousers.
Ludwig had wondered if he wasn't going to survive this time. If he had committed his final, unforgivable sin, and the only one capable of combating such inexcusable acts was going to perform much worse. He'd expected brutality until the few dredges of independence inside him died, and he simply fell down and faded away. A fallen king, a fallen empire and a fallen man.
But Ludwig became acutely more aware, as he sped up his blinking to force clarity into his head, that he hadn't felt a single strike yet. And the cold was getting more intense around his waist. Ivan had torn his pants gently down his legs to his ankles, to bunch restrictingly at his boots and to expose him to the world.
"W-…what are… you doing..?" Came a dizzy, demanding slur, shifting his arms and shoulders in the first motions to prepare to lift himself. He had already understood and experienced humiliation, but it was childish and dismal to actually force nakedness on the German man. Not that Ivan wasn't cruel or childish. And he'd be damned if he let the damn Russian cause him any more blasted shame than necessary.
He twisted his body, face just as twisted but in fury and pain, squinting back at the man above him with a complaint on his lips. "Don't fucking-!..."
But the biting complaint had died on Ludwig's tongue as he noticed the empty, lustrous look on the man's face. Surely he didn't intend…? In his condition? In either of their condition? From this intimate spot on the floor Ludwig could notice that even Ivan himself was heavily bandaged from not-too-long-ago battles. He had literally torn right to Ludwig's capital afterall. They were both half dead and he wanted…? He intended…?
Ludwig snarled, twisting around and trying to wrestle furiously at the hands suddenly wandering at his thighs. "The FUCK do you think you're doing?" He shouted, even though the violent motions made his world spin and spots appear in his vision.
Ivan slammed him back down, twisting him forcefully back onto his front and grinding them close. There was quiet giggling and Ludwig kept struggling, unwilling to bow down to course his own violation.
The German's scandalized grunts, pained cries and shocked chokes rang through the otherwise silent evening well into the night.
This actually took a couple of days to write - I didn't really have much of an agenda other than a real vague idea of the pairing/interaction between the two. I didn't really know where it was going, I was really worried I wouldn't be able to tie it together nicely. It's also awkward using the name 'Ivan' because that was the petname for Russians, like 'Tommies' for Briton's and 'Krauts' for Germans. Using 'the russian, he and Ivan' began to feel really repetitive. I also wanted to portray Germany has being alot less disorientated and a lot more stoic in this fic. He had fight in him, he was going to survive, he was going to tolerate brutality and come out alive.
But the biggest thing that I wanted to portray was that straight after Germany's surrender and the Allie's occupation, Russians committed alot of rape even to survivors of the Holocaust.