Pairings: Russia/Prussia; minor Germany/Prussia and Frederick II/Prussia. Rather Prussia-centric.
Warnings: includes many mentions of historical events/wars, mainly between Russia and Prussia. Rated for some violence, swearing, adult themes and sexual content. I've also taken some historical liberties.
A/N: I spent literally my whole Saturday night-this morning writing this. So I really hope it's as good as I'm hoping it is! ;u;
Disclaimer: Hidekaz Himaruya-sensei owns Hetalia and all its characters; I do not.
"Guten Abend, gute Nacht, mit Rosen bedacht..."
There is a rather distinct whispering to Prussia's ears, almost fallen deft upon if it were any less recognizable. The albino finds himself happily curling deeper into his bedsheets, his head tucked closer against the apparently naked chest of the Russian he knows is cooing to him. In any other moment, he would immediately ruin the moment of sheer pleasantry, if only out of spite- but he finds himself unable to now.
He sighs, a mingle of a moan and a whine that only increments when a familiarly strong arm -one of strength, of stained blood and of concealed passion- rests languidly upon his bare hips and waist. He cracks open an eyelid, long, surprisingly thick silver lashes part and sleepy crimson meet curious violet.
"..mit Näglein besteckt, schlupf′ unter die Deck.."
Gilbert has a twisted feeling in his gut, one that is shoved aside by the honest delight he is thriving on- but it is there nonetheless. It cries, it beckons upon him as it has centuries long and will most certainly continue to howl its discontent with the nation's contentment. The raw anger threatens to bloom in his chest and to his heart, that is casually beating so slow and lost in the sweet hums that the Russian beside him is lulling. It claws at his enrapture, poisonous whispers slithering between the tender German that the silverette to his side is trying so hard to maintain and-
-and then it's gone, his heart left feeling swollen and his desire to resume sleeping thoroughly eradicated.
Then, there is a brief instance where the Russian is kissing him softly, a knowing manner in how he plants his lips upon his and slowly, thoughtfully, parts his unconsciously trembling lips. He is most certainly afraid at first, a whimper inadvertently escaping him, flushing his cheeks and nape a soft peach from the shame. The Prussian tries pulling away, a desperation to his tact (or lack thereof) that beseeches the Russian into only wanting to persevere.
He finds himself on his back -once more, just like last night, only he isn't as much of a writhing mess nor begging like a wanton- and his flush ripens to a cherry-red that manages to reach his ears. Ivan notices this sudden reaction, once more curious and thinks nothing of it when he places love-bites upon the pink flesh the Prussian is unknowingly presenting to him.
Gilbert outwardly moans, that hot and heavy tongue eliciting a side of him he's too reluctant to admit is there, and is nearly sobbing before he realizes he's already crying.
This, too, the Russian thinks nothing of. He merely stops in his laving, his arms winding tightly and protectively around the trembling Prussian before the crying silverette can try and speak against it. Which, he doesn't. Russia is unsurprised by how easily it is Gilbert succumbs to his embarrassment and overwhelming emotions, but is far from thinking nothing of it.
In fact, the proliferation of his mute tears speaks monuments more to the Russian than he thinks the Prussian will ever say himself.
(Ivan simply hopes the tears he sheds are much unlike the very first he bore witness to centuries before.)
It is the Year of Their Lord one thousand two-hundred and forty-two. It is a harsh March winter for the Livonian Branch of the Teutonic Knights, but it is just as deadly for the surrounding Estonian Duchy and Novgorod Republic. There has been fervent talk of the Livonian Order to invade and occupy the Republic, more sooner than ever with the Russians' weak state in the wake of Mongolian and Swedish invasions.
Gilbert smirks sharply to himself, a haughty and otherwise arrogant snide to him as he surreptitiously awaits for his human leaders to make their final decisions.
While there is no doubt that the albino is the flesh-and-blood embodiment of the Teutonic Knights, there has always been doubts that the lack of divinity in him would allow him to rule their people correctly. As such, the First Grand Master, Heinrich Walpot von Bassenheim, was chosen as most appropriate for leading this novel faction. Gilbert found it laughable, at first- seldom had he ever thought that his people wouldn't rather have him lead them, but one of their own!
He grew accustomed to this lifestyle, though, and as the Order grew in both size and faith, so did he.
He found that probably one of the reasons the people didn't want to have him rule was most likely because he looked like them- a six-year-old, to be exact. He initially looked at his reflections in water and looking-glasses with such accumulative disdain and discontent, it was oft typical to see the nation harming himself in his fits of anger. Even so, however, he'd found, one day, that a stool that had previously been much to difficult for him to rest upon was much less difficult to do so now.
He had grown, it seemed.
With this, though, Gilbert found that so had his people and his lands.
He had thought nothing of it then, nor many centuries thereafter, but it would more than often pain him when he watched many of the Knights ferociously battle against the remaining faction of rebellious native Prussians- significantly more so when he himself was subjugated to such barbarian acts. Even so, he spoke naught of it to neither his 'people' nor his Lordships when the pained palpitations of his heart stirred; he'd grown to ignore them, as had many formerly Prussian nobles had in their submission to the Order.
His head snaps up, ears twitching wildly as a downright excited and thrilled look takes place upon his features.
He catches the newly-appointed Prince-Bishop Hermann of Dorpat excusing himself from the Livonian militant encampment- he knows he is the first of his kind, with a kind of intuition he hasn't dared to question in so long, but its aptitude lends itself partly to this reason- and his soft pink tongue pokes out and runs along his lower lip. He is exquisitely, deliriously roused at these obvious bearings that one of the Knights is just barely approaching him to explain. His frantic crimson eyes catch the man's own light-blue eyes- and Gilbert knows then how mad he must look when the Knight hesitates yards away, his heart beating in his ears and about ready to retch itself out his throat -and the Teutonic Embodiment could care less.
He's too busy (enthralled, enraptured, vivaciously so), wondering what it will feel like to finally face the Slavic boy that the Duchy of Lithuania had so morosely told him about- the one with "sad, lonely, cold violet eyes".
(Because somewhere, deep inside his lachrymose heart, he dolorously wishes that the Russian may just help him cope with the pain he fears engulf his own eyes, too.)
It is the Year of Their Lord one thousand two-hundred and forty-two still, but nearly two months since the agreement to invade the Novgorod Republic had been decided by the Livonians. There had been much excitement among the Orders' Knights, many over-enthused at the thought of earning new land and territory; others pragmatically believing that doing so would cleanse the souls of the poorly-educated Roman Catholic Russians.
The majority, however, deep in a clandestine and unspoken area of their already lost hearts- they had sought to continue the bloodshed-fervor that had instilled in them since their Prussian crusades.
Gilbert frowned, deeply, harrowingly and uncharacteristically so when he heard from the Prince-Bishop Hermann of Dorpat that they would be retreating from the Slavic Republic. True, part of him wanted to kill him for doubting his prowess and ability in warfare -because that's sure as hell what the Prussian had become; a fighter, a warrior, a monster who thrived on fear and lived to instill it- but another part deigned it absolutely wrong for the human to be able to make such a decision whereas he could not. Where had all the strength and fortitude the Knights had proclaimed to have received from their Almighty Lord gone to? He certainly hadn't seen it during this terrible battle.
(And, sure, there was a shadowed part of him that wished and yearned oh-so very strongly to be able to finally meet another Embodiment like him- religious views aside.)
Pale-white brows furrowing together, a strong, rather mortifying scowl on his eternally-young face, the albino growled when he found his right foot sinking into a crack of the damned frozen lake they'd fought- and, subsequently, lost on. He promptly pulled it back out with so much force a few ailing Knights withdrawing beside him paled at the sickeningly loud crack that had resonated from the albino's leg.
Unsurprisingly, Gilbert showed no signs of it hurting, nor that he had known something so minor would heal for him in a matter of seconds.
It is the Year of Their Lord one thousand seven-hundred and twenty-one. There has been much gossiping of this new Empire said to have arisen to the East, some twenty years later than his own great Kingdom- but Prussia pays no heed to these misconstrued words. He's learned, a hundred or two years ago, that sincerely placing his faith into a human- whether they be Blessed subjects of his Kingdom or otherwise -was a grave mistake (although maybe Old Fritz was an exception). More so, he finds he doesn't want to listen; doesn't need to.
He's finally come into contact with the Slavic boy.
Gilbert finds words hardly fitting for what he felt when he belatedly realized- the Russian standing before him was no human. Not with those overly-melancholic eyes. Not with those impossibly violet hues that he feels could rival his starkly crimson orbs. Not when he can literally touch this remarkable bond they share, one that's unseen and should be impossible to be felt because he's just met this boy and they're both so novel to this how-
And then the gray-haired boy smiles at him, eyelids closed from its width and all and it's somehow overwhelming to the albino because no-one's ever treated him like this, not even his little brother who was cute but much too young to understand and Old Fritz was a different story! But Prussia finds himself blushing, hard, harder than he thinks he ever has- which angers him so, so much, as it should, right? -because he's thinking a mile a minute and- and-
The silverette is sprinting back into the safe territory of his Home because this is just so weird and hard and too many things are racing through his head, and shit, Old Fritz is looking at him expectantly for having broken the front door open- and-
Prussia deems it only fitting that he go to join the stupid Austrian's War as well as the Briton's War, too, simply to fight on the opposite sides than that of the Russian's.
It is the Year of Their Lord one thousand seven-hundred and thirty-seven. There has been much doubt that the Kingdom will ever fully pull itself out of its current poverty. The momentary weakness would, presumably, set back Gilbert's growth for at least a while; but, amazingly enough, he's found that he has grown quite a bit. Even so, Prussia has long since stopped caring about how different his growth-cycle is- compared to humans, anyway -and had hence forgotten to actually care how old he must look.
He finds it increasingly hard to ignore, however, when he finds himself confusedly waking up in the mere hours of dawn, body trembling and a warm stickiness pooling in his undergarments. He presumes nothing of it for a long while, having heard of such reactions by young, wild boys in the street and has seen it himself- nation or not, he was forced to watch his fair share of Royal copulations -but, what he sees in his dreams is what brings him to Old Fritz's study that night.
Gilbert outright ignores any manners he's been forced to learn and lets himself in, not noticing (or otherwise refusing to) the mixed look of curiosity, confusion and slight annoyance in his King's expression.
"Prussia, I thought we'd gone over knocking-" he'd tersely begun, eyebrow still arched from his fleeting curio.
It came back full force, along with a soft blush, when he soon realized the albino is nude from the waist-down- his pajama bottoms held out proudly before him.
"This keeps happening to me, Fritz." he begins to elaborate, a frustrated look on him that assures the ruler he is not merely joking. "Every night this happens I dream of you and-"
The albino is unsure if he should feel wary or appreciate the sudden abashed smile that adorns his King's face, but finds it harder to leave than to stay as his King says and hopefully figure out why these weird episodes keep happening to him.
(Although, he finds it completely odd he hasn't been told to put his pants back on because generally people scold him for even having his collar off so why Fritz doesn't mind him climbing into his bed with him like that is plain confusing and- oh god, wait, F-Fritz, t-that shouldn't be touched like that, s-should it? -and Gilbert is wondering, fleetingly, why it can't be that Russisch touching him like in his dreams.)
It is the Year of Their Lord one thousand eight-hundred and seventy-one. It is, subsequently, a time where Prussia is unsure of where he stands in the world.
First, everything is fine and dandy with Russia. The Treaty of Saint Petersburg was an effectively intelligent move on Old Fritz's part, Gilbert soon came to realize; particularly so because he is able to meet and coincide with the Russian without worries that his King will fret. Secondly, carving up Poland-Lithuania had been rather fun- even if the sad looks on Poland and Lithuania had torn at him. Thirdly, he was rather sad when his long-time friend, France, had become sick because of the 1848 Revolutions.
Although he partly would have liked to have aided the Frenchman in maintaining an absolute monarchy like he and Russia, he found himself weak in the wake of those fervent upheavals, himself. Moreover, he found it increasingly harder to keep his people from wanting to go to war with Russia; but, he made sure to abstain from doing so- he didn't want to hurt the sweet nation, after all.
Even so, Prussia found himself increasingly uncomfortable when he belatedly realized that the damned Revolutions had turned out affecting him, after all-
He flushed red at his name, embarrassed more than he could have ever thought to be- simply because it was his brother that was pressing him down against his own mattress- Ludwig! He wondered when his little brother had forgone the supposed bloodlines they shared, and had instead opted for more basic needs.
"W-Was möchtest du?" he answered back, shakily, almost thoroughly untrusting of his own capability to speak.
The taller blond grinned, accompanied by a very strong nudge of his knee against the silverette's crotch that made him whimper.
"Willst du es wirklich hören?" he repealed, the shocked, further flushed look on the Prussian telling Germany everything he knew his brother wouldn't.
"N-no, please..." the silverette ignored how he was already reduced to a stuttering litany of moans when Ludwig tore open his navy uniform, lips hovering along his taut abdomen and dangerously close to his- to his-
"Ich will dich." he purred, in a tone Gilbert had never heard come from his brother nor had he ever imagined to hear it from him, of all-
"A-agh! West!" he promptly cried out, head thrown back and fingers clutching onto beautiful blond locks for dear life.
"W-West!" he finds himself moaning again, his mouth and voice acting of their own accord. "West, p-please...!"
He inhales sharply when he feels his lips somehow manage to furl into a smile around him, his tongue driving him mad with deaf speech that only sounded like humming to Gilbert but what did he care he- and oh god, god, Gott, i-is that his finger—?
Prussia soon finds himself a writhing mess for the German; so much so, that he's unable utter nothing but broken mantras of his name until both of them don't know where one starts and the other begins.
It is the Year of Their Lord one thousand nine-hundred and seven. No words are exchanged between the Prussian and the Slavic nation. The silverette is donning a rather elegant suit- a piece that France had not too long ago gifted him, just for the hell of it -and almost feels chagrin for wearing it. Almost.
He has learned to push aside the guilt, though- because a simple suit is absolutely nothing compared to trying to coerce your long-time Hungarian friend that sticking with a stuffy Austrian isn't as big of a mistake as everyone knows it is- and knows quite well how to sport his facade. He eyes his brother-husband keenly, through the corner of his eyes, and looks away at the serious gleam he catches twinkling in his eye.
Germany hates Ivan.
The thought saddens the Prussian, but not so far as to incur his brother-husband's wrath during a crucial moment such as, well, a meeting between they and Austria.
"I heard from Spain that England and France have decided to take on Russia." the Austrian stiffly announces, a terse cough following through in the end.
Crimson irises dilating, Gilbert swiftly looks up through thick silver lashes.
"No fucking way."
Ludwig seems more amused than confused as Prussia had assumed, and blushes harder when the blond takes hold of his hand and begins leading them towards their bedroom, Roderich quiet and seemingly unfazed at the otherwise commonplace action.
I don't want to hate Ivan.
It is the Year of Their Lord one thousand nine-hundred and fourteen. Gilbert feels rather unbecoming in the German-crafted suit his brother-husband has made him don —he's accustomed to the French-gilded ones, unfortunately— but doesn't let it show. He is frowning, once more; not a touch or a word that Ludwig says or does can possibly ease the conflictions that are currently worrying his heart.
He knows the decision that Wilhelm the II has made is terrible; that people are dying out in the streets of Austria-Hungary, in his own, and even in Russia's—
And soon Gilbert is at war with the World alongside his brother-husband.
And he can't help but just know that they'll all end up regretting it later.
Ludwig is, of course, very pleased when he learns of the first series of staggering Revolutions that take hold of Russia in 1917.
Prussia is unable to even smile once he hears Tsar Nicholas the II is killed.
He understands, honestly, that it's something that must happen. And although it depresses him to know he will no longer be able to even see the Russian in combat, the Prussian knows something far more deeper.
This is only the beginning.
Gilbert recalls, rather vividly, of the day the Weimar Republic prevailed. He had been rather tired from all the paperwork and arguing over what he and his brother would have to deal with, but was simply glad to know he would still be with his brother.
What manages to haunt him to this day, however, is the disdainful look Ludwig shot at all the Germans that were not "pure-bred stock".
Ivan still isn't safe.
The last thing he recalls before losing the Second Great World War is dying.
Prussia knows he is some sort of anomaly, even within his own kind; the fact that he's somehow manage to exist after all this time is a feat on its own, and he knows this. He saw many men die during the War, as well as other nations beside he and West sustain injuries that unsurprisingly will never heal like most other wounds.
What he hadn't recalled, however, was ever leaving Ludwig's house for Russia's.
Gilbert isn't sure he remembers when days had ended before beginning under Ivan's House.
He would be lying if he were to say that the time he spent there hadn't been the worst moments of his life- well, alongside those stupid World Wars he'd encouraged -but there had been some rather nice moments during his stay there. For example, he got to learn about Lithuania, and Latvia and Estonia. They were all so peculiar (and honestly, added some more paranoia to his book); but they were like a surrogate family to him during this time. They were what Ludwig couldn't be for him then, and really, that little comfort that he wasn't completely alone in such a giant house was one he never took for granted.
There were also times when he received gifts from Ivan.
The Russian was certainly one of the most peculiar men he'd ever met, in that he managed to both stop his heart-beat from sheer fright and cause it to double its pace in his unspoken infatuation. Prussia had never told anyone about it, but it soon became obvious that at least Lithuania had found out himself. Gilbert hadn't been sure whether to kill the brunette, or bother warming up to him if only to at least try to talk some of his emotions out.
He was given a ring by the Russian one day, however.
It was precious in that it was a simple silver band that brandished a diamond that was the size of an eraser of a pencil—
And Gilbert loved it.
Not a day went by in the Soviet Household that didn't have a certain Prussian admiring the jewel he'd been gifted.
However, the silverette had returned the sentiments the only way he'd known- learned -how.
"Ich will dich," Gilbert panted heavily, eyelids drooping half-mast as the Russian he was preening over smothered his lips with his own.
The Prussian moaned, a soft rumbling in his throat, when he felt a surprisingly warm hand firmly cup at his growing erection, causing his hips to buck up into the touch.
Breaking the kiss in order to gauge the Prussian's reactions, Ivan was happy to see the silverette writhe beneath him- lips bruised and parted, crimson eyes looking at him and only him, sweat coating his wonderfully pale skin—
Gilbert whined when the Russian suddenly began ravishing his clavicle and sternum with nips and kisses, hips tilting so they both shared a rhythmic rocking of their clothed arousals.
"I-Ivan, Ivan...!" he breathed, frustrated when the Russian pulled off of him only to smirk when he finally began divesting them of their clothing.
"I never thought I would receive such acceptance over a ring, Gilbert." the Russian suddenly said, a lilt to his voice that dared the Prussian to make a retort.
And even half-naked in bed, thoroughly aroused and ready to be satiated, the silverette still held the gall to answer to him.
"Ich weiß nicht, was du meinst." he retorted cheekily, a smirk on his own lips that assured he wasn't about to be beat in an argument- long, porcelain legs spread wantonly for the Russian or not.
At this, Ivan had to laugh before he ensured the moment remained passionate and stole his breath before his hands made sure Gilbert was ready to take him. His fingers met only slight resistance, but less so than the Russian honestly was expecting. At the curious glance Ivan sent the silverette, the Prussian flushed a few shades more as he slowly rocked along tempo.
"Don't tell me you're a virgin, Gilbert~?" the gray-haired nation teasingly cooed, a rather mischievous look in those childish violet eyes.
The Prussian blushed harder, choking on a moan and a huff that had wanted to both erupt at the same time.
"O-of course not, you stupid—ahhh!" his eyes widened when Ivan had struck just the right spot in him, body tensing for a moment before he forced himself to relax.
Ivan grinned, adding a third finger as he coerced the Prussian into a marathon of languid kisses.
"Good. Then that means you aren't too sensitive, da?" he pseudo thoughtfully cooed.
Before Prussia had a chance to ask what the hell the Russian was going on about, all that came out was a growled moan of his name as Ivan pushed into him.
"F-fuck, Ivan, Ivaaaan, fuck," he panted heavily, unprepared for when the said Russian wrapped his fingers around his throbbing arousal.
Ivan's breath caught in his throat, panting out a breathy chuckle when the Prussian hesitantly wound his legs around his waist, hips tentatively bucking down to meet his thrusts.
Pressing a gentle kiss upon the Prussian's nose, successfully catching him off-guard, he proceeded to hook the back of his right leg atop his shoulder while he splayed his left one wide open. Gilbert choked again, eyes watering, his hands frantically clutching at Ivan's shoulders as his thrusts became quicker and deeper.
"I-Ivan, Ivan," the silverette began crying out, his usual sharp German accent lacking as the Russian made an effort to move closer to him. "Ivan, Ivan Ivan—"
Attempting to smile down at the Prussian, Ivan leaned in close for a moment and whispered into his flushed ear, "I'd much rather you call me by- hah -my nickname, Gilbert~."
Heavy breaths now escaping his mouth, the Prussian swiftly wrapped himself around the gray-haired nation; pale, trembling legs hiked up along his waist once more, Ivan now facing the Prussian with every thrust he made.
Feeling himself near his peak, Gilbert broke into a frenzied rapid-fire of the Russian's name and other swears; "Ivan, shit, V-Vanya, fuck, Vanya, I-I'm...!"
The Russian hurriedly crushed their lips, somewhat concealing the rumbling groans they both gave as Gilbert climaxed, shortly followed by Ivan.
Legs slowly unhooking from his waist- but keeping the Russian in place, because suddenly Gilbert realizes he's so cold, so lonely far too often here and he just- he just wants to be near Ivan, wants to feel safe, feel warm, feel lov—
Ivan is soon wiping away the silverette's tears, strong arms- of tenderness, of knowledge, of an inept solitude he's blessed to have never suffered -firmly wrapping about him, assuring him of the here and now and not of all the horrors he so deeply wishes he didn't have to live with, alone.
Gilbert finds it easiest to sleep in the Soviet Household alongside the Russian, wearing nothing but the ring that means so much more than he will ever like to admit to himself.
Was möchtest du? - What do you want?
Willst du es wirklich hören? - Do you really want to hear it?
Ich will dich. - I want you.
Ich weiß nicht, was du meinst. - I don't know what you mean.
Guten Abend, gute Nacht, mit Rosen bedacht, mit Näglein[besteckt, schlupf′ unter die Deck! - Good evening, good night, With roses adorned, With carnations covered, Slip under the covers.
Schlaf nun selig und süß, schau im Traum ′s Paradies. - Sleep now peacefully and sweetly, see the paradise in your dream.