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crimson-kisses · 2 days ago

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Duetsche Zunge

Characters/Fandoms/Pairings: Yandere! Gilbert Beilschmeidt || Prussia [Hetalia] x Fem!reader Warning: This story will contain xplicit yandere themes, proceed with caution [includes non consensual acts, toxic relationship, physical violence & the like] Author's notes: I honestly took some inspiration from @shini--chan 's works. Her every piece is marvellous, especially Gilbert's character. She has made me mad and intrigued over that man, I say. Also, remember that lot has been going around the world lately, and try to educate yourself and contribute as much as you can.

Gilbert would be absolutely thrilled and intrigued if his darling already knew German—it would spare him the frustration of teaching her everything from scratch. He would be amused and think the way she spoke. Her pronunciation or tone was absolutely adorable.

But of course, being who he is, that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from challenging her, testing the level of her knowledge and fluency. He’d be curious to know what her taste would be in German literature, music, or cinema. Would she favour Goethe’s romanticism, or perhaps the darker allure of Kafka’s surrealism? Would she hum along to Beethoven or lose herself in the melancholic strains of Schubert?

He would likely discover these preferences by observing (read: stalking) her, a brow arched up elegantly as he leaned back on the walls of the library. There, he would watch her conversing with others academically, seeming more like a statue of a scholar or a professor with his disguise of black-rimmed glasses and dark eyes, watching the way her lips curved around sweetly spoken words.

However, being a perfectionist, he could quickly identify any gaps in her knowledge—a slip of grammar, a wrong word here and there, or even a misstep in interpretation. Perhaps she’d confuse a complex construction for a simpler one or misuse an idiomatic expression.

Noting down the mistakes with a stern frown and a disappointed click of his tongue, Gilbert would sigh, unable to tolerate even the smallest errors. He’d push her relentlessly, unwilling to accept anything less than perfection. Papers, after papers, books after books, would pile up around her as he corrected her trembling attempts, his calligraphic writing starkly perfect beside her shaky efforts.

For someone who appeared so rugged, he was surprisingly methodical, almost reverent, when it came to written words, as evidenced by the piles of his ancient diaries filled with neat, precise entries.

It was definitely a cruel mixture of his ego and intense love toward her that drove him to hone her fluency to a level of perfection he alone could crave. Writing, reading, speaking, and even singing—he demanded mastery in every form of expression, shaping her abilities into something he could both admire and control.

But he wouldn’t stop at just German. This rigorous approach extended to other languages in which he excelled, such as French, Italian, and even Russian (though his dislike for a certain Russian man might make things a bit more complicated).

Each session would become a gruelling trial that demanded discipline, focus, and sheer willpower. He’d test her French with its elegant nuances, pushing her to appreciate the subtleties of verb conjugations and melodic flow. Italian, with its passionate rhythm, would become another challenge, the sharp sounds of “c” and “g” perfectly flowing from her lips, just as he demanded. And then, of course, there was Russian—harsh, guttural, and complex—he would revel in hearing her stumble over its sharp consonants, unable to help himself as he smirked with a mix of ego and possessiveness.

Whether it was the elegance of French, the flow of Italian, or the intensity of Russian, Gilbert would make sure she mastered every word, every subtle difference in accent, every cultural nuance, until she spoke each language with an expertise that reflected his possessive influence.

Gilbert would also push her to master ancient languages like Latin and Greek. His admiration for the roots of Western civilization would bleed into his obsessive teaching, as he demanded perfect fluency in these classical tongues.

He’d make her translate passages from Cicero or Horace, test her knowledge of Homer’s epics, and measure her understanding of Plato’s philosophy. Every misstep in conjugation or syntax would be met with sharp reprimands. Yet, at the same time, he would find immense satisfaction in hearing her articulate the beauty of ancient prose, especially when she finally grasped the elegance of Latin’s rhythm or the precision of Greek’s structure.

It would be a sight to watch the man who seemed so restless—always planning, calculating, and never stopping—suddenly appear like a scholar carved from marble. His focus was unwavering, his attention to detail sharp as a blade, whether it was through his quiet admiration or relentless demands, Gilbert made it clear that he wouldn’t stop until she was flawless—not just in language but as a reflection of his obsession with her.

The words on the paper danced as your eyes blurred, hesitant gasps escaping your quivering lips. Each tap of the thick ruler against the desk matched the frantic rhythm of your racing heartbeat. A deep sigh reached your ears, making you tense as a tear dropped, blotting the writing beneath it.

“Wrong. Do it again,” he said, his voice steady but firm, just above a whisper. You could feel the heat of his breath against your ear as he leaned in closer, his words curling into your senses like a soft yet dangerous caress. His forearms, toned and defined, flexed with each controlled motion as he tapped the ruler once more against the wood.

The veins on his arms stood out, a clear testament to the power that lay beneath his skin. His shirt, rolled up to his elbows, emphasized the muscular tone of his arms, the fabric taut as he moved with practiced precision.

“Your knuckles must be throbbing, don’t you think so?” His voice was low, almost velvety, though the slight edge in it made your skin prickle with a sense of haunting despair.

Of course, German would always be Gilbert's top priority. Whether it was the ancient words from his old Teutonic Knight days, the forgotten Prussian of his youth, or the more modern German that had evolved, he would be relentless in teaching you.

He would smirk, watching your hesitant expression, those furrowed brows and strands of hair sticking to your flushed face as you tried to keep up with his rapid-fire lessons. Every time you stumbled, he’d feel a rush of satisfaction, knowing he was pushing you—testing your limits.

And just as you began to feel like you might grasp it, he would pull you further, introducing an even more archaic form of the language. You'd be faced with Prussian words, forgotten phrases from the past, or the formal German of his time as a powerful state, and he'd watch as you struggled to keep up.

But Gilbert never took pity. To him, this wasn’t just about learning words—it was about learning what they meant, what they represented, about becoming part of a deeper history that only he understood intimately.

Naturally, he expected you to speak German at all times when addressing him. After all, he was Prussia—the proud embodiment of his nation's strength and culture, and to him, the language was not merely a means of communication, but a symbol of power, authority, and legacy. He found the way you spoke it utterly captivating—the way your lips shaped the words, how your expression would soften or harden depending on the tone.

Every mistake, every mispronunciation, only seemed to drive him further. He would often reply to you in German despite your slipping into another language— he would become cold, refusing to acknowledge you fully. His childish spite would rise, and he'd deliberately turn his back, offering you nothing but a sharp glance.

"Are you even listening to me?" you snapped, frustration mounting as you tugged at your hair, your words coming out in a burst. The tension in your chest was unbearable, and yet, Gilbert didn’t even flinch. He leaned back in his plush leather chair, the soft creak of the leather under his weight barely audible. The corners of his lips twitched upwards, curling into a satisfied smirk. His eyes, gleaming with amusement, never left you as he observed your growing frustration, watching you unravel with quiet delight. He loved seeing you like this—on the edge, teetering between control and chaos, and utterly at his mercy.

He didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you. It was as if your words were meaningless to him. He had no intention of addressing your frustration, no intention of actually listening to what you were saying. He was too busy savoring the sight of you. The sharp tone in his voice, when he finally spoke, was smooth, effortless—teasing, almost mocking, a rhythm he knew all too well. Of an ancient German dialect that almost made his words hard to understand.

"Careful with the bread," he murmured, his voice low and cutting through the silence like a blade. "Don’t make it too tough."

You froze for a moment, the absurdity of his words washing over you. He wasn’t listening. Not to you. Not to the frustration in your voice, not to the growing anger burning in your chest. His gaze never wavered, still fixed on you with that predatory calm, like a cat watching its prey squirm. And all the while, you could feel the weight of his attention, suffocating and demanding, making your blood boil even hotter.

Your hands, already trembling from the intensity of the situation, clenched into fists. You turned away quickly, trying to regain some semblance of control, but it was too late. Your mind raced, and you felt the overwhelming need to take out your frustration on something—anything. The dough in front of you.

You slammed your hands into it, pressing harder than necessary, your fingers digging into the soft dough with surprising force. It was as though you could feel his presence behind you, even though he said nothing more, watching you knead the dough with a strange, mocking stillness in the air. You wished it was his neck beneath your hands instead, the pressure of your palms imagining the crushing sensation of him being the one to break under the weight. The thought alone made you grit your teeth.

Gilbert’s smirk never faltered, his eyes still on you, studying every move you made. He had already won, and you both knew it. You were powerless against his presence, against his control. His lessons weren’t games. They were training. And you were exactly where he wanted you.

Though he often found amusement in the banter between you, even encouraging it at times, Gilbert wouldn’t take kindly to any attempts to push things beyond their limits. Swear words or throwing personalized insults his way would undoubtedly irritate him. He thrived on the playful back-and-forth, enjoying the challenge of testing boundaries, seeing just how far he could push you before you snapped.

But as much as he revelled in this dynamic, there were unspoken rules that, if broken, would have severe consequences. Gilbert was not one to tolerate disrespect, not even in jest. His pride, especially when it came to how others viewed his authority, was something you learned to tread lightly around.

He had a way of making you feel small when you crossed that invisible line. It wasn’t outright aggression, no—it was more subtle, calculated. His silence, his smirk, the way he’d cock his head and stare at you with those piercing eyes—each glance felt like a silent reprimand. His lessons weren’t games. This was training. And training wasn’t just about learning skills or techniques—it was about understanding power dynamics, submission, and control. For Gilbert, discipline was an art. You had to earn his approval, prove you were worthy of the lessons he would give. Disrupting that delicate balance, however, meant harsh consequences.

The playful back-and-forth, while it could go on for hours, was never just for fun. He was sharpening you, moulding you into something he could admire, something that would never question his authority again. When you got too comfortable, too confident, Gilbert would make sure to remind you that this was his world and you were merely a participant in it. A slip of the tongue, a crass word, a sharp insult—that was all it took for him to remind you who was truly in charge.

And when you crossed that line? He’d make sure you knew it wasn’t something to be taken lightly. Gilbert would drop his usual teasing tone and replace it with something colder, something darker. He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The shift in his demeanor alone was enough to make the air feel thick with tension. You’d find yourself walking the thin line between fear and desire, unsure of where one ended and the other began, but knowing that if you made the wrong move, there would be consequences.

The toothbrush and the mouthful of toothpaste threatened to choke you, your mouth wide open as a strong grip held your head in place by the hair. Gilbert probed the depths of your mouth with firm, deliberate strokes, bringing you to the brink of nausea. Foamy spit dripped from your lips, guttural moans of pain echoing through the washroom as tears framed your face. Your attempts to reason with Gilbert fell on deaf ears. All it took was one bad day for him (you couldn’t really tell with the man), and your profanity-laced outburst had earned you this punishment. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he slightly relaxed his grip on your hair, allowing you to violently spit out the bitter toothpaste that had been building up in your mouth. You instinctively reached for the tap, desperate to rinse the foul taste away, but were met with a firm hand that stopped you short. “No water for that filthy mouth of yours,” Gilbert sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. “Next time, I won’t hesitate to feed you a bar of soap and using the toilet brush.” You almost threw up.

While he didn’t outright disdain other languages, Gilbert was quick to show his disapproval if you focused on them too much. A subtle sneer or dismissive remark would betray his jealousy. In his eyes, your enthusiasm or preference for another tongue was a challenge to his authority, a dilution of the bond he sought to forge.

He wanted German to be your priority because it was his, and he needed to hear it from your lips as proof of your connection. It wasn’t just about teaching—it was about domination, ensuring that his influence extended into every word you spoke and every thought you had. And, of course, his pride demanded it. After all, why would you need anything else when you had him?

Nonetheless, he adored your voice, no matter what language you spoke. Whether stumbling over unfamiliar words or weaving through proses, there was a softness in the way you sounded that captivated him. It wasn’t something he’d admit easily, but your voice was his favourite melody, one he could listen to for hours without growing tired.

Of course, German is sacred to him—a reflection of his very being. It wasn’t just a language; it was his legacy, his culture, and the soul of the people he had once represented. The language of warriors and poets, of triumph and despair, it was a thread connecting him to his past. He expected you to embrace it—not out of mere interest, but as a testament to your devotion to him. And he always cherished it hearing from you.

You sat beside Gilbert, stiff and uneasy, as he delved into a thick book titled 'Geodesics in Curved Spacetime'. The topic was so far beyond your comprehension that you couldn’t help but think, What the fuck even is this?

It was one of those days when he insisted you sit close, your hands folded on his thigh, while one of his palms gripped it firmly, the other flipping through the velvet pages of the Russian text. His hold on you was both grounding and possessive, the weight of it reminding you that there was no escape from his whims.

The subject seemed to irritate him more than intrigue him; his brows furrowed, and the occasional sharp exhale signaled his growing frustration. He’d call you over at times like this, either to steady his nerves or to force you into reading it aloud, despite your stumbling attempts.

Sometimes, he would pause to explain a concept in German, his voice steady and commanding, expecting you to follow his train of thought no matter how lost you felt. On other occasions, his enthusiasm would bubble over, and he would yip and yap, his words spilling in rapid, fervent analysis that left your head spinning. You could only nod along, hoping he didn’t notice your bewilderment.

Most often, though, his focus shifted to something more intimate. He would pass you a well-loved novel—its pages slightly worn, its binding soft to the touch—and order you to read aloud. His fingers would trail lazily along your arm as he leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, the tension leaving his features with every word that left your lips. In those moments, you felt like an extension of him, your voice the tool that brought his favorite stories to life. His grip on you would loosen, his breaths growing deeper and steadier.

Those were his calmest days, and your beautiful voice, the rhythm to his immortal heartbeat, seemed to be the only thing capable of soothing his restless spirit.

Refusal—or any form of misbehavior—when he asks you to speak his language would never be tolerated. Utter refusal would be met with the coldest of glares, a silent warning that would send a shiver down your spine. Testing him with silent treatment or petty acts of defiance would only irritate him more.

His expectations are simple but non-negotiable: learn the proper German etiquette. Speak clearly, directly, and without hesitation. Your words must be precise—no unnecessary embellishments or mindless chatter. He values sincerity, respect, and most of all, discipline.

When spoken to, you are expected to answer promptly, politely, and with the right tone. You must use Bitte (please) and Danke (thank you) when appropriate— if you don’t, he’ll remind you, and the lesson will be harder than you anticipate. There is no room for laziness in his world, especially when it comes to how you communicate.

Gilbert tapped his fingers on his forearms as he stared at you from across the table, his piercing gaze unwavering. You sat with an unsightly scowl, arms crossed tightly, eyes fixed on the food in front of you. The tension in the air was thick—your earlier attempt to escape had been swiftly thwarted by his firm grip on your arm.

"And what do we say?" he asked, his voice smooth but laced with impatience.

You shot him a defiant glare, the sting of your pride burning brighter than your hunger. Your teeth gound together as you glared at the plate of Sauerbraten, the tender beef marinated in rich spices paired with the tang of red cabbage and potato dumplings. The smell alone made your stomach growl, but you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

"D..." You grit your teeth, barely able to utter the word. His unblinking stare burned into you as if daring you to try him. "Danke."

"Ah ah," Gilbert bent forward, the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "Full sentence."

You clenched your fists, the taste of defeat sour in your mouth. There was no escaping him now. "Danke... für das Essen."

"Good girl." Gilbert’s voice was soft, but the approval in it was unmistakable. He straightened in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Jetzt können wir essen!"

Of course, being the rather egoistical individual he is, Gilbert would revel in hearing you address him with titles in German. Whether it was Herr or Mein König, the words rolled off your tongue like honey, fueling his insatiable desire for your complete submission. He would demand such titles not merely out of tradition but as a way to solidify his dominance over you-reminding you that he was the one in control, always.

And if you hesitated or refused, you'd soon find yourself either kneeling at his feet or bent over his knees, forced to beg in the very language he adored.

The sight of you, voice trembling and face flushed, was intoxicating to him. He couldn't help but feel a massive thrill corroding his bones as your tone wavered with such an adorable desperation, the words escaping your pretty lips like a melody crafted just for him. Gilbert always loved the way you sounded, gasps, grunts or so, your voice like a finely tuned instrument only he could master.

You were his little songbird, and sometimes he liked to take that metaphor literally. He wouldn't mind having you sing as he played his flute, guiding you with gentle nods or sharp corrections if you didn't get it quite right. On calmer evenings, he'd rest his head on your lap, your soft hands threading through his silver hair as you hummed or sang him a lullaby. Those moments of quiet surrender were his personal heaven.

Every word you spoke in German was a delicacy he devoured straight from your lips. He also expected your words to reflect affection and politeness. Loving phrases, respectful tones, and perhaps even a few nicknames of your own design.

Nothing overly cheesy, of course, but Gilbert wouldn't hide his cheeky grin if you hyly called him something intimate. A soft Liebling (darling) murmured in the warmth of your shared bed would earn you a teasing remark right before he captured your lips in a sealing kiss.

In the bedroom, his expectations only deepened. He wanted to hear you whisper his name like a promise, gasping out mein Schatz as he thoroughly claimed you. Every word, every sound you made was proof of his hold over you, a mark of the loyalty he craved so desperately.

And in those moments, he'd remind you just how much he loved your voice - the voices that only he could truly bring out of you, the ones he wants to hear from you, the one thing that could ever bring peace to the storm within him.

Your dress spread around you like the petals of a flower, delicate yet trapping, as gilbert’s hands—rough and unyielding—skimmed over the bare skin of your legs. you shivered beneath his touch, every nerve on fire as you tried to suppress the sob rising in your throat.

“Was ist los, Maus?” (what's the matter, mouse?), his voice coiled around you like smoke, soft yet suffocating. his body leaned in, the weight of his presence making it impossible to move, let alone think. “Hast du etwa vergessen, wie man schön bittet?” (have you perhaps forgotten to ask nicely?).

your mind swirled, thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. had he done something? the strange heaviness in your limbs, the faint haze clouding your senses—was this another one of his games?

“B-bitte,” you rasped, voice trembling as you fought to form the word, “bitte, G-Gilbert, ich—”

his grip on your hips tightened abruptly, the sharp press of his fingers stealing the rest of your sentence. his crimson eyes bore into yours, gleaming with a twisted mix of hunger and amusement.

“Das ist besser,” (That is better) he murmured, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Nicht perfekt, aber es wird reichen.” (Not perfect, but it will do)

tears pricked at your eyes, your chest heaving as you forced out another plea, desperate to appease him. “gilbert… bitte… verzeih mir,” you choked out, your voice breaking as his thumb brushed against the curve of your waist, deceptively gentle.

“ah, Liebling,” he said, his tone laced with dark satisfaction. “Das ist mein gutes Mädchen.”

he pulled you closer then, his control as unrelenting as the heat radiating from him, leaving no room for escape. you were his—mind, body, and voice—and he made sure you understood it.

With every searing touch and word.

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