Chapter Text
Russia shifted, the movement sent a wave of pain through the plump muscles of his shoulders. His wrists were chained above his head to a rusted pipe in the corner of the room, the chains were biting into his skin with every move. He was naked, his red skin covered with blue bruises. The cold gnawed at his thighs and chest until his teeth rattled in his skull. The heavy sound of Soviet's boots echoed from the stairs, Each step was like a gavel.
"What a sad view." Soviet stepped into the dim light, his silhouette towering and rigid. He didn't look at his son's face, he looked at the reports scattered on the table nearby, the papers were crinkled.
"I... I did my best." Russia whispered.
"I see..." Soviet’s voice was low, disappointed.
"Six hours of blindness while the Germans carved through the perimeter. If only you knew what six hours means in a war of attrition, Russia..."
"The couriers were intercepted. I couldn't..."
"Excuses are for the weak." Soviet stepped closer. He reached out, his hand gripping Russia's chin and forcing his head up. "You are a servant of the Soviet Union. My servant. When you fail the nation and your responsibilities, you fail me."
"I'm sorry." Russia sobbed, a single tear carving a path through his cheek. "Please, release me."
"Spare yourself those pathetic pleads, Russia. You won't be released. Suffer burns out the unnecessary emotions, you can learn something from it." Soviet let go of his son's chin, his hand sliding down to slap Russia's cheek. The sound pierced the silence like a gun shot. Russia's head snapped to the side, his skin becoming a hot shade of red. "Do you feel that heat, Russia? That is the only warmth you deserve today." Russia stared at the floor in defeat, drained and miserable.
"Release me!" Russia whimpered, his body shaking violently now. "I'll do better. I'll work double shifts. Release me, Owner..."
Soviet let out a short, humorless huff. the nickname 'owner' gave him a strong sense of pride, reminding him of when the young man was still a boy. He grew, but his submission remained. Russia was so desperate to be set free. Soviet began to unbuckle his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a slowness. "A few more hours of paperwork won't balance the scales, No... You need to be reminded of your place. You need to understand that your body does not belong to you. It belongs to me, as my servant..."
Russia's eyes widened with terror, he recognized this motion. "Father, no. Not now. I can't... I'm too sore."
"Pain is a reminder of your inadequacy, son." Soviet stepped into Russia's personal space, the heat from his large body contrasted cruelly with the cold air. He reached down, gripping Russia's hip and squeezing until he gasped. "Look at you, Shaking like a bitch. Where is that fire you had ? Where is the soldier you claim you want to be?"
"I still want it." Russia choked out.
"A soldier obeys, he endures, he accepts the will of his superior without a word of dissent." Soviet's voice dropped to a predatory whisper. "Now, open your mouth."
Russia clamped his lips shut, shaking his head. His eyebrows furrowed momentarily "No! ..." he yelled out.
The second slap was harder, sending Russia's head lolling back. "I did not ask if you were willing... I commanded you."
Russia's resolve crumbled under the weight of the terror. He opened his mouth slightly, exposing his sharp teeth. his breath was shallow. Soviet didn't waste time. He freed his cock from his trousers, the organ was long, thick and pulsing, already aroused. It smelled of musk and salt, the scent filled Russia's nostrils.
"Take it." Soviet ordered. "Every inch. if you pull away, we will start the clock over." Russia leaned forward as much as the chains allowed, his lips stretching to accommodate the girth. As the head pushed past his teeth, he gagged, his throat constricting in a natural reflex. Soviet didn't flinch, he pushed harder, shoving the length deep into Russia's throat.
"Suck it." Soviet groaned, his voice losing some of its coldness, replaced by raw, sadistic lust. "Use that tongue. Show me you can be useful for once in your miserable life." Russia's eyes watered, tears streaming down his face as he worked. He focused on the movement, the sliding sensation of the hot flesh against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He could hear the wet sounds of his own saliva coating the shaft, the sound of the head hitting the back of his throat. Every time he tried to pull back for air, Soviet's hand clamped onto the back of his neck, forcing him back down.
"That's it." Soviet murmured, his hips beginning to thrust with a slow, deliberate cruelty. "Good boy. A silent, obedient dog... You haven't changed since childhood." As the minutes dragged on, a different kind of pressure began to build in Russia's lower abdomen. He had been chained there for hours, the cold forcing his kidneys to work overtime. His bladder was screaming, a sharp insistent ache made his legs twitch.
"Father!" Russia managed to moan around the cock, the word muffled and distorted. Soviet pulled out with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting them for a brief second. "What? Did I tell you to speak?"
"I... I have to go. Please.."
Soviet looked down at Russia's trembling thighs, a cruel smile touching his lips. "The bathroom? I'm not going to fulfill your wishes. You are in a state of punishment. You do not leave this spot until i am satisfied."
"I can't hold it." Russia sobbed through clenched teeth, his voice breaking. "Please, just for a minute... I'll do anything."
"Then finish your job." Soviet replied, his voice returning to indifference. He stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest, watching Russia with indifference. "Hold it. Exercise your will. If you cannot control your own bladder, how can you expect to control matters in favor of my land?" Russia squeezed his eyes shut, his muscles cramping. He fought against the urge, his breath coming in short and panicked whimpers. He could feel the fluid pressing against the walls of his bladder in a heavy, burning weight. He shifted himself, trying to find a position that eased the pressure, but the chains held him tight.
"Look at me, Russia." Soviet commanded. Russia opened his eyes, his gaze unfocused.
"Do it... Show me how pathetic you are. I wanna see you piss yourself."
"No..." Russia gasped. "I won't. I won't do it."
"You will..." Soviet whispered, stepping on his son's bladder, the burning pain stirred inside him, searching for relief. "Because the alternative is that i leave you here for another night, In the dark. Without a single scrap of clothing to keep you warm, and you will take it all once again."
The threat broke him, the son's heart was pounding. The mental wall Russia had built to hold back the tide collapsed. With a choked sob, he let go. The sound of the urine hitting the floor was loud in the silence. A steaming stream of yellow liquid splashed against the floor, the smell of ammonia rising instantly to mix with the scent of sex and wetness. Russia's body shuddered with the release, but there was almost no relief, only a crushing wave of shame and disappointment. He watched the puddle spread around his bare feet, his ass and abdomen was wet, his chest heaving.
"How utterly repulsive." Soviet said, though his voice sounded thicker now, his eyes dark with arousal. "Absolutely disgusting. my own son, pissing himself like a frightened animal. Perhaps that's how you belong. Covered in piss, hopeless."
"I hate you." Russia whispered, the words barely audible. His head was turned down, trying to hide his face in shame.
Soviet laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Hate is a powerful motivator. Keep that hate, use it to fuel your submission." Soviet didn't let him recover. He grabbed Russia's head, yanking it back and exposing the line of his throat.
"Now that you've cleared the way, we can begin... Taste your punishment."
Soviet pushed Russia against the wall, pressing his head into the hard surface. Russia groaned, the sensation of the freezing pipe against his skin making him shiver. "You've been far too proud lately, Russia. Too much thought of 'becoming a soldier.' You forget that a soldier is first and foremost a tool. A tool to be used and reshaped."
Soviet reached down, his fingers slick with precum, and pushed them roughly into Russia's tight entrance, using his piss as lubricant. Russia screamed, the sound echoing. There was no tenderness, only the blunt force of Soviet's fingers stretching him open.
"Stop! It hurts!" Russia yelled out desperately. His spirit was thoroughly broken. His role currently was being a compliant punching bag, a torture mannequin for his father.
"It's supposed to hurt, why do you think i'm doing this?" Soviet grunted, adding a second finger and hooking them inside, searching for the prostate. Russia groaned and drooled, feeling full as his father invaded his insides. "Pain is the only thing that cuts through your ego, hm?."
He felt the internal pressure, the feeling of being invaded and stretched beyond his limit. He tried to pull away, but his wrists were locked, and Soviet's body was pinning him against the wall, successfully trapping him. Russia kicked his legs in defense.
"Please... Father... I can't..."
"Shut up." Soviet commanded. He withdrew his fingers and positioned the head of his cock against Russia's rim. Without warning, he lunged forward. He drove himself inside in one violent motion. Russia's scream was strangled, a raw sound of agony that tore through his throat. He felt as if he were being split in half, the feeling of the penetration burned like a brand. The air was pushed out of his lungs in a sharp wheeze, his head slamming against the wall.
"God! Stop! You're ripping me!" Russia wailed, his body convulsing. Soviet didn't stop. He began to thrust, his movements rough, sloppy and brutal. Each thrust sent a shockwave through Russia's frame, his balls slapping against his son's ass cheeks. The wet noise of their bodies colliding and the guttural groans coming from Soviet's throat filled the room. Russia lied in his own piss.
"Take it." Soviet hissed, his voice deep. "Take all of it. This is the weight of your failure, Russia. It's the cost of your incompetence." Russia's mind began to fracture. The pain was drowning him, but beneath it, there was a terrifying, traitorous spark of pleasure. The pressure on his prostate, the overwhelming feeling of being completely possessed began to blur the lines between agony and ecstasy. He began to sob, not just from the pain, but from the sheer intensity of the sensation. "That's it." Soviet murmured, his pace increasing. "Break for me..."
Soviet's thrusts became deeper, his breathing heavy and labored. He reached around, grabbing Russia's muscled chest and squeezing it hard, his nails digging into the soft flesh. Russia let out a high pitched keen, his head lolling. He felt the internal warmth building up, the heat gathering at the base of his spine.
"I... I..." Russia couldn't finish the thought. The cold of the room forgotten, replaced by the searing heat of Soviet's body, the sweet smell of sweat. Soviet let out a low, animalistic growl. He slammed himself deep one last time, his entire body tensing. With a loud, guttural shout, he erupted, the hot stream of his thick semen pumping deep into Russia's bowels. Russia felt the warmth flood him, boiling inside of him pleasurably. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his muscles finally went limp. Soviet stayed buried inside him for a long moment, his forehead resting against Russia's shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against his skin. The silence returned, broken only by the sound of their synchronized panting. Slowly, Soviet withdrew. He stepped back, the sound of the wet slide echoing. He didn't offer a hand, he didn't offer a word of comfort. He simply began to dress himself, the clicking of his belt buckle was final.
Russia remained slumped against the wall, his legs shaking, the remnants of their interaction dripping slowly down his thighs to join the puddle of urine on the floor. He felt empty, a hollowed out shell of a person. "Take the most out of your punishment." Soviet said, his voice returning to its cold, dictatorial tone. "And then return to your quarters. I expect the revised reports on my desk by dawn."
"Yes... Father." Russia whispered in complete surrender. Soviet turned and walked out. As he reached the top, he paused, looking back at the broken silhouette in the corner.
"You have potential, Russia. But potential is useless without discipline. Remember this day, Remember the taste of failure. It will make you a better soldier when you finish your training." The door slammed shut, the sound echoing like a coffin lid closing. Russia stayed there for a long time, the cold slowly returning to claim him. He stared at the gray light of the window and wondered if the war outside was any different from the war inside of him. He shifted his wrists. He closed his eyes, and for a fleeting second, he didn't feel the pain or the shame. He focused on the feeling of wetness under his feet, the mixture of piss and semen, burning his skin. He began to sob, the sounds were silent and lonely, swallowed by the vast, indifferent silence of the winter.
___
As hours went by, Soviet finally returned to unlock the restraints, Russia didn't even look up. He simply collapsed on the floor, his skin blue tinged and pebbled with goosebumps. "Get up." Soviet commanded, though there was a strange, lingering intensity in his eyes. Russia pushed himself up, his movements slow and clumsy. His internal muscles felt bruised and swollen, every step was a reminder of the violation, the pain that tore his guts apart. He walked towards the washbasin in the corner, the freezing cold water felt unpleasant against his skin as he tried to scrub the smell of sex and waste from his skin.
"Do you hate me now, Russia? Truly?" Russia paused, the water dripping from his fingertips. He looked at his father, the man who had raised him, broken him, and held his entire reality in his filthy hands.
"Yes." Russia responded shortly.
Soviet stepped closer, his hand resting briefly, almost gently, on the back of Russia's neck. It was the closest thing to affection the man had shown that day, and it terrified Russia more than the violence. It felt dangerous. "Don't be such a child."
Russia walked past him, his head bowed. As he climbed the stairs towards his small, drafty room, he could feel his father's gaze burning into his back. He knew this wasn't the end. This was simply the calibration. The war with the Germans was a clash of nations, but the war inside his head was a clash of souls, and Russia knew he was losing. He entered his room, threw a thick black sweater over himself together with a pair of boxxers. He sat at the wooden desk, the lamp flickering. He opened the folder of reports, the ink blurring before his eyes. He picked up his pen, his hand still shaking. "I will prove myself" he whispered to the empty room. "I will be stronger than he is." But as he wrote, he could still feel the sensation of his father's weight pressing him into the wall and a part of him, a twisted, perverted part, longed for the return of the pain, because it was the only time he felt his father truly notice him. Admire him in a foul but intense way, make him feel something. A tear rolled down his cheek. Outside, the wind howled, shaking the old house to its foundations.
___
The night fell. In the room below, Soviet sat in his office, staring at a map of the front lines, his mind calculating losses and gains. He thought of his son's screams, the way it had sounded. He smiled, the memory was like motivation.
"He will survive." Soviet murmured to himself. "He has to. He is my son, my blood streams through his veins."
The house was silent, save for the scratching of a pen upstairs. The distant horizon signaled that the world was burning. Russia stopped writing for a moment, leaning back in his chair. He looked at his wrists, where the red welts of the chains were already beginning to fade into yellow bruises. He touched the skin, feeling the lingering ache. He imagined a world where he wasn't a servant, where he wasn't a dog, where he could look at the gray sky and not feel the need to apologize for existing. But then he heard the floorboards creak in the hallway. He froze, his heart hammering. He knew that step. He knew the weight of that presence.
The door opened slowly. Soviet didn't enter, but he stood in the threshold.
"Are you finished?"
"Almost." Russia whispered.
"Come here."
Russia hesitated, then stood up. He walked towards his father, his bare feet cold on the wood. When he reached him, Soviet didn't strike him. Instead, he reached out and wiped a tear from Russia's cheek with his thumb. The gesture was slow, almost tender, but the grip was firm, reminding Russia that he was still caught in the snare. "You are a fragile thing, Russia." Soviet said, his voice low. "But fragility can be forged into steel"
"Is that all i am to you?"
Soviet's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something, possessiveness crossing his pupils. "You are my legacy and i will not have my legacy be weak."
He turned and walked away, leaving the door open. Russia stood there, staring into the dark hallway, the scent of his father still lingering in the air. He felt the pull of the misery, the terrifying cycle of abuse and dependence that bound them together more tightly than any chain. He returned to his desk and began to write again, the words flowing faster now, fueled by terror and a desperate starving need for approval. He wrote until his fingers cramped and the lamp ran out, leaving him in the darkness. As he finally lay down in his bed, shivering under a single blanket, he could hear the wind screaming outside. He fell asleep alone.