[[Note: This is the fill for the request of my 50th reviewer, whitetyger123. She wanted child!Russia and General Winter rape… so here it is! I'm sorry it's too dark at some parts and then so willing at others. It was a pleasure (no, not like that) to write this, but once again, I must emphasize my warnings.
PLEASE. Be warned that, although it is not implicit, this is shotacon. It also contains rape. American education tends to neglect Russian history, so I'm sorry if my limited knowledge is incorrect! So please please be aware of this as you read, and if you don't like it, don't read it! Okay, we're on the same page now? Good, good.]]
"Холодный…" He whispered like dusty feathers into his scarf. It rippled in the perpetual wind all around him, as he hugged his small knees tightly to his chest. He could see them turning paler, whiter, softer, and eventually turning into snow, only to add to the piles of it surrounding him. His fingers were too numb to pull his hat down any farther, and he felt them becoming long icicles too, brittle and sharp, and not his.
He couldn't waste energy moving, not when it was winter he couldn't. He relied on his breath's rebound to be his sole source of warmth, but even that was becoming colder and colder as his lungs hardened with ice in his ribcage. He checked his pulse. Slow. Slow. Slower. Slower.
Another gust of wind slapped his back, making him lose his air for a split second. He gasped and began to breathe again once it passed.
"Ivan," A fictitiously warm voice cooed into his right ear. He held his breath, willingly this time. His lungs oscillated in want, want to speak, I want to run.
"Отец." There was nothing more he wished to say.
The older man beside Ivan nodded complacently as he took a seat next to him, still keeping his distance. Ivan exhaled fast at the sudden cold next to him, curling his body closer into himself. The man smiled at him, but they were both silent. The man's eyes rested on Ivan's, glistening like onyx in the grey of winter. Annoyed by his glare, Ivan turned to him and told him to stop looking as simply as he could. His language was bound by his modest vocabulary, and it always faltered when in his Father's presence. His amethyst eyes were irritated from fatigue, and they themselves began to look glossier, sharper. Not from growing older, but from freezing. There was more silence between them, wind and blizzard filling it promptly, but quickly melting away to be labeled as white noise.
Ivan hated the autumns and the winters and only rarely cherished the short lived springs and summers. He hated tripping in snow, he hated falling on ice, he hated the wind howling in his ears, he hated the sun for only appearing to tease him, he hated clouds because they made the sun tease him.
Ivan hated his father, he hated that he was so cold all of the time, he hated that his father's voice was the only thing warm to him. He hated to see his Father visit, he hated to see him go. He hated it when his father whispered in his ears, when he came from behind him, when he searched his body with his gloved hands, when he rubbed him too harshly there. He hated a many, many things.
"Нет," He shivered, feeling the ice melt in his eyes. The heat from the fireplace allowed Ivan more freedom, although he did not leave any clothing by the door. It's too risky to do that. He liked the smell of firewood, and he liked that it had become easier to breathe without ice in his lungs, but his father was making it difficult for him to inhale again.
"Oh don't be so stubborn," the man murmured, continuing to fondle Ivan through his pants, rubbing up and down a bit carelessly.
"Нет." Was all he could muster, all he really knew how to say. He gripped his father's arms gently, even though he wanted to push him away, because he felt gross, he felt weaker here than he felt outside.
The man didn't say anything more, and instead began to unbuckle Ivan's pants, sliding the thin strap of leather out of the square metal. Ivan felt his cheeks pinch as water formed into droplets in his eyes. He repeated 'Нет' over and over again even when he had no clothing on his lower half. With his fathers next touch on his hole, he began to shake more, and felt his first few tears in months spill.
"пожалуйста," He whimpered, feeling his father's fingers probing his hole, entering him no less than a centimeter.
"Don't cry Ivan," He said into his small back before finally laying him on a carpet, his voice's warmth further awakening Ivan to yes, this is happening. Ivan wanted to speak, but he couldn't, and it was only until Winter began playing with his scarf did he find his voice again.
"Не," He whined sharply, grabbing for the end of the lame fabric. It was disgusting and stunk of salt, but it was part of Ivan, it was the only thing he had to remember of his sisters, who now, seemed so distant. His father laughed a little, with a smile Ivan was soon to inherit, as he snatched the lousy scarf from his neck and tossed it to the side.
His whole body froze suddenly, his mouth opening in terror as his scars were visible to his father, who, too, was taken by surprise. His fingers twitched around his father's arms, unsure of what to do, who to hurt, whether to hurt or to cry, whether to be ashamed or proud.
"Looks like Ivan has been getting around, hasn't he." Winter chuckled, the glint in his eye darkening.
"No," Ivan protested weakly, tears already raining down his face. "You're wrong, I wasn't, they made me!" His voice was on a crescendo, finally letting out all of his pent up frustration. "And, and now, you're making me… so, p-please, father," He was quiet now, returning to his introverted self. "пожалуйста, Father, I'm sorry, I didn't," The tears came faster, his mouth wobbling uncontrollably. "I didn't mean it, I'm sorry." His fingers tightened again.
"Ivan, you can't speak to your father like that…" He taunted in a sickeningly sweet tone.
"I'm sorry father, I didn't mean it, Мне очень жаль, Мне очень жаль," He mewled as he felt a finger wet with spit shoved into his cruelly.
"I hear you boy, but you're still going to have to be punished." Ivan heard the sound of clothes ruffling.
"Don't, p-please, please!" He begged, holding Winter as tight as he could, his fingers aching. But his cries for pity were ignored as his knees were grabbed and his legs spread, his whole lower torso being angled upward to meet Winter. He couldn't speak, and he trembled, letting go of Winter and hugging himself tightly, hoping for escape, forgiveness and requiem.
The pain shocked him, and his whole body felt the impact of Winter pressing into him roughly. He chanted quiet 'no's and 'sorry's under his breath.
"If you don't relax, it's only going to hurt more." His father whispered that hot breath onto his scarred neck, and Ivan suddenly wanted it, and he felt sick with himself. He calmed his muscles, but tensed again when he felt Winter move.
"Fine." He snarled, grabbing Ivan's hips and pulling them into his, groaning as he fully entered. Ivan lay motionless underneath him, his lips parted in some kind of awe, too afraid to move.
Although he still met tight resistance, Winter continued to push and pull Ivan's body onto his, Ivan's shoulders dragging along the carpet, getting hot from friction. His face was hot as his father moved his bottom so he hit him at a different angle, and his small dick was reminded that yes, this could feel good. Grinding his elbows into the floor, he whimpered from pleasure. His moans were more audible now as his body gave into the pleasure it sought, earning his father a chuckle or two. Fast. Fast. Faster. Faster.
"F-father," He sobbed, crossing his legs behind Winter's body. "I can't!"
No response.
"I-I don't, mmph, don't,"
Stillness.
"Stop, please, don't, I, no,"
…
"Nonononono-uunghh!" He cried as he arched up, coming for the first time. His body shook in the aftershock as his Father came inside him with a low rumble. He was once again afraid to move or breathe, until Winter pulled out of him, leaving Ivan feeling oddly empty. He wanted to jump for his scarf and his clothes, and to get out, because he realized what kind of thing he had just done, and with his Father no less, and that he had liked it. Winter threw a blanket on top of Ivan before he heard the door shutting. Only then did Ivan open his eyes, and felt the floor for his scarf. He realized that his scarf was the blanket he had thrown onto him, and was unsure if this was an act of mockery or of kindness.
He felt paler and more sick as his hole began to leak blood into the carpet, and he decided that the best thing to do now was to sleep, to let dreams sweep him off the floor on that cold winter night. He found his escape, and he was forgiven in his dreams, but the requiem was for another day. He dried his face with his scarf before finally drifting off to sleep. The fireplace crackled its last bit before finally blowing out. A strong gust blew the General outside away, and he would not visit again until next year.