A/N: A few things about this before you begin. 1) This story is non-con and Nazism throughout, so please don't read if these things offend you. 2) This story WILL contain Prussia, but currently does not, since if you give Russia a couple of Nazi prisoners to play with, he will not give them up without a few thousand words first. There is still sexual content in this part, though, and Prussia will show up in the second part.
There is no gore in this story, but it is NON-CONSENSUAL and contains physical, emotional, and mental abuse. Read no further if these themes upset you. Thank you.
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Russia always chose the pretty Aryan ones.
In all honesty, he didn't entirely disagree with the Fascists on the fact that they produced some fine-looking individuals. It was also very clever of Germany to announce that the apparent masters of the world sported features very commonly found in Germany, and, in fact, were Germany's actual features.
Masterful, really. Russia admired a lot about Germany, to be honest. Upon rolling his massive might across Germany's borders, he was struck with amazement at how smooth and plentiful the roads were. Even out in the middle of the fields, so well-maintained! (Of course, Germany was a small country with a womanly winter, whereas Russia was enormous and had The General to contend with.)
Not that Russia could complain about The General. While General Winter was unforgiving even to allies, he was certain death upon a foe. France had learned this the hard way. So had Germany.
That was the problem with the far west of Europe, Russia thought, carefully perusing through the lines and lines of captured Wehrmacht soldiers for his current diversion. In some ways they were quite clever, but in others so desperately stupid. Nobody could fight General Winter. One could only come to an uncomfortable stalemate and wait it out entrenched in what warmth you could fortify yourself with. You cannot defeat him.
The captured soldiers were standing in correct lines of four just outside of the village that was currently being run over and exploited for 'resources.' The Red Army always kept the captured soldiers within hearing distance of the town. The shots, the screams, the pitch, the smell of smoke and charred flesh, the desperate and garbled German wafting over the fields to torture the soldier's ears…
It was always interesting to watch how the captured Fascists reacted. Some had blank faces. Others would close their eyes and cover their ears. Some wept. Any who attempted to step out of line were beaten mercilessly with gun butts. There was one unfortunate soul wailing about a half-mile back down the line to the steady thwump thwump thwump of wooden rifle butt beating skin and cracking bone. This kept his comrades in check.
Russia may have once felt badly for them (oh, he knew what it was like to suffer), but after enduring the mortal pain of millions of his own being beaten, tortured, raped, burned, crucified, captured, shot, or stuck in an open holding pen to be purposefully starved to death, he wasn't in the mood for mercy.
Hadn't been in a while, in fact. Hadn't been since rolling Germany's army up like a carpet and kicking it all the way back to Berlin. He couldn't wait to nail it to the wall and call it home.
And thus he was here evaluating a line of captured enemy. Of course, he could have gone and helped himself to the entertainment currently being held in the village, but he was clearly getting old. Basic rape and pillage had lost some of its charm over the past few thousand years. His tastes had refined slightly.
So, he let his humans have their three 'free days' (after that the Army got stricter about conduct lest the entire actual point of the conquest was forgotten in the frenzy), and spent his own time with his own diversions.
In this, it was important to select two fine examples of the so-called master race that were standing as close together as possible. Men of all nations tended to congregate with their comrades in arms, particularly when in a stressful, helpless situation. Choosing two random soldiers ran a higher chance of Russia just having to kill them both and then come back and start over; wasting time was irritating.
Russia paused to look up and down the line of defeated Fascists, his thumbs hooking idly into his belt.
There. There they were.
Two young men who couldn't have been older than 20 stood next to each other, faces pale in the sun. Both had marvelous blond hair; the taller one had a slightly more gold hue, while the shorter one was more whiteish. Blue eyes of a nearly identical ice shade, pale skin that appeared untouched - this must have been their first skirmish. They were leaning slightly toward each other, clearly acquainted, if not already friends made fast through the toil of war.
Perfect.
Russia had noticed that the average age of captured soldiers was starting to get both older and younger at the same time… clearly Germany was running out of soldiers that were of ideal age.
Well, if there was one problem that Russia didn't have, it was lack of men. His lip ticked up, and he beckoned to the nearest Red Army soldier that was guarding the line.
The soldier looked irritated, understandably, since he was being kept out of the village festivities. (He'd be out and about tomorrow; as far as Russia was concerned, patience was a virtue.) He saluted Russia, though, recognizing him as an officer of higher rank.
"Comrade," Russia said quietly, his deep, warm, quiet tones never failing to make his people swoon, as it was everything they not-so-secretly longed for, "fetch me the two blond-haired fascists standing next to each other." He nodded at the correct line.
The solder saluted again and walked into the column of Fascists, barking out orders at the pair. They obviously didn't speak Russian, but after a few repeated phrases the two stumbled out of the line and stood before Russia, looking bewildered and frightened. Russia waited while their eyes looked at Russia's medals and the colored markings on his shoulder boards marking him as somebody of rank. Russia could see them swallow: smell their fear. The two met eyes briefly, clearly wondering what they had done to be singled out; however, they said nothing, obviously afraid of being beaten.
How pleasing. "Bind their hands behind their backs," Russia instructed his soldier in his warm tone. He smiled at the two young Fascist soldiers but his expression was anything but warm toward them.
The soldier saluted again and left the scene for a moment, returning with rope. Roughly grabbing the Fascists' hands, the soldier tied quick, efficient, tight knots and Russia waited, inhaling the sharpened scent of fear in the air; not only from the two directly in front of him, but also from the line of Fascists aware of what was happening, even if their eyes faced straight ahead.
When the soldier was done with the Fascists' hands, he stepped briskly to the side with the leftover rope and waited for orders.
"Back to your station, comrade; leave me the rope," Russia said, still not taking his eyes from the current prize. The soldier handed the rope over, saluted, and obeyed.
Russia hummed and picked up the end of the rope, leaning forward to the taller, gold-blond soldier (Russia decided to name him Syrok), and looped it around the back of Syrok's neck. Syrok's pretty blue eyes widened in fear and his shoulders instinctively hunched up, but a flash of Russia's ice-purple gaze prevented him from flinching away. Russia tied the loop just a little too tight - not a hangman's noose, though, he didn't actually want him to die at this point - before unraveling a length of rope and casually cutting it with his fighting knife. The other end of it went around the second, white-blond boy's neck (after some deliberation, Russia decided on Pomedorchik for him), effectively tying the pair together by the throat and giving Russia a convenient length to hook his hand around.
Thus with both humans bound and leashed, Russia tugged at the rope and led them into the forest, leaving the line of rattled Fascist prisoners behind.
To the credit of the two soldiers, they didn't start begging or sobbing right away as some of their predecessors did. There was an occasional hitching intake of air indicating that one of them was crying - it was Syrok - but at least it was quiet enough for Russia to be able to enjoy the birdsong of the forest.
They walked for at least a mile - Russia making careful to go slow so that Syrok and Pomedorchik wouldn't trip over a tree root and fall, accidentally hanging each other - before getting to a reasonable clearing.
Once there, Russia turned and calmly severed the rope holding Syrok and Pomedorchik together: he left it tied around their necks, but they were no longer bound to each other. Russia turned around and faced the pair; both soldiers shrank into themselves. Russia knew he could be intimidating.
Good.
"Mercy, mercy, please," Syrok whispered. Even though he was the taller and bigger of the two, he was clearly the more frightened.
Yes, Russia understood German perfectly fine. However, he'd learned that this entire process was more fun if the soldiers didn't think he did.
And, ha, mercy. Was there mercy when the millions of Soviet men died in open fields, starving and shitting themselves to death due to dysentery while well-fed Fascists looked on? The murdered women, the children? The burned villages and fouled fields?
None. None at all. In fact, if Russia had been willing to let on that he spoke German, he may have asked them how many women they'd raped on their way into Russia and how much they'd bragged about it. Russia smiled coldly and reached forward, taking Syrok by the rope around his neck and shoving him roughly into a tree. Pinning him there with his bulk, he gave Pomedorchik a meaningful look and pressed the barrel of his revolver into Syrok's head.
The meaning was unmistakable. Try to run and your friend is dead. This proved more often than not successful… even if both soldiers were convinced they would die at the hands of the Soviets, the bond of battle usually prevented one from forsaking the other to a bullet. It had only happened once.
It apparently wasn't going to happen this time. Pomedorchik swallowed hard, but showed no sign of moving. Russia smiled and put his revolver back on his belt, lifting up one of Syrok's legs and… removing one of his boots and socks. Then the other. Then he expertly undid Syrok's belt and trousers to shove them down, along with the regulation underwear, leaving him entirely naked on his lower half.
Syrok was breathing much faster at this point, his white legs trembling. Here, Russia hitched up the top part of Syrok's battle kit, folding it upward, and then rebelted it into place so that everything from Syrok's ribcage down was exposed.
"Oh God," Syrok was whispering. "Oh God, oh God help me, the savage, he's going to…"
Really, humans could be so unimaginative. Once Russia got to this part with any pair of soldiers both were clearly terrified of anal rape; however, this would have been stupid on Russia's part as it would make both soldiers unable to walk and thus make shooting them necessary. Not that Russia was overly concerned with the life expectancy of Germany's soldiers as a rule, but dying too quickly after this would defeat part of the point.
No, the point was living with it. For however long you survived.
Holding up his revolver to Syrok's head once more, Russia beckoned to Pomedorchik, who came reluctantly over, his face as white as the moon. Russia repeated Syrok's treatment on Pomedorchik, leaving both of them identically stripped.
Once this was accomplished, Russia reached forward to both of them and turned them so they were facing each other. He pushed them into each other; their chests were touching. Both soldiers stayed obediently still, vulnerable and terrified, though they did shift slightly out of embarrassment to try and keep their genitals from touching.
That modesty wasn't going to last long. Russia picked up the rope he'd brought along and carefully threaded it around Syrok and then Pomedorchik's forearms, binding them to each other in order to keep them pressed together. Calmly, he walked around the pair and did the same to the other side.
Thus with the pair appropriately trussed, Russia hummed and nodded. The bound pair of soldiers visibly trembled as Russia removed his leather belt… however, he took no more clothing off, even keeping his greatcoat buttoned. Instead, Russia carefully removed the weaponry from his belt (keeping the revolver in one hand as a threat), and doubled the leather over.
A moment later he was circling behind Pomedorchik. He raised the belt.
The resounding crack as the leather belt sliced across Pomedorchik's rear end was as loud as gunfire, and the surprised and pained cry that Pomedorchik let loose was almost so.
Russia smiled.
He took his time in hiding the soldier, allowing his arm to swing lazily like a pendulum, watching as red welts started to make themselves known against the soldier's helpless, white rear end. There was no sense in rushing, after all. There was such pleasure in reducing the so-called men of the master race into a whimpering, trembling, crying, pleading bunch of well-whipped little boys that Russia doubted he'd ever tire of it.
As normal, Pomedorchik tried to take his punishment with stoicism after the initial surprise faded, but once the belting took him past a certain threshold it was impossible. His feet shifted; he started to shake; his breathing became heavy.
The march of licks went on, unstoppable.
Pomedorchik's head arched up, his face scrunched in pain before he buried his head shamelessly in the crook of Syrok's shoulder and started to cry, quietly at first. Then louder. Then sobbing. Then his feet started to involuntarily lift in a parody of marching, only this one in pain and shame. Russia aimed the belt a bit lower to pay some attention to Pomedorchik's delicious pale-white thighs.
Here, Pomedorchik broke and slumped weakly against Syrok, crying fitfully, covered in sweat and unresisting, simply moaning in despair at the total hiding.
A few seconds later, the smell of urine filled the air as the cur lost control of his bladder. The sobbing became louder as Syrok pressed his cheek against Pomedorchik's in an attempt to give the other comfort, but looking utterly terrified as it was obvious he was next.
Finally, the belt went slack and Russia looked down at his handiwork. Pomedorchik's rear end was no longer soft and white, but an angry, welted red, brutalized much like Russia's lands had been by Fascist shelling.
Russia caught Syrok's petrified blue gaze and smiled, General Winter's ice of vengeance in his eyes.
Unsurprisingly, Syrok also wet himself. Poor boy. Some of the others Russia had selected were at least able to control their bladders; those tended to be slightly older men who had seen considerable bloodshed, though. These two apparently were barely off their mother's teat.
Oh, well. Not Russia's problem. Once Syrok had finished defiling himself, Russia casually looped around behind him and whack went the belt against the fattest part of Syrok's rump.
Syrok's body jumped and he squealed. A red welt popped into existence, angry.
Just like Russia. Very angry.
The punishment continued in the same vein as Pomedorchik's had: a slow and deliberate march toward blinding, humiliating pain. The pair were now hugging each other desperately to maintain balance, but it was clearly more difficult since both of them were being thoroughly whipped. Obviously, they didn't care much about their genitals touching any longer, now that they'd already pissed all over each other.
Soon, Syrok was doing the same pain-dance that Pomedorchik had, but he was slightly more vocal than the other: his sobs were occasionally punctuated with Oh, God and it hurts and when he slumped into his trembling partner, having totally given in, he did so with a defeated, whimpered Mother…
At the last utterance, Russia hummed and laid two more quick licks to Syrok's upper thighs, causing Syrok to shriek, and then approached again, the belt lowered. Both boys - pah, these were no soldiers - had buried their heads in the other's shoulder as if it could hide them.
"You won't see your mother again," Russia intoned quietly in his own language, knowing the others would not understand. Or, at least, it would be highly unlikely. Given how many of his own will never see their mothers again, Russia wasn't in the mood for pity.
Dropping his belt, Russia picked up his knife again and carefully cut through the ropes binding the pair to each other. They separated woozily, faces red and streaked with wet, lower bodies damp with their mutual accidents. Russia grabbed Pomedorchik by the arm, and looked at Syrok.
He pointed to the ground. "Sit," he ordered in Russian. If nothing else, if these boys wanted to have a chance at survival, they were going to have to learn Russian commands. Syrok looked at him for a confused moment, trembling, and Russia pointed to the ground again. Syrok started to slowly lower himself on the ground, squatting and sitting as gingerly as he could on his punished ass with his hands still bound behind his back.
Russia gave him a curt nod. He sat on the ground, tugging Pomedorchik with him, and then throwing the boy over his lap easily with his strength, resting a gloved black hand against the raised welts on Pomedorchik's ass. The other one rested on the boy's bound hands, pushing them slightly up his back.
Russia smiled down at Pomedorchik as the other's body started to tremble. "I think I'd like to hear about how loyal you are," Russia commented, rubbing his hand thoughtfully over Pomedorchik's welts. "'Heil Gitler,' is it?" No, wait. "Ah, I'm sorry, heil Hitler."
Syrok was staring at him with huge blue eyes in a wet, red face, clearly not knowing what Russia was talking about - but, obviously recognizing the salute to Hitler.
This was the part where Russia usually had to give in and speak a little bit of German, otherwise the instructions could be difficult to get across. "Say 'Heil Hitler.'"
He was looking down at Pomedorchik, who had jerked his head up at the sound of German. "Heil Hitler," Pomedorchik breathed, obviously very confused, bless him.
Russia's hand came down on Pomedorchik's ass with a vicious crack as soon as the sentence was out of his mouth. Pomedorchik's body jerked, his legs flying up and a cry escaping his throat at the renewed pain. Syrok gasped quietly.
Russia smiled. "Again," he instructed in German once more, hand still on Pomedorchik's ass.
Russia really had nothing but respect for overall German intelligence. It never took any of them long to figure out the second part of the game. Pomedorchik sobbed out the rest of his broken exhale before taking a breath that sounded like ripping paper in his throat. "H-heil Hitler," he moaned pathetically.
Crack!
Pomedorchik's legs kicked out again, and he sobbed, saying nothing. Russia grunted in displeasure and gave one of Pomedorchik's welts a vicious pinch.
"Heil Hitler!" Pomedorchik yelped desperately, his legs starting to kick. Russia's hand came down and punished once more, and Pomedorchik's back arched, sweat starting to roll down his spine.
This always lead to an interesting occurrence: the more and more Russia's target lost control, the faster and faster they would desperately invoke their leader's name in hopes of getting the punishment over with faster, or just out of pain and fear. This always resulted in a pleasing session where Russia would spank the boy very quickly and thoroughly until he broke and was too busy crying and sobbing to form syllables.
At this point, inevitably, the boy's ass would be an excellent, bright shade of red, just like the flag of the Soviet Union. Of course, Russia thought, the Fascist flag was red as well, but the main difference between the Fascist flag and the Soviet flag was that the Fascist flag had white on it.
Neither Russia's flag nor Pomedorchik's ass had any white on it when Russia was done, so Russia liked his comparison better. When Russia was finished, he took off his leather glove and rested his bare hand against Pomedorchik's punished ass; the skin was pleasingly hot, like touching warm pavement with bare feet.
Pomedorchik was as limp as a rag over Russia's lap at this point, and Russia had to give him a few moments to quit sobbing at the top of his lungs. Once he had quieted somewhat, Russia prodded him on the shoulder. "Sit," he ordered, the same one he had given Syrok.
It took a moment, but Pomedorchik managed to crawl pathetically off of Russia's lap, his white-blond hair sticking to the sides of his face with sweat and tears. After a wobbling moment, the dear boy tried to sit down on his hip; Russia tugged him so that he was sitting more properly on his ass, triggering another round of tears from the pain.
Syrok, meanwhile, looked like he was going to pass out. Predictably, he started to plead nonsense again. "N-no, n-no, no, please, I… I don't… I don't… I don't want Hitler, I don't…" He burst into tears. "No Hitler," he tried in Russian. "Please, no Hitler."
Well. Apparently Russia had a little linguist on his hands. That would certainly help the boy out in prison, but he was going to have to learn how to take a beating a little bit better. Russia gave him a bit of a flat look, and motioned him over with a finger. "Come here," he instructed. Really, they both should be grateful. The future guards at the camps were not going to be so patient with teaching Russian.
Syrok made a pained, broken noise in his throat before shakily crawling over. Russia gently guided him over his lap for the session, and fondly patted the top of his gold-blond head as Syrok started to sob even before being touched.
"Heil Hitler," Russia prompted, sliding his glove back on and resting his hand atop Syrok's welted ass.
"H-heil Hitler," Syrok whispered shakily, and Russia snorted, slapping his ass hard, five times. If Russia's grip hadn't been so strong on Syrok's body, he probably would have leapt straight off Russia's lap.
"Louder," Russia ordered sternly.
"I don't understand," Syrok wept. "I d-don't understand."
Russia sighed. Really, he hated giving away the fact that he knew much German at all, but this was just going to be annoying otherwise. "Louder," he ordered in German. He was very well aware Syrok probably hadn't gone about saying it in a whisper before.
"Heil Hitler!" Syrok managed, at a better volume this time. Good. Russia 'rewarded' him by only spanking once. Syrok repeated himself, and Russia patted Syrok's head and rewarded him with a positive-sounding hum… before spanking him again and causing Syrok to burst out fresh in sobs.
Russia hummed again as Syrok started to lose himself in the desperate cries of Hitler's name and the pain of Russia's swift punishment: Syrok started to kick, try to buck away (but Russia was too strong for that), covered his head desperately, and…
Oh, and there was the erection.
One of the things that amused Russia the most about humans and their very limited concept of sexuality was the idea of a man having an erection being proof that the man was enjoying what was going on. This had been the belief for centuries, since of course men couldn't get raped and were always in control of sex!
Being a male-bodied nation had taught Russia over and over again that this was certainly not the case (he'd been raped more times than he usually liked to remember, had paid the favor back when he could… erections all around a lot of the time), and knew that an aroused state could come from many things that weren't arousal at all: pain, fear, adrenaline. It was just a fact of (immortal) life.
The humans didn't know that, though. Once he felt Syrok's hardening cock brush against his lap, he paused in his spanking.
"H-H-Heil Hitler!" Syrok desperately gasped again, his pained voice pitched as high as a girl's.
Russia made a questioning noise in his throat, before flipping Syrok off his lap, exposing his hard cock both to Russia and Pomedorchik.
Pomedorchik recoiled, and Syrok covered his face in utter and abject shame. Russia hummed and absently flicked Syrok's flushed cockhead.
He looked up at Pomedorchik. This little transition was going to make the final bits of this much easier. "Lie down," Russia ordered Pomedorchik, pushing him onto his back to show what he meant. Pomedorchik went prostrate and did not move. "Spread your legs," Russia ordered, and parted them.
Pomedorchik covered his own flushed face. Russia smacked Syrok's hands away from his face and forced him up onto hands and knees between Pomedorchik's spread legs.
"Put his cock in your mouth," Russia ordered, pushing Syrok's head down. Russia usually didn't have to translate this part: it was pretty obvious.
"No, no!" Syrok sobbed, mere inches away from his friend's genitals. Russia let out a pained sigh and picked up the revolver - it had been at his side the entire time - cocked it, and pointed it at Pomedorchik's head. Syrok moaned, scrunched his eyes closed, opened his mouth, and sucked in Pomedorchik's cock.
Pomedorchik's eyes flew open and he jerked himself out of Syrok's mouth.
That wouldn't do. Russia made a displeased noise and grabbed one of Pomedorchik's legs, lifting him part of the way off the ground. His tortured ass received five more brutal slaps before Russia dropped him. Now, Pomedorchik was sobbing again, but did not move when Syrok took Pomedorchik's penis into his mouth once more.
Syrok's mouth was awkwardly working around Pomedorchik's cock when Russia reached down and started palming Syrok's own erection, making Syrok's hips buck in surprise. Pomedorchik's face was starting to flush as red as his ass and it was clear his blood was starting to flow at the warm wetness of Syroke's velvet cheeks and tongue.
Oh, so very pretty. Russia stroked Syrok's cock once more, taking care to keep it hard. Within a few short minutes, Syrok's hips were thrusting down into Russia's large, gloved hand and Pomedorchik's hips were thrusting up into Syrok's wet, warm mouth despite their mutual crying.
The joy of youth. Soon, Russia reached forward and tugged Syrok's mouth away from Pomedorchik, causing Pomedorchik's hips to thrust up into the air and a strangled moan to erupt from his throat.
Russia hummed and leaned back slightly, parting his greatcoat. It didn't take long before he pulled his own cock out - already hard, obviously - and motioned the two boys over. With soft crying noises, they obeyed, completely defeated, humiliated, and crawling.
Perfect. Russia halted the pair of them, and then stuck out his tongue, motioning for the two to do the same. After a hesitant moment, both obeyed. Russia pointed to his cock and nodded.
While Russia certainly did want some good stimulation, here, he wasn't about to put his cock into the mouth of an unfriendly. It was true that both of these youngsters didn't seem like they would have the guts at this point to try and bite, it wasn't worth the risk and even pumping a miscreant full of hot lead wouldn't fix the pain of a severed cock.
Basically, tongues were fine, and Russia allowed his eyelids to flutter closed with a pleased noise as two of them reluctantly ran up and down his shaft. After a moment, Russia reached forward and tugged his foreskin down to enjoy it more.
As usual, the pair weren't being particularly adventurous, merely licking up-and-down up-and-down like they were wielding a paintbrush to a fence, so Russia reached forward and grabbed a handful of both's hair, gently manipulating their heads into patterns. When he released them, Syrok continued to move his head in varied patterns, but Pomedorchik returned to an up-and-down motion until Russia gave his ass a good slap. That sorted him out immediately.
Once the pair were set to work, Russia leaned back against the tree behind him so he could reach out and take both of their cocks in hand, gently teasing and manipulating the foreskins, toying with their balls, pressing gloved fingers against their periniums, tugging lightly at golden tufts of pubic hair. Once his fingers were wet with their precome, he reached up and teased their tight assholes, but did not penetrate.
Both were rock hard at this point, and Syrok in particular was flushed and thrusting down. Interesting. Well, it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for the boy to have inclinations toward men, of course. It really wasn't that unusual, despite how the humans liked to pretend otherwise.
Russia sighed and watched the pair for a little longer, teasing their slits with his finger before running said finger down the throbbing vein both had on their undersides. Both were leaking precome - so was he himself, of course. Russia took a bit to admire their mutually hard cocks, pale skin, tear-stained and -puffed faces, swollen lips, pink tongues, and cherry-red asses.
How very nice. Russia actually did know of a couple of camp commanders that had, well, illicit leanings, actually. Russia thought that Syrok could be of interest to one or two of them as a prize, and it actually might help Syrok survive imprisonment. He was certainly quite pretty, and would be even moreso were he fed correctly. He would be a good whore if marginally willing.
Something to think about later.
For now, though, he started redoubling his efforts on the boys' cocks; to his surprise, it was Pomedorchik that shot first, dirtying the ground with his seed and releasing a low groan - at the sound of his comrade's release, Syrok finished as well.
When both were through with their orgasms, Russia let himself sigh, shudder, and erupt like a geyser between the boys. They continued their tongue-ablutions until he was soft, which was appreciated and meant he didn't have to spank them more.
Russia reached forward and gently tugged them away once he'd gotten too oversensitive for the stimuli. He smiled at them both. "Very good," he intoned in Russian.
He was met with two silent, glossy expressions. Not unusual. Russia hummed, his hand still on his revolver, and stood, walking over to gather up the boys' clothes.
He helped dress Pomedorchik first, sliding him into his underwear and trousers, followed by socks and carefully lacing up the other's boots. He released the belt holding up Pomedorchik's upper kit, and resituated it. When he was finished, he let Pomedorchik lean against the nearest tree, silent and dazed as Russia did the same thing to Syrok.
When Syrok was fully dressed, though, he leaned into Russia, burying his tearstained face into Russia's chest.
…surprising. Well. Russia looked down at him curiously for a moment, before reaching forward and patting Syrok's gold-blond head. Syrok sobbed, but it was a quiet, empty noise more than anything else. Defeated. Resigned.
Russia hummed low. "Walk," he ordered, grabbing Pomedorchik and Syrok by their shoulders and leading them back through the forest. The two were able to walk, but painfully. The walk was utterly silent.
When they emerged from the forest, the sky was getting dark; the noises from the village were somewhat quieter. The lines of prisoners were still standing, though they would likely be ordered to lie down and sleep, soon. Russia walked the pair back to the place where he'd taken them from; their places in line were still there. Russia felt the peripheral glances of the hundreds of men, but ignored them. Pomedorchik and Syrok were looking at their feet.
The guard from earlier was still there, and Russia handed him Pomedorchik. "Put him back in line," Russia ordered, and the soldier reached forward to cut Pomedorchik's bonds and replace him.
With one hand still on Syrok's biceps, Russia kept walking him forward. Syrok took a sharp breath and turned his head to see Pomedorchik being ordered back in line; this was probably the last time they'd ever see each other.
Russia took Syrok past the line of prisoners and peeked in one of the squad tents. Ah, perfect.
One of the Russian captains was in there, peering at a map. Seeing Russia, he stood straight and saluted; seeing Syrok, he raised an eyebrow.
"Comrade, I've brought you a present," Russia said, giving Syrok a little shove forward. "I suggest you kit him up and keep him with you."
The captain blinked mildly, and looked over at the red-faced, trembling boy. "Does he speak Russian?"
Russia shook his head. "He seems like he would learn quickly, though. Trust me; it would be a shame to let him go to waste."
"Hm," the captain said, looking the boy up and down. "Well, I could always use a new… assistant. I could give him a trial run."
Russia nodded, and turned Syrok around to look down into his terrified blue eyes. He switched to German. "If you want to survive the next ten years, I suggest you pleasure this man."
Syrok's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "You… you speak German?"
Russia gave a half-smile. "Your language is far less complex than mine," he informed the other, turning and exiting the tent before Syrok could get out another word.
Outside, Russia looked at the stars. Berlin, soon.
Soon, it would all be over.
Soon, it would all be one.
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HISTORICAL NOTES:
FASCISTS: Russians call Nazis 'Fascists.' While in English the 'Fascists' are typically the Italians, in Russian lexicon there's no difference between the two. However, when Russians say 'Fascists' they mean Nazis unless they are specific about the Italians.
"Pomedorchik" and "Syrok": These are diminutive Russian terms for "tomato" (pomedor) and "cheese" (sear). Diminutives are used very often in Russian to imply that something is cute/desirable/delicious/perfect. Basically, Russia is calling the one soldier "an adorable little tomato" and the other one "an adorable little piece of cheese," implying that he finds them very cute and something that he wants to consume. (Obviously, he is also dehumanizing and belittling them as he's denying them human names. Diminutives can also be 'too familiar' and insulting.) It's sort of like how the Japanese often attach "-chan" or "-kun" to the end of names to indicate familiarity and fondness, only in Russian you can do it with all nouns.
"Gitler": Russian has a strange relationship with the letter "h." The closest letter to "h" in the Cyrillic alphabet is actually 'x,' but this sound isn't always used to transliterate the letter 'h' in other languages. Particularly with German words, the 'h' tends to be turned into a 'g.' So "Hitler" is called "Gitler" by the Russians. This isn't meant to be derogatory and Russians know that "Hitler" is not pronounced with a G in German. It's like how "Germany" is called "Deutschland" in German and most English-speakers know this, we still call it "Germany" in English.
ERECTIONS UNDER STRESS: Men can (and do) get erections in rape situations, even in violent, painful ones where no consent was ever given at any part of it. One of the most enduring myths surrounding male rape is that if the man has an erection, he's consenting to what's going on. This isn't true, and in fact contributes to extremely underreported male rape numbers since men who maintain an erection or ejaculate during rape will often encounter people who refuse to believe that rape can come with male orgasm.
Basically, 'Syrok' getting an erection while being punished doesn't actually mean he's a homosexual or in any way liked what was happening to him. What 'Syrok' very inadvertently did correctly, however, was talk to Russia. Psychologists say that if a victim cannot get away from a rapist, the best thing to do is to talk to the assailant, as this subconsciously humanizes the victim in the assaliant's mind. This is why, at the end, Russia ends up giving preferential treatment to 'Syrok.' (And by 'preferential' it was 'making him into a concubine,' but in Russia's head it was a favor as he would undoubtedly be treated better as a Red Army officer's companion rather than a run-of-the-mill POW.)
THE WAR IN THE EAST: The Eastern Front in Europe (USSR vs. Nazi Germany) is very likely in the running for the most brutal war humanity has fought. Millions of men were committed into what the Germans called Operation Barbarossa, or basically Germany's attempt to take over Russia. While the war in the West was no picnic for anybody either, there were several factors that made the Eastern Front particularly bloody and bitter:
Nazi racial policies. According to Nazis, the Slavs (Russians, Ukrainians, Latvians, Poles, etc) were subhuman. In fact, Nazis thought of them on the same level as the Jews, just that the Jews were smarter and thus more of a threat. Therefore, while Western prisoners of war were regarded of as Nordic/Germanic (like the British, French, and white Americans) and thus treated accordingly, the Slavs were treated like the Jews. And the Jews, as any reader should know, were not well-treated at all.
There was an additional component at work: Nazi Germany wanted to depopulate the East of Slavs and then repopulate it with Germans. This policy was called 'Lebensraum,' or 'living space.' Essentially, Nazi Germany wanted more space for Aryan Germans to live in, and thus they sought to kill or otherwise expel the native Slavic population in order to do this. This policy also contributed to extremely high levels of rape from German soldiers upon Slavic women, in hopes that they would conceive and have a 'Germanic' child that could then be raised by Germans.
The Geneva Convention. The US, France, Britain, and Germany were all signatories of the 1929 Geneva Convention. Basically, this is a treaty that governs how POWs must be treated upon surrender. In general, the Western Allies treated German POWs well, and vice-versa. (In general. There were still plenty of instances where prisoners were treated poorly.) However, the Soviet Union was NOT a signatory of the Geneva Convention, and thus by the 'rules of war' could be treated however the Germans saw fit. The Germans were supposed to abide by the rules of the conventions anyhow, but did not. Both sides were very well aware that being sent to a POW camp was basically a death sentence, which caused many men on the Eastern front fight on to the bitter end even when they may have surrendered otherwise.
Particularly at the beginning of the Eastern war, Nazi Germany amassed literally millions of Soviet POWs. While the Red Army was desperately lacking in munitions at the beginning, it wasn't lacking in men, so it was literally throwing millions and millions of ill-equipped men at the Nazis. Many of these men the Nazis kept basically in giant enclosed yards made out of barbed wire and guard posts with no shelters and deliberately starved them to death, even though there was food available. Many Soviet POWs were sent to concentration camps and gassed. There was no access to medical care; oftentimes sick Soviet soldiers were simply shot. The Nazis refused offers from the Red Cross to come and help.
The occupation/retreat from Russia. In the places the Germans captured, large numbers of women and children were shot due to their 'subhuman' status. Two million civilians died of starvation alone. When Operation Barbarossa proved a failure and Hitler was forced to allow his soldiers to retreat, they engaged in a 'scorched earth' policy, literally destroying everything they came across. More civilians were massacred and villages/towns were destroyed.
Obviously, when the Red Army came upon these scenes of violence while chasing the Wehrmacht out of Russia and back toward the German homeland, they became more enraged than they already were. The Red Army, on its march toward Berlin, basically destroyed everything it came across and repaid the favor of mass rape, destruction, and violence on the local populace.
By the end of the war, Russia had lost almost 30 million people, most of them civilians. In contrast, Germany lost between 7-9 million, France 550,000, the UK 450,000, the US 420,000, and Japan 2.5-3 million.
So, yes, at this point in the war (right before the Battle of Berlin), Russia is very angry.
If you want to be utterly disgusted, the total death count for the entirety of WWII is estimated to be between 60 million and 85 million worldwide.
Next part will have Prussia in it. It's just that this one got too long to include both parts of it.