Chapter Text
The war was over, as the cities were reduced to ashes. Nazi propaganda falling down by the russian snow as the flags burned into nothing.
Their treaties had been broken. But victory hadn't brought peace, at least not to USSR. Not while Nazi still breathed somewhere.
USSR stood in the silence of his compound, the snow outside thick and cold as his heart. The air inside was warmer with his rage. He adjusted the straps on the steel chair bolted to the floor. The smell of bleach and other chemicals clung to the ugly green walls. Chains rattled softly in the moist corners, preparing for louder screams that would echo in the future.
The Soviet was hurt, and he was outraged. The betrayal of Reich had left scars on his old soul, and only his suffering can cure it. USSR wanted him to feel the same........no! no! no! he wanted him to feel worse!
The soviet wanted his Reich to have his eyes red and full of tears, as him when he was informed about his borders being bombed and invaded. As he prepared the torture room, his thoughts were filled with wild imaginations: pain, screaming, tears, red, blood, injuries, humiliation, confession, begging, bones breaking, more screams!
A fitting end for the one who had made him fall in love and break his heart.
His hands had that eerie smell of metal, and they shook with rage as he finished preparing the room: tools lined in brutal precision, the walls lined with soundproofing materials. There was no escape from the soviet wrath. "You always knew how to run," he muttered, brushing invisible dust off a surgical tray. "But this time, Liebling... there’s nowhere left," he smiled devilishly as he took a final look at the room. "I will make you pay me tenfold for making me love you."
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The world had turned red and dark. Full of smoke and broken souls, burned cities to the ground, and lost armies.
Nazi looked from his window as the soviet army furthered their invasion of the German lands. The sight was devastating, his hands itched to grab his gun and end his miserable existence. He knew USSR would never forgive him easily and would most likely make him suffer. He will never believe him, his soviet would never believe that he had loved him sincerely, but greed and ambition made him lose his mind. And he couldn't just wait for him here and express his feelings.
It's just that something strange inside him is stopping him from committing suicide. Reich felt his body change somehow and reshape itself. Before he started the war, he went for a secret medical check-up, but the results came out clean and positive. According to his private medic, he was healthy and sane, except that the skin on his lower abdomen was becoming darker and hotter for some reason. The medic didn't know why, so he just concluded it as a skin abnormality.
Nazi believed him and left, maybe the upcoming war was causing him to have health issues. However, Reich had no issues suffering a bit; war always needed sacrifices, and he would absolutely do anything to win it.
He had to.
As time passed, the mark on his body burned and hurt. He scratched it, cleaned it harshly with hot water and soap, but it just kept getting worse. After several days, the abnormal mark became a clear red hammer and sickle.
A cruel joke!
The problem wasn't just having the enemy's emblem on his body; it was the strange feeling inside of him. Reich could feel something warm had started to bloom inside of him. he suspected a secret, horrifying experiment the Russians might have left him with when he last visited USSR. But it was impossible, Reich had spent most of his time with USSR.
Nazi shook his head violently at the memory and tried to walk slowly through the secret tunnels he had prepared, in case he needed to escape. He felt his body weak and light, as his body suffered from nausea and sleep deprivation for the past weeks.
He stopped and looked at the wooden door at the end of the tunnel. Nazi took slow, silent steps as he opened the door slowly with trembling hands and a sweating forehead. His eyes narrowed a little as the cold night covered most of his field of view. Nazi waited several moments, then took a step outside. He closed the door and ran towards the forest.
Nazi had walked all night till dusk, pushing his body to its limits. When he found a small abandoned cabin, his shoulders relaxed a little. He studied the surroundings, making sure no soldier was near. When he opened the door, the air moved the dust. He let his guard down and closed the door behind him. Clearly, this place has been abandoned for a long while, and no one would find him here.
He can be safe.
He went straight to the old bed and collapsed there; the pain and exhaustion crashed down on him. And that's when he felt it, a flutter beneath his ribs. He furrowed his eyebrows and touched his lower belly. Something shifted again.
Reich panicked and moved his military outfit to see. The red mark is still there, but it looked a little inflamed and glowing?
His vision blurred, and his head felt heavy. Nazi can't help but feel his body surrender to his deplorable state. His head fell on the bed as his tears fell too. He smiled faintly. If this were how it all ended, then he would gladly take it.
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USSR stood at the edge of the abandoned cabin, watching as the soldiers dragged a limp, frostbitten body through the frozen grounds. Nazi’s clothes were left open, flapping like broken wings, as he was dragged out. His face was pale, bluer than a normal human, but still had some warmth.
Finding him wasn't difficult. The soviet made it his priority to search for the Nazi traitor. He himself led the search party, as some strange pulse urged him to find his enemy. USSR stood above Reich, his breath coming out like a fog, his eyes cold enough to freeze a man twice. His body felt that rage again. The man he once made love to during cold nights, is now below his feet. “There you are,” he said, voice flat but cruel. “You should’ve died with your lies.”
He knelt beside him anyway. Pulled off his coat. Wrapped it around the barely conscious figure curled up on himself. “ I will make you wish you had died freezing.” USSR rose again, standing tall as the soldiers awaited orders. He didn’t speak. Just stared down at the barely living form swaddled in his coat with disgust. “Take him to the facility,” he ordered finally, his voice colder than the wind. “Take him to the medical check-up first, make sure he's in good health, then take him to the dungeon.”
The men did as ordered and loaded the body onto the back of the transport truck, and took Reich to his next destination.
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USSR stormed down the sterile corridor, his steps echoing sharply against the cold tiles. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, as if afraid of the soviet leader. The medical ward was full of arguments behind the door. He pushed the door open with a force that rattled its hinges, scaring the crew inside.
Inside, the room was slightly dim, humming with the low buzz of advanced machines. The scent of antiseptic and alcohol clung in the air. USSR's golden eyes immediately spotted his target, Reich lay unconscious on a cot, pale, hollow, and hooked to wires that monitored every fragile beat of his heart.
The doctors flinched again as the Soviet stepped in. The soviet was an old nation that had the patience of a god. Him stepping inside without a knock meant that his nerves were fried enough to be disrespectful.
It had been ten hours since Nazi had been delivered to the medical crew, and USSR had been anticipating the horrified look on that traitor's face, but the nation was still unconscious. He paced once, then stood at the frost-covered window, staring into the snow-covered courtyard beyond.
There were worried glances between the crew, as if they knew a sinister secret that might lead their lives to an end. Finally, one of the doctors approached, papers trembling in his hands. “Comrade…” he began, voice tight and low. “You should sit for this.”
“I’m standing,” USSR replied flatly, not turning from the window. “Speak.”
A long, fraught pause.
“There’s… something unusual,” the doctor said slowly. “His vitals are stable, but he’s not just malnourished or hypothermic. He’s.......” He swallowed hard. “He’s pregnant. With twins.”
Silence.
The frost on the window suddenly felt like it had stopped. USSR turned his head slowly and dangerously, until his shadow fell across the doctor. “What?”
“Comrade, we checked internal scans three times, I swear. We have confirmed that something was growing inside of him. We have checked and heard heartbeats. The uterine formation is… incomplete, but functioning. This shouldn’t be medically possible, not for someone like him. Unless.....” He paused. “Unless certain rare emotional and physiological conditions are met.” The doctor praised himself for being able to deliver such information without passing out. Sure thing, USSR wouldn't kill him there and then for doing his job, but he heard the rumours. Everyone knew that they should tread with caution whenever Third Reich was involved.
USSR’s voice was a low growl now. “What kind of conditions?”
The doctor hesitated again, eyes flickering toward the red mark etched just below Reich’s navel. “Anomalies like this only occur through extreme emotional entanglement,” he said quietly, and his face turned red. “A connection so deep, it rewrites biology.”
The air went still.
“There is a mark…” the doctor added, voice thinner now, heart beating fast. “It indicates the partner....It’s visible. A hammer and sickle. Communist red.” The word Yours was left unspoken, the doctor too afraid to say it.
USSR said nothing. Just stared at him. The silence stretched, thick and cold. He slowly walked to where his enemy lay like a sleeping beauty, half of his body was exposed, and the soviet could clearly see the damned mark. USSR turned and stared at the medic again.
The doctor swallowed, the clipboard in his hands trembling ever so slightly. He could feel the weight of USSR’s gaze even without looking up, like standing too close to a dormant atomic bomb. “Comrade,” he said cautiously, “we can offer you access to the literature we’ve studied. Medical records. Experimental notes. There are classified Soviet genetic reports from wartime… cases that defy traditional biology. Psychological imprints passed through touch, ideological conditioning encoded into cells. Even....”
“Books,” USSR said flatly, finally breaking the silence. His voice was dominant and deep. “You think I need books to understand this?”
The doctor flinched. “There is precedent,” he continued nervously. “In some of the old archives: Project Novaya Pochva, the research into ideological imprinting. They theorised that under extreme emotional and... physical circumstances, a bond could be formed so deep it bypassed logic. Reproductive anomalies. Symbolic transfers. Psychic echoes. We never had proof. Until now.”
USSR didn’t move. His expression seemed sinister, but a flicker passed behind his eyes.
The doctor took a small step back. “We believe,” he added, softer now, “His body recognises you as the only… viable counterpart.”
Again, the word was left unspoken. Partner.
USSR turned his head again, slow and terrifying, his gaze landing on the observation window where Reich lay sedated, wrapped in sheets and shadows. His voice, when it came, was like cracked ice. “Burn the reports.”
“C-Comrade?”
“Burn them. All of them. No one will replicate this. No one will study it. No one will know.”
The doctor paled. “But—”
USSR turned his full gaze on him. That was enough.
“…Yes, Comrade.”
He left without another word, boots echoing down the corridor like gunshots.
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The moment the door to the medical ward shut behind him, USSR walked like a storm through the compound, fast and dominating like a feral bear. Everyone in the way just stepped aside and lowered their heads. The deathly energy emanating from the soviet leader threatened instant death to anyone who dared to say a single word.
He threw open the steel door to the chamber he had so carefully prepared: the interrogation room. The room was meant to bring Reich to his knees. The light buzzed overhead, flickering as he stepped in. Everything was still in place: The restraints. The tools. The chair.
The chair.
He stared at it, bolted to the floor like an altar to vengeance. It was supposed to be his triumph. His justice.
But now?
Now, everything has changed!
He moved without thinking. The tray of tools went flying first, crashing against the far wall with a violent clatter. Vials shattered. Glass sliced across the floor. He tore the restraints off the chair with his bare hands, metal screaming in protest. The chair itself followed, ripped free, overturned, slammed into the ground again and again until its spine snapped and its legs twisted.
“I don't believe it,” he hissed. “Manipulation. Propaganda. Biology doesn’t bend for him. Not him, not after everything.” He kicked a cabinet hard enough to splinter it. His breath came ragged. His gloves were soaked with blood. He stared at his hands, trembling.
How could something so godly, impossible… so soft… come from that night?
From those nights?
From him?
And yet.
His medics would never dare lie to him. They would never side with Nazi. And USSR knew that they were telling the truth, because he himself was the product of such a bond.
He turned to the wreckage and fell to his knees among it, panting, teeth bared in something that wasn’t quite rage anymore. His fists clenched on the floor, knuckles pressing into broken glass. "I was supposed to destroy you," he whispered, voice shaking. "Not… create something with you."
He stayed there, among the pieces of a room built for cruelty. Finally, his tears fell on his face, and after many years, the soviet felt as if he needed a parental hug. And that's when he felt it.
It was… a pulse.
Not his own.
And not just one.