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“Submit.”
“No.”
“Submit,” the Russian accented voice repeated, and this time, the word was strained with thinly layered patience. “Or I will make you.”
On the floor, a young man was barely kneeling, scowling up at the other as his firm response once again rang out: “No.” Eyes the color of the summer sky were narrowed behind thin-framed glasses. The once perfect view of those beautiful eyes was distorted by the spiderweb crack spiraling out from the corner of the right lens. A fading bruise was on the cheek right below it, signaling that it was a harsh blow to the face that broke the glass.
Agitation made the taller, more intimidating of the two frown – but only for a brief moment. He was losing patience. They had been at this for days on end, and already this attempt was stretching well into the hours of the day. He needed to try a different tactic. Beating him senseless on the first day had done nothing. Neither had any of the other various tactics he had tried over the years. He needed the man before him to submit – for as long as he still fought, there would be hope for his citizens, and that was the last thing that was needed.
Boots clunked on the floor, until finally, he was able to bend down at the waist to better look at his captive. “You realize that you are nothing?” He inquired, a humorless smile appearing on his face. “I own you. I own your land. I own your people...”
“Shut up.”
“Give me a reason to, America,” the personification of Russia breathed out, and then chuckled as he straightened up. He had seen the rage that flickered across the younger man's face. Pride was a powerful thing, and knowing that he had been stomped into the dust certainly wasn't something that a man representing 'the land of the free' was ready for. “You belong to me.”
“I don't belong to anyone.”
Russia smirked. “Keep telling yourself that, America. Keep denying all that you want.” He walked around the defeated nation to hover behind him, and then leaned down once more to whisper in his ear: “That only makes it more fun for me when I at last break your spirit.”
There was the twitching of hands as America curled them into fists. The Russian could tell that he wanted to hit him. Oh, and how he would love it if America decided to fight back again. He would be able to relish on the euphoric feeling of his fists meeting sturdy flesh and feel the sting of his knuckles splitting open more with each blow.
Unfortunately, clutching his hands into fists was all that America did.
Russia narrowed his eyes in disappointment, straightening up to stand behind him and looked down at his back. The back of his shirt was shredded in places to reveal the tan, sun-worn skin. There were only a few old and fading scars. That would need to be changed. Nothing satisfied him more than leaving his mark on those under his control.
“Submit, America.”
“I'd like to see you make me, Commie.”
The magic words had been spoken. Without warning, Russia abruptly grabbed the back of the American's neck and yanked him to his feet. The action got a hiss of pain to escape the younger, and satisfaction flared in Russia's violet gaze. “Oh, comrade,” he cooed softly, sliding his palm up into those wheat blond locks and jerking his head back, allowing him to get a look at that face now scrunched up in pain from the awkward angle of his neck. “I more than plan to.”
With impossible amounts of strength, America was thrown to the wall. His back made a faint crack – whether it was the sound of it breaking or simply the bones grinding together was up for debate – and he groaned out through his teeth. Normally the blow wouldn't have fazed him for long – but America was weaker than usual, having been deprived of food and the strength of his people. He sank slightly, his legs almost failing him as he attempted to stand.
Before he could get that chance, however, Russia approached. His pipe was in one hand, and he twirled it as if it were a cane. His boots tapped menacingly on the concrete floor as he made his way over. As much as he would have loved to go over slowly and build up the anticipation, the smack against the wall would only be able to stun America for so long. Thus, unfortunately, there was no luxury this time around.
Within moments the larger country was in front of America. Once more, without warning, he grabbed the American by the front of his shirt and yanked him back onto his feet. Actually, he went even farther than that, nearly lifting the man off of his feet. Russia smirked when the other grunted at the sudden movement. “You may submit at any time, America,” he reminded, tilting his head to the side and flashing that famous smile of his, one that gave off nothing but innocence.
The response on the blond's behalf was him spitting right in Russia's face.
Russia felt his smile remain for moments longer as the spittle cooled and slid down his cheek soon after landing upon it. But then, it dropped completely, and he brought the hand not holding the American up to his face. His thumb swiped over the apple of his cheek, taking off most of the foamy liquid, and he narrowed his eyes at the thicker pad of his finger. “You make this no easier for yourself, America, by doing these things.”
“Go to hell,” America growled, his eyes narrowed just as dangerously as the other country.
“I have been there and back,” Russia retorted, and slipped his pipe out from under the arm which he had tucked it beneath. He held it in the air between them, waving it tauntingly and chuckling as he watched those blue eyes widen behind his broken lenses. The pools of liquid sky seemed to move back and forth in time with each sway of the pipe, knowing just how dangerous of a weapon that could be in such powerful hands.
“Now...” Another quiet laugh left the larger of the two. He pressed the faucet end of the pipe underneath America's chin, tilting it up and forcing their eyes to meet. A warm shade of blue gazed into violet ice for several long moments as the tension was allowed to rise. “Do I have to say it again?”
“Fuck you.”
That taunting smile once more bounced back onto Russia's face. “Oh, how I bet you wish that you could.” Abruptly, without giving the American a chance to retort, the faucet pipe was shoved up against his windpipe.
America choked, gasping and feeling his eyes stretch wide open as all of his oxygen was abruptly cut off in one swift motion. His hands flew up to grasp at the pipe, giving a few strong tugs – but to no avail. Nails scraped against the cold steel before the digits dragged down to instead wrap around Russia's hand. He dug his fingertips into the back of the cold nation's palm, fingernails sinking in so deeply that red crescents were left behind and he could feel the scrape of those delicate bones hidden barely underneath the skin.
The gesture didn't even faze Russia. Instead, he dropped his other hand from the front of America's shirt, leaving the only thing holding him up being the pipe slowly choking him. The weight of his body was causing the faucet end to press further against his throat, and the gagging noises leaving the other's lips started to become a tad more desperate. Laughing openly at America's dilemma, the taller of the two tilted his head to the side and inquired, “Do you submit yet, comrade~?”
Letting out another gargling noise, sounding wet and strained from the constant pressure on his throat, America narrowed his eyes into slivers and spat once more. The spit didn't even reach Russia's face this time, but the answer was more than clear.
Such defiance. Once more a soft chuckle sounded out. It made Russia want to smash the blond's face against the wall. But all the same, that everlasting spark was what made him his favorite conquest yet. The thrill of breaking such a strong spirit was too exciting. “You seem to be having trouble speaking, America,” he stated, almost sounding concerned if not for how he was slowly starting to slide the pipe into a more horizontal position. It gave more control to him, and less of a likelihood that the other country would be able to escape. “Is my magic cane too much for you to handle~?”
America couldn't feel his toes touching the floor anymore. He was choking, unable to take in a breath, and lights were begin to pop behind his eyes. He clawed desperately at Russia's hand, but not even when he broke the skin and felt the stickiness of blood stain the tips of his fingers did the pressure relent. The blond felt his mouth gape, gasping silently for air, and his legs kicked, the toes of his shoes prodding at the Russian giant's shins.
For moments longer, Russia watched, smiling in sadistic pleasure as the struggles started to die out. He could tell that the all-American boy was about to lose consciousness. It was rather easy. His face was turning faintly purple, his eyes were rolling back into his head, and his desperate attempts for freedom were pathetically feeble at this point. Oh, how tempting it was to choke the life out of this nation. It would be the ultimate submission; pure and total victory.
But it wouldn't be nearly as satisfying.
With a thump, America was allowed to drop to the ground right when he reached the brink of blacking out. The violet-eyed man stepped back and brought his pipe to his side, that smile of his shrinking back to his usual one, the one that hid all of his true thoughts and intentions. He watched the battered blond cough against the wall, retching and clutching his bruised throat as he gulped in air too quickly for it to be healthy.
“You should consider yourself lucky to be alive,” Russia said, his voice light yet laced with a dark intent at the same time. “I would have killed you if you weren't so fun to play with.” His pipe tapped against the floor in front of him, as if it were a cane, and he chuckled, listening to America's wheezing slowly start to quiet.
Moments passed, but then, Russia turned to head towards the door that led out of the small concrete room that was currently the capitalist nation's prison. As soon as he reached the door, he opened it up, and murmured, “I will get you to submit to me one day, America.”
No response; as expected.
Grinning – as he could feel America's furious stare on his back – Russia tapped his faucet pipe meaningfully against the door before vanishing into the hall outside. A soft clang sounded out as the door was shut tightly and locked, leaving the American to be broken another day.