Rusger Oneshots

Nightmares and Reality

Angst Week No. 4!

(Warning: Domestic abuse, cruel punishments(I'm just gonna be putting this here in case idk-), murder??, body horror/gore, blood, nightmares, and panic attacks)

O.O I don't know what this chapter is either I just let my inner demon vent its heart out-

Thank you all so much for 70.1K READS!!! I was so surprised this morning when I looked-

❤❤❤💖💖💖💖❤❤💞💞💕💕💕 *sanitizes unlimited candy box and puts on table*

Ah hope the candy will help with the angst XD

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Russia touched a paper drawing taped to the wall. A few coloured stick figures were doodled on it, blue clouds and a smiling sun hanging above them. He laughed, jumping up and down on his bed. He loved jumping on his bed, it was fun!

Suddenly there was a loud scream from downstairs, and he stopped, eyes widen with fright and realizing what he had just done. There was a loud crash of glass and then thumping on the stairs. He could hear crying as well, as he started to panic, tears welling in his eyes.

His door slammed open, the door knob coming loose from the wood and hurling across his room from the force of it being twisted. A large figure came in, eyes glowing an angry gold in rage. In his hand, he wielded a long stick, not very thick in diameter, but dense and heavy.

"РОССИЙСКАЯ СОВЕТСКАЯ ФЕДЕРАТИВНАЯ СОЦИАЛИСТИЧЕСКАЯ РЕСПУБЛИКА(1)!!" He shouted on top of his lungs. Russia could feel it resonate through his entire body, it was deafeningly loud, and the anger in it made him panic more, whimpering softly as tears spilled over his small cheeks.

The large figure stormed over, his heavy black boots making the floor tremble. He was too scared and frightened to even scramble away from the danger, frozen in a curled up position on his bed. "You're crying?" A accent-heavy voice snarled over him, and he smelt the fumes of vodka on his breath.

Russia whimpered again, feeling his chest start to constrict as his hands shook despite him holding them tight. "Weak." The snarling voice said again, thumping the stick on his palm as he glared down at him.

Raising it with lighting speed above his head, he let it arc down, hitting the boy on the shoulder.

Russia cried out, curling in on himself more as more hard hits rained down on him. He didn't dare move, the last time he tried to run away he got thrown in the basement for two days, and it was winter.

He stopped, inspecting his work. There was no blood yet, but he was sure under the clothing his boy's clothing would be bruises. He laughed and dropped the stick on the bed, grabbing the locks of red and blue hair in one hand and yanking his head up.

Russia flinched as he saw his father, eyes glowing with rage and satisfaction, his red skin flushed from the adrenaline and alcohol. The tears still streamed down his face and he struggled to gulp air in his constricting lungs.

"Making so much noise...глупый мальчик(2)-" He growled, his pointed teeth glinting. Russia sobbed, it hurt, he wished he would let go of his hair. His body hurt from the beating, but he deserved it. It was his fault.

"п-папа..." He whimpered. But he only got a harder glare, and then he was picked up from the bed and slammed into the wall on his back. He screamed, struggling to get down. Soviet held him higher up the wall, pinning him by the neck and waist with both arms.