Work Text:
“We all must do our part,” Russia tells her, his smile wide and proud. “You know that, sister.”
“Yes.” Ukraine agrees, because food is scarce and the animals are dying. She doesn't know what her part is, but she will do what Russia believes she must. Though, as he measures her arms and legs and head, she can't help but wonder what it is he will ask of her.
Over the next few days, she eats the special meals he prepares for her, thick porridge that fills her up with only a few bites and leaves her stomach aching and distended by the time the bowl is empty.
Her breasts ache constantly, so sensitive beneath her bra and the cloth of her shirt that she locks herself in her room, going bare beneath a loose linen dress. Only Russia is allowed in, and he smiles and kneads her swollen bosom with gentle fingers.
“Soon,” Russia promises when she asks to know what is happening. “Soon, you will see.”
When Ukraine wakes to find her front and bed damp, her nipples leaking profusely from her unconscious efforts to ease the pain, she screams.
Russia rushes in, an expression of worry on his face until he sees what has frightened her so. “Now you are ready,” he reassures her, bending over to lift her dress off.
“Russia?” Ukraine begs, tears in her eyes and her cheeks bright red. “What is happening to me? Please, tell me?”
“Everyone must do their part, sister.” Russia squeezes her breast, chuckling as the nipple squirts into his hand. When he goes to lick the milk from his fingers, she begins to understand. “We need milk, but we cannot afford another cow. This is for the best. You see, sister?”
She nods, unable to bring herself to speak.
“Everything is ready for you in the stable, but if you wish, I can prepare you here-”
“No!” Ukraine protests. Russia has never been one to do things half-hearted, and if he plans to transform her into a milk-cow, then she would rather not have her sanctuary defiled by his games. “I will come with you.”
It is not what she would have wanted, how she had thought she would do her part, but Russia smiles at her with love and pride in his eyes as he takes her by the hand and leads her through the house and out to the small barn, and she knows that she will not fight it.
“Thank you, sister.” Russia kisses her forehead with an air of finality, and then adorns her with the gear he has prepared for her.
Stilts for her arms and legs, locked in place so that she can barely move as she stands on all fours, her breasts swaying beneath her. A little effort proves that though her elbows and knees are unable to bend, she can still walk evenly if she wishes.
A high collar forces her head up, as a tube is forced down her throat, leaving her incapable of speaking – when she tries to make a sound, it comes out as little more than a moan. The tube is held in place with a muzzle-mask that covers her nose and ears and the side of her face.
Barely able to hear, and left without any semblance of peripheral vision, Ukraine can only communicate with her eyes, pleading with Russia silently. Her milk is still milk whether she is treated as an animal or not. This set-up isn't necessary.
Russia just smiles and pats her hair, holding up a small mirror for her to see the human eyes that are all that is left of her beneath the cow-shaped mask.
“Yekaterina,” he hums, fingers tracing the engraving on the side of the cowbell that he clips to her collar. “My family thanks you for your milk.”
With that, he leaves her alone for a moment. He no longer sees his sister in the animal, Ukraine realizes with horror as she tries to follow, the bell clanging with every stiff movement until she runs into the stall door. Perhaps his unstable mind has already forgotten that she is anything but the cow he has dressed her as.
When he returns, with a short stool and the clean milk-bucket, Ukraine sees only fond annoyance in his eyes. “Silly girl,” he scolds, pushing her away from the door. Once she is far enough back he clips the chains that hang from the walls to her collar, holding her in place so that he can set the stool down in front of her, placing the bucket beneath her chest. Then he takes a seat and begins to squeeze the milk out of her with quick, tugging strokes.
“Kat,” Russia whispers when he is finished, stroking her hair and wiping away her tears. “Sweet cow, this is your home now.”