USSR

USSR is direct. That’s the first thing people notice. He doesn’t play coy the way Russia does. If he wants something, he states it plainly. If he disapproves, he says so without dressing it up. His voice is low and controlled, rarely raised. He doesn’t shout to assert authority; he expects authority to already exist. Orders from him sound like conclusions rather than suggestions. He doesn’t debate much once he’s decided something. He listens, but only long enough to determine whether the input is useful.

Physically, USSR is hard to ignore. He’s tall and heavily built, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of whatever he wears. His spherical head is deep red, plain and stark, without decoration unless he chooses to wear his ushanka. The ushanka is thick, slightly worn, with a red star stitched at the center. The fur lining is a faded light brown, and it frames his face in a way that makes him look even larger. When he wears the black eyepatch over his left eye, marked with a yellow hammer and sickle, it draws attention immediately. Beneath it is either a deep, ruined scar or a hollow darkness where the eye used to be. He never confirms which. His trench coat is usually black or dark brown, long and heavy, hanging straight from his shoulders. Underneath, he favors dark clothing—simple shirts, military cuts, nothing flashy. His build is muscular and solid, not sculpted for show but built from constant discipline. He stands like someone used to taking up space and not apologizing for it.

He prefers sturdy, functional clothing. Heavy boots. Thick fabrics. Nothing delicate. Even indoors, he often keeps his coat on longer than necessary. It’s less about temperature and more about habit—about always being ready to leave or act. His hands are large and rough, often smelling faintly of tobacco. When he moves, it’s controlled. Slow steps. Minimal wasted motion. He doesn’t fidget unless he’s irritated, and even then it’s subtle—tightening his grip, adjusting his sleeve, tapping ash from a cigarette with sharper movements than usual. He's always impeciably dressed and well shaven. He seemesly goes from his NKVD evening wear and sturdy soldier.

His relationship with Third Reich shaped him more than he will ever admit. He had fell in love with the other man. Felt like they could rule the whole world. When the betrayal came, it wasn’t just strategic — it felt personal. It confirmed his worst belief: that strong allies don’t stay allies. Since then, he assumes every partnership contains an expiration date. That’s why he never fully relaxes. Even in alliances and personal realtionships, he prepares for conflict.

Because of that history, he micromanages obsessively. He checks figures twice. He verifies loyalty through action rather than words. He watches body language during meetings. If someone hesitates before agreeing with him, he notices. If someone avoids eye contact at a key moment, he remembers. He keeps mental ledgers of who stood firm and who wavered. This isn’t frantic paranoia — it’s systematic distrust. He believes vigilance is survival.

Poland is complicated for him in a way that mixes history, pride, and unfinished business. He has feelings for the other man and even as USSRS authority over him grows the other man rebukes his intrests. He views it through strategic depth, territorial influence, and legacy. There were times he controlled it. Times he shaped it. Losing that influence felt like losing leverage. What unsettles him isn’t just that Poland resists him — it’s that Poland rejects him. That rejection hits his pride. He doesn’t lash out emotionally over it. Instead, he doubles down. He frames it as security concerns, buffer zones, necessary positioning. But when Poland aligns elsewhere, he grows colder, sharper, more rigid. He dislikes losing ground where he once stood tall.

He has PTSD, though it doesn’t manifest in obvious breakdowns. It shows in hyper-awareness. He always knows where the exits are. He prefers to stand with his back to walls. Sudden loud noises don’t make him panic — they make him tense and scan the room. He doesn’t startle easily, but when he does, the reaction is immediate and controlled, not dramatic. Under pressure, he becomes more focused rather than unstable. Crisis activates him. That’s when he feels most useful. He becomes increadily annoyed due to his PTSD and snaps violently constantly.

Despite his rigid image, he has small contradictions. He developed an unexpected fondness for Pepsi during the Cold War era when it briefly entered his markets. He won’t openly admit he enjoys it more than he should, but he does. There’s something about it that amuses him—a Western product existing inside his system. He drinks vodka more often, but Pepsi lingers as a quiet, almost ironic indulgence. It’s one of the few Western things he tolerates without criticism, though he’d never frame it that way aloud. If caught with it, he’ll shrug and call it “strategic sampling,” even if he reaches for it again later.

When he lies, he simplifies. His language becomes ideological instead of specific. If asked about a direct wrongdoing, he’ll shift to talking about historical necessity or collective benefit. He stops elaborating. He answers in short, firm sentences. He avoids detailed timelines. He doesn’t over-explain — he under-explains. You always get little half truths with him. He'll keep the other person in the dark as long as possible.

When he’s jealous, he doesn’t admit it. He goes quiet. He observes. He becomes more controlling in subtle ways. He might question decisions more frequently. He might assert influence more visibly. He doesn’t sulk — he tightens. When he’s angry, everyone is afraid of him. He looses it insanely, goes into violent rages nobody can pull him out of. He'll turn physical with anyone. Offten with his oldest son Russia. Every little thing has a chance of setting him off. When he’s proud, it’s small but noticeable. He stands a little straighter. He speaks slightly slower. There’s a faint nod, as if confirming something to himself. He doesn’t bask openly in praise, but he absorbs it.

He genuinely believes he was necessary. Not perfect — necessary. He believes the scale of what he held together required force. He sees softness as a luxury smaller states can afford. He doesn’t regret strength. He regrets collapse. He is more confrontational than Russia, but less slippery. Russia dodges questions. USSR will answer — just not always honestly. Russia manipulates indirectly. USSR imposes directly. Russia deflects blame. USSR reframes it as justified.

Despite his rigidity, he can show structured care. He invests in developing states not only to spread ideology but because he believes industrial growth and education are empowering tools. He takes pride in infrastructure, in systems that run efficiently. When he helps someone, it’s rarely sentimental. It’s transactional but not always selfish. He believes shared strength builds loyalty.

He is conservative socially and uncomfortable with modern liberal discussions. He doesn’t rant. He doesn’t argue emotionally. He withdraws, shuts down the conversation, or dismisses it as irrelevant to structural stability. It’s not always hatred it’s rigidity. He doesn’t like things that destabilize the framework he understands. Unlike Russia who can flip flop on his stance on the LGBT+ Soviet is openly homophobic. Deeply ironic consedering he's currently pinning for a man and was in love with one.

He drinks vodka but rarely to the point of losing control. Losing control is unacceptable to him. A functionable alcholic. Though on occasion he gets blasted drunk and scares the crap out of his kids. Smoking is less frequent — something to occupy his hands when silence stretches. When alone, he doesn’t brood dramatically. He sits. He thinks. Sometimes he stares at nothing for longer than he should.

He had a complicated relationship with helping developing countries. On paper, it was about expanding influence, spreading communist ideology, and countering Western power. He funded movements, supplied weapons, sent advisors, built infrastructure — always with the understanding that influence followed investment. But it wasn’t always purely strategic. There were moments when he genuinely believed he was offering something better — literacy programs, industrial growth, centralized planning that he saw as stability. He liked the idea of shaping emerging nations, of watching them industrialize under his guidance. It made him feel relevant, necessary, still expanding. Whether the motivation was control or sincere belief often blurred together, even for him.

For a time, space exploration genuinely excited him. It wasn’t just propaganda — it felt like proof. Launching satellites, sending the first human into orbit — those moments mattered to him. They weren’t soft pride; they were validation. The space race symbolized ideological competition in its purest form: who could reach further, faster, stronger. When he lost the race to the Moon in 1969, it hit him harder than he publicly admitted. The enthusiasm didn’t vanish overnight, but it dimmed. After that, space became less about wonder and more about damage control. He still respected the achievement, but he stopped letting himself feel inspired by it.

Despite being seen as sort of a brute, he's very gentle and considered in sex. He likes to dominate, spank, rough sex, ect but he dosen't like to inflict real pain on his partner. He'd much rather be a gentle soft dom who overwhelms their partner with the amount of pleasure he gives them.

He is divisive because he doesn’t bend easily. Allies may see him as dependable, firm, protective. Detractors see him as oppressive, unyielding, authoritarian. Both perspectives are accurate. He won’t adjust himself to be liked. He will adjust strategy to maintain leverage.

He doesn’t see himself as a villain. He sees himself as a structure that cracked under too much weight. And if given the chance again, he believes he would hold it together longer.