Евгений Борисович Волгин (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
colonelcrotchgrab) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fissionmailed2011-01-15 06:39 pm
colonelcrotchgrab) wrote in fissionmailed2011-01-15 06:39 pm
Entry tags:
BIG SWEATY GYM TIMES/TORTURE
[The Nexus gym is particularly loud and noisy today, as someone is in there barking orders like a standard drill sergeant, except the said orders are in Russian. The treadmill is rattling and rolling at a high speed, and there is the sound of feet clopping along on it in their frantic rhythm.
At the back corner upon entry, there is the large, imposing figure of Volgin, still quite large and still very imposing even in casual dress. He is currently overseeing the forced fitness regimen of one of the Raikovs he had come to grow some attachment to (as he is aware of clones in this place, but still grasping the concept). Fed up with this pattern of fattening Raikovs, the Soviet giant is determined to rectify the problem. Once a GRU colonel in charge of his own unit (in this Volgin's particular case), the proper care and maintenance of his men was a high priority and body shape was among those concerns.
No man looked like Volgin at his age without proper self-discipline! Like a good commanding officer, he feels it is his proper duty to keep his men in shape if they are so foolish as to let their discipline slip. There would be consequences.
Starting with this one.
Whenever Raikov's pace slackens, Volgin coolly holds a hand out, and a good electric probe to his asscheek helps him right back along. His face is locked for the time being into a stony indifference. No matter what sounds Raikov makes or how much he complains: There is a price to pay for letting such a beautiful body grow soft, and there will be correction.]
((OOC: Open post, anyone is free to walk in and interact in any way you see fit! Sometimes they're both there, sometimes Ivan is left there and Volgin is off doing something in another room. Pretty briefly, if he's out.))
At the back corner upon entry, there is the large, imposing figure of Volgin, still quite large and still very imposing even in casual dress. He is currently overseeing the forced fitness regimen of one of the Raikovs he had come to grow some attachment to (as he is aware of clones in this place, but still grasping the concept). Fed up with this pattern of fattening Raikovs, the Soviet giant is determined to rectify the problem. Once a GRU colonel in charge of his own unit (in this Volgin's particular case), the proper care and maintenance of his men was a high priority and body shape was among those concerns.
No man looked like Volgin at his age without proper self-discipline! Like a good commanding officer, he feels it is his proper duty to keep his men in shape if they are so foolish as to let their discipline slip. There would be consequences.
Starting with this one.
Whenever Raikov's pace slackens, Volgin coolly holds a hand out, and a good electric probe to his asscheek helps him right back along. His face is locked for the time being into a stony indifference. No matter what sounds Raikov makes or how much he complains: There is a price to pay for letting such a beautiful body grow soft, and there will be correction.]
((OOC: Open post, anyone is free to walk in and interact in any way you see fit! Sometimes they're both there, sometimes Ivan is left there and Volgin is off doing something in another room. Pretty briefly, if he's out.))
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His electricity still favored the deep trails it too marred him with, years ago; the actual pain of being shocked faded quickly into the comforts of his nearly inhuman tolerance.
He was somehow still upright, with his lover... a... Raikov, whatever, his lover (right?), his footsteps distant as he moved urgently on his own honed soldier instinct. There was a hallway, another one, follow his gut, stop into the bathroom, that looked like a bathroom, set Raikov down in a stall. Prop him against the toilet. Barely fit into the damn thing with him. Shut the door.
(Silence, perhaps?)
Sit down with him. Drip. Lean against the side of the stall. Simmer in rage. Growl:]
That bastard. Insolent brat. I'll cut his eyes out myself, I swear.
[Grunt. Slide the drenched clothes off. He had insulation underneath. Wouldn't have cared if he was naked anyway. The sweater made a wet plop at his side. He did not have a suit now; still destroyed, still not replaced, but even wet the material he wrapped tightly around himself was adhering well.
He leaned in.]
Ivan, your wound...
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His uniforms, his supplies--were all back in his duffel bag at the gym.
The blood looked much worse than it was, soaking his entire shirt. When he looked down he squeaked in panic and swiftly turned away, white-faced.]
G-Godammit.
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[Raikov could go without a shirt, all the more reason to have the smaller Russian press that trembling body against Volgin's for warmth, when he was warm again. He was too wet to warm himself right now. He hated it.
Volgin tore the shirt away with a wet rip. He examined the wound.
The wet remains of the shirt was toweling the blood, staining the white shades of red and yellow as it mingled with the moisture.
A pause as he set the shirt aside.]
We're going to have to get the bullet out.
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Never has being stripped of his clothes in a bathroom been so unwelcomed.]
Right...you can draw it out, can't you?
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Not dripping wet like this.
[Experience granted Volgin speed. Being a good field colonel carried the realization of how much their men's morales hinged on his own; he had to be steeled against all odds, something unbreakable. Don't look too worried. Just keep moving. It's not that bad. You've seen worse, Yevgeny. Stop worrying about him; you never felt like this for others before.
It's not even ... ... even Ivan proper.
A jackboot collapsed next to them with a moist clop on the tile. His gaze was on the roll of toilet paper. ]
Dry your chest with that. Put pressure on it, don't stop, you idiot.
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Yes, Sir.
[Obediently he gathered up a fistful of toilet paper in one hand and began to dab himself dry. It soon became soaked, falling apart and sticking to his damp skin.
So Ivan grabbed more, the process continuing until he was finally dried and covered in pills and flakes of toilet paper that he was too exhausted to bother picking off.
His leaned back against the cold porcelain.]
It smells in here... [The most noticeable odor at the moment, however, was blood; it was only that Ivan's nose had become so used to the scent over the past few minutes he could barely register it.]
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[Volgin narrowed his eyes at the dusting of curled toilet paper. Even he never bought something that cheap. His final jackboot off, he went to work sliding the soaked pants away. It left his ass nearly bare on the cold, hard floor, a layer of supposedly space-age insulative material between flesh and tile.
(His suit did a better job containing his "flares"; now the lights flickered when he sneezed.)
He grabbed a handful of toilet paper to dab at the wound before tearing more handfuls away to dab at himself. Fortunately, Volgin only needed a reasonably dry arm and chest to keep Raikov within relatively safe measures.
The flaking paper had the man resembling an inverted dalmatian.]
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[Ivan scrunched his nose up a bit.
He watched Volgin idly, his own hand still pressed firmly over the wound.]
Are you sure we're dr-dry enough? [A cold puff of breath.]
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[He slowly bled some electrical release unseen, through the arm that was going to be "sucking" a bullet out of Raikov within a few minutes.
Zap.]
Ah-! Shit!
[He clutched his arm, wincing but feeling some moisture linger within the insulation. That explained it. So goddamn careless. Thick fingers scratched around the bandages, searching for the wrapping end tucked away.
There it was.
He went to work, the dark peeling away to the lighter tone of his marked, hard skin.]
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Be careful!
[Yeah, he could scold the older man if he felt it necessary.]
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I'm fine.
[He had removed the wrapping in a winding river of black on the floor, exposing an arm, his chest and stomach. Toilet paper was scrubbed and torn along his skin to nothing; the damn thing was behaving moreso like an application of garbage paper than actually drying him.
The older man was brushing peels and twists off himself.]
This will hurt, Ivan. You know that. I've done it before.
[If this Raikov retained any memory of such. Or even had it at all.]
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The pale Soviet clenched his jaw in anticipation, and his hands fell into his laps white-knuckled.]
...
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It did not hurt. Cause him to recoil. Curse.
He restrained himself. Flexed his fingers. Reached for Raikov's wound to pull his hand aside.]
Count of three, Ivan.
[His voice was low and calm.]
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One.
Two.
Three.
[The process was quick, for the most part: The agony of digging was now the agony of heat and irritation. A twitch of his arm and a toss. His palm was bloody, the bullet was bloody and it marked the floor as it bounced away. More of that terrible toilet paper was grabbed, Raikov seized against whatever he was feeling at that moment, and placed against the wound to ease the bleeding.]
That might not be all of it.
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When it finally popped out he sighed heavily, panting slightly. It was a massive relief.
He slumped back against the toilet.]
A moment, Yevgeny...
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[Another low, long grunt.]
You should get those clothes off.
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[He mumbled, haughty. All he has left was his shorts and thong!
Ivan closed his eyes, brow creased at the sting of mild pain and disgust as warm blood soaked through to his fingertips.]
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Do you want to be wet?
Take them off and wring them.
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[He winces mid-eyeroll.]
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[Not that this prospect troubled Volgin too much.]
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[He coughed, still feeling the shivers.]
Come on, Yevgeny.
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[Volgin withdrew his hand from clotting the wound.]
We need to see if there is anything else in there. [A gesture.]
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