CHAPTER 3
A/N – Hello everyone! Glad to see no flames yet, but I'm figuring that after this last chap they might pop ;) Aaaaand without further ado, let's finish this and make all this trouble worth it. Enjoy!
Warnings: more violence, verbal abuse, non-con, #someonegetsitbuttheyaskedforitsosorryaboutthat
Alin bites his bottom lip, really wanting to say something 'heartfelt' to comrade Beilschmidt, but knowing that it would probably be a terrible idea. Aside from that, he's pretty much terrified, watching numbly as the albino stands from behind his desk to knock on the double doors of his boss's office. He pokes his head inside and a few words are exchanged, then the German straightens his back and holds the door open for the two guards solemnly.
As they walk in, Tsvetan 'accidentally' steps on his foot, soiling the leather that Beilschmidt must have spent hours polishing to perfection, and apologizes emphatically.
The Romanian takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, although that's easier said than done. His stomach is in knots as he futilely tries to figure the outcome of this meeting beforehand. Whatever shit Tsvetan did – because he mentioned alcohol but who the fuck knows what else he'd got stashed in his locker? – there's no danger (this never happens under the current regime) for the two of them to be off the job, but pretty much anything else could be on the plate. Especially when it comes to military or prison staff, the administration has a strong belief in achieving the redemption of employees through the application of a wide range of disciplinary measures.
Alin hopes that these will not take the form of several double shifts or even detention, because his little brother will rip his head off (Andrei likes spending time at Katya's, but there is a downside to it in being asked to do house chores and help with the smaller children). But then again, a beating sounds even worse, considering the bad shape he's already in.
The Chief Warden Ivan Braginski is sitting behind his desk, scribbling something down hurriedly and presently doesn't acknowledge them with as much as a glance. He's a handsome bastard, well-built but still lean, one of the very few men on which the rough, unpretentious uniform actually looks good and his ashen-blond hair, neatly parted on the side falls onto his forehead dramatically. Eventually, he finishes his task and looks up at the two guards with a neutral expression, even if there's a (ominous) gleam of amusement in his violet eyes.
"Well, comrades," Braginski says, standing in one smooth motion, like a deadly predator. "Unfortunately, you're here because some recent irregularities have been brought to my attention subsequent to this evening's events." He sighs. "At least everything ended up well for now, but I'm told that there was a great probability of things going downhill…"
Alin tries to straighten his back under the Chief Warden's gaze but his stomach hurts, his knees feel weak and he's almost forgotten how to breathe. Next to him, the Bulgarian looks impassible, probably already planning gruesome ways to get back at Nikolai for this.
"Well? Is there something you'd like to say?"
Met with thick, embarrassed silence, Ivan clears his throat softly and reaches out for something and only then Alin notices that there's a truncheon at the ready on the Russian's desk, placed demonstratively on top of a pile of papers. But the Chief Warden produces something else for now, namely a small, thin bottle with no label and homemade cork. Only a mouthful or two of the golden liquid are left on the bottom. He sighs again.
"Comrade Borisov, do you drink during working hours?" the Russian asks sweetly. "Are you drunk right now?"
Tsvetan shakes his head quickly, but makes no sound.
"No? Then maybe… just sometimes, da?" Ivan presses and there's a shift in his tone and posture, there's something almost flirty in it. This is bad. Very bad. "This is your bottle, isn't it?"
"Yes, comrade Chief, but I-"
The Russian lays a hand on the brunet's shoulder, stopping him, and for a brief moment Alin entertains the mad, selfish hope that once Braginski has taken out all his pent-up fury on the Bulgarian, he will escape cheaply. But then logic kicks in and he realizes that there's no way in hell things could be so simple. He was called in here as well for a reason.
In the next moment Ivan picks up the truncheon and brings it under the younger guard's nose, making him flinch. "And you, comrade Vasile, do you know what this object is for?" he asks, even gentler.
Alin whispers a half-choked 'yes' and catches the Bulgarian's eyes on him, silently saying 'take it like a man'.
"Please enlighten us, then," asks Ivan in the same tone, tilting his head curiously.
Alin's thoughts immediately fly back to the regulations manual, because he's always been a nerd. He's probably the only one who's actually read it from cover to cover. "I-It is used to maintain order." That was the definition, right?
Braginski looks almost taken aback by the stiff, over-formal choice of words, while Tsvetan lets out a snort quickly masked as cough. "To maintain order?"
"I mean to discipline inmates…"
"Da," Ivan agrees. "Do you know how to use it, comrade?"
While nodding, Alin brusquely realizes what this is about. That bastard Nikolai must have seen that he didn't hit the little Latvian boy, instead letting him go with a mere warning. Right, a guard's job is to maintain order through terror and in that spirit he's just fucked up monumentally.
"…. then show me. Here, discipline comrade Borisov, maybe he wakes up, da," Ivan suggests smoothly, placing the truncheon in his sweaty hand. It's longer and heavier than the standard issue too, probably custom made for the Chief Warden.
The Romanian weighs the weapon in his hand uncertain as he looks at Tsvetan. He really feels like hitting him right now – because it was his fucking bottle! – but the man has taken enough already tonight and besides, later on Braginski might require him to return the favor to Alin. The brunet returns his gaze and nods discreetly.
With a grimace he's not even aware of, Alin raises the truncheon and hurls it into the other guard's bicep, nearly making him lose his balance. The Bulgarian grits his teeth and clenches his fists, but makes no sound.
"Again."
But Alin hesitates - calculating how he could cause the least damage - and he's doomed.
"See, you're not supposed to think about it," Braginski points, moving from his place and taking the truncheon from the Romanian's hand. "Just do it." Saying that, he applies a swift blow to the small of Alin's back.
The pain is mind-numbing and before he realizes what happened, the younger guard is on his knees on the floor, unable to breathe, feeling like he's just been cut in half. Tears prick his eyes and he barely fights back a sob. He knows he must get up, most likely only to be hit again and the thought makes him sick, faint.
"Comrade Borisov, see you on Friday, da," he hears Ivan say above him dismissively, shoving a paper into Tsvetan's hands. "Until then you're covering all shifts and I don't care if your mother dies in the meantime or anything. You will be here, da?" Friday is three days from now – which means roughly six twelve-hour shifts with no break. "Now off you go!"
Tsvetan gets out quickly and, as Alin manages to scramble back to his feet, Ivan pokes his head out of the office briefly.
"Comrade Beilschmidt, whatever you hear, don't come in, da?"
Through the open door Alin sees the albino's expression, there's no trace of amusement anymore and his eyes are wide with a hidden horror, his face sheet-white. He realizes that he's still gripping the edge of the desk, which he's used for support to get up in the first place, but before he can move away from it the door closes and he feels the Russian's hand on his shoulder.
"Does it hurt?" Ivan asks softly.
"Yes, comrade Chief."
To say that it hurts, even horribly so, is an understatement. And Alin must have gone soft or something because surely, he must have taken worse, especially during his military instruction. Only, now that he thinks of it… this is the kind of blow seriously meant to cause damage, not just pain. He hopes he won't have to go to the infirmary at the end of this.
Ivan nods and stands in front of him, gripping his chin to force him to look up. Once again his hand is gentle – much too gentle – and Alin is numb with horror at what's to come.
"You know, comrade Vasile," the Russian says. "When you first got here, comrade Beilschmidt said you wouldn't last five days in this place, but I disagreed. " Ivan pauses and smiles. "I said you wouldn't last two."
He ponders then, watching the young guard exhale slowly. "But here you are, almost two years later. I'm proud of you. That's why, I will make one thing very clear. This is not a prison for political dissidents, although I think those are by far the worst, da. What I mean is that it's not a place for delicate people who… have gone to university for example (Alin flinches at the mention of that), who are unused to physical violence and are easy to break with the mere sight of bars. No, this is a common prison and this lot is the worst of the worst. There's no other way but to be very tough with these bastards and if I'm disciplining you now – and I will discipline you – it's for your own good, da? Do you understand?"
"Yes, comrade Chief."
Alin's gaze slips onto the truncheon abandoned on the desk and he winces as he feels a sharp jab of pain in his lower back. He hopes that his right kidney is still in one piece.
"So then, " Ivan says casually. "I could punish you very badly right now, or… maybe there could be an alternative." The Chief Warden leans forward and his silvery strands almost brush the side of Alin's cheek. "I'm not saying it's a better alternative, but one demonstrating the ability to adapt, da. One which shows… liberation from useless scruples."
Alin blinks, fearing the worst. Will Braginski ask him to go back, drag little Raivis out of bed and beat the hell out of him?! Is this the price for letting him off the hook?! And if so-
"I would like you to fuck me, nice and hard," says Ivan neutrally, as if he were talking about the weather. "Can you do that?"
The Romanian is aware of this practice between certain men on a theoretical level, he knows that some inmates are rumored to do it, but surely it isn't something he's ever expected from the Chief Warden. All in all, he doesn't know much about it and doesn't want to find out either. But then his gaze trails back to the truncheon, his back still hurts like hell and his other options are grim.
"H-How-…"
Braginski chuckles, good-humoredly. Has he planned this all along?! "Comrade, you do have a girlfriend, da?"
Alin nods.
"What is her name?"
"Lilia."
Of course, he knows no one with this name, there is no Lilia and no girlfriend in general, because Alin can't get himself to tell any girl that he works as a prison guard. What woman in her right mind would date a prison guard?! Alin is a man with a dark, dirty secret – his job.
"And you fuck her, da?"
"I… uh…"
"And you will marry her, da? Because if you don't, that's not very nice," the Russian points and Alin wants to laugh hysterically. Why is everyone so hell-bent on seeing him married? Does he look too carefree or something? "Anyway, I want you to fuck me like you fuck her, nice and hard, until she screams your name because you please her so much, da?"
"Are you serious, comrade Chief?" Alin asks softly, now with the absolute certainty that whatever he does or says things will go to hell like he's never seen anyway.
Ivan smiles, a subtle, wicked smile filled with shameless want. "Yes," he says and reaches out around the young guard's body, dipping his hands into the back of his uniform trousers, fingers digging lightly into the soft skin they encounter underneath. He does so without any difficulty, dodging the rough leather belt with the smoothness of a practiced gesture.
The Romanian looks baffled, because he has no idea what to do next, seriously if Braginski was a girl he could pull it off acceptably, but he isn't, so-… And as usual he's more focused on the task at hand than on the feeling of the other's fingers on his skin.
Ivan grabs Borisov's bottle and flips the cork off with his thumb, offering it to him with a shrug and a random observation as to how this weak juice will not probably do much good.
Okay. He just needs to focus. Think of something pleasant, no, something arousing. He tries to think of Andrei's math teacher, Miss Hedervary. She's cute and those tiny black-rimmed glassed don't look half-bad on her nose… But then again she's a teacher, he debates as Ivan fumbles with his belt buckle, undoes his trousers and lowers them on his hips. A math teacher, ughhh… The mouthful of alcohol has made him warm and lightheaded, but also unable to muster useful reason.
And to think he's only in this shit because of fucking Borisov! Clearly, it's Borisov he should be fucking, nice and hard until he screams, he thinks as his fingers find purchase in the Russian's uniform jacket and pulls it open. It even has the same cheap tobacco scent as the Bulgarian. Buttons come undone and he teases the soft skin of the other with calloused fingertips, eyes closed as he inhales the familiar scent. So then… Tsvetan it is (certainly not a thought that would ever occur to him while sober and less nerve-wracked…).
It's not easy to get hard on annoyance alone though, but as he works to rid the Russian of his trousers clumsily Ivan decides to offer a helping hand, large and warm and with skillfully flexing fingers and Alin gasps loudly, very nearly uttering a very wrong name. He grips Braginski's strong, muscular thighs and manages to haul him up onto the hard desk despite the painful protests of his own lower back. Then he has a moment of uncertainty, but Ivan pulls him closer between his legs and guides him in.
It kind of hurts, on top of everything else which is currently hurting, because the Russian's fingers greedily explore and dig into every bit of exposed skin, including the spot he's hit earlier. Alin grits his teeth, one hand pressing Ivan's shoulders into the desk as he thrusts erratically, trying to stroke him with the other in the same time and inwardly releasing a long string of profanities. There's a hard scowl on his face, but Ivan keeps smiling disturbingly as he treads his fingers through the short hairs on Alin's nape.
Eventually, the Chief Warden comes with a satisfied grunt and sits up, supporting the younger slumped against him, who's on the verge of passing out.
"Now, comrade Vasile, " Ivan says softly, barely panting as he fixes his clothing, again with the precise gestures of someone used to impromptu quickies. "If you tell anyone about this, I will be sure to return the favor. Before I kill you, da?"
THE END
Okay, this is officially the #worstshitever