Fic: The Kept Man (9/40), brown cortina, dakfinv
Title: The Kept Man (9/40)
Author: dak
Word Count: 2250 this part; [16,319 overall]
Rating: brown cortina
Warnings: angst, sexual situations, swearing
Spoilers: 1.04,1.05, 1.07
Pairing: Sam/Warren, Sam/Gene
Summary: AU. Sam woke up with amnesia when he landed in 1973, able to only remember his name, and ended up in the grasp of Stephen Warren. When he and Gene Hunt finally cross paths it starts a chain of events that will either save Sam or damn him.
A/N: From an idea from
talcat given via
culf. I borrow a few lines of dialogue from 1.07 here. Thank you Chris Chibnall. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40
"Where’d you get it?” Gene threw the wraps of drugs onto the table.
“Get what?” Billy looked down blankly at the drugs on the table, as if suddenly realizing they were there. “What are they?”
“Come on, Billy. Flashing at young mothers is your vice, not drugs. Tell us who gave it to you.”
“I’ve got nowt to say.”
Ray leapt from the table, grabbed Kemble, and threw him against the shelves. “Thirty seconds to confess or get charged with assault on a police officer.”
“I want a solicitor! ‘M sayin’ nowt ‘less I get a solicitor.”
Ray kept a tight hold on the suspect. “Now listen ‘ere you little--”
“Ray.”
“ ‘E’ll confess, Guv. I can get ‘im to confess,” Ray growled.
“DS Carling, drop that suspect ‘fore I come over there and pry him out of your cold, dead fingers.”
With a sneer, Ray released Kemble and let him tumble to the floor, following Gene out the door.
“We’ll lock ‘im up for a bit. Not like we can’t hold ‘im with the amount of shite we found on ‘im. Send some to forensics. See if they can’t find out if its lethal or not. We’ll take another crack at ‘im tomorrow, when ‘e’s good an’ tired...Ray?” DS Carling was inwardly fuming, it was obvious. Ray could never hide his emotions the way Gene could. “Sergeant, did you hear me?” Gene asked a little louder.
“Yes, Guv.”
Rubbing a hand through his unwashed hair, Gene watched as he stormed off down the hall to coordinate a cell with Phyllis. Ray had been acting difficult for hours now, ever since Gene told him he wasn’t going to get the promotion, not that Gene had been in the right state of mind all day, either. It was the end of a long day and weariness was allowing thoughts of a certain, injured man to seep through the cracks of his subconscious.
It had been nearly two days, well, in a few hours it would be anyhow, and no word. Not that he would get any word. Lad probably didn’t have access to a phone and even if he did Gene knew he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and phone the station right under Warren’s nose.
He walked back into CID, watching the officers who were still there pack up for the night and head off to the pub or to their wives, mostly to the pub, and remembered some metaphor or simile or some such about some bloke and a mountain. It may have been a biblical thing but all Gene remembered was something about not being able to go to the mountain and having to chop up the mountain and bring it to the bloke. Or something.
Gene headed home under the pretense of some non-existent sister-in-law’s visit, showered, changed, and drove out to The Warren. He’d go there often even if he didn’t have business with the owner. It wouldn’t be suspicious at all, unless he was caught upstairs sniffing around for rent boys.
*
It felt good to sleep. Just rest and block out the world. No dreams. No trapped memories pressing for release. Only darkness and peace and total relaxation. A feeling which was disturbed when someone began stroking his hair. Still caught in the comfortable numbness of sleep, he leaned his head into the bodiless hand, enjoying its ministrations, the sensation of several fingers running over his scalp, tracing separate paths through his hair. The touching had woken him but was soothing enough to send him back to sleep. That’s not what the fingers wanted.
“Samuel.”
There was only one person who called him that and Sam’s eyes snapped open immediately. “Mr. Warren.” His words were slightly slurred from the bleariness of sleep. Warren drew back his hand as Sam pushed himself up to a sitting position, resting his back against the headboard.
“Are you feeling better?”
It wasn’t really a question, just the answer Warren wanted to hear.
“Yes, sir. Much better.”
“What happened?”
Saturday night. Joni. Kitchen.
“I was in the kitchen.” Lie. “I’d been feeling a little off most of the day.” Mostly a lie. “So, I thought I’d make some soup.” Total lie. “I’m not sure what happened next.” Mostly the truth. “I felt dizzy.” Truth. “And it was hard to breathe.” Truth. “Then I blacked out.” Truth. “Think I was lucky not to burn myself on the stove.” Complete, utter, flaming lie. Warren appeared to believe all of it but Sam knew Warren was very good at appearances.
“I will have to have a meeting with Mr. Edwards to discuss how he’ll handle those little chats in the future.” Warren reached out a hand, holding Sam’s chin in his palm, running his thumb over his cheek. “But more chats like that shouldn’t be necessary, should they, Sam?”
“No, Mr. Warren.”
Warren dropped his hand, sliding it down Sam’s body without ever breaking contact. “Good. Very good. And don’t worry. I’ve already thought of a way to make it up to you,” he leered at Sam who was forced to take a deep breath to stop his body shaking as Warren’s hand dropped lower and lower still.
The last person who had done this to him was Gene. Yes, he’d let Warren give him a quick fuck and had given a blow-job in return since then but there had been no pleasure given on Sam’s behalf on either account. Now Warren was reaching a hand behind the waistband of his pyjamas, searching behind his y-fronts and Sam was terrified. Terrified that somehow Warren would be able to tell that Gene had touched him there. That he would be able to sense the imprint Gene had left on him because who wouldn’t be able to sense Gene Hunt?
He froze as Warren pulled out his limp cock and began fisting him, waiting for a response, but all Sam could think of was Gene. Gene’s hand and Gene’s presence and Gene’s comforting silence and he did begin to get hard and suddenly Warren was ruining everything, his malicious presence seeping into Sam’s memory and tainting it with every tug of his carefully moisturized hand, so different from Gene’s rough, calloused skin and Sam didn’t want that. He had so few clear memories these days and he didn’t want Warren in his mind, destroying the singular positive experience of his life in 1973.
“No.”
The soft hand came to a cold, abrupt stop. “No?” There was so much disgust packed into that one syllable.
“I mean, I--” Sam tried to backtrack but it was already too late.
“No?” Warren repeated and his hand compressed, fingers tightening their grip and Sam shuddered in his hold. “Since when do you tell me no?” He squeezed even harder. Sam gasped from the pain. “I own you, boy,” he hissed and Sam wondered when he had ever found that accent comforting.
“You belong to me. You’re my property and you will do whatever I tell you. If I want you to dress a certain way you say, ‘yes, sir.’ If I want to play with your filthy cock,” he gave a harsh tug, pulling Sam forward, “you say, ‘yes, sir.’ If I want you to jump off the roof, you say ‘yes, sir. When Mr. Warren, sir?’ You don’t ever say no, pet. Not to me.”
He roughly let go of Sam, pushing him away and walking to his boy’s closet, flinging open the doors. “Put on this and this,” he chucked Sam his horrendous red velvet trousers and most garish striped shirt. “Don’t bother with any underpants. I want you in my office, over the desk, in fifteen minutes. And in case you need a reminder, Sam, if you’re not, I won’t fire you. When you work for me, love, you’re mine for life, so your employment won’t end. I think a smart lad like you can figure out what will.”
The door slammed shut, shaking Sam to his very core as his hands refused to reach for the clothes in his lap. He knew what he’d been doing Saturday night and it hadn’t involved kitchens or soup or Joni. He knew what he’d been doing Saturday night, knew where he had collapsed and who he was with and he couldn’t understand that if Gene had said he was going to help him why he had brought him back here. Why had he only succeeded in trapping Sam even deeper in Hell?
*
The club was relatively crowded for a Monday night and that pleased Gene. He didn’t need to stick out anymore than he already did by being a giant, camel-coated lump hunched over the bar. He wasn’t sure why he was here. Well he knew why he just wasn’t sure what he’d actually be able to accomplish.
He couldn’t go hunting around for Sam and if the lad was still injured he wouldn’t be throwing himself about the dance floor tonight. He couldn’t ask one of the girls about him because he wasn’t even supposed to know who he was and how would he be able to explain why he was looking for him in the first place? Sometimes having a fantastic reputation as a brilliant police officer just got in the way.
Three whiskeys and a two bags of nuts later, Gene caught sight of Edwards mingling amongst the customers, drinking heavily himself. Warren always kept Edwards on hand unless he needed his privacy and there were only a few reasons Gene could think of why Stephen Warren would want some privacy.
Still unclear as to what he was actually doing, Gene made his way upstairs to the VIP floor, maneuvering easily to Warren’s padded office door. The whiskey was slowly slowing his thought processes but Gene logically concluded that if Edwards was not with Warren, then Warren was on his own. Or with Sam. Warren would also be in his office. He never left the club when it was opened until it had closed. So, Gene could go in his office and if Warren was alone he could make up some tripe about needing information about some thing or another and if he wasn’t alone, it would probably be Sam with him and he’d be able to check on Tyler’s condition.
Gene picked the lock and opened the door, realizing only too late that if Sam was in the room with Warren what he would probably be doing in said office with Warren. He was brutally reminded as the door swung open.
“Yes, yes! Yes, Mr. Warren, oh God. Yes!” Sam panted as he bent over the desk, Warren pounding relentlessly into him from behind, one hand pressing down on Sam’s shoulder, the other fumbling under the desk, the arm moving in quick, jerky movements. Warren whispered something in Sam’s ear. “Yes, sir...More, sir...Please, sir!” Sam cried out between gasps of breath, lost in his pleasure. Gene shut the door, his presence unnoticed.
*
What choice had he but to do what Warren told him? Sam slipped on the clothes, every movement straining his still pained body. He was in the office in ten minutes, positioned just as Warren had ordered him. His mind feebly repeated something about living today to fight tomorrow. Warren arrived as scheduled, the man was nothing if not punctual, and wasted no time in divesting Sam of the trousers he had so carefully chosen to begin with.
“I thought you’d already learnt all your lessons, Samuel.” Two slick fingers were thrust into him without pretense. “Clearly, I was mistaken.” Warren circled and scissored them, aware of the prostate and aware of avoiding it, and Sam laid there and steeled himself. If he could get through this now, he could worry about escaping later. “No, is not a word that should be a part of your vocabulary, pet. Not when it refers to a request when from me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
Sam only had to wait seconds until Warren thrust himself inside him, the pressure and the force causing his unhealed bruises to scream out in pain. Sam couldn’t stifle a shout himself. Warren began to move, slowly at first, drawing out the hurt. “Will you do as I tell you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Warren began to speed up, each jerk of his hips causing Sam more pain. Instinctively, Sam tried to push away but it was only a small movement which was corrected as Warren pressed his hand onto Sam’s shoulder, holding him against the desk, the unyielding wood only deepening the already black-purple marks on his chest. Sam gasped again, the pressure on his lungs making it difficult to breathe.
“So will you behave like the good, little boy you are?”
Sam couldn’t find the air to respond. Warren pushed in deeper.
“Will you, Sam?” He snarled and the pain was too much.
“Yes, yes! Yes, Mr. Warren, oh God. Yes!” Sam panted as he was pinned to the desk, Warren pounding relentlessly into him from behind, as one hand continued to press down on his shoulder, the other now fumbling under the desk, brutally yanking at his flesh.
“Tell me you want this, Sam. Tell me you want this and I’ll make it quick,” Warren whispered into his ear. Sam yelled what he could to put an end to the torture.“Yes, sir...More, sir...Please, sir!” He cried out between gasps of breath, lost in his pain. Sam shut his eyes, his tears unnoticed.
_________
Part 10
Author: dak
Word Count: 2250 this part; [16,319 overall]
Rating: brown cortina
Warnings: angst, sexual situations, swearing
Spoilers: 1.04,1.05, 1.07
Pairing: Sam/Warren, Sam/Gene
Summary: AU. Sam woke up with amnesia when he landed in 1973, able to only remember his name, and ended up in the grasp of Stephen Warren. When he and Gene Hunt finally cross paths it starts a chain of events that will either save Sam or damn him.
A/N: From an idea from
talcat given via
culf. I borrow a few lines of dialogue from 1.07 here. Thank you Chris Chibnall. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40
"Where’d you get it?” Gene threw the wraps of drugs onto the table.
“Get what?” Billy looked down blankly at the drugs on the table, as if suddenly realizing they were there. “What are they?”
“Come on, Billy. Flashing at young mothers is your vice, not drugs. Tell us who gave it to you.”
“I’ve got nowt to say.”
Ray leapt from the table, grabbed Kemble, and threw him against the shelves. “Thirty seconds to confess or get charged with assault on a police officer.”
“I want a solicitor! ‘M sayin’ nowt ‘less I get a solicitor.”
Ray kept a tight hold on the suspect. “Now listen ‘ere you little--”
“Ray.”
“ ‘E’ll confess, Guv. I can get ‘im to confess,” Ray growled.
“DS Carling, drop that suspect ‘fore I come over there and pry him out of your cold, dead fingers.”
With a sneer, Ray released Kemble and let him tumble to the floor, following Gene out the door.
“We’ll lock ‘im up for a bit. Not like we can’t hold ‘im with the amount of shite we found on ‘im. Send some to forensics. See if they can’t find out if its lethal or not. We’ll take another crack at ‘im tomorrow, when ‘e’s good an’ tired...Ray?” DS Carling was inwardly fuming, it was obvious. Ray could never hide his emotions the way Gene could. “Sergeant, did you hear me?” Gene asked a little louder.
“Yes, Guv.”
Rubbing a hand through his unwashed hair, Gene watched as he stormed off down the hall to coordinate a cell with Phyllis. Ray had been acting difficult for hours now, ever since Gene told him he wasn’t going to get the promotion, not that Gene had been in the right state of mind all day, either. It was the end of a long day and weariness was allowing thoughts of a certain, injured man to seep through the cracks of his subconscious.
It had been nearly two days, well, in a few hours it would be anyhow, and no word. Not that he would get any word. Lad probably didn’t have access to a phone and even if he did Gene knew he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and phone the station right under Warren’s nose.
He walked back into CID, watching the officers who were still there pack up for the night and head off to the pub or to their wives, mostly to the pub, and remembered some metaphor or simile or some such about some bloke and a mountain. It may have been a biblical thing but all Gene remembered was something about not being able to go to the mountain and having to chop up the mountain and bring it to the bloke. Or something.
Gene headed home under the pretense of some non-existent sister-in-law’s visit, showered, changed, and drove out to The Warren. He’d go there often even if he didn’t have business with the owner. It wouldn’t be suspicious at all, unless he was caught upstairs sniffing around for rent boys.
*
It felt good to sleep. Just rest and block out the world. No dreams. No trapped memories pressing for release. Only darkness and peace and total relaxation. A feeling which was disturbed when someone began stroking his hair. Still caught in the comfortable numbness of sleep, he leaned his head into the bodiless hand, enjoying its ministrations, the sensation of several fingers running over his scalp, tracing separate paths through his hair. The touching had woken him but was soothing enough to send him back to sleep. That’s not what the fingers wanted.
“Samuel.”
There was only one person who called him that and Sam’s eyes snapped open immediately. “Mr. Warren.” His words were slightly slurred from the bleariness of sleep. Warren drew back his hand as Sam pushed himself up to a sitting position, resting his back against the headboard.
“Are you feeling better?”
It wasn’t really a question, just the answer Warren wanted to hear.
“Yes, sir. Much better.”
“What happened?”
Saturday night. Joni. Kitchen.
“I was in the kitchen.” Lie. “I’d been feeling a little off most of the day.” Mostly a lie. “So, I thought I’d make some soup.” Total lie. “I’m not sure what happened next.” Mostly the truth. “I felt dizzy.” Truth. “And it was hard to breathe.” Truth. “Then I blacked out.” Truth. “Think I was lucky not to burn myself on the stove.” Complete, utter, flaming lie. Warren appeared to believe all of it but Sam knew Warren was very good at appearances.
“I will have to have a meeting with Mr. Edwards to discuss how he’ll handle those little chats in the future.” Warren reached out a hand, holding Sam’s chin in his palm, running his thumb over his cheek. “But more chats like that shouldn’t be necessary, should they, Sam?”
“No, Mr. Warren.”
Warren dropped his hand, sliding it down Sam’s body without ever breaking contact. “Good. Very good. And don’t worry. I’ve already thought of a way to make it up to you,” he leered at Sam who was forced to take a deep breath to stop his body shaking as Warren’s hand dropped lower and lower still.
The last person who had done this to him was Gene. Yes, he’d let Warren give him a quick fuck and had given a blow-job in return since then but there had been no pleasure given on Sam’s behalf on either account. Now Warren was reaching a hand behind the waistband of his pyjamas, searching behind his y-fronts and Sam was terrified. Terrified that somehow Warren would be able to tell that Gene had touched him there. That he would be able to sense the imprint Gene had left on him because who wouldn’t be able to sense Gene Hunt?
He froze as Warren pulled out his limp cock and began fisting him, waiting for a response, but all Sam could think of was Gene. Gene’s hand and Gene’s presence and Gene’s comforting silence and he did begin to get hard and suddenly Warren was ruining everything, his malicious presence seeping into Sam’s memory and tainting it with every tug of his carefully moisturized hand, so different from Gene’s rough, calloused skin and Sam didn’t want that. He had so few clear memories these days and he didn’t want Warren in his mind, destroying the singular positive experience of his life in 1973.
“No.”
The soft hand came to a cold, abrupt stop. “No?” There was so much disgust packed into that one syllable.
“I mean, I--” Sam tried to backtrack but it was already too late.
“No?” Warren repeated and his hand compressed, fingers tightening their grip and Sam shuddered in his hold. “Since when do you tell me no?” He squeezed even harder. Sam gasped from the pain. “I own you, boy,” he hissed and Sam wondered when he had ever found that accent comforting.
“You belong to me. You’re my property and you will do whatever I tell you. If I want you to dress a certain way you say, ‘yes, sir.’ If I want to play with your filthy cock,” he gave a harsh tug, pulling Sam forward, “you say, ‘yes, sir.’ If I want you to jump off the roof, you say ‘yes, sir. When Mr. Warren, sir?’ You don’t ever say no, pet. Not to me.”
He roughly let go of Sam, pushing him away and walking to his boy’s closet, flinging open the doors. “Put on this and this,” he chucked Sam his horrendous red velvet trousers and most garish striped shirt. “Don’t bother with any underpants. I want you in my office, over the desk, in fifteen minutes. And in case you need a reminder, Sam, if you’re not, I won’t fire you. When you work for me, love, you’re mine for life, so your employment won’t end. I think a smart lad like you can figure out what will.”
The door slammed shut, shaking Sam to his very core as his hands refused to reach for the clothes in his lap. He knew what he’d been doing Saturday night and it hadn’t involved kitchens or soup or Joni. He knew what he’d been doing Saturday night, knew where he had collapsed and who he was with and he couldn’t understand that if Gene had said he was going to help him why he had brought him back here. Why had he only succeeded in trapping Sam even deeper in Hell?
*
The club was relatively crowded for a Monday night and that pleased Gene. He didn’t need to stick out anymore than he already did by being a giant, camel-coated lump hunched over the bar. He wasn’t sure why he was here. Well he knew why he just wasn’t sure what he’d actually be able to accomplish.
He couldn’t go hunting around for Sam and if the lad was still injured he wouldn’t be throwing himself about the dance floor tonight. He couldn’t ask one of the girls about him because he wasn’t even supposed to know who he was and how would he be able to explain why he was looking for him in the first place? Sometimes having a fantastic reputation as a brilliant police officer just got in the way.
Three whiskeys and a two bags of nuts later, Gene caught sight of Edwards mingling amongst the customers, drinking heavily himself. Warren always kept Edwards on hand unless he needed his privacy and there were only a few reasons Gene could think of why Stephen Warren would want some privacy.
Still unclear as to what he was actually doing, Gene made his way upstairs to the VIP floor, maneuvering easily to Warren’s padded office door. The whiskey was slowly slowing his thought processes but Gene logically concluded that if Edwards was not with Warren, then Warren was on his own. Or with Sam. Warren would also be in his office. He never left the club when it was opened until it had closed. So, Gene could go in his office and if Warren was alone he could make up some tripe about needing information about some thing or another and if he wasn’t alone, it would probably be Sam with him and he’d be able to check on Tyler’s condition.
Gene picked the lock and opened the door, realizing only too late that if Sam was in the room with Warren what he would probably be doing in said office with Warren. He was brutally reminded as the door swung open.
“Yes, yes! Yes, Mr. Warren, oh God. Yes!” Sam panted as he bent over the desk, Warren pounding relentlessly into him from behind, one hand pressing down on Sam’s shoulder, the other fumbling under the desk, the arm moving in quick, jerky movements. Warren whispered something in Sam’s ear. “Yes, sir...More, sir...Please, sir!” Sam cried out between gasps of breath, lost in his pleasure. Gene shut the door, his presence unnoticed.
*
What choice had he but to do what Warren told him? Sam slipped on the clothes, every movement straining his still pained body. He was in the office in ten minutes, positioned just as Warren had ordered him. His mind feebly repeated something about living today to fight tomorrow. Warren arrived as scheduled, the man was nothing if not punctual, and wasted no time in divesting Sam of the trousers he had so carefully chosen to begin with.
“I thought you’d already learnt all your lessons, Samuel.” Two slick fingers were thrust into him without pretense. “Clearly, I was mistaken.” Warren circled and scissored them, aware of the prostate and aware of avoiding it, and Sam laid there and steeled himself. If he could get through this now, he could worry about escaping later. “No, is not a word that should be a part of your vocabulary, pet. Not when it refers to a request when from me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
Sam only had to wait seconds until Warren thrust himself inside him, the pressure and the force causing his unhealed bruises to scream out in pain. Sam couldn’t stifle a shout himself. Warren began to move, slowly at first, drawing out the hurt. “Will you do as I tell you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Warren began to speed up, each jerk of his hips causing Sam more pain. Instinctively, Sam tried to push away but it was only a small movement which was corrected as Warren pressed his hand onto Sam’s shoulder, holding him against the desk, the unyielding wood only deepening the already black-purple marks on his chest. Sam gasped again, the pressure on his lungs making it difficult to breathe.
“So will you behave like the good, little boy you are?”
Sam couldn’t find the air to respond. Warren pushed in deeper.
“Will you, Sam?” He snarled and the pain was too much.
“Yes, yes! Yes, Mr. Warren, oh God. Yes!” Sam panted as he was pinned to the desk, Warren pounding relentlessly into him from behind, as one hand continued to press down on his shoulder, the other now fumbling under the desk, brutally yanking at his flesh.
“Tell me you want this, Sam. Tell me you want this and I’ll make it quick,” Warren whispered into his ear. Sam yelled what he could to put an end to the torture.“Yes, sir...More, sir...Please, sir!” He cried out between gasps of breath, lost in his pain. Sam shut his eyes, his tears unnoticed.
_________
Part 10