 For his birthday, Harry gets the unexpected ...
|
Dec. 1st, 2006 @ 10:12 am 
|
|---|
[players only. occurs the night of friday, 17 november, in london. warning:it's rough. but, then, it's harry and karl so you'd expect that. *g*
"I think I ate too much." Dougray chuckles and leans back in his chair, sips at his hot sbiten'. For Harry's birthday, he's brought him to a delicious Russian restaurant set out of the way in East London, the same one Harry memorably introduced him to some months ago. "I vote we get a selection of desserts for takeaway, and keep celebrating at home."
Harry barely hears Dougray. He's too busy staring at him, watching how he sips, how his mouth moves when he talks over the rim of the cup. It's the best birthday dinner he's had in a long time. Almost. He does wish Karl could've been here instead of off to the States. But it's work and Harry understands that.
When Harry doesn't reply, Dougray looks at him curiously, notes the abstracted expression. Setting his cup aside, he leans in, close enough to watch how the flickering light of their table's candle changes the hue of Harry's hazel eyes. And he smiles. "You with me?"
"Huh?" Harry smiles, realizing he hasn't been paying attention. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"
Dougray laughs, obscurely flattered. He's not sure he can recall the last time someone was too busy watching his mouth to bother listening to his words, if it's ever happened before at all. "I was suggesting that we have dessert at home," he says quietly, slipping his hand beneath the tablecloth to touch Harry's knee.
"Dessert. Home. That'd be nice." Harry sighs, reaches down and takes Dougray's hand, squeezing it lightly. "Thank you for tonight. It was a great meal. A nice birthday."
"You're welcome." Dougray grins, and then transfers his attention to the waiter who approaches their table. He orders a few different sweet dishes to go, then returns the squeeze of Harry's fingers. "I enjoyed it too. Sorry Karl couldn't be here, but I'm sure he'll make it up to you."
"S'okay. Sure he will." Harry quickly changes the subject, not wanting to dwell on absent lover. "So, walk to the Tube or call a cab?"
"Let's walk," Dougray suggests, "that was quite a meal."
"We'll walk. Might find an alley." Harry grins, motions the waiter over to settle the bill.
"It's mine." Dougray takes the slip, and puts the takeaway bag into Harry's hand while he digs out his wallet. "I seem to recall there are a few alleys around here," he murmurs through his smile as he gets to his feet.
"I remember one with a nice brick wall," Harry says, slipping his hand down to casually hold Dougray's as they head to the door. "I guess the sweets'll survive if we stop."
Dougray grins and pushes open the door, and as they move away from the restaurant's lights and into the street darkness, he links their fingers more firmly together. The November chill in the air has him hunching inside his coat, but Harry is solid warmth at his side as they walk.
"I'll have to return the favour for your birthday," Harry murmurs as they walk. "You pick the place, full night out." He turns his head, smiles. "Dancing if you like. And, of course, sex."
"Sex, I'll definitely choose. Dancing?" Dougray slants a grin at Harry. "Have you got a tango in your soul you haven't told me of?"
"A tango, a rumbe. Or maybe you're the disco type." Harry enjoys the casual banter, the easy way he can talk with Dougray.
"Heaven forfend. That's the wrong side of the seventies for me," Dougray chuckles. For the most part he's relaxed, but his eyes are alert, checking for landmarks, familiar signs. "Which one's 'our' alley, anyway? Further on?"
Harry laughs out loud, tightening his grip on Dougray's hand. "Our alley. Hmm." He looks around. "One more up, I think. I'll have a plaque put up later this week."
It's strange watching his lovers walking hand in hand... happy and blissful without him. It's not the first time Karl's wondered if Dougray's a better match for Harry than he is and it probably won't be the last but he pushes the thought from his mind and gives the signal to those waiting. Two fake repair trucks shut down the street at either end and a large black van pulls up beside Harry and Dougray at they approach the entrance to the alley, four large men jumping out and accosting them before they have time to react.
There's no time to react, Harry having time to do little more than curse at dropping their dessert. He's not thinking beyond that, reasoning out why the assault's happening.
His arms yanked behind his back, Dougray kicks out and connects with flesh, but only earns himself the back of a fist. His ear is still ringing from the blow when the hood comes down, covering his face and muffling sound. "Harry?" he shouts, disoriented and landing heavily in what he assumes is the back of the van.
"Here," Harry shouts back, not having a clue where here is, except it's hard and he's landed on his shoulder. "Fuck. Who'd we piss off?"
Any answer Dougray might give is lost in curses when the strange hands let him go, but he realizes he's now bound, wrists and ankles. "Fuck fuck fuck." He wriggles and stops himself short when he collides with something solid. "Shit, is that you?"
Harry tests the new restraints. Nice and tight. He has to grin a bit at that, then shakes his head. Stupid. You shouldn't enjoy being kidnapped. "Yeah, it's me. Not a happy me, but me. You okay?"
"Yeah." Dougray is adapting less well to their circumstances. But then, his life hasn't held a great deal of drama up to this point. He inhales sharply and tries to clamp down on the reflexive edge of panic.
Karl's taken ahead to the warehouse by one of the "repair trucks". The place is Citadel property, bought exclusively with this type of scene in mind, and Karl shakes his head as he looks around. Soundproofed, everything double-bolted, chains hung just right, meat hooks glisteningly shiny. Aside from those things, it looks creepy as hell. "You guys do this a lot?" he asks one of the men.
"Couple times a week, sir," the man in charge of the others - John - grins back.
Karl laughs. Goes to the window and watches as the van pulls into the yard.
The van jerks to a stop and the motion pushes Dougray against Harry again before he's hauled out, landing hard on the ground. He shouts a muffled insult when he's kicked sharply in the ribs, but a blow to his stomach takes his breath away entirely before he's yanked to his feet.
The blows are coming more consistently as Harry's dragged out of the van. He can feel concrete beneath his feet, but nothing else gives clues to where he is or what's happening, although if he listens to the insane warped voice in the back of his head he has a growing suspicion. The guy hauling him toward more pain pulls too hard, wrenches his shoulder, aggravating a decade-old injury, and Harry screams without regard to who might not hear.
Karl pulls back from the window as the men get Harry and Dougray into the warehouse. For some reason, it's actually harder watching them be roughed up by others than to do it himself. Maybe because he knows exactly where to touch and where to stay away from or maybe because watching them be hurt makes him want to intercede. "Okay. When they get up here, I want just you," he nods to John, "and two more of your men. The others can go."
Harry's scream of real pain skitters along Dougray's spine, and he lunges in the direction of his voice, protection on his mind. A fat lot of good it does him, bound as he is, and his captors laugh as he over-balances and goes down face first onto the floor of the lift.
"You can stop anytime," Harry mutters, sarcasm taking over pain as his captor twisting his arm again as he pushes him out of the freight elevator. That's something, the sensation of going up, knowing he must be in one of the city's warehouses. "Going where you throw me."
"Which is the good doctor?" Karl asks when his lovers are hauled before him. He's put on an indefinable eastern European accent, might be able to confuse Harry a little longer - as long as he doesn't touch him.
"That one." John nods towards Dougray. "Should we remove their hoods?"
"No," Karl says, "Our employers want them kept alive and I don't want them able to identify us."
What the fuck? Dougray lifts his head and rocks back on his knees, trying to keep his balance. "What do you want?"
Doctor? Harry doesn't process at first, then he shakes his head, trying to clear it. Dougray's a geneticist. Fuck. "Gonna put us in the hospital, should at least answer the question," he says harshly.
Karl nods at John and the other man punches Harry in the stomach. "No fucking faggot tells us what to do," he says. "String him up. Maybe this one," indicating Dougray, "will be quicker to give us what we want."
Harry doubles over, cursing silently, struggling for a breath as the wind's knocked out of him. String him up. There's no way that's not going to hurt.
Dougray winces at the sound of Harry taking another blow. "I'm the doctor," he says loudly, repeating what they already know. "Leave off him and just tell me what you want." But fuck he hopes they don't want him to perform surgery on an injured comrade or anything, because his operating skills are a decade rusty.
"My employers tell me you are working on a mutation of some chromosome with natural immunity properties. They are very interested in your work," Karl says as he watches John and his men restrain Harry, hooking him up to the chains hanging from the ceiling.
It's a struggle not to scream when the chain's pulled up, Harry's shoulder wrenched beyond reason. "Fuck you," he sputters. "He's not going to tell you shit."
Shit. Dougray sinks his teeth into his lower lip, taking advantage of the concealing hood to let panic flood his face. It's nice that Harry already went ahead and stated his case for him, because... Shit. A hundred excuses flash through his mind, and he struggles to find the most plausible one. "I can't, anyway. It's not my project. I know a detail here or there, not the whole."
Once again, Karl nods to John and John nods to one of his men. The second man strikes Harry across the face. "You lie," Karl says simply to Dougray.
Shit shit shit. Dougray listens as Harry is struck again and he fights to focus on the problem at hand. "So what, you think I'm just going to stay here on my knees and spell out some complicated gene sequencing for you?" he sputters, hoping that if they're listening to him, maybe they'll at least pause in hurting Harry. "You know it won't happen that way. Take our hoods off, unbind us. Treat us like men."
"At some point, Dr. Scott, you are going to realize you're not the one in charge in here," Karl says. "That can be before we hurt your lover so badly he spends the rest of his life recovering, or after. It matters little to us."
It's a viciously brutal threat, and it's delivered with such calm that chills skitter down Dougray's spine. But the information they want could potentially mean billions of dollars in patent profits alone, and that's nothing compared to the sheer volume of power the secret-holder would wield; too much power for one corrupt entity to have.
"I..." I'm sorry, Harry. "I can't. There's nothing I can tell you."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Karl murmurs. "But not nearly as sorry as you and he will be," he adds, giving John the signal to cut away Harry's clothes. He considers using the distraction to remove Dougray's hood but decides against it. The more genuinely uncomfortable Dougray seems, the longer they'll be able to maintain the ruse.
"Fuck you." Harry twists as the knife makes first contact with his clothes, regretting it instantly, the pain shooting through his arms. "Sonofabitch, when I get hold of you, you're dead. Fuckin' new shirt," he mutters, thrashing to kick out his bound legs. "You can't hear through the accent?" He shouts in Karl's direction. "Or just dense? Good doctor can't give you the answer."
"Give me the wallet," Karl says to John. "Harry Sinclair," he pretends to read, rifling through it. "Well, Mr. Sinclair, it's not that the good doctor can't give us the answer, it's that you don't matter enough for him to do it."
"Wanna make a bet, asshole?" Harry says, sarcasm oozing on every word, pain overriding reason. "You kill me, he still can't give you the answer."
"He matters," Dougray insists loudly, his voice flat. Sick panic is flooding him. "If you want me to talk, let him go first."
"That's not the way it works," Karl says to Dougray, hearing the real fear in his voice and hoping he'll manage to keep it together. "And I will take that bet. Show the doctor we're serious," he says, glancing at John and his men. "We're going to rape him," he tells Dougray. "My men are going to take their turn with him, one after the other, and when they're done, they'll use whatever else they can find around here."
Not rape if you don't resist. It's not the smartest thought, but it's the first one to careen through Harry's brain. "Lucky me," he says, laughing. "Better kill me when you finish 'cause I'm a vindictive sort." Harry knows he's aggravating the matter, but for some reason he doesn't care. He's focused on keeping the attention on him rather than Dougray. Noble, futile gesture, hoping his lover gets free of whatever insanity they've gotten themselves into.
Dougray moans, agonized. He's been working idly at his wrist bonds for some time, but now he's yanking at them so hard that blood is dripping into his clenched fists. "It's chromosome 17," he says quietly, the words wrenched from him. Surely their captors' mysterious employers know that much already, but he's got to start somewhere.
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Karl asks, hauling off and slapping Dougray through the hood. "Do you?"
"Christ!" Dougray shouts, jarred from the unexpected smack. And it takes him from frightened to furious in an instant. "Does it fucking matter what I think?" he yells back.
"It does if you keep jerking us around," Karl replies calmly. "One of my men has a recorder. You will dictate to him the formula and any other information we need. I suggest you be as accurate as you can. If we let you go and find out you have given us the wrong information, we will hunt you down, kill you as painfully as possible and move on to one of your colleagues."
Silent and seething, Dougray takes a moment to digest all that. "If I tell you everything," he says, slowly and carefully, "then you'll have no reason to keep me alive." Muffled as they are by the hood, the words are flat and stark. Another moment, and he decides. "Let him go. Then I'll talk."
"This is your last chance, Dr. Scott," Karl says, sliding his jacket off to drop behind him and unzipping his jeans. "Give us the information now or we hurt your lover and then we hurt you."
There's nothing but instinct, and even when it's not smart it's a movement forward. "Don't, Dougray," Harry shouts, loud enough to echo through hood. "Pain's nothing. Better they not get the information."
Stalemate. Classic. No one's getting anywhere, and Dougray figures it's a guarantee at this point that he and Harry will be hurt more, no matter what. Right now he just wants them to stay alive. "Just let him go!"
"I don't think so," Karl says, the smirk evident in his tone. "Tell me... would you like to watch?" The question's rhetorical and he motions for the men to pull Dougray to his feet, restrain him.
"Fucking Christ, how am I supposed to answer that?" Dougray mutters, but in the next instant he's being pulled up and held immobile.
"You're not," Karl says, grabbing Dougray's balls through his trousers and squeezing hard.
"Fuck!" Dougray shouts and instinctively struggles-- which makes it hurt so much worse. Grinding his teeth into his lower lip, he forces himself to go still, and pants hard as he waits and hopes for the sudden rush of pain to fade.
"All talk," Harry shouts, trying to distract their captor's attention. "Too much foreplay. You plan on hurting me more, just do it."
"Ah, but maybe we'd rather hurt the good doctor here." Karl squeezes even harder. "He's very pretty. Is he still tight?"
"Probably not enough for you," Harry says, voice rough from screaming. "But, still, you're more used to taking it, I bet."
Dougray's pulling against the arms holding him back, pressing into the hand on his balls and trying to somehow get that grip to lessen. He wants those intact, damn it. "Just do it," he whispers, half hoping that Harry can't overhear him giving in. "Please just leave him alone."
"Hold him," Karl instructs the men. "If he changes his mind, you have the recorder." He moves across the room, behind Harry, pulls his cock from his jeans and rolls a condom on. Slips his leather gloves back on and spreads Harry's cheeks, nudging his cock between them, against his hole. "Mm. Yes. This is better. You're the tight one."
Harry startles, his body jerking forward at the touch, then unconsciously pushing back, instinct again betraying him. "Bastard," he mutters. At least he's leaving Dougray alone. "That desperate, you're raping guys." He wishes he could quit twisting, ease up the pain in his shoulder and arm, but he doesn't see that coming anytime soon.
Karl laughs, holding Harry in place and shoving into him. "Desperation has nothing to do with it," he says, pulling out and driving in again, each thrust taking him deeper and deeper. "I enjoy my work."
Now the sounds have filtered through Dougray's hood enough that he's finally making sense of them. And he's furious. "You bastard, get the fuck off him!" he shouts, struggling hard against the two men holding him.
Harry doesn't want to enjoy it, but there's something about the way he's being held, the careful brutality of those gloved fingers, the way the voice glides over him when it's close to his ear. "Fuckin' bastard, go ahead," he snarls, "take it 'cause I'm not giving you anything."
Karl laughs. "Oh but you are," he says with a particularly vicious thrust. "You're giving me exactly what I want. It's the doctor there who's holding out - which means he's next." He grunts, shoving in again, the friction fucking exquisite. "I think I'll let my men have him."
The men laugh as Dougray struggles, tightening their holds on him. "Hear that? You're next," one of them mutters against his ear.
"No," Harry screams. He twists, the sharp twinge in his shoulder shooting up his arm. "Touch him, you're dead. Hell, you're dead anyway after you finish with us." He's wriggling way too much, hurting himself more than his captor's managing. "Got this friend. He'll come after you."
"You fucking wish," Dougray mutters to the man holding him, but he knows as well as anyone that it's nothing but bravado at this point. His wrists are raw and bleeding, he's as good as immobile. And they've established he's complete shit at protecting his lover.
Karl groans as Harry struggles. He can't help himself. It only increases the sensation, the tightness around his cock. Fuck. "Who's next?"
"I'll go," John volunteers, stepping behind his men and sliding a hand between Dougray's thighs. "I'd rather have this one though." He knows he won't be having either but he'll enjoy what he can.
"Enough," Harry shouts. He can't safeword out of a situation he has no control over, can't get control of a situation that's insane. "Stop it. Leave him alone."
With that, Karl comes, emptying himself into the condom. It's good but not as good as it could be. "If you want it to stop," he says, disposing of the condom and moving around to face Harry. "I suggest you convince the good doctor to give us what we need."
"I suggest you drop the charade, just kill me." Harry laughs, his body's pain nearly unbearable. "He can't give you what you need. It's useless to torture him."
"No one's fucking killing anyone," Dougray grits out, and slams his head back at whomever the hell is groping him. Then he's groaning at the collision of their skulls. "Motherfucker, just get the fuck off me!"
Karl laughs. Leaves Harry alone for the moment as he crosses the floor back to Dougray, his hand pushing John's out of the way, firmly stroking Dougray through his trousers.
"Oh fuck." The words are whispered; Dougray knows that touch, the intense determination of it, and he groans for an entirely different reason as his cock start to swell in conditioned response. "God, no, please don't," he whimpers, but it's a half-hearted protest at best.
Without a word, Karl unzips Dougray's trousers, taking his cock in hand, fingers tight, stroking insistently.
Dougray moans, and tries to fight his response. He shouldn't be aroused right now, damn it. But fuck those fingers are good, and he ignores the snicker of one of his other captors and sags back against the hard body behind him.
"Now we're getting somewhere." Karl pulls away, pressing Dougray back down to the ground, forehead to the floor. He wets his fingers and pushes them inside Dougray, his other hand reaching for his cock again, stroking roughly.
Shit. Weeks of plotting, detailed plans, careful maneuvering... and it all gets blown to hell as soon as Karl does that. "Oh god Sir, please!" Dougray moans without thinking, unable to help rocking his hips back to fuck himself on Karl's fingers, shuddering when they rub him just right.
Sir? The word echoes in the concrete room, slicing into Harry's brain. "Sir?" he mutters, shaking his head. No. Couldn't be. They wouldn't. He thinks, recycling the voice in his head, the accent. Should've realized. Those hands. Gloves. It's a process of coming to his senses. "Karl," he says, very slowly and much more calmly than he expects, "it stops. Now."
"Fucking hell," Karl murmurs, accent dropped instantly. "Let him down," he directs the men, pulling his fingers from Dougray and wiping them on his jeans. He removes Dougray's hood. "Do your pants up, boy."
Blinking against the light, Dougray does as he's ordered, his hands shaking slightly. Bloody fuck. He screwed things up and he knows it, feels like an idiot about it. But it's the dangerous edge to Harry's calm voice that has panic curling in his gut.
Harry hisses again when his arms are free. "Fuck," he mutters, shoulder twisting as he brings his arms down, feet finally free and touching the floor. He's at the mercy of the guys holding him to get him settled onto the floor, and when his hood's off, he's squinting hard against the light, dim that it is, but the glare's there. Calm down, Harry. Think before you speak. It's a self-admonishment he doesn't exactly heed. "You can get the hell away now," he growls at the henchmen. "Far away, before I get my strength back."
"You can go," Karl tells John and his men. "I'll see you're taken care of later," he adds, before turning to Harry. He can tell, the way his lover's holding himself, that he's hurt, and it goes beyond being fucked almost raw and shoved around. "What's hurting?" he asks, moving gentle hands over Harry's body as he removes the last of the bonds.
"Bastard," Harry murmurs, growl a little lower, when Karl touches him. "Your fucking playmates tore my shoulder. Out of socket, at least. Think something ripped this time." He looks past Karl to Dougray. "He okay?"
"I'm all right," Dougray mumbles, getting to his feet and joining them. "Just pissed off I didn't break that guy's nose." He steps closer to inspect Harry's shoulder, then slips out of Karl's way.
"He's fine," Karl says, taking a good look at the arm in question. "I'll have to put it back in, unless you want to see a doctor?"
"Put it back in. Might end up at the doctor anyway." Harry's maintaining a calm exterior, but his tone is terse, barely shy of harsh, and he lowers it to a whisper. "Known it was a scene, Karl, I'd've thought harder about safewording."
In the dead silence of the warehouse, Dougray catches every word, even though he's moved away to check out the first-aid kit left behind by Karl's men. Fuck. He'd studied Harry's Citadel profile, and had extrapolated from it that Harry would enjoy a good mindfuck... shows just how little he understands of all this. Joining his sirs once more, he hands Harry a water bottle and then wordlessly offers a selection of painkillers.
Harry picks through the offering, takes the strongest he sees. He opens the bottle, wincing at the simple twisting motion, stupidly forgetting to not use his arm. "Fuck." He downs the pills quickly and hands the water back to Dougray. "Not that it wasn't fun," he mutters, trying to breathe more easily, "but it's a bit more intense than I expected for my birthday."
"I'm sorry," Karl says, glancing at Dougray before returning his attention to Harry. "I thought it would work best if you didn't know, but obviously I fucked up."
Harry leans forward, brushing a kiss over Karl's lips. "I love you, and you didn't fuck up." He knows Karl well enough to know exactly the guilt trip he's laying on himself right now. "It's the pain talking, Karl. If it hadn't gotten so rough so fast, I'd be enjoying the hell out of it." There's also the factor of their boy, of Dougray being hurt, and Harry's never had to process keeping someone else out of trouble. But he's uncertain about trying to explain that aspect of why this scene affected him more than others.
Dougray relaxes minutely with the words, and makes a mental note that, in future, 'intense' is not to be for birthdays. Valentine's Day, perhaps. He slips behind Harry to hold him, caress him gently. And help brace him for when Karl takes hold of his arm.
Harry leans back into Dougray's arms, the hold comforting, reassuring. "Love you, too, boy. Don't like the notion of you being hurt like that, when I can't get to you."
"Yeah, that was hard for me, too," Dougray admits. He brushes his lips over Harry's nape, grateful for this brief interlude of peace and reconnection. And he grins wryly at Karl. "I hated that bloody hood."
Karl chuckles softly. "Yeah, well, it made it easier to play your part, didn't it?" He stands, putting one hand on Harry's shoulder and gripping his forearm with the other. "You ready?" Christ, he fucking hates having to do this.
"No, but go ahead." Harry braces as well as he can, knowing the agony of putting his shoulder back into place is going to be infinitely worse than when it was dislocated. He doesn't bother holding back the scream when Karl pulls his arm up, just lets it echo off the cold walls.
Dougray winces and holds Harry tight, then strokes over his good shoulder when it's done. "Anything else to tend to before we get you home and start pouring scotch down your throat?"
"Want anything from either of us?" Karl asks.
"Nothing much, Karl." Harry's not out of pain, nowhere near it. He laughs, though, at Dougray's assumption he'll be downing scotch. He's past the alcohol point. "Vicodin when I get home, and a sling, or you're gonna have to tape the arm down," he continues, "and, oh yeah, your servitude for the week to make up to me."
"Mine?" Karl grins. "Define servitude." He wonders if Harry realizes just how much Dougray had to do with this. But he's not about to fucking point it out. Better on his head than their boy's.
"I've already got his," Harry says, nodding to Dougray, still leaning back into their boy's arms. "But he works days, and you don't right now, so you can wait on me hand and foot, 'cause this arm is gonna be no use for a few weeks."
Dougray lifts an eyebrow as he listens, and watches Karl carefully. This should be interesting.
"I suppose I can manage that," Karl murmurs, shaking his head in amused disbelief as he collects up the first-aid kit. Offers Harry another couple pills.
Harry opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue and licks the pills from Karl's palm, swallowing them quickly. "Sure you can. Now, think you manage to get me home without breaking anything else?"
[feedback wanted; comments screened] |
|
|
![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}