Chapter Text
It’s not a gentle reawakening. One moment it’s darkness, the next, the world is a kaleidoscope of pain. It’s centered most actively around Tim’s head, because of course it is.
It’s probably a concussion. He's had an annoying amount of them over the years. The slight sickness and confusion cements it, and he’s a little disoriented as he remembers the situation that brought him here.
He'd lost a fight with the hooded man. The iron on his tongue, the pain across his body, is proof of that.
It wasn't pretty.
And maybe he shouldn't have tried without backup. Jay could have helped. As skinny as Jay was, Tim was certain he could get scrappy in a fight. …Or he could have at least tripped the other. …Thrown a rock.
Visions of thin wrists and broken bones flood Tim’s mind.
No, it was better Jay wasn’t there. Tim didn’t want him hurt.
Tim knows he cracked the masked man good somewhere in the face, and he knows in turn he was shoved back, and lost consciousness for some time.
In that time, he seems to have been dragged somewhere. He can feel the lingering prickles on his skin. Snagged branches broken off at splintering angles, scraped raw elbows. The somewhere he’s been brought to is mostly covered. There’s a bit of wind coming from cracks in the wall, some dappling of shadows shaking their leaves. Bugs and birds and squirrels chitter from the outside.
Tim tries to open his eyes, and all he sees is swimming blurs, so he closes them again. He’s propped against a wall, his ass on something a bit softer, but only a bit.
It's hot now, his coat (was he wearing that before? Tim doesn't think so) is bunching in places from tight ropes twisting his arms behind his back.
As he blinks, he notices something more.
Oh, hell.
The hooded man is leaning over him.
Or, well. Sitting over him. Too close. Way too close.
The mask is gone. Tim recognizes him, something twisting in his stomach... but it's hazy. Like his brain is fighting him as he tries to identify him.
So he starts like a puzzle, one piece at a time, edging past the fog in his brain to get the whole picture.
There's a gentle thumb rubbing at the edge of his lips as a cool substance dries over them. Lipstick?
He struggles to focus, getting the first piece of the puzzle: the eyes.
One is familiar, the other is an empty socket, like someone had plucked the eye right out. They're light lashes, a concentrated intensity in the remaining warm hazel. The blow he'd struck is apparent over one of the brows, where the skin has split and oozes a lazy trickle of blood.
The thumb brushes his cheek now, and he loses focus for a moment. It’s so…tender. Familiar. The gesture makes the heat rise in his face, and he gets a pleased hum, the thumb turning nail down to drag over the red skin for a moment. Teasing. Like he’s saying “I saw that.”
Tim refocuses.
Brown hair, thin and messy. Muscled weight over his hips. A warm firmness presses against him, and...oh. Tim shifts, embarrassed. Then decides, actually, he's a bit belated in attempting to escape, so he turns that move into a twist, trying to throw him off and straining at the ropes. His body makes it some way, dragging across what he now realizes is a mattress.
The man is swift and uncompromising, pinning him firmly and shaking him by the hair until he stops.
“Stop-” He groans. The motion makes Tim dizzy, his head pounding and making him feel slightly ill, and he shuts his eyes. “Okay, Okay!” He mumbles, going limp in defeat.
The hand on his hair smooths over his forehead, intimate. Gentle. A spring digs into his back, the man's cock hard against his thigh as Tim tries to breathe without throwing up. Then the hand moves away, and a quiet clatter sounds as the man picks something up.
Tim groans and blinks his eyes open as the hand on his jaw tightens, and he's hushed, harshly.
His eyes roll over to the man's mouth, smiling and fixed, front teeth gapped a bit. And, oh.
He might be sick. Something’s twisting in his stomach. Déja vu is bubbling like food poisoning, something from his past coming back and making him ill.
The brush is towards his eyes now, lining carefully over his eyelid and up around his brow. He tries not to blink much. The mouth quirks, fixed smile turning into something warm and genuine.
And of course that's what makes it click.
Tim has seen that smile so many times. He used to see it every day. His eyes would flick down and stare at it instead of in the eyes of the man talking, overwhelmed by his intensity. Watch him form words, jokes, stick his tongue out at him.
Tim knows this mouth.
"Bri-?" He starts, and the brush is moved away from his face. He's shaken again, this time by the jaw, the voice gravely and halting as it comes out.
"...No. Quiet." The syllables sound chewed on, spat out, and the smile has faltered just a bit. Tim stares at him as he draws back, letting him get a good look.
Brian's face is hard, rougher than he'd remembered. And, hell. What happened to him? He looks older than he should be. There are bags under his eyes, a sallow tint to his skin, stubble rough across a jaw scattered with small scars.
…And that hoodie. Tim’s teeth clench, angry. The hand on his jaw tightens. "Shh. Don't say anything." Brian instructs, in that slow way.
Tim blinks, and a million questions bubble under his skin that he wants to ask. Where has he been? Why is he doing this? Why is he running around in the woods? Why has he been stealing his medication? Stalking him? Why, why, why??
Brian looks at him, waiting. Okay. Tim thinks to himself. He’s at the mercy of this man. He’s not going to get out of this if he doesn't at least try to play along. Keep him happy, keep yourself alive.
And…it’s Brian isn’t it? His friend. Or. Ex-friend. Their history should count for something.
Something’s clearly curdled in their relationship, something that itches at the back of Tim’s brain, insistent. Trying to break free.
Brian’s staring at him, waiting. Tensed, as if he expects Tim to struggle again.
And usually he would.
But.
Tim inhales. Wills the words away. Nods. A surprised, pleased, hum rumbles from the other man. Brian leans down and carefully, meticulously, brushes over his other eye. Examines his work.
Tim keeps his mouth shut, twisting it down. Brian moves his hand to the side, then lifts something, holding it up beside Tim’s face. It’s white, mostly, the inside’s discolored a bit, like the paint is wearing away from use. Tim can see the holes in in it. And, oh.
Oh.
It’s the mask. He’s comparing Tim’s face to the mask.
(Something twinges. A feeling of loss. Sliding away, like that other version of himself may rise up and overtake him.)
Brian clears his throat, tilts his head, expectantly.
Tim glares at him. Brian's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Perfect." He whispers.
And then Brian leans down and kisses him.
It's not nice. It's not soft, he's sucking on his tongue and shoving Tim hard against the creaky old mattress.
It's like he wants to crawl into his skin, and Tim finds himself clumsily kissing back. Despite how fucking deranged this is, maybe pathetically, Tim wants to participate. It feels nice to be wanted.
He wants to put his hands up against his cheeks, yank Brian down, murmur all sorts of "what the fuck man's" or maybe play at the beginnings of forgiveness but when he tries to form words Brian shushes against his mouth again.
Brian yanks Tim's leg up, hiking the seam of his jeans up against his dick and grinding and shit. It's been too long. He can feel that phantom throb, like that drag pressing rough fabric against him is enough to already know what it's like to have Brian's cock in him.
And maybe stockholm syndrome kicks in quicker when you know the guy, or maybe his concussion is impeding his thinking because Tim wants to know what it feels like.
He’ll unpack how fucked up that is later.
He grinds back, and Brian seems delighted, curling a hand in his hair and smashing him closer.
Tim doesn't even care that he can taste the lipstick on his tongue. And Brian’s saliva is sour, a bit rancid. Like he’s not brushed his teeth in…a while. Tim doesn’t care. He doesn't care that his fingers are going prickly from the pressure of rope and bodyweight on his wrists.
He's drunk with that déja vu, that feeling of sickness and longing, enough so that he's chasing after Brian's lips as he pulls back.
Brian's got a smear of black across his lips and a wild look in his eyes as he looks down at Tim. He dives back in and Tim takes a breath, expecting another kiss, but Brian's burying his face in his neck, teeth pulling at the skin there.
Less kisses than bites. Loving brutality, pulling bruises from his skin.
The shitty mattress creaks as Brian shimmies Tim’s pants down, pressing a palm up against Tim, thumbing his cock.
Tim hums, pressing his nose into Brian’s hair. It’s greasy. Sweaty. It smells a bit like the polyester of that mask, sweat, and dirt.
And it makes him curious again, curious enough to forget the role he’s meant to be playing here.
“What are you even- Ow!” Tim cuts off his words with a yelp as Brian bites down, hard, hissing a shush into his skin.
He pushes Tim’s shirt up instead, roughly, all the way up to his collarbone.
His nails drag down across his collarbone and down over his pecs, catching on his scars and pulling at the skin. Tim feels something tear under the numb skin, or the phantom of tearing, and shivers.
Brian’s tongue laves over his nipple, teeth catching and harshly pulling.
Tim squirms as his mouth passes lower, biting at his stomach, hand between his legs moving to part them. Brian presses his tongue to the tip of Tim’s cock, and he gasps as it slides down, capturing the slick from his cunt and inhaling before suctioning over him.
“Fffuck-” Tim groans, eyes fluttering shut. His knees clamp around his head - and Brian’s fingers dig into his skin, pressing his thighs hard enough to the mattress that Tim can feel the old springs poking into them.
He opens his eyes, meeting the heated gaze burning into his.
Brian’s tongue flicks against him and he sucks, hard. Tim gasps, pulling his lip between his teeth. He can taste that dark, bitter, lipstick, and it only seems to encourage Brian, whose gaze darkens and he sucks him like his life depends on it.
And, god, it’s been so long. Tim’s body is tight, and despite the fear and the sweat and the sore wrists, he knows he’s not going to last long.
And he doesn’t. Maybe he would have been ashamed of that once, but shame is a long way from this cabin in the woods. It isn’t long until Tim’s body tenses, his eyes screwing shut, his back arching into him to-
Brian pops off his cock, and the edge of orgasm fades, leaving Tim wet and cooling and hanging as he withdraws. Tim’s eyes fly open, and there’s Brian, smirking, wiping his hand across his chin slowly. He makes no move to go back down as he rises to his palms.
Tim stares at him, shocked. “You asshole.” He hisses, and Brian laughs, crawling over him.
Feeling vindictive, Tim tries to knee him and Brian catches it, shaking his head as he pulls his legs apart again. He stretches them wider than they probably have to go, and there’s a twinge in Tim’s lower back that makes him grunt.
Without any further preparation, Brian drives his hips into Tim’s, his cock sliding into his cunt with all the practiced ease of a man who’s done this many times before.
It punches the breath out of Tim, and he inhales through his nose, trying to loosen up instead of clamp down. It’s a stretch, and it burns less than it would have, but it also feels…good. Fuck. Stupidly so, even though Tim wants to rake his nails over Brian for being such a bastard about this.
No condom? No proper prep? God, he’d hit him if he could.
(...It also feels familiar, and Tim can’t think about that. He can’t think about whether they’ve done this before. Or how much of himself he was while it was happening. What that would mean for all this.
…He’s just getting over the dizziness, and he can’t afford to lose his grip on reality right now.)
Brian presses a kiss to the corner of Tim’s mouth and Tim bares his teeth at him. He can feel the man’s cock twitch in him at the show of teeth.
Freak.
He doesn’t remember Brian being so turned on by violence, but Tim doesn’t remember him caring much about makeup either. Or following people through the woods. Or stealing their meds. Or really even Tim in this sort of way. Things have obviously changed.
Tim snaps his teeth at him as Brian draws back and sinks back in, testing the give of the mattress, adjusting his knees. Tim’s teeth don’t connect, Brian’s head twisting away at the last moment. He grabs the bottom of Tim’s shirt and shoves it in his mouth and Tim chokes on the fabric.
And then he’s fucking him, fast and deep and brutal. Tim’s gut is clenched painfully, and he curls his legs against Brian’s hips, trying to help guide the movement, or squirm away.
He’s not really sure which he’s going for, and he’s going to unpack all of that when he’s not being fucked so hard into this mattress that he can hardly get a breath in.
It feels good and terrible and strange all at once. The creaking of the stupid mattress echoes in his ears and Brian’s breaths come out deep and feral and Tim’s screwing his eyes shut and grinding his teeth against fabric and chasing the tightening feeling in his body as the previously forgotten orgasm starts building again.
A thumb is fumbling between his legs and Tim cries out, tensing through an orgasm.
Brian finishes in him before Tim’s fully back in himself.
Again. Rude. He’d kick him if he had any sort of energy to. They’re both breathing hard, and Brian pulls out of him.
And. Oh god, he’s still going. Tim squirms, dick sensitive- but Brian’s not letting up. Brian rubs it at a brutally fast pace, nuzzling into his neck. Tim can feel his cum cooling on his thighs, and Brian’s dick is hardening again against his skin.
…And it’s a change, under all this, to be the cornered prey.
Maybe he likes it, as long as he has his teeth in something in return. As long as he can pull at ropes and say he tried.
…And isn’t that kind of fucked up? Tim’s always been a fighter, albeit a reluctant one.
But he can’t now, he’s soaked in sweat. Tied up. And it’s a relief, and it’s overwhelming, the smell of sweat and cum and dirt and blood-
His vision darkens, and he curls against the man over him. Breathes, and oh, fuck, Brian’s still going.
“Brian-” He gasps, squirming away from the touch. It hurts, throbbing with each move, but Brian’s not having it. He bites Tim’s neck, free hand yanking him back in place by his sweaty shirt as he jerks him off, brutal, harsh enough he’s practically chafing him with his nails.
And Tim shouldn’t really find that hot, but he’s dizzy, and being pushed around is something he’s just not used to. He squirms.
“No.” The word is a snarl, delivered into his skin hard enough he can feel it reverberate. “Stay.”
He claws at the mattress under him, sobs and twitches. “Can’t-”
“You can.” Brian coos, voice gravelly and demanding, and Tim can feel his pulse in his cock, in each bruise on his skin as Brian works up the tension in him again.
He hums as he feels Tim’s body tense. Licks up his throat, teeth closing on his ear.
Tim shudders. Clenches his eyes tight and teeth tighter as he rocks through another orgasm, painful as much as it is pleasurable.
And Brian’s shoving his fingers in him as he sobs from oversensitivity. And it’s still so much, but he’s fluttering around them, and just relieved to have a break from his cock.
Brian jerks his body around and grinds Tim’s face into the mattress. Salty fingers press against his lips, and he parts them, letting Brian manhandle his tongue and hook under his teeth as he drives into his sore cunt.
Brian fucks him until he’s too weak to move. Only interrupted by a moment to reapply lipstick. Sicko. Tim’s under no impression that it looks good on him. Especially not drenched in sweat. But he clearly doesn’t understand these motivations, and the slightly tender look Brian gives him while he’s doing it makes it all worth it.
At a few points Tim swears there’s a flash, or a reflection of a light in his face, and it wouldn’t surprise him if Brian is taping this for his little youtube channel but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have the capacity to right now, even if normally the idea of it would make him sick. Make him want to punch his nose in.
And hey, he still reserves the right to later.
…Later.
Later.
He’s too tired to care.
When he wakes, his hands have been untied. A body wraps around his back, nose pressed into his skin. He feels gross, and confused, the previous night nothing but a haze of fucking. Round after round. His head swims with it, his whole body a pulse of heat and bruises and exhaustion.
The man’s face is forgotten. The context slipped away, tucked into some corner of his brain he can’t access. When he tries to remember who it is, it slips through his mind, dripping away gently. Tim wants to twist around and check.
…But he’s also warm. And somehow, this feels comfortable. Familiar. He’s being held like he’s something precious, something to keep close.
The weight across his back comforts him as he drifts to sleep.