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in all honesty, jay can tell tim’s going to cuss him out the second he gets out of his car.
what he isn’t expecting is tim’s solid right hook, connecting perfectly with his unaware face and sending a hot rush of pain through his jaw, his whole body. it’s a fucking haymaker. it feels amazing.
“student film, you lying piece of -”
the next one is better. tim’s planted his feet, is growling and spitting right in jay’s personal space, knocks him back against the car and takes another shot at him, righteous anger coming off him like steam, like the suffocating smell of stale cigarettes -
jay drops the camera. his heart thuds in his head, hot spot of blood in his mouth where he cut his tongue on his teeth. all at once he feels like a live wire. tim’s still shouting, raving, and when he turns to jay and grabs the collar of his shirt, pins him back against the car, dizzy and limp, he hears himself whimper. hopes it sounds pained.
“when were you gonna tell me?”
“tonight,” jay manages, and tim shakes him.
“tonight? tonight?”
tim slaps him, and it just rattles him, barely even hurts, but maybe that’s why; it feels like he’s just disciplining him, shut up, and jay’s head snaps to the side and he lets out a soft moan.
“you’re fucking kidding me.”
tim drops him against the car, glares down at his groin with a disgusted curl to his lip that does nothing to help the situation.
“i’m sorry, i -”
“you’re seriously getting hard over this?”
jay bites his lip to stifle the sound that tries to coax out of him. “i- i didn’t -”
“you didn’t mean to? just like you didn’t mean to lie to me? to follow me?’
he tries to speak, but there’s not much to say, not a lot in his head to gather up, and while he’s fumbling tim hits him again, cracks his knuckle on jay’s nose and makes him cry out. the pain spikes right through his face with the certainty that it’s bleeding before he even feels the wetness start to drip down his lip.
“you’re such a little creep,” tim tells him, and jay knows he’s right. “all you’ve been doing is making everything worse, you think you’re helping with this freak investigator shit - i know it wasn’t a coincidence you were outside my doctor’s office. three goddamn months ago, jay, i was getting better! and you just can’t leave it alone, can’t take any of this seriously. does it all get you off? the fucking - running after crazy people in abandoned buildings? were you hoping he’d beat the shit out of you if you caught up to him? is that your endgame for when you track down alex?”
“no,” jay manages, trying to swipe away the blood running into his mouth, “tim, i’m sorry, what was i supposed to do? i needed to know if i could trust you.”
“trust me?” tim shoves him, a growl in his voice, grabs his shoulders with his broad hands and pushes him, hard, knocks jay to the ground. his knees take most of it, but he scrapes his palm on the pavement and whimpers, tries again to apologize, but tim kicks him in the side and he drops down on his stomach like a scared animal, his cock throbbing at the kiss of his boot. steel-toe, a good working-class southern boy. jay groans.
“i’m glad your trust is so fucking important. funny, i always thought that was a two-way street. you didn’t seem that concerned about my trust when you were lying to my face.”
the next one connects with jay’s ribs, and he moans, curls up on his side, fetal and helpless - tim nudges rudely at his hard cock, like he’s experimenting with how jay’s gonna take it, and he tries to lie still, be good, whimper out, “i’m sorry.”
tim kicks him in the balls. jay shouts, moaning and squirming, sparks shooting off behind his eyes, a suffocating, drowning wave of pain, so big and black it overwhelms any other sensation.
“t-thank you,” he gasps, “‘m sorry, tim, i’m sorry.”
“yeah, you are. i want you to knock it off. leave me out of it.” he’s punctuating every sentence with another thudding shot at him, his blood-heavy cock and his bony chest and one he thinks genuinely gets him in the fucking kidney, for the amazing, instant headrush of debilitating pain, the knowledge he’s going to be feeling it in the morning.
oh, fuck, jay squirms - wonders if he can convince tim wordlessly somehow to step right on him, leave a bruise in the shape of his shoe-print, but the thought of the black and blue he’s leaving is already almost too much. he’s rubbing his thighs together, his cheek to the dirty concrete, and he hears tim call him disgusting, perverted, and he whines. knows he’s drooling, bleeding, filthy. pathetic. it’s so good of tim to do it like this, he’ll learn his lesson, surely, surely, if he just kicks him one more time - maybe two -
“fuck! oh, thank you, thank you tim, i’m sorry. fuck.” the pain in his dick is one thing, the incredible sparkling agony of tim crushing his goddamn testicles, but the other thing is the pressure tim’s putting on it, the contact it’s aching for, jay feels drunk with it. loose and out of himself. he doesn’t even know where the camera ended up.
“you’re sick in the head,” tim tells him, and jay nods, scrapes his cheek, i am, i am, blood in his mouth, sore and stinging and squirming, like a stupid animal, trying to grind his cock on nothing. “you’re seriously fucked up.”
“yes, yes, i am, i - tim -” he breaks off into a moan, something way too lewd for the hard kick to his stomach that preceded it. “t-thank you,” he pants.
“yeah, that’s right. what else?”
“‘m sorry.” his nose is clotting, he thinks, maybe. it’s a lot of blood in his mouth still, thick and metallic, bubbling out onto the pavement when he speaks. tim shoves the toe of his boot between his legs, lets jay, he thinks, grind against it for a moment, blessed relief, before he pulls back and kicks into him again, and again, and jay feels like he's floating above himself. dreaming. high on something expensive, and perfect, and thank you, he’s so sorry, he’s nothing, he’ll do whatever tim wants.
“don’t tell me you’re gonna cum like that.”
“f-fine, i won’t - ah! motherfuck!”
he can’t tell if tim’s hitting the sore spots on purpose, or if his body’s just made of them now. they can both be true. jay feels like his whole torso is purple.
“you really don’t know when to quit.” he’s right. jay never has. he can’t quit this thing, has never been able to, doesn’t think he will until he gets - something. answers. vengeance. something.
“i was getting better,” he says again, “until you showed up, with your freaky fucking camera, won’t even look anyone in the eyes. you’re not even trying to fix anything, you just get off on - on the thrill of it all, don’t you? one day that thing’s gonna kill you, or alex is, or that freak in the mask, and you’ll probably like that, too.”
“‘m sorry,” jay says thickly, his tongue heavy and half-numb, swallowing around the mess in his mouth. tim nudges his nose, sets it off stinging again, bleeding fresh, gives it a hard tap that stabs up his sinuses, gets him coughing, sputtering, spitting red up on the concrete, on tim’s boot.
“gross,” he mutters from on high, that disgusted look again. “you’re getting me all nasty.” he shoves the wet leather into jay’s lips, and his mouth is messier but the implication is clear, and his face burning, jay opens his mouth and laps up the spray of blood and saliva he left. cleans up the mess he made.
“like a stupid dog,” tim murmurs. like jay isn’t even meant to hear it. he can taste the leather, under the iron, under the wet, stale taste of his own spit, and he chases it, licks up the sides of tim’s shoe, trying to get every drop. trying to make things right. thank you, he thinks again, tim’s making things so simple.
“‘course you’d like that too.” tim shifts a little, like he’s uncomfortable, hurting his bad leg maybe. there’s a beat, filled only with the wet, obscene sound of jay’s tongue, and then, “what do you say?” he asks, his voice quieter, rougher, pulling in at the edges.
“thank you,” jay tells him, almost automatic, in between rhythmic laps up his shoe, “thank you.” he’s almost got it all.
“you’re pathetic,” tim mutters, almost sounding disbelieving.
jay whimpers. keeps his head down. he is, he knows he is. chasing tim around like a dog after the wrong lead, another dead end, another line crossed. he’s so fucked up. it’s just a mercy tim’s being so nice about it.
he’s rolled over on his stomach, mostly, sort of got his knees under himself again, trying to make it half-comfortable to do this on concrete, but when he tries to get up a little further tim kicks him in the side, knocks him back down. grinds his heel down meanly into jay’s ribs, drives the breath from his chest, forces him flat on his back. the orange glow of the streetlight is too bright to see his face, backlit like an angel, a golden halo around his dark hair, but jay can picture his disdainful frown. sick of him. sick of his shit. jay whines.
the pavement’s hurting his tailbone. the adrenaline is too high to really feel it. tim kicks him in the balls again, plants his foot on his thigh for a moment and spreads his legs, pushes until it really starts to hurt, until jay gets the joke - he could break it, and leave jay here, and he’d deserve it. he drives his sole down and jay groans, whimpers another apology, squirms under the cold fear of his femur shattering under tim’s weight.
he doesn’t, small mercy, pulls off and leaves jay gasping, spasming with it, hot, bone-deep ache, the terror up in his throat choking him worse than the blood.
“get up,” tim mutters after a second, and he’s not looking at him. almost sounds sheepish.
jay almost tries to scramble to his feet, but he thinks better of it, clambers clumsily up on his knees and looks up for some clue to what tim wants from him.
“i’m not - just, i- i can’t do this. i’m not joining your stupid little investigation, jay, i can’t. you need to leave it alone.”
“okay,” jay nods, and his blood drips onto the concrete, flicks off of him, little perfect spots of red. “yes,” anything he says, jay can do it.
tim looks down at him, and away again. he must look a mess. ruined, totally fucked up, disgusting. tim shifts his weight between his feet a bit, leans back on the car.
“i’m not like him,” he says, haltingly. “i don’t - i’m not -” he huffs in frustration, grumbles something to himself. “i don’t want any part of this.”
jay nods again, and tim stretches his leg out, the one he walks a little funny on, just enough for the toe of his boot to touch jay’s hard-on.
jay whimpers, arches up into it before he catches himself, peeks through his lashes up at tim -
“go ahead,” he mutters. doesn’t look him in the eye.
“thank you,” jay says, breathless, “thankyouthankyou,” and he’s rutting against tim’s boot like a dog, like something in heat, not caring how ridiculous he looks when it’s putting this glorious friction on his cock, the seam of his jeans pressing painfully into tim’s boot, into his sore dick, he’s so close already it hurts. “thank you.”
“yeah. and?”
“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, fuck,” jay can barely get the angle he needs but the desperate, sweaty work of finding it is just making him harder. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, tim, can you -? just a little, ah -”
“harder?” tim shoves at him painfully. “take what you get.”
jay nods. whimpers, pushes himself up as far as his legs will strain, trembling, rocking into his touch, “‘m sorry, thank you, thank you.”
“yeah, i know.” tim does not tell him he’s forgiven, or he’s welcome. it’s exactly what he needs, the dismissal, the total refusal to give him any slack. why would he. jay’s disgusting. jay’s filthy, perverted, not good enough for tim’s kindness. he’s lower than dirt, lower than the ground these beautiful shoes walk on. a fucking creep, doing this, he knew the whole time why he liked following tim around, digging into his life, and it was never for any savory reason. he wanted this. he needed this.
“i don’t have all night,” tim mumbles, almost to himself. “gonna act like a freak, fuckin’ see it through. you can do it, you fucking love it.”
yes, jay nods, thank you, and he’s whimpering, shaking, his thighs sore, his everything sore, and tim presses into him again, a little growl of impatience, and jay falls apart completely.
it echoes around the empty parking lot when he cums, shouting with it, arching his back and stammering, “o-oh god, t-thank you,” jerking his hips up stupidly still as tim takes his foot back and watches impassively, moaning and twitching and drooling on himself. he thinks he goes deaf for a second, out-of-body, still mumbling something, tim’s name, and he’s sorry, and oh fucking god thank you, thank you, is he crying -?
he sniffles, but it’s so wet already it’s hard to tell. he hears a soft shuffling above him, and then a lighter flicks, and tim’s voice sighs.
“here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says, his voice hard. “we’re gonna get in our own separate cars, go our own separate ways, and i’m gonna try and forget this ever happened. you can keep making your little detective videos, but leave me out of it.”
jay sniffs again. something dark and thick drips onto his jeans, already soiled in the front. “i - i need your help,” he murmurs pathetically to his lap.
“what makes you think i want to help you? i’m going home, jay. i suggest you do the same.”
it feels like the ground’s dropped out from under him. jay nods, numbly, and tim’s boots stomp across the lot, and his car door slams, and jay doesn’t move for a long time. there’s a chill in the air that wasn’t there when he got out of the car, and his jeans are wet, and cold, and his knees ache - and for whatever reason he doesn’t care about any of it, barely feels it.
he picks himself up eventually, and has to grab the car for support as his legs try to give out, completely dead asleep, and every bone in his body protests at its sudden return to the standing world.
another lead lost, then. he leans on the driver’s side door and waits out the pins and needles, wonders when he got to be such a fuck-up.
-
he can’t help himself when he gets back to the hotel. like a compass needle due north he finds himself compelled to the bathroom, to the giant mirror, admiring tim’s handiwork on his face, the dark spot already blooming on his cheek, up his jaw.
there’s blood encrusted all over his face, smeared across his mouth, down his nose. tear tracks in a layer of grime he must’ve picked up on the ground, gravel sticking to the spot high on his cheekbone where tim’s knuckles cut him. it’s gorgeous. he’s never liked the way he looked this much before.
it’s that same compulsion that has him pulling his shirt over his head, twisting this way and that to find the dark patches of skin that are purpled already, the spots on his ribs and chest where tim kept laying into him, the burst blood vessels in the spaces in between that promise to bruise by the morning. he’s obsessed with it.
he pulls his jeans off in a horny fervor to see what tim did to his leg, craning his neck and propping his knee up on the counter and pressing his thumb into it, red and oblong and unmistakable in shape. the pain is still fresh enough that grabbing it himself makes his head spin, aching and fever-hot. his whole body feels warm, tracing over his torso, the soreness alight with lusty heat, and who can really blame him if his hand wanders down the front of his boxers, exploring how his cock feels, after all that, squeezing and stroking the oversensitivity in and out in waves, rocking against the counter, staring at his own abused skin. if he pisses tim off again, will he-? that punch had sent him reeling so easily, he’s so much stronger than jay, so much bigger -
he shouldn’t think about that, shouldn’t want it, but he can’t stop himself now. can’t stop thinking about the difference in their bodies, how tim could crush him if he wanted, pick him up and snap him in fucking half, he’s going to look like shit in the morning -
jay cums with a cry and a pathetically small splattering of jizz on the mirror, gripping the counter white-knuckled to stay standing as it hits him, nearly sobbing with it, all of him trembling.
when he tracks the color progression of the bruises over the coming days, strips in the bathroom and bends for the camera, it’s purely archival. for his personal records.
-
as jay uploads the medical files the hooded man left him, watching the video render out of the corner of his eye, he chews at his nails and wonders what tim’s gonna think of this. what’s waiting for him the next time they cross paths.