Chapter Text
It'd been something fun, interesting. It broke up the usual, monotonous routine that John had fallen into. Catching Jim, only to release him again— over and over. Like a particularly cruel game of cat and mouse. He’d ended up taking more pleasure from it then he would've thought possible. There was just something about the way Jim trembled, on the verge of tears when John had pressed the flat of his knife to the boy’s supple cheek.
And yet, even with all that fear on full display, lighting up Jim’s features in a way that made them all the more beautiful… There was also defiance. It was subtle, lurking just under the animal instinct that pushed Jim to be subservient, in the hopes that if he did what the madman wanted, then he might eventually be released. As if there was some logic to this, as if what John wanted wasn’t blood and pain and that fear. Always, the fear.
But the defiance was interesting, John had to admit that. Jim may have been pretty to look at— even more so with tears in his eyes— but at first glance there wasn't anything special about him. John had seen a million like him, he’d had his hands and his blade on plenty of them. But that defiance hit him, that wasn’t like a million others. Even if it was small, and more than often overwhelmed by the fear, it was still there.
John craved it, he wanted to destroy it.
It rekindled something in him that had been dead for some time; that long lost feeling of real and true excitement. It was running through him like a poison even now, sparking along each and every one of his nerves with a tingling sort of anticipation.
Jim was laying on the floor of some abandoned warehouse he’d been dumb enough to wander into, hoping maybe for a chance to sleep. John had caught up to him shortly, taking advantage of how unaware the kid had been— and now he struggled uselessly against the cuffs that John had used to lock his hands behind his back.
The metal clinked dully as the cuffs clashed against one another, scuffing over the cement floor. Soft, pathetic noises slipped from between Jim’s lips as he used the last of his energy on a wasted effort.
“What, you think they’ll pop open for you if you squirm enough?” John asked, a teasing note lacing his voice as he watched Jim’s display with a wry expression. The kid’s breath hitched, and something warm tightened in John’s gut. This hunger he was feeling now, he was going to savor it.
He’d bound Jim’s ankles, too. Making use of some of the rope that had been conveniently left behind in this place. Because of it, the kid had to employ some effort in order to turn and face John. The side of his body that had been pressed into the ground was left covered in a thick layer of dirt, as if the dust wanted to claim him the same way John did. His cheek was rubbed raw by grit, his eyes red and watery already.
John wanted to watch it spill. Tears, blood... pleas from Jim’s lips, like a prayer.
“What are you going to do to me?” Jim asked, summoning up the tiny speck of courage that was buried somewhere under all that fear. His voice broke at the end of it, warbling pathetically, giving away how little confidence he really had.
“What am I going to do?” John returned the question with a pitying look, expression twisted by a soft, yet insincere smile. The kid tensed up, as if he’d begun to realize what the warning signs were. “Oh, I don’t know,” John went on, his voice ringing hollow. “Why don’t you guess?” He wondered how long it would take to sink in. For Jim to get it— that playing the weak, desperate victim was just a little too dull for his taste.
But instead of fighting back Jim just shook on the ground, little tremors running through his body like he didn’t have control over his muscles anymore. For a moment, John thought about peeling back the layers of his skin and watching the way those muscles might have fluttered when they were exposed. “I told you to guess,” John repeated himself.
Jim’s lips parted as if to answer, but no intelligible words came out. He whimpered and stumbled over sounds that might he have been able to put together in a way that made sense if he were a stronger man, but he’d failed from the moment he’d started. John felt briefly disappointed, wondering if he’d been wrong about the kid all along.
He was just another body, made up of meat, fat and skin that John could cut into and peel away until that light dimmed from behind his eyes, and his breathing slowed. John imagined the rabbit-like thumping of Jim’s panic-riddled heart stilling under the palm of his hand, but he found the prospect less satisfying than he thought he would.
“I-I don’t k-know,” Jim finally stuttered out, seeming to have found his tongue while John stood there and pondered the kid’s fate. It wasn't the answer he was looking for.
John stalked forwards, the ends of his coat flaring out behind him as the stagnant, garage air caught under the heavy pieces of fabric. “Well, there’s the problem,” he said softly, closing in on Jim despite the kid’s attempts to shuffle further away. John dropped into a crouch, hovering over him. Just out of reach, but close enough that he could see the sweat dripping from Jim’s forehead, soaking the collar of his shirt and down the center of his chest. “Neither of us seems to know what to do with you.”
“Y-you could let me go, a-and I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Jim spoke quickly, as if the thought of having a chance had put some wind under his sails. “I could just leave and, you can go on doing whatever it is you do—”
“But you know what I do, kid,” John interrupted, eyes slowly trailing down Jim’s bound form to take in all of him with a sharp focus. “And you’re too much of a good boy not to tell anyone, aren't you?” John reached out and clamped one hand around Jim’s thigh, jerking him back down from where he’d been trying to shuffle away to. Jim let out a sharp gasp as he was dragged back, his long and slim, bound legs sliding under John’s own sturdy ones.
When John let himself shift onto his knees he came to straddle just above the kid’s thighs, their new position sending a thrill running through him. He enjoyed how he could overpower Jim with relative ease, and he took a moment to savor the way it felt to press his weight slowly down into his prey— trapping him underneath, keeping him close.
Jim made a harsh sound of discomfort, his arms twisted painfully behind his back as he was pressed into the ground, his hands still locked in the metal cuffs. He had to arch his back to relieve some of the pain the position brought him, and John raised a brow at the way the kid’s hips lifted a little with it, like an invitation he didn’t even know he was sending. Jim was breathing hard, his eyes trained on watching the way John reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his switchblade.
“Please don’t, I’ll do anything.”
And there were those words again, like the second showing of a film John hadn't been able to finish the first time. Starring roles for him, the kid, and the knife. Heat pricked at his skin, as he conjured up all the ways he might have enjoyed Jim that night if he hadn't managed to get the jump on him. The more time he'd spent stalking, the more creative those fantasies had become.
The blade slid out of its compartment with the press of a button, the sharp click of it locking into place filled the empty air around them as John leaned forwards, just enough to press the point of his blade to the exposed line of Jim’s neck.
“Anything?” John teased, reveling in the soft hitch of breath that escaped at the cool press of metal to Jim’s feverish skin.
Then Jim sobbed, the sound tearing out of him with desperation— and it was like a dam breaking. The flood of weak, terrified sounds that followed muddying any words he might have tried to say. His lips were trembling, wet with spit and tears that had finally run over, and John began to wonder if maybe there was still something Jim could be good for. “Anything, kid?”
That soft mouth closed tightly, Jim’s sobs quieting for a moment as he swallowed hard, his throat pushing against the blade as his muscles worked. And then he nodded his head, a sharp jerk that might have looked involuntary under different circumstances. It was Jim and his survival instinct, driving him to be obedient. Making him want to please John in the hopes that doing so would spare him his life.
Arousal lingered in John’s gut, squeezing in a way that threatened to make him lightheaded, urging him to take. That part of him wanted nothing more than to claim everything that was laid out like an offering before him. Jim and his pretty face, his stupid, hopeful naivety. The way he seemed to bend so far to John’s will without fully breaking… he wondered how far he could push things before the kid snapped.
John eased off on the pressure of his knife, trailing the blade down to Jim’s collarbone. With the point he pulled back the edge of Jim’s shirt, uncovering the hidden inches of soft, clean skin. A clear line drawn between where he had been exposed to the elements, sand sticking to him and darkening in the same way a tan might have. John lingered only for a moment, twisting the point of his knife in the soft bit of muscle that connected Jim’s neck and shoulder, before drawing it back down and letting it skate over the thin white shirt the kid wore under his layers.
The knife trailed down further, until it had hooked under the first fastened button of Jim’s flannel. John slid it through the hole and twisted it until he’d managed to finesse the button out. Jim’s breathing sped up, ever so slightly, as John dragged his blade lower, to the next button. He could feel dark eyes locked on him, sharp and panicked as John slowly and methodically undid Jim’s flannel enough to uncover the rest of his sweat stained t-shirt underneath.
Jim was shaking, little tremors that ran through him and made it difficult not to accidentally jab into him. All it did was encourage John to take his time, slowly dragging the blade back up to where he could make out the shape of one of Jim’s nipples pressed against the cotton fabric. He circled it once, before pushing the knife in just below it and putting just enough force that it cut through the fabric, stopping before he broke skin. Jim’s breath caught, his whole body jerking as John flicked the blade away and cut a hole through Jim’s shirt.
“What are you—” Jim had started to ask in a weak voice, flinching as John caught the torn end of his shirt under the blade of his knife and tugged up again, cutting in a sharp angle from the left side of his chest, up through the collar. The movement it took was quick and harsh, and Jim’s breathing stuttered as if he’d expected a blow.
John didn’t bother answering that half-uttered question, moving on instead to tear Jim’s shirt in the opposite direction, towards the hemline this time. With the splitting sound of fabric ripping, his entire chest down to his belly was exposed. For a moment John got caught up in the soft give of one of Jim’s most vulnerable spots, as he trailed his knuckles gently back up, pressing lightly into the give of Jim’s stomach. He could easily picture how warm and welcoming it would be, if he were to tear the kid open and reach in with his bare hands.
He fought back the urge, raising his knife to the center of Jim’s chest instead. He dragged the blade along the exposed skin, taking care not to accidentally cut into him. It still felt too soon for that, like John needed to savor this moment where the kid might actually think he still had a chance of getting out of this unhurt. But, despite John’s gentle hand and all the damn effort he was putting into keeping it that way, the kid had begun to squirm under him again. It was a little pathetic, the way he struggled uselessly against John’s weight. Putting in so much work to draw away from the knifepoint brushing over his skin, harsh sounds of effort slipping out from between his lips.
As sweet as the occasional brush of Jim’s thigh between his legs might have been, he was getting tired of the foreplay. “Open your mouth,” John said calmly, catching Jim’s face with his free hand, stilling him.
Jim was staring up at him with wide, dark eyes, tears edging his lashes. He swallowed a few times as if he’d forgotten how to speak for a moment, and then, softly; “what?”
John moved quickly, jamming a thumb between the kid’s molars and forcing his mouth open. Jim made a confused sound, but he didn’t try to bite down. “I said, open your mouth,” John graciously repeated himself, slowly withdrawing his thumb and wiping it off on Jim’s cheek, leaving a little smear of saliva behind.
“Are you gonna stick me with that?” Jim questioned with a shaking voice, instantly disobeying. John watched as his teeth clacked together. Like he was testing words, learning how to be human again after the fear had taken and remolded him into something less than.
“Maybe I won't,” John said lightly, and Jim pursed his lips for a moment, as if he were thinking about challenging that. “You got another choice, kid?” John went on to ask, raising the knife so that it was held up between them, cocking his head a little as he twisted the blade in his hand so that it caught the light streaming in on them.
Rather than answer, Jim simply parted his lips and let his jaw drop open. It was tentative, slow and unsure in a way that made John want to know how the kid would react if he took things further. Pushed his fingers, his tongue, his cock down that throat. If Jim would still keep it open for him like a good boy. But all John did was bring his knife to Jim’s lips, carefully setting the handle to rest in his open mouth. “Bite down.”
Jim stared at him for a moment, before slowly closing his teeth around the handle and holding it in place. With his hands freed up now, John grasped the lapels of both Jim’s leather jacket and his flannel at once, roughly jerking them down, off his shoulders, until the fabric was trapped around his elbows. He couldn’t remove them completely due to the handcuffs, but he was satisfied enough with simply getting them out of the way. Jim sucked in a gasp, but he kept his teeth locked hard around the handle of the knife.
John’s hands drifted lower, finding the front of the kid’s jeans and setting to work on undoing the belt there, fingers moving slowly and methodically over the leather, slipping it out from under loop and lock. That was the moment where Jim’s brain suddenly seemed to catch up with what was really happening here, and he began to voice his protests against the obstruction in his mouth.
The words were mumbled, spoken awkwardly around the hilt, yet John still managed to understand them. The first quiet ‘stop,’ followed by a much more forceful one. He paused, Jim’s belt undone and laying limp in his hands, the leather old with age in a way that made John wonder if it’d belonged to Jim’s father before him.
A litany of mumbled, unintelligible protests began to fall from Jim’s otherwise occupied mouth, choked with sobs and panic, and John had to bite back his annoyance. He abandoned the belt in his hands in favor of leaning forward to take the knife back, allowing the kid to speak clearly again.
“Why are you doing this to me?” His voice shook, breaking off around a sob he wasn’t quite able to hold back. He was crying again. Tears that had dried previously, now running once more— leaving behind tracks in the dirt smudged on his face. John leaned in, shifting his position and drawing in close enough that his face was hovering just above Jim’s.
“Really, kid?” John asked, clapping his free hand to one of Jim's cheeks, startling him. He made an attempt to jerk out of John’s grip, but there was nowhere for him to go. John scrubbed a thumb over his flushed skin, cupping the back of his neck as he leaned in even closer, dropping down until his whole body laid heavily over top of Jim. “Got a guess yet?”
He pressed his hips into Jim’s thigh just enough so that he could feel it. The way John was thickening at the prospect of what was to come— the way Jim made him hard and hungry and so very unable to control his impulses. Jim’s breath caught in his throat, and his eyes watered even more.
“Y-you c-can’t…” Jim started, his expression crumpling as he realized what was truly in store for him.
"You've already given me permission," John said, smiling through his words with a false pity. "You said that you would do anything, Jim."
"No— I didn't mean— I didn't think that..." He trailed off into another sob, one that he attempted, and failed, to stifle. It was almost endearing, how thick Jim was. How his simple mind had never even considered the fact that someone like him, a red-blooded man in the land of the free, could become the victim of something like this. That anyone might look at his long, lean body and harbor the need to lay hands on it, to pull at his clothing until he was stripped naked and vulnerable. That anyone, and more importantly a man like John Ryder, might want to take more from him than just his life.
"You should give yourself some credit," John teased, rubbing his thumb softly against the side of Jim's face in a poor imitation of tenderness. "You're not so bad to look at, kid."
Jim closed his eyes and let out a harsh breath, angling his head away in another pointless attempt to pull out of John’s grip. He shifted a little, still trying to find some relief for the way his hands were stuck twisted behind him and pressed unforgivingly into the cement floor. John simply tugged Jim's face back where he wanted it, before leaning in to press his weathered lips to trembling, soft ones.
It was more like the colliding of flesh than any real kiss, Jim tensing up under John and screwing his mouth shut. There was a choked off sound of protest, and then John was shifting his hands to pull at Jim's jaw, exerting just enough force for Jim to know exactly what was expected of him. "Be a good boy, Jim," John said roughly, their lips brushing as he spoke. "Make this easy on yourself."
Jim's wide eyes flicked to the side, his gaze trained for a moment on the open switchblade that John had set aside in favor of touching Jim’s face. It glinted menacingly in the light that managed to stream in through the old, dusty windows of the garage, and it was still well in reach of John's hand should he decide the time to use it returned.
There was a moment, where John thought that time might be now... But then Jim opened his jaw, his lips parting slowly— and all Jim had was given over to him. John took it without hesitation, plunging forth, violating every single corner of Jim’s mouth with the slow, hungry drag of his tongue. The sounds Jim made only fueled that hunger, weak, little gasps that were muffled from the kiss. Jim was shaking under him again, trembling like a small bird, grounded and trapped like he’d suffered a broken wing.
The kid wasn’t very good at this, John soon realized. His tongue frozen awkwardly, his lips soft and yielding, totally unresponsive. This whole thing might have been at the risk of becoming a complete disappointment, if it weren't for the encouraging sounds the kid was making. John caught Jim’s lower lip and bit at it as he pulled back, reveling in the whine the scrape of his teeth drew out of him.
Jim was breathing hard, his eyes glazed over— his lips swollen from the attention, saliva smeared all over them. A little trail of it was running from the corner of his mouth, down the side of his face. “If I wanted to fuck a corpse, I would’ve killed you by now,” John announced, his annoyance slipping into his tone. Jim just blinked up at him, like his fear-addled brain was trying to parse what those words even meant.
John released Jim’s face long enough to take up his knife again, bringing the point to trail up, over the marks his tears had left behind. “Still might,” John mused, eyes transfixed on the way Jim’s supple skin gave under the press of the blade.
“Okay!” The exclamation punched it’s way out of Jim like an urgent, gasping breath. John’s eyes flicked away from where the blade was pressed, catching the determined look that had at some point found its way into Jim’s features. It was like that moment in the cabin of Jim’s car, when he’d first picked John up. Like he’d overcome the fear just enough… or maybe, his balls had finally dropped, and now he saw himself as some sort of man. John wondered how long it would last, tensing up as he waited impatiently for what Jim was going to do next.
Then he spoke again, his voice still shaking with fear, but steeled with something else, too.
“Give me another chance.”