Tim is blinking away stars in his eyes, afterimages from the flashbulb in the camera, when he feels someone press a glass into his hand. When his vision clears enough to see that it's his date, he doesn't even bother asking what it is before he drains the glass, head tipped back.
"Wow," his date says, smiling. "Want another?"
His name is Michael, but he prefers Mick, which is weird to Tim, but hey, he's not here to judge. Mick is very average -- average height, average build, average face. He's a white guy in his late twenties, works a desk job at some corporation based in London, and has horrible taste in his drunk hookups. Tim met him three weeks ago at a bar, both of them three sheets to the wind, and they'd fucked in the bathroom since they couldn't make it home. Somehow Tim had ended up with Mick's keys, and tracked him down to give them back. Even sober, they'd hit it off -- as much as anyone gets along with Tim these days, that is, what with him spending all that time at work. There's a reason Tim's drinking himself stupid almost nightly.
"Yeah," Tim says. "Another sounds good."
Mick has taken Tim to one of the company mixers, which is very nice of him. Maybe Tim's not going to get smashed on wine, but at least he has an excuse to be out of the Institute and out of his house. Besides, it's cheaper to get drunk afterward if he's already tipsy on free (shitty) wine.
Tim gets a head rush as soon as he stands up. With the amount of drinking he's done lately, his tolerance is up pretty high, and wine has a low alcohol content to begin with, so he's slightly cautious as he accepts the second glass. He really shouldn't be feeling it this early.
But he's still a glutton for punishment, so he drinks it, and gives Mick an empty smile. "Thanks," he says. "Much better."
Mick smiles back, and offers Tim his arm. Tim takes it, but his hands feel like they're moving very slowly, as if through honey rather than air.
"Everything okay?" Mick asks, and that's when Tim knows he's in trouble. That's the simpering, solicitous tone of someone who knows very well that Tim's not okay, and just wants to watch Tim suffer.
"No, actually, I'm not feeling well," Tim says, or -- that's what he tries to say. It feels more like he's swallowed his tongue, as his knees buckle and Mick catches him gracefully before he hits the floor.
So Tim gets to be a silent, conscious witness to Mick making excuses to his coworkers, saying how sorry he is that his plus-one is under the weather, and maneuvering them toward the door. He gets to blink stupidly at Mick when they leave, and manages to fight the wet cotton in his brain enough to realize he really is in deep shit. In this state, Tim is completely reliant on Mick, and he has no idea what two doses of whatever drug this is will do to him.
It turns out that what Mick wants is, actually, almost exactly what Tim'd expected. Mick pushes him into the backseat of the car, and almost before Tim can register what's happening, he has Tim's blazer off and is working at his belt.
"Bwuh," Tim says, because he needs to make some sort of protest.
Mick just smiles, yanks on his tie to pull him upright. "Thank you for being so obliging, Tim," he says, still in a sweet, faux-innocent tone. "I'm so glad you could come tonight. I just couldn't wait to take you home, so I thought maybe we could finish the night right here."
Tim can feel Mick's hands sliding down his thighs, stripping his trousers off, and he experimentally tries to move his hand. His fingers twitch, but that's all.
Mick laughs. "Tim, Tim, you're so easy. I thought I'd have to wait at least an hour, but the night is so young! You must be so eager to spread your legs for me." He gets a hand on Tim's dick, over the boxers, and squeezes hard enough to make Tim let out an involuntary whimper.
"Now, Tim, you've slept with too many people. You need to be taught a lesson about stranger danger, don't you?" Mick's light-hearted tone is starting to seriously creep Tim out. "You're going to be my good little slut, aren't you? Show me just how much you want my cock in you."
If he were able to do so, Tim would have already hit him. Mick's smug smile is pissing Tim the fuck off, not to mention calling him a slut. Mick has no fucking right to judge how much sex Tim has. They're fuckbuddies, not partners, and Tim hadn't even told Mick about his past, other than that Mick was certainly not taking his virginity.
But Tim can't move his arms through the air-molasses, and he can't make his mouth form words, and he can't think clearly, so he just lies there and feels angry. He's angry until Mick lifts his legs to get his boxers off, until Mick very carefully and tidily takes out a packet of lubricant, until Mick pushes a slick finger into Tim's ass.
"You're tight," Mick says, sounding surprised. "I would have thought a whore's hole would be much looser. I'm proud of you, Tim. Maybe you're not as much of a slut as I thought." He pulls his finger out of Tim, and slicks his cock with the rest of the lube. Tim realizes, vaguely and too late, that he hadn't even noticed Mick getting undressed.
Mick pushes into him in one painful thrust. The best thing Tim can say about it is that it's fast, that the feeling of the muscles tearing as Mick enters him tapers off eventually. There's a high-pitched wail coming from somewhere nearby, and Tim doesn't realize he's the one making it until Mick covers his mouth.
"Be quiet, little slut," Mick shushes him. "You're so greedy for my cock you can't wait another second for me to fuck you, I know, but if you make too much noise we'll get caught."
Tim tries to bite Mick's hand. He succeeds in opening his mouth and pushes more air through his lungs, but can't close his teeth before Mick takes his hand away. "Then I guess this is going to be hard for you. I gave you the choice, Tim, remember that."
His tie is a hand-me-down, passed from grandfather to father to son. Tim was planning to give it to Danny, but that's gone out the window now. Now, Danny is dead, and Mick is choking Tim with the tie, tightening it around Tim's windpipe until spots dance in his vision. He can't breathe, but there's too much inertia for his hands to move from their place at his sides. Mick rolls his hips, thrusting deep in and then pulling almost all the way back out while Tim gasps for air.
I'm going to die, Tim thinks. I'm going to die here. And wouldn't that be fucking funny for Elias to realize. One archival assistant taken by not-Them, her body never found. Another archival assistant found dead in the backseat of a car, asphyxiated while he was being fucked. He doesn't care as much as he thinks he probably should.
The pain of rough penetration spikes again as Mick thrusts into him, fucks him hard enough to actually move Tim's body just a tad every time he slams into Tim's ass. Mick keeps muttering things like "slut" and "whore" under his breath, a barely aspirated thing as Tim slips closer to unconsciousness.
And then he can breathe again. The swimming dark spots in his eyes are replaced with blinding light, and Tim thinks, flashbulb, before Mick's face rematerializes in front of him. "You know, Tim, if you'd just been honest with me and told me you were an easy little bitch, none of this would have happened. I wish you hadn't made me drug you. I really do. It's always unpleasant when we can't have an open communication, isn't it."
Tim wishes that the tie had choked off his air supply for good. There's -- there's nothing he can do to stop this. He's being fucking humiliated, getting anally raped in a car by a man wearing a suit and tie, and he can't move. He can't move, and he's scared, and his breath comes raspy in his throat, and his eyes flutter closed.
Mick laughs. "Are you having second thoughts now? Do you regret it, Tim? Are you seeing why I had to do this?" He leans over so he can kiss Tim, brutal like a hammer on an anvil, and Tim lets him.
That's apparently a delightful surprise for Mick, because he laughs again, fucks him hard, sending more pain shooting through Tim's already abused hole, and comes with a low grunt. Tim's hard, but thankfully Mick ignores that in favor of closing his pants up and slamming the door on Tim. At first Tim wonders if Mick is just going to leave him here, stuck like this, and go back to the party, but Mick slides into the driver's seat instead.
"Now, Tim. Shall I leave you at home?" he asks, and Tim realizes with a jolt that Mick's turned the car on, and they're moving far faster than they should. Mick takes a corner hard enough for Tim to slide halfway off the backseat and onto the floor, and Tim has never really appreciated just how upsetting it is to see something coming and not be able to stop it from hitting you in the face.
It only seems to take a minute before Mick parks and gets out of the car. Tim feels the swell of fear in his stomach once more -- Mick is going to leave him -- but then he's dragged out of the car, grass and dirt making their way into his mouth and nose as Mick throws him face down onto the ground.
"Good night, Tim! Thanks for a lovely date." Mick sounds happy, and Tim can't bring himself to do more than just lie there. It's going to be a long night waiting for this drug to wear off.