Chapter Text
John doesn’t know how he gets himself into these situations.
He’s a cop, and a pretty good one, too. Yeah, fair enough, most cops these days are ‘good’. It isn’t like Gordon’s heyday when the remaining veterans say finding an honest cop in Gotham was like finding a damn unicorn. Still, John’s always been proud of the fact that he’s never even been tempted to go in on the take, not one time.
But okay, yeah, he’s always had this thing . This stupid thing that doesn’t even matter most of the time because he’s a cop and he’s professional , damn it. So what if the sight of a leather jacket stretched out over muscled biceps makes his mouth go dry? And so what if he rubs one out most nights to videos of burly guys holding down twinks and fucking them raw? So what if he sometimes presses down on bruises and pretends they were put there by someone else – someone bigger and stronger than him, someone dangerous?
John Blake has a thing for bad boys. But it’s not his fault, alright? He’s from a broken home. He can’t help what his fucked up subconscious does.
It’s not like it’s a problem or anything. John keeps it in check, mostly through a mixture of rough porn and, on nights like tonight, visits to one of Gotham’s biker bars.
Which, he supposes, is how he ends up bent over a motorcycle, with some stranger’s hand on his cock and three fingers pumping slickly into his ass.
Maybe it’s more a problem than John initially thought.
Okay, back up. John should start from the beginning.
He’s been feeling the itch for a couple of days when he finally gets up the nerve to go looking for something ( someone ) to scratch it. Gert’s is an out of the way bar, known for harboring the seedier element without the trouble that usually follows that sort of lifestyle around. Not that there’ s much trouble to be found in Gotham these days, but Gert’s is off John’s beat and he’s never been there as a cop. When he feels the need to slut around, that’s where he goes.
And slutting around is exactly what John’s doing. He always feels vaguely ridiculous when he comes out, dressed in clothes that leave nothing, especially his intentions, to the imagination. Tonight it’s a grey, worn t-shirt that’s one size too small, and black jeans tight enough to perfectly outline the curve of his ass and the bulge of his cock which has been half hard since he walked in the door.
He’s drawing attention, and yeah, John knows that’s what he wants – to grab someone’s eye, get them to fuck this stupid itch out of his system so he can go back to pretending to be normal for a few weeks – but it still makes him nervous and unsettled. He needs alcohol, copious amounts of alcohol.
John is on his second glass of whiskey when a hush falls over the bar. He turns and sees a group of bikers come in. That in itself is normal enough – it’s a biker bar , after all – but the nervous energy that fills the room at their arrival isn’t. Neither is the way that nobody seems to be actually looking at the dozen or so newcomers. Everyone’s eyes are pointedly averted, body language screaming ‘ I am minding my own business, I have no interest in yours ’. Everyone, that is, except John.
John is staring in rapt attention, because the man that just walked in at the front of the pack is so fucking spot on his type it’s like his cock dreamed him up, sketched him out, then drew little hearts all around the picture. Does that make sense? Probably not. Most likely because all the blood that should be fueling John’s brain and helping him work out appropriate metaphors (similes?) is currently pooled in his groin. You know, in the aching fucking erection that the mere sight of this guy is able to provoke.
Oh, God, John is in so much trouble.
The man is huge, and John isn’t using hyperbole here. He’s built like a Mack Truck, taller than John by several inches, and broad. Fuck , he’s broad, and solid in a way that has John’s fingers twitching with the urge to get underneath that jacket, map out those shoulders and find out if it really is all hard muscle like it appears.
His face is covered by a motorcycle hood, and though John can only make out his eyes, he’s startled by the depth of intelligence he sees when the man’s gaze sweeps the room, lingering on John for a moment before moving on. John isn’t used to smart thugs. Not to be blunt, but he doesn’t really chase after this type of guy for their brains. It doesn’t do anything to dampen his arousal, though. In fact, if the way he squirms on the barstool is any indication, it does quite the opposite.
The bartender and owner, the eponymous Gert, is near enough that John is able to catch her attention. He tilts his head in the direction of the masked man and his band of followers who, he sees, have taken over the three tables at the back, uprooting some of the regulars who move away without a word of protest.
“Who is that?” John whispers, the near quiet of the bar – much more muted than before – necessitating it. Gert looks up reflexively, her eyes darting away once she’s certain who John is talking about. She frowns deeply and John is surprised to see that she doesn’t approve. He’s never seen Gert be anything but welcoming toward any of her guests before. Gruff sometimes, sure, but the sort of gruffness that speaks of age and experience rather than dislike.
“That’s Bane. You leave him alone, kid. He’s the sort of trouble you don’t walk away from,” she mutters, looking for a moment like she’s about to say more when a man at the end of the counter calls Gert away, and John is left mulling over her words.
He’s not stupid, okay? Yeah, John has a bad boy fetish, and the word ‘trouble’ pushes every single one of his buttons, but John can already tell, just by the little he’s seen, that getting mixed up in Bane’s world, even for a just a night, won’t be the kind of experience he can wash away in the shower and forget when the bruises fade. John has enough on his plate. He doesn’t need that in his life.
Damn if that’s doing anything to stop John from wanting it.
He only realizes that he’s staring at Bane again when the two members of his gang that are seated nearest stand and come towards him. John flushes in embarrassment but doesn’t shy away, forcing a smile onto his face when the two men stop in front of him. “Can I help you gentlemen?” John asks, his nervousness dissolving into his oldest and best loved defense mechanism – cocky self-assurance.
The lackeys don’t bat an eye. “The boss wants to see you,” Righty says, gesturing back at the table. John looks between the two of them, their body language speaking the rest of the sentence as clearly as if they’d shouted it. If you don’t come along, we’re here to make you .
John recognizes the fact that, when he goes out on these little self-serving sex missions, he’s on his own. Nobody knows his name here and none of his friends have any idea that he even knows about this place, let alone makes regular visits. If something were to happen, John would have to fend for himself. Seven against one aren’t good odds to begin with, but given that Bane probably counts as three men just by himself, John knows it’s probably in his best interest to avoid a fight.
He comes along quietly, flanked by Righty and Lefty, until he’s shoved down into the chair Lefty just vacated – the one directly across from Bane.
The biker’s gaze is dark and calculating, and he stares at John for several long moments. It’s like being taken apart. Maybe it’s stupid, but John feels like those eye are looking at his every flaw and uncovering each and every secret he’s hiding. Finally, just when John is starting to squirm, Bane speaks.
“Tell me why you have been staring at us.”
And oh God, that…that isn’t fair. No one’s voice should be allowed to sound like that. The answer John has prepared dries up in his mouth and the only thing he can think to say is ‘ because I’d like to get down on my knees and rub my face against your cock ’. Wow, okay, no. That’s probably not the right answer here.
“I just, uh. I’ve never seen you around here. Just some harmless curiosity. That’s all.” It’s weak, at best, and John knows Bane’s seen through the lie when he nods to the goons and suddenly John is slammed face down on the table. He kicks out – there’s not much else he can do with his hands pinned down – but it’s useless. Righty keeps him immobile while Lefty searches him and – shit .
Shit, shit, shit.
Taking his badge along with him on these little outings had always seemed like a good idea.
Lefty’s hand closes around the oblong shape, pulling it out and handing it to Bane without a word. John is released and allowed to sit back, but Righty’s hand remains on his shoulder, a reminder of what will happen if John tries to run. Bane inspects the badge, turning it over in his hands, and runs his thumb over the embossed metal. He sets it aside and picks up John’s wallet, flipping it open and staring at John’s ID before putting that aside as well. To John’s surprise, he gestures to the six other men around the table, and without argument, they get up and leave
“It’s time for the truth now, John Blake, Gotham City Police Department. Why are you here?” Bane’s voice remains steady and pleasant, as though they are having a friendly conversation. John finds that he wants to hear more of that strange accent, wants to hear it deeper, and rougher, whispering filth into his ear.
No, stop it, focus.
John frowns and glances at the badge in front of Bane. “I know what it looks like, but it’s not. I’m not – I don’t come here as a cop,” He lets the fake geniality drop from his voice as he speaks, meeting Bane’s eyes unflinchingly. “I don’t know anything about you and your group and frankly, tonight, I don’t give a shit. You do what you came here to do and I’ll do what I came here to do. Fair enough?”
It’s impossible to tell with the majority of Bane’s face covered by the motorcycle hood, but John could swear the biker is smiling. No, not a smile. A smirk – predatory and knowing.
“And what is it you seek tonight, Officer Blake? Liquor? Anonymity? A woman? Or perhaps something else.” Bane’s hand turns then, and it takes John a moment to realize what’s resting in his palm – a condom and packet of lube. John’s condom and packet of lube. Fuck. He hadn’t even realized they were gone. But of course they were. Bane’s henchmen hadn’t left a single of John’s pockets unturned.
He flushes, unreasonably embarrassed, and is about to just say fuck it all and leave when Bane leans forward. His long arm stretches out over the table and he slides a hand around the back of John’s neck, making him bend awkwardly. John is pulled close, only his hands braced on the Formica preventing their foreheads from touching. From this angle, John can see that the motorcycle hood Bane is wearing is stretched out over something beneath. More biker gear? Some sort of mask? John doesn’t have long to wonder, because the next thing Bane says kicks any reason he has right out on its ass.
“You will go into the alley,” Bane purrs, his voice dropping into a lower register, like velvet scraped over cement. His voice is distorted, almost metallic, and each word feels like a finger sliding down John’s cock. “Once you are there, you must make a choice. If you run, you will be allowed to leave and no harm will come to you. If you stay – ,” Bane pauses, flexing and using his immense strength to pull John that little bit closer until his damp forehead is pressing into the material of the hood, the rigid shape beneath digging into his skin.
“If you stay, you will be mine for the rest of this evening.”
All at once, John is released and Bane settles back into his chair, fingers hooking into the zippered pockets on his chest. Dumbly, John realizes Bane doesn’t have a drink. Of course he doesn’t , his brain supplies as it struggles to catch up to the turn in event, he’s wearing that hood .
Bane nods toward the side door that John knows leads to the alley. John stands without even thinking about it, his mind currently being led by lust rather than logic. As he’s about to walk out, he glances back, wanting to confirm that Bane hasn’t up and disappeared like some sort of sex hallucination. The man is staring at him unwaveringly – a hawk tracking prey.
“One minute, Officer Blake,” Bane growls, his voice pitched loud enough for John to hear over the bar. “Decide quickly.”
***
60…59…58…
The count runs in John’s head like background noise as he paces in the alley, trying to drown out the cognitive dissonance currently ricocheting around his brain. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should leave, go home, call up a sex line, masturbate furiously, and go to sleep. Or fuck, if he’s really this desperate for a cock up his ass, then John is sure he can find someone else before the night is over. There are other bars, other men who can loom over him, other men who will-who will…
Who will back down when you tell them to.
Who don’t push you because all they want is a tight hole to fuck and you’re accommodating enough about that so they’ll take it on your terms.
Who don’t understand that when you shrug off their grip or twist away, you want them to put you back in your place and keep you there while they finish what they started.
Fuck.
37…36…35…
Time is running out and John hasn’t started running. He’s not going to, either. Pretending there was even a choice here was just John’s way of ignoring the fact that he threw his common sense and dignity out the window the moment Bane walked into the bar.
21…20…19…
John keeps his eyes on the side door as the rest of the count flicks through his head. When sixty seconds have come and gone and the door hasn’t opened, a barb of doubt hooks into John’s gut, scratching away at the resolve keeping him rooted to the spot. After ninety seconds, John starts to picture Bane at the table, holding court with his gang and crowing about the slut cop who had all but crawled into the alley on his belly, that desperate to be used by a real man.
The bitter taste of humiliation fills John’s mouth as the seconds continue to tick by. This is a mistake. He’s such an idiot.
But, he’s an idiot who stays right where he is. After several more moments ( 360 seconds total, John counted every single one ) the battered aluminum door opens and out steps Bane as casually as if he were just coming out for a smoke, not to fuck some stranger.
Bane doesn’t look at all apologetic about the wait and suddenly John knows that he’s been played. The delay was a test and John…Christ. John must have passed with flying fucking colors. He waited out here for six minutes. Like a faithful dog. . It’s a reminder of who holds the cards here. Bane kept him waiting and John didn’t even fidget. Any leverage John thought he might have had in this situation vanishes, leaving him off balance and annoyed.
“What a patient young man you are, Officer Blake. A fine quality for a public servant,” Bane says, no hesitation as he advances. John bristles, because fuck him. John is an officer of the law and Bane is just some low rent biker thug. John isn’t going to be mocked in an alley like some sort of cheap hooker. The anger must show on his face because, well, John isn’t making any attempt at hiding it.
“Oh, you are angry now.” Bane sounds amused, and he’s so close that John has to step back or else the biker will walk right into him. “Did you not appreciate the extra time I allowed you to think?”
“Fuck you,” John bites out, feeling stupid for rising to the bait but unable to do anything else. He continues to retreat, until he has nowhere else to go and his back is against the wall. “I could have left. You’d be laughing your ass off then, huh?”
Bane cocks his head, considering. “But you didn’t leave. And I’ve already told you what that means.”
Suddenly, Bane is on him, the solid weight of his muscled bound body pressing John into the wall so hard that he can feel the indent of the bricks on his back. John can’t move, and every attempt is met with greater force, until John is squirming but not going anywhere, his cock rubbing maddeningly against the seam of his jeans. Fuck, he’s so hard. He wants Bane’s hands on him, but both of the larger man’s hands are currently on either side of John’s head, boxing him in.
John’s breath goes short when Bane leans in, and he’s momentarily shocked by how absolutely beautiful the biker’s eyes are. Blue-grey with long lashes, surprisingly almost delicate, especially compared to the rest of him. There’s suddenly nothing more that John wants than to see the rest of Bane’s face. He gets a hand up and touches the hood, a finger slipping under the gap at the neck and making to pull it up.
Quick as a startled snake, Bane has his hands in a vice like hold and has spun him around, John’s face now scraping against the red, gritty brickwork. He yelps, trying to rear back, but there’s nowhere to go. Bane has him just as securely pinned as before, flush along his back with his chin digging pointedly into John’s shoulder.
“Do you need to be reminded of your place, Office Blake?” Bane growls against his ear, rubbing the slick material of the hood down his neck. “You have not earned the right to see my face. But perhaps you’d like to.” John can feel Bane’s muscles flex, and suddenly he’s been lifted, his skin rubbing painfully as he’s dragged up the wall. He kicks out, but there’s no traction, the tips of his sneakers barely grazing the ground. “Is that what you want, Blake? Do you want to be good for me?”
It was so close to what John wants to hear, but he jerks his head in denial, panting wetly against the wall as he tries to find the words. He doesn’t…he can be good. He can be good so easily but that’s not what he wants. For once, John wants his best behavior to be something taken rather than something he gives.
“Make,” he gasps, wetting his lips shakily before trying again. “Make me be good. Want that. Want you to make me.”
The growl Bane makes then sounds approving, but John can’t be sure. He doesn’t have long to wonder, though, because the wall is suddenly gone and for a dizzying second John is suspended in mid-air, held up by nothing more than the biker’s raw strength. That second is all it lasts, though, and John then finds himself dropped, knees landing with a hard smack on the damp pavement. John groans in pain and places a hand on the wall to steady himself, but Bane deliberately twists his arms behind him again, wrists crossed at the small of his back.
John only starts to struggle when he feels a cord begin to bind him.
“Hey!” He hisses, trying to turn around and shake Bane off, but one shove has his back arched in painfully, shoulders immobile, and John left unable to do more than turn his head to the side. He glares at a nearby dumpster, twisting his hands in Bane’s grip as though that will slow the man down at all. It doesn’t, and when Bane steps back a moment later, John is tied, wrists to ankles.
“Untie me,” John forces as much authority into his voice as possible, “I didn’t agree to this. Untie me right now.” It’s not like John has never done bondage before – he’s a curious guy, after all – but this does not resemble the playful ( boring ) night he’d spent with his hands tied to the bedpost by two of his neckties. This isn’t his ex who thought that walking around downtown after 6:00 PM was the height of danger. The man behind him now is probably some sort of actual criminal. He could beat John to death with nothing more than his fists and enough time, and John’s only advantage in this situation had been his speed.
Kind of hard to run when you’re trussed up like a prized pig.
This is what you wanted. flicks across John’s thoughts, and he scowls, because it’s not. Well, yes, okay, it is, but not like this. Not where John actually has to trust the thug who’s going to rail him. Not when there’s absolutely no way for him to fight back.
John has never been so hard in his life.
There’s pressure, suddenly, on the rope strung between his hands and feet and John feels his shoulders pulled down by the force of it. He grunts at the strain, the blood in his traitor cock throbbing insistently.
“Perhaps I did not make myself clear, before,” Bane’s says pleasantly from above him, at the same time pressing his boot down harder and shocking a yelp out of John as his arms are pulled impossibly back. “In this alley, you belong to me. You will be used for my pleasure, in whichever way I choose. You may leave when I’ve had my fill of you. Do you understand?” John’s arms are yanked back even further and Christ they’re going to get dislocated . “Answer me, Officer Blake.”
“Yes! Fuck, yes, I understand, I’m yours okay, I understand!”
“Good. We can begin, then.” Bane steps back and John jerks his shoulders forward, nearly overbalancing for a moment before he steadies, panting as the pain slowly fades. “Turn around.”
This asshole has got to be fucking kidding him. The binds he put him in make movement extremely awkward, if not impossible. But the pain is still loud in his memory, and his utter vulnerability present enough in his mind to keep the angry refusal at bay. Slowly, John starts to move, shuffling ungracefully and trying to get any sort of leverage without falling on his face.
He finally manages it, breathing fast and shallow from the effort when he stops moving, knees smarting from the bits of gravel he’s just dug into them. John looks up and Bane is right there, or rather, his groin is right there and fuck . John’s suddenly panting for a whole different reason because as casual as the biker had sounded when he’d been ordering him around, John can see the truth. Bane is hard. The dark denim of his jeans is stretched obscenely over the rigid curve of his erection, and Christ but he’s big. He knows he’s staring, and when he feels a leather covered hand at the base of his chin, he resists looking up. If Bane sees his face right now, he’ll see how absolutely, ravenously hungry John is for that cock in his mouth, and John has already lost enough power to the other man.
Once again, though, what John wants doesn’t matter, and when the pressure grows more insistent he lets that hand tip his chin up, meeting Bane’s eyes. Whatever the man sees there must please him, because he strokes a thumb gently down his cheek. “You will keep your eyes on me,” he says. John nods in understanding.
Bane wastes no time. With one flick of his wrist, his fly is open, and he wraps a glove covered hand around his cock, drawing it the rest of the way out of his pants. John’s eyes widen as he takes it all in. His first impression was wrong. Bane isn’t big. He’s fucking donkey-dick huge. His cock is blood heavy, thick, and uncut. The foreskin is slightly pulled back, sitting snugly under the glans, and John watches as a drop of pre-come beads at the tip. The only things that keeps John from scrambling forward and licking it off are Bane’s hand holding him still, and the tattered remains of John’s pride.
One step is all it takes for Bane to close the distance between them, the wet head of his cock rubbing back and forth over John’s bottom lip, leaving them salty-slick and shining. Each time John’s tongue darts out, trying to get a taste from the source, Bane moves back out of reach.
Finally, when John is just starting to ride the edge of desperation, Bane taps a finger against his mouth. “Open,” he growls thickly, and John almost dislocates his jaw with how fast he obeys, mouth obscenely wide, tongue sticking out slightly past his bottom lip in invitation.
Bane lets his cock rest just barely inside of John’s mouth, unmoving for the moment and John knows he’s being tested. It’s agony to stay still, to not screw his mouth down the biker’s length as far as he can get, but John knows that if he moves, they’ll go back to square one until he can obey Bane’s unspoken order like a good little pet.
John’s shivering now, so ratcheted up with lust that it feels like its possessing him. Bane’s expression remains steady, looking at John impassively, and God, he’s going to keep him here forever and John can’t he fucking can’t . The sound that comes out of him then is desperate, and pathetic, and so filled with want that it embarrasses John to the core. It must be what Bane was waiting for, though, because it’s barely out of his mouth before the biker replaces it with his dick, the saliva that’s been pooling under John’s tongue dripping out past the corners of John’s lips as Bane thrusts in.
It’s good. So fucking good John can hardly stand it. Bane tastes like sweat and musk and leather and salt, the flavor strong, but pleasant, and John leans forward, looking for more. Soon enough, Bane’s cock bumps up against the back of his throat and John starts to angle his head away, because he doesn’t do that, can’t do that. He always chokes and it hurts and Bane doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of that because he wraps a firm hand around the back of John’s head and pushes forward regardless.
John fights, trying to twist his head to the side, but Bane nips that action in the bud, holding John’s head between his massive hands, moving him, tilting his head up, and then down and fuck -
Bane slips down his throat like he was made to be there, and John does choke, a horrible, retching sound pushing past the cock in his mouth. The biker doesn’t care. He draws it out, fucking as deep as he can get and holding there before pulling back and free only to return a moment later, apparently happy to pretend that the human gag reflex is some sort of myth.
Each push in draws that wet, choking noise out of him, and John’s eyes are glazed, barely even seeing Bane anymore, barely even noticing anything past the staggering pleasure. He’s never been pushed like this, owned like this, and every time Bane thrusts back in, giving John no choice but to accommodate him, John’s own hips twitch forward, fucking the air like he’ll find any relief there. It seems to last hours and days. It’s over far too soon.
Without giving John even a moment to adjust, Bane steps back, his cock coming free with an obscene pop. Unthinkingly, John tries to follow it, leaning forward and doing his damndest to get his mouth back around that firm flesh. He’s forgotten about his hands, though, and that simple motion unbalances him. He can’t bring his arms up to protect his face and John braces for the impact and the broken nose that’s sure to follow, but his fall is stopped by Bane’s hand in his hair, yanking him ungently back and allowing him to settle his balance before letting go.
“My, my, Officer Blake. That desperate already?” Bane says, dark arousal threading through his voice, and there’s no way John can deny that tone or those words. He nods, still sucking in breath like he’s just run four miles.
“Wh-y” John coughs again, voice gravel rough and fucked out, “Why’d you stop? You didn’t have to, I can do it. Please.”
He’s begging. He should feel ashamed, but he’s too focused on getting Bane’s dick back in him to care.
Bane chuckles, fingers sliding affectionately through John’s hair. “I give nothing away for free, my young friend. You must earn your pleasure here.” And you haven’t earned that. hangs in the air unsaid. John’s so hard, so frustrated he could cry. He wants to rage at Bane, order him to ram himself back down John’s throat, but looming larger than any of that, is the need to please the biker.
John wants to be good.
Licking his lips, John considers Bane’s words and hesitantly looks up to meet his eyes once more. “How?” He asks, not bothering to hide any of the need in his voice. “How do I earn it? Just tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever you want, just, God, please .” It’s a dangerous promise to make, but either John can’t think past the pleasure or he doesn’t want to.
“There you go, Officer,” Bane replies, voice heavy in approval as his hand drifts from John’s hair to the back of his neck, fisting in his shirt. “Now you are asking the correct questions.”
John’s stomach feels like it’s twisted in on itself as he’s yanked up, Bane hefting him off the asphalt with one hand. He’s only in the air for a moment before something hard is digging into his stomach and he’s sees he’s been thrown over the seat of a motorcycle parked next to them. It’s only Bane’s hand pinning him down that stops John from falling ass over ankles onto the ground. John is just about to voice how this position is absolutely not going to work, when he hears the snick of a knife and his legs fall, feet slamming down to steady him on the ground, the cord tying them cleanly separated from his still bound hands.
Bane moves so fast that it’s hard to keep up, and all John can do is hold on as he reaches under and unbuttons John’s pants, jerking them open so hard that John suspects he’s popped the zipper. John doesn’t give a shit, though, because there’s finally friction on his poor, neglected cock. It’s only a series of light, accidental touches from Bane’s attempts to get John’s pants down, but they have John keening and jerking forward for more.
“Please,” he pants, any dignity he had long gone, “please, please, please, touch, fuck, touch me please -“A sharp slap to the round of John’s now bare ass stops his chanting.
“Now, now, none of that. Be patient,” Bane says firmly, and John fucking sobs because he can’t. He needs to come now.
Dimly, John hears the muffled sound of plastic ripping, and all of a sudden there are two slick fingers twisting inside of him-two fingers that slide a little smoother than normal because fuck . Bane is still wearing his leather gloves. It’s too much, too fast, and John gasps, surging forward, but there’s nowhere to go. He’s pulled back by his shirt, the fingers screwing in deeper．It's overwhelming, almost too intense to handle, and though John squirms pathetically, the biker refuses to give him any quarter. Bane knows what he's doing, though, and each maddening stroke has John shuddering and, after several deep breaths, relaxing into the sensations.
The burn is amazing - deep and hot - definitely on the wrong side of painful, but just barely. John clenches down to feel those thick, long ( Oh God, still leather bound ) fingers inside of him, stretching him open. John wants more. He tilts his hips back and focuses on letting his muscles release, trying to show Bane that's he's ready, that he can take it without a careful warmup. That he wants to be split open on Bane's cock.
John jerks when Bane finds his prostate, his own cock slapping up against his belly, leaving a wet kiss of pre-come on his stomach. “God, please, again,” he groans, arching his back and widening his stance as far as the cord will let him. This time, Bane lets him beg, mercilessly stroking up against that spot inside John as he does. The pain of a third finger being pushed inside of him is muted, overshadowed almost completely by the mind numbing, blood boiling pleasure.
“Is this what you were after tonight, Officer Blake?” Bane’s voice is animal like as he snarls filthily into John’s ear. “Is that sick little need inside of you being sated? Or do you need more?”
“More,” John replies instantly, fucking his ass back onto the fingers inside of him, “yes, I need more. Anything. I said, I told you, please anything, just more. Fuck me,” and suddenly that’s all John can think about. “Yes, need that. Please, get your dick in me. Put it-yes, fuck please, put it in me.”
There’s that laugh again, and oh God, John has never found a sound so terrifying and tempting at the same time. “What did I tell you about earning your pleasure?” He says and John nearly screams when Bane wraps a hand around his cock, the sensation shocking and almost painful after so much denial. A second after, those fingers press deep and hard into John’s prostate and this time he does scream, shoved to the edge and only just keeping from tipping over it. “I can’t,” John gasps, barely able to form words, “I have to, I can’t, please let me, please Bane, let me come.”
Bane’s hips move, thrusting his cock up against the back of John’s thigh and he growls, stroking John faster. The word he spits out is unintelligible, but John can guess at the meaning. Two more strokes of Bane’s hand and he’s there, a high, pained sound wrenching out of him as he paints the bike under him with his come.
The world goes fuzzy, and John drifts for moment after moment, making little to no effort to come back to himself. It’s only when he hears the unmistakable sound on flesh against flesh does he rouse, the harsh panting of Bane’s breath drifting in next. John realizes what’s happening only a second before he feels the hot splash of semen against his skin, landing thickly on his ass and thighs. John shudders, his cock giving a valiant twitch, one last spurt of come leaking out.
His hands and feet as suddenly free, and the last of John’s strength abandons him. He slides slowly down from the bike, kneeling on the ground with his forehead pressed against the seat. The next thing he knows, fingers are tracing unfamiliar patterns across his bare body, and John’s brain is so slow that several seconds go by before he gets it. Bane’s rubbing his come into John’s skin. Like a brand.
Once he’s apparently satisfied, John’s jeans are hitched back up and buttoned. John makes no move to help or hinder, letting Bane move him around until he’s dressed, still leaning against the motorcycle for support.
There’s no sound after that, and John is just starting to think that Bane has left ( and the sharp stab of disappointment that follows that thought is strange and uncomfortable ) when Bane breaks the silence.
“You will come back tomorrow evening with my seed still on your body. If you wash, or if I have to come and collect you, there will be consequences.”
John blinks, and slowly turns around to look at the other man, see if he’s actually goddamn serious, but by the time his exhausted body manages the motion, Bane is gone. As though Bane's scrutiny were the only thing keeping him in place, John sits back, letting his legs sprawl out and taking stock.
The back of his too-tight jeans stick to his ass, glued there by Bane's come. It’s disgusting, and filthy, and John badly wants a shower. He's not going to take one, though, because he wants another round with Bane more. He wants the chance to earn the biker's cock fucking into him. If putting up with a little dried spunk is what it takes, then fine. John's game.
That doesn't mean the next twenty-four hours were going to be any less uncomfortable. John grimaces and shifts. Fuck.