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No. 89079
Untitled by Anon. http://tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/1025.html?thread=21249#t21249
Warning: Dub-con, reference to torture.
Prompt: Bane forcing John to suck him off in front of some or all of his lackeys as a show of dominance, and John secretly loving it. Bonus if it’s actually being recorded and Bruce sees it from his prison.
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It’s not the first time this week that John has had a gun pressed to the sweaty hollow at the back of his neck. The adrenaline courses through his scorched veins and makes his head pound, that particular metallic taste spreading across his tongue and making him ache. There’s snow melting through the knees of his heavy jeans and the sharp tang of sweat and burning and testosterone filling his nostrils as shearling whips against his face, matted and stained.
Bane’s fingers are long and elegant and they cup John’s jaw almost protectively; John blinks away the flakes of snow that land on his eyelashes and disorient him, and he knows that the hands that hold him are those of an artist, fingertips flicking out like a magician. Bane is a work of art, some cybernetic child of Hell. To look at him is to look at that which simply should not exist. John looks up into a metal grille, and then further, into eyes that crinkle into a smile, and he wants to fuck him and kill him, tear out his throat and press their naked bodies together, knows that Bane would tear him limb from limb should he ever try, and the thought terrifies and excites him.
Above him, Bane twists his head to one side and then the other, scrutinising him like a prize cattle picked out for slaughter – and oh, that’s exactly what he is – John glimpses the TV camera on the shoulder of a boy in a bulletproof vest who looks no older than eighteen, but he’s laughing and shaking his head, wild, and then the freezing muzzle of the gun leaves the back of John’s neck and Bane’s piano-player fingers reposition themselves clenched in the longer hair at the crown of his head.
John breathes in the wet-dog scent of the shearling as Bane encourages his head forward, presenting the heavy outline of his groin, and John can only choke out please, and wonder which of them is playing up to the TV camera more as Bane unzips his trousers and pushes a thumb into the corner of John’s mouth.
He tastes sour and salty and unwashed, and the heat from his skin burns John’s mouth as he sucks, his own erection throbbing and heavy between his legs. He keeps his eyes closed and thrashes slightly, is rewarded by those fingers tightening around his hair, nails carving secret arcane patterns into the pale skin of his scalp. John can only bow his head and try to breathe through his nose as Bane thrusts against him, wanton, like some fearsome rutting beast. John thinks of the Devil and counts the minute spasms of Bane’s huge thighs like rosaries.
He is vaguely aware of the eyes upon him, the voices pitched high with glee, whooping and yelling as Bane thrusts hard against him, making him choke, throat closing up in protest, and it is all he can do not to bite down. Bane backhands him roughly across the temple and roars wordlessly, pointlessly, and John’s cock aches against the zipper of his jeans, pulsing to the same beat as the pounding in his head.
Bane laughs as he comes across John’s face, thick and hot, and then throws him aside. As his nose bursts wetly against the concrete, John takes a moment to appreciate the tense, coiled power of Bane’s arms, those thick wrists and taut muscles that can snap necks and bend metal. He thinks of those arms holding him down, prising him open, and there is fire inside of him as around him, Gotham burns.
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