Archive of Our Own

“Breathe....breathe!” John begs himself.  

A leather mask covers his entire face, leaving only two useless tiny slits for his eyes, and two small holes for his nose. The room is too dark for John to see, and the inside of the mask is too hot and sweaty; John’s barely able to breathe; he would unzip the zipper slot for his mouth but his hands are bound by leather wrist cuffs that are chained to the ceiling. 

His naked body hangs from the ceiling elegantly, John’s frame lean and pliant. Skin made pale from the long winter stretches and bends as the man squirms under the dim light of the humid basement, dripping wet with beads of perspiration. 

John straightens his legs and toes, but his bare feet do not touch the floor. 

If his sight hadn’t been robbed by the mask he’d see an entire room full of thirty or so men, all naked and hungrily jerking off to the beauty in front of them.  

John feels slick hands on him, oiled with lube or cum, it’s impossible to tell for sure. 

He can’t breathe. 

A stranger’s finger presses against his hole - John gasps for air. 

More strangers’ hands on his nipples, spreading lube, tweaking them and making John’s body spasm with delight. Then there are hands on his rock hard manhood, jerking him swiftly but then abandoning it; cold. John squirms against his bindings when he feels a tight, warm mouth on his cock. 

“No!” John cries out against the leather. He’s too sensitive - he could cum at any moment.

He can hardly hear much of anything in this mask, but he catches the low rumbling laughter of a man to his right, hot breath fanning across his burning hot skin. The finger on John’s entrance pushes harshly forward, penetrating him. 

“Ngh!” John cries out. More hands on him, touching his taut stomach, rubbing his sensitive nipples, stroking his bulging cock that has become red at the tip. John shivers against the stimulation, loving the attention, even if he can’t breathe. 

Not being able to breathe only adds to his arousal. It’s the lack of control that turns him on. 

The blunt edge of a latex dildo presses against his hole. It’s big, he can tell. He clenches his fists around the warm chains that hold him up in the air, gripping white knuckled as he waits for the intrusion. John’s chest is rising and falling quickly, an endeavor to take in as much air as possible, but he only gets the steamy thick air afforded to him through the tiny nose holes of his gimp mask. 

The wide tip of the thick dildo breaks through his sphincter, quickening his body to shiver and stiffen in pain. 

A dozen hands hold him down as the dildo fucks him deeper. He cries out, but the sounds are dulled, falling on deaf ears. John is helpless against the thick tool that an anonymous hand forces into him. But he doesn’t feel helpless enough. He’s never as quite free from control as he’d like to be. This was controlled helplessness.

The strangers around him are impossible to break away from as they pull his thighs apart and ease his buttocks open. There are too many strong hands holding him down to fight against the too large dildo. 

John could use the safeword, but that’s boring and precisely the reason why all of this has never been enough. 

White hot pain circles his entrance and he screams in agony when the dildo is yanked out. It returns cooled with lube and slides in easier this time. 

He cums. 

A stranger cums on his legs - he feels it in hot gushes, streams of liquid spraying across his thigh; the former police officer wishes he could watch the other man’s cock buck powerlessly, but he can’t see a damn thing in this mask. There’s a mouth on his own cock, cleaning him completely and John feels as if he could cum again. 

“Pull em down,” comes a voice. John recognizes that voice. It’s the Game Master. 

The chains buckle and then he’s slowly descending, the dildo still being pumped in and out of him. John’s feet touch the wet concrete ground and someone pulls his hands behind his back. The soft leather straps are replaced by tight, rough rope that cut into his wrists. 

An old memory flashes by, but this isn’t like that time.  

John is thrown to his knees, quivering against the dildo that stays snug inside of him. The man’s knees slide against the wet floor, sticky with lube and probably a bit of cum. John arches his back, pressing his chest forward; he ducks his head in between the two knobs he calls knees; he makes himself as small as possible.  

Hands are on his mask, unzipping the back. 

John sighs in absolute relief when cool air whispers over his face as the leather prison is removed. The man quickly lowers his head, not wanting his face to be seen. 

“Alright boys, have at it,” comes the Game Master’s booming, commanding voice from behind. 

John sighs and the dildo plops out of him, landing heavily on the concrete floor while he waits. 

The former cop takes in big gulps of the humid air, feeling insanely aroused by the smell of astroglide and musk in the air. His cock jumps at the wet smacking noise of men masturbating, their greedy moans just as appetizing. John wants to look up and watch the strangers, but he doesn’t want them to see his face. They must never know who he is. 

Guy number one shifts forward and cums on John’s back, then he simply leaves. Soon, there’s a guy number two, and then a guy number three, all cumming on different places of John’s body. Some cum on his head, others on the back of his neck, and the pads of his feet. 

He shivers against the cooling semen covering him, bracing himself as guy number twenty (John’s been counting) bursts his load right on the man’s shoulder. 

Guy thirty becomes guy forty and then it’s finally done. 

The man feels completely and utterly despicable, used and dirty like toilet paper - then why is it that he came several times without even jerking himself when all of those strangers unloaded themselves onto him? 

It’s this hole John’s been filling. It’s been four years since Bane kidnapped him; four years since everything happened in Gotham. 

Raunchy dungeon sex is still not enough.

--

The Game Master tosses him a roll of money once the room is cleared. “Here’s what I promised you.” 

John slowly looks up, his hair soaked with spunk, the thick liquid sliding from down his forehead. He eyes the money rubberbanded in front of him, the paper absorbing the floor juices. “$7,000?”

“Even better, that’s 7,000 Euros,” The Game Master clarifies as he unties John’s arms. 

His wrists are tender, but not as sore as he likes it. John rubs the reddened area anyways before snatching up the wad of money. The young man tests his legs, weakened both by inactivity and by multiple orgasms. 

“Go shower,” The Game Master orders. 

John turns to him, but like always the man’s face is hidden. The Game Master is wearing an elaborate black leather gimp mask with long silver spikes pointing every which way. The man is dark skinned, very well built without a shirt. He’s leather clad with extremely tight pants, the kind of tight that draws attention to all the right places. The Game Master also wears tall, pothole stomping boots that remind John of Bane, but John knows the Game Master isn’t Bane. Nonetheless, He can’t help making the comparison, nor can John help from wondering how it would be for the Game Master to have a private session with him; moreover, how much money would that cost? 

John nods, and stalks over to a nearby doorway that leads to the underground shower room. 

--

John Blake’s looping his fingers through his leather collar as he pushes through the packed dance floor. Industrial rock music is blaring so loud John can barely hear himself think. Almost every man he passes cops a feel. He doesn’t complain, nor can he as he’s wearing nothing but a jock strap. John’s pert ass is naked and hanging out for public display, so the least he could do for this sad community of losers is let them cop a feel. 

Nonetheless, he soldiers through, holding his collar, hoping that tonight is the last night he goes out and does the things he does. Like sleep with strangers; let older men tie him up for hundreds, or let a group of men cum on him for thousands. 

Tonight he’s in an underground Finnish sex club. The bottom floor is where the magic happens while the top floor is where all the boring, typical gay dance club bullshit takes place. John’s had enough of this faggot routine - it’s literally the same all over the world.

He’s gone to London, Milan, Dubai, Tokyo, Hong Kong, New York, Chicago, L.A., Dallas and Toronto, and it’s all the same boring routine. Guy buys you a drink. You get desperate enough to let him fuck you and properly regret it the next day. John’s been up and down that block once or twice to know that it just doesn’t do it for him. 

Nothing does it for him, except maybe seedy dungeon sex with multiple men. 

Blake squeezes his collar as a stranger’s strong hands grip his hips on the dancefloor and he begs for this to be the last of the night. Will this finally fill him up the way Bane did? 

--

John fumbles with his keys, dizzy with exhaustion as he attempts to find the keyhole to his apartment. The flight from Finland had been long and he’d forgotten to charge his phone; his laptop’s battery barely lasted two hours. They showed ‘The Last Airbender’ twice (once was enough to make him consider hijacking the airplane and crashing it right into the Atlantic).

The door finally pushes open and he’s swallowed up by the thick duvet his mother bought him this past Christmas. 

John tugs at the collar Bane buckled on him four years ago and tries not to crave the man’s muscular form holding him like that first night they were together. He falls asleep from pure exhaustion and stays there for much longer than he’d expected. 

--

It’s not normal to sleep thirteen hours, but John Blake somehow manages it. Luckily, he has no plans, though he had wanted to visit Wayne Manor to check up on Alfred and the boys. He’ll drop some of his cash off to them, though pretty much everything is taken care of around there since John found some volunteers to help Alfred out after he left almost two years ago. 

That’s why he still drops by every now and then to leave cash: he feels guilty. 

He let Bruce down, and especially the boys, but those first few years without Bane and life after the League of Shadows’ occupation of the city were the roughest ever. Batman was gone, Gotham was in shambles - now under government control. Wayne Manor was and still is one of the only places John feels somewhat at ease. 

But then that nasty need in him grew larger than he expected. After Alfred caught him bringing several guys home they both agreed that it was best he had his own place outside of the orphanage. 

Alfred hadn’t meant for John to up and disappear though. 

--

John fries an egg that’s probably on the brink of being spoiled, toasts a few pieces of bread and brews a cup of stale coffee. He eats the egg with a pinch of salt, his toast dry and drinks his coffee black. After a cigarette, John bikes down to Gotham Bank and withdraws 2,000 dollars cash, takes the city bus as close to Wayne Manor as it can get; he rides his bicycle the rest of the way. 

Wayne Manor is a large and imposing figure, surrounded by expansive grounds now covered in January snow. John’s cold, but he’s bundled up very nicely, so the twenty minute bike ride hasn’t been so bad. The gravel driveway leading up to the front facing side of the mansion proves a rough ride, so John Blake walks the rest of the way. 

The man’s pale, cold hand knocks at the tall and highly decorated door before him and he waits. A young woman answers the door, someone he doesn’t recognize. 

“Can I help you?” She asks, a sliver of irritation lacing her voice. The sound of rough horseplay and shouting emits from behind her. He grins, knowing all too well how crazy the boys can make someone without a thick skin. 

“John Blake. I used to be in charge here. Is Alfred in?” John hears how weary his voice sounds and clears his throat. 

“Oh. Mr. Blake. Alfred said that you’d show up one day. I’m Lisa. I work with the boys now after Jessie quit.” 

“Jessie Lee? When did she quit?” 

“Six months ago. Would you like to come in Mr. Blake?”

John nods his head, “Sure.” He worries his eyebrows as he remembers Jessie; he’d thought her stronger than that - he wouldn’t have hired her otherwise. 

Could he do anything properly anymore? 

--

Poor Lisa searches the house for Alfred while John visits the boys. Quite a few have aged out, but there are still a few left that remember him. They’re much older now and jaded, no longer impressed with John and his badge now that said badge is probably laying at the bottom of the Gotham River. 

That’s one thing he doesn’t regret. He could never go back to being a cop, not now. 

He doesn’t blame the boys for their frosty reception. He’d walked out on them, leaving them with caretakers that weren’t prepared to go the distance. John gave a few of boys twenty bucks a piece and made his way to the study. Lisa’s still calling for Alfred throughout the house, but John has a pretty good idea where the man could be. 

John closes the study door and swiftly moves to the piano, pressing each of the secret keys that turn the bookcase open. He slips inside the hidden elevator shaft and presses the down button.

--

The batcave is windy and cold, thunderously loud with the booming sound of waterfalls. It’s funny how John got a better night’s sleep here than he ever did in the house with the boys’ non-stop yelling and childish banter. It’s how he knows Alfred is down there, sleeping in the bed John had installed when he moved in. 

The old butler looks so peaceful, snuggled up under his quilt. A portable heater hums from its place on the floor near the bed, its hot coils burning bright red. 

John wants to wake the man up, but he could never do that; sleep is so precious when you work with children. So, he pulls out the envelope full of cash and plops it down on the nightstand. 

“Going away so soon?” comes Alfred’s voice as John turns to walk away. 

“I uh,” the man swivels on his heel, facing the older man that shifts up in the bed so that his back is against the headboard. “I thought you were asleep - didn’t want to wake you.” 

Alfred nods, lifting the envelope from the nightstand. “What’s this?”

“2,000 bucks. Use it for whatever the kids need.” 

The butler purses his lips, tossing the money back onto the nightstand. “They miss you, you know. You’re almost like this mystical creature to them that shows up once a year like Santa Claus.” 

John chuckles, “They sure don’t act like it. I got the cold shoulder upstairs just now.” 

Alfred groans as he lifts himself out of the bed, fully dressed in a suit. That’s highly unusual; Alfred must really be tired. Ugly guilt makes John’s stomach so sour it makes him sick. 

“Well, you know, they’re growing up.” The older man smooths the front of his suit and arches his back to stand tall and rigid. 

“I know. I’m really sorry about all of thi-”

“Save your sorries, I’ve heard them quite enough already,” it doesn’t come out bitter, but Alfred just seems tired of hearing John’s apologizes, amongst other things. 

John nods, “Well... I better be off then.” 

“Bruce called.” 

The former cop’s eyes go wide, “Bruce? What did he want?”

“To check up on things, you know how nosy he is; the retiree life is not for him. If he hadn’t gone and faked his death I would gladly trade places with him,” Alfred moves past John, making his way over to a small kitchenette situated in a corner. He fills a stainless steel kettle with water and places it on the tiny electric stove top.  

John swallows, twiddling his fingers. “Did he say anything about me?”

“Oh you know, the usual. Highly disappointed. Hoping you’d take up the mantle and all, but you know, turning your back on the cowl is probably the smartest decision you’ve made. Gotham doesn’t need Batman anymore.” 

“I haven’t turned my back on Batman. I’m just - I’m working out some things,” John explains, striding towards the stove where the water is being heated. 

“And when do you suppose you’ve sorted those things out? How long should I tell the children they’ll have to wait?” Alfred sounds a shade bitter now. 

John understands; Alfred hadn’t signed up for all of this. He’d planned to retire, maybe lend a helping hand every now and then, but he hadn’t planned to take up the mantle of being master of Wayne Manor. 

“I’ll send more money when I can,” John says, bolting away because he can’t face the guilt any longer. 

“Money’s not what those boys need. It’s you.” 

John stops at the elevator door shaft, turning. “I can’t give them me right now.” 

--

The best way to drown your sorrows is by lots of liquor and lots of anonymous sex. That’s John’s current motto anyhow. 

He hasn’t been to Menjos in ages, so the club’s atmosphere is oddly comforting. He dances with a few guys that rutt their tiny hard dicks against him like small horny dogs; he entertains them for awhile, but soon it’s boring and he’s not drunk enough to be that desperate. 

Tonight John’s nearly naked, wearing a black leather torso harness that so many men love to tug on as they grind against him. He decided to wear a pair of leather undies that stretch over his ass and leaves little to the imagination when it comes to his package. 

Menjos is terribly crowded tonight, but John’s fine with bumping from man to man, letting them touch him all over. He drinks more, and makes out with a few blubbering baby boomers that have no business being in a young club like this one. 

John doesn’t know why he does this. Why does he let these guys pass him along like a piece of meat? Maybe it’s the only way he feels loved or some twisted crazy shit like that. He knows it’s fucked up, but who isn’t completely and utterly screwed up in the head these days?

Blake’s lost in the music and the laser lights, lolling his head about when suddenly he recognizes a face. It freezes him and he’s standing still in the crowd like a marble statue. He knows that face. Long black hair, rough caramel toned face and bulging arms. They may have never been formally introduced, but he knows that face and he knows that body!

John’s desperately scrambling through the crowd, his eyes never wavering from the man. He probably looks like a madman, the way he’s charging after the other man. 

“Come with me,” John whispers in the man’s ear, snatching him away to the bathroom. 

--

They’re hot against the bathroom tile, kissing and groping each other. John knows this man, he knows him. But, he’ll have to catch him in a vulnerable moment to get the information he needs. 

John picks a stall and throws the other man onto the toilet, falling to his knees as he unzips the man’s jeans. 

“Woah, you’re a feisty one.” That accent. It only proves John is correct. 

The former cop keeps his head low as he takes the thick cock into his mouth, giving modest suction at first. John spits in his hand and jerks the man’s dick, sucking him deeper and faster now. He takes the cock to the back of his throat and then pulls up, making it all wet and shiny with his spit. Blake continues this until the other man is squirming and moaning loudly under his touch. 

That’s when John looks up at him, his jaw tired and his lips red and bruised. He stares at the other man, watching his confusion turn into slight realization of who John is. 

“Where is Bane?” John says, licking his lips. 

“W-what?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know you were one of his followers. I recognized your face. You jerked off to me and Bane before.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin-... wait... you’re that boy from before? The one he had tied up like a little house slave?” 

John sighs with relief, beginning to stroke the man again. “Right. Do you know where Bane is?” 

The man moans under John’s grip, biting his bottom lip. “I might remember better if you go back to blowing me.” 

John scowls at him, reaching with his left hand for the man’s balls, tugging on them painfully. 

“Alright! Alright! Fuck! We can’t talk here.” 

“Where then?”

“I know a place. And don’t fucking use his name again!” 

--

The place isn’t really a place and more of a shitty spot outside an abandoned liquor store on the edge of downtown. John’s got a pistol in his sweatpants pocket, so if this fucker decides to try anything sneaky, he’ll blast a few caps in his knees. 

“Had to make sure we weren’t being eavesdropped on,” says the man, his breath showing in the cold Gotham air. “You got any smokes?”

John nods, digging in his pocket for the smashed up pack of Newports. He pulls out two sticks, one for himself, the other for this man. 

“Here, keep the box. I’m trying to quit,” John says as he lights both of their cigarettes. 

“You’ll be buying another pack tomorrow, I bet,” the man chuckles and pockets the Newports. 

John presses out a cloud of cigarette smoke and gets down to business. “Where is he.”

“He’s been wanting to find you, you know.” 

Shock seizes John. “What did you say?”

“He’s been looking for you.” 

“Bullshit. I’ve been in Gotham all along. It couldn’t be too hard to find me.” 

“Not these past few years, you haven’t. He sent someone to Wayne Manor; they said you’d been gone for over a year. Then he sent me out here to find you, but I didn’t plan on going back to that dump he calls a home. I’ll stay here.”  

“Shit!” John breathes out, sucking hard on his cigarette. “So, you’ve found me. What now?” 

“I’m out of the shit. You’re on your own.” 

“How the fuck am I supposed to find him? Tell me where he is!” John’s in the man’s face, his eyes wild and crazy. He thought he’d never see Bane again, only to find out that Bane’s been searching for him. It’s no wonder the masked man hadn’t been able to find him, what with John traveling all over the world recently. 

“Calm down princess. You got any paper?” 

“No. Why?” 

“A phone then? I’m giving you the last place I saw him.” 

John yanked his phone out. 

“Cuenca, Ecuador.” 

“Ecuador?” John hisses, his eyes scanning the surrounding area.

“Look for the club ‘El Cálido Cuero’ in the Santa Ana de los Ríos de Cuenca, the historic district. If he’s still there, you’ll find him.” 

“I haven’t taken Spanish since high school, what does that mean?” 

The man puffs at his cigarette, chuckling darkly. “The Warm Leatherette.” 

--

Cuenca is sweltering, much to John’s surprise. It’s in stark contrast to the record low temperatures of Gotham. He’s glad he packed his summer clothes along though. 

John doesn’t speak a lick of Spanish. He can count to ten and knows some colors thanks to an awkward morning he watched Dora the Explorer all by himself, but that’s about it. When he lands at Mariscal Lamar Airport he’s too excited and frazzled to be tired or scared.

John can only think of Bane. 

He immediately boards the nearest bus and rides it until he’s downtown in the historical district like his informer instructed. The city is beautiful, old ancient buildings that feel almost too perfect, as if they were built on a movie set. The sweet smell of beans and corn tortilla fills the air, making John’s stomach cry out. He hadn’t eaten anything since his meager dinner on the plane. 

The day is winding down and the city is buzzing with activity. As they edge into Parque Calderon, John recognizes three sky blue domed towers with pointed tips attached to a large neo-gothic cathedral. He’d seen it in a travel magazine once, he’s sure. 

John steps off the bus into the heart of the city and sets his luggage down. He traveled light, only bringing along one suitcase and a duffle bag. He digs into the bag, retrieving his collar. John didn’t want to risk having the collar taken off of his neck at customs. The man buckles the thin leather strap and treks down the street, praying he’ll run into someone that speaks English. 

He shows the club name ‘El Cálido Cuero’ to strangers from his phone, and he gets either a puzzled look or one of absolute disgust. Whatever this place is, it’s likely underground and deplorable. 

Sounds like Bane’s kind of place.

Night bleeds over the sky and John grows worried. The city lights up beautifully and is alive with music and chatter, but John’s too much panicked to enjoy the beauty of the city around him. He must find this place - he couldn’t bear to stay at a hotel knowing Bane’s in the city someplace. 

John walks on tired feet down every back alley way, deciding to ask seedy men about the club. It’s not until hours later he runs into a man in bad drag in what John assumes is the gay district. When the cross-dresser realizes John can’t speak Spanish, they silently escort him to a taxi and rattle off the destination to the driver. 

John is so overcome with emotion, endlessly grateful for the help that he forgets the Spanish word for ‘Thank You’. He doesn’t remember until the taxi driver says “gracias” when John hands him an American twenty dollar bill. 

The road is cobblestoned, bumpy under John Blake’s feet, and the buildings surrounding him are tall and old in a distinct neo-gothic style. The street is eerily quiet, only the sound of distant car engines can be heard. The building in front of him is dark, absent of the bright lights of the neighboring buildings. John suspects it to be abandoned until he catches the distant, but clearly visible red neon blinking sign that reads ‘El Cálido Cuero’. 

John pulls out his cellphone with sweaty fingers to double check, right before his battery completely dies on him. 

“The Warm Leatherette,” the young man says out loud. He tucks his cellphone away and lugs his heavy suitcase towards the front entrance. 

--

It takes only one knock for the door to burst open. A tall middle aged woman dressed in a leather bodysuit stands in the doorway, one hand on the door frame, the other on her hip.

“Qué es?” she says. 

“Uh, sorry, I don’t... no hablo español.” 

The woman begins to stare at him intently, her wrinkled features strange and sad under the red blinking neon lights of the club’s sign. Realization flashes across her blue eyes and she whips her dry, bottle blonde hair over her shoulder. 

“Come in,” her spanish accent is thick. 

John ducks inside, his heart beating like a rabbit’s. Scared. He’s actually scared, but that turns him on, unsurprisingly. 

A situation he’s not in control of for once. 

Inside the building is dark and poorly lit with thick candles lining the walls. The foyer feels like a strange entrance to a haunted hotel or something similar. It almost seems like a joke; John looks for the fake spider webs covering an ornate chandelier hanging down above - he’s actually almost disappointed that the chandelier is cleaned, completely absent of dust or cobwebs. The carpet is red wine colored and the walls are a dark brown wood. The room is lined with comfy old chairs on the right and there’s a receptionist desk on the left with two oil lamps and a large notepad. Behind the desk there’s a sizable oil painting of a Spanish general or someone equally important in military garments. 

“Follow me,” the woman commands. 

John ghosts behind her down a hallway of doors, each numbered. This proves his hotel theory. They turn down another hallway that is even dimmer. They follow it until it leads to a doorway with a staircase leading upward to a closed door. The woman doesn’t say a word to John, just continues up the stairs, only looking back to make sure he’s still following. 

The stairs lead to a door that the middle-aged woman knocks on. 

“Who is it?” comes an annoyed Russian accented voice that John doesn’t recognize. 

“Esperanza.”

“What do you want?” the door opens and floods them with warm yellowed light. The man’s eyes fall on John, but quickly focus on the woman. 

“I’ve found the master’s prize.” She grips John by the arm; she’s surprisingly strong, her fingers biting painfully into his bicep. 

He stumbles forward with his luggage, staring the Russian man in the eye. 

The man is tall and lanky with a grubby looking sandy brown beard. His icy blue eyes stare into John and suddenly the former police officer is being yanked through the doorway into the room. No one says a word, just lead him through the room that is full of S&M equipment. There’s a sling on one side of the room, and there’s a fuck machine on the other. John eyes the impressive device, marveling at the clear glass dildo attached at the end. 

They lead him to a large double door that the Russian man knocks on loudly. 

“What?” comes a strained voice. 

John’s heart flips in his chest. 

“We’ve found your prize, master.” Esperanza shouts, eying John with a smug grin. 

There’s a pause, and then loud thumping steps come towards the doors until they are swung open and Bane is standing in front of John, shirtless with his metal back brace and thick cargo pants and boots. There’s wide, nasty looking scar on the man’s chest, otherwise he looks every bit the same as John remembers him, but as they both stare into each other’s eyes, they both know that the last four years have not been a picnic. Bane has a scar, but John’s got plenty inside of him. They’re changed men. 

Bane’s eyes dart down to the collar on John’s throat, and he slowly blinks. 

“Leave us.” Bane’s voice is deep and rich, but still garbled through the filter of the mask. 

Esperanza and the Russian leave at once and John’s left standing in front of Bane, feeling as though his legs will give out. 

“Bane,” John whispers, his eyebrows furrowing as his eyes begin to well up with tears. “I can’t... I can’t believe it’s actually you.” 

Bane pulls him by the arm, grabbing the suitcase from the man’s hand and tossing it on the floor inside. He slams the door shut and guides John over to Bane’s large, fluffy four-poster bed. It’s ornate and completely excessive. The room is small, but well furnished. There’s a large bureau littered with papers, the wall behind it with several pictures of John and maps. 

“You’ve really been looking for me this entire time?” John says breathlessly as Bane guides him towards the bed, pressing him face down onto the mattress. 

Wordlessly, Bane strips the smaller man’s pants down. John fists the duvet and presses on the tips of his toes to arch his ass in the air.

He’s wild with desire because this is how he always wanted their reunion. 

Bane doesn’t say a word, only reaches forward, cupping his hand as John spits out a healthy glob of saliva. The bigger man slicks his own dick up and plunges forward, digging painfully into John’s ass. The friction is rough, and John suspects he’ll probably bleed, but he doesn’t care. Bane’s calloused hands grip painfully onto the man’s small hips, squeezing harder and harder until John yelps out in pain. 

The masked man fucks him like that on the bed, John’s feet on the ground, his chest sinking into the mattress whenever Bane pumps into him.  

Bane’s cock tunnels deep, filling him up completely. John moans loudly, fisting the bedding and screaming when Bane’s meaty fingers are fisting his hair, pulling John’s head back. Bane keeps yanking at the man’s hair until John’s staring at him upside down, his mouth open - lips dry. 

“I love you,” John cries out and then his face is back into the mattress, Bane fully atop of him, fucking him properly. John could die just now with Bane’s full weight on him, the man’s heat and smell. No one can tear him apart like Bane. 

John screams into the bed covers, shivering against the insanity behind him as Bane’s cock spreads his hole wide, fucking him wholeheartedly. The muscular man’s left hand is holding Blake down into the edge of the mattress, and the other is forcing his head down. 

Free from control. 

Everything stills when Bane ruts into him and finally dumps his load. John can feel Bane’s cock bucking wildly inside him, shooting his seed. 

Bane slips outside of him easily, slick with his own cum. He pulls his pants up and then stalks out of the room, slamming the doors shut. John recognizes the click of a lock turning and he lets out a sigh of relief. 

John’s back where he belongs.