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for those who cast no spark

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John isn't on the streets long before he gets picked up.

He's smart enough to avoid the long, dark stretches of neighborhoods where the pimps rule and he's quick enough to avoid getting caught when he lifts a wallet here and there. But he's cold and hungry most of the time and he hasn't slept a full night since he ran from the boys home. John is tired and so when the car pulls up in front of his alley and the driver offers him food, a bed and a job John is just stupid enough to take the offer.

The food and the bed Mr. Burgess offers aren't lies, and most of the time John's job is just waiting tables at the Iceberg Lounge, getting his ass stared at when he leans over to deliver alcohol he's not old enough to drink. He likes that part of the job, likes the men and women he works with. The back of the house is always full of laughter and drinks and secrets that put the best soap opera to shame. Mr. Cobblepot isn't a bad boss, generally, and Mr. Burgess runs the bar with no tolerance for messy drunks. John has seen him, in spite of his slender and unassuming stature, smash a rowdy drunk's head into the bar hard enough to crack the wood.

John doesn't even mind the other part of his job. Most of the time. It's's not something that he likes exactly; there's something sharp edged and hard that digs into his stomach every time and makes it hard to breathe, that sours the air in his throat. But that comes later, after it's over and done and he's sitting in Cobblepot's office going over every detail. The rest of it isn't bad. There are even parts that he enjoys. Broad hands and rough skin against his body, holding him close even if it's just for a few minutes. Pleasure and a sense of belonging. Of being wanted.

Even if he knows that it's all just pretend.

John thinks, if he had a choice, that he might turn down the special assignments.

Of course there isn't a choice. There never is. John has seen what happens to people who say no to Mr. Cobblepot, and he won't take the chance of that happening to him.

So he waits tables and he cleans when some of the cleaning crew is out. John does what he's asked and he's warm and well fed and grateful for it. He serves food to hard eyed men and women and never notices what goes on at their tables unless Mr. Cobblepot asks him about it.

And when Mr. Burgess waves him to the VIP tables John goes without question.

The man John is introduced to is rougher looking than the usual clients. Oh, they're all tough guys of one stripe or another, more than willing to kill if it gets them what they want, but they tend to hide it better. This man is dressed down in black camo pants, black shirt, his short brown hair uncombed – the perfect accompaniment to his unkempt beard. He doesn't fit with Burgess and Cobblepot, with their sharp suits and manicured hands. John slips into the booth beside him, too close for politeness so that he can touch the client accidentally, soft brushes against the back of his hand when he reaches for his water, John's hand falling to rest on the other mans thigh when he leans back and pretends to listen to the conversation around him. The client responds to none of it and John might as well not be there at all for all the attention that gets paid to him.

It's maddening.

Still, he keeps trying because that's what he's there for and Cobblepot, for all his seeming inattention, will know if John doesn't do his best.

Cobblepot treats the client with what feels like wary respect, urging him to try this or that dish as it crosses over the table. The man smiles and nods and refuses every dish, sticking to a glass of water of his own. Nothing about this is right. Usually the men are more than willing to suck down whatever Cobblepot puts in front of them, he has money enough to make certain that his chef is actually one of the best in the country.

John's spine prickles with a growing unease as the conversation slows, stills, and then dries out entirely, leaving them all just staring at one another or down at the table laden with far too much food. Cobblepot laughs at nothing, his strange, gawking laughter echoing through the dining room and killing off the conversations around them for a beat as diners flinch and look up from their meals. It seems to break something at their own table though. The client leans back against the soft cushioning of the booth and rests one arm along John's shoulders, pulling him in closer.

They leave together shortly after that, the client's hand on John's back, guiding him. The unease is back, worse, because there are rooms above the club for this and it's always been the rule to never leave the club with a client. But Cobblepot is nodding and there's the quick dismissive flick of one hand, barely missing knocking over the glass of wine at his side and so John goes and hopes that he's going to come back in one piece at the end of the night.

John is silent for most of the ride, out from under Cobblepot's eyes and not actively trying to get into the clients pants, he finds that his usual polite conversation has failed him. It isn't until they're pulling into the underground parking lot of a fairly nice hotel that the client speaks to John.

“So what should I call you?”

“What d'you want to call me?” It sounds just as cheesy as it always has, but it's one of the first things he'd learned, the first step in making sure that he was whatever the client needed him to be for the night.

“Your real name.” The man reaches over and his hand settles on John's thigh. There's strength there, in the way he casually squeezes. It sends a thrill of worry and excitement through John.

“John.” He laughs, knowing how fake it sounds. “Really. John.”

“Barsad.” His fingers stroke slowly down John's leg, the fabric of his black uniform slacks giving up a whisper soft rasp of sound.

John looks away, out the window. They park between a beat up minivan and a Camry that someone has painted electric purple. “So what now, Mr. Barsad?”

“Just Barsad.” He turns the car off and the doors unlock. “Now, we go up to my room and you entertain my brother.” Barsad turns in the drivers seat, reaches out and runs his hand over John's cheek, fingers playing briefly with the short hairs on the back of his neck.

John leans into the touch because that's what he's there for. Never mind the thrill that prickles his skin at the touch, at the not quite gentle pull of Barsad's fingers in his hair.

Barsad seems to do his best to keep touching John the whole way to his room, as if he's afraid that John will bolt if he doesn't have that physical anchor to the here and now. John would tell him that he doesn't need it, that there's nowhere for John to run to even if he wanted to run, but it feels like a mood killer even in his own head.

They stop at the door to the room, one of Barsad's hands untucking John's shirt so that he can touch the smooth skin of John's back, fingers rubbing little circles as he unlocks the door with the other. The room is dark, curtains closed against the never ending lights of Gotham at night and John has to trust in Barsad to lead him through the nearly invisible obstacle course. As John's eyes adjust he can make out the rough shape of the bed, the low tables and chairs. There's no one else in the room, but John can hear water running somewhere, off around a corner and guesses that Barsad's brother is in the bathroom.

“Alright.” Barsad leads John to stand in the middle of the room, only leaving him for a second to grab something off the foot of the bed. “This is what we will do. I'm going to blindfold you and you will keep it on all night. You will not touch it. You will not speak. You will do what I tell you to do and nothing else.”

“You wanna tie me up too?” John loops the fingers of one hand around his other wrist, rubbing. It's happened before and it's fine.

If it's what the client wants, it's fine.

It has to be.

“No.” Barsad moves in close again, his breath on John's cheek, the back of his neck, and he hands John the strip of cloth he'd picked up from the bed, thick and soft and cool from sitting out in the air for so long. “You will be bound with my will, nothing more. If I tell you to do a thing, to keep your hands at your sides or on the back of your neck, you will do it. Because I say so and because you want to obey me.” Barsad steps into John, presses himself against the length of John and he's only a little bit taller, enough that John can feel the huff of his breath against the top of his head, can arch back and rub against Barsad's cock against the small of John's back. John can feel the heat of it even through their clothes. “For tonight, you want above all else to obey me. Yes?”

John swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, his throat tight.

Barsad's arms are tight around him and his hands join John's in playing with the blindfold, running along the smooth cloth, bumping over John's fingers and tangling with them, caressing. Barsad leans down, breaks the contact of their bodies, and kisses the side of John's throat, lips dry and warm until his tongue flicks out, hot and slick against John's cool skin. He does it again, and again, drawing a line around John's throat, fingers coming up to stroke the parts he can't reach from behind John. Barsad's beard tickles over the damp skin his kisses leave behind. The cool air on John's heated flesh makes John's muscles twitch, his stomach tightening in anticipation of more.

John's breath stutters in his throat, his pulse pounding and he reaches around behind himself, one hand still tangled in the blindfold and fumbles for the front of Barsad's pants, button and zipper eluding him for a few seconds as Barsad bites down on the back of his neck. John chokes on a moan, his own cock twitching in his pants, slowly starting to fill as Barsad licks over the edges of his own bite, hands slipping up beneath John's shirt to scratch at the skin of his stomach.

This is good, this is familiar and nearly too perfect in a way that John's clients haven't been in far too long. John leans into Barsad, lets the other man take a little bit of his weight and shudders faintly when Barsad does so without seeming to even notice it. John focuses on the roughness of the jeans beneath his fingers, the heat of Barsad's breath over the skin of John's neck and lets himself sink into the moment. He stops thinking of anything except pleasure – his and Barsad's.

John navigates Barsad's zipper, finally, and he pushes the fabric of Barsad's pants out of the way, finds Barsad hard and waiting for him. The skin is soft beneath John's hand and he starts to wraps his fingers around it, wanting to feel it move, to draw out the stuttering breath and shivering pulse of pleasure that he knows is the best part of all of this.

But Barsad nips at his throat one more time, a quiet murmur that sounds like half of an apology breathed out against John's skin and then he steps back, out of John's carefully grasping fingers.

“Will you obey?” Barsad's voice is warm, deeper and John stands shivering for a second, bereft of his heat.


“Then put on the blindfold.”

John hesitates, hears the water shut off in the other room. A door creaks open, hidden around the corner of a wall and John closes his eyes, brings the cloth up and tries to wrap it tight. Barsad moves behind him, takes the ends of the blindfold out of John's hands and finishes tying it, leaving a band of black pressure over John's eyes, across the bridge of his nose.

“Stand here. Do not move.” Barsad's fingers trail over John's neck, burning a path over his shoulder through the thin material of his shirt. “And remember, say nothing.” His fingers brush over John's lips and John flicks his tongue out, licks over the salty pads. Barsad chuckles and steps around John. “He is ready, brother.”

A new sound enters the room, a low rumble that sounds quietly mechanical. Muffled footsteps move toward John and he has to force himself to stay where Barsad had left him, fight to keep each breath slow and even. He's not sure if it's excitement or fear that sends electric tingles over his skin.

“Strip, John.” Barsad's voice comes from further away than John had thought, but it's still strong, steady.

John toes off his shoes, fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and undoing them as quickly as he can. He lets the cloth fall to the floor, pulling the undershirt off carefully to keep from catching it on the knot of the blindfold. Pants and underwear and socks follow, all landing in a drifting heap around John's bare feet until he's naked and hard, his own arousal a low tingling current in his cock.

Footsteps circle him, someone leans down and pulls John's clothes away from his feet so that he's standing free and clear. Hands come from nowhere, some that John thinks he recognizes as Barsad's touch, others that are too large, too heavy. They caress him here and there, a stroke down his side, a broad palm cupping the curve of his ass. They avoid his cock entirely, a thumb trailing through the thick black hair above it the closest they come.

He can feel the heat from their touches long after they've moved on to caress other parts of his body. There's nothing but the sensation of hands against his skin to focus on, blackness and the growing raggedness of John's own breath wrapping him up, muffling everything in a pleasant softness.

John's breath comes faster, hollowing his stomach out as the large hands land gently on his shoulders, running down his chest, fingers pinching briefly at his nipples. John jerks beneath the touch, the small flashes of pain seeming to run down straight to his cock. Barsad's hands are in his hair, pulling, and it's good, the sensation flushing through his body.

The larger hands continue down John's chest, across his stomach. One finger, broad and calloused, runs down the top of John's cock and his hips rock forward at the faint contact. John blushes and laughter, amused but not mocking, fills the room. Barsad's mouth is back at John's throat, teeth scraping at the edge of his jaw, tongue flirting along the shell of John's ear.

“My brother is pleased with you.” Barsad's voice is lower, a touch of accent flavoring his words. “Come with me.”

John moves at Barsad's direction, following the gentle urging of the hand at his back, trusting Barsad to keep him from walking into any walls. He shuffles his feet along until the softness of the carpet gives way to the cool smoothness of tile. The air is warmer in this room, heavy with the remnants of steam. Barsad leaves him standing just inside the door with a quick press of lips to his cheek, a murmured instruction to stay where he is. John waits, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest.

He can hear faint sounds of movement, the rustle of cloth and the clack of buttons or a zipper hitting the tile. The air kicks on and the sudden noise makes John jump, his bare feet slipping on the tile as he flinches. Large hands come from behind John, pulling him back until he's held against a massive chest. He flails for a second, barely remembering to bite down on his shocked words in time to keep them from spilling into the heavy silence of the room.

John had known the other man was big but this...John shudders against the huge form and a part of his brain short circuits at the feel of the muscles shifting against his back. He listens to a strange, wheezing chuckle issue from somewhere far above his head and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.

“'s okay.” Barsad is back, hands on the sides of John's face, fingers tracing over the blindfold. He's close again, trapping John between both of the men. “We won't hurt you. It's okay. We're going to take care of you, John.”

Barsad moves away, never quite losing contact with John. The other man, his arms huge and muscled around John's chest, lifts John gently and carries him further into the bathroom. It's disorienting, worse than walking with the blindfold on, and John reaches up to hold onto the man, to try and anchor himself just a little bit. Barsad is there first though, catching John's hands in his own and moving them back down, fingers hard on John's wrists.

“Not yet.” Barsad's hands flex, drawing a whimper of not quite pain.

He's set down in what John guesses is a shower, smaller tiles beneath his feet and more tile on the wall when he reaches out a hand to steady himself. The water that begins to rain down on him is warm, the pressure just enough to feel good against muscles tired from lifting heavy trays and being on his feet all night.

“Hands up.” Barsad guides John's hands to the back of his neck, lacing the fingers together and patting them. He has to be in the shower with John, he's too close for anything else. Barsad begins to wash John down, a slightly rough washcloth gliding across John's shoulders, down his back in steady movements.

It feels good.

It feels deeply personal and detached somehow, all at the same time.

John leans into Barsad's touch when he can, cocking a hip, rolling his shoulders, anything to prolong the contact. Barsad doesn't respond, just moves on to John's front, the brush of the cloth over John's throat and collarbone sending ripples of pleasure through his body. John shifts on the tile, legs slipping a little wider.


Barsad leans in, pressing a quick kiss to the round of John's shoulder and it leaves his slick, naked stomach rubbing against John's cock. John gasps, rolls his hips forward and up, seeking more of that touch only to find that Barsad is already gone, all contact lost until John feels his hands on one of John's thighs, drawing the washcloth slowly over the sensitive skin.

Barsad is kneeling in front of John, he has to be, and John imagines that he can feel the brush of Barsad's hair over the warm wet skin of his stomach. John sways with each stroke of the cloth over his skin, warm water rushing down his body. He tilts his head back, hands still carefully behind his neck and lets the water run over his face, soaking the blindfold and drawing it tighter, heavier against his eyes. John loses himself in the rush of the water as it blocks out all other sounds, savors the drag of Barsad's hands over his skin, every touch a tease that draws John's skin tighter, sending the heat in his cock spiraling hotter and hotter.

“Brace yourself against the wall.” Barsad's voice comes from far away, still down near John's feet, and his fingers tap at the side of John's foot.

John straightens, shakes his head reaches out blindly until he finds the wall. It's farther away than he'd thought and John has to shuffle forward a little to brace himself comfortably. His feet bump into Barsad on the way, calves hitting Barsad's knees before the man scoots backward, giving John more room.

Barsad waits for John to settle, one hand wrapping around John's leg, fingers playing over the sensitive skin at the back of his knee. It's not quite a tickle but it makes John want to squirm anyway, rough callouses over tender skin until he's ready to cry or come, maybe both. But Barsad relents, moves until he's grasping John's foot.

He lifts John's foot tenderly, running the warm cloth around the ankle, stroking the high arch. His fingers press through the washcloth, trailing after it sometimes to leave lines of shivering heat behind. The same gentle, pervasive attention is paid to the bottom of John's foot, pressure and rough, breath stealing texture that leaves John's toes curling, his shoulders shaking as he gasps, fighting not to plead.

Barsad sets John's foot down and the touch of the water warmed tile is almost too perfect, smooth and hard against the sensitized flesh. He wants to shift, to press harder into the tile, a different angle, just to see what it might feel like. But Barsad is lifting John's other foot and it's just as good as before, just as maddening. The stroke of the cloth and Barsad's hands against his wet skin fill his senses until John is left with his fingers digging at the tile beneath his hands, moans filling his chest with every breath.

“Good, good.” Barsad runs his hands up John's leg as he stands. His shoulders bump John's outstretched arms as he rises, wet skin dragging over wet skin. “Only one more thing John.”

That other set of hands against John's back now, sliding through the water to cup John's ass, thumbs pressing in and spreading John open. The mass of the other man must be blocking the flow from the shower, John can still feel it pattering and running around his feet but his back is left suddenly cool in the open air. Barsad's hands, strong and steady, rest on John's shoulders, fingers stroking slow circles as broader digits probe John from behind.

John gasps and wriggles at the first intrusion, the finger warmly slick with lube as it is worked inside of him. He clenches, unable to stop himself, and some sort of communication must go on between the two men because Barsad's hands move down to find John's nipples.

Barsad distracts John with careful pinches and twists, stroking away each hurt almost before John can really register it. The finger in John's ass pulls out only to breach him more fully, rough skin against the soft skin of John's ass, the other hand bracing against John's thigh as the man works John open slowly.

Soon enough, too soon, the finger is withdrawn and something harder, unyielding, is slipped inside him in its place. John shakes his head, a full body shiver working down through him as he recognizes what's about to happen. Barsad strokes one hand over John's hair as the flood begins. It's only a small stream at first, hotter than the shower but not too hot, washing into his body and starting to fill him. The stream grows quickly though, spreading through John until it feels as though there's no place inside him it can't reach.

By the time it stops John feels stretched, too full. He's lost the strength to keep his head up and lets it dangle down between his arms, Barsad's lips against his stomach, pressing back against the flood of warm water being held inside John. Long fingers stroke along John's thighs, circling John's cock without ever coming close to it. He's hard enough that it feels as if a stray breeze will bring him off, and John knows Barsad knows it because he plays with John, breathes out over John's twitching length.

John imagines Barsad and the other man just watching him, hard and waiting, every muscle in his body straining to hold it all in. They don't just watch him suffer though, their hands are everywhere, along his back, his sides, the massive form of Barsad's brother stretching out over John's body so that the man can follow the path of John's arms, fingers tickling over the soft hairs on his arms. Barsad licks and bites at John's thighs, long fingers wrapping around John's ankles, tapping out meaningless patterns on John's skin.

They tease and comfort John at the same time, driving him deeper and deeper into his own need until there are sounds spilling from his lips that are more animal than human. His cock is leaking, bobbing in the air with each stuttering breath and John's stomach clenches, over filled.

Barsad rises, takes hold of John's hands and leads him out of the shower, careful to keep him from tripping over the low lip.

John finds himself settled onto a toilet, the seat unbearably cold after the heat of the shower and their bodies against his, but it's also perfect and he wants to tell them to leave the room, he won't be able to hold on much longer but those same rough hands are on his face, fingers cradling his jaw, thumbs rubbing gently over his lips.

“Let it go.” Barsad in his ear, hands wrapped around his legs as Barsad spreads them wider until the ache in his thighs is an unsupportable burn. The rest is heat and humiliation, blood hot in John's face as he obeys, relieved, silent tears of overwhelming need soaking the wet cloth over his eyes.

When its over they take him back to the shower, limp limbed and compliant. Another wash, quicker, with Barsad's lips against his own, swallowing down the quiet whimpers John can't quite stop from whispering out over his lips. John focuses on the feel of the water against his skin, the dry softness of a towel a few minutes later, trying to forget his cock still hard and neglected between his thighs.

John moves when he's told, legs holding him up through some magic John doesn't understand, one foot in front of the other until they're back in the bedroom and Barsad is urging him to his knees. The carpet is soft, the room warm, but John still shivers quietly as the men move around him. There's the scrape of a chair, a low groan of pain and relief from somewhere in front of John and the creak of springs. He balls his hands into fists to keep from reaching for his cock, the slow heat there a constant distraction.

“My brother wants your mouth.” Barsad is behind him again, crouched low, fingers slick and teasing at John's burning hole, diving in and out in quick motions that are too fast, too smooth to hurt. “Will you give it to him?”

John nods, his lips parting as his tongue slips out to lick them. Barsad buries two fingers in John, drives him forward on his knees over the floor until John's hands find two heavy calves, muscle corded and hard as a rock beneath his palms. He has a few seconds to feel hair and thick, twisting scars and then Barsad's free hand is in his hair, pulling his head back.

“Hands behind your back.”

John obeys with one last stroke over the legs in front of him, savoring and memorizing the size and feel of them. He clasps his hands together at the small of his back, knuckles brushing over the rise of his ass with the smallest of movements. Barsad leaves him to shuffle forward on his own, tightly muscled thighs brushing against John's shoulders as he goes.

He doesn't need Barsad to guide him after that. John leans forward and finds the head of the giant of a man's cock with his lips, hot and softer than silk, salty fluid on his tongue when John flicks it out to trace the heavy morsel of flesh. He mouths it at first, lips and tongue working only at the head, sliding down only briefly to take a little bit more in. Each twist of his lips brings the reality of what John is facing home to him – the man in front of him is impossibly large and fear tinged pleasure throbs through John's body in time with the pulse beneath his tongue.

John breathes in, drags the scent of clean skin and soap deep into his lungs. There's a tinge of the sharp-sweet scent of sweat there too. John sighs and takes another breath, works his tongue over the slick skin of the cock in his mouth as he breathes the scent of Barsad's brother deeper into his lungs.

Fingers breach him again, three this time, slick and unforgiving as they push into him, rocking John forward on the cock until it fills his mouth, choking him. John arches his hips, moving back into Barsad's invasion and suckles at the cock, tongue fluttering helplessly along the underside. John moans as Barsad twists inside of him, barely brushing at the spot that makes John's nerves light up, his own cock pulsing and leaking without being touched.

John pulls back a little, enough to draw in desperate, ragged breaths before diving back on, taking the weight of the cock back into himself, forcing it deeper until he can feel it at the back of his throat. He wants to use his hands, to find out how much more there could be. In his head it's unending, broad and long, full and slick with pre-come and John's spit, waiting to ram up impossibly deep inside of John's body. John clenches around Barsad's probing fingers and groans around the cock in his mouth.

Four fingers now, and John can feel the thinnest line of drool running out the side of his mouth. He twitches, shudders, and there's a keening noise rising out of his chest as John feels the pleasure coming, finally. Only there's a hand around his balls, fingers pressing and twisting and it's too much, a spike of unwelcome pain that stabs through the crest of John's pleasure and leaves him going soft and groaning. John starts to pull away, to protest, to cry out for real, but there are hands in his hair, unrelenting as they urge him down further, dragging him forward and forcing more and more of the cock into his mouth until it's at the back of his throat.

John shudders and whines, off-balance and reeling. They hold him there for a second, breathless, Barsad's hands working pain and pleasure into him at the same time and John has enough time to think about moving his arms, about striking out and trying to break free even as he tightens his grip on his own wrists. Then he's free, cold air filling his lungs, his hole grasping at nothing as Barsad withdraws.

John cries out at the emptiness, the hand in his hair that had forced him forward now holding him back so that all he can get is a hint, the tiniest of tastes if he stretches out his tongue. He shifts his legs wider, opens himself and begs wordlessly. He's rewarded when Barsad spreads him with one hand and presses something too hard and unyielding to be flesh into his stretched hole. John moans and moves into it, twisting his head to leave a line of sloppy kisses along the inside of the nearest thigh.

The hands in his hair guide him back to the still hard cock and John swallows it down, wonderfully stretched once more. He swirls his tongue around the head, heavy and fantastic as it fills his mouth, Barsad works the dildo inside of John, slides a finger into him alongside it, the burning stretch of being too full driving John to hardness again.

John loses himself in his task, the feel and taste of the cock in his mouth, in the way it swells on his tongue. He traces each vein and wrinkle, the tip of his tongue finding the delicate slit and slipping inside, swallowing down each drop as if it's the sweetest nectar. He whines, muffled, when Barsad withdraws the toy, fingers playing along the tender rim of John's hole, spreading more lube.

“Still so tight.” Barsad's fingers drive into John and he spreads them, stretching John wider and wider. He fists John's cock as he does, too loosely to do anything but torment. “We could be here all night, opening you up. Would you like that?”

John groans, unthinkingly.

“What about you, my brother? We could peel him apart slowly, leave him loose and begging for you. Or you could have him now. Open him up on your cock, helpless and mewling.” Barsad's lips are against the small of John's back, his breath deliciously hot and moist as it gusts over John's fingers.

A finger taps against John's lower lip, gathers the mix of drool and pre-come slipping out of his mouth and drags it over his cheek, a trail that cools quickly on John's overheated skin. The finger pushes in past his lips, rubbing gently over his tongue where he's trailing it along the side of the heavy cock.

“My brother wants to fuck you open with his cock John.” Barsad's tongue flicks out, teasing along the mounds of John's ass. “And I rather think I want to see him do it. Nothing between you, no barriers. I want to watch him fill you, John. You'll be feeling him for days and you'll just want more.”

John whines at the thought, a quick flash of himself spread open and held down, stretched wide, come staining his thighs, leaking out of his well-used hole. He lets the cock slip from his lips with a quiet murmur of apology.

Barsad takes hold of John's hips and draws him back, pulling him away until there's no contact but his hands on John's skin. He's urged to his feet, his legs like jello under him as he staggers the few steps forward until he's bracketed by those strong legs again.

John reaches forward blindly, finds shoulders and a chest just as big as he remembered, muscles and scars beneath his searching fingers. Hands lift and tug at John, a mix of Barsad and the other man, helping him as he crawls up into the open lap, cocks bumping and rubbing together briefly before John is lifted higher, hands grasping at shoulders that feel like rocks beneath his trembling fingers. He has a few seconds of near weightlessness, suspended by the bruising grips on his arms and legs and then John is allowed to slip down, the broad head of the mans cock sliding briefly over his entrance before he's guided onto it.

It pierces him, drives a scant few inches in and even that is a glorious stretch, thrilling. John's mind scrambles, trying to tell him that he's done this before, been this full before but there's nothing like this. There's never been anyone like this, no bodyguard, no wise guy, no one. They hold him there, let him rock his hips slowly back and forth, feeling it, opening himself slowly. Barsad's clever fingers run over John as he moves, finding the soft places, finding each faint scar and turning them into an exquisite torment.

Hands and teeth and Barsad's tongue on the back of his neck, following the line of his spine where it bows under the pleasure. John works himself down, fighting the hands on his hips, swallowing every curse and plea until they come out as nothing more than animal sounds from between clenched teeth. It hurts, hurts so perfectly that John doesn't know what to do but surrender to it, let Barsad and his brother move him where they will.

They let him play for a while, let him take a couple more inches into himself on his own before the broad hands on his hips tighten their grip, before Barsad's body presses up against John's back, arms sliding around John to allow his hands to play over John's stomach. John knows what's coming, leans into it and looses an inarticulate cry when they pull him down, forcing him lower and lower until he's too full, until he's struggling to breathe around the pain thundering through his body.

“I know, I know, it's okay.” Barsad in his ear, lips teasing along the edge. His hands find John's cock, stroking, pulling John higher and harder until it's a kind of delicious, tingling strain. Tight and slick and hot, no teasing, drawn out pleasure this time, Barsad's movements quick and rough, taking the heat that has been building and setting it free.

John comes, a blood hot splash against his stomach. His own moan is lost beneath the pleased rumble that echoes from the man buried balls deep in John's body. Arms wrap around John, strong as iron and he's being lifted, rocked, loose limbed and pliant, his nerves still stuttering with confused impulses of pain and exquisite pleasure.

John braces himself on the arms around his chest, fingers digging in and leaving bruises of his own. Everything is too hot, too perfect, with every thrust setting off fireworks in John's brain and he can't stop himself anymore, words spilling out of him with each shuddering breath.

The man beneath him growls, a strange grating noise, grip shifting to John's wrists and pulling, pinning John's hands to the plush fabric arms of the chair no matter how hard John fights to free himself, to get back that contact. Barsad rocks up against John, bare skin sliding over John's back, his cock painting a line of fire along John's spine. He clamps a hand over John's mouth, fingers pressing between John's lips, muffling him and turning his pleas back into wordless animal sounds.

John lets his head fall back and sucks at the fingers gagging him, teeth scraping along the salty sweet skin in helpless adoration. He's limp, spent between his body and the man fucking him, but John can feel something else coming, filling him up and blazing along every inch of his skin, a loose inferno with nowhere to go. His mind is a blank, there is nothing but the pleasure and the knowledge that he doesn't need to think, doesn't need to do anything but feel and let Barsad take care of everything else.

The hands at his wrists grow tighter, John's fingers tingling numb under the grip and Barsad's breathing in John's ear changes, speeds up, eager. Barsad's free hand is against John's stomach now, pressing hard and that's the only warning he gets before the man beneath John grunts, voice inhuman through the haze filling John's mind and slams deep into John once more as he comes. He pumps John full with tiny, rocking thrusts, sticky hot come sliding out of John and down his thighs even as he spills more into John's willing body.

John bites harder at Barsad, earning a chuckle and the gentle kneading of his stomach before Barsad's hand wanders down to John's spent flesh. John hisses at the contact, the nebulous tendrils of pleasure contracting and focusing on the faint burn of Barsad's hand trying to work him back to hardness. It's too soon, too dry, and John tries to force Barsad's fingers out of his mouth, to shake his head.

“Oh, you've been so very good John. We're almost there, just a little more.” Barsad still, always, a demon in his ear, and the hand around John's limp sex moves, slides over John's hip and his ass. Barsad strokes along his brothers' cock where it enters John, knuckles brushing against the tender skin of John's ass as Barsad's brother grinds up into John one last time with a low gasp before beginning to soften.

John's wrists are freed, the hands moving to his hips to lift him, to let the spent cock slide free finally. John grasps at Barsad's arm for a second, struggling for some sort of balance even as he sucks harder at the fingers in his mouth.

Barsad strokes his fingers over John's balls, palming the dripping wetness of John's ass. He presses at John with his thumb, collecting the come as it runs out of John. Then his hand is back on John's cock, come slick and too hot. Barsad's chest presses against John's back, leaning him forward until he's pinned tight between the brothers.

John whines around Barsad's fingers as he's pierced again, Barsad's cock sliding too easily through the come still filling John until he's buried to the hilt in John's body. His wrists are grabbed again, held in one massive fist as another hand joins Barsad's on John's twitching cock, stroking and twisting as Barsad fucks into him.

There's no friction, just the too slick glide of Barsad inside of John and he's too tired to tense up, too tired to do anything but gasp and writhe between them as the pleasure builds and builds, John still only half hard. Sweat slips down the back of John's spine, stings in his eyes and he's not sure he's going to survive this. His heart is hammering so hard it feels like it's in his throat, the trembling hot pleasure coiled around the base of his cock growing.

He's rocked forward by Barsad's quickening thrusts, the head of his cock brushing again and again over the muscled stomach in front of him as the brothers' hands twine and twist around his aching cock. John jerks his hands in the iron grip and nips at the fingers in his mouth again as the heat inside of him explodes, seeming to pour out of him through his very skin.

John screams, a muffled, desperate sound, and falls apart.

He's aware, dimly, of Barsad continuing to fuck him through his orgasm, body coiled and hard and perfectly focused as he rides out John's convulsions before finding his own release. The fresh hot flood of come makes John whimper, rocking his hips back weakly to take it all in.

There's movement and small flashes of pain and John is floating again just before he's falling. He thinks he cries out, panicked, but everything fades out into shades of grey and black before John can worry about much at all.

When John wakes he can feel sunlight on his face. He rolls over slowly, his body one giant ache and lets the sun warm his back as he blinks his eyes open and tries to think. He's sore and alone and that's...not unexpected. He's clean though, which is nicely weird. He doesn't remember being washed, doesn't remember much after his own second orgasm.

Which was also weird. And unexpected.

He scrubs his hands over his face, wincing at the faint drag of stubble there, and tries to decide if he needs to roll out of the bed right then or if he has time for a little more sleep before he needs to make the cab ride of shame back to his apartment. Cobblepot will want a report John's sure, but he doesn't know what he'll be able to tell him except that Barsad's brother has a huge dick and knows how to use it.

He doubts that's the kind of intel Cobblepot will find useful.

John is still laying there, enjoying the dull ache of a body well used when the door clicks open. He jumps in surprise, sitting up far too fast and gathering the sheets to him like every idiot in a romance novel ever. There's pain, a sharp throb through his body that makes him wince and gasp as quietly as he can. John tightens his lips into something resembling a smile, masking the pain.

Barsad...doesn't smile, exactly, his lips don't actually move, but there's amusement in his eyes as he steps into the room and holds out a large white paper bag like a flag of truce.

“There is a restaurant a few blocks away. They make aloo paratha and they are kind enough to let me have some to go.” He sets the bag on the small dining table in the far corner and starts to unpack steaming hot tinfoil containers and a couple of styrofoam cups.

“I'm sorry, I'll be out in a second and you can-”

“My brother is already gone and you need to eat before you do anything else.” Barsad pulls over one of the matching wooden chairs and sets one of the containers in front of it. “Come here.”

John stares at him for a second, brain frozen.

“I don't know what that is. The food.”

“It's delicious.” Barsad smiles and pats the back of the chair. “And if you don't like it I will find you a muffin somewhere. But I will see you eat before you leave.” He pauses, considering. “And another shower perhaps.”

John rolls carefully to the side of the bed and moves slowly, sitting up and stretching, feeling the burn and ache before he stands. He snags the sheet, dragging it off the bed with him and wrapping it around himself like a shroud.

There's something too weirdly intimate about sitting down with Barsad, this man who had taken him apart so wonderfully the night before, and eating breakfast. John's not sure what to do, how to move, how to act. He settles for sleepy and well fucked, two things that are undeniably true.

He'll figure out what to tell Cobblepot later.