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03 November 2012 @ 11:29 pm
No Holds Barred, pt. V  
Title: No Holds Barred
Pairing: Bane/John Blake
Words: ~7300 [/54,500]
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Based on this prompt. Talia brings Bane a gift in the form of fiery detective John Blake, intending to watch Bane break him -- but Bane likes John's spirit too much to try and quench it, and is too head-shy about sex to use him in the way Talia wants. Too bad John thinks he's a psychopath.
Warnings: attempted noncon, dubcon, violence
part one, two, three, four, six

She comes to him later.

John's been taken to a small room where he can be alone to recover—some kind of storage space, he thinks, with a single chair and a cot. He immediately lapses into a deep, deep sleep—natural sleep this time. He doesn't even try to fight it. He knows that rest is the best nurse for him now. If Talia comes to kill him, so be it.

She doesn't kill him. He wakes up to find her perched at his bedside, one hand resting on his chest.

“Don't worry,” she says, when he tries to move away in alarm. “I'm only here to talk.”

He settles warily, knowing he's no match for her. Not in this state. “About what?”

She trails her slim hand down his chest a few times, stroking him the way Bane does.

“You're a lucky boy, John,” she says after a pause, instead of answering. “In his former life, Bane was a beautiful man. Had there been women where we grew up, they would have begged to be taken to his bed.”

“I'm not a woman,” John says, despising her. She smiles.

“No, I suppose not.” Her fingertips trail down to the wrap over the gunshot wound, making him realize it's been changed already. “It's a funny thing, John ... all those girls who would have lined up to be taken by Bane ... he would have spurned them all. I've brought him pretty boys and women to service him and he hardly looks at them. But he took you.”

“So?” John says, unable to come up with any kind of witticism in this state. He has the creeping, harrowing suspicion that she's starting to guess at the nature of his and Bane's relationship. She smiles.

“Do you see yet?” she asks. “That your ideals only make you weak? Did you try to seek the good in him, before he took you to his bed and make you cry out for mercy?”

Disgusted, John says, “He's only doing this for you.”

“He's doing this because the world has only ever been cruel to him... Something you ought to be able to understand.”

Her fingers skate down to his wound again, and press down hard. He writhes, a gasp escaping his lips, and struggles to push her away.

“I won't kill you, John, not now,” she says, withdrawing her hand. “I'm going to leave you here, alone in the dark, to remember every night when he took you to bed and held you down; and I want you to know that you still belong to him.”

“You're going to him,” John says; it's not a question. She nods, and he says, “Tell Barsad something for me.”

He's trying to think how he can put “thanks for saving my life” into some code Barsad will recognize—because he knows Barsad saved his life on that roof; without him there John would have panicked and bled to death before any help could come—but Talia smiles demurely and gets up.

“I'm sure you'll tell him yourself,” she says. “Sooner than you think.”

One last graze of her hand down his chest, and she's gone.

As he recovers, John can only conclude that he must have still been running on some kind of painkiller when he dropped out of that window and then managed to walk here, because several days later, just standing up unaided seems impossible.

He grits his teeth, pushes back the tears. He thinks of how Barsad would call him soft and cuff him just to rile him into pushing himself. He gets to his feet and breathes. He has to sit down again after a few seconds, but it's with a feeling of accomplishment. When he's rested for a few moments, he stands up again and practises walking around a bit.

His spine hurts, his ribs, his arms; one of his legs will barely take his weight. But he's alive, and he's free.

(He doesn't feel free.)

Gordon sits on a chair against the wall and watches John limp around the room. He's been a constant visitor. As soon as John could sit up, Gordon had told him that Miranda was gone by opening with, “Blake, you need to know something, and it isn't your fault, even if it is some kind of retribution ...” John had to explain Miranda's part in everything, and Gordon took it with a sigh, asking only once if John was sure.

He doesn't try to stop John from walking around, which John appreciates. He doesn't say much of anything until John starts trying to center himself, trying to find balance even while his leg wobbles dangerously under him, and goes through the easier exercises to his best (feeble) ability.

“What's that?” Gordon asks.

“T'ai chi.”

“Didn't peg you for a martial artist.” There's a hint of a smile in the way Gordon's mustache twitches.

John's knee starts to buckle. He sits down on the cot, gasping.

“Don't push yourself,” Gordon warns. John can't help thinking it's what Bane would have said.

“I'm okay,” he says. “I'll be okay.”

“You sure?”

John doesn't answer. Gordon takes off his glasses and wipes them methodically on his shirt, allowing John to look away for a minute.

“Blake,” he says, “I know you probably don't want to hear this right now, but you need to know that if you ever want to talk—well, I'm here.”

John digs his fingers into the cot's edge and answers mechanically, “Thanks, but there's not much to talk about, sir.”

Gordon puts his glasses back on, adjusts them a bit, and then pins John in place with his steady, prying gaze.

“Son,” he says gently, “you've been through something no man or woman should ever have to go through. I'd call that grounds to talk.”

He's not just talking about a blowjob. John's mouth starts to dry out.

“How do you know?” he croaks.

Gordon sighs and scrubs a hand over his stubble. “Hell, Blake, the bastard put it on the evening news.”

“He did what?” John frantically tries to get up and has to fall back down with a wince.

“Just a short little tape of you in a hospital bed, a few days ago,” Gordon says, waving him back down. John remembers that all at once. His chest burns hot, humiliated. The evening news. Christ's sake. “It's not as bad as it sounds,” Gordon goes on. “You weren't mentioned by name. And you looked like hell, no offense. He meant it as a message, we're just trying to figure out who to. Someone named Bruce, although the only Bruce anyone can think of is Wayne, and certainly the rumours are saying he skipped town after he went broke ...”

Gordon's got keen instincts; he's not the commissioner for nothing. John will have to tread carefully.

“I helped Wayne out of a jam a couple nights before the occupation,” he says. “Someone must have seen us together.”

“I won't pry,” Gordon says. “You've been through enough.”

He thinks John's been getting—what, beat up and raped every day for three months? And that's so far from the truth John can't even meet his eyes. Shame washes over him. He's let Gordon down; let down his whole team.

“I tried to find out who the triggerman is,” he forces out. “But ...”

“It's okay, Blake,” Gordon says, gentle again. He gets up and rests a hand on John's shoulder before he leaves. “You did more than any of us could have done. You survived.”

John's emotions start to fluctuate at seeming random. He's not sure what to attribute this to. Small things set him off. He starts crying one morning when he suddenly thinks of Harvey, alone and afraid with Bane. Bane will probably kill her, out of mercy, since he won't feed her (he's too busy, even if he cared enough). John doesn't even like cats, and he never cries; but he cries over Harvey and hates himself for it.

Gordon takes a seat on the cot at his side and pats his shoulder. John didn't even see him coming. He tries to think of some casual way to brush this off, and can't.

“Everything seems kind of overwhelming right now,” he offers, with a strained attempt at a smile. Gordon's eyes are sober.

“You spent the past three months in an environment where your life was in danger every second of the day,” he says. “Maybe you're just having trouble adjusting to the fact that you're safe now.”

Am I? John wants to say. He doesn't feel safe. He felt safe in Bane's room, with Bane, protected from all outside forces. He's in a lot more danger here than he was there.

“I want to help go out on patrols again,” he says. He needs to feel like a cop again. He hates being alone with his traitorous thoughts. Gordon smiles kindly.

“You can barely walk, Blake.”

“I'll be fine in a few more days. Good enough to hobble around out there a bit.”

“I don't think that's—”

“I need to get out,” John says, growing desperate. “I can't stay in here all day until the bomb goes off.”

Gordon sighs. “It's your choice,” he says tiredly.

That's how, a week later, John ends up going out with a few other guys, who seem to be flagging a bit for his sake. He keeps up with them, at least. It's cold outside and his leg hurts and he can't even bend down without his gut aching sharply, but at least he's a cop again, on the streets where he's needed. Not lying in there on the lumpy cot, where all he thinks about at night is whether Bane misses him or not.

Weeks go by until there are just a few days, by Gordon's estimate, before the bomb is due to expire.

More and more, John wonders where Bruce Wayne is. He's alive; John knows it. Bane had sent that message to him. Bruce Wayne is alive and not in Gotham, and with three days to go before the blast, John really hopes he intends to come back.

In the meantime, he takes every opportunity he can to check up on St. Swithin's. The first time he dropped by after his escape, Father Reilly had put a compassionate hand on his arm and asked if he needed to talk. “You saw the evening news, huh?” John asked wearily.

“The children were already asleep when it aired,” Father Reilly assured him. “I'm so sorry, John. I prayed for you.”

“Thanks,” John said, thinking privately that God wasn't watching when he'd been sliding himself onto Bane's thick cock at night. Everyone's concern for him was starting to get stressful by that point. He's not a rape victim. He's a traitor in the weirdest possible sense. He pretended their worry was over the bullethole in his gut, because at least he didn't ask for that one.

St. Swithin's is home to many displaced refugees now, and John likes to go over and make sure the food trucks get there all right. He likes to see the boys, too. They don't know anything about John's absence, and they think his gunshot and stab wounds are cool. It's easy to relax and be himself around them. He's a little sick of other people, lately.

He's thinking on that, thinking what he'd give to see the old Bat signal of his childhood lighting up the sky, walking back to the base from St. Swithin's with two companions, when gunfire splits apart the quiet afternoon. They fling themselves to either side of the narrow alley, seeking cover behind trash cans, though one man isn't fast enough—he hits the ground, groaning and clutching his leg, and another spray of bullets silences him.

They come from either end of the alley, two groups of mercs toting guns. “Drop the guns!” the man out in front barks.

John obeys, thinking it might still be possible to fight his way out of this. He knows how to disarm an enemy with a gun. If he can close with the leader, maybe he can do something. His companion, a veteran cop, looks over at John and drops his gun, too.

John clenches his fists, prepared to fight for his life, but when the leader gets close he throws a punch with shocking alacrity. His fist lands square in John's gut, hitting the still-healing bullet wound. John falls to his knees with a gasp, wrapping both arms around his stomach. Pain explodes behind his eyes.

The man is cocking his leg to deliver a kick when another man shouts, “Hey, don't kill them. They're cops.”

“So?” the leaders snaps.

“So they're cops,” the other says. “Take 'em to Crane. You know the orders.”

The leader sneers, but he turns away. He gestures, and two other men grab John by the arms and haul him upright. They grab his companion too. As they drag him away, smarting, John thinks bitterly that Barsad would be disappointed in him.

Then he sees something that must be an apparition, brought on by the haze of pain. On a rooftop across from the alley is Barsad himself, rifle slung over his shoulder, arms folded over his chest. He's watching John. John wants to—to shout out for help, or something—but then he sees the cold, contemptuous expression on Barsad's face.

The words die noiselessly in his throat, and Barsad turns and walks out of sight.

Crane's mock courthouse is in the old Gotham Stock Exchange building where Bane's initial siege had gone down. John can remember standing outside the building with Foley. Now he's hauled in with his companion—a veteran cop named Jakobsen, who John is only just realizing he knows nothing about—and they're thrown into the basement with some other people who sit in small groups and eye them warily. No one talks much. John knows why he doesn't feel like talking—because if he starts, all his fear will come spilling out—but he's not sure about Jakobsen. Maybe the man's just taciturn by nature.

They're only in the basement for about an hour or so. Then they're dragged upstairs, in front of Crane.

It's surprising to John how many spectators there are, at first, and he feels a building sense of resentment. Gotham is becoming exactly what Bane—no, what Talia intends it to be: a city as ugly as her ideals. Then he realizes that most of the people watching are men; thugs and liberated prisoners, no doubt; and he's oddly relieved.

When he looks around he catches a glimpse of something that makes his heart sink in his chest: the shadowy figure of Bane, standing in the upper gallery that overlooks the mock courtroom. They lock eyes for a moment. Then Bane turns and walks away. Just like Barsad had done.

“Gentlemen!” Crane shouts, cutting through the chatter of the crowd. “Name yourselves for the court, please.”

John doesn't want to. But Jakobsen lifts his chin and says, “Officer Frank Jakobsen.”

“Detective John Blake,” John says.

“Police officers,” Crane says, with a sort of maniacal glee. The crowd howls. “You stand charged of espionage and treason against Gotham. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“Get on with it, Crane,” Jakobsen growls.

Crane narrows his eyes. “Very well. Death or exile?”

“You're not getting me out on that ice,” Jakobsen says. “Or the boy.”

“Death it is.” Crane bangs the gavel. The men around them immediately raise their weapons.

John is bracing himself—and then, a quiet, rasping voice:


John pries one eye open. He hadn't even realized he'd closed them. Between him and Crane stands Bane, hands up to his vest, his back to John.

Crane smiles, but his voice is clipped with annoyance. “We agreed that you have no jurisdiction here, Bane.”

“By all means, then,” Bane says carelessly, “continue.”

No one moves. A few guns start to lower.

“Very well,” Crane says at last, again. He bangs the gavel and snaps, “Next!”

Bane turns and walks toward John. He doesn't look happy to see him. It's difficult to read his expression, so John says nothing. Bane shepherds both him and Jakobsen out of the building; then he motions the latter away. “Leave us.”

Jakobsen rounds on him and throws a vicious punch at the mask. Bane catches his fist and twists, breaking his arm effortlessly. He gives Jakobsen a contemptuous shove and sends him tumbling down the steps of the stock exchange.

“Your friends seems ungrateful,” Bane remarks. His cold eyes catch and hold John's. “Are you?”

“I'm not going with you,” John says, with only half as much conviction as he feels.

Bane breathes in slowly, studying him, and breathes out. “I wasn't asking,” he says simply, and he scoops John and tosses him over his shoulder. John yelps in pain as he's jostled, and then lies still. Bane won't hurt him, not if he's compliant.

He's pretty sure.

Bane takes him in one of Batman's stolen tank-like vehicles to a new building, not the tower. John is too disoriented to make note of where it is, though he thinks it must be near City Hall. The power is on tonight in this district: they take the elevator up to one of the top floors.

The room Bane leads him to is a lot smaller than the gilded master bedroom in the tower. It seems slightly crowded, more like an office than a bedroom; but there is a big bed, and John can see an ensuite bathroom through a slightly-ajar door. There are huge bookshelves pushed to the walls on either side of the bed, and a massive wooden desk, making the room look too small for its furniture.

This doesn't feel like a reunion, but they're not strangers, either. Bane shuts the door, and John feels the first creeping misgiving.

He turns around before Bane can startle him. “Why'd you bring me here?”

Bane's eyes are inscrutable. “Bathe,” he says. “You need it.”

At the base, they get five minutes each in the shower, trying to preserve the hot water. It's usually freezing after the first few showers anyway. John stares at him, decides this isn't a contest he's going to win, and walks into the bathroom. He locks the door behind him.

He checks the bullet wound: incredibly, not bleeding. Then he gets in the shower. The water's hot and it lasts a long time. He takes the opportunity to bathe himself thoroughly, using a bar of soap that rests on a ledge against the wall. There's no shampoo, naturally, so he just uses the soap to wash his hair, too.

When he's done, feeling considerably refreshed, he dries and pulls his clothes back on quickly. Then he steps back into the bedroom, hair still dripping.

Bane is on the bed, reading a book. His coat and vest have been taken off. He doesn't look up at John.

“So what now?” John asks, throwing his towel to the floor.

“Pick that up,” Bane chides him.

John leaves it where it is. Bane sets the book aside and looks up at him.

“I didn't kill the doctor,” he says, after a long, tense pause.

“I'm not congratulating you for something most people manage to do every day,” John snaps. “Not murdering should be your default setting.”

Bane tilts his head, curious. “You're angry,” he notes.

“You put me on the news!” John says angrily. “Everyone I know thinks you've been raping me!”

“Is that not what you wanted?” Bane asks coolly.

John stutters to a halt. “They didn't have to know anything,” he spits out.

Bane stands up. John forgot just how big he is. He feels suddenly frail and weak in Bane's shadow. He doesn't flinch when Bane takes him by the chin, tilts John's head up toward him.

“Surprising,” Bane says. “I thought I had more right than you to be angry.”

“You wanted a goodbye?”

Bane releases him. “No.”

“Well, you've got me again,” John says aggressively, spreading his hands. “Right where you want me, so you can do whatever you want.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Don't pretend you brought me here for any other reason,” John spits. “I still belong to you, isn't that right?”

Bane's eyes flicker angrily. “You're testing my patience.”

“You want to fuck? Let's fuck.” John sits on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his arms. “You want a goodbye kiss? I can give you that too. I know exactly why you're angry, Bane, it's because you thought someone finally wanted you for a change and then you realized—”

“Leave,” Bane says, in a low, dangerous voice. “If you're unhappy to be here, then leave.”

“And get shot in the face by Barsad when I step outside that door, right?” John snaps. “You're an idiot if you think—”

Bane grabs him by the collar of the shirt and literally drags him to the door. He shoves John out into the hallway so forcefully that John lands on his hands and knees, and looks around in time to see the door slammed shut.

The hallway is very quiet.

Quiet and empty.

He gets up shakily and wanders to the elevator, pressing the “down” button. The floor number, flashing above the door, starts to climb. In the meantime, John wanders to the stairs, opens the door to the stairwell and looks out over the railing. The stairs are empty.

He goes back into the hallway just as the elevator door dings open. It's empty, too.

He stands there until the elevator doors slide shut. Then he turns around and walks back to Bane's door.

“Bane.” He knocks a few times, and rests his forehead against the wood. “Open up.”

All is quiet on the other side of the door.

“I'm sorry.”


“I'm not sorry for leaving,” John says to the door. “But I am sorry for misjudging you ... again.” He pauses. There's no answer. “Can I come back in?”

Still no answer. John tries the doorknob. It's unlocked. He enters very cautiously.

Bane is on the bed again, with his book. His eyes are narrowed and he doesn't look up. John opens his mouth to speak, then sees something that distracts him entirely.


The kitten has just crept out from under the bed, blinking her one eye in the light. John makes sure she sees him before he picks her up, irrationally glad to see her. She's a little bigger, he thinks, heavier, and although her face is still scarred, a few gnarled whiskers are growing in on the burnt side of her muzzle. The scraggly fur on her flanks is becoming downright sleek. She opens her mouth and mewls.

“I thought you might return for her,” Bane rumbles.

“Oh,” John says softly. Of course he hadn't, and Bane couldn't have delivered her, either. They'd left the supermarket basement when Talia joined the mercenaries.

“Barsad brought her when we left the tower,” Bane adds.

“He saw me get grabbed,” John says, with a note of resentment. “He didn't do anything.”

“He told me. What else should he have done?”

John frowns and goes on petting Harvey's grey tabby fur mindlessly. She rubs the good side of her face against his chest. She remembers him. John is heartened by the thought.

Her nails dig suddenly into his chest when Bane stands up again. John winces, and sets her down. She flits under the bed just as Bane closes the distance between them and wraps a hand around John's throat.

John knows immediately that it's not a threatening touch. Bane's grip is light, easily broken, and his thumb strokes the pulse point in John's neck. For Bane, this is intimacy. John swallows against his palm and forces himself not to move.

Bane's eyes flicker back and forth between John's, his eyebrows furrowed.

“I could have kept you safe,” he breathes finally.

And that's it, the heart of the issue. Bane is not upset that John left without telling him. Bane is upset because John put himself in danger. That's why he didn't want John to go to a doctor. He wanted to keep John with him, where he knew John would be safe. Maybe he's been torturing himself for weeks, wondering if John is still alive.

John shakes that sentimental image out of his head, and says shakily, “No one is safe in Gotham.”

“You are safe with me. Haven't I told you that?”

“Bane,” John says quietly, and Bane lets him go. John catches his wrist. “I'm sorry. I know you did a lot for me that you didn't have to do. And I'm glad you saved my life just now. But I belong with Gordon and the other cops. Even if that puts me in danger. I'm one of the good guys, remember?”

“You are too good for this city,” Bane growls. “Gordon doesn't deserve you.”

“Maybe I have to be out there so everyone knows there's still people like me in Gotham,” John says, not sure where the words come from.

Bane searches his face carefully. Then he releases his wrist from John's hold, gently, and walks back to the bed.

“You are free to leave,” he says.

“I'm not leaving,” John says. “Bane.” He hesitates when Bane won't look at him. “I'm sorry about the stuff I said. About wanting you—”

“I thought it might have been a ruse, once you were gone,” Bane says coolly. “That you'd expected me to lower my guard.”

“It wasn't a ruse,” John says. “It was—look, I don't know all that much about you, compared to Barsad or Talia, but I know ... I know you'd never use sex to hurt someone. I trust you when I'm ... with you.”

His face is burning, but Bane doesn't seem to take any notice of him. He stands there, feeling stupid and awkward, while Bane thumbs disinterestedly through his book.

“I trust you, as well,” Bane says at last, still without looking at him.

A rush of inexplicable relief washes through John. “Yeah?” he says, and sits down on the bed.

“Yes.” Bane glances up at him, finally, eyes hooded. “Come here.”

John goes. He can't say why. He just does it without thinking, lets Bane roll him onto his back and loom over him, lets him tug John's shirt off, and he shivers and waits there and then realizes Bane is just examining his various healing wounds. A little laugh escapes him, and he relaxes.

“I'm okay,” he says, sitting up a bit. “I took the antibiotics you found. Everything's healing all right.”

“Good,” Bane says. He flattens his hand against John's chest and bows his head. His breath gusts out of the mask and over John's skin. “I want you.”

John's heart bursts into a gallop under Bane's palm. “Oh?” he croaks.

Bane just looks at him, his eyes dark with longing. Heat rushes through John all at once, leaving him feeling heady and flushed, tingling in his limbs. He suddenly knows why he had to get away so bad, when he was laid up in that hospital bed. He hadn't realized it before, but he's terrified of how good it feels to be here. He's not afraid of Bane—he's afraid of how Bane makes him feel. He had to get out so that he knew he was still John Blake, detective, good person. He can't be John Blake and want to be with Bane. That part of himself is incompatible with the rest. Good people don't want to be with their enemies instead of with their friends, where they belong.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He's here now and he's not going anywhere tonight; it's already started to snow. He can be this person for one night. It won't make a difference in the grand scheme of things.

“I want to touch you,” Bane says. His hand is still resting on John's chest.

“Okay,” John finds himself saying dazedly, “okay, yeah, yes.”

Bane pulls his pants off roughly, dragging John partway down the bed; then he wrests off his own shirt and presses himself to John quickly, winding an arm under John's back and around his waist. The bare skin contact makes John startle. Bane rubs a hand over his chest, his belly, touching as he pleases, indiscriminately; totally lacking subtly, as usual. He's hard against John's thigh, and the weight of him is as intimidating as ever.

“I want you,” Bane rasps again.

“I know,” John says, breathless. “You can, you can touch—”

Bane does, wrapping a hand around John's cock and stroking. It's a little bit rough but John is so hard he's almost light-headed in seconds. He can't think about what he's doing; he just fucks up into Bane's fist helplessly. Bane kneels, unstrapping his belt and pants one-handed, and draws himself out so that he can press his erection flush with John's, stroking them both together, and John's face burns so hot he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. It's unfamiliar and weird to be touching someone else's dick with his own and he doesn't know what to make of it for a few seconds; and then he remembers—it's Bane. He can let himself be touched by Bane.

Bane makes a pleased sound, manhandling John around so he can touch everywhere, lazily pumping his fist all the while. John gropes over the bedside table and finds the lube by touch, then thrusts it into Bane's hands.

“Just keep going,” he says, when Bane looks down at the bottle. Bane doesn't move. John has to sit up and pour some of it onto Bane's palm for him and then—ears burning again—direct Bane's hand back to his straining, leaking cock. Bane starts stroking him again, this time with much less friction, and John melts into the bedsheets, panting.

He's close to coming just from this, just from Bane touching him, almost there, when Bane suddenly tightens his grip around the base of John's cock.

“Tonight,” he growls, “you don't get to finish until I do.”

John's mouth falls open in wordless protest. It takes Bane an hour or so to come.

“I can't,” he forces out.

“You will.” And, as though that settles the matter, Bane pushes his legs up and aside and slides a finger into him, making John writhe and shout. It's been almost a month since he was last with Bane and he hasn't touched himself since then. Bane growls.


He slows his finger, just pumps it in and out, nearly making John crazy—he needs Bane to touch his cock again and he's sure he's not allowed to do it himself—and then Bane stops, and pushes the bottle of lube into John's hands.

“Make yourself ready,” he says.

He wants to watch, John thinks at first, embarrassed and slicking up his hand anyway. Then he realizes that tightness has Bane spooked. He's afraid of hurting John. He'll toss him onto the bed, shove him around, leave bruises all over, but he's afraid of hurting him this way. John doesn't think he'll ever fully understand Bane. He pushes two fingers into himself, taking them easily after Bane's finger. Bane strokes his belly while he does this, scratches his chest lightly. He brings his thumb up to John's mouth and John takes it, concentrating on sucking it and not on how much it's going to hurt when Bane takes him, whether Bane wants it to or not.

“Are you frightened?” Bane asks, splaying his other hand over John's chest. John's heartbeat is wild, jackrabbit-quick.

“No,” John says. He swallows and says, looking up into Bane's face, “I'm not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” says Bane. He adds in a murmur, “John,” as though he can't quite believe John is still here, in his bed.

John pushes at him and he goes, a mountain of muscle, reclining like an indolent big cat showing its belly. Refusing to be distracted by the straining muscles all over Bane's body (really, he could snap John like a twig using just his pinkie finger), John settles between his legs, still carefully fingering himself open, and takes Bane's cock into his mouth. It feels even bigger than he remembers. He has to take deep breaths, use his hand, keep his mouth limited to the head. The faster he makes Bane come, the sooner he can end Bane's little game and find his own relief.

Bane is patient, as he always is at the start, letting John suckle and lap at him clumsily while working a third, then a fourth finger into himself. The angle's terrible and he's growing more and more desperate for Bane's cock. The first couple times they did this, there was a little voice in John's mind yelling get the fuck away from me! while at the same time another voice yelled get the fuck inside me! It's just the second one, now, no trace of the first, and he thinks that says a lot for personal growth.

“Ready,” he says finally, drawing back, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. Bane rolls him over at once, onto his back, holding his arms down. He's got that intense look in his eyes and—they really are pretty eyes, John thinks dimly.

He thinks he's hotter now than he's been with any girl he's ever been with. This knowledge floors him.

He has no time to dwell on that, though. Bane is pinioning John's wrists above his head with one hand, hitching up his hips with the other, and John obediently spreads his legs as far as they'll go to accommodate Bane. He can feel the head of Bane's cock at his hole, and he clenches his eyes shut on the forceful slide in. The unrelenting push makes him shudder and gasp.

“You make the loveliest sounds,” Bane says, “when I'm inside you.”

He sounds utterly fond. John tries to speak and can't; the more he relaxes, the more Bane pushes inside him. When he at last bottoms out, Bane stops and bows his head so that the mask is pressed to John's neck.

Move,” John says, his voice an embarrassing wheeze.

Bane strokes his side reassuringly. He's still got John's wrists in his other hand. He starts to roll his hips, slow and languid, and John just melts open for him, gasping. Bane really is a fast learner: it takes him almost no time at all to locate John's prostate, and he drags the head of his cock over it brutally, back and forth. John's cock, which was starting to soften, is almost at once ferociously hard again and aching.

“Let me touch—” he begs, arching and positively mewling when Bane grinds over the sweet spot again.

“Not until I'm done,” Bane says, implacable.

He's a sadist in bed, of course; John should have realized. It's incredibly unfair. Introduce a guy to sex and this is how he repays you. The worst part is, John doesn't even seem to need help: with Bane fucking his prostate like that, his cock is leaking and his balls are already tight. He tries to think of the least sexy things he can—taxes, and old people, and Jim Gordon—and it doesn't work.

“I'm gonna come,” he says hoarsely.

Bane releases one of his wrists. “Control yourself,” he says, “or I'll keep you right here for the rest of the night.”

At once John grips himself, staving off the inevitable orgasm as best he can. When his breathing is less erratic, Bane says, “Good.” Then he pulls out.

“Hey,” John protests weakly.

Bane rolls him onto his belly. Then he takes John's hips and drags him up onto his knees, prying his cheeks apart with both thumbs. John has time enough to curse before Bane fucks back in with a growl. It's immediately apparent that, this time, he's not playing around.

Talia would be pleased with this, John thinks in the back of his mind. He's got a fistful of bedsheets clawed up in one hand, his face pressed to the mattress, muffling his choked sobs when Bane pounds into him. The noises Bane makes are raw and animal, unfiltered, sending thrills straight to John's cock. It looks brutal and violent, but the hand resting on the back of John's neck is gentle, not restraining, and John's not afraid. He knows that Bane likes it hard—feels it more, when it's hard. He can ride this out. He will ride it out.

Several times Bane brings him to the brink of orgasm, and John shouts wait, wait, stop, and Bane slows down, waiting for him to wrestle himself under control before he continues. He flips John over again and alternates fucking him through the mattress and languorously milking his prostate until John is squirming and begging, almost crying for release.

“Come on,” he groans. He's covered in sweat; his cock is leaking all over his fist and his belly. “I need to come, let me, let me ...”

Bane flattens him suddenly, fucks in hard and snarls, and John actually—feels it, hot-wet heat deep inside him, and—his mouth falls open in a sob as he feels himself come, his vision whiting out, cock pulsing and spurting in his hand, coating his stomach and Bane's. He's borderline insensate for at least ten seconds afterward, mouth hanging open while he pants for breath.

They lie together there for several minutes. Bane doesn't pull out. He presses the mask to John's chest. John can feel the warm, steady puffs of air against his skin.

“You,” Bane murmurs.

Sleepily, John trails a finger over one of the straps of the mask. “Happy now?”

“No.” Bane's voice is muffled more than usual. “I want more of you. All of you. A man, a police officer. You're all I think of,” and his voice is a snarl now, sending a shiver down John's spine. For the first time all night, he's scared. Bane lifts his head, and his eyes are like stone-cold chips of flint, blazing with frustration. “I want you,” he says, and John knows exactly what he isn't saying—and I don't know how to make you want me back.

John doesn't know what to say. For the first time he thinks—what if Bane is in love with him? And that's such a ridiculous, terrifying thought he has to push it away immediately. Terrorists don't love. They especially don't love guys like John, who are normal, hard-working, decent guys who don't deserve this; who can maybe finally admit to themselves that they may just be head-over-heels in lust, but would never—could never love

“Uh,” he says in a small voice, eloquent as always. At least he's wide awake now.

Bane softens slightly, and looks aside, as if John has become uninteresting. “In the morning a food truck will arrive. Be on it when it leaves. No one will stop you at the check-point. You can leave Gotham.”

“I'm not getting on the truck,” John says. Bane looks down at him.

“Then I will beat you unconscious, and throw you on the truck myself,” he says coldly.

“Then I'll walk across the river to get back into the city.”

“You'll drown.”

“I probably will.”

They stare at each other. Bane is puzzled, frustrated, angry.

“The bomb is going off in two more nights,” he says.

“I know,” says John. “I'm going to be here when it does.”

Bane wraps a hand around his upper arm, the stabbed arm, gripping tight enough to make John wince. “Why are you doing this?” he demands. “Your death will mean nothing. There is no more good that you can do in this city. You could live out the rest of your life. Why choose to die here?”

“It's my city.” It's the only thing John can say.

Bane pulls out. John groans softly when he does, feeling a hot trickle of fluids between his thighs.

“Your city doesn't deserve you,” Bane growls.

He gets out of bed: the conversation is over. He disappears into the bathroom and John hears the tap running. When Bane returns, he switches off every light in the room. Then he crawls back on top of John, who shivers when he feels the touch of a cool, damp washcloth on his stomach, between his thighs.

It's too dark for John to see anything, but he can feel Bane shifting around over top of him, putting aside the cloth and the lube. He's still doing something with his hands, fumbling quietly while John dozes off under him.

It's a total shock when Bane kisses his neck.

His lips are cold. That's John's first thought. Then he thinks, not a kiss. Bane's lips are pressed to his throat, right over the pulse point, and he inhales slowly, like he wants to smell John's skin. John lies very still, wishing he could just see...

Bane drags his mouth up a short distance, and this time does kiss John's neck. His lips are dry, starting to warm, and—not smooth. Pitted, somehow, as if pieces have been chiseled out; and John understands that Bane doesn't want him to see.

It only lasts a few seconds. Then Bane withdraws. John follows him, sitting up quickly and reaching out. His hand finds Bane's face, and he falters, waiting for permission. Bane is still. Cautiously, John starts to trail his fingertips over Bane's face, trying to put together an image using only touch. His nose is crooked, broken at some point and badly healed. John is gentle there. He can feel jagged scar tissue around Bane's mouth, his lips, his jaw. He traces a gnarled line from Bane's cheek almost to his ear, then goes back to Bane's lips. They're not smooth, but they're ... soft.

Without warning, Bane snarls and shoves him away hard. John lands on his back with a startled huff. He can hear Bane strapping the mask back on, hiding himself away from John and the world. Bane breathes hard once the gas mask is on again, air hissing in and out.

When he lies down at John's side, he gathers him up gently, but tightly.

“Perhaps it is better that you die here,” he says, “before you can learn how the world truly works.”

“You can keep me safe tonight,” John says.

“Yes,” Bane says softly; and, “I will.”

riotousricochetriotousricochet on April 16th, 2013 08:58 pm (UTC)
This is just heartbreaking perfection. I got goosebumps when Bane took off his mask and kissed John. And the fact that John doesn't think he deserves love? I literally had tears welling in my eyes when I read that. I only have one more chapter left and it feels so bittersweet because I don't want it to end, but I really want to see them happy...