FIC: TDKR: "Our Bed is Made (For Two)"
I haven't written fic in about four years, and although i'm a longtime (11 years) rp'er of the slash variety, it's MUCH different to actually write fullblown fanfic. I take my hat off to all the fic writers out there! Idek how you manage to create such magic.
Buuuttttttt I COULD NOT RESIST. The lovely lovely meowlina put up a delicious prompt over at my new favourite hang out spot tdkr-kink, and I was compelled to fill it.
I've been reading every fic for this pairing I could find over the last week, so fellow shippers will no doubt see fanon inspiration. I JUST LOVE EVERYTHING EVERYONE IS DOING WITH THIS FANDOM RIGHT NOW, I CAN'T EVEN.
For the few of you on my flist who plan to see The Dark Knight Rises, but haven't yet, i'll make sure anything spoilerific is behind a cut. Love you guys.
Title: Our Bed is Made (For Two)
Author: nomorefrostbite
Pairing/Characters: Bane/Talia al Ghul ♥♥♥
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: Their very last night together... (original flawfree prompt here at the tdkr kink meme...)
Warnings: Angst? Spoilers for TDKR obviously. Sex most definitely. TRUE EPIC LOVE isn't a 'warning', but i'll warn you all for it anyway.
Word Count: 3,952
Dying was not something she minded doing for her father’s cause - her cause now, theirs - and nor indeed was suffering. She had suffered enough at the hands of others down in the darkness of the pit, and it seemed an amusing concept to now consider that every iota of torment that she had to endure was delivered at her own hands.
Of course she could blame others; her father for not succeeding, Crane for just the same, Bruce and his troublesome ‘assistants’ for persevering against the proper order of things, and others besides. Talia, however, was not the kind of woman who heaped condemnation upon the shoulders of others when she herself had been the one to wield the deciding blow.
Since their little siege had begun, there had been not a moment in which her mask had slipped. Not for one second of time had Miranda Tate been anyone but the righteous moralistic world-saving doe eyed activist, a wonderfully appealing rags to riches story fit to grace the columns of the Gotham society pages. She only wanted to do good. She only ever wanted to help people. Ushering in a better world than this dark cruel place was a worthwhile cause for one such as her.
Of course that particular part had never been a lie; she would welcome in this new world, she would birth it from her own flesh and blood. Her own mother had died to save her (or so she chose to remember), and now she would do the very same and be Mother to the world, as her sweet friend would be it’s Father. Together, as they were always meant to be.
So for months on end now she had been Miranda, perfect strong defiant naive Miranda. And he had been Bane.
It wouldn’t do to run the slightest risk of discovery, not with their end so close in sight, so she had ‘fought the good fight’ with her resistance compatriots - but each night that she had managed to steal alone in a safehouse, each night not sharing a floor or bed or pull out couch with someone who’d burn soon enough, she curled her fingers deep inside herself and was Talia, and in her thoughts her fingers were thicker, blunt, strong beyond imagining, and his.
"Miss Tate... I do believe I have a few questions for you." There would be no exile for her, and only death of her own choosing. These words, however, were not spoken to spare her judgement at Crane’s hands, but for far more personal reasons. Although she had been Miranda, he had always been Bane, and the mask he wore was of a more permanent nature than hers had been.
His couldn’t (shouldn’t) come off, but tonight hers would. That was Bane’s decision. There was no risk anymore, none not worth taking, and with the Bat gone from Gotham, and the merry band of imbeciles either in iron downstairs or hiding away like rats in the sewers, his Princess would be free.
"Bring her." He gestured at the nearest of his men, who without hesitation gripped the lovely Miss Tate by her oh so delicate arm and hauled her to her feet, shoving her with careless force down the corridor. Bane was so glad to see her little friends utterly frantically concerned for her wellbeing.
The mercenary was sent back to his duties once far from prying worried eyes, and Bane dragged Miss Tate bodily down the long corridor of the lowest floor deep underground, and through across the threshold of the makeshift bedroom he had crafted for them from an old filing storage room, the comfortingly familiar scent of old musty paper still lingering heavy in the air. With her a city away since the siege began, this bedroom had always been theirs, shared, space for her in their bed, room upon the shelf for her books, her own clothes kept in pristeen storage ready for this moment, the moment Miranda Tate crossed the threshold and blossomed into Talia al Ghul.
And she did. Her mask was dropped, the fear and terror in her trembling gaze melting away into the most intoxicatingly knowing heat as she turned to look at Bane, her sweet friend, her protector, casting her glance back over her shoulder and laughing with such musical amusement. Their time was near and he thought she seemed almost giddy from it for a moment; a part of her so beautiful, so exquisite, that only he ever got to see, a warm spark, a remnant of those few brief moments of simple happiness together from before either of them had bothered with masks, even in each others company.
It startled him a moment to catch a glimpse of times long past (and perhaps that had been her intention), caught staring as a moth to flame as she so easily shoved his heavy mass hard against the door, slamming it shut in the process. As Bane’s hand crept back to lock it, her own reached over his head and around his neck, the cool metal of the cuffs as much a balm against his skin as her fingers were caressing over his scalp, Talia hooking them around his neck with determined force to tug him down for a biting kiss.
Of course even as Talia bit and nibbled and gnawed a kiss of her own devising into the firm flesh of his neck, a tender spot well known to her just below his mask’s edge, she still recalled the taste of his plush lips on hers from before she’d ever escaped into the light. It had been far more chaste then, granted, but some memories never faded - that was one of the gentler ones.
This was what their kisses were now, and had been for long years. Her lips on his skin, her teeth and tongue tormenting flesh. The bright of his eyes delivering his own tender kisses in ways no ‘real’ kiss from anyone else had ever managed to achieve. This was what was real to Talia. Him, Bane, her sweet protector; he had always been her reality, from the moment she drew breath it often felt. Of course she hadn’t dared be strong enough for any small intake of oxygen until he’d taken her up into the safety of his arms, far from the madding crowd.
She slipped the cuffs easily as lips devoured throat - a simple task given how hers had never been designed to stay on, Bane refusing to truly cage her for any reason, not as the pit had caged her body and society would cage and quench her fire - fingers curling around the slim metal loops now around his neck, leading Bane step by step back towards the bed he’d made for two.
It never amused Talia that no matter where he went, whether she was with him or not, Bane had forever made space in what little space was his for her. Things born of the necessity and habit of the pit never bore humour for either of them. It was what it was - his bed had been made for her since the moment she’d met him, first to protect from the ravages of what lived in the darkness, and later, much later, to give Talia everything she’d ever needed. Even after her father’s death and her needs had changed, Bane, the consummate survivor, gave her this as well; his life. How many times did that make it now?
"My sweet friend..." Talia murmured with knowing heat against the shell of his ear, dropping her cuffs without a second thought - their purpose served - to slip her hands down the long length of his neck, around broad shoulders, fingers plucking at the straps holding his vest in place, working with the ease at which second nature comes when time has been spent taking off and putting on so familiar an item. Then down to the catches and buckles at her protector’s waist, hands eager to reach beneath as soon as it was off to feel the welcome warmth of firm flesh clad in black.
Off with that too, Talia’s fingers bunching in the fabric to push it up, baring the expanse of his chest to her, up over his head then forcing her lips to leave his skin - a necessary but momentary loss.
"Talia, I - " But before Bane could finish what he had meant to say, a finger was upon the speaker of his mask, accompanied by a pointed glance; a silencing gesture that he complied with immediately, instinct overriding the need to say a thousand things before they met their end.
"Hush now. There will be time enough for that with morning light. I want my promised interrogation; don’t deny me, sweet friend."
As if he could and ever would, especially when she used so intimate a name. Talia forever the only one able to command him to silence.
Tonight was not a night for words, they’d never needed many anyway. Tomorrow was Gotham’s reckoning, and their last day could begin with every final thing that needed murmuring against skin, but tonight was the very last night that her protector would make his bed for two, and Talia would see them share it.
It was only then she stepped away, watching him with the same piercing gaze that marked her out as a woman far different to Miranda Tate, and began undressing with casual grace, fluid economy of movement displayed in each gesture, in the sliding off of first her shirt, the subtle roll of her shoulders back as it slithered down her arms and to the floor, black jeans to follow, boots unlaced and set aside with care. Bane’s eyes mapping each scar and well known mark revealed.
Then her bra, fingers better suited to wielding a blade with precise deadly force unclasping the catch at the front of the lacy feminine garment; part of her disguise, he knew, because his Princess would never adorn herself with such frivolous items out of anything but necessity.
She was patient, he knew that, could wait a life time to have her day... but time was of a finite quality now, and before she could command him to rid himself of his cargo pants and boots, he did, somehow unwilling to face her censure tonight for dawdling when she’d made her intentions plain, knowing that there wouldn’t be another night like this, or indeed any nights at all. That didn’t matter to Bane, it never had.
Her Will, His Hands.
He'd sworn that, once upon a time, and it had never stopped being his ultimate truth.
To the dim light of emergency lamps perched on shelves and balanced on cases of heavy artillery on the floor - as ‘romantic’ as candles to Talia, sure signs of thoughtful effort and a sweet gesture made on his part - she pulled him down with her atop the crumpled sheets and soft woolen blanket of their bed, not sparing a thought for where and from whom he had liberated the mattress from, or it’s pillows, so carefully transported down into this safe haven entirely for her comfort. She was under no illusions that he’d cared where he slept or upon what surface, and Bane knew that neither did she - and yet regardless he still took care of her in every way he deemed fit.
However softly appointed their final resting place, apart from his eyes, there was nothing of a noticeably gentler nature about his body upon hers. The bulk of her protector’s mass weighed her down, kept her safe from all harm as always it had done, hard musculature pressing into her, his hands baring the rough edge she favoured from him as two fingers reached down between them to press their way inside, Bane’s soft knowing chuckle rising her ire immediately even as she sighed in delighted relief. Of course, he knew what she’d done to occupy herself without him. He always knew.
"Has Miranda had fantasies of her tormentor doing just this? Whatever would your Mr. Wayne say of her indiscretions..." Talia didn’t blush, because she’d not known how since the moment she climbed out of darkness.
"No. I have. And he isn't mine... you are." There was no shame in admitting it through a long low moan as those longed for fingers moved inside her, fingering her until she was slick and wriggling beneath him, one of her own hands clasped at the back of his head, the other reaching down to wrap slender fingers around the thick length of his cock. Stroking, a strong squeeze that made her sweet friend gasp out, twisting at the swollen head, her thumb smearing droplets of pre-come down around the hot flesh to ease the friction of her hand working him just as deftly as his fingers moved inside her; Bane rocking into her grasp as she rubbed herself against him again and again, the hand around his head curling tight to tug his face down to hers, pressed close enough that she was sure she felt breath through his mouthpiece.
"Inside... I want you inside." She murmured against the warm metal and plastic of his mask, her words directly caressing through the filter, as close to his lips as she would ever be without causing him the kind of pain she had little taste for tonight. Afterall, he needed to be at his best for her tomorrow.
It had never been as simple as sex between them, it had simply never been simple; and yet there was a certain peace that lived when he was inside her, around her, arms tight and protective and possessive in a way that spoke of ‘I am yours, and you are mine.’
Other people (smaller people, insignificant people) spoke words of vows, dedicated rings of metal to each other, went to a bank and took out a mortgage on a nice three bedroom with a white picket fence in the suburbs. Then bought a dog.
Other people would never understand what this was or who they were; the metal she had had forged for him was worn every moment of every day, he’d give her any bank she desired, and they lived in each other.
Bane didn’t carry a briefcase and Talia didn’t bake pretty cakes, and why did people even do that? Why when it meant nothing at all? It was petty blind ignorance, she knew. Talia would see them burn, and in the doing save them from themselves.
Even though his hands were rough upon her, arousal overtaking delicate expression that too few ever saw in him but her, fingers firm inside the slick heat of her body; when he pulled them free of her to let her taste herself in his stead, Talia knew his touch would be gentled all too soon. It always was when he fucked her - when they made love? - gentler by far than when she rode her pleasure out on him.
Talia scratched, she bit, she rode his cock to completion and only then turned thought to him, so lost in everything that made him hers. If she could have chosen anyone to complete her father’s legacy with her, it had always been him. Who else deserved it but Bane?
But then every time he was atop her, every time she yielded herself over, yielded control to him (and really, even then it was a shared notion), gave herself so wholly to her sweet protector, sometimes just to see if she’d be crushed beneath him in better lovelier ways than he crushed everyone else in her name, he screwed her into any surface that had struck her fancy with supreme tenderness.
He was stronger than anyone she’d ever known, her father very much included, held a daunting breadth to his body that even before the mask had intimidated the lesser of their species, and Talia knew without even the merest hint of a doubt that if he was anyone but her Bane that he could easily have a mind to break her into pieces. If she let him.
But he was not anyone but hers, and no matter what she’d ever done to him, so much of which he’d asked of her in silent moments stolen from the darkness of night, she had always been his Princess, and he her Protector, the gentle tenderness of each clash of flesh to flesh fulfilling her in ways she still never expected.
Talia sucked those two fingers down, tasting herself, tasting his skin, caught suddenly in an oddly troubling moment when he slipped them free of her lips and caressed her cheek in startling mimicry of the way in which she’d always caressed his mask, his fingertips the stroke of a feather sweeping over her skin.
The thought suddenly occurred to her: he’s going to die. It hit like blunt force trauma.
But then he smiled at her, and she knew he smiled by the way in which his eyes felt like that first kiss of the sunshine on her face, crinkling at the corners as he gazed down at her.
And then he was inside, pushing, each cant of his hips stretching her apart and pressing in thick and deep enough to feel each solid inch filling her from the inside out, Bane hooking a leg up high around his waist, the sensation of her heel digging into the firm muscle of his arse and her nails sinking sharp into the brutishly strong shifting muscle of his shoulders - one slicing into trapezius, the other deltoid - just as he impaled her balls deep and exquisitely well reminding her to smile, to moan with aching happiness, that yes: he’s going to die, with me.
Bane found her radiant, he always had, but now even more so with perfect peace written bright and welcoming upon her face. He moved then, withdrawing only to rock back in to the hilt, over and over, hard but never brutal where she was concerned, burying himself inside his Princess, his beloved, his Talia - his.
They clung onto each other, Talia’s leg crushing him down against her, needing him as deep as he could be, every withdrawal an unacceptable event when he had to be completely under her skin with no escape. She breathed against his mouthpiece, moaned through the metal of the filter, whimpered and writhed for him when the large rough expanse of a calloused hand palmed at her breasts, her nipples already aching buds pressed close against his chest, the hot friction of their bodies clasped so tight as they rubbed and sweat out their shared exertion and ground each other inside blood and bone and sinew.
It felt almost like forever, and perhaps that was just wishful thinking, because if forever it was this and them and nothing else, there’d be no need to do what must be done; and in quieter moments when that idea had the gall to present itself, it seemed a seductively succulent notion that she could feast on for a lifetime, but that in turn might devour her whole.
But nothing good could ever last eternity, and soon enough his hand had ventured down to where their bodies met, somehow finding room enough to rub at her clit with urgent intent, his fingers slick with her own fluids and tormentingly good. He’d always been her stalwart defender, her immovable wall of solid rock preventing any harm befalling her even after she had grown strong enough under her father’s roof to be the one protecting him.
Yet in some things he could not be swayed, and even she could not overcome. He never came before her; resisted any seduction on her part, any pleasures granted solely for his enjoyment. He had as much restraint and resolve in that as in the brute force of his strength every time she invited him between her thighs.
And although he so often resisted her attempts to make him break apart first, she never resisted his. Everyone knew that Bane was not a man to be resisted.
She came with a deep moan of wonderful blissful release, arching up against the heavy broad musculature of her sweet friend’s chest, both legs now tight about his waist as Talia rode out every last bright spark of pleasure, fire burning through every inch of her just as it would through Gotham tomorrow. Her hands upon him, holding him against her, were stronger even than his own.
He’d never been the only immovable force.
Bane came with her moments later, her body clenching hot and tight around him in every imaginable way as he roared out his own pleasure, letting go of that ironclad restraint for just one moment in time as Talia broke him down into pieces and put him back together again to her liking, her hands firm and soft all at once on him as he fucked her down into their bed with rough haphazard thrusts, those last few so very much harder than his usual held back tenderness, the knowledge of finality sinking into flesh as well as thought.
She held him through it, even as he spilled himself hotly buried inside her, breath shaky and panting through the filter of his mask, his weight now heavy on top of her as every muscle and fibre surrendered its last ounce of energy to her. Talia held him still.
She felt his pulse wild, pounding against the thin barrier of skin at his pulse point as she nuzzled her face into Bane’s neck, pressing a kiss to it, her hands gentle at the back of his neck, blood-stained nails raking ever so lightly over his scalp around the back of his mask; a softly intimate soothing gesture.
"Rest now, sweet friend, you’ve done so well for me."
And Bane knew she wasn’t talking about tonight, not at all. It was welcome praise, and all the kind words he might ever need. Talia’s touch, so very missed these past months , lulling him into rest, calming him from the fresh hum of pleasure still vibrating in his blood.
Despite his size atop her, crushing her down into the bed, she was no weakling, and easily enough manoeuvred them to their sides, curled up against the wall, Talia’s leg and arms still wrapped tight around him - protecting him, he knew - even as his spent cock slipped from her body.
She was safe against the wall, blanketed by his body, hidden from the world between a rock and a hard place just as she’d been every night in the pit, and Talia caressed him and murmured the sweet words he needed to hear until his eyes grew heavy as they gazed at her.
"Tell me a story, Princess." Not an odd request considering, Bane was the one who’d told her everything good he knew of the outside world at a time when Talia knew nothing of it other than that the sky was blue and people were cruel; he’d protected her from every small thing that could do her harm until she’d risen. Now, she knew, that they protected each other.
So she did. Their foreheads pressed as close as flesh would allow, she murmured to him a story of a man like him and a girl like her, and maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn’t, but the truth was ever what they made of it.
As Bane’s eyes drew closed, resisting the pull of rest for as long as he could on this, their final night - at least until her story was complete - he saw her smile, felt Talia’s kiss upon the metallic grate of his mouthpiece, and he knew.
Tomorrow would be a good day. Their very best yet.
Buuuttttttt I COULD NOT RESIST. The lovely lovely meowlina put up a delicious prompt over at my new favourite hang out spot tdkr-kink, and I was compelled to fill it.
I've been reading every fic for this pairing I could find over the last week, so fellow shippers will no doubt see fanon inspiration. I JUST LOVE EVERYTHING EVERYONE IS DOING WITH THIS FANDOM RIGHT NOW, I CAN'T EVEN.
For the few of you on my flist who plan to see The Dark Knight Rises, but haven't yet, i'll make sure anything spoilerific is behind a cut. Love you guys.
Title: Our Bed is Made (For Two)
Author: nomorefrostbite
Pairing/Characters: Bane/Talia al Ghul ♥♥♥
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: Their very last night together... (original flawfree prompt here at the tdkr kink meme...)
Warnings: Angst? Spoilers for TDKR obviously. Sex most definitely. TRUE EPIC LOVE isn't a 'warning', but i'll warn you all for it anyway.
Word Count: 3,952
Dying was not something she minded doing for her father’s cause - her cause now, theirs - and nor indeed was suffering. She had suffered enough at the hands of others down in the darkness of the pit, and it seemed an amusing concept to now consider that every iota of torment that she had to endure was delivered at her own hands.
Of course she could blame others; her father for not succeeding, Crane for just the same, Bruce and his troublesome ‘assistants’ for persevering against the proper order of things, and others besides. Talia, however, was not the kind of woman who heaped condemnation upon the shoulders of others when she herself had been the one to wield the deciding blow.
Since their little siege had begun, there had been not a moment in which her mask had slipped. Not for one second of time had Miranda Tate been anyone but the righteous moralistic world-saving doe eyed activist, a wonderfully appealing rags to riches story fit to grace the columns of the Gotham society pages. She only wanted to do good. She only ever wanted to help people. Ushering in a better world than this dark cruel place was a worthwhile cause for one such as her.
Of course that particular part had never been a lie; she would welcome in this new world, she would birth it from her own flesh and blood. Her own mother had died to save her (or so she chose to remember), and now she would do the very same and be Mother to the world, as her sweet friend would be it’s Father. Together, as they were always meant to be.
So for months on end now she had been Miranda, perfect strong defiant naive Miranda. And he had been Bane.
It wouldn’t do to run the slightest risk of discovery, not with their end so close in sight, so she had ‘fought the good fight’ with her resistance compatriots - but each night that she had managed to steal alone in a safehouse, each night not sharing a floor or bed or pull out couch with someone who’d burn soon enough, she curled her fingers deep inside herself and was Talia, and in her thoughts her fingers were thicker, blunt, strong beyond imagining, and his.
"Miss Tate... I do believe I have a few questions for you." There would be no exile for her, and only death of her own choosing. These words, however, were not spoken to spare her judgement at Crane’s hands, but for far more personal reasons. Although she had been Miranda, he had always been Bane, and the mask he wore was of a more permanent nature than hers had been.
His couldn’t (shouldn’t) come off, but tonight hers would. That was Bane’s decision. There was no risk anymore, none not worth taking, and with the Bat gone from Gotham, and the merry band of imbeciles either in iron downstairs or hiding away like rats in the sewers, his Princess would be free.
"Bring her." He gestured at the nearest of his men, who without hesitation gripped the lovely Miss Tate by her oh so delicate arm and hauled her to her feet, shoving her with careless force down the corridor. Bane was so glad to see her little friends utterly frantically concerned for her wellbeing.
The mercenary was sent back to his duties once far from prying worried eyes, and Bane dragged Miss Tate bodily down the long corridor of the lowest floor deep underground, and through across the threshold of the makeshift bedroom he had crafted for them from an old filing storage room, the comfortingly familiar scent of old musty paper still lingering heavy in the air. With her a city away since the siege began, this bedroom had always been theirs, shared, space for her in their bed, room upon the shelf for her books, her own clothes kept in pristeen storage ready for this moment, the moment Miranda Tate crossed the threshold and blossomed into Talia al Ghul.
And she did. Her mask was dropped, the fear and terror in her trembling gaze melting away into the most intoxicatingly knowing heat as she turned to look at Bane, her sweet friend, her protector, casting her glance back over her shoulder and laughing with such musical amusement. Their time was near and he thought she seemed almost giddy from it for a moment; a part of her so beautiful, so exquisite, that only he ever got to see, a warm spark, a remnant of those few brief moments of simple happiness together from before either of them had bothered with masks, even in each others company.
It startled him a moment to catch a glimpse of times long past (and perhaps that had been her intention), caught staring as a moth to flame as she so easily shoved his heavy mass hard against the door, slamming it shut in the process. As Bane’s hand crept back to lock it, her own reached over his head and around his neck, the cool metal of the cuffs as much a balm against his skin as her fingers were caressing over his scalp, Talia hooking them around his neck with determined force to tug him down for a biting kiss.
Of course even as Talia bit and nibbled and gnawed a kiss of her own devising into the firm flesh of his neck, a tender spot well known to her just below his mask’s edge, she still recalled the taste of his plush lips on hers from before she’d ever escaped into the light. It had been far more chaste then, granted, but some memories never faded - that was one of the gentler ones.
This was what their kisses were now, and had been for long years. Her lips on his skin, her teeth and tongue tormenting flesh. The bright of his eyes delivering his own tender kisses in ways no ‘real’ kiss from anyone else had ever managed to achieve. This was what was real to Talia. Him, Bane, her sweet protector; he had always been her reality, from the moment she drew breath it often felt. Of course she hadn’t dared be strong enough for any small intake of oxygen until he’d taken her up into the safety of his arms, far from the madding crowd.
She slipped the cuffs easily as lips devoured throat - a simple task given how hers had never been designed to stay on, Bane refusing to truly cage her for any reason, not as the pit had caged her body and society would cage and quench her fire - fingers curling around the slim metal loops now around his neck, leading Bane step by step back towards the bed he’d made for two.
It never amused Talia that no matter where he went, whether she was with him or not, Bane had forever made space in what little space was his for her. Things born of the necessity and habit of the pit never bore humour for either of them. It was what it was - his bed had been made for her since the moment she’d met him, first to protect from the ravages of what lived in the darkness, and later, much later, to give Talia everything she’d ever needed. Even after her father’s death and her needs had changed, Bane, the consummate survivor, gave her this as well; his life. How many times did that make it now?
"My sweet friend..." Talia murmured with knowing heat against the shell of his ear, dropping her cuffs without a second thought - their purpose served - to slip her hands down the long length of his neck, around broad shoulders, fingers plucking at the straps holding his vest in place, working with the ease at which second nature comes when time has been spent taking off and putting on so familiar an item. Then down to the catches and buckles at her protector’s waist, hands eager to reach beneath as soon as it was off to feel the welcome warmth of firm flesh clad in black.
Off with that too, Talia’s fingers bunching in the fabric to push it up, baring the expanse of his chest to her, up over his head then forcing her lips to leave his skin - a necessary but momentary loss.
"Talia, I - " But before Bane could finish what he had meant to say, a finger was upon the speaker of his mask, accompanied by a pointed glance; a silencing gesture that he complied with immediately, instinct overriding the need to say a thousand things before they met their end.
"Hush now. There will be time enough for that with morning light. I want my promised interrogation; don’t deny me, sweet friend."
As if he could and ever would, especially when she used so intimate a name. Talia forever the only one able to command him to silence.
Tonight was not a night for words, they’d never needed many anyway. Tomorrow was Gotham’s reckoning, and their last day could begin with every final thing that needed murmuring against skin, but tonight was the very last night that her protector would make his bed for two, and Talia would see them share it.
It was only then she stepped away, watching him with the same piercing gaze that marked her out as a woman far different to Miranda Tate, and began undressing with casual grace, fluid economy of movement displayed in each gesture, in the sliding off of first her shirt, the subtle roll of her shoulders back as it slithered down her arms and to the floor, black jeans to follow, boots unlaced and set aside with care. Bane’s eyes mapping each scar and well known mark revealed.
Then her bra, fingers better suited to wielding a blade with precise deadly force unclasping the catch at the front of the lacy feminine garment; part of her disguise, he knew, because his Princess would never adorn herself with such frivolous items out of anything but necessity.
She was patient, he knew that, could wait a life time to have her day... but time was of a finite quality now, and before she could command him to rid himself of his cargo pants and boots, he did, somehow unwilling to face her censure tonight for dawdling when she’d made her intentions plain, knowing that there wouldn’t be another night like this, or indeed any nights at all. That didn’t matter to Bane, it never had.
Her Will, His Hands.
He'd sworn that, once upon a time, and it had never stopped being his ultimate truth.
To the dim light of emergency lamps perched on shelves and balanced on cases of heavy artillery on the floor - as ‘romantic’ as candles to Talia, sure signs of thoughtful effort and a sweet gesture made on his part - she pulled him down with her atop the crumpled sheets and soft woolen blanket of their bed, not sparing a thought for where and from whom he had liberated the mattress from, or it’s pillows, so carefully transported down into this safe haven entirely for her comfort. She was under no illusions that he’d cared where he slept or upon what surface, and Bane knew that neither did she - and yet regardless he still took care of her in every way he deemed fit.
However softly appointed their final resting place, apart from his eyes, there was nothing of a noticeably gentler nature about his body upon hers. The bulk of her protector’s mass weighed her down, kept her safe from all harm as always it had done, hard musculature pressing into her, his hands baring the rough edge she favoured from him as two fingers reached down between them to press their way inside, Bane’s soft knowing chuckle rising her ire immediately even as she sighed in delighted relief. Of course, he knew what she’d done to occupy herself without him. He always knew.
"Has Miranda had fantasies of her tormentor doing just this? Whatever would your Mr. Wayne say of her indiscretions..." Talia didn’t blush, because she’d not known how since the moment she climbed out of darkness.
"No. I have. And he isn't mine... you are." There was no shame in admitting it through a long low moan as those longed for fingers moved inside her, fingering her until she was slick and wriggling beneath him, one of her own hands clasped at the back of his head, the other reaching down to wrap slender fingers around the thick length of his cock. Stroking, a strong squeeze that made her sweet friend gasp out, twisting at the swollen head, her thumb smearing droplets of pre-come down around the hot flesh to ease the friction of her hand working him just as deftly as his fingers moved inside her; Bane rocking into her grasp as she rubbed herself against him again and again, the hand around his head curling tight to tug his face down to hers, pressed close enough that she was sure she felt breath through his mouthpiece.
"Inside... I want you inside." She murmured against the warm metal and plastic of his mask, her words directly caressing through the filter, as close to his lips as she would ever be without causing him the kind of pain she had little taste for tonight. Afterall, he needed to be at his best for her tomorrow.
It had never been as simple as sex between them, it had simply never been simple; and yet there was a certain peace that lived when he was inside her, around her, arms tight and protective and possessive in a way that spoke of ‘I am yours, and you are mine.’
Other people (smaller people, insignificant people) spoke words of vows, dedicated rings of metal to each other, went to a bank and took out a mortgage on a nice three bedroom with a white picket fence in the suburbs. Then bought a dog.
Other people would never understand what this was or who they were; the metal she had had forged for him was worn every moment of every day, he’d give her any bank she desired, and they lived in each other.
Bane didn’t carry a briefcase and Talia didn’t bake pretty cakes, and why did people even do that? Why when it meant nothing at all? It was petty blind ignorance, she knew. Talia would see them burn, and in the doing save them from themselves.
Even though his hands were rough upon her, arousal overtaking delicate expression that too few ever saw in him but her, fingers firm inside the slick heat of her body; when he pulled them free of her to let her taste herself in his stead, Talia knew his touch would be gentled all too soon. It always was when he fucked her - when they made love? - gentler by far than when she rode her pleasure out on him.
Talia scratched, she bit, she rode his cock to completion and only then turned thought to him, so lost in everything that made him hers. If she could have chosen anyone to complete her father’s legacy with her, it had always been him. Who else deserved it but Bane?
But then every time he was atop her, every time she yielded herself over, yielded control to him (and really, even then it was a shared notion), gave herself so wholly to her sweet protector, sometimes just to see if she’d be crushed beneath him in better lovelier ways than he crushed everyone else in her name, he screwed her into any surface that had struck her fancy with supreme tenderness.
He was stronger than anyone she’d ever known, her father very much included, held a daunting breadth to his body that even before the mask had intimidated the lesser of their species, and Talia knew without even the merest hint of a doubt that if he was anyone but her Bane that he could easily have a mind to break her into pieces. If she let him.
But he was not anyone but hers, and no matter what she’d ever done to him, so much of which he’d asked of her in silent moments stolen from the darkness of night, she had always been his Princess, and he her Protector, the gentle tenderness of each clash of flesh to flesh fulfilling her in ways she still never expected.
Talia sucked those two fingers down, tasting herself, tasting his skin, caught suddenly in an oddly troubling moment when he slipped them free of her lips and caressed her cheek in startling mimicry of the way in which she’d always caressed his mask, his fingertips the stroke of a feather sweeping over her skin.
The thought suddenly occurred to her: he’s going to die. It hit like blunt force trauma.
But then he smiled at her, and she knew he smiled by the way in which his eyes felt like that first kiss of the sunshine on her face, crinkling at the corners as he gazed down at her.
And then he was inside, pushing, each cant of his hips stretching her apart and pressing in thick and deep enough to feel each solid inch filling her from the inside out, Bane hooking a leg up high around his waist, the sensation of her heel digging into the firm muscle of his arse and her nails sinking sharp into the brutishly strong shifting muscle of his shoulders - one slicing into trapezius, the other deltoid - just as he impaled her balls deep and exquisitely well reminding her to smile, to moan with aching happiness, that yes: he’s going to die, with me.
Bane found her radiant, he always had, but now even more so with perfect peace written bright and welcoming upon her face. He moved then, withdrawing only to rock back in to the hilt, over and over, hard but never brutal where she was concerned, burying himself inside his Princess, his beloved, his Talia - his.
They clung onto each other, Talia’s leg crushing him down against her, needing him as deep as he could be, every withdrawal an unacceptable event when he had to be completely under her skin with no escape. She breathed against his mouthpiece, moaned through the metal of the filter, whimpered and writhed for him when the large rough expanse of a calloused hand palmed at her breasts, her nipples already aching buds pressed close against his chest, the hot friction of their bodies clasped so tight as they rubbed and sweat out their shared exertion and ground each other inside blood and bone and sinew.
It felt almost like forever, and perhaps that was just wishful thinking, because if forever it was this and them and nothing else, there’d be no need to do what must be done; and in quieter moments when that idea had the gall to present itself, it seemed a seductively succulent notion that she could feast on for a lifetime, but that in turn might devour her whole.
But nothing good could ever last eternity, and soon enough his hand had ventured down to where their bodies met, somehow finding room enough to rub at her clit with urgent intent, his fingers slick with her own fluids and tormentingly good. He’d always been her stalwart defender, her immovable wall of solid rock preventing any harm befalling her even after she had grown strong enough under her father’s roof to be the one protecting him.
Yet in some things he could not be swayed, and even she could not overcome. He never came before her; resisted any seduction on her part, any pleasures granted solely for his enjoyment. He had as much restraint and resolve in that as in the brute force of his strength every time she invited him between her thighs.
And although he so often resisted her attempts to make him break apart first, she never resisted his. Everyone knew that Bane was not a man to be resisted.
She came with a deep moan of wonderful blissful release, arching up against the heavy broad musculature of her sweet friend’s chest, both legs now tight about his waist as Talia rode out every last bright spark of pleasure, fire burning through every inch of her just as it would through Gotham tomorrow. Her hands upon him, holding him against her, were stronger even than his own.
He’d never been the only immovable force.
Bane came with her moments later, her body clenching hot and tight around him in every imaginable way as he roared out his own pleasure, letting go of that ironclad restraint for just one moment in time as Talia broke him down into pieces and put him back together again to her liking, her hands firm and soft all at once on him as he fucked her down into their bed with rough haphazard thrusts, those last few so very much harder than his usual held back tenderness, the knowledge of finality sinking into flesh as well as thought.
She held him through it, even as he spilled himself hotly buried inside her, breath shaky and panting through the filter of his mask, his weight now heavy on top of her as every muscle and fibre surrendered its last ounce of energy to her. Talia held him still.
She felt his pulse wild, pounding against the thin barrier of skin at his pulse point as she nuzzled her face into Bane’s neck, pressing a kiss to it, her hands gentle at the back of his neck, blood-stained nails raking ever so lightly over his scalp around the back of his mask; a softly intimate soothing gesture.
"Rest now, sweet friend, you’ve done so well for me."
And Bane knew she wasn’t talking about tonight, not at all. It was welcome praise, and all the kind words he might ever need. Talia’s touch, so very missed these past months , lulling him into rest, calming him from the fresh hum of pleasure still vibrating in his blood.
Despite his size atop her, crushing her down into the bed, she was no weakling, and easily enough manoeuvred them to their sides, curled up against the wall, Talia’s leg and arms still wrapped tight around him - protecting him, he knew - even as his spent cock slipped from her body.
She was safe against the wall, blanketed by his body, hidden from the world between a rock and a hard place just as she’d been every night in the pit, and Talia caressed him and murmured the sweet words he needed to hear until his eyes grew heavy as they gazed at her.
"Tell me a story, Princess." Not an odd request considering, Bane was the one who’d told her everything good he knew of the outside world at a time when Talia knew nothing of it other than that the sky was blue and people were cruel; he’d protected her from every small thing that could do her harm until she’d risen. Now, she knew, that they protected each other.
So she did. Their foreheads pressed as close as flesh would allow, she murmured to him a story of a man like him and a girl like her, and maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn’t, but the truth was ever what they made of it.
As Bane’s eyes drew closed, resisting the pull of rest for as long as he could on this, their final night - at least until her story was complete - he saw her smile, felt Talia’s kiss upon the metallic grate of his mouthpiece, and he knew.
Tomorrow would be a good day. Their very best yet.