Round One Prompt Post
Round One Is Currently Closed To New Prompts
Welcome to 'Round One' of The Dark Knight Rises Kink Meme.
This round will close when it reaches three thousand comments and after two weeks, another prompt post will open.
( General Policies )
Welcome to 'Round One' of The Dark Knight Rises Kink Meme.
This round will close when it reaches three thousand comments and after two weeks, another prompt post will open.
( General Policies )
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He’s starting to lose his fucking mind.
The cells at Blackwell just aren’t what they used to be, even if you ignore the fact that the people who used to be the prisoners are now the ones playing guards. John’s used to being alone, but there’s alone and then there’s alone, and solitary confinement when Bane’s in charge is a lose-lose situation no matter which way you look at it. Either he’s dead or he’s not dead, and at least if he was dead, he wouldn’t have to look forward to all the pain he’s going to have cracked over his head like an egg whenever Bane gets around to it.
In solitary, all he’s got to look at is the walls, which somebody with a sharpie and a 3rd grade literacy level has scribbled graffiti all over. All he’s got to listen to is silence. He’s got no idea how long he’s been here or what’s been going on, and it’d almost be restful if it wasn’t for the fact that the jackass with the sharpie spelled ‘penis’ wrong. It’s starting to get on John’s nerves in the worst possible way, and when it’s on top of the fact that the unknown artist has the anatomical comprehension of a duck--what the fuck, man, did you never look down when you pissed?--and that Bane’s going to be coming along any second now to squash him like a marshmallow peep, well.
See above, re: loss of fucking mind.
It’s almost a relief when the door opens and he can get on with the rest of the program.
He manages to say, “Finally,” in a way that sounds asshole enough that he can feel he made his point, right before one of Bane’s men punches him in the solar plexus and drops him like a baby. He’s rehearsed all kinds of things to say when people show up to collect him--brilliant things, Joss Whedon Mal Reynolds-level things--but he’s deprived of the chance to say any of them, what with losing the ability to breathe.
Isn’t that always the way, he reflects bitterly, as two of Bane’s thugs drag him out by his arms and hurry him down the hall. Why does he even bother.
Being pissed about losing his moment keeps the fear at bay, so he holds onto that around the bend and through the prison, up until he’s dropped flat on his face in what used to be the cafeteria. Concrete is not his friend. Since nobody seems eager to help him up, he rolls over and up, ready to fight on the off chance there’s an opening here that he can exploit.
Except shit, there’s Bane, less than a foot away from him. And then shit, there’s Bane’s hand, grabbing him by the hair. John tries punching him in the gut, but it’s like trying to hit a piano. His fist doesn’t appreciate it at all. He’s not even sure Bane notices.
“John Blake,” Bane purrs in that metallic voice, and that scares the crap out of John because there’s no way in hell Bane should even know his name.
He exercises his right to silence and gets his reward in a lazy, backhanded blow that knocks about 50 points off his IQ and puts his center of balance somewhere in Cleveland. He can taste blood in his mouth, and licks carefully; yup, split lip, too.
This is going well.
“Pleased to meet you. And you are--?” he says. It’s lame, but it’s the best he can do when he’s wondering frantically what’s going to happen next. He’s never been this close to Bane. On the television, he looks like a big son-of-a-bitch. In person, John discovers that whoever said the TV puts on ten pounds is a lying sack of shit, because if anything, reality has put on about another foot and 80 pounds of pure muscle. Bane isn’t a man; he’s a fucking disaster.
The blue eyes over the mask crinkle at the corners. It’s creepy, but John can actually tell that he’s smiling. That he’s pleased, which does not fill John with warm fuzzies. The hand in his hair hauls him up until he’s standing on his tip-toes, then yanks him around. For the first time, he sees that there are other men in the room. Not that they matter. Most of them are leaving.
Two of them aren’t. One of them, he recognizes as Bane’s second-in-command, the guy Gordon’s intel identified as Barsad. The other one--
Fuck.
Batman.
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---
There are all kinds of ways in which this is not a good thing, starting with the fact that Batman is kneeling on the floor with his arms tied behind his back--John can see the ropes, thick ones, wrapped around his upper arms--and ending with the fact that Barsad has his gun pressed against the back of Batman’s head. All things considered, John’s pretty sure this isn’t going to be a good day for them both.
“He has fire in him, your little friend,” Bane says to Batman, rolling the words off his tongue like it’s a private joke between them. “I wonder -- will it survive what I will do to him?” Bane’s other hand slides down John’s cheek and neck, down into the collar of his shirt. If he wasn’t already cold with fear, he’d be an icicle at the deliberate intent of that touch. Bane’s not wearing his gloves, and his fingers feel like they’re burning John’s skin.
He tries to jerk away, but his scalp isn’t willing to get ripped off by the roots. Bane hauls him even closer, until John is pressed back flush against his body. It’s like leaning against an oak tree. Balanced on his toes, there’s no place for him to go. Batman’s eyes are cold and angry--almost as ticked off as John is getting, although he’s pretty sure his own version comes packaged with a bonus dose of extra terror.
“He’s not my friend,” Batman rasps.
“I’m really not,” John says.
“But you are his,” Bane says, not paying any attention. His hand yanks John’s head to one side, baring his neck; John flinches as cold metal slides across his skin, the barbs of the mask rasping against his throat. “Did you think we were not watching? The police officer, the Batman, and the Commissioner. Two birds I have in my hand. I only need one of you to get the last.”
“Gordon,” says Batman, through gritted teeth.
John feels Bane’s chuckle like an earthquake under the skin. “Which will it be?” he asks. The hand on his hair lets him go, but only so he can grab John’s arms and pull them back.
He hears the snikt of metal at the same time the handcuffs slap around his wrists. This isn’t an improvement. Panic races through his veins; even knowing better, his cop instincts object fiercely to this restraint, and he yanks involuntarily against the restraints before forcing himself to stay still. Or rather, to kneel, because Bane’s hand drops like an anvil on his shoulder, and it’s either go down to his knees or lose the arm.
Imminent death. Well, thank God they’re done with pussyfooting around.
“You can forget about getting Gordon through me, so fuck you,” John says as politely as he can. And since he’s willing to spread the sentiment around, adds generously to Barsad, “And you, too. You can both go to hell.”
Batman’s eyes glitter. John meets them in a moment of perfect understanding. One of them will die, and no matter what, the other one will keep their mouth shut. Gordon is the only hope left for Gotham.
He can hear the scrape of a chair behind him as Bane draws one up to sit. Suddenly, the mask is way too close to his face. There’s the gleam of a knife as big as his forearm, and he closes his eyes--a bullet through the brain would’ve been better, but okay, there are worse ways--and stiffens, preparing himself.
Then he feels icy metal on his chest. There’s a rip and a yank. Then cold air, rushing in to touch his skin. His eyes fly open, disconcerted; metal tickles its way down his chest and stomach to his pants, slips underneath the waistband, and tugs again. Once. Twice. Fabric parts like paper. His pants open, peeling away from his skin to leave him bare and exposed and oh fuck, oh fuck, Bane’s other hand caresses its way down his frozen body to wrap itself around his limp cock and it twitches despite itself, because it apparently doesn’t give a shit about the quality of the program.
“Did you think it would be so easy as that?” Bane asks, and laughs.
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This is just sooo damn creepy and in-character for everyone that's driving me crazy :3
Bane is creepy, sadistic and TERRIFYING as all hell.
And of course, Blake is being his usual, smart-assed, beautiful self ^_^
I neeeeeed to see what happens next! Pretty puhlease?
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Bane gives him a couple of long, slow strokes. Oh, hello there, says John’s dick, already giddy.
Then John’s brain puts in an extra effort of speed and makes it to the finish line. He meets Batman’s eyes in disbelief and sees in them the immediate future, dark and horrific. Disbelief is replaced by panic, and panic mixes with anger to surge through him. John hurls himself back, away from that hand, to try to stagger to his feet. It’s not the best tactic in the world because his pants will send him sprawling if he runs, but he’ll deal with that when he comes to it; first things first, get the fuck away.
From the corner of his eye he can see Batman jerk, like he wants to help. That’s all he gets though, because a split-second later he’s crashing to the ground, tripped up by a foot around his ankle.
Barsad is smiling thinly, the prick. Bane is chuckling. John feels a hand close around his upper arm, and then he’s being hauled up easily, like a newborn puppy. He tries to kick out, but he doesn’t stand a chance. The chair creaks. John is hauled bodily to straddle Bane’s lap, his back to the mercenary’s chest, his arms pinned between them. One massive hand closes around his throat, forcing his head up to press his cheek against Bane’s, a mockery of intimacy.
Honestly, John cannot think of a single scenario in which this does not end up badly for him. Death might turn out to be the preferable alternative. Who knew?
“Sorry to break this to you, but I’m saving myself for marriage,” he says unsteadily, his breath harsh and scraping in his throat and way, way too fast. Bane’s hand slides up his inner thigh on its way to his groin, its calluses scraping against his skin. “It’s a life choice. Can I interest you in a walk on the beach instead? We can hold hands and everything.”
“Still defiant,” Bane says. “He is brave, this one. I understand why you and the Commissioner favor him.” The amusement in his voice invites them to join in the joke. Somehow, neither of them are laughing. John can see Batman staring at them with hot eyes, rage replacing the cooler anger of before. “Will he be as fierce when he is begging under me, do you think?”
Barsad fishes in some pouch on his belt with his free hand, and tugs out something that he tosses to Bane. It catches the light as it flies, metallic, round, before smacking into Bane’s palm. His hand’s absence from his thigh makes goosebumps rise on John’s leg.
“He’s stronger than you think,” Batman growls, his hands clenching and unclenching in fists.
“Fuck you,” John tacks on, to validate Batman’s faith in him. It’s repetitive, but it’s what he’s got. He can’t see what’s happening behind him, so he fixes his eyes on Batman, who can. Not that it’s easy to read a face that’s wearing a mask, but he’s got nothing else to focus on--
--and shit, Batman’s eyes are widening. In surprise, maybe. Or--
Bane’s hand closes over his dick again. John jerks, shocked at the sudden warmth, the strength, the stroke, the...
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He tries. He really does. He tries to wriggle away, hard enough to do when his arms are pinned and his throat is being held in place by a grip that could crack elephant skulls. He tries to think about crime scenes. About rush hour traffic. About Paula Deen in a G-string. Anything but what’s happening between his legs, in front of Batman, goddammit.
He won’t lie--no, that’s not true, he absolutely will lie if asked the question--but yes, okay, maybe once or twice he imagined Bane doing this, ridden the thrill of fear to just the thrill when the tension that rode him all day needed a little blowing off before he could sleep. But it’s a far cry between fantasy and reality, and this is ugly, this is scary, this is degrading and violating, and he is not turned on. He is absolutely not turned on. Christ on a pogo stick, he is not turned on.
“He’s passionate, this little one,” Bane tells Batman, a purring note in his hollow voice. Humiliation burns John’s face. He hasn’t blushed in years but he can feel the tide of color rising up in his face.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” John says breathlessly. “Purely physiological reaction. Normal response to stimuli. It just proves I’m healthy. Go, me. Yay.”
Bane’s slippery hand releases his cock--it aches, missing the practiced stroke--and moves down, rolling his balls gently between broad, blunt fingers. John hisses and stiffens, but the fingers keep moving down, pressing past his perineum, to dip and
A finger slides relentlessly in, forcing its way past his instinctive clench. It burns. John catches his breath. He can feel the scrape of Bane’s nail inside.
“How far shall I go?” Bane asks Batman, conversationally, like he’s asking a question about the weather. “I see anger in your eyes, my brother. Do you envy me my new toy? Perhaps--” and now Bane’s fitting a second finger in, shifting John to do it, Jesus Christ his fingers are as big as the rest of him, John has to bite down hard not to make a sound, “--when I am done with him--” and now the fingers are moving, exploring, and oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, John jerks hard as pleasure stabs through him, a stiletto of sensation that reaches every part of him and wrenches out a gasp, “--you may have your turn.”
Satisfaction warms the last few words. Bane has found what he is looking for, and his fingers press against it, ruthless. Electricity races under John’s skin, prickling and humming across nerve endings, and he bucks, horrified, arches his back and screw the hand at his throat because he has to get the hell out of this right now.
And he thought he was afraid before.
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Something tells me Bane has experience bad-touching his captives.
And omg, seriously, including Barsad = WIN <3
This is gonna get even better, I can feel it! Can't wait for the next part!
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Breathing. Hah. What breathing? Stars explode behind his eyelids, except his eyes aren’t closed. His head spins gently. It keeps him off-balanced, unsettled, and even if he wanted to he couldn’t find a space between the shocks of heat that see-saw through him. They’re like heartbeats coursing fire in the place of blood, stuttering and staggering need through his body with each deliberate, sadistic pulse of those fingers.
He can’t help himself. He has to make a sound. It’s somewhere between a groan and a cry, strangled thin between Bane’s grip on his throat and his determination not to give the prick the satisfaction. He can’t help the movement of his hips, too, the involuntary press into those burning, curling fingers, and God, if only the earth would open up and swallow him whole right now, because he is fucking the psycho carpetbagger back. In front of Batman. Gordon would be so proud.
“Bane,” he hears Batman snarl.
John knows, he just knows that the guy’s going to do something heroic and self-sacrificing and hopefully smart but probably deeply stupid. Bane is probably counting on it. In fact, listen to him, he’s chuckling again, the shithead. The rhythm inside John changes, jolting him; he closes his fists hard around Bane’s shirt as a wave starts building up inside, aching, swollen, pounding like an incoming tide with each hard flutter against his prostate.
“Don’t!” he manages to say, though it comes out as a gasp. He can’t help the way it sounds. His eyes open to find Batman’s, meeting their darkening burn. “I can take--” oh shit he can’t, goddammit, he’s a cop, yes he can, “I can take this,” he pants through gritted teeth. “He’s just being a--" Why, he thinks wildly, aren't there any good insults for men that don't involve genitalia, body parts, or bodily functions he'd rather not draw any attention to? "Don’t!”
He’d like to say, don’t look, but he can’t quite take the embarrassment of begging Batman in front of Bane. Somewhere in the confused mess of his mind, there’s the thought that this is probably the wrong thing to be embarrassed about in this situation.
And then there’s the thought that he should probably have kept his mouth shut, because Bane shifts and says, growly, “Can you? Let us see.”
The fingers jerk out, and it feels wrong when they go, like he’s been hollowed out and emptied of something vital. His body tries to keep them in, goddamn the thing, what kind of idiot designed these reflexes anyway, but the ache of lust pauses at least, trembling, but holding where it is instead of growing.
He has just enough time to think a grateful, thank you God I swear I will never make fun of celibates again, when Bane stands, dragging him up with him, and bends him face down over one of the cafeteria tables.
The cold plastic of the table on bare skin makes him yelp. Bane’s hand presses down on the back of his neck, pinning him in place. John’s head is turned so he can see Batman; the green eyes are practically incandescent now, and what the fuck he has to be pissed off at when John’s the one who’s--
Oh, he thinks numbly, realizing the position he’s in.
The literal position.
This is ... not good.
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He can hear fabric being moved, and the wet sounds of lube on skin. It’s not his lube. It’s definitely not his skin. Batman is snarling again, straining at his ropes. Frantic calculation hiccups crazily across Bane’s bulk and what that will mean for other things, all else being proportional. He squirms desperately, trying to get away from the hold on his neck, but it’s the theme of the day that he’d have better luck trying to shift the pyramids than move Bane. His dick is still stupidly enthusiastic about life, hanging heavy now between his legs; it’s achingly hard, throbbing in time with his pulse.
A man with an erection can do some truly stupid things. John is a cop. He knows this for a fact. However, he’s also a man with an erection.
He decides to keep talking.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” he says breathlessly through his teeth. “I’m not feeling like an equal partner in this relationship. Can we talk about our feelings for a second? Because I read once that feelings of sexual inadequacy can lead to this kind of prima donna--”
He loses his grip on smartassery as Bane presses against him, fabric and bare skin feverish and rough against his thighs and ass. For a moment, he thinks it’s Bane’s thigh against his. Then nerve endings report their findings, and synapses fire in nervous translation. Sweet fuck. The man is enormous. He’s going to split John apart, rip him to shreds like a paper bag.
If he breathing speeds up any more, he’s going to hyperventilate.
“The cub is still showing his teeth,” Bane says with approval. “Come. Bring our guest, my brother. Let him watch his friend’s bravery.”
There’s the scrape of metal and then a flutter of black. Batman. Still straining against the ropes, he is hauled by Barsad up off his knees and shoved into a chair. Ringside tickets, apparently. Box seats. John stares at him, meeting pupil-dark, hard eyes, and hopes that his face doesn’t show the panic he’s feeling. By the looks of Batman’s face, it is.
“I’m sorry, John,” Batman says.
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up,” John says unsteadily, feeling Bane’s weight slide up the back of his leg and across his ass cheek. He closes his eyes and clenches his hands. The important thing, really, the important thing is to not tense up. Right. Now try not thinking about pink elephants. “Sorry,” he thinks to gasp, as Bane positions himself at his burning entrance. “That was rude. Nothing personal, Bat--”
Did he think Bane’s fingers were big? They weren’t big. They were toothpicks. They were splinters of toothpicks. John chokes on a cry as Bane pushes slowly and deliberately in, stretching him impossibly wide around him. He would rear up under him, if the hand wasn’t pinning him to the table.
It is agony, a brutal, yawning pain that sings through him like the fire of before, but nowhere near as pleasurable, nowhere near as hungry. This one sears as it goes, killing lust. A tattered fragment of insane thought babbles, good to know, good to know, effective way to get rid of an erection is to get raped up the ass by a telephone pole, not a treatment that will be making its way into Playboy anytime soon, dear editor, the strangest thing happened; I swear I’ve never had this problem before, but--
He is losing his mind again. Bane pauses, letting him -- letting him -- adjust to the enormity of this intrusion. He is only an inch in, maybe, just past the entrance. John pants desperately for air, almost deaf through the pounding of his heart.
“John.” He can just barely hear Batman, his voice raised in urgent command. He opens his eyes dazedly to stare into those green eyes, intent and intense and fixed unblinking on his. “John. Concentrate on me. Don’t think about it. Just look at me.”
Bane moves, pressing a little further in. The burn grows as John is filled, strained to the limits around this immense violation. John sobs dryly. “Oh, God,” he gasps. “Please. I'm begging you. Just-- Please. Shut up.”
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