Round Two Prompt Post
Round Two Is Currently Closed To New Prompts
Welcome to 'Round Two' of The Dark Knight Rises Kink Meme.
This round will close when it reaches four thousand comments and after two weeks, another prompt post will open.
( General Policies )
Welcome to 'Round Two' of The Dark Knight Rises Kink Meme.
This round will close when it reaches four thousand comments and after two weeks, another prompt post will open.
( General Policies )
However, that's where this prompt deviates. I want to see Bane not really knowing what to make of this present. He has a city to run, and caring for John is a bit of a hindrance. He'd rather dump him on Barsad and go do important warlord things than spend any time with a cop he can't even kill in case he offends Talia. Likewise, John is totally bewildered and angry about his captivity, convinced Bane is going to torture or kill or rape him. Forced proximity (maybe they have to share living quarters, so than Bane can keep John away from his men) is almost equally uncomfortable for them both--moreso for John, but also for Bane, who is used to solitude, not pestering little cops who call him a monster when he kills his own men for not doing their jobs properly. But Talia remains convinced that Bane will find a good use for this little white knight and can't wait to see John with his spirit broken.
The thing is, Bane does like John's spirit. He finds such people rare and intriguing. The more he comes to know John, the more time he spends in his company, learning about him, and vice versa. John never loses his fear or wariness, but unbeknownst to him--even when it seems like Bane is interested--Bane has no interest in taking him against his will. Bane fought to keep Talia from being raped to death in the pit, he won't let John be destroyed like that either. In fact, Bane's a little headshy about sex altogether. Long-term analgesic use has made it difficult for him to get pleasure the same way normal people do. He goes too hard and for too long, and nobody's ever had the patience (or the strength/stamina) to get him off. It's John, who's starting to reach his breaking point and just wants to get it over with on his terms, who starts to push the issue, not realizing he's actually making his captor kind of uncomfortable, especially by making that kind of assumption about him.
I want to see Bane falling for John first (though he never stops being the baddie he is). John has to work to understand him, and when he does, he kind of starts to like the man he sees behind the mask. He knows they're all going to be dead soon, so when he learns the truth, he decides he may as well not let Bane die without ever having been brought to orgasm by somebody else. Bane has been patient: now John shows that he can be, too.
+1 for:
--Bane being a virgin (maybe he's had unsatisfactory blowjobs from whores but nobody has ever let him (or he hasn't let himself) penetrate them)
--Talia and Bane beings platonic bffs with no lust/romance
--Bane trying to woo John with somewhat inappropriate gifts, which just cements John's opinion that Bane is a psychopath who's still trying to break him
--Barsad being a bamf :)
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Someone has to write this. ♥♥
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He lands one fucking blow.
It's more a startle reflex than any kind of skill.
She stops playing with him then. Her boot hits him in the side of the head and he slams into the brick wall, dazed. It's all over before it can even really begin. She shoves him face-down onto the slushy pavement with callous efficiency; he wavers into consciousness in time to feel his own handcuffs snck tightly around his wrists, behind his back. Dizzily he watches her smooth down her coat and stroll into the open to intercept the truck that might or might not be carrying the bomb. Apart from the small bruise on her cheek there's not a scuff on her. The next moment, stronger arms than Miranda's are hauling him upright, dragging him away.
His vision blurs out again, and somehow, all he can think as his mind wipes is that he should be protecting her, that they obviously have something on her, to force her to do this, that Miranda Tate is a trusted ally of Bruce Wayne and if John cannot trust her, then none of them is-
*
He lands on his knees on hardwood. His head is spinning, ears ringing, vaguely nauseous. Miranda is still there. Her hand rests lightly on his shoulder.
He looks around. He doesn't recognize this place. A skyscraper, judging by what he can see through the windows from his vantage point. There's a huge wooden table, some fake plants and blossoms in the corners, paintings on the walls. Gilded figurines arc out of the floor; brown leather chairs and sofas are arranged in a square. The walls are sleek wood panels. Men surround them, looking on curiously; nearby, the man their intelligence has identified as Bane's lieutenant stands guard over them, rifle in hands, bulletproof vest strapped on. Why have they brought him and Miranda here?
Noticing his sudden awareness, Miranda stoops down in front of him. She wipes away what feels like a trickle of blood from his forehead, gently, and smiles. Helpless, hands bound behind his back, John clasps that smile to him, lets it give him hope.
“Everything will be okay, John,” she says softly.
He hears Bane before he sees him coming: heavy footsteps, a mechanical wheeze for breath. A pair of double doors opens, and Bane emerges out of the shadows slowly enough to send a cascade of icy panic down John's spine. This is the first time he's ever seen Bane face to face, not on a TV screen. The real thing is terrifying. A smaller man might buckle under the sheer weight of the coat he wears; and that on top of multiple other layers. His thumbs are hooked into the straps of his vest, and it seems to John, from one wild, half glance, that he's protecting his chest with this seemingly casual attitude.
Miranda straightens up. John wants to bring his legs under him properly and get up, but he can't seem to coordinate his limbs, and the walls sway when he moves his head too fast.
There is brief silence, except for Bane's soft mechanical inhalations.
“Why are you here?” Bane says at last, politely curious-and curiously polite. His voice is scratchy and warped as it is on TV, like it's coming from a reverberant metal tube. John dares to look up. Bane's chilling gaze is resting on Miranda, emotionless, unblinking.
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Bane inhales. Rasps, inflectionlessly, “I can see that.”
“This is the thorn in your side,” she says, fingers curling over John's shoulder again. “John Blake. Gordon's pet detective; friend to Bruce Wayne. He has been giving our men some trouble.”
“Friend to Bruce Wayne,” Bane says, giving the name special weight, as if he can taste it behind his mask. His tone gives John no doubt that Bane knows precisely who Bruce Wayne really is. Bane's eyes fall to John with curious interest, gaze piercing him. He feels like a bug pinned to a card, under Bane's gaze.
“Keep him,” Miranda says, her voice ringing out confidently. None of the men present are speaking. “He has outlasted his usefulness on the outside. His capture will demoralize Gordon and the others. It will distract them.”
Bane looks to her again. His gaze rests on the bruise on her cheek. “Did he strike you?”
“It is nothing.”
“I have no need for him,” Bane says.
“He has spark in him,” says Miranda. “He will be difficult to crush, this one. And he can do less mischief here.”
“I could kill him now.”
“No,” Miranda says, beautiful and reckless as John has never seen her. Her eyes shine with the light of a fanatic. “Take your comfort from him. Break his spirit. I want to see you do it.”
Bane just watches her.
And then something incredible happens. She steps forward, closing the space that stands between her and the monster. John works his throat to speak, to shout, still stupid from the head injury, struggling to parse all this. Bane looks down at her. Impossibly, foolishly, she raises a hand to clasp the side of his face, right where the mask digs into his skin.
“He will be good for you, my friend,” she says, and she rises on tiptoe to press a light kiss just underneath Bane's eye.
He could crush her. He could pull her spine out through her chest and tear her head from her body as easily as one would pluck the wings off a butterfly.
And instead, all he does is blink, for the first time that John's ever seen. It makes him look, for just a second, almost boyishly baffled. Something in his steel-grey eyes thaws.
And then Miranda leaves, and John is still there, on his knees, with his hands cuffed behind his back.
“Very well,” says Bane at last, all quiet ferocity once more. He walks closer, and John's heart thuds louder and harder in reaction to his proximity. Bane stops in front of him, eyeing him critically. “Stand,” he says.
Finally, John finds his voice. He grits out, “Fuck you.”
There's a pause. Bane's men are all watching.
“Yes,” Bane says appraisingly, “you do have a spark in you, don't you?”
Then he grabs John by the arm and, in one swift, economical motion, pulls him upright and separates his shoulder from its socket. John yells aloud.
“Leave him in the bedroom,” Bane says to his second, dismissively, and John is dragged away, feverish, gasping.
---
That's all for now. More to come tomorrow. :)
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♥
Lovely writing so far. Hurrah! I will be stalking this one!
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---
Bane's lieutenant, the one they call Barsad, resets his shoulder for him. Then he locks him in another room, chained to a bedpost on the floor at the foot of a huge bed, and leaves him in the dark.
John's arm is killing him.
It's a nice room, as far as prisons go. Big. More hardwood, but with rugs on the floor, though not where John is forced to sit. There's a desk, and more leather couches against one wall. A TV is mounted on the opposite wall. The bed, unmade and comfy-looking, is massive. He can't budge it, no matter how hard he tries with his one non-sore shoulder.
John forces himself to think about what he knows, which is that Miranda Tate is in league with Bane, is close to him, even, and that at this moment she's probably at the hide-out with Gordon and Fox and the other resistors. She has given him to Bane as a-a gift of some kind, intending to break him.
John thinks like a cop. He will operate under the assumption that somehow, he will get out of this. In the meantime, he needs to listen and learn everything he can. He won't get anywhere with his hands cuffed like this, his arm lancing with pain. Whenever they let him out, he will be quiet and observant. He'll look for the triggerman if he can (even if Gordon is still convinced that's a bluff), and he will put himself in exactly the right place to strike at a critical moment.
Most importantly of all, he will not break.
Leave him in the bedroom. That has such awful implications. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about what will happen when Bane shows up.
A guard brings him water in a small glass after a day has passed. It's easy to judge time even with blinds shuttering all the windows; a little light still seeps through. The water wets his throat but barely satisfies his thirst.
“I need to-” he says, gesturing to his crotch. The guard shrugs, and leaves.
The same guard is back later with another few mouthfuls of water in a glass, and some watery, bland form of porridge which eases the ache of John's hollow stomach not at all.
His whole lower body goes numb from kneeling: feet, legs, tailbone when he tries to sit. He has no space to stand. It's Barsad who finally shows up and leads him at gunpoint to the ensuite to relieve his bladder, and then he's locked to the bed again.
He wonders if anyone is looking for him, and concludes probably not. Even Gordon must have known that the hot-tempered rookie detective would go and get himself killed during this siege. Maybe everyone had known it but John himself.
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The next few days are the same, thirst and numbness and boredom, and then one night the door opens and it is not the familiar guard or even Barsad standing there, but Bane, just as awful and real as before, framed by the light from the staircase outside. He flicks a lightswitch, filling the room with dim, rosy light.
“Officer Robin Blake,” Bane says, shutting the door.
John flinches-from the light as much as the voice. Then he shakes his head, licks his dry lips.
“Actually, it's John,” he says. “And I'm a detective now.”
“Robin suits you,” says Bane. “Like a bird, you have no concept of how very fragile you are.”
He says this musingly, as if to himself. His cadence is wrong, leaving the sentence hanging at the end as though there is a but coming.
He unclasps John's handcuffs with a key, and up close he smells like wet leather and sweat; not dirty, just male. John can't stand-it's been at least a day since Barsad's last bathroom visit-so Bane pulls him up by the scruff like a kitten, like he's nothing, and John gasps in pain as his blood finally starts to circulate again. It's agonizing.
Bane gives him a cup to drink out of, tells him there is soap and a razor in the bathroom. Once there, John drinks tapwater greedily, and bathes and shaves at the sink. He's not quite comfortable enough for a shower or a bubble bath in the fucking jacuzzi tub. When he emerges, Bane has left out clothes for him. He refuses to change, even if they are cleaner than what he's wearing.
“Where are we?” he asks, finally.
“This is my room,” Bane says, which tells him exactly nothing. “You are mine; you belong here.”
He sheds his coat carelessly, baring massive arms, and drapes it over an armchair next to the bed. John grunts.
“Don't you ever sleep?” he asks, because he's been here for days and Bane hasn't rested here once.
“One can rise above such needs,” Bane says, and he might sound amused, but it's almost impossible to tell through that mask. “But I am only human.”
What a joke. He's not a man. He's not even an animal. He's a fucking force of nature. Up close, it's easy to see how Batman could have lost against him; in fact it's hard to see any way that Batman might have prevailed (though John still holds out hope that Selina Kyle is just a pessimist). Does any sensation at all penetrate that hulking body? Or would the most bone-shattering blows only rain down on him uselessly?
John is forced to walk several times around the room, now that the pins and needles in the soles of his feet have largely faded. It still hurts. Bane gives him a bag of trail mix, makes him eat while he walks, and watches him do both. John calculates, knows that now, with the door closed and God-knows-what on the other side, is not the time to act. But he has to ask.
“Why am I here?” he says. “Why not kill me now?”
“Because she wills it,” says Bane simply. “Your demise must be slow and calculated, Blake.”
He turns just in time to meet the fist that smashes into the right side of his face. John hits the floor, blinded by pain. Stars burst in his vision and his head rings. He brings his arms up to protect his face from further attack and kicks out, but Bane is done with him.
“You are fortunate to have only landed one blow upon her,” he says, dark and dangerous, “or I would be repaying you more severely.”
John groans, and feels Bane drag him back to the bed to cuff him again. Just don't kick, John thinks wildly, curling up to protect his soft belly, but his punishment is over. Bane leaves him there on the floor. Before he sinks onto the mattress with an audible squeak, he reaches up and flicks another lightswitch, plunging them into darkness once more. John doesn't sleep at all that night.
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