No Holds Barred, pt. III

[whiskyrunner]

Title: No Holds Barred
Pairing: Bane/John Blake
Words: ~10,900 [/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, four, five, six


*
Once they get deeper into winter, the power starts to fail every now and then.

Bane spends most nights in the bedroom now, and John is okay with that. When the power is off and the heat fails, and he wakes up shivering, it's nice to have another warm body to sidle up against under the covers, and Bane doesn't seem to mind even if he is apparently impervious to cold. The problem is that John soon starts to wake up pressed against Bane's side or back, breathing his scent, regardless of whether the heat is on or off. The really weird thing is that more often than not, on those mornings, he wakes up with a hard-on.

Well, it has been a long time since he last jerked off.

He waits for Bane to leave one morning (cities to threaten, people to maim) and slips into the bathroom. The kitten scampers after him just before he can close and lock the door. He wavers, not really wanting to subject her to something she's definitely too young for, but also knowing how afraid she is that Bane will come back and John won't be in the room to protect her (even though he hasn't really done anything more villainous to her than pick her up by the scruff and maybe also partly by the head, but John figures as a terrorist he probably doesn't have all that much kitten-handling experience and so he lets this go).

“Just this once, Harvey,” he tells her. He likes how natural the name sounds. It is mean, but he likes it.

It turns out to be pretty difficult to get intimate with oneself when there's a kitten watching, so John just slips into the shower once he's disrobed and shuts the door. Problem solved. Harvey paws at the translucent glass between them and then gives up, and John is free to get down to business without corruption of a minor weighing on his conscience.

Jerking off for the first time in weeks feels really good.

He lets hot water stream down his back and props an arm against the wall, wrapping his cock in a hot, soapy fist. He knows he's not going to last long and he doesn't care; he hurtles himself toward the finish line frantically and gracelessly. But as amazing as fucking into his own warm, slick hand feels, it's-not good enough. He groans, lets his forehead thud against the wall, tugs himself desperately. He's so close, he's riding the edge, and he can't tip himself over.

He tries to think of his last girlfriend, tries to think of the last time he watched a porno, and can't do either (he's married to his work, so sue him), and then unbidden he thinks of

-of Bane, musky warm male scent, deft callused hands, his cock in John's mouth, hot velvet shaft, wet-salt tip, the little quiver in his thigh muscles that says he's not as impervious as he says he is-

And John comes. Hard.

It's the paralyzing kind of orgasm that leaves him bereft of higher functions for about a minute or so. When he can, he picks himself up shakily off the wall, blinking lights out of his eyes; rinses the spunk off his hand and kicks it down the drain.

He's a little shaken by this revelation about himself. That was good, though, he decides. Kind of an unexpected ending, but still good.

The water is still hot and he has a sudden thought that makes his stomach give a little swoop. Lathering his hand in soap again, he leans against the wall and slips one finger behind his balls, right to where his body resists him and he has to push in, knees shaking slightly. Feels as weird as he remembers. He goes slow, sort of pumps his finger in and out very slowly, and adds another when he thinks he can handle it. Fuck. Two fingers is a lot. He can't even imagine three.

He gives that up and washes himself off, noting what a valiant effort his cock is making to go for a second round. There's something to be said for anal stimulation, apparently.

He towels off and gets dressed in the bedroom while Harvey tumbles around on the floor with an empty tuna can. Barsad enters the room after one brief knock and gets to witness the kitten flinging herself under the nearest armchair. He raises an eyebrow.

“That's Harvey,” John says. His voice is still a little sex-rough; he clears his throat. “She's usually under the bed. I guess she's feeling brave today.”

Barsad barely blinks. “It's time to spar.”

When they get up to the roof, there's no one else there. Every time they've sparred since the incident on the ice, they've had an audience. John goes through the warm-up exercises, stretching, readying himself, and takes a deep breath.

“Bane told me what happened to your family.”

Barsad clenches his jaw and nods once, not even looking at John.

“How'd you know what happened to them?” John asks.

“I tracked their murderers down and tortured them before I killed them,” says Barsad, emotionlessly. Now he looks at John. “Does that bother you?”

“I don't ... I don't know,” John says honestly, feeling muddled. “They did something pretty awful. I don't know that I'd have done the same thing, but ...”

“Good,” Barsad says, surprising him. “Keep that innocence. It's what separates you from men like me.”

“I lost my family, too, you know,” John offers after a minute. “I don't really remember my mom, but my dad was shot ...”

“I know,” says Barsad. He smiles at John's startled expression, and raises a hand to the corner of his eye. “Your eyes,” he says. “Sometimes you slip, you show what you feel.”

John wonders if Barsad was ever emotional, before his family was killed. If he came across the burning ruins of his home and took it all in with a cool eye, or if he dropped to his knees, tore up fistfuls of the earth in his bare hands and wept for what he'd lost. It's hard to picture the latter-but Barsad's got a good mask. The best.

John lets them go through a few more exercises before he speaks again.

“Is there any way you could get me ... ah ... some form of lube?”

He's startled again when Barsad suddenly drops his pose and turns to John with an uncharacteristically cold expression.

“I told you to stop playing your games with him.”

“No, it's not for-that!” John splutters, blushing furiously. “Jesus, no, it's-just for me. Really.”

He could swear Barsad's anger is something like protectiveness over Bane, which is ridiculous, because between him and John who really needs protecting? Then Barsad relaxes slightly, still wary of him.

“I'm sure I'll find something.”

“Thanks,” John says awkwardly. “I wouldn't ask, but-you know-kind of a prisoner.”

Barsad grunts, turns away. “The men call you Bane's wife. Have you heard that?”

“Yeah, I've heard it.” And it burns him with anger and embarrassment, but he still hasn't said anything to them. He could tell them Bane doesn't touch him at night (unless the power's off and he's cold); he's even certain that Bane wouldn't fuck him afterward just to make a point. He's seen how Bane's eyes flash dangerously at the mention of rape. But he doesn't say anything. The men wouldn't believe him, anyway, they'd think he was just trying to cling to some remaining scrap of masculinity.

“If you were to do something,” Barsad says carefully, after a minute has passed. “If you continue to make your advances-you should know that Talia will, eventually, involve herself.”

Why does that, of all things, strike an icy nerve of fear? “What do you mean, involve herself,” John asks slowly.

“I mean that she will find out what it is you have or have not done with Bane-she will know-and she will expect to see results. She didn't give you to Bane so that you could make yourself comfortable in his bed. She will want to see you damaged and afraid.” Barsad's tone doesn't change: it's all matter-of-fact. “Understand, Bane's allegiance has always been to Talia.”

John balls his hand into a fist and swings. Barsad catches his punch. For a fleeting second, his eyebrows quirk upward with surprise at the force behind John's fist. Then he wipes his expression.

“Bane's not going to rape me just to make Talia happy,” John says flatly.

“Maybe not,” says Barsad shrewdly. “But you put a lot of faith in him. If he let you go now, would you leave?”

“Yes!” John says loudly. “What do you think, that I'm happy here? That I've adjusted? When I get out of here, I'm going to be fighting with the resistance to stop you. Just like I was before.”

“The Gotham police,” says Barsad. “You would align yourself with them, even now that you understand our goal?”

“I'm sorry for what happened to your wife and son,” John says, breathing hard, “but that was someone else, not the GPD. That's the kind of men we put away.”

“The men you put away had families to feed. Some were wrongly imprisoned. The Dent Act gave police enough power to arrest anyone in connection to organized crime. What about the individual's crime?”

“I'm not going to argue the Dent Act with you.”

“Because it was based on a lie,” says Barsad. “Power should belong with the people, not with minority institutions who lie and persecute the people they're meant to protect just to keep them in line.”

“Does this look good to you?” John shouts, flinging a hand out at the city. “People looting and raiding and killing each other over cans of Spam, that's your idea of liberation?”

“There are looters who once lived in this very building. The wealthy of Gotham are being made to pay for their crimes, and they are scrabbling in the filth with the people they oppressed.” There's more emotion in Barsad's voice than John has ever heard there. “We're making the real criminals of this city answer for their crimes, and we're doing it more effectively than the police ever could. Perhaps that's what bothers you.”

“You're crazy,” John says, and he's somehow irrationally upset by this, like all along he had been holding out hope that Barsad was a good guy deep down; an assassin and a ruthless killer but, just maybe, a good guy. “You actually believe all this.”

“Gotham does not deserve to be saved.” Barsad attacks him, all of a sudden, and John brings a hand up and just manages to deflect the hit. Barsad pursues him, though, and John is forced to back up, staving off each blow.

“Gotham deserves a chance,” he argues.

Barsad circles and pins him against the edge of the roof. His hand shoots out and he grabs John by the throat, forcing him to lean over the edge.

“If you believe that,” he says coldly, “then rot with your city and your parents.”

Adrenaline and anger blaze through John, and he rallies fiercely. He breaks Barsad's hold, plunges forward, ducks a punch and deflects the second, and hits Barsad in the face as hard as he can. It's the first time he's ever connected in a real fight, and he doesn't even think about it, just follows up with a hit to the shoulder that makes Barsad reel back, crouching slightly.

He doesn't move, and John doesn't go after him. He breathes hard, glaring, and after a moment Barsad starts to laugh.

“What?” John snaps.

Barsad straightens up, and slings an arm around John's shoulders. John bristles.

“Finally,” Barsad says, smiling, “we find a current for all that anger in you.”

John stares, baffled. Barsad taps his chest with his other hand, and says, “When you fight, fight for what you believe in, little brother. Before all this is over, you may have to.”

He releases John, gives him a little push toward the door. John hesitates.

“We're done?” he says.

“For today,” says Barsad companionably, sliding his ammunition belt back over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, we start jujutsu.”

Confused, John watches him pick up his rifle and stroll off toward the door. “Thanks,” he says, not entirely sure what's happened here.

Barsad waves a hand.

“It was always in you to be a fighter,” he says, no longer smiling. “I only had to bring it out.”

*
“How long have I been here?” John asks one night.

“Three months,” says Bane.

Three months. That's a long time. He wonders if Gordon has given up on saving him. Gordon has more important things to be worrying about, of course-like the bomb expiring in about a month.

Jujutsu, as it turns out, predictably means amassing a lot of bruises. John had returned to the penthouse after a grueling evening practice, then showered, and brought along the lube Barsad thoughtfully procured for him. He's been doing this almost every day for about a week, fascinated by what it does to him, and he can take three of his own fingers now, though the angle is a little off. He's amazed every time, because although the intrusion itself just feels awkward and uncomfortable, his cock always leaps to full-mast right away and it generally ends with some of the most amazing orgasms of John's entire life. The awkward and uncomfortable aspect is worth it.

The mental images, though, that's a little different. John rationalizes that having a few fingers in his ass while he jerks off doesn't make him gay, or anything; and even if it did, bicuriosity is probably normal in a young adult male. Maybe not so normal to jerk off to intrusive thoughts of a murdering terrorist, but when you've been sleeping in the same bed with said terrorist for three months, well, John's entitled to a free pass, isn't he? He's entitled when Bane's arm around him feels secure and warming, instead of scary and choking...

He'd finally managed to find a semi-decent angle, too, when he heard Bane enter the bedroom and immediately stopped, convinced Bane would know what he was doing. If John gets a little noisy during the most amazing orgasms of his life, so sue him. He'd finished showering and gotten dressed and crawled into bed to conceal a throbbing erection. Now he's pretending to read, and acting as if the slickness between his thighs isn't distracting at all, nor his aching dick which won't stop begging for attention, and maybe he can quietly rub one out when Bane comes to bed and turns off the lights; but Bane, maddeningly, is sitting on one of the couches and watching a news report with the sound down low. He's shirtless, bare-footed, just wearing cargo pants and the usual belt and wrist brace, and that's not helping anything.

Finally, Bane gets up and disappears into the bathroom. John takes the opportunity to sneak out of bed and put some food in Harvey's dish, like he usually does before bed, and she even dares to slink out and nibble some, looking over her shoulder for Bane every few seconds. John runs a hand down her back-some of her fur is growing back, down her flanks-and then he retreats back under the covers.

He has no time to do anything more than that before Bane leaves the bathroom. Harvey streaks back under the bed.

“Do you ever eat?” John asks, exasperated.

“Of course,” says Bane.

Just as he lifts the remote, the TV blinks out and the mini-fridge stops humming. The lights waver and die.

“Great,” John grumbles, getting up to pull open one of the blinds over the huge windows. He'd never seen stars over Gotham prior to the siege. A little light filters weakly in, enough to see each other by.

Bane is still looking at the TV. John walks over and takes the remote from him, setting it down on the couch.

“There's nothing good on anyway,” he says. “I hear they put American Idol try-outs on hiatus. 'In light of the recent tragedies in Gotham'.”

Bane glances at him. It's hard to tell in the dark, but do his eyes maybe flit below John's waist for a second?

John's ears burn. He turns and stomps back to the bed. “Come on. Let's just sleep.”

“Did I interrupt something?”

“No. You interrupted nothing.” John yanks the covers up. “Are you coming to bed, or not?”

It's a long minute before Bane actually joins him. He strips off the belt and brace, leaves them on the couch and gets into bed gingerly. John used to think the sound of his breathing in the dark was sinister and unsettling; he's so used to it now that he can hear the tiniest hitch.

“Not gonna warm me up?” he asks snidely, shoving his pillow around to make it more comfy. Bane doesn't answer, and John has a sudden thought.

He rolls closer and reaches out, tentatively, making his intentions clear, as though Bane is a wild animal. Not until his hand finds its way between Bane's legs does Bane suddenly growl and push him away.

John withdraws his hand, suspicions confirmed.

“Do you ever jerk off?” he asks, actually curious.

“Yes,” says Bane.

“Do you ever come?”

“Rarely.”

“Does it just not feel good?” John asks. “Or-”

“No,” Bane cuts him off. “It just takes time.”

John pushes his pillow around idly, his heart starting to beat faster for no reason he can pin down. “You know your buddies think you're in here fucking me every night,” he says, abruptly aggressive.

Bane rumbles. “If that were true, you'd hardly be walking comfortably by now.”

“You really aren't going to touch me, are you?”

“Do you want me to?”

Bane's voice is mocking and derisive. John steels himself-because how do you tell your murderous captor “I can't stop thinking about your cock”?

Instead, he says, “Can I touch you?”

Bane doesn't answer. Maybe John's actually surprised him with that one. His face is starting to heat up with creeping embarrassment, along with other parts of his body, because this is probably a monumentally bad idea but he's horny and nothing else is going the way it's supposed to, so he may as well give in to the insanity. He reaches over again, feels his way up Bane's-substantially huge cock through his pants, before Bane pushes him stiffly away again.

Bane's eyes are narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“I don't-really know,” John admits. “Just ... trying something, I guess. Can I ... try?”

“Why?” Bane demands.

“Because ...” Because I think about you in the shower when I'm jerking off and I'm not sure why, he doesn't say. He forces out the words: “Because-I want to.”

Bane watches him very carefully, chest rising and falling steadily, as John slowly peels back the covers and crawls over to him. He pulls Bane's pants down a bit, just enough to free his cock, and it really is huge, even in the dark; totally hard and about as thick as a Burmese python, in John's opinion. He wraps one hand around it, marveling at the heft and girth of it. Christ. A pearly drop of fluid beads at the tip, and he can't remember exactly what Bane tastes like, so he leans down and puts his mouth on the head. His heart is hammering. This is definitely the craziest thing he's ever done. There's no deal here, no one's life on the line, just him and Bane. Maybe it's his own life on the line, probably Bane is going to snap his neck for doing this and then fuck him anyway, but-

It's with the utmost reverence that Bane touches the side of John's face, the pad of his thumb skimming down to the corner of John's mouth, stretched around his cock. A little pleasurable shiver runs right down John's spine, and he pulls off for a moment, eyelids falling half-shut.

“Why are you doing this?” Bane asks, and now he just sounds curious, too.

“I don't know,” John says. It's the truth, and that terrifies him. He adds haltingly, “Except ... you know, you've been nice to me when you had no reason to be. And you gave me a cat.”

“A dying cat,” says Bane. But he presses his thumb to John's mouth again, as though fascinated by his lips.

John takes the tip of his thumb into his mouth without thinking and sucks on it a bit-apparently there's a slutty side of himself that he never knew existed-then lets go and says, “We're all going to be dead in a month. I want to do this.” He hesitates. “Do you?”

Bane pulls his hand away. “If I take you,” he says, his voice like gravel, warped through the mask, “I will hurt you.”

“Do you hurt all your partners?” John asks, reaching over to idly stroke his cock. Bane is quiet for long enough that John stops moving his hand and says, “Are there any partners? Or just failed blowjobs?”

“Talia would have offered herself in a heartbeat,” Bane says quietly, showing remarkable control for someone with another person's hand on his cock. “But when I look at her, I see only the child from the pit. I know her innocence no longer needs protecting, but there has never been anyone else.”

John is once again stunned by the depth of humanity in Bane. Surely there was a core of goodness in him, before Talia turned him into a walking weapon. It can't all have been her, of course, he's not that naive; but he thinks, if Bane could just shake his fixation of her, he could be ... what? Rehabilitated? Unleashed on a restored Gotham like a neutered puppy?

John pushes away those thoughts. He has to think like he isn't going to survive this next month, because it's not like he's going anywhere.

“You can't die without ever having had sex,” he says, with a forced little laugh. Bane sees through him.

“I'll hurt you. Are you prepared for that?”

“Bring it,” John says, to hide how nervous he is.

Bane looks amused. John can't meet his eyes, so he ducks his head, seals his lips around Bane's cock again and sucks.

He doesn't try rough this time. He needs to drag this out, needs to get Bane as close as possible before actually committing to-to sex. He's offered it, it's out in the open now; he just needs to hope that it won't go on for too long. So he gentles Bane's cock with his mouth. He licks up and down the shaft, traces the throbbing vein on the underside with his tongue. He takes a deep breath and moves lower, sucks one of Bane's balls into his mouth, then the other. Soft. Bane rumbles softly above him, like a purring Bengal tiger.

He allows John to drag his pants off gradually. John breaks off for a moment to take off his own shirt and loosen his pants, so that he can shove one hand into his boxers while he does this and finally, finally touch himself.

“This brings you pleasure?” Bane asks. Definitely amused.

“Shut up,” John mutters around his cock.

He's definitely never pictured himself in this scenario, not even in the shower. Bane is a lot bigger than three of his fingers. It may even be impossible to get him in there at all. John pushes that thought away, focuses on the now, the slide of Bane's cock in his mouth, his fist wrapped around the base, his lips still unable to meet his own hand when he sucks down as much as he can. He comes back up gasping, letting saliva run down the shaft, pumps his fist a few times while he catches his breath.

“Tired already?”

“Just don't lose your hard-on,” John gasps.

Bane laughs, a rasping sound. “Keep going,” he says.

So John does. He does the best that he can, still not accustomed to this, and after awhile he even starts to see some reaction. Bane hums softly when John does something he likes, and the muscles in his thighs flex slightly. John drags his hand up and down Bane's thigh just to feel these little tics. Every now and then Bane's cock dribbles a few beads of precome, and John has to lap these up; and it's when he does this that Bane suddenly flexes and then moves. All at once John is on his back, the breath driven out of him, and Bane is holding him down.

“I want more of you,” he growls, and his voice sends electricity skating down John's spine.

Bane pulls impatiently at John's pants, tugging them off altogether, and the air between their bare bodies feels very hot. John squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, wondering how it is that Bane can be so casual about touching a naked man, but maybe he's just being a baby about this. He's already had Bane's dick in his mouth. Being naked and this close to him should be nothing. They're about to get a lot closer, after all.

“There's-there's lube in the bathroom,” he pants out, and God, why is he so hard right now? “I can get it if you ...”

For a second he thinks maybe Bane won't, maybe he'll just hold him down and have him anyway, but of course Bane moves aside, running a hand down John's ribs as he goes. It makes John shiver again. He gets out of bed quickly, practically jogs to the bathroom.

When he returns, Bane is still there, still intimidatingly hard, stroking himself now and watching John with that manic light he gets in his eyes when he's really intent on something. John's not sure if the heat that pours into his stomach is fear or arousal or both.

Bane takes the lube from him as soon as he's in the bed again.

“We have to do this my way,” John says, the throbbing lump in his throat almost choking him. “I'm on top.”

“Be on top, then,” Bane says carelessly, dragging John on top of him. And then, oh God, John is actually straddling him, things are touching, and before he can move away Bane's other hand is easing between his cheeks and one slick finger is finding a way in. John jumps forward automatically, and the way this presses their erections together suddenly isn't such a big deal.

“Okay,” he says, breathing hard, closing his eyes, “okay, okay-”

“Your body doesn't know the touch of another man,” Bane observes. John is clenching down, involuntarily trying to force him back out.

“Fuck you, it knows touch all right,” John grits out. He tries to relax, but he keeps thinking about Bane's cock, so much bigger than fingers...

He has to open his eyes when he feels Bane's hand at his face. Bane's face is totally guileless, focused on the strands of hair he runs between his fingers and how they shine in the dim light, and it's enough that John relaxes all at once. Bane makes a pleased sound, adds a second finger, and even though it feels nothing like the predictable slide of his own fingers, John is able to let him in. He rides this feeling for a while, trying to get past the weirdness, and when he can feel himself loosening a little, he sucks one of his own fingers into his mouth and then presses it behind his balls, in alongside Bane's fingers. His shoulders hunch and his breath is ragged, but he can do it.

There's no condom, but John's always practised safe sex in the past and Bane doesn't have a track record to speak of, so he figures they'll be okay and if not, they're probably dead in a month anyway so herpes won't be a big issue. Bane doesn't ask if he's ready, just pulls his fingers away along with John's. He slicks his cock and takes John by the hips, tugging him forward, so that his erection is grinding the cleft of John's ass.

“Okay, pushy,” John says, trying to sound casual but coming off breathless. His heart is racing.

He reaches down, finds Bane's cock-so big-and lines it up. He forces himself to press down, more and more until Bane breaches him, and there's nothing but white noise in John's ears and lights in his eyes and from very far away he hears himself saying, “Don't thrust, Bane, don't thrust-”

Very slowly, the roar of blood in his head fades enough for him to realize he's got his eyes clamped shut and that's why stars are bursting in his vision. He opens his eyes. A drop of sweat rolls into the corner of one, stinging.

Bane, under him, is not thrusting. He's just waiting patiently, like he knows in a minute John will get his shit together and they'll be good to go.

It takes John a moment to realize, over the searing stretch of his rim, that he's only taken in the head of Bane's cock. It's not even the thickest part, and already he's dizzy.

“I-” he chokes, and has to pull away. There's a second of panic when he thinks Bane won't even come out of him, but he does. The sudden emptiness makes him wheeze.

He grabs the lube up, slicks his hand and slides three fingers into himself. He's still pretty tight. He takes a minute just to stretch himself open slowly. When he thinks he can, he adds a fourth finger. Gradually, he calms a little bit. His throat is still bone-dry, heart thudding in his ears, but he's relaxing. The panic is loosing its grip on him.

He grunts when Bane rolls him over onto his belly, so that he can watch John fingering himself. Carefully, he touches and then eases his thumb in with John's fingers. John stops moving his hand, just lies there and lets Bane drag his thumb in and out.

“Okay,” John says finally, hoarsely, letting his fingers slip out of him. After a moment, Bane's hands are at his hips again. He pulls John on top of him like John weighs nothing, and John struggles for a second to get his knees on either side of Bane's body again. Like straddling a mountain. “More lube,” he says, and Bane slicks his cock a bit more. John shuffles forward a bit on his knees, lets Bane hold his own cock for John to sink onto. He takes a deep, long breath as Bane penetrates him.

It strikes John how patient Bane is while John slowly, shakily impales himself in increments. He rubs his hand up and down John's chest, like he'd done when John was hypothermic, and John focuses on that familiarity rather than the total intrusion of the cock in his ass. It doesn't feel like a cock; it feels like-a baseball bat, and then he pushes down a little further than he means to and lets out a strangled whimper that's almost a scream because now it's more like a fucking telephone pole, who are they kidding. It's not normal for a cock to be this big, and there's just more and more of it, it's not all going to fit, it's going to go right through John's diaphragm and kill him, he's already dying.

And then Bane takes over; grips John's hips gently and eases him back up until just the tip of his cock is still inside John, and that kind of friction doesn't feel so wrong. Bane gives him a moment to adjust while John gasps, digs his nails into Bane's skin, tells himself he can bear this. Then Bane pulls him down again, further now, forcing a bit more cock up there, and making John squirm and cry out again. His voice breaks; Bane seems amused again.

“The guards will talk,” he says, frustratingly composed. “You sound as though I'm killing you.”

“You are,” John groans through his teeth, sweat and tears mingling on his face.

“You're doing very well,” Bane says, as if he's the one with all the experience, like he fucks men every day with his Coke-bottle cock, no big deal. John clings to that idea: he's doing well. He can do this. Yeah, he's good at this. A slightly hysterical laugh nearly bubbles out of him; he clamps down on it.

There's a buzzing in his ears when Bane finally, finally bottoms out. John is completely stretched, completely helpless, completely fucked, and he's doing it. He's taking all of Bane's cock. He can feel his sphincter trying to clench, little failing fluttering spasms. He's doing it.

“Hah,” he says weakly.

“Well done,” Bane says, petting him, the bastard. Then his hand drops to John's cock and it's only then that John realizes how ferociously hard he is. It's almost a sensory overload; he gives a full-body shudder.

Bane lets go when John starts moving again, on his own now. He started this and he's determined to finish it, or at least to have some part in it instead of passively letting Bane use him. He lifts himself up, liking the drag, then pushing himself back down forcefully, eyes squeezed shut against the almost-unbearable stretch.

“You're so big,” he groans, unthinking. His brain is nothing but white noise.

Bane moves his hands from John's hips to his ribcage, squeezing possessively.

“If I hurt you,” he starts, his voice more rasping and monstrous than John's ever heard it.

“You're hurting me,” John gasps out.

“If it's too much,” Bane amends, and John promises:

“You'll know.”

Satisfied, Bane moves a little-bracing his feet against the mattress, John realizes a second later, when Bane's grip turns from possessive to brutal and he slams himself up into John's body, making John yelp. He tries to match Bane's rhythm, but can't; Bane is fast and savage, taking what he wants. John just holds on, his nails digging little red half-circles into Bane's flexing stomach, tries not to cry out and fails.

He refuses to tap out. He can take this. He starts to breathe through it, works his hips to meet Bane's thrusts, gives himself back some of the control. Bane growls in evident approval, gripping him tight.

It gets easier, a little, the harder John tries. It's like riding a hurricane, though-his body is being opened up and plundered; all he can really do is put his head down and weather it, and weather it, and breathe-

And then, gradually, Bane slows. Then he stops altogether. He pulls John off himself, guides him gently to one side, and John drops limply to the bed like a ragdoll, groaning.

“Just tell me you're close,” he pants, when Bane rolls him over onto his back. It's been ages. Please be close.

“Close,” Bane concedes, draping one of John's legs over his arm. Then he puts his head down and fucks back in, and John's body freaks out all over again.

He arches his back off the bed, squeezes his eyes shut, claws Bane's shoulder with one hand and the sheets with the other. He makes himself remember Barsad's training, breathes from his belly. Then-with more instinct than conscious thought-he lets go of the sheets and wraps a fist around his cock instead. He's still hard, leaking precome onto his stomach. His own touch is so good it brings tears of relief to his eyes, and he starts jerking himself in earnest. His voice is getting dangerously hoarse.

“Are you going to-?” Bane starts, lifting his head, and seeing John's hand on his cock he pushes himself up on one arm to watch. “Let me see you,” he says. He wraps his own hand around John's and pumps a few times.

That's all it takes. John's orgasm, building in him all evening, slams him like a freight train. He thinks he screams. He definitely shoots up to his chest, and his whole body seems to throb with it, including where he and Bane are joined, and he shivers his way back down numbly.

Bane touches his mouth again, still fucking him, and a new urgency grips him. He grabs John's ass in both hands to lift him off the bed, pounds in like he's running the last stretch of a long race; and when at long last he comes, he comes hard, with a roar, slamming in deep and filling John's body with his seed. John arches again, clinging to him, gasping.

Breathe. Breathe.

It's a long time before Bane starts to relax on top of him. He pries his fingers away from John, moving stiffly. When he pulls out, a gush of hot fluid follows. He hits the bed, air wheezing rapidly in and out of the mask, lying on what's usually John's side of the bed.

One half of John wants to roll over and hide his face, which he knows is flushed completely red. The other half wants to curl up against Bane and sleep forever. He compromises by not moving at all, letting his eyes fall shut and his heartrate even out gradually.

His eyes fly open when he recognizes what the soft scrabbling sound coming from next to him is. Bane is fumbling with his mask. His hands are uncharacteristically clumsy. John sits up as best he can, reaches over to help. Bane's eyes are half closed, and for a second he looks at John with dark mistrust. Then he draws his hand away and allows John to work with the complicated buckles and clasps.

As soon as it loosens, Bane is pushing him away, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He keeps his face turned away from John as he pries the gasmask carefully away from his mouth and nose, so that John can't see a thing. He can hear Bane panting-normal, unfiltered air-and he slowly comes to understand that Bane had been breathing too much analgesic, too quickly. Even with this whole thing behind them, Bane doesn't trust John enough to let himself be weakened and sluggish in front of him.

John lies back down. After several minutes, Bane is no longer panting, and his steady breathing is starting to take on a frayed edge. He groans softly (his voice is deep and surprisingly human) and then fits the mask back over his face. John sits up again, helps him lock the thing up so that it's back to digging cruelly into Bane's face and he's once again breathing in medicated gas.

Once it's on fully, Bane turns and pushes John down onto the mattress.

“Thank you,” he says. John's not sure what the thanks is for-the orgasm, or helping him or what.

He can't think about it just yet, so instead of “you're welcome”, he says, “I think you broke one of my ribs.”

Bane palpates the area carefully, and they conclude that it's probably just bruised, not broken. Bane rubs a thumb over the rib in seeming contrition. Then he presses his mask to John's chest, so that John can feel each puffing exhalation through the grille.

“If you wanted to kiss me you should've done it a minute ago,” John says. Bane digs his thumb into the bruised rib not at all gently, making John yelp; then he picks him up and throws him onto his own side of the bed irritably. When John reaches over and rubs at his turned shoulder, however, Bane softens and rolls over again to face him.

He looks at John as though John is a puzzle he couldn't figure out in a thousand lifetimes.

Wordlessly, Bane presses his thumb to John's lower lip again. John smiles.

*
When John wakes up in the morning, there's a glass of water on the table next to him and Harvey is finishing her meal from the night before, which tells him immediately that Bane isn't there.

He's not disappointed. He didn't really expect Bane to stick around for pancakes and pillow talk or anything. In fact, he's pretty glad he's alone, because as soon as he tries to get up he falls to his knees with a gasp.

Maybe expecting to walk today was a little ambitious of him.

He drains the glass of water right there on the floor, then takes a few deep breaths, grips the edge of the table, and pulls himself upright. Everything hurts. He has to make his way slowly and gingerly to the bathroom for a shower, and only once he enters does he remember the jacuzzi tub. Maybe just this once. His muscles are begging for it.

Harvey scampers in while he's filling the tub; he locks the door behind her. She's the only intruder he'll permit during bath time. She clambers up the marble steps to the tub, curious about the sound of running water, but when the steam touches her unexpectedly, she wails aloud.

John sets her back on the cool tile, feeling sorry for her. He wonders if she's still in pain-and that makes him think about Bane.

He drops himself into the water before his train of thought can continue in that direction.

The heat makes him hiss softly; his skin turns red under the surface. It's perfect. He soaks for a long time, until the water is starting to turn lukewarm. Afterward, he's not sure if it helped or not. It's still hard to walk, but at least he's more relaxed.

He dresses comfortably, gets back into bed with a book, and finally lets himself think about last night.

Remembering it now-Bane on top of him, inside him, possessing him-it seems like a dream. Someone else's dream. Because John Blake would never-

Except he did. And it was kind of amazing.

Can something be amazing and terrifying at the same time?

Actually, yeah. That's a pretty fair description of Bane.

Barsad enters after a single knock, and only then does John realize how late in the morning it is. Usually Barsad is much earlier. He stretches and sits up, and finds Barsad kneeling down on the floor, one hand proffered. It's puzzling until Harvey's nose appears from underneath the couch he's facing. After a moment she slinks out and rubs her ugly little head against his hand, quickly and nervously. He runs a hand down her back, making her spine arch pleasurably and her stubby tail rise. John makes a note that, unlike he and Bane, Barsad actually knows how to pet a cat.

“Hey,” he says.

Barsad glances at him briefly. “I thought you were still sleeping.”

John gestures toward the cat, who is rubbing herself against Barsad's legs. “I guess she likes you now.”

“I approached from her blind side before,” Barsad says, pointing to her empty eye socket. “She only had to see I wouldn't hurt her.” He stands up, ignoring Harvey now. “Are you still resting?”

It's a serious question, not a typical jibe about how John is a soft capitalist American, which throws him. John shakes his head and then regrets it. “Time to spar?” he asks warily, hoping against hope that Barsad will say no.

“No sparring,” Barsad says, surprising him again. He eyes John inscrutably. “Bane said not to disturb you today.”

His gaze drifts from John's face to the lube on the bedside table, and back.

John flinches inwardly. Barsad knows-and he's not happy. John did exactly what Barsad told him in no uncertain terms to not do. But why? Why is he angry?

“I came to see if you were hungry,” Barsad says, interrupting his thoughts. “The truck was here this morning. We have fresh fruit.”

John's stomach gives an eager pang. “I'm starving.”

“Come, then.”

Barsad stands back and waits while John gets up, trying to move as normally as possible. Harvey winds between Barsad's feet and then wanders back to the couch. On his way out, John gestures back to her.

“Hey,” he says, “do you, uh, want her? I don't know a lot about cats ...”

Barsad shakes his head. “No time for strays,” he says, and turns away. Under his breath, he adds, “Unlike Bane.”

John follows him up the stairs, feeling somehow wrongfooted. Maybe it's in his head. Barsad isn't really being any more aloof than usual. Then again, he's impossible to read at the best of times.

Bane's other four officers are there, along with Ekene, as usual. A good selection of food is laid out in the middle of the table. The men nod briefly at Barsad, too busy eating to pay much attention to John. He goes to take a seat next to Ekene. Just as he's lowering himself onto the chair, Ekene slyly hooks an ankle around one of the chair legs and tugs it away.

John hits the floor on his ass. The pain is so immediate and intense it shocks a yelp out of him, and he has to curl up and lie there for a minute, forcing himself not to writhe or rub at the injured area, while the table, excluding Barsad, explodes into laughter. Ekene laughs hardest, even while John is gasping in pain on the floor next to him.

“Man,” he says, giggling, while he helps John up, “I'm glad I wasn't you last night.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” John mutters, trying to save face. He really doesn't want to sit, but doesn't see a choice in the matter. He settles on the chair gingerly, biting his tongue.

Ekene, of course, doesn't mince words.

“Guards say you was up half the night screaming on Bane's prick. You must've pissed 'im off something mighty.” He gazes at John wonderingly. “How you haven't been ripped in half yet, I don't know.”

John can feel his face heating up. So half the building probably knows about last night. He grabs an orange and busies himself peeling it.

“Ah, don't worry,” one of the other men, Nadeem, says, waving a hand at John. “Take your pants off and Barsad will stitch you up, good as new for tonight.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” John says bluntly. “I'm fine, actually.”

“You think he stitches with 'is pecker? What?” Ekene scoffs. “We know you're Bane's. I'll hold him down, Barsad.”

Barsad shrugs. “He says he's fine.”

“Probably used to taking it,” Basir grunts. “Where'd Talia find him?”

“Look,” John snaps, surprising himself as much as them, “we don't need to talk about me taking it from Bane or whatever you think I do. Stop speculating and just leave me alone.”

They all look at him as though he's a pet who's just performed an amusing but unusual trick.

“Sensitive,” Ekene says at last, shrugging and grabbing himself a roll. “Just like a woman.”

“How would you know?” Nadeem shoots back. They all laugh, this time not at John's expense.

He stays tense and miserable through the rest of the meal, his whole body (but mostly his ass) still aching. As soon as he can, he grabs some extra food for later and slips away, declining Ekene's offer to play cards. He goes back to the bedroom, and ignores the stony-faced guard who stands outside and watches him.

The afternoon drags by. He waits for Barsad to maybe show up, just to keep him company, but it doesn't happen. He turns on the TV, depresses himself watching news reports, and turns it off. He naps on the couch. Reads a little.

Mostly, he waits for Bane.

It used to be that he couldn't wait to leave this room, and would dread Bane's arrival. He used to wait in terror for the day Bane got bored enough to make use of his body. Now he's sitting here, facing an unlocked door, sore all over from letting Bane-Bane!-fuck him last night. And all at once it's like he's been sledgehammered back into reality.

He curls up on the couch and tries, quietly, not to panic.

Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon would be pretty fucking ashamed of him right now. His city is dying and he's up here experimenting, like this is college or something. He could have attacked Bane last night, when he took off the mask. He could have tried to rip it off Bane's head, throw it at the wall, smash it. It would have gotten him killed, but maybe it would have put Bane out of the picture. Barsad is smart, he commands a lot of respect here, but he's not a leader or an orator like Bane is. He's a born second-in-command, moving quietly behind the scenes, not out in the open, stirring mobs of people into a frenzy with his words alone. With Bane put down, his army would be in shambles. The decaying city would grind to a halt while they reorganized, granting Gordon and the others the window they'd need to find the bomb. Lucius Fox would figure out a way to neutralize it, and John would still be dead, but Gotham would be saved...

He puts his head in his hands and groans. What's the point in thinking like this? It's already done, he already fucked Bane, they've established that he's basically let his whole side down. But of course he couldn't have single-handedly saved the city like that. That mask is tough, and even if it could be destroyed by John, assuming he was somehow fast enough to get the jump on Bane, there's no guarantee that would kill him.

And when he thinks about it hard enough, John knows there's no way he could have tried that anyway. He just couldn't. It's not right. If Bane is defeated before all this is over, it should be in a fair fight. That's what he deserves. Not to be reduced to crippling agony and put down like a dog. Some part of John can't quite bear the thought.

Where is Bane, anyway? Usually he's back by now. Maybe he's avoiding John, which is a mortifying thought. Maybe John completely misread him. Maybe he's angry that John basically seduced him. God, if John could take back last night, he's not sure he wouldn't.

It's amazing how alone he feels without Bane here.

When the sky is dark enough he decides, glumly, to just go to bed and sleep off the rest of his aches, including the headache he's getting from thinking about Bane. He's just putting some food in Harvey's dish when it occurs to him that he hasn't seen her all afternoon.

He checks under the desk, the bed, under every couch and chair. He tests each locked cupboard. “Harvey?” he calls, feeling stupid. Of course cats don't know their own names. Do they? Harvey can't, surely, she's only a baby. “Here, kitty,” he tries awkwardly, and that's even worse. Anyway, if she's nearby, she doesn't respond to either.

He and Barsad must have left the door open this morning. He heads out onto the stairs, shoulders past a guard who only stares at him warily. John sees why when he reaches the living room. Basir and one of the other men are there, playing a quiet game of awale.

“Going somewhere?” Basir asks shrewdly.

Do they think he's going to try to escape while Bane is gone? Did Barsad tell them to be here? John pushes these thoughts out of mind.

“Have you seen a cat?” he asks. “About ... this big, missing half its fur?”

Basir just stares at him. His companion mutters something in his own language, probably calling John crazy.

“Okay, well, if you do,” John mutters, and goes back to the bedroom.

Even though he doesn't feel very good about it, he leaves the bedroom door open before he goes to bed. Just in case Harvey comes back. When John finally gets to sleep some time after midnight, though, it's not Harvey who's weighing on his mind.

Where the hell is Bane?

*
John is woken in the early hours of the morning by a thready little cry. It puts him instantly on the alert. He's still a cop, whatever that means in this city. It sounded like a child's scream.

He slides out of bed quickly, pulls on some clothes, and heads up the stairs, glad now that he left the door open. The guard usually posted at the top of the landing in the doorway to the living room is absent. John wanders out to the hall, and eventually, in one of the other rooms, he finds a cluster of men standing around. A couple are on hands and knees next to a couch.

One of the men notices John there, nudges his companion, and says, “He'll know where Bane is.”

“Hey,” the man says, looking curiously at John. “We're looking for the boss-guy.”

“He's not here,” John says. “What are you doing?”

There's another sudden scream, and one of the men next to the couch leaps back, clutching a bleeding hand.

“I almost had the fucking thing,” he spits. Then he looks at John. “Who's that?”

There are only two men among the group wearing the red scarves that mark the mercenaries in Bane's army. One of them speaks up now. “He's no one.”

“No, I know him,” the bleeding man says, getting to his feet. He walks closer. He's huge, tattooed and menacing. John holds his ground. He's stood up to Bane. No one's really scary after that.

“Is that a cat under the couch?” he asks.

“I know you,” the man says. He's starting to bristle and swell with anger. “You're that fucking pig who put me in jail.”

“He's just a whore,” the mercenary interjects again. “He belongs to Bane.”

“I don't care who he belongs to. He's a fucking pig.”

Another screech. John looks at the man stooped down next to the couch, groping underneath. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What do you care?” the tattooed man demands. He spits on the floor at John's feet, and says, “Gonna arrest us for animal cruelty?”

“I don't know you,” John says to him, with a touch of impatience-even though, yeah, the guy does look vaguely familiar. A drug dealer, maybe? He swallows his unease, and says to the man next to the couch, “Leave the fucking cat alone.”

“Someone get this brat outta here,” one of them grumbles.

“Hey, look at me, pig!” Tattoos barks, lifting a hand to shove at John.

John's reaction is purely instinctive. He's still half asleep and he only sees the guy coming at him from the corner of his eye, because he's focused on the couch, and for one second he thinks it's Barsad and that they're sparring. He grabs the guy's arm, uses his own momentum to send him barreling past and trips him in the same motion. Tattoos hits the floor hard.

One of the other guys chuckles and says to the mercenary in a voice thick with phlegm, “You still think he's just a whore?”

Two of the others, though, are coming at John angrily, and now he's pissed, too. He blocks the first punch, kicks the man's knees out from under him; elbows the second in the soft pit of his stomach, grabs a handful of hair and slams him face-first onto the nearest decorative table when he doubles over. He thinks of what Bane said-singular, crippling precision blows. When one of them gets back up, John hits him in the throat and he drops, choking.

The others aren't laughing anymore. They come at him purposefully, and John's confidence wavers.

He goes down fighting. He puts two more on the floor before he feels the knife, missing his chest by inches and landing in his arm. He yells when it's yanked out again without ceremony, instantly soaking his shirt with blood, and then someone's meaty arm is around his neck, cutting off his airway, dragging him to the floor.

He's beaten and he knows it. Before he can wriggle out of the headlock, before he can even try to use his opponent's weight against him, Tattoos is on his legs, pinning him down, his face fixed in a snarl. He's holding the bloody knife.

Barsad drops on them silently.

John feels the arm around his neck go slack just as black spots start to dance in front of his eyes, and then the assassin is among them, grim and efficient and fast, faster than John can ever hope to be. The two mercenaries back down immediately, but the conscripts don't recognize Barsad, and they attack him all at once. Barsad seems to react to all of them simultaneously, piling them into each other when he can, ducking blows, and it comes to John that Barsad reminds him, of all things, of old footage of the Batman.

The snarling tattooed one comes back for John, and even though John is half blinded by pain, he rallies enough to knock the wind out of the thug, to stave off a knifing for another few seconds. There is little defense to be had against a knife once it's already descending; Barsad taught him that. He waits for the man to raise his arm, and it seems almost absurdly easy to snap his wrist, so much that John actually recoils for a second, surprised at himself. Tattoos howls, dropping the knife, and John swiftly smashes his knees so that he drops to the floor. Then he pounces on the knife.

When he gets up, panting, Barsad is standing there amid the groaning bodies of his victims. He stares at John, his eyes sharp and cold.

“Are you going to kill him?” he asks.

John looks down at the man at his feet, who is cradling his wrist and moaning softly. He looks back up at Barsad and shakes his head mutely, tossing the knife aside.

Barsad stoops and picks up the knife. Then, in one ferocious lunge, he sends the knife point-first through the man's eye and into his skull. The sound this makes burns itself into John's brain.

Barsad wipes the blade on the body's clothes.

“I told you to keep your innocence,” he says to John. “Not to be a fool.” To the two abashed mercenaries, he says, “Tie them up, and then wait with them for Bane to return.”

They obey silently. John turns to go, humiliated and in pain, but Barsad catches his shoulder.

“Go back to the bedroom,” he says. “I'll be there to fix your arm.”

John nods. Before he leaves the room, he crouches down next to the couch and peers underneath it to take a look at the huddled form underneath. At the sound of his voice, Harvey moves a little closer, just enough that he can reach her scruff and pull her out carefully. She goes limp in his hands, eyes closed, shivering fearfully. To his relief, she doesn't seem to be hurt. Just terrified.

In the bedroom, he takes a seat on a couch with Harvey tucked into his shirt. Barsad is there shortly, carrying with him a small bag. He sits next to John and opens it, taking out a cotton pad, onto which he pours what smells like alcohol.

“This will sting,” he warns John, rolling up John's sleeve. John nods again, and Barsad starts cleaning the wound.

It stings a lot. John nearly bites through his tongue trying not to make a sound.

To distract himself, he clenches his teeth and asks, “Are you a doctor?” In the time that he's been here, it's been Barsad who's seen to all his injuries. Barsad shakes his head.

“A medic of sorts. I've been stitching men up for a long time, don't worry.”

“I'm not,” John says.

“You're lucky. The arm is a good place to be stabbed, if you're going to be stabbed. This will heal.”

When Barsad is satisfied that the wound is clean and sterile, he pulls out a disposable syringe in a plastic cover. With this he draws some liquid out of a vial, and injects it into John's arm without fanfare. That hurts, too. By the time Barsad has thrown away the syringe and started laying out his tools, though, John's arm is starting to go curiously numb. After a few minutes Barsad pinches his arm, is satisfied with his lack of reaction, and starts stitching. There's a sharp, uncomfortable pressure every time the needle punctures John's skin. He tries very hard to tune it out.

They're both silent for a long time. John tries to think of something to say, and keeps coming up blank. It still feels like he's in trouble for something. Briefly, he has the insane thought that Barsad is jealous of him. But that can't be-Barsad is straight, was married. Of course, a few months ago John would have called himself as straight as an arrow. Still, Barsad doesn't seem interested in men that way. Doesn't seem interested in anyone, really.

Starting to recover, Harvey wriggles her way out of John's shirt. John pets her before she jumps down off the couch, and says to her, “No leaving the bedroom anymore.”

Dryly, Barsad says, “Now you know how I feel.”

He catches John's eye and smiles, just a bit. Then his smile disappears and he lowers his gaze again, businesslike.

“Did he hurt you, the past night?”

John knows who he's talking about. His face warms, and he forces himself to think about it. “No,” he says carefully. “Not ... on purpose, I think.”

“No.” Barsad touches his wrist lightly, where the binding had been. “Not always on purpose.” He meets John's eyes again. “As long as you know that.”

“It won't happen again,” John says quickly. “Really, it was ... a one-off.”

Barsad's eyebrows furrow.

“Uh,” John says. “Like ... a one-time thing. Not going to happen again.”

Barsad looks exasperated. “You know English is one of my first languages,” he says, “don't you?”

“Oh.” John's face heats up even more.

“I was merely skeptical.” Barsad pauses in his stitching to wipe away some more blood. “Does Bane know that this was a ... one-off?”

“Yeah,” John says. And then he thinks about it. “I mean, I think he does. I'm pretty sure.”

“Bane has a very long attention span. Perhaps a one-off satisfied your curiosity, but you will have only piqued his.”

“I don't know,” John says slowly. His stomach gives a little flip; part queasiness, part adrenaline.

“You're quite distracting to him. It worries me.” Barsad is quiet again for a few minutes. John has no idea what to say in response to that. Finally, Barsad says, “You did well. Just now.”

“They beat me,” John says, still smarting over it.

“I was watching. You did well. There were seven of them, and only one of you.”

“You beat them,” John points out.

Barsad smiles thinly. “I have many years of fighting under my belt. You have some training as a police officer and a couple months of lessons with me. You're my best pupil, if that helps.”

“Really?” John says again, perking up. It does help.

“Not my most accomplished,” says Barsad fairly. “But certainly the fastest learner.”

“Thanks.”

He lets Barsad work in silence for a while longer. When Barsad has finished stitching, he starts bandaging the wound diligently.

“There,” he says when he's done. He packs away his things and stands, giving John a quick pat on the shoulder. “Stay in here today. And get some more sleep if you can. You'll need your strength.”

“What for?”

“Bane will be back soon.” Just before Barsad leaves, he looks back at John and smiles with his eyes, the way Bane does. “Then, you can tell him it was a one-off.”

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