The Dark Knight Rises Anonymous Kink Meme

Gotham's Reckoning

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Round One Prompt Post
tdkr_anon wrote in tdkr_kink
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.

Please read the rules before posting

General Policies

ͽ Be polite to everyone within and outside of the community.
ͽ Please post your prompt with the according subject line.
ͽ Do not embed NSFW images and videos; link to them instead.
ͽ Warn for NSFW images and videos.
ͽ Do not repost a prompt that has previously been prompted.
ͽ Limit yourself to how many prompts you post per round.
ͽ Please post your work with the according warnings. Warning Guide 
ͽ Enjoy yourself.
A full list of the rules can be found here.

Subject Line Format

ͽ Alphabetize pairing names (ex. Bane/Bruce Wayne/John Blake) or use (Any/Any)
ͽ If you have one character chosen, but not another, put ‘other’. (ex. Scarecrow/Other)
ͽ Use ‘Gen’ if no pairing is wanted.
ͽ Add 'RPF' if you want a real person fic.
ͽ Put appropriate warnings if they are needed. Warning Guide (ex. Torture)
ͽ There is nothing else that needs to be put on the subject line, which means you should refrain from adding anything else.

Example Subject Line
Bane/John Blake, Warnings: Torture, Non-con.

Filling A Prompt

ͽ Do not embed NSFW images or videos; link to them instead.
ͽ Do not link to locked material.
ͽ There are no limits to how many fills a prompt can have.
ͽ A fill can be anything: fiction, fanart, podfic, manipulation, video, podmix, ect.
ͽ You can post anonymously or under a username.
ͽ Please post your work the according warnings. Warning Guide

Character List
The Dark Knight Rises List:
Bruce Wayne
Dr. Jonathan Crane
Dr. Pavel
Jim Gordon
John Blake
Lucius Fox
Miranda Tate
Ra's Al Ghul
Selina Kyle
Talia Al Ghul
(There are others, add them as you see fit)

Actor List:
Anne Hathaway
Anthony Garcia
Christian Bale
Cillian Murphy
Gary Oldman
Joseph Gordon-Levitt
Liam Neeson
Marion Cotillard
Nestor Carbonell
Tom Hardy
(There are others, add them as you see fit)

Flat View | Fill List | Discussion Thread | Beta Search Thread | Friending Meme

  • 1

Fill: "Tender" Author Note (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

I've been working on this for awhile. I can't promise it'll get finished. My track record finishing fic over a 2000-3000 words is not so good. I hope I can finish, but if not, I hope people enjoy what I get written.

Fill: "Tender" 1/? WIP (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

A light hand on his shoulder brought John out of his fitful sleep on the old sagging couch. Ms. Tate's lovely face offered a welcome reprieve after nightmares of running--as a child from street kids, as an adult from mercenaries.

"A moment of your time, Detective Blake?" She gestured towards the door to the apartment John and the commissioner shared for the time being.

"Yeah. Sure." Already fully dressed--in case they needed to make a hasty departure--John slipped on his shoes and attached his gun holster to his belt. He didn't find it strange Ms. Tate wanted to speak with him. They spoke often and she seemed to take comfort in their rambling conversations. He found the company helped reduce the stress of the occupation for him as well. But she had never woken him in the middle of the night before.

He took a moment to push the bedroom door open just enough to check on his boss before following her out of the apartment. "Is everything alright, Ms. Tate?"

"I'm probably just being paranoid. I thought I saw something through the window, but it was gone so fast, I'm not sure it was ever there." She peered through a tiny, filthy window, trying to see into the alley behind the old apartments.

"We should alert..."

"I just want to check first, see if there are fresh footprints in the snow under the windows." She smiled, self-deprecatingly. "I don't want to wake everyone because my nerves have driven me to jump at shadows."

"Okay," John conceded. The officers were only a shout away in other apartments on the ground floor and they were already tired enough without being bothered for a false alarm. "I'll check. Just stay back and close to the wall."

"You're a good man, John."

John flicked a bemused glance in her direction. He thought he detected a slightly mocking humor to her tone, but her beautiful eyes were wide with concern. Shaking off the chill left by the odd moment, he drew his gun and slowly opened the door. He did a quick scan to the left and right of the door, checking the alley for threats before allowing himself to search the snow for prints.

The attack came from such an unexpected quarter, John spent too many precious moments in shock before he even tried to retaliate. A slender arm threaded around his throat with lightening speed, cutting off any sound he might have made when a sharp pain flared at the side of his neck. He tried to twist, to pull the arm away long enough to call for help, but hands grabbed him and held him fast.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he could just make out one of his captors. The mercenary wore a harness which had allowed him to hide in most people's blind spot: up. As his eyelids grew heavy and his limbs grew sluggish, John felt a surge of despair. His other attackers had been above him, but he had not cleared the door frame and the first attack had come from behind. Only Miranda Tate had been behind him.

The enemy was much closer than they thought.


Re: Fill: "Tender" 1/? WIP (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

yay, so glad this is getting filled.

OMG, YOU'VE MADE MY LIFE!!! I was initially just glad that someone was filling it, but WOW, IT'S SO GOOD! I will gladly read however many words you can manage.

Re: Fill: "Tender" 1/? WIP (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

Eeeeeee! I LOVE THIS! Please pretty please continue! :3

Re: Fill: "Tender" 1/? WIP (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

Love it so far. Hope you continue it. :)

Fill: "Tender" 2/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

For a moment when he regained consciousness, John felt like he was on fire. His eyes flew open at the shock of the sensation. He was being blasted with freezing cold water. They had removed his clothes and had his hands cuffed above him with surprisingly soft leather cuffs. His arms were stretched high enough he was standing on the balls of his feet. As two armed, stone-faced mercenaries stood watch, a third hosed him down, scrubbed him with a soapy brush, then hosed him off. John shouted at the mercenary and tried to kick him away, but his feet slid on the soapy floor and the chain above twisted and jerked him around awkwardly.

When the man dried him with a towel and slid boxers onto him, John was too relieved at the increase in his body temperature to fight. The guns trained on him as the man released him from the cuffs, so John had no choice but to do as he was bid.

They lead him through dank tunnels until he stood in a small room that held only a cot, a dilapidated trunk serving as a nightstand and a battery-powered lamp spreading a dull glow through the small space. They turned him to face the door and shoved him to his knees.

They held him in place, shivering and hurting from kneeling on the concrete floor, for perhaps an hour before Bane strode through the door. The quietness of his approach and the suddeness of his arrival caused John to flinch back into the unyielding legs of the man behind him.

Any possible words of defiance died on John's tongue. He swallowed and did his best to remove every trace of expression from his face.

From the images on TV, John thought Bane must be a giant--nearly seven feet tall. In person, Bane only topped the tallest man in the room by a couple of inches, only outweighed the heaviest by maybe 10-20 pounds. But the menace radiating from him made the men armed with automatic rifles fade into the background. The mask John thought monstruous on TV only seemed to muzzle the monster, not make a man into a monster.

"What have you brought me? And why?" Bane asked, his voice deceptively soft, but threaded with a promise of violence. Oddly, the threat in that strange voice wasn't directed at John.

One of John's guards handed Bane a piece of paper. Though the messenger's face showed no fear, the paper quavered in the still air. One of Bane's eyebrows rose as he read the message, then his eyes crinkled at the corners. John could only guess at the expression under Bane's infamous mask, but he thought the merciless killer was smiling.

"Such generosity, my friend," Bane murmured to an absent listener, then his eyes met John's for the first time. John flinched again as if struck. He drew his shoulders back and the corners of those intense eyes crinkled again. Bane tucked the message away and dismissed his followers with a curt gesture.

Bane walked in a tight circle around John, eyes evaluating. The narrow room forced them far too close for John's comfort and the heavy gaze made John's hair stand on end. He failed to repress a shudder.

"I am told you have idealism and spirit, Detective Blake, even though you must be aware you and your city are doomed."

"Did Miranda Tate say that? In the note?" John studied Bane for a reaction, trying to gather information Commissioner Gordon would need. Because John would see the commissioner again. He would.

The eyes crinkled. The glint in them told John Bane was smiling, so the backhand across the face surprised him. He fell sideways with a grunt at the bright burst of pain. As he tried to get up, Bane yanked the boxers off him. The force of the pull dragged John along the concrete, scraping the skin on his left side, before the boxers slid off.

"You may offer yourself to me now and then spend your first night here in relative comfort," Bane told him, casually, "or not."

John mind stuttered in horror at the implications. "No! Screw you. Just...just no fucking way."

"As you wish, John," Bane replied in the same affable tone. "Either you will please me in your acceptance or you will please me in your defiance."

OH OH OH! It's so good! I love your Bane and how insane and unpredictable he is. More, please, as soon as you can manage!

AA (Anonymous) Expand

Fill: "Tender" 3/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

Bane hauled John to his feet and dragged him into the corrdor. John's protests and struggles had no effect on Bane or their progress. Bane brought him to a large, vaguely octagonal room bustling with activity. Tunnels fed into the room from every direction and a mishmash of stairways and catwalks led to higher entrances.

The men paused in their tasks to watch Bane force John into a narrow cage in the center of the room, in a spot visible to everyone. The cage was only wide enough and deep enough for John to stand and was ominously situated over a drain in the floor. Bane locked his wrists into shackles on each side of the tiny prison.

"I anticipate hearing your opinion when I return." Through the gaps in the bars, Bane ran warm fingers down the chilled skin of John's chest, down his stomach, over his belly button, to the base of his dick. John jerked, banging into the bars at his back in his effort to escape the touch. "I hope you do not lose your defiance soon."

Bane smiled and left John surrounded by mercenaries.


After satisfying their curiosity with John's imprisonment, the mercenary types--grim, camouflaged men with the demeanor of soldiers--went back to work with the exception of one guard. John wondered what Bane thought he could do, confined and surrounded, until the Blackgate escapees arrived to get their piece of the cop. They tormented him as much as the guard allowed. Taunting and spitting and pinching until bruises decorated his body and every inch of his skin felt violated. Harsh fingers pushed into the crack of his ass, and rubbed against his hole, but the guard didn't let them penetrate him. Though part of him wanted to snark back to the lamer insults, John maintained a more sensible stoic silence.

John had no way to gauge the passage of time. His guard was replaced with another and another, but he didn't know how long their shifts lasted.

The buzz of activity around him rose and fell. He learned to dread the lulls rather than rushes of activity. When orders were being barked, everyone--terrorist or former Gotham prisoner--jumped to obey. Otherwise, the criminals enjoyed playing with John.

At first, the molestation occupied most of John's attention, but little by little the outrage and disgust and humiliation were supplanted by more basic complaints of his body.

Still, John remained silent when Bane visited and gave him a chance to ask for a reprieve. John ignored him, not even considering the visits might stop. Until they did.

Time (hours?days?) and shift changes and groping hands passed by John in a blur, bruises bloomed from attacks John stopped noticing. His cheeks stung from being slapped awake when he managed to doze. He became fixated on what he lacked despite his efforts to distract himself by trying to gather information about Bane's men, their supplies and their routines. The view beyond the cage lost focus. John tried to bring a hand up to rub his eyes and was surprised by the cuffs holding his wrists.

When John could no longer avoid soiling himself, the men laughed and jeered, but the freezing water they used to hose him off drowned his shame. His whole being ached for the water even though he shuddered from the agonizing cold. He asked them for a drink. They ignored him. Later, long after he'd asked, they gave him a little water, but not nearly enough.

He asked for food when the men took their meals, his stomach twisting painfully at the smell. He asked for help. Finally, he asked for Bane, but he was still ignored. The pattern repeated and repeated, until asking had turned to outright pleading. He was only randomly given small sips of water. The world dipped and faded out of focus...

...can't *stand* anymore...can't...cold, so *cold*

...screeched open and Bane stood in front of him, speaking.

" beg for absolution, John?"

John blinked stupidly at him for a long moment until hinges squeaked in protest as the door to John's cage started to close. Panic ripped the fog from John's mind.


Re: Fill: "Tender" 3/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

well,well this is moving along quite nicely. i'm really loving your Bane, he seems wonderfully sadistic; and for that comment i will no doubt be on the VIP bus to that special hell =)

Re: Fill: "Tender" 4/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

Bane paused, the door halfway closed.

"I-I apologize," John choked out, desperate to escape the cage.

Despite the meager apology, Bane accepted with an oddly regal tip of his metal-strapped head. "Tonight, you may make amends."

John tried to meet the eyes of the force of nature in front of him, tried to use his anger and pride as strength. He looked away.

Unable to speak through his blocked throat, he nodded jerkily.


Before releasing John and leaving him to his guards, Bane instructed him not to eat, drink or sleep until Bane gave him permission. The world skewed away from John's grasp again as two of Bane's men dragged him through the tunnels. The shock of cold water brought him back to himself.

One of the guards scrubbed him clean again in the same place where he woke as Bane's prisoner. He wanted to gulp down the water when it hit his face, but the other guard watched him intently and John feared those quick gulps would be his last for a very long time if he didn't follow Bane's orders.

A new torment waited for him in the austere room where he had first met Bane. A small plate of food, a glass of water and no sign of Bane. John sat on the floor with his back against the wall. He had to rest his muscles, but if he sat on the cot, he knew he would fall asleep. He had to play Bane's game for the moment, rebuild his strength--and, if was honest with himself, his courage--and bide his time.

It took everything John had left not to touch the food and water, not to collapse into unconsciousness. Finally, Bane entered the room and surveyed the scene. John rose to his feet to meet him. A thin, sharp-featured man with a video camera followed Bane into the room and closed the door. The camera panned from John's face to his bare feet. A little HD on the camera informed John he was being filmed naked in high definition. Turning to Bane, John started, "What...?"

"Pay him no heed."

"Can I eat now?" John intended for the question to be sharp, but it came out as a ragged plea.

“You may, after we attend to unfinished business.”

John took a slow step back. “What do you...?”

“Do you need more time in the cage to consider your options?"

John's throat clicked as he tried to swallow. He remembered Bane’s words before the cage. He couldn't face the cage again. "No. No. I'll... I'll do what you want."

"Good." The drawled pleasure in the word sent a shiver through John. Bane sat on the cot. "Lay over my lap."

Heart pounding and a battle waging inside him with every movement, John situated himself over Bane's lap. His body flashed hot and cold, and he felt a prickling over the skin of his bare ass, raised by Bane's thighs to the center of attention. Bane took John's wrists and crossed them behind his back, turned John's head so he faced the camera, then wrapped his arm around John's waist and pulled him tight against his body. He urged John's thighs apart.

A warm hand traveled over John's flesh, kneading his cheeks, running along the long muscles of his thighs, pushing between his legs to scratch at the back of his balls, then the tip of a finger dipped into John's hole.

With a panicked "No!", John bucked before he could stop himself, unwittingly forcing the finger in further before Bane pulled it away. The powerful arm around John's waist tightened into a steel band, immobilizing him.

"A shame. You were doing well." Despite his words, Bane sounded pleased. Powerful blows rained down on John's ass, a rapid barrage on one cheek, then the other, until John’s breath hitched with pain, then Bane rubbed a soothing hand over stinging skin.

In fit of mortification, John blurted, “I’m not a goddamn kid.”

Bane patted him. “Hush, John, or I’ll have to punish you again.”

Squeezing his eyes closed against the watchful eye of the camera, John obeyed. He heard a click, then jerked when a cold liquid dribbled onto his tail bone and down between his cheeks. Bane's finger followed, circling his entrance, then teasingly touching the hole, before pushing inside just a little. A cruel chuckle mocked John's flinch as the finger tauntingly dipped in and withdrew.

Another click. Then Bane stopped playing around.

Fill: "Tender" 5/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

The finger returned, pushing in too fast and pumping as John grunted and squirmed at the discomfort, the sensation of wrongness. Too soon, Bane added a second finger, then a third. He bent and twisted his fingers as they stretched John, wringing sounds from John he didn't know he could make, driving him to try to escape despite the threat of the cage.

When Bane's fingers left him, John went limp in his lap, panting. Bane released his waist and stroked his back, then guided John off his lap and onto his knees between Bane’s legs, at eye level with the bulge in Bane's pants.

"Prepare me to take you."

John glanced up into Bane's glittering, implacable eyes. Heart in his throat, he undid Bane's pants and drew them down far enough to free his erection. He took the bottle Bane held out to him and poured the lube into his hand. His hand closed around Bane's dick with much less overlap of his thumb and fingers than when he held his own erection. His mind gibbered at him in fear and denial as he covered Bane generously with lube.

A hand carded through John's hair gently, startling him from his thoughts. "Stand up and face the wall. You're a cop; I'm sure you remember the position."

John heaved himself up and shuffled the few steps to the wall, positioned himself as if he were going to be frisked. The ache of his muscles flared higher than the ache in his ass. Bane followed him and adjusting his stance. By the time Bane was satisfied, John's legs were spread obscenely wide, his ass was high in invitation, and his upper body was low as he braced himself against the wall. A quick glance showed the camera still turned his way. John bowed his head lower and waited, nearly shaking with anticipation. Nothing happened. A low, choked-back whimper escaped John.

"Is there something you want?” Bane sounded genuinely curious.

*Damn the man and his games,* John thought with a pure, savage anger that ripped through him, then vanished, leaving him hollow. "Just get it over with."

A hand grabbed John's hip, the hard/soft, blunt head of Bane's dick nudged against John's hole, then shoved inside. John shouted at the intense burn of being overstretched. He lost the willpower to hold himself still for his violation, but Bane's bruising grip on his hips kept him partially impaled.

"Back into place."

John whined helplessly and continue to try to shift his hips away.

"John." No threat Bane had spoken before sounded so dangerous as that soft word. Becoming deathly still was instinctual. Control somewhat reestablished, John got back into place. Now that the first shock had passed, John was able to hold still even though Bane thrust deeper, ratcheting up the pain. A sheen of sweat covered John's body. He panted in sobbing gulps. And the pain had yet to stop growing.

Finally, warm flesh pressed against his ass, then Bane began to withdraw, which tore at John's insides in a new way. The pain lessened minutely as Bane settled into a rhythm and John loosened around him, but with every thrust, John silently begged for it to stop.

Bane's thrusts grew harder and faster. John's fingertips scraped at the wall, but he felt a spark of hope that it meant the end. That hope had plenty of time to fade before Bane's hips stuttered and ground into John’s ass, fingers digging into John's hips as he came. Bane recovered for a few moments, breathed hard through his mask, before pulling out. John started to sink to the ground, but Bane pulled him up by his hips, guided him back to the bed and over his lap.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the cameraman slip out the door. He closed it behind himself with a soft click.

"Be my guest." Bane gestured to the food and water. He hadn't done up his pants and John could feel his hot, slippery dick against his thigh.


Bane didn't reply. He spread John's cheeks and examined his hole. Fearing Bane might take the food away, John started to eat despite the disgusted rolling in his stomach. He groaned when Bane fingered him again and smeared his come over John's ass and he almost choked on each bite, but he seemed to have made the right choice. As soon as he finished the food and water, Bane gave his ass a slap, took the dishes and left John to sleep.


Bane seems to be enjoying himself a lot. Poor Blake. It's so sad that he has to suffer, but damn, does he do it so well!

Still loving this!

Fill: "Tender" 6/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

The light of the lamp woke John from a deep, dreamless sleep. A curt voice above him grunted, "You. Up."

"It's John," John muttered into the rough material of the cot.

"I don't care," the mercenary shot back. "Up."

Every muscle screamed in protest as John stirred. A strangled cry escaped him when he rolled into a sitting position.

"Need help?" the man asked, mouth curling in disdain.

"No," John ground out.

“You can walk?” he asked, feigning surprise. “After the pounding Bane gave you?”

Heat bloomed across John’s face.

"I saw the broadcast," the mercenary explained, smirking. "You fussed like a maiden."

John stared at the man in horror. "Broadcast?! To Gotham?"

“No.” The smirk widened into a cruel smile. “To the traitor of the League, so he may despair.”


“The Batman.”

"Oh.” John hung his head, torn between relief that Bruce lived and nausea at what he must think of John.

The mercenary kicked his foot. "Come on. Bane's orders."

John carefully leveraged himself to his feet. "Can I have clothes?"

"Yes." When John waited, he added, "Not here."

"I can't go out like this." John gestured vaguely to his bruised, filthy body.

“You worry about pride.” The mercenary huffed in exasperation. “What pride? You submitted to your foe.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” John said, even as he couldn’t look the man in the eyes.


“In agony.”

“Yes, but not unmanned.”

Part of John agreed with the terrorist. He smothered that part with sense. Failing to overcome an ambush, superior numbers and superior strength did not make him weak, and doing what he had to do to stay alive didn’t make him less than he was. “I *am* not...”

The mercenary cut him off with a condescending snort. “You...” He made a gesture, searching for the word. “Betrayer.”

“Like hell! Just because I’m not a fanatic...”

“What do you know?” the man barked, his stance shifting from casual, but ready, to threatening. “You want to live. Yes?”

John's mouth snapped shut. "Yes," he managed after a tense pause. Foley was a jerk, but he had a point about John’s temper landing him in trouble.

"Then shut up and obey," the man snapped. “And be grateful for Bane’s favor."

John dropped his eyes in a false show of humility to hide his anger.


John kept his peace and followed. The man led John down the tunnel, through a heavy security door, up two flights of stairs and out into the hallway of an old, abandoned building. Across from the stairs, there was a locker room with bathrooms and shower stalls. A clock over the dingy door read 5:00. John didn’t know if that was 5:00 a.m. or 5:00 p.m. The guard tapped the trigger guard on his rifle impatiently while John used the facilities.

He found the promised clothing in a ragged heap on a bench. The pants, long-sleeved shirt and socks were worn and frayed, but they were soft and warm, and they covered him.

Fill: "Tender" 7/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

As the guard took John to the next destination, he realized they were in St. Mary’s, an old hospital abandoned after construction had been completed on the larger, more modern Gotham General Hospital. The guard led him to the cafeteria’s kitchens and handed him off without a farewell. The men working in the kitchen glowered at him with dark stares. Even they were armed with handguns and knives. John considered the risk of trying to pilfer one, but doubted one weapon would help. He needed to be stealthy to escape, not tip the men off by getting caught trying to arm himself.

A plate of food and a glass of milk were shoved into his hands and he was waved to a corner with a curt, “You have ten minutes.”

The moment he swallowed the last bite, a cook put him to work helping with breakfast for the rest of the men, washing dishes, restocking the shelves, and any task that could be found. Physical labor gave John time to think and he usually appreciated that, but today his thoughts kept repeating: pain, his compliance, a cold zipper chafing his thighs, the camera, and fingers painting his ass with come. He forced himself to choke down lunch they gave him at 11:00 a.m. before they put him back to work.

Unlike the octagonal room, the kitchen had a steady stream of work to be done. Due to the large amount of food they prepared, John thought the hospital might be a base of operations, connected to other operations in the city by the octagonal room in the sewers. Perhaps his cell had been a basement storage space. John could help the resistance with pieces of the puzzle of how Bane’s army was organized.

He watched when the staff changed in the middle of the day. Chaotic, but too organized to slip away. They weren’t ordinary kitchen workers. They were still mercenaries and every eye was watchful.

By afternoon, John was swaying with exhaustion. If he tried to rest, someone ordered him to work. No one came to relieve him. However long he’d been allowed to sleep hadn’t completely restored him. His whole body ached and the pain in every step provoked memories he would’ve rather forgotten.

At 8:30 p.m., one of the other workers shoved a tray with three plates of food and glasses of water--one with a straw--into his hands with a curt, “For Bane.” He waved John towards a new guard by the door.

John found Bane pouring over paperwork in an shabby, but clean, conference room with a long oval table and a scattered assortment of chairs. The cameraman leaned over Bane’s shoulder, speaking quietly. The room had windows and John took a long moment to look out at his city, before turning his attention to the maps and diagrams lining the walls. The maps appeared to be of Gotham’s streets and sewer systems, as well as cities John didn’t know, but to get any real information from them, he would need to study them in more detail. He doubted Bane would wait patiently for him while he did that.

The diagrams were beyond John’s areas of knowledge, so he tried to peer over Bane’s other shoulder instead. Bane turned to look at him with amused eyes. He made a show of leaning to the side for John to look. It was safe, John realized quickly, because not a word was in English.

The cameraman shuffled the papers into folders and set them out of the way. He waved for the tray and set the food for three people. He sat to Bane’s left.

“Join us,” Bane ordered, with an typically imperial gesture to his right.

Seeing no reason not to, John sat, realizing his mistake too late. A wounded sound escaped him and he nearly shot right back out of the chair. He’d eaten his meals with his legs under him and to the side, supporting his weight off of the place that hurt the most. The rest of the day had been spent on his feet. The cameraman smirked; Bane’s eyes crinkled over the mask.

“Did I hurt you, John?” Bane asked in mock concern. “Do I need to treat you more delicately tonight?”

“What? No!”

“No?” Bane raised a questioning brow.

“No, you can’t... I can’t... You got what you wanted.”

“What I continue to want.” Heated eyes roved over John’s face, lingering on the bruises. “I enjoyed the game, John, as I’m sure I will enjoy the next game we play, but I will not wait to take what I want again.”

“No.” The denial was weak, hopeless. It made Bane smile.

“Stop me.”


Ooooooooh! OMG, I cannot even begin to handle your Bane! He's so evil and I love it so fucking much!!!

AA: Requests? (Anonymous) Expand
Re: AA: Requests? (Anonymous) Expand

Re: Fill: "Tender" Author Note (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

Instead of responding to the challenge, John stared down at his clenched hands and tried to rein in his emotions. He began picking at his meatloaf and vegetables--simple but decent. To stop Bane’s assaults, he needed to escape. Knowing he wouldn’t escape without rebuilding his strength, he pushed down the turmoil of emotions and ate.

Bane made quick work of his meal. With the ease that spoke of long practice, he injected himself with a syringe provided by the cameraman, then he hooked a red cloth over the mask, did something unseen to detach part of it and set it aside. While the cameraman spoke to him in a language John didn’t recognize, he maneuvered food under the cloth. He never spoke and John wondered if the mask was needed for speech.

“Yes, I am still just a man,” he said when the mask was back in place and the cloth gone. “I suggest you do not stare again.”

John gave him a slight dip of his in a nod. If only Bane returned the favor. John could feel his regard as he stared at his plate and ate.

Finally, John set his fork down. He couldn’t force down another bite in Bane’s oppressive company. He started to rise, but Bane’s hand shot out to grab his arm and force him back into his chair with a pained grunt.

“Manners, John. Barsad hasn’t finished his meal.” John glared; Bane tightened his grip. As had been the case since his capture, John backed down first, relaxing back into the chair.

*Fine,* he thought. He’d use the opportunity. “Where’s the Batman?”

“Hell on Earth,” Bane said simply.

“Alive.” Hope flared beneath John’s breastbone.


“He’ll return.”

“And save you? And Commissioner Gordon will survive, Gotham will still stand, and you will forget what I have done to your body?” Bane shook his head patronizingly. “When your hope dies and your spirit is broken, who can you blame but yourself, for having foolish hope?”

“He’ll return.”

“Maybe,” Bane allowed. “If he does, I will kill him.”

“Even if you can, we’ll just fight harder.”

“Not you, John. You won’t fight me.”

John started, heatedly, “I...”

The cameraman, Barsad, dropped his fork to his plate with a clink, then pointedly pushed the plate away. His eyes met Bane’s. John couldn’t interpret the silent exchange.

With a shrug of powerful shoulders, Bane ordered, “Deal with the prisoner, brother.”

Barsad nodded, loaded John’s arms with the tray and dishes, and hustled John out of the room. They left the tray in the kitchen and Barsad led John back to the locker room for a shower. When John emerged, his clothes were gone. John looked to Barsad, who just shook his head and forced John back to his room naked.

John lay on the cot, too tired to stand, too uncomfortable to sit. The next time he became aware, Bane was climbing onto the cot, straddling his chest. When he tried to fend him off, Bane gathered both his wrists in one hand and held them over John’s head. With his other hand, he undid his pants, releasing his growing erection. Eyes intent on John’s face, he began to stroke himself.

John closed his eyes, tried to ignore what was happening, tried to imagine his life before the occupation. Running on the trail in the park in spring, pizza and beer at his favorite pizzeria, the pretty redhead who flirted at the gym with her midriff-baring top and mischievous grin. He should have asked her to dinner.

A warm splatter on his face startled him into opening his eyes, only to close them again to avoid getting come in them. For a moment--one wonderful moment--the past had been more vivid than the present. Now his attention centered on rough fingers rubbing the mess into his skin, along his nose, his eyelids, his jaw, his lips, before pushing into his mouth.

John bit down.

Fill: "Tender" 9/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

In a stark warning that his amusement at John’s defiance had limits, Bane ground the bones in his wrists together until his jaw relaxed. With a snarl, Bane shifted off John, then pressed his knee into John’s stomach. He grabbed John’s balls and squeezed. Agonizing pain tore through John’s lower body. Groaning, he tried to curl himself into a fetal position as much as he could with Bane pressing him into the cot. He vaguely prayed he didn’t throw up on Bane and make things worse.

“You should show gratitude when I’m merciful.” Anger darkened Bane’s voice. He released John’s balls and forced his hand between John’s thighs. He steadily shoved one finger into John’s sore hole, making John writhe in pain. “A taste of what will come tomorrow. We will postpone the full lesson until then.”

“I’m sorry,” John tried.

“No, you aren’t. You may apologize again when your repentance is genuine,” Bane assured him.

*Pick your goddamn battles, John,* he chided himself as Bane left him to consider his threat.

The same mercenary he’d argued with the previous morning came to wake him again. He shook his head at John’s swollen balls.

“You are foolish.”

John sighed. “You’re not wrong.”

As John did laundry in the hospital for the army that day, his dread escalated. There was no evening meal with Bane or Barsad, just a quick meal break in the laundry before getting back to work.

When Bane came to his cell that night, he taught John how much pain he could inflict without breaking his victim’s skin or bones. John apologized and apologized and, eventually, Bane accepted. John barely managed to limp through the next day and--though he made Bane grab him and hold him down to fuck him--he tried not to provoke him again. When Bane’s weight drove him into the floor or against the wall, all John wanted to do was bite and kick and punch and tear Bane to shreds. Instead, he just closed his eyes and tried not to feel anything.

For weeks, John went through his days in an exhausted, pained-filled, emotionally numb fog. Guards escorted him from his cell to the bathroom, then to whatever work they had for him, and finally back to his room to wait for Bane.

But they let him sleep, fed him and kept him active. He kept watch for the chance to run.


When John saw the opportunity to escape, he only hesitated for a moment. After watching for weak points in security for weeks, considering and discarding strategies, he had nothing to work with. He was either locked in a concrete cell or surrounded by enemies. He couldn’t get close to a door without a dozen men stopping to watch.

His chance to escape came purely by chance. They had him outside for only the second time to help unload boxes of food for the hospital’s kitchens. The army took what they needed of the best food while Gotham citizens had to make do with what was left. John was unloading his fourth truck of the day, muscles protesting with each box. One of the men who came with the truck also helped him unload while another sat behind the wheel. John assumed they came from Blackgate; they didn’t have the discipline of the mercenaries.

As John set his box down, he noted the mercenary guarding the entrance to the hospital was helping with an unwieldy box. Turning to the truck for another box, he discovered the truck was empty, the driver disappearing around a corner despite the fact John had heard the mercenary tell him to stay in the cab.

For a moment John just blinked, then his heart began to race. He forced himself to take a faux-casual scan of the area. Guard and worker still maneuvering the box. Driver out of sight. With steady, smooth strides, John approached the truck, then slid into the cab.

He knew how to hot-wire, but he didn’t how much time he’d have. Fortunately, the driver had left the keys in the ignition. Not daring to think about failure, John started the truck and drove away. The rapid fire pops of rifles followed him out of sight of the hospital.

OP <3 (Anonymous) Expand
Re: OP <3 (Anonymous) Expand
Re: OP <3 (Anonymous) Expand

Fill: "Tender" 10? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

He wound through the mostly empty streets of Gotham, droving in an almost random pattern of turns and backtracking, but he had a general direction in mind: a place to hide, if he could reach it. From there, he could get a message for Gordon to the resistance, warn him about Miranda, meet back up with them.

After half an hour of tense driving, he spotted a place to ditch the truck. A small, squat, wooden bar sat surrounded by the glass and concrete buildings of the city. The bar had an alley in back and a parking lot with cars he could hot-wire in front. It figured if anything would be open during the occupation, it would be a bar.

He abandoned the truck behind the bar. The alley would probably tear up his feet, but he feared the truck may be tracked and he had already had it too long. Bane’s men would be searching by now.

John kept to the shadows of the bar as he walked around to the front, snagging a fallen brick as he went. Ignoring the impulse to sneak or run, he walked purposefully, only pausing long enough for a quick glance around corners. He approached an older car in the parking lot, smashed the passenger side window, unlocked the door and slid over to the driver’s side as quickly as he could.

Hot-wiring the car took longer than he liked. Fortunately, if anyone in the bar heard him break the window, they didn’t investigate. Keeping to the back streets, John continued towards his potential hiding place. He had worked at a haunted house several seasons for extra money.

The warehouse was designed so employees and customers could escape quickly from anywhere in the building. Despite how easy the building was to leave, it was not easy to break into--to keep people from skipping the ticket price and keep out off-season squatters. Inside, there dozens of hiding places and walkways to get from one spot to another unseen. As far as John knew, they hadn’t redesigned the basic layout since he’d worked there, so he thought he would still know the set-up.

John left the car in a parking garage a few blocks from the warehouse and made his way on foot, weaving through alleyways and back streets. He ignored the pain of rocks and broken glass digging into his unprotected feet as he headed towards The Dark Nemesis.

A giddy relief rose in his chest when he reached the building. If Bane’s men hadn’t caught up to him by now, they were unlikely to find him. He jimmied open an emergency exit that didn’t look like an exit from the outside and disappeared into the semi-darkness.

In the basement, John raided left behind costumes and lost-and-found for a hooded jacket and shoes. They didn’t fit properly, but at least he no longer looked exactly like like the man who slipped away from the hospital. His feet were cut and bruised, but they had no glass fragments under the skin, so he wrapped them and stuffed them into over-sized shoes with gritted teeth.

On the second floor, John discovered that the exhibit popularly used as a place to nap when the boss was too busy to notice hadn’t been changed. The small room was filled by a seemingly luxurious bed that was actually an old musty mattress with polyester sheets and pillows. For John at that moment, it was heaven.

He collapsed into sleep.


At first, John didn’t know what woke him. All he knew was the intuition that got him promoted to detective now told him he woke for a reason, and he needed to move. He silently slid off the bed and found the opening to the backstage hallway.

He crept through the employees’ area, using every trick he knew to check the exhibits and the guest walkways. He heard and saw nothing, but Bane’s mercenaries could be dead silent and invisible when they wanted.

As he made his way to the first floor, he still saw no one, so he began to systematically check each window for movement outside. It was on the side facing the street that he saw the flash of a shape he knew all too well. Someone’s rifle barrel had been visible around the corner of an alley for just a second.

He started for the side of the building closest to the next warehouse. If he could cross from building to building until he lost them...

Fill: "Tender" 11/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

The sound of a door forced open shattered the still air. John retreated to a corner that gave him quick access to two ways out and a way upstairs as he waited for more sounds of intruders, but the warehouse had fallen silent again.

John knew he could play hide and seek with Bane’s men in the maze of the haunted house for hours. If he kept hidden until dark, less than an hour away, then he could make a break for the next warehouse.

He decided to wait in the elaborate haunted forest on the second floor next to a short staircase that led to the first floor and a side exit. The forest had many hiding places for employees to use to scare the customers.

Just as he reached his chosen spot, he caught the faint hint of an ominous smell. His quiet, heartfelt curse was drowned by the fire alarm. There was a reason the old warehouse had so many easily accessible exits. Without them, no fire inspector would have allowed it to open for business due to the likelihood of it going up like a roman candle.

He waited as long as could, until the smoke began to worry at his breath, then made his attempt in the dim evening light. When he reached the outside door, he cracked it open and scanned the alley. Empty. It seemed they hadn’t noticed the purposefully unobtrusive exit. With a last glance upwards, he dashed across the alley.

As if summoned by John’s mere thought of triumph, Barsad stepped out of the doorway John was trying to reach. He carried his rifle in front of him, not even bothering to aim it in John’s direction. John ran through avenues of escape in his mind, considering taking a bullet in the back rather than return to Bane. Before he had decided, men grabbed him from behind and held him immobile as Barsad approached, face blank, eyes unreadable.

“How did you find me?” He thought he had been careful about losing potential tails.

Barsad tugged at the collar of the shirt John wore under his pilfered jacket. It wasn’t a gesture filled with intent as the same gesture from Bane would have been. When Barsad released his collar, John felt the same spot. He could feel the bump sewn into the neckline.

“A tracking device?”

“My brother did not wish to misplace you.” Barsad smirked. He nodded to someone over John’s shoulder. “Time to prepare you for your court appearance.”

A hood was pulled over John’s head. His hands were pulled behind him and cuffed. They shoved him stumbling forward, then forced him into a vehicle, something with a high clearance--a jeep or a truck. Heavy with defeat, John slumped between his captors as they drove back to the hospital and the nearby tunnels.

They stripped him and turned the hose on him again rather than allow him the dignity of a shower in the locker room. When the mercenaries had dried John and released him, Barsad tossed him a duffle. Inside he found a GCPD uniform that fit him as well as his own. He hissed as he slid the correct size shoes onto his damaged feet.

“Did you let me escape so you could put on a show?” he demanded.

“Should we have not expected you to try?” Barsad countered mildly. He replaced the hood and cuffed John’s hands.

The mercenaries marched him back to the vehicle. They made the drive to “court” in silence. John had heard the executions were relatively quick, a bullet to the head, but Bane liked to see him suffer. He wondered how long his death would take, how much it would hurt. He didn’t want to die--quick or slow--not fearing for Gotham, feeling the soreness from being used by Bane, useless to Gordon and the Batman.

After they dragged him out of the vehicle, a hand gripped his shoulder, squeezed, then released him. It almost felt like comfort.

OP (Anonymous) Expand

Fill: "Tender" 12/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

He tripped up a staircase, then faltered when the steps stopped. Only the unyielding hands on his arms kept him on his feet. Somewhere ahead of John, a muffled clamor of voices rose. The heavy thud of a door closing silenced the unnaturally soft sounds of Gotham’s streets behind him.

“I warned you, but still you are ungrateful.” Bane’s voice cut through the buzz ahead of them, subtle as the Batman’s reappearance in Gotham after eight years. John couldn’t help his jerk at the bolt of fear that raced through him. “I allowed you to live, fed you well, gave you clean clothes, let you see daylight. You, in return, took advantage of my mercy.”

John stayed silent, refusing to speak of what else Bane had done.

“No words in your defense? Very well. Time for the trial from which I spared you.”

They dragged him forward again, the din he heard growing into a roar. He was uncuffed and forced into a chair. By his side, he felt the feverish heat Bane radiated.

What John could make out of the shouting surrounding him wasn’t flattering or wishing him a long life. Needing an anchor against the smothering wave of hate, John let his shoulder touch Bane’s arm.

The bag was ripped from his head and the infamous Dr. Jonathon Crane appeared in front of him. John startled, pressing harder into Bane’s arm.

Crane flourished the gavel in his hand and drawled, “Name?”

On his right side, Barsad took John’s hand and bent his index finger back until his tendons strained. “Answer,” he ordered.

“Detective John Blake.” John took in the room in a quick glance, and wished he hadn’t. Hearing the people surrounding him had been bad enough without seeing the faces of people wishing for his death.

“Detective? At your age? Hmm, smart, I suppose.” Crane leaned forward to inspect John. “Bit jumpy.”

Bane raised his hands to grip his vest, leaving John leaning against his hip. “Understandably so. He is on trial for very serious crimes.”

“Of course. What was that, again?” Crane seemed disinterested with the proceedings already.

“Oppression of the people,” Bane responded. The former inmates agreed in a swell of outrage. “Attempted escape from custody.”

“How do you plead?”

John didn’t how to answer that. Guilty, just like that? Or innocent, useless defiance and a broken finger? “Uh...”

“Shame.” Crane sneered. “Not so smart.”

“Detective,” Bane warned. Barsad bent his finger a little further back.

“Guilty.” He winced when his voice cracked. The onlookers jeered at his fear.

Crane’s eyes filling with vicious amusement. “Death or exile?”

“If I may, Dr. Crane?” Bane interrupted with a pretense at humility John doubted fooled anyone.

Crane twitched, as if suppressing his first response. “Yes?”

“He is a young man led astray by poor role models,” Bane said, all gravity and sincerity. “I believe he can be rehabilitated. If he stops resisting my authority.”

“Would you like to talk about this problem with authority, Detective?” Unease twisted John’s gut at Crane’s mimicry of sincerity, with madness dancing in his eyes. “Therapy can help.”

“No,” John grunted. Bane leaned forward and murmured into John’s ear. John gritted out, “No, thank you, your honor.”

“I see what you mean.” Crane smiled, slow and nasty. “I always like to see a young man become a productive member of society, so I’ll show leniency in his sentence.”

“You’re not going to kill me?” He hissed as Barsad’s hands tightened again. “Your honor.”

“Detective John Blake, I commute your death sentence to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole and community service as a medical research subject...for me.” Crane’s gavel came down on John’s panicked questions.

Fill: "Tender" 13/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

With deference that strengthened John’s suspicion Crane’s kangaroo court remained more under Bane’s control than they had been told, Crane led Bane away from John’s side to elaborate on his “drug trial”. John strained to hear the conversation over the sound of the audience and the distance.

“New treat...,” he could just make out. “Restrain test sub...all five...*feel*...night...”

Chat finished, both men turned to appraise John. He met Bane’s eyes with a plea in his eyes he couldn't help. He remembered the stories of the people affected by Crane’s past efforts. They said the lucky ones--the ones saved by the Batman’s intervention--had tremors and night terrors. They said the unlucky ones ended up in a long-term coma ward, twitching occasionally as if caught in a bad dream.

Bane met his gazed without pity, as usual, then spoke in a quick, liquid tongue to his men. His words sent a few of them scurrying. Bolts and chains and cuffs erupted from the wall to the left of Crane’s platform with well-oiled speed. A few of the criminals shuffled uneasily at the reminder of how often Bane wanted people restrained.

Barsad dragged John from the chair to the wall. John didn’t fight, but he pushed back against him. The man’s thinner frame hid a strength almost as relentless as Bane’s and soon John was being shackled with the same oddly soft kind of cuffs they used to hose him down. His wrists were stretched far to the side, but not out straight. He had enough slack to sit or kneel, but not stand or lay down.

“Strip him and let the men have him. As long as the damage is not permanent,” Bane ordered. The Blackgate escapees howled their approval. Barsad flicked open a knife. The mercenaries formed around Bane as if to escort him from the court.

John turned wide eyes to Bane. He had stood between John and death twice, and his guards had stood between John and unrestricted violation by the Blackgate prisoners before. The thought of Bane leaving him now, without his minimal protection, terrified John as much as whatever Crane had planned.

“Don’t leave,” John pleaded.

“I have work to do. How much effort should I or my men waste on one insolent bed warmer?”

Part of John, enraged by the description, wanted to tell Bane to go to hell. The part of John rapidly descending into panic wanted his arms free so he could cling to Bane.

“Please don’t leave,” escaped him before he could get his fear under control.

Barsad sliced John’s shirt from his body with efficient flashes of the knife. The former prisoners pressed forwards; the mercenaries faded back.

Bane loomed over John. “You rejected my mercy, John. You have nothing to offer that I cannot take.”

He turned to leave.

“Robin.” Instinct had the word out of John’s mouth before he knew why.


“My true given name. It’s Robin.”

Bane turned back, squeezed the breath out of John with his eyes alone, then stopped Barsad from cutting off John’s undershirt with a raised hand. He signaled to two of his men. They took up a protective position on each side of John. The sudden change of heart had the Blackgate prisoners snarling. Bane silenced them with a much more menacing snarl.

With a last indecipherable look, Bane turned and left. John watched until the crowd swallowed him, trying not to feel like his only friend in the world had left him. John knew he had to accept Bane did protect him, at a price. If he fought that, he might not recover from what happened after. He may have to wait for rescue to come to him, but Bane was the enemy whose interest he needed to use, nothing more. John wouldn’t forget that.

Crane pulled his shirt out of his pants and pinched part of John's belly between his thumb and forefinger. John flinched away. Crane tsked. "Hold still now or I'll double your dose."

He grabbed John's belly again. He pressed a needle free injector into John's skin. The pop of the drug into John's flesh only stung a bit, but John jumped as if he had been shot, adrenaline charging through his system readying him face the unknown.

John tried to regulate his breathing, but he became dizzy to concentrate and the world tilted sideways, then skewed, top heavy, too thick, textured all wrong.

John slumped in his restraints as the court faded from his reality.


Happy Thanksgiving!

Fill: "Tender" 14/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

A/N: Some grossness and horror.

The bullies hunted him through the warren of Gotham’s alleys. John had run for so long he panted and sweated, careening around corners and crashing into walls. His balance had deserted him and trash appeared from nowhere to trip him. Every muscle and joint of his body ached from his helpless flight.

Inevitably, they caught him, played with him and released him, again and again. They cut him with switchblades, clawed at him and tore at his skin. He cursed and fought, but he was as small as he had been as a teen, with none of the muscle he’d developed as a cop.

They laughed at his pathetic efforts, faces taunting, twisting, blending together. When the night fell in the alley, they grew bored with the game and left him. A chill crept in to freeze him to his bones.

He waited for the cold to numb and let him slip away, but he wasn’t allowed that peace. The cold enveloped him like a blanket of needles piercing his skin. Every shudder drove the needles deeper, through his muscles and into bone, until turned him to ice to the marrow of his bones.

But death still didn’t claim him.

The next morning, the inmates John had put behind bars found him, at his adult size again, but far too weak to run or fight. The heat of their hate drove away the cold, melted the ice. They painted him with acid and finished their masterpiece by setting him on fire. They clapped and he screamed.

In the space of a blink of an eye, he found himself in the middle of digging a hole in a park, gagging on the smell of his own charred skin. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make his tortured muscles stop digging. When he finished, roots sprung from the ground and dragged him down. He watched as people he’d known--including Bruce Wayne with a girl on each arm, followed by the Batman, visible half of his face grim--threw a handful of dirt into the grave until they buried him.

John didn’t tell them he wasn’t dead. He didn’t want to lie.

In his grave, fire ants swarmed over his body, into his mouth, his nose, his ears, to sting him inside and out. Even dead, he could still feel. He felt himself rot, bugs finding a home within his corpse, bacteria eating away at his flesh. He tried to scream, but he had no voice.


A bucket of cold water brought John back to awareness. He didn’t really remember when Crane’s poison had worn off. He’d been lost in more terror and agony than he’d ever known, then the horrors had shifted to less vivid, more common nightmares with the court fading in and out periodically.

As the last of the fog lifted from John’s mind, he idly wondered what Gordon would think if he knew John had just had a dream of being berated by his boss and spent the entire lecture grinning like an idiot. *I’m alive; he sees me.*

He blearily raised his head to find Barsad crouching in front of him. For a moment he felt numb, then pain seared through his body and he jerked helplessly in the chains, amplifying the agony, particularly in his shoulder. A long groan, quiet as a sigh, escaped him. He held back any other sound of pain to spare his throat, but he couldn’t stop shuddering even though the movement made him want to scream.

Barsad ran his hands over the shoulder radiating the most pain. A glance told John he’d messed up the shoulder during his hallucinations: dislocated or worse. Each touch and jolt as Barsad explored the joint, then released the cuffs, sent pulsing flares pain through John. When his arms were free and Barsad had satisfied himself with his inspection, he yanked John’s arm back into place with a twist and jerk. A painful, hoarse cry clawed out of John’s throat, more grinding shattered glass than a human sound.

Pulling John’s good, at least better, arm over his shoulder and hooking an am around John’s waist, Barsad hoisted him to his feet and dragged him to the center of the court, carrying most of John’s weight.

John couldn’t make his eyes focus or stop the tremors coursing through his body. Distantly, John suspected he was drooling on himself. He knew he should feel shame, but he only felt numb. The hazy shapes of men surrounded them. Unlike before, they were silent, but from the expectant hush in the huge room, John knew Bane wasn’t ready to allow him to rest yet.

Fill: "Tender" 15/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

The men parted and Bane stepped through in his usual dramatically heightened and terrifying entrance. He came to stand a few feet in front of John. John didn’t need his eyes to focus to recognize his captor or his disappointed, yet tolerant eyes. He’d seen the look before. Despite his desire to maintain some dignity in front of the man who had raped him, John quaked in his presence. He didn’t try to stand on his own feet or raise his eyes to meet Bane’s.

“I believe the former regime you served required a display of remorse to prove rehabilitation.” Bane spread his arms in a magnanimous gesture. “Show me. Then you may thank me for sparing your life again.”

“Fuck you, you sick fuck!” Fury overwhelmed John as if shot into his spine by a live wire. He came alive, thrashing in Barsad’s arms as sobs wracked his body. He was unable to stop either. He didn’t know where the energy or the will came from, and he didn’t care. His voice cracked on every word and his throat felt like he’d been eating glass. He didn’t care about that either. “Go to hell! Who fucking asked you for anything!”

Barsad held him tight, one arm around his waist, one around his throat, cutting off his air and his words. Even with the sudden explosion of emotion, John was too weak to do much more than try to throw his weight around. Quickly spent and out of air, he collapsed in Barsad’s grip, tears still falling.

“Ah, there it is, that fire of yours. I was afraid I might have extinguished it too soon.” His eyes crinkled, but an edge to his voice warned of his capricious nature. John ignored the warning and turned his face away.

“Do as you’re told,” Barsad said into John’s ear. His tone was quiet, but stony.

John shuddered hard, but still said nothing.

“You truly wish for his anger?” The tiniest touch of concern in Barsad’s usually direct, hard voice broke John.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, unable to bring himself to give Bane more, no matter what plans he might have for John. He forced the tears back. “Thank you.”

“Better. Come here.” Bane pointed at the floor in front of him.

Barsad released him. John stumbled, swayed on his feet, but didn’t fall. Almost groaning at the strain, John shuffled to the spot.

“Kneel,” Bane commanded with narrowed, glinting eyes.

Slowly, painfully, John went to his knees.

“Yield your will to me and I'll forgive your transgression,” Bane offered. “Will you serve me, Robin?”

“I won’t betray Gordon or Gotham,” tumbled from John's mouth. He looked up into eyes that burned. “I won’t kill for you.”

John expected the blow that flattened him. A brutal kick to the abdomen followed, leaving him curled in agony. Squatting at his side, Bane took a fistful of John's hair and drew their faces close. [A/N: Love this pic: by liduke]

“Of course not. You do not have the heart of a soldier. Soldiers kill. You have no value to my mission. You are a gift, a plaything.”

John bristled at the description. Bane shook him, then flung him to the floor. He turned away and barked an order John couldn’t understand.

The men--now his vision was improving, John could see they wore red bandanas and stood with the readiness of soldiers; this was not business for the eyes of the freed prisoners--separated to make room for a group of mercenaries and prisoners to enter the circle.

John recognized the prisoners with a nasty shock. Two of the GCPD’s youngest, rawest recruits. They made John look like a veteran. They hadn’t been in the sewers when the others became trapped because they were too new to be sent. During the occupation, Gordon had these two, Jordan Millar and Ali Saleh, pretending to be civilians in a neighborhood too peaceful for one of the precious few cops to watch and too poor to attract the “revolutionaries”. Few in Gotham outside their friends and family would have even known they were cops, but Miranda might have been at the meeting when Gordon told them where to wait for orders.

The recruits were bound and gagged, but not blindfolded. They stared at John in shock, which shifted from relief to horror to relief before the overriding terror washed all other emotion from their faces.

OP (Anonymous) Expand
A/N (Anonymous) Expand

Fill: "Tender" 16/? (Bane/John Blake: non-con, kidnapping, torture)

A/N: I still have a lot going on, but I took some time to finish this part. I'll try to keep at it.

“I asked you a question,” Bane reminded him, cordially. Two mercenaries leveled guns at the bound captives’ heads.

John looked away from the men. He didn’t want to see their reaction. “I’ll serve you.”

Bane moved closer to John, wound his fingers in John’s hair and pulled John’s head closer to his crotch. His next order was low and intimate. “Show me how well you can serve.”

John’s hand shook as he raised his good arm, not just from exhaustion. Until now, John only had never take Bane into his mouth, had never worked to give him pleasure at his own expense. John unfastened Bane’s pants, freeing his half hard dick. Taking himself in hand, Bane rubbed the head over John’s lips. John allowed his mouth to fall open reluctantly.

Bane guided his dick into John’s mouth. He took as much as possible, knowing it would be over sooner if he made it good for Bane, but he couldn’t take much before he gagged and hastily pulled back. Bane didn’t let him get far.

With John’s inexperienced, fumbling stimulation, pushing Bane closer to his completion took too long. John feared he’d never manage and Bane made no move to help. Tears fell from John’s eyes again at his fatigue and pain, and the humiliation of the obscene show for his peers. Even if they had averted their eyes, they couldn’t help but hear the sounds.

He was almost relieved when Bane’s hand settled at the back of his neck and pressed him forward. Above him, he heard Bane murmur, voice slurred by pleasure, “A shame we will not have more time together, my Robin.”

Then Bane began to thrust.

Bane shoved right through John’s gag reflex, leaving his throat to spasm uselessly and painfully. John tried to pull back. When that failed, he fought to get out of Bane’s grip, despite the threat to the cops. The instinctive fear of suffocation was too much. The pressure on the back of John’s neck increased. His fingers dug into Bane’s thigh as he struggled against the intrusion.

The depth of Bane’s thrusts forced John to fight for breath when Bane pulled back, while his gut insisted on pushing in the opposite direction. Suddenly Bane withdrew far enough for John to drag in a ful breath.

He realized too late the reason Bane had pulled back and aspirated Bane’s come. Falling forward, he coughed desperately and his stomach heaved in rebellion.

Come and bile mixed with the tears, mucus and sweat dripping down his chin onto his neck and soaking into his filthy undershirt. Bane’s eyes took in the mess he’d made of John with obvious satisfaction. John wrapped his good arm around his stomach and let his head fall forward.

Bane leisurely tucked himself back into his pants.

“Bring him,” he ordered finally as he turned to leave.

Finding what was probably the very last of his strength in a sudden rush of worry, John tried to elude the hands reaching for him. He croaked, “Wait. Wait.”

Bane turned, slowly. John shuddered under his heavy gaze, but he made himself move to gesture weakly at the cops. Where he thought they still were. He hadn’t looked in their direction since before the blowjob.

“Will you continue to behave, Robin?” Bane’s eyes drooped slightly as he lingered on the word “behave”, savoring it.

John nodded, even as a flash of fearful heat pulsed through him.

“Good. Release them.” John still couldn’t look, but he listened to the sounds of muffled protests as the men were moved away from him.

Harsh hands yanked John to his feet, too rough to be Barsad, who had handled John with a surprising amount of consideration for a murderer. After being dragged a few steps, blackness curled around the edge of his vision, then swirled in to take his senses away.


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