âNo sin, no sinnersâ.
When Alfred leaves thereâs not enough prayers for how much you ask him to take you with him. Of course he couldnât do it, and Bruce would never allow it. Even if he had no right over it, over you. A brother who was gone the majority of your life and only when he came back to play villains and heroâs to recluse himself for the better of seven years in a grief. Leaving you once again alone, as lonely as one can get with a living dead under your roof.
Thereâs no tears left by the time Alfred is gone. No more sorrows as Bruce decides is better to simply go face Bane alone, believing the word of Selena, the words of a woman who would trade him like he meant nothing for the safety of a false promise; and Bruce, in his anger his bitterness had accepted it, gone and left you, left you alone, his ego and cockiness probing to be fatal when he was taken down, when he leaves you behind, alone in the manor. No doubt Talia had already given Bane and his men the location of the house, the location of where you were.
It comes as no surprise when they break into the house. His men rough and menacing, grabbing you as they find you, no time to hide, no time to react as they grab you. One hand on your arm the other on your head as one of them, a man with blue eyes and a stubble, grabs you, pushing your head on the nearest table. A grunt of protest escaping your lips as you try to kick back in vain, the man lifts his radio to his mouth, a quick âwe got herâ is all he says before it all goes dark.
Most of his life had proven to be mistake after mistake brought on by a life of high egos and hard heads. Mistakes that he came to recognize now, as Bane holds him over his body, his knee about to collide with his back as his last words finally sink in. âDonât worry, Iâll take good care of your sister.â
Your head is fuzzy, throbbing, all around you is dark, the room is hot, and as much as you try to make sense barely anything seems familiar. The man standing by your feet looks down at you as you move, turning around as he speaks. âShe is awake bossâ he says, your eyes following the trace of his as they land on the figure crouching down on the floor. His back is the first thing you notice, big, wide, and imposing. A scar that looks deep runs from his neck to under the seam of his pants. He needs no introduction, you are more than sure of who he is. Bane. Bruce had rambled on about him, he had taken his strength for granted and it had costed him everything.
âI told Mr. Wayne you would be my most honored guest. And I intend to keep in my word.â He says, his index finger pointing at me, the tone of his voice, it borderlines in sarcasm and the resonance of it due to the mask only amplifies the figure he presents. He knows who Batman is, that much is clear, as to what he will do with you is still a mystery, a game he will play until he becomes bore and goes to find a new toy.
Your eyes look up and down his body, his mask, your breathes coming in harsh puffs of air. âYou are not scare of meâ he states, although it sounds more like a question but you both know thereâs no questions when it comes to him. âGood, it will make this all the more easierâ He says, tilting his head and joining his hands together before he crouches down in front of you, his hand moving to your face, low in your jaw and for a brief of a second you are sure this is how you die. But nothing comes, he just takes a good look at you before telling one of his goons to lock you in one of the rooms down there and keep an eye on you at all times. In a sense it could be so much easier to hate him if he wasnât such a different character. He had kept good on his promise, none of his men had so much as to lay a finger on you, they kept you fed, they kept you clean and with enough dignity to not try to throw yourself off one of the multiple bridges in here.
Bane didnât show up often, you ever barely saw him, barely ever heard of him. This men as brave and cuntless as they claimed to be were still as brute as they came when it came to basic things. Basic things like hygiene, like cooking, like healing wounds. Their organization system down here was a mess, and food came only when they remembered to eat.
It doesnât take long for chaos to begin, thereâs always someone, always a loose end you need to dispose of. All it took was one mistake. Getting out of the room you were locked in to go to the bathroom, the only one around, Bane had made sure out of the kindness of his heart that none of his men would go near you while you cleaned yourself. But thereâs always one, one that doesnât listen, one that tries to play it. The man approached you, he had been the one in charge of watching over you for the day, his eyes raking over your body, his hands lingering on your arm as he guided you towards the bathroom. It didnât take long for him to try something, to try to grab you. A kick to his groin he didnât expect bought you enough time to run, to run as fast you could until another of the goons stopped you, taking you directly to Bane, your disobedience wouldnât go unpunished.
âWhy are you here?â Bane asks, turning his head around slightly, his eyes on you. âAnswer little bitchâ the man barks, his foot pushing onto your back, a grunt escaping your lips as your body jerks forward. âI wasnât asking herâ Bane tells him, his tone ice cold, gripping the man by his neck before he speaks.
âBossâ he begins to say before the forceful push of fingers against his skin makes him go quiet.
âWhy were you running Miss Wayne?â Bane asks, the tittle mocking on his tone. You donât reply, your eyes cast towards the floor, looking at his booth, suddenly too interested in the shade of black they are.
âI asked you a question little one⊠did the cat got your tongue or should I get it myself?â He asks, the cracking of his voice through the mask feels like thunder in the air. Swallowing before finally looking up at him, meeting his eyes before you speak, a part of you sure he will have your tongue either way.
âOne of the man tried to grope me.â His eyes donât change expression at your words but his head nods along, as if he was really interested in your opinion. âWhich one?â Is all he says, his hand still around the goons neck, it doesnât seem to even cost him a breath to hold a man up in the air.
âI donât know⊠he was at my door this morning.â You say, trying to recall anything to give away his identity. But Bane knows who, dropping the man on the floor and grabbing your arm to lift you up, dragging you along with him as he walks back to the hall where the rest of his mercenaries are, awaiting for what they think will be punishment for you.
âBrothersâ the crackling noise of his voice breaks through the noise, his hands intertwining in front of him as he speaks. âThis is my guest, we wouldnât want her to think of us as savages nowâ he says, turning to you as he speaks, thereâs a tension in the air, his words may seem measured and calm but thereâs the underline of a promise there. âCome forward boy, let me see the hands she complained aboutâ he says, the man who had tried to touch you moving up front, a slight fear in his eyes as he looks up at Bane. âYou will be the perfect example. Now since you are so eager to be noticed.â Bane speaks, looking at the man, his eyes twisting slightly, a rage inside that seems to always be brewing.
âcut off his hands, let it be a lesson for all of you.â He says, turning around, the man protest, tries to plea but you find yourself looking away, the sound of a blade through skin and bone making your ears ring, your blood rushing cold. They knew now, not to touch you, not to look your way, you were Baneâs property, for whatever use that may had been it was common knowledge for everyone but you.
âThere was no need..â you begin to say when he halts to a stop, your body almost colliding with the impossible expand of his back as he turns around, a head or two taller than you. âWould you rather I let them all touch you then?â He asks, thereâs a borderline note of sarcasm in his words, the edge of a joke that never comes out but only a fool would know better than to ever disobey what he says.
Your eyes cast down, looking at the floor, he is right, he always is, in way, in this madness, he is the boss, the alpha, and if thereâs one thing you know for certain is that no one here will touch whatâs his. It isnât much of a choice really. Bruce is gone, he left you, and as much of grief you want to give him thereâs simply no more left, not when he has left you one too many times before, when you have already grieved him one too many times before. Seems in the end he was always the fastest of you both.
âWhat will you do with me?â You ask, words that leave you before you can measure the repercussions of asking him. The beat of your heart too loud in your ears. You need to know, need to find out what he has plan for you before you loose whatâs left of your sanity, and if thereâs no use for you, then you must make one, find one before he decides to throw you like a bone for his dogs to eat. The choices are few but they are clear, Bruce left you to his mercy, but maybe it will be what saves you in the end.
He simply looks at you, his head turning to side eye you, thereâs in reality no use to your existence other than of torturing what was left of the Batman, you have nothing to offer him, nothing he can think of, but maybe that is the problem, he canât think of anything, because his mind has been clouded lately, has been on the edge of a knife. He knows, he knows how Talia thinks, how she acts, he knows by now she didnât take any consideration into his feelings when she accepted Wayneâs offer, when she so smoothly leaned into his bed. Her point had been to hurt Wayne but in the end, the betrayal had tasted bitter in his tongue, she was all he had for certain, all he had ever needed. But that was the funny thing of love. It was only him loving her, feeding himself off the promise of her touch for far too long, a touch she gave to keep him in control, a wild animal on a cage is still just as wild, if only ever more dangerous.
Bane leans down on his desk, one of his hands lift to signal something and one of his man comes to move you, get you out of his sight. It wouldnât do you good to irritate him. The walk to the room is quiet, but you notice none of the man even lift his eyes to look your way. The lesson was taught.
A sigh escapes your lips as the door behind you closes, the room feels slightly cold, it smells of humidity, but all in all it could be worse. Thereâs a bed with enough blankets to not be cold, and at least thereâs light. Itâs better than sleeping in between all the mercenaries as you have seen them do. Itâs torturous, maddening, to be locked in this place with nothing to do, no hope to even escape with how tight he runs this place. And certainly no hero to come rescue you, perhaps this time there wonât be salvation, but if you must live in this hell you will make sure is the devil who protects you, there werenât virgins in hell for a reason, they all needed to give up something to be saved.
The closest to freedom you will ever get will come from how far he lets off your leash, and Bane doesnât seem the kind to let his animals run wild. You only need a chance, a moment, let him find the use in you, let him find a purpose to keep you here. He is a man after all, and thereâs only one thing that can make a man grow weak, even if none will admit it.
Opportunities donât arise in a place like this, and so you must create them yourself. Opening the door to your room the guard informs you is time to bathe, grabbing the one towel you have been given you make your way to the common bathroom. Itâs disgusting, dirty and beyond repugnant but itâs better than nothing. You have been wearing the same clothes for days, weeks even; turning around before you enter the bathroom your head turns to the man, fingers crossed and a silent prayer that this action will set in motion a bigger way for you.
âcould you ask Bane for clothes? I cannot keep wearing the same ones over and overâ
âYou are always free to walk around naked sweetheartâ the man smirks, clearly not taking you seriously. âMaybe we should ask Bane what he thinks of the idea, I know he will be thrilled to know what his men are suggestingâ you speak, a calm victory when the manâs smirk drops off his face, if the hand incident had taught them anything it was not to mess with what Bane was keeping safe. âWill you ask him or would you rather I walk to his office, naked, as you suggested and see what he thinks about it?â You ask, a condescending tone to your voice.
You arenât sure what you would prefer, if the clothes or the nakedness, the second one would make this all the more easier.
The man speaks on the radio, his voice echoing to Bane my request, and you know you have won when he rolls his eyes as he speaks âBoss says to take you to his office, letâs goâ he begins walking, making sure you are moving in front of him, the end of his gun always within reach of your back.
Two knocks come from the man before he is told to come in, pushing you in slightly as he stays outside, sending you into the mouth of the wolf.
âI hear the little bird is complainingâ His metallic voice reaches your ears, his hands on the table as he looks over some papers.
âI canât keep wearing this same clothes over againâ you say, the tone of your voice slightly shaking until you find your footing. How bad could it be, how bad of a person would it make you, desperation was a funny thing when your life hanged by a threat.
His eyes move to you, and before he can speak your words cut through him, âI could always parade myself naked around, I donât think your men would mind although some of them may loose more hands.â Thereâs a confidence in your voice that only fear can bring out. His eyes move to your face, staying there as he studies you. He is well aware you arenât bluffing, he sits back down on his chair, his hands resting on his desk, fingers intertwined. âI didnât think the little bird had it in her to make demands, not that she is in a position to place themâ he speaks, calm, collected.
Your hands are sweating, your heart has either stopped beating or is beating so hard you can no longer feel it.
He gets up, walking around his desk, heavy footsteps resonating in the room, the hand at the front of his desk moving to grip your chin, gripping it tight, forcing your face to look up at him. âThereâs no free entrance at this circus little one, you have to find a way to pay or you are outâ He says, and you know in his words he means that even if he has you alive for a reason, he could easily throw you aside, find a darker future for you. Your eyes remain fixed on his, thereâs a burning hatred festering behind them, a festering need to hurt that you canât seem to place or hold. His hand moves, from your chin, slightly making their way over your jaw, resting on your cheek, his thumb settling under your bottom lip. He is testing, seeing how far you will allow, even when you both know he has all the power here.
Is this truly what you have come to be? What has come to be of you? The whore of a criminal, but who was anyone to judge you, if it meant staying alive, if it meant keeping some of the sanity you were slowly loosing.
When you donât move, donât flinch away or avert your eyes from him, he takes it as his sign, the sign to see just how much advantage he can have, how deep could the wound he wants to inflict be. An eye for an eye. Bruce had Talia, now he would have you. The way he could taste the sweet pain it would cause you. His hand moves softly, the feel of his callous fingers on your cheeks make something akin to tears gather in your eyes that he gracefully ignores. His hand moves to the side of your face, a perfect placement between your neck and the bottom of your head, and he pushes down, his other hand moving to the belt of his pants. You arenât stupid, you know what he wants, what he is asking of you, and you know thereâs a way out, refuse him and he will leave you alone, lock in that room where you wonât see another day. He pushes you lower until your knees hit the floor, his hand unbuttoning his pants, pulling himself out of his underwear, leaving it resting against the black cargo pants he is wearing as his hand moves to the opposite side of your head, both of his hands engulfing your head, a silent thread, that if you so much as to try anything he will undoubtedly break your neck. And you donât doubt it, you donât doubt he wouldnât even consider it twice before snapping you in two.
Your eyes move to his, not out of obedience but out of silent permission to take him in your hand, he looks at you, expectantly, guiding your head slowly, his thumb moving under your bottom lip to feel as you open your mouth. Your hand moves to grip him, semi hard, the foreskin hiding the bead of precum already at the tip, thicker than you thought but what could you expect for a man his size. You are terrified, terrified of not liking it, of gagging, of not being able to handle the taste. God knows when he took a shower last.
It comes as a surprise when you finally wrap him around your hand and put your lips to him, itâs not exactly flowers and candy but it isnât as displeasing as you thought it would be. Slightly salty, a little tart as you push with your hand his foreskin slightly back to push your tongue under him, cushioning him as you took him further into your mouth, the cracking sound of his breathing coming through the mask, the rhythm of it changed. His eyes donât leave yours, his chest rises and falls as you look up at him, shifting on your knees slightly to get more comfortable. He urges your head forward when he decides you are taking too long to do it yourself, pushing all the way in until his head hits the back of your throat, a grunt escaping him as he throws his head back slightly. You can feel him growing in your mouth, stretching your lips around him as he pushes further down, and it takes all of you not to gag, your hand moving to his thigh, the muscle taunt.
You move your head back, letting the tip come to your lips before continuing down until all of him is sheltered in your throat, tears and gag be damned, everything be damned when his neck looks so big and his veins pop so deliciously. You can feel the pulse of his cock, the underside of it protuberant with veins, now that he is fully hard you can feel the way it curves to the side, pushing into your cheek. His stomach heaves with every breath he takes, a visible vein traveling from the low cut of his hips to the inside of his vest. Your mouth keeps moving, taking every detail of him you can. Thereâs a low growing sensation rising from your core, a wetness forming between your legs, and itâs not precisely out of want but out of the power trip it gives you to have such a powerful man rocking his hips into your mouth, the soft hairs at the base of his crotch caressing your nose.
Your hands move higher on his legs, moving to his hips, exposed by his pants, your nails softly tickling his skin and a broken grunt escapes him through the mask, his hands squeezing agonizingly hard at your head, pushing you to move faster, he can feel himself growing hotter, the tingling sensation in his lower back warning him, the tightening of his balls as he grunts, sloppily guiding your head now, controlling how much and how deep you drag him as he grunts, beginning to come inside of your mouth, pushing your head all the way until you feel his pelvis at your nose as he keeps pushing, making sure you take all of it, you swallow all of him. His fingers involuntarily had started to knead at your scalp, stopping and pulling you off of him roughly by your hair. He can see the shine of saliva and his cum in your lips as you stare at him, waiting, expecting to know if you passed the imaginary test.
He moves his hands from you, slight out of breath to he speaks, putting himself back into his pants.
âClean yourself, you will have some clothes tomorrow.â
Somehow the dynamic changes, your meals get delivered in better timing, your showers are slightly longer, and from time to time one of his goons come to get you, to take you to his office where you spend the next couple of minutes praying on your knees. Never getting anything in return, not physical at least but you are okay with that, or so you tell yourself; until you find it hard, hard to focus, to concentrate, every time you shower your mind starts to slip, to think of him, of his callous hands. Your mind plays tricks on you, everytime he is inside your mouth wondering if maybe today is the day he will give something in return, that perhaps if you do it extra nice he will reward you. How indeed the roles have twisted. It must be the weeks piling up in solitude down here.
You donât see him for nearly a week, a week where you eat, shower, sleep and repeat. Not so much of a word from the goon at your door, not that you would ask him anyways, but you have to wonder if itâs that he found another entertainment or that he simply lost interest. Itâs neither or, he is simply too busy, the expansion of his plan moving forward, his men hard at work, Gotham is slowly falling into his hands, into despair. So it comes as a surprise to you when you are awaken in the middle of the night. One of his men opening the door, barging in to get you. Hauling you off the bed before making you walk barefoot through the hallways, shirt you use to sleep in hanging off your shoulder, sleep in clear in your face as you make your way to a place you have never been before, a door that you know for a fact isnât his office. Two knocks rasp against the door before his voice comes through, the metallic sound of it sending chills down your spine as the man opens the door and pushes you in.
Itâs his room you realize, looking around, itâs cold, dark and empty. Only a bed, big enough to fit him, a desk and a chair. A door is adjacent to it, a bathroom you presume, but what catches your attention is the man sitting at the foot of the bed. His pants the only thing on his body beside his mask. He is looking down onto the floor, his knees parted and his hands on each of them, waiting for your place in between them. Itâs a silent transaction this time, he doesnât speak, barely breathes as you kneel down, waiting for the permission his eyes give you before opening his pants. He is too quiet, so calm that something must be very wrong. He doesnât usually call for you at night, even less in the middle of it and you know better than to ask him. Swallowing softly as you begin to work, to lick him, suck him, anything to take the frown off his face. But he doesnât even seem to be enjoying it. His hand moves to your hair, pulling you off of him, your eyebrows kneading together in a silent question, but he doesnât say anything, simply pulling you to him, your body in between his legs, one of his hands in your lower back, a sight that sounds too tired leaving his mask. âLay downâ is all he says, and a small fear settles in your bones, this isnât how you want him to do it, this isnât what you thought about.
But you know better than to ask, simply laying down on the bed, watching as he puts himself back into his pants, moving over to the door that leads to the bathroom. He returns not long after, mask still on his face, his pants still on, but he removes his boots, laying down on the bed, next to you, he doesnât touch you, doesnât even look your way but you understand, to a certain level that maybe this is the closest to affection he has ever received, even if he has to force it out of you. Turning to your side you close your eyes, it feels tense, the air slightly charged of an unknown feeling you donât feel ready to disclose, words you want to speak but your mouth refuses to ask. Sleep soon claims you, taking you down as he looks at you, looks over your sleeping form, taking the details on your face. You would never know this, not that you would ask and he certainly wouldnât tell you, but that night, along with whatâs left of his humanity, he had lost part of the sanity he had left; she was never going to take him with her, she was ready to let him die, to leave him behind when the bomb detonated, Talia never meant to take him, it had all been a game she played, of soft words and night shared, she only needed him to build this empire of chaos for her, never planing to allow him to live it by her.
He falls asleep to festering thoughts of murder and chaos, of hurt and betrayal. But the dreams do not appear that night, the nightmares, the pit, the woman and the child, those ghosts of the past donât visit him tonight. The only thing he can feel his the soft way you breathe, the way you smell, the warmth of your body, it makes him wish you were to never leave his bed, to never leave his room. He wants to lock you in, to keep you here where you can never betray him, where no matter what he knows he will always have you. A simple dream, an innocent one that men like him wonât ever be allowed. He wants to touch you, he craves it every time your body is between his legs, down on your knees, but he doesnât deserve it, you didnât belong to the darkness, you didnât belong to the pain he knew his world brought, but still, he is selfish, selfish enough to keep you, but the one thing he wonât allow himself is to touch you, to erase Taliaâs touch out of his body, even if to her he was simply a means to an end. But he knows deep down, somewhere on whatâs left of his sanity, of his heart, there shouldnât be sinners in a house of God, the way his hands shouldnât be allowed to worship your body.
Awakening in his bed had been confusing, it smelled of him, sweat and aftershave. Looking around you sit up, noticing that he is gone, the room is empty, but thereâs a tray of food in the desk and you can see your things around his room, your shoes, the few items of clothes you had, all located somewhere within this room.
Moving out of the bed you slowly make your way to the bathroom, cleaner than the common one, few items of clothing thrown around the floor, a few personal objects around the sink. Thereâs an extra toothbrush, and soap, frowning you realize is the one you had back in your room, the one he had given you when he brought you down here.
Thereâs a slight tremor to your movements as you open the door, peaking your head outside to find one of his men there, âWhy⊠why are my things in here?â You ask, as if he would know the answer, but he simply shakes his head, asking through the radio something before answering you. âYou are moving to this room.â He says matter of factly, moving to Banes room with him you assume, because otherwise it wouldnât make any sense. Nodding your head you move back inside the room, looking around, he has few books, barely any but one of them calls your attention, enough to distract you, it was better than the nothingness you had before.
Bane doesnât go to the room during the day, until very late at night. You donât actually see him and not that you would complain, but thereâs a certain warmth, a certain feeling that wraps around your body when the occasion occurs, when you wake up so late into the night the sunrise could be close by and you feel him, next to you, his arm next to your body, almost touching you, but the clear weight of his body on the bed is present next to you. The feel of him, warm, his breathing soft and for those seconds some resemblance of safety, of normality comes over you.
Strangely enough he hasnât asked for you anymore, either too busy with his plans or simply not needing it, or receiving it from someone else, your mind tells you, unlikely but always a possibility. It makes a slow bitter taste simmer deep in your stomach, he isnât yours by any means, and is not as if you want him to be, but the idea of someone else seeing him as you did brings festering feelings you donât want to dwell on. It must be the entrapment, the claustrophobic nature of being in the same place for weeks on end, what is making your sanity escape out the door, what is making you miss him, crave the affection even as slim as it was. His threatening touches feeling like a feast when you have been starved of affection for so long.
The soft sound of water awakes you, the room dark except for the soft caress of yellow coming off the semi open bathroom door. Then you hear it, water running from the faucet most likely, and the sound of someone spitting reaches your ears. Spitting. Spitting. Spitting off their mouth. Bane canât spit, unlessâŠ.
Unless his mask was off, his mask, he had taken it off. Itâs a realization that shouldnât make your stomach burn in nerves and your toes go numb. Trying to regulate your breathing as to not give away you have awaken but in the end is unlike you will fall back asleep now. It smells slightly of soap, of water, a humidity in the air that gives away he must have taken a shower. And it makes all kind of thoughts run through your head. His footsteps approach the bed as he turns off the light in the bathroom, your cue to close your eyes again.
âI know you are awake little birdie.â He says, his voice sounds soft, unfiltered, his words slightly slurred, slightly mingled.
Swallowing you open your eyes, the room is so dark it makes no difference. Turning around you try to figure out where he is standing but itâs in vain; âdoes it hurt?â You ask him softly, your voice heavy with sleep. âTo have it off I meanâ you clarify, but he knows exactly what you had meant.
âIt does,â he says, calm, softly, itâs the most the two of you have talked in weeks. Moving around in the bed, feeling your way around with your hand to try and find the edge, you kneel, getting up to try and reach his height.
âYou are quiet tonight.â Itâs the closest attempt to a joke you can make, out of place, with no humor but this is the first time you have seen him in weeks and you donât want to let him slip through your fingers for god knows how long again.
âIs the lack of entertainment a complain you want to place?â He asks, the note of sarcasm his mask provides is gone, the electric feeling he gives disappears, leaving behind the dry air of his words. You shake your head, aware that he canât see you but it felt almost natural to do so. âA man could think that you miss him.â He says, and you can feel his eyes looking at you, searching your face, the darkness will never be an impediment for him.
âCan I touch you?â Your words are soft, your breath warm agains his chest, your hand already half way in the air, moving slow enough to give him time to stop you if he wants. But he doesnât move, doesnât even flinch when your hand makes contact with his face, touching his cheek, your fingers slotting perfectly around his jaw. The skin feels rough, bumpy, like ragged scars that never fully healed. Your thumb moves, moving to his chin, finding soft broken lips, full and lumpy, and he swallows when the pad of your finger finds his bottom lip, caressing the marred flesh, the nerves under his skin crying in protest.
âCarefulâ he barks out, not loud enough to startle you but enough to give you a warning.
âGo back to sleep little bird.â He commands, grabbing your wrist, removing your hand from his face, turning around to get his mask and once again securing it over his face, the hum of his breathing audible in the air.
He begins to move towards the bed, and you move away, moving to your side of it, laying on your side, the bed dipping slightly when he lays down on it. He stays quiet, you donât know if he is awake but you wonât check either, but as for you, you remain alert, all through the night, your fingers itch and your mind wonât quiet down. All of your thoughts are consumed by him.
His mood isnât the best since the day started, and it for sure soured now that Talia walked in his makeshift office. His eyes drop at her presence, disdain and some measure of pain tantalizing his mind. But he knows, he knows deep down he could never lay a finger on her, not even if she threw him out the board like he meant nothing.
âI will be taking the girl with me, I have plans for herâ she says, and he knows she means plans to make her an example, to display her corpse or worse, when he doesnât reply right away, like a good dog on a leash her eyebrows frown in his direction. Suspicion crawling into her mind.
âI am afraid that is not happening.â His tone is cold, colder that she has ever heard him speak to her. It makes the nerves on her stomach twist, the cruel realization that she is loosing her grip on him settling in her bones.
âYou are giving her to me, she is part of our plan, our fire, my love we need to destroy all the loose ends.â She tries, softening her words, her eyes soft, her hands moving to his over his desk, but his fingers donât even flinch, they donât grab hers to hold them as they used to. She is slowly but surely loosing him.
âYou are not taking her. I have business to attend, you better take your leave.â It shocks her, makes her blood run cold. Her protector, her safety, leaving her behind, she has lost the ability to use him to her every whim and desire.
She leaves, anger coursing through her, a pain she hasnât expected settles in her chest. She leaves the hideout, and she knows better than betray him, than to do anything stupid now, he is rabid, and pained, an unpredictable dog that could end up costing her everything.
He sits back on his chair, hands over his head, his fingers intertwined. A deep sigh leaving his mask, he has come to realize the pain of Taliaâs betrayal has dulled to a calm numbing sensation. Your words from the other night coming back to his mind, your hands on his face. Itâs been a long time since anyone has touched his bare face, since anyone has felt his skin. It sends a chill down his spine to think of you, to think of how you came to him, how slowly that fear you harbored for him has transformed into something else, into a feeling he doesnât dare put even near close to caring. He would never deserve to touch you, to feel the softness of your body, the warmth it could provide him.
It makes him numb, it makes him worried, worried that your presence has become a testament of his sanity. If he were to ever loose control of your company, it would send him into a spiral he isnât ready to discuss yet.
He returns to the room late at night, tired, his body aches and his head throbs. He removes his mask, he needs air, real air. Making his way to the bathroom he looks over at you. He knows you are awake as soon as he enters the room again, even in the darkness he can feel your breathing. You were waiting for him, a softness to your voice as you speak.
âBane?â Itâs the first time you have said his name, your voice soft, a whisper. He wants to pull away, to simply stop your hand from reaching him but itâs too late, the soft caress on his skin is like electrical shock through his system.
âLittle birdâŠâ he tries to warn you, his voice tired, rough, a pain in it only those who have had nothing can understand.
Your hand moves lower, tracing the shape of his neck, your fingers meeting the dip of his collarbones, your eyes never leaving his. His throat swells around a swallow, your hands tracing soft patterns over his chest, his shirt long forgotten. Your other hand settles on his cheek, your face moving towards his, slowly, giving him time to retract if he wants to, but he doesnât, he allows your closeness, your nose caressing his and the soft breath that escapes him when your lips meet his bumpy ones is not lost to you. For such a powerful man he is sure as heavens falling apart in your arms.
His kiss is soft, shy almost, his lips unsure of how to move and it dwells on you that perhaps he hasnât been kissed many times before. Your body presses against his, his hand moving painfully slow to your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt, like he is scare he will hurt you. Your lips open slightly, your tongue tracing his bottom one, waiting for him to allow you in; the hot soft muscle meets yours, his kiss is slow, sensual even, the way his tongue shyly pulls you into his mouth, like a trap in which at any moment he will snap his teeth and bite you. But it doesnât happen, he simply kisses you, he kisses you like a man who has been starved of water for too long. He lets you undress him, he lets you feel him, he allows you to tear him open, skin to bone, taking all the slow pieces of him, destroying him until he is nothing in your hands, and only then, he feels at home.
When your hand move to the button of his pants a low growl escapes his lips. You pull him towards you, crawling backwards on the bed and bringing his body down with you. His arms cage in your face, your hands working to open his pants. Itâs a silent exchange, words are not needed, not when his eyes speak so loud. His hands move under your shirt, feeling the skin of your stomach, finding their path forward towards your breast, squeezing the flesh, a groan escapes him, and he isnât prepared for how delicious you would feel in his hands. Wiggling his hips to help you put his pants down, taking his underwear down with them. His lips find your neck, soft kisses and nips marking your skin, his hand moving to remove your shirt, the need to feel your skin against his overwhelming his senses. He moves away from you simply to remove his pants completely. Moving over you again, this time completely naked as his hands move over your thighs, gripping the edge of your underwear and pulling it down, his eyes trained on the treasure he finds there, his pupils dilating when he sees the shine of your wetness for him.
He moves over you again, his hands holding your leg, the muscles of your thigh burning as he makes space for his hips in between your legs. His thumb moves over the skin under your navel, before moving lower, the pad of it softly grazing over you, feeling how moist and hot it is. Your hand moves next to your face, your finger catching in between your lips as you look at his hand moving over you, your eyes half lidded as he teases your clit, tracing a line up and down over it with his finger.
A whimper escapes you, your eyes closing when his pointer finger enters you, a groan escaping his lips when he feels the tightness inside of you.
âThis is what you do little bird, you rip open whatâs left of my sanity.â He growls, his middle finger joining the other inside, opening them in a scissoring motion as your back arches slightly.
For how gentle he is being he is awfully impatient, the vein on his neck prominent as he moves over you better, his eyes moving to your face, he doesnât want to miss any of your facial expressions as he grabs himself with his other hand, opening his fingers once again inside of you before he pushes them down, stretching you open, pushing himself inside of you at the same time that his fingers remain buried in your heat. A cry leaves your lips as he begins to settle in, the burn of the stretch is a maddening threat between pleasure and pain, your hand flying to his forearm as he keeps pushing in, only stopping when he is settled completely in. He loves the way your face breaks, how your eyebrows are furrowed. He moves his fingers out of you, leaning over you completely as his hand holds your face, the other moving over your head and his lips collide with yours as his hips begin to move, hard and deep, he takes himself all the way to the tip before slamming in again, and the weight of him over you feels suffocating, his hand moving down your back, until he finds the curve of your lower back, his hands gripping the skin there, drawing you to him, deepening himself as much as he can into you.
Itâs a pleasure he hadnât experienced before, the soft cries and quiet touches, how your face breaks and you put your hands over his shoulders, how he can basically feel himself so deep inside of you he swears he can feel your heartbeat every time he thrust deep into you. Itâs nothing like he has done before, with Talia it had always been fast and hard movements, no soft touches, no kisses, no cries of pleasure. It makes him feel like he has missed the point of living until he stumbled upon you.
âLight in my eyesâŠâ he murmurs as you writhe absolutely wrecked under him. His lips on your neck, on your cheek, on your mouth, claiming you in a possessive kiss that threatens to break you apart.
His hand moves down your stomach, his fingers trapping your clit between them as he pinches it, a cry escaping you as he massages it, playing with it, feeling how you squeeze him, how you tighten around him.
âDâŠdonât stop⊠gods donât stopâ you beg him, feeling the coiling sensation rising inside of you, the warmth threatening to spill and take you over the edge.
Baneâs eyes never leave your face, a growl adorning his lips as his fingers move, the muscles in his arm taunt and his hips relentlessly connect to yours. He feels it, how you squeeze him, how your body swallows him in and refuses to let him go, your back arching off the bed as you come apart in his arms.
His hips keep moving, his pace faster. He hides his face in your neck, his arms tightening around you as he moves, sloppier, his mouth opening in a silent cry when the feeling in his lower back snaps, the pleasure coursing through his veins as he begins to come, your hand reach for the back of his neck, holding him, afraid he may disappear; his hips slow down, his movements uneven as he comes back from the high of his orgasm.
He holds you, not moving at all from you, not even letting you get up, itâs like a new vice he discovered, a new drug he canât let go of his system anymore. You are the venom that curses through his veins, that alleviates his pain, the only thing in this world he refuses to let go off now. It doesnât matter what happens with Gotham or the future, wherever he goes he will take you with him, it doesnât matter to him if he has to tear cities apart to keep you by his side, even if he has to threaten the whole world just so you stay. Itâs a shame, a tragedy. The moment his eyes fly open and the realization dawns upon him, a fragment of his broken mind. A hope to have some light in the dark, and maybe, if life was to ever be kind to him, someday he will have you willingly giving yourself to him.