John comes awake in darkness that presses close to his face, making each breath curl back around him in a hot, sticky wave. His head hurts, a throbbing pain that is centered just behind his left ear, though each beat of his heart makes the tooth grinding ache pulse out through his entire body.
Memories come back to him in blurry shards that make little sense. John knows that he was kneeling in the snow, passing along another message. Trying to keep hope alive in the pit beneath Gotham. He thinks that there was a sound behind him, something that made him turn in time to catch a fleeting impression of angry smiles and dark eyes before pain blocks out the world. There's a too bright, too loud image of a crowded courtroom. A man screams over and over again, begging but the people just laugh and John slumps against the hands holding him, unable to stand. Hands pulling his head back, the tang of blood running over his tongue and he can't breathe, can't see through the haze of pain. Voices, Gordon's name, or maybe Wayne's, and then nothing until he's here in the dark.
He can't feel his legs except as nearly numb things that should hurt but don't and his back has locked up into a solid spear that holds him up only because there's no other choice. John has no idea how long he sits in the darkness, straining and twisting against the chains that he can feel wrapped around him, cushioned only by the thin fabric of his clothing. He's kneeling, he can tell from the slightly sharper numbness at his ankles and knees, his hands cuffed behind him. John shifts and slowly tests his bonds, fingers finding the longer chain that wraps around his waist and anchors him to the floor.
John fights when they come for him, useless as he knows it is. Even if his hands weren't locked tightly behind his back he couldn't move fast enough to stop them from grabbing him with hands that leave bruises to the bone. They laugh at his snarling curses and yank back the hood, letting cool air touch his damp skin for the first time in what feels like forever. The room is too bright, after the total darkness of the hood and he's just as blind as before.
Their hands are rough, clamping around his jaw and prying it open. Fingers, dry and tasting of blood, slide into his mouth. He tries to bite and chokes as a hand tightens on his throat, thumb digging in to the soft join beneath his jaw. When the hands withdraw, leaving him coughing and dry retching, John's mouth is held wide; filled with rubber and metal, prongs digging into the flesh of his cheeks, he fights to close his mouth, to spit the thing out but it's useless.
The men laugh and there's a bottle at his lips. John jerks away, still blind though he's beginning to make out dark shapes moving through the sea of brilliance, and his head is caught from behind. They force his head back and then clean, ice cold water is pooling in his mouth almost faster than he can swallow. John struggles to keep up and swallows, drinking it all in too fast. He can feel the water like a rock in his gut, nausea clawing at his stomach and the back of his throat. John pants, trying not to throw up.
“I think he's gonna puke. You gonna puke, pig?” A kick lands on his thigh, rocking him to the side. He would have fallen, but someone else is there to catch him.
“No. He won't.” The man holding him eases him back onto his knees, hands hot against John's cold-flushed skin. “Will you, Detective Blake? Because I have to hood you again, just for a little while. Until we're ready for you. And if you vomit in there, I'm afraid you'll choke.” Fingers touch the collar of John's shirt, tugging and straightening. “You want to die with a little bit of dignity, don't you?”
He snarls wordlessly and concentrates on not choking to death on his own vomit. John's sure he's going to die soon, and badly, but he hopes he can keep some small measure of his pride intact.
There's no way to measure time as he is, trapped in a world of blackness with every sound muffled and distorted by the heavy cloth that feels as though it's smothering him. John counts each breath, the pain in his stomach easing slowly to relief and the certainty that he's not going to be sick. The relief in turn gives way to the slow, increasing pressure of his bladder. He ignores it as best he can. Eventually though his need is urgent enough that he has to shift, knowing that it's only going to make it worse but unable to think of anything else.
Lights come on with audible pops, bright enough that they pierce the hood. Heat builds against John's skin, sweat prickling up on his skin within minutes. He hears the warped sounds of movement, voices speaking too quickly to be easily understood. There's a sense of hurried order around him and he finds himself straightening unconsciously, trying to flex his legs to get some circulation back. It's useless, but better than sitting still, waiting to die.
The floor vibrates with heavy steps, boots nudging at John's knees when they reach him, spreading his legs a little wider. He gasps at the pain, the increased pressure on his bladder. A hand rests on the top of his head, fingers spread wide so that he can feel the immense span as the man easily wraps his hand around John's entire head. Bane. It has to be, because the thought that there could be two such massive monsters in the world, in Gotham, is fucking terrifying.
“Good evening, John.” The fingers flex, pressure against the still aching wound of his skull and John groans. “This will be over quickly.” John has the strange feeling that that's meant to be comforting but then Bane is standing beside him, the massive muscles of his leg pressed hard into John's nearly numb arm.
“...Three...two...one...” The voice rises and John thinks it's the same man from before, the one who had warned him not to choke.
“Gotham. You have taken back control of your city. You have begun the work of undoing all of the damage caused by your oppressors. By those who take and give nothing back, who lie to you in order to justify taking your freedoms. I am proud of you, my friends. It is not an easy process. Those who hurt you must be brought to justice.
“Many of them have. Many of the oppressors have been punished as fits their crimes. But all of those who have paid their debts to you, as terrible as they were, are but children as compared to their leader. The man whose lie gave them ultimate power! Former Commissioner James Gordon! Where is he? Where is the architect of Gotham's greatest scar?” Bane pauses, tugging a little at the hood. It lifts a fraction of an inch, letting in more light. John focuses on the light, trying to get his sight back before the great reveal. He wants to see it coming, whatever it is.
“Hiding. Slinking around in the dark like the rat he is. Trying to wrest control from the people once more, he lacks the honor to fight his own fight. He sends out the innocents that he has corrupted to do his dirty work.” Bane jerks the hood from John's head in one smooth motion, leaving him blinking and grinding his teeth against the gag. “Detective John Blake.” Bane continues to speak, walking around John as he does. Always touching him somewhere, his hand on John's head, his shoulder. Scarred fingers running along the stretched line of John's mouth.
John tunes him out as much as he can, ignores the touches to focus on the room. Bane's men fill the space, watching from just beyond the range of the cameras. They all seem to watch him, anticipation clear in their faces, in the way that they lean forward towards the circle of brilliant light that surrounds John. Their hands caress guns and knives longingly and John shivers. He forces himself to move from face to face, cataloging, looking for any weakness, until he catches sight of a large television behind one of the cameras. He can see himself in it, can watch Bane pace around, the feed cutting from the camera in front to one behind, letting him see Bane lean in before he feels the hand on his back pushing him forward.
He realizes for the first time that he's been redressed. The dark blue of a GCPD dress uniform clings to his body, the buttons bright enough to shine in the overhead lights. He flexes his fingers, the movement highlighted by the pristine white gloves, and wonders if he's wearing a dead man's clothes. John finds that he can't look away from the screen, the pride and sense of dignity that the uniform used to bring marred by the heavy chain that holds him in place. His eyes are wide, his face flushed red with anger and shame. John knows that his mouth is obscene like this, stretched wide and fucking inviting around the metal gag.
Bane stops moving, his presence a solid wall at John's back. John's hands tighten into fists and he refuses to close his eyes, watching the screen instead. He will face this in the only way he can. He will not look away.
“We have reclaimed Gotham from Gordon and his like! Now, we reclaim the most precious pieces in his arsenal.” Bane's hands leave him entirely for the first time and the monster works his fly open. A new kind of fear steals John's breath, digs into him with sharp claws. Bane is huge, and not even hard yet. He'll rip John apart, leave him to bleed to death before the cameras. He tells himself that he's known all along it would be a bad death, that he can endure this. That he has to stay strong. Gordon will be watching, Bane makes sure that the power is on for his little shows, and the other members of the resistance. He can't let them see him break.
John knows he's going to break before the end.
Bane rests a hand on John's shoulder, the other cupping his cock loosely. Not stroking, not yet. The video feed is from the side, making sure that there can be no doubt as to what happens. “Thus do we show Gordon that he cannot have this. This is ours.”
Heat blooms between John's shoulder blades, a spot that quickly grows and turns into a long line of warm wetness as the jacket becomes soaked. John shouts, thrashing against the chain to try and get away as Bane clamps down on his shoulder, holding him still so that he can shift his aim. John wants to close his eyes, finds that he can't, that they spring open in spite of himself. He screams at the screen, at the men surrounding him as Bane pisses down the bowed line of John's back, the fabric growing heavy and sticking to John with every jerking movement. Bane chuckles, the sound terrible through the mask and steps back.
His stream pools in John's flexing palms, staining the gloves yellow as the warm liquid slips between his fingers and drips down over John's ass. The heat makes him squirm, goes straight through him and now he can feel his own need worse than before. He wants to laugh, that his body still has such base needs at a time like this, but all that comes out is a gasping wheeze.
Bane steps around him, fingers pinched tightly behind the head of his dick, holding himself back. His hand slides under John's jaw, lifting his head so that John has no choice but to look up into Bane's face. John can see pleasure there, satisfaction in the depths of Bane's eyes. Bane guides himself carefully between John's lips, sliding slowly through the ring until he fills John's mouth.
The taste is bitter and John can do nothing to stop himself from working against the invader, his tongue trying to push it out. He's going to pass out, he's hyperventilating, the smell and the taste have taken over John's senses until there's nothing but Bane. Bane's cock twitches, all the warning John gets before his mouth is flooded; hot, acrid liquid that he swallows instinctively even as more of it floods out from his gaping mouth to trickle down his chin before soaking into the fabric on his chest.
Bane's eyes never leave John's face, even as he withdraws enough to rain over John's face. John closes his eyes against the onslaught, breathes the heavy scent in with every rapid breath. He feels it soak into his hair, coat his face and throat and the uniform he only ever wanted to honor.
John is soaked, the uniform tight and heavy against him, dragging him down and holding him in place as much as the chains. He shudders and shakes his head, wet strands clinging to his forehead and cheeks. Bane's rasping breath echoes in John's ears as he opens his eyes to find Bane kneeling between his spread legs, bringing his still leaking cock to lie against John's own. The warm, wet cloth has moulded itself to John, making a spectacle of his faintly twitching cock. He needs to go, desperately, the scent and the sensation of the cloth just making it worse.
Bane smiles, the movement clear through the twisting of muscles above the straps of the mask, and rests his hand against John's stomach. Even that simple touch makes it worse, a thin stream escaping before John can clamp down. He meets Bane's eyes and shakes his head, the desperate 'no' coming out garbled and useless. Bane presses down sharply, pain spiking through John's body and he can't hold back any more.
John pisses himself, the hot liquid streaming out in a rush that brings relief even as he boils with shame. Bane palms him through his pants, squeezing rhythmically, milking John of every last drop. When he's done, empty and hollow with shame, Bane leans in close. John can feel the cold metal of the mask against his cheek, almost soothing on the overheated flesh. “Very good, John.” A hand pets along his thigh, dragging heavy fabric over tender skin. The other runs through his hair, driving the scent of Bane higher until it overwhelms the scent of John's own weakness. “Mine.”