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Negative Slave

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The phrase "negative slave" seems incredibly powerful to me. Each are power words that carry their own weight. The phrase can go both ways... meaning an actual slave that is negative, a person under full control of the mind and body, OR it can be taken as the opposite, the "negative" of the slave. Meaning someone who is free from control.”  -Travis Egedy of Pictureplane


When the call comes in through the radio that they’d found the Congressman’s location, John immediately knows something seems different. Tonight, things were going to change; he could feel it in his bones. It’s a sixth sense sort of thing that the young cop can’t explain, but it swims up through his throat and catches at the back of his mouth as he takes a left on Rotunda Ave and comes to a screeching halt in front of Old Charlie’s where they’d gotten the tip. There’s sirens, gunshots, and chaos in the humid Gotham night, and it’s only 9PM! He’s not quite sure how he gracefully climbs from his Crown Victoria with his slightly lanky legs (the captain is always saying he’s way too skinny) and wields himself with his pistol as if he’s been doing this sort of thing every night.

Being a rookie, he hasn’t seen much action, and with Gotham currently in a somewhat peaceful existence, thanks to the Harvey Dent Act, there’s not to be anymore of those crazy days when mad men blew up hospitals and the Batman watched over the city. John still craves a bit of action, but there’s the fear of being killed, or seeing a comrade killed in front of him that makes him wish for another boring night of patrolling.

He immediately follows the gunfire into the well lit alleyway, catching a glimpse of Commissioner Gordon racing around the corner of a building with several other officers. The air has a slight chill, but John finds it has nothing to do with the temperature. He doubles down and breaks into an all out sprint before a few missed bullets convince him to take cover behind a garbage dumpster. John’s scared shitless, but he’s trained for these sort of situations. Being afraid is what makes him feel the most alive and it’s also when he’s able to shoot his best. He picks off a few thugs that seem a lot better at shooting than the average. He hasn’t killed anyone in quite sometime, but he can’t afford the moment to absorb what he’s just done, nor can he hear his thoughts over the sound of his own heart bouncing in his chest. Once clear, John and his fellow officers advance down the alleyway, pushing their enemy further back.

Gordon and few of his men seem to have a lead on the men they’re chasing, whoever they are, and in the most unlikeliest of places, the commissioner is sure that the group has gone down a manhole. Gordon’s the type of man you would follow into a burning building set to explode in seconds and still feel confident that you’d make it out alive. John Blake considers the commissioner a hero. Every cop should feel the same after Gordon cleaned the mess that the Joker and the Batman left behind.

“They’re down here! Quick, help me lift this!” Gordon shouts, another officer already finding a pole nearby to lift the heavy manhole cover away. Commissioner Gordon orders a few officers to the other side of the buildings where the sewers start their drainage into the Gotham River, hopefully to cut off the group in pursuit in case they escaped that way. John follows the man down into the manhole and holds his breath as the pungent stench of the Gotham Sewer System overtakes him.

The iron ladder on the way down feels damp and slippery, so John takes his time. Once they reach the bottom, he follows the Commissioner with his gun drawn and his flashlight held up beside his pistol. A few more officers join them on the way down.

“Did you see them come down here, sir?” John whispers, walking forward carefully. His fingers are slippery on the trigger, but he focuses; scared, but brave.

“No, but men just don’t just disappear in dead end alleys,” Gordon replies.

John’s never been down in the sewers, but he knows there’s much more than rats and shit down here. In recent months he’s heard talk of a man with a mask, someone named Bane. According to the bit of street gossip John has overheard from the other cops, he’s the one that has been recruiting drifters and burnouts down into the underground. They say he’s a monster, big and dangerous with scaly green skin. It all could be silly rumors -- just another one of Gotham’s urban myths, like the crocodile man, or the man made of clay, but then again Gotham has a way of unearthing the strangest of creatures.

A shot rings out behind them, and just as John turns to face the sound an explosion erupts and the blast sends him crashing painfully to the wet floor, the heat against his face and neck. He languishes on the ground, his left arm in dull pain, but not broken. His ears ring and he’s left slightly confused and dizzy. He distantly feels the Commissioner’s hands upon him, helping him up to his wobbly feet.

“Can you stand, rookie?” Gordon asks, his voice desperate and breathy just as more shots ring out. John and Gordon throw themselves behind a wall for cover. The young cop fumbles for his gun, but realizes he’d lost both his pistol and flashlight during the blast. He turns to face Gordon when suddenly something hits him in the head from behind and bright lights behind his eyes blind him. He only remembers Gordon’s frightened face as the young cop falls back to the ground and blacks out.

/

John awakes in the arms of two men carrying him down a dark path. He can’t quite make out anything in his blurry vision, but he can hear the sewer water moving and the men speaking in a foreign tongue that he can’t place. By the time John arrives to the underground lair he’s still a bit delirious and confused. Overhead a waterfall loudly cascades, waking John up a bit more. Bright lights shine upon his face and he ducks away to shield his eyes. They dump him on the hard concrete ground, moist and sticky. It smells something awful down here, and barely squeaking through the waterfall’s wall of sound are the squeals of rats and the murmuring of men. A voice comes that sounds artificial and almost far away, but it’s close and chilling. Someone is shot and supposedly dumped down into the waterfall nearby. John dares to look up from his place on the ground and wishes he’d never followed Gordon down here.

Bane stands above him several feet away, huge and intimidating with eyes curious and intelligent, but deadly all the same. He’s bald with an apparatus clinging to his face like an extension of itself. The tool is snug against his face, metal tubes that look almost like rounded angler fish teeth built into the front. There are small holes in the center that simulate a speaker box, probably where the man breathes and speaks through. He’s shirtless and wet from either sweat or the moisture in the air. John notices that he’s not scaly, or green, but that he looked normal enough... aside from the mask and muscles. Him, along with the rest of his men are dressed in ragged military gear; baggy, dark green cargo pants, and heavy brown boots that could probably plow their way right through John’s skull with ease. John prays this isn’t the night he dies. He always envisioned dying in a heroic way.

“And who is this?” Bane’s voice comes again in that strange artificial sound that almost sends John’s face back to the ground in terror, but John’s a bit braver than he lets on -- he stares Bane down, which probably is amusing to the bigger man, though it never shows in his eyes. There’s a whiff of an accent, but John’s too damned scared at the moment to figure out where from.

“We don’t know. He came with Gordon,” answers one of Bane’s lackeys, his voice shaking like rafters in a strong wind. It’s as if he’s as frightened as John. The officer steals a glance at their lair and doesn’t spot the commissioner. His stomach clenches as he fears the worst.

“Since when do GCPD not wear name tags?” Bane’s intonation is strange, making his speech pattern peculiar. There’s a frustration behind the man’s words, like an adult attempting to explain to a child that there’s no monsters under the bed. But down here, there certainly are.

Before the men can search the front of his uniform, John blurts out his name bitterly to save himself the humiliation. He looks up into Bane’s eyes defiantly, trying to ignore the shiver that shoots up his spine like lightning when Bane’s eyes widen for a split second. As long as John doesn’t act scared, he’ll never give Bane the pleasure of knowing just how fucking afraid he is.

“Lift him,” strains Bane’s voice, wheezing a bit.

Strong arms roughly lift him up and he’s close to the masked man.

“Higher, so that I may be at eye level!”

They lift him up until he’s face to face with Bane, his feet several inches from the ground. Bane smells of gunpowder and motor oil. John stares him in the eye, noticing the green in them as they shine in the low light. John’s eyes lower to the apparatus on his face, able to fully study it for the quickest of seconds. The mask around his bald head is a icy blue steel color, but the mechanism covering his nose and mouth are grey with complex tubing that seem to pump something through to the man’s airways. John feels Bane’s breath softly wheeze from the center of the mask and it smells of novocaine -- metallic and sharp.

Bane’s eyes linger on John and something flashes across the hard stare, softening for a split second that only John catches, and if anyone else had, they wouldn’t dare say a thing. Bane looks down at John’s name tag, reaching forward with meaty fingers, slowly, and deliberately scanning the letters J-O-H-N-B-L-A-K-E with his thumb before ripping the name tag away, as well as his badge, tossing them both into the current. Wide eyed, John watches as the two items fling across the room into the water. Bane then snatches his radio away and stomps it to pieces below him. John swallows.

“Lock him away for now. He may yet serve us a purpose,” Bane says without looking away from the young policeman, his eyes mean and shiny.

“Where’s Commissioner Gordon?” John yells as the men pull him away.

“Presumably drowned somewhere along Gotham River.” There’s a twinge of amusement in his voice that makes John sick to his stomach.

Bane sends him away to a dark corner, binding his arms above his head with his own handcuffs to a metal pipe that he can’t see in the darkness. They strip him of his uniform, forcing a filthy pair of jeans on him and a dingy white t-shirt that smells like cardboard and dirty socks. The corner is pitch black and rat infested, but John doesn’t complain. He suffers in silence while thinking of a way out this first night.

In the darkness John has little to do but think, and shiver from coldness, but even his thoughts become too loud. In the distance he can hear the cascading water and every so often he hears screams and gunshots. Several times one of Bane’s men comes to check up on him and John feigns sleep. The last time he fakes it, he actually tries to find rest after giving up on figuring out how to escape. The only thing he can hope for now is for his fellow policemen to find him.  

He awakes hours later with dull pain biting at his wrists and shoulders, but there’s a plate of food beside him and he’s no longer in darkness; An old rusty lamp shines dimly on the floor, affording him a meager offering of light. The guard notices him stirring awake and immediately tries to force John’s mouth open and feed him, but being the stubborn little shit that John is, he spits the food out into the man’s face, telling him to fuck off. John braces himself for the punch to come, but it never does. The guard shuts the lamp off with a blank expression, abandoning John and the food on the ground, not returning for quite some time.

The man tries again to make John eat hours later, but the young cop refuses. The guard doesn’t try again, but he maintains his rounds, checking in on John every twenty minutes or so.

John feels as if two nights have passed when he wakes up after one of his naps. The cop’s not been able to sleep more than an hour at a time. His wrist feel raw and sore, as does his buttocks that sit against the hard concrete underneath him. John’s stomach pains him dully, much like his boredom and hopelessness. How can he escape? He’s thought of several scenarios, but nothing seems feasible. He’s tried slipping out of his handcuffs, but they’d put them on pretty tight. A few times he’s pulled at the pipe he’s bound to, but whenever he makes a noise a guard is on him like flies on shit. The only way out is to talk to Bane -- strike a deal and maybe it’d all work out in the end. John knows he’s being delusional, but it’s all he’s got.

His guard finally arrives after a day or so (John can’t tell how long it’s been anymore) with a box of food in his hands after giving up on feeding John. The man places it beside the uneaten and now rotten meal from before.

“Bane says that the next time you waste food, he’ll starve you to death instead of for a few days.” The voice is Russian accented and sounds like tires over a dirt road as he unearths a carton of milk and a grey-ish brown water canteen from the satchel against his thigh. “This time, you eat.” He sets the milk and water down and lifts the small box of food.

“What does Bane want from me?” John blurts out, willing himself to fight through the hunger pangs.

The man looks at him, his eyes brown and wide, but empty. He grins in a distant sort of way and his eyes shine with a dangerous edge, “Just be glad he hasn’t killed you yet. Now eat.”

John’s eyes peer through the dim light into the box and sees what seems to be green beans mixed with cornmeal and a corner of brown gravy. The blandest dinner ever, but he’s grown way too hungry since his strike before. He’s not sure if he can wait until later to yield.

“You tell Bane that he doesn’t have much time. Kidnapping one of Gotham’s finest doesn’t go unnoticed,” is what John says instead of cooperating.

“Eat.” The man ignores him, dipping a beat up aluminum spoon into the dish, pushing it towards the officer’s mouth.

John wants to turn away, but instead his mouth opens, greedily swallowing the lukewarm food. It takes like he thinks paper must tastes like, but he continues to let the man feed him until John’s had his fill. After the man feeds him his carton of milk and once John has drained the canteen, the guard leaves him, but leaves the lamp on. The young cop feels a bit disgusted by how grateful he is for the light, but damn, it gives him hope for some reason.

The cold stops him from sleeping now. It has notably gotten colder these nights and even though he complains to the guard, the man never pays much attention to him. He begins to give up on hoping for a blanket when Bane comes to him one day with a set of thick blankets in his arms.

“Bane!” John cried out, feeling his heart flip with joy and hope. “Bane, please you have to stop this!”

The man says nothing, barely even looks at him. He unwraps the blankets and gently wraps them around John, stilling for a second to stare into the young man’s eyes.

“Bane, you’ve got to let me go! They’ll come looking for me and smoke this place out. Please!”

Bane turns and walks away without a single word.

He guesses that the guards change because a different man comes in the next day in what feels like early morning. In this dark and without a watch John has no sense of time, or how much of it has passed. The young policeman can’t make out much in the thick darkness beyond the short range of his lamp, but he can tell that his new guard is tall and muscular, but significantly smaller than Bane. He’s probably more dangerous than John’s previous guard, but it doesn’t stop the young man from antagonizing him. He has to get out of here, and it seems the only way to get out is to get Bane’s attention.

“Why do you follow a madman in the sewers like rats?” John asks the guard when he arrives for his usual rounds.

The man stands in the darkness for some time, unmoving and silent until he slowly strides over to step into the low light, revealing a dark skinned face covered in ratty red cloth, with two greedy coal eyes peering at John.

John waits for an answer, but awkwardly the guard just stares at him without saying a word. He shifts under the tall man’s gaze, suddenly not liking the way the black eyes scan his body, drinking him in hungrily.

“Get Bane. I want to speak to him,” John huffs out, his eyes darting around his surroundings, instinctively searching for an escape route, although he knows there’s no way he can.

The guard chuckles, walking forward in huge boots with steps that land like mini earthquakes. John’s skin tightens and he swallows, his sore arms beginning to shake as the man advances on him, now almost flush against him. The man’s crotch is briefly in his face, but before John can protest, the guard stoops down to him, their faces close. The man smells rancid like he’s been dumpster diving. John himself doesn’t smell all that good after not having a shower in days, but this guy smells all kinds of awful that John doesn’t think himself capable of.

“I see why Bane is so fond of you,” the man says, a smile to his voice.

“And why is that?” John sort of wishes he hadn’t asked.

“I think you know why,” the guard says with a weak sense of humor and sexual innuendo. “Now,” the man stands up, placing his hands on his crotch, cupping it. “We’re not allowed to fuck you, but Bane never said anything about not being able to look at you.”

John’s throat tightens and it feels like his mouth has been filled with cement. He somehow is able to croak, “What are you talking about?”

The guard unzips his pants, his penis flopping out. John turns his head away in disgust, breathing harshly through his nose.

“If you try anything, I’ll scream!” John hissed, his eyes closed and his body tense.


The guard laughs, “For who?”

“For Bane, you piece of shit!”

“Bane’s not here, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut!” The guard covers John’s mouth with his hand roughly and slams the cop’s head against the pipes. White hot pain waves over his head, sending him into a dizzy spinning as struggles against the guard’s hand. He’s aware enough though bite with furious rage at the fatty flesh between the man’s thumb and his index finger. The guard cries out in pain, ripping his hand away before placing a powerful punch to John’s stomach, knocking all of the air from his lungs. The pain is thick on him as he hunches over, attempting to cry out, but only gives a pathetic, airless huff.

“I’m bleeding, you fuck!” The man kicks John in his stomach, causing him to arch his back as he rides the pain and waits for the next blow. “If you try to pull anything else, I’ll kill you and say that you attacked me,” the guard spits, his tone angry and rough. He places the barrel of his pistol against John’s head and reaches down at the youth’s trousers, forcing them down to his ankles.

John lifts his head and stares venom at the man standing before him that strokes his thick cock that smells like sour garbage. The odor is thick and makes John gag.

“You’re fucking pathetic!” the guard says, “Turn around, I can’t stand to look at your face.” The man twists the officer around so that his backside faces him and the handcuffs painfully twist against the tender flesh of his wrists. “Stand up!” John shifts up to stand on his legs and feels them wobble. He’d become weak from sitting down for so long. The man behind him pushes the gun against the back of his head and worked himself, hissing in pleasure from the view of John’s ass on full display.

John feels disgusting, and his stomach twists and flips as the man’s moans get more breathy and desperate. Soon, it’d be over. That’s all that keeps John from crying out for help. He holds tighter to the pipe he’s handcuffed to for support when the man grinds the gun a bit harder against his skull. The guard places his free hand on John’s left side and urges him down.

“I want you to squat,” the guard says harshly, pressing down now with force on John’s hips. The young man does as asked and keeps the bitter insults that are forming in his head to himself. The guard shifts away and pulls the lamp closer until it is directly near John’s ass, shining light on his puckering hole, pink and tight with a bit of hair surrounding it. He presses down on John’s back, making him arch so that his end sets higher up.

“Fuck, yes!” the guard grinds out, fisting his cock harder, jerking like his life depends on it.

John’s not a crier. He’s never had the chance to be one really, with growing up in orphanages where kids faced adult problems way too early. He’d always considered himself the lucky one, especially when it came to sexual abuse, because so many of his friends had their innocence taken away from them by force. You could always tell when one of them had been plucked. He thought he knew how it must have been, but he had no idea. He thinks he’s beginning to get it.  What it feels like to seem worthless and objectified. He can’t help but silently cry when the man behind him is caressing his ass, grunting and blowing hot hair against his back.

He retches when the guard is flush against him and the bastard is shooting his seed in the air, roping itself on the young man’s back. John’s legs go weak and he falls to his knees and his body shudders as he takes in what’s actually just happened. The guard chuckles, flinging a few droplets of come on John’s back before zipping his pants and turning off the lamp.

“Do turn the light back on Miguel,” comes what can only be Bane’s voice.

John stops crying right away and stills himself, not sure if he’s dreaming or if this is indeed real life.

“Bane...,” says the guard in disbelief, his voice small and worried.

“Turn the light on so that we may see what you were doing to Mr. Blake just now,” Bane’s voice is scary and serious, yet John finds himself wanting to celebrate.

The light flickers on and John ducks his head, his arms long and sore as he attempts to lift himself.

“Do not move Officer Blake. I want to see it all,” Bane says, walking forward with even steps.

“I didn’t fuck him Bane. I swear!” says Miguel, shaking and terrified.

“No, but you’ve done other things.”

John lets out a small sigh when Bane’s large hands are on his chin, gently urging him to turn his face. He doesn’t expect the kindness in the man’s eyes. It’s so sudden and surprising that the cop’s mouth opens slightly to gape.

“Are you hurt Officer Blake?” Bane asks, his eyes searching him.

John shakes his head, pulling away from Bane’s touch. “No. I’m not.” That statement is not 100% the truth however. There’s no physical pain, but his pride definitely has taken a beating.

Bane’s eyes skate over the man’s slender body and he sees the mess Miguel made. He stands there, thinking, then turns to Miguel who looks ready to shit his pants at any moment.

“Take Mr. Blake to to showers and clean him. In ten minutes I want him and yourself front and center. There’s a lesson to be made in this and I intend to set an example.” Bane walks away cooly without giving either of them a look.

Miguel angrily unfastens John’s cuffs and leads him to a room where there’s a makeshift shower head with boxes of bathing supplies. The water is cold and unpleasant and Miguel’s frantic wiping reddens his skin. He’s in and out in what seems like seconds. His guard thrusts new clothes at him and he slowly pulls them on, privately thankful for a clean body and clean clothes. Once he’s changed, Miguel yanks him around by the arm until they are back where he’d first seen Bane. There’s the booming sound of the waterfall and there are dozens of armored men with guns, standing around. Bane sits on the edge of his bed, waiting for them with his arms crossed. When he sees them arrive, he stands.

“So glad you could join us Mr. Blake. Miguel,” Bane says, his eyes icy and distant.

“Here he is Bane. I did as you asked,” Miguel responds, his voice shaky.

“Yes. Yes you have. But you disobeyed me before and now a lesson still must be taught.”

“Bane... please, I didn’t do anything to him!”

“Bullshit!” John hisses, attempting to pull away from the man’s grip, but Miguel proves too strong. “Let me go, scum!” John struggles against him and with one look from Bane, Miguel lets him free.

Bane steps towards him, his arms thick by his sides. “Officer Blake. Down here we have rules. And the rules are that my men obey my every word. Whenever they go against that word, they jeopardize everything.”

“The fire rises!” calls out one of the men, and the rest of them murmur the same phrase in unison.

John looks around at all of them, catching their sneering faces. “What the hell does that mean?”

Bane says nothing, just steps close to the waterfall where the men have circled around. “Miguel... step here.” Bane points to the ground in front of him.

The man hesitates at first, but quickly steps forward.

“The gun,” Bane says, holding out his hand.

Miguel hands his rifle over and sighs, his eyes glassy and scared. Bane holds the gun, looking down at it for a moment.

“This man,” Bane begins, finally looking up at Miguel. “Has gone against my direct order to not harm Officer John Blake in any way. You were ordered not to touch, not to fondle, not to fuck, not to do anything other that guard the man. But Miguel here chose to disobey... and now, as a result of his insubordination, he will die in front of you all to set an example for how terribly important it is to obey my every command.”

“Bane! Please!” Miguel yells out.

John feels a lump in his throat, not sure if he should be happy or not for what’s about to happen. The man deserved to be locked behind bars, but to be killed like this... John’s not so sure. But there’s the part of him that almost wants his blood -- the part of him that felt disgusting when Miguel made him strip.

Bane tosses the gun over to a nearby lackey and in a swiftness that John has never seen, he grabs Miguel by the shoulders with two meaty hands, ripping off his scarf to reveal a war weathered man with dark skin and tiny black eyes that were wide in fear. Bane pauses for one insane moment and then thrusts his head forward, colliding with the man’s face. Miguel cries out in agony, but then Bane does it again. And then again. And again until the man’s skull sinks in and there’s blood all over Bane’s face. Bane drops the man’s body like it’s a piece of trash and then scans around at everyone with an intense ferocity as if to see if the lesson has sunken into their heads.

The room is dead silent, aside from the loud waterfall. John feels his stomach churn at the sight of Miguel’s sunken in face. He’s barely even recognizable. Blake’s never seen a man’s face cave in like that; it’s completely unreal. Bane quickly orders someone to dispose of the body and silently Bane leads John over to his bed and throws him on the floor.

Confused, John swiftly turns to face Bane, his hands on the dusty floor. “What the hell do you want from me?” Bane ignores him, only handcuffs him to the side of the bed.

“At least tell me what you’re planning to do with me!” John cries out, but it falls on deaf ears. Bane walks away and soon the area is empty. He’s left only to his thoughts and the sound of the water crashing.

Surprisingly he falls asleep faster than he ever managed to in that dark corner. He only wakes up when he feels the tiny feet of a rat scurry over his foot. It’s freezing cold and the lights are no longer on. There’s a soft snoring sound coming from above that John barely catches over the booming waterfall nearby. He shifts up on his elbows until he’s able to sit up. In the darkness he can see the outline of Bane’s bulky shoulders. He watches for a moment and then lays back down on the cold cement floor, willing himself back to sleep.

He stays there for an hour it feels like, but it’s simply too cold for him to find any rest. He remembers his blanket from before and wishes for it back. After another hour of suffering through his chills, he decides to do what he really doesn’t want to do and that’s wake Bane. John gets to his knees and calls out Bane’s name. He waits with his heart pounding in his chest, completely terrified by what might happen. The man doesn’t answer, so John calls his name again, this time shaking the bed a bit.

Bane awakes with a heavy sigh, turning to face John.

“Officer Blake,” comes Bane’s voice, eerily even.

“I’m cold and there’s rats crawling over me,” John spits out, left breathless from his own terror.

“You’re my prisoner. What makes you think I care for your comfort?”

“I’m... I’m cold. I just want that blanket you gave me befo-”

“What makes you think that you can break me from my slumber to demand blankets and comfort?” Bane’s voice comes through the speaker holes of his mask and it chills John into silence. Bane only waits a few pauses before shifting from his bed and reaching down to John. Much to the young cop’s dismay, Bane covers his face harshly with one wide open hand, squeezing it painfully. John cries out, reaching to pull the hand away, only to remember his bindings holding him back. Bane’s hand smothers his screams, and the terror continues as John feels the man’s bare feet touch the ground.

“My men and I lie awake in the night with terrors and once we do find the rare chance for true rest our dreams are not of family and joyous times, no not like the dreams you have -- they are shrouded in the madness that created us.” Bane squeezes harder and John begins to accept that this is the moment he will die. Tears are in his eyes and his mouth is warm against Bane’s cool, painful hand. It seems as if his head might explode and he only welcomes it, if only to stop the pain. Bane leans down to John who continues to scream and struggle, kicking his feet about as if they could do anything to stop the bigger man from completely destroying him. Bane lessens the grip and his mask is nearly snug against John’s face.

“Do you have nightmares Officer Blake?” Bane asks in a nonchalant manner that hits John like another blow to the head. He finally moves his hand away.

John manages to struggle out a “No,” that causes Bane to sigh, sending out a small wheezing, hot breeze against John’s face. Bane rises to his feet and fetches the handcuff key.

“Do you know why I’m keeping you here, officer?” Bane questions as he unlocks the handcuffs, the clicking sound of the lock giving way is like music to John’s ears.

“No,” John breathes out, his eyes on Bane’s poorly lit face, only really seeing his outline, though his eyes somehow make it through the darkness, looking into him like a terrible beast.

“The truth is Mr. Blake,” Bane lifts him up from the floor like he’s bag of flour and plops him on the bed. “I could have killed you as soon as you were brought down here with the commissioner. In fact, that would have been the most logically sound choice.”

“Then why didn’t you?” The way John says it, it’s almost as if he wishes Bane had killed him right then.

Bane stands there, his body massive and visible even in the darkness. The man doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there considering John as the police officer lays on his back, unmoving. Finally he moves to flick on a light. It’s low and golden against John’s skin, but still bright enough to make him squint until his eyes adjusts. Bane looms near the bed, just staring, his eyes all over John’s body like a slow moving snake. His shoulders seem even more massive now, and his arms are bulging and veiny as if he’d just finished working out.

“I didn’t kill you,” Bane begins as he unbuckles his belt glacially slow, “because you’re simply too beautiful to waste.”

John’s mouth flies open in protest, but it’s all too late; not that if he asks Bane to stop the bigger man would. Swiftly, Bane’s trousers are pulled down to his ankles and he kneels on the bed. The mattress sinks under the large man’s weight and suddenly John is hot with a surprising rush of excitement, lust, and disgust and fear all at once. He can’t decide which one he feels the most of. It comes in a fluid sort of way; right now for instance, it’s fear when Bane roughly pulls him close by his arm, forcing him to straddle the huge man, but then there’s excitement (or is it lust?) when Bane’s erection is stiff against John’s inner thigh, something the officer takes note of by staring down at it. Seeing the other man’s sex makes John feel like there’s a block of lead sitting in his stomach.

Bane’s eyes soften and gaze down to John’s thin pouty lips and the cop can tell Bane longs to kiss them, but there’s no way that it’s possible. His eyes jerkily move up to John’s own, staring into them for a moment before turning him over and throwing him back onto the bed on his stomach. Bane pulls John’s trousers away roughly, then yanks the man’s shirt over his head; John hears the shirt rip and his cock shamefully stirs in delight.  

Bane tosses the shirt onto the ground and pauses, taking a moment to devour John’s nudity, watching the back muscles move as the young cop squirms underneath him. Smooth creamy skin is under his touch and John lets out a gasp. Bane says nothing the whole time, but slides his calloused digits up and down the man’s back. He moves downward and takes both buttocks in his hands, squeezing and rolling them. Bane’s breathing is labored, wheezing through the mask as he spreads the cheeks apart to reveal John’s puckering rosebud. His cock stiffens at the sight and then there’s no stopping him. Bane’s atop of John, ignoring his cries when he pushes the mushroom tip of his cock against the tight opening.

“Please,” John gasps, biting down on his bottom lip when Bane breaks through his sphincter briefly; the white searing pain along his ringed entrance catches him off guard. He wants to say stop. The words are right there in his throat and it’d take little to no effort to push out that last word, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t even want to begin to consider why he doesn’t.

“You’re quite sealed off Mr. Blake,” comes Bane’s strained voice, his breathing violent against the mask. Above John, Bane hooks his left arm under the man and forces him up on his knees and elbows to lift his chest off the bed. “Aid us,” Bane says, cupping his hand, moving it under John’s mouth.

John finally faces the situation when his cock is full of blood and he’s actually shivering from hot desire. This. Cannot happen.

“Please, Bane. You don’t have to do th--” John pleads; fear freezes him when he turns to the mask and remembers the way it slammed into Miguel’s face. He can even see specks of blood still on it where Bane must have neglected to clean. He shivers at the memory of how the man’s face caved in like a hammered pumpkin. All that blood... and how sick his stomach turned when the man gave out one last pathetic whimper, falling to the floor like a sack of sand. Bane terrifies him -- repulses him even, but right now that fear, knowing that Bane could smash his skull like it were a chicken egg, it all just turns him inside out with bleeding sexual need.  

There. He’s admitted it and now that he can admit it to himself privately, just for this moment he forgets that he’s a cop, he forgets that he’s a hostage. All he wants to do is play along. He spits into Bane’s hand and ducks his head when the masked man’s thick fingers are on his hole, spreading his saliva there before dipping his index finger in. John arches his back and hates himself for cooing in pleasure when Bane goes a bit deeper. The intrusion stings, but John’s not a newcomer to this kind of activity. It’s the first time he’s done it with a masked man in the sewers though, that’s something he can say he’s never done.

Bane’s eyes are wild as John stares back at him, watching his arm shimmy back and forth as he fingers the cop’s ass. Suddenly, it’s as if something snaps in Bane and the man is atop him, pushing his head into the scratchy blanket. John screams, but it’s all muffled by the mattress when Bane plunges into him, stretching his hole to the point of ripping. The pain is sharp and warm, throbbing as Bane ravages his entrance with animal-like thrusts. Bane pushes John’s head further in the mattress and the coil springs bite at the man’s face.

The cop realizes he can’t breathe, so he tries to shift from under Bane’s powerful hand, but it’s no use. It’s as if Bane’s hand is made of cement, there’s no way it would yield. John collapses onto his stomach and turns his head as fast as he can and sweet cool air is in his lungs finally. He cries out when Bane sinks further into him, pushing all of his weight on John as he plummets deeper and deeper until he’s down to the hilt, only to draw back and repeat the motion again. John doesn’t know how to react to what’s happening. He screams out in pain, in frustration, in terror, but then he moans because because, fuck, it feels so great, but he doesn’t want it to feel great. He’s being taken by force -- this isn’t suppose to feel so good, but fuck all it does!

Bane grunts through his mask as he places an open hand on John’s back and uses the other to caress the man’s sides. He fucks John’s into pieces and doesn’t look back, never slowing down, never asking how John’s doing. He just needs his release and there’s no stopping that from happening, not even the tears that the young officer is crying. John is so tight and hot that even if Bane wants to stop, he can’t; the way it draws him in is like a drug, it’s simply addictive. The sweet friction of his hole weakens Bane’s legs and then he’s laying atop the other man, fucking him harder and faster.

John just lays there, not wanting to move, just wanting to stay still until Bane finishes. He clenches the ratty blanket and winces when the cool steel of Bane’s mask is on the back of his neck. He feels the hot breath through the mask and shivers when Bane’s left hand slides up his side and pinches his left nipple. The fingers circle the nipple, rubbing back and forth once it is erect. John swallows a gasp when Bane thrusts deep and takes his right nipple in his other hand; he pinches and swirls his fingers on both and it feels absolutely fantastic. Bane thrusts deep again, but doesn’t move, just stays there, keeping John full of his cock as he pleasures the man.

“Bane...,” John finds himself whimpering when the man quickly flicks both nipples with his fingers, causing John to arch his back and push against the cock inside him. He’s overwhelmed with desire, so much so that he’s rocking his hips against Bane, no longer just laying there, waiting for the other man’s move. John pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, reaching under himself to jerk his own hardened dick.

Bane snatches the hand away and continues to tease the sensitive flesh of his nipples, causing John to groan in frustration. The young officer tries again to take his cock in hand, but Bane grabs him by the wrists painfully, worrying the still tender flesh.

“You’ll pleasure yourself, only when I give permission,” Bane says against his burning neck, squeezing his wrists.

John hisses at the pain, clenching his eyes and his hole, which Bane stiffens his own cock in response. John’s eyes fly open when he feels it inside of him harden and pulse. Again, he’s stuck in flux, not knowing if he should feel hate, disgust, or lust.

“Do you understand?” Bane says, squeezing harder on the tender wrists.

John screams at the pain and pushes out a, “Yes! Yes! I got it!”
Bane pauses a moment, seemingly to enjoy John’s submission, and then pushes John back into the mattress, grabbing both wrists and holding them down into the bed above John’s head. The cop lays his head down and gasps when Bane’s moving again, torturously filling him to the hilt.

John can feel Bane’s bulky, sweaty body against his own, secretly reeling in the hardness of the muscles there. He arches his back to make contact and Bane catches the hint and flushes his chest against the smaller man. The masked man continues his onslaught, destroying John completely with even and precise thrusts. It’s not long until Bane’s once again wildly claiming him, pounding until he reaches his sweet finish, releasing his seed into John with hot, slow spurts, warming him from inside. He slides out with slick ease, opening John’s buttocks to marvel at the white fluid oozing out of the gaping hole, red from his abuse.

Bane pushes off of him and leaves John naked and used on the bed. The cop doesn’t move from his place however, just waits for Bane to return. Once he does, he takes a warm wet cloth to the young man’s hole, sticking two fingers in to scoop his seed out. The pain stings like razors and John hisses.

“It looks like I’ve ripped you,” Bane says, his tone surprisingly apologetic, but John doesn’t dare think he’s even remotely sorry for it.

“It’s okay,” John whispers and even he can’t believe the words fall from his mouth. He immediately wants to take the words back, but instead remains silent as Bane continues to clean him.

Bane doesn’t say anything else when he’s done. He picks John up and lays him properly on the bed and shuts the light off before laying next to him. The silence is strange and awkward. John doesn’t know if there should be something said between them, or if he should start asking when Bane’s going to let him go. He’s not sure at all what to do and sleep definitely isn’t an option, not after what’s happened, not while his mind works a mile a minute.

But then suddenly Bane’s arms are around him, pulling him into an embrace. John lays there awkwardly with his head on Bane’s hot chest, listening to the wheezing breath, and the soft airy sound of the mask pumping painkillers into the man’s nose and mouth. Bane’s hand caress John’s shoulder and for the first time the cop realizes that the other man is indeed capable of kindness and showing affection. He doesn’t come to the realization without also remembering the horrible things the man is capable of, nor does it give him any pleasure to know that he’s sleeping with the enemy -- sleeping with a cop killer and criminal. That fact alone makes him want to run away and go vomit or just stand in a corner and scream, but instead of doing all of that, he wraps his arm around Bane’s thick torso and nuzzles against the man’s chest, listening to his thumping heartbeat.

John settles into the warm embrace and his eyelids finally flutter to a close and he gets the best night’s rest he’s had in days.