|Pajarito mio, I am afraid I cannot allow you to leave...
||[Sep. 10th, 2012|06:39 pm]
Pairing: Bane/Blake, eventually Melisande/Ghul
Disclaimer: Not mine, except in the lizard brain and meta consciousness. Unfinished, in progress, a tale wandering down dark roads... dreamed and thought.
Pajarito mio, he said, rough-calloused fingers stroking along Blake's nape, meant to annoy, meant to remind of his position and lack of strength, aye, being duct taped to the chair and his badge taken, a hole shot through it, and the now-desecrated badge hung on a chain to dangle directly in front of him, taunting him, showing just how far he'd failed and how little a chance of his getting out - well, not even alive, now, but maybe intact, or slightly intact, at all, now.
Granted, he had thought himself familiar with the psychological reactions to tyranny and impending potential torture, but that - That - Blake almost laughed, now, almost hysterical, THE HANDBOOK HAD NOT HAD EVEN THE SLIGHTEST MENTION OF WHAT TO DO WHEN A REBEL DICTATOR SEEMED MORE CONCERNED WITH PETTING YOU THAN WITH BREAKING ALL YOUR FINGERS, and well... no, this hadn't been covered at all in hazmat training, or negotiations training, or ANYTHING, and Blake wasn't - on top of all this fucking shit! He wasn't AT ALL HAPPY with the endearment which Bane had seen fit, out of some perverse sense of camaraderie or ... Or, oh God, or affection - and this, more than anything right now really, nevermind the strong hand on his neck or the duct tape itching his skin slowly away from his blood, THIS, the fucking "Pajarito mio..." Bane muttered, almost right on cue, yeah, THIS was really starting to make Blake think about losing his head.