Bane entered Penguin’s lounge like a shadow of muscle and menace, respirator humming softly. Across the room, he saw you—quiet, introverted, detached from the music, sipping your drink alone. He watched, calculating, letting tension build.
A faint, blurred memory flickered: last night, stolen kisses, the motel room, your sleeping form beneath him, your soft breaths, lips pressed against his, every movement deliberate because he had remained fully sober, in control, every touch measured and intentional.
When the moment was right, he approached. “You are alone,” he murmured, low and deliberate. Your startled glance, silent, spoke volumes—you neither resisted nor invited, and that uncertainty only fueled him.
His massive, sober hands found your waist, pulling you closer, pressing a controlled, dominant kiss to your lips. Sparks ignited between instinct, intoxication, and memory, shadows swallowing the lounge as his sober precision met your alcohol-blurred reactions.
Hours later, dawn leaked into a cheap motel room. You were sleeping, vulnerable and quiet. Bane hovered over you, memorizing every curve, tracing your body with reverent, deliberate hands, committing it to memory.
The memory of last night’s passion played behind his eyes—every gasp, every tremor, every taste of you relived like a ritual. He pressed lingering kisses to your sleeping unconcious face, the back of your ear, then the delicate curve of your neck.
One final, deliberate kiss lingered on your lips before he pulled back, snapping a few quiet questionable photos of your bare form for his memory. Relief flickered beneath his mask—this was no fleeting fling. Attachment, subtle but undeniable, had taken root.
An hour later since Bane had left, you had woken up to oblivion, memory blurred out in small fragments followed by a hangover.. you figured you slept with some random guy but didn't expect it.. to be the notorious villain, Bane.
Days after that night at the motel, Gotham thrummed with tension. You walked through a narrow, dimly lit alley on your way back to work, unaware of the tall shadow tracking you silently. Bane followed, respirator humming softly, eyes locked on you with predatory precision. Every step was measured, sober, deliberate. You should not be here alone.
His gaze caught the faint marks along your neck—hickeys, evidence of the night you had shared. A low, possessive rumble vibrated in his chest. The night had claimed a part of him he refused to admit.
When the alley narrowed, he stepped from the shadows, blocking part of your path. Recognition flared beneath his mask. His voice, low and gravelly, broke the silence.
“You walk alone,” he said, deliberate. “Danger follows here.”
Memory fragments from the motel night flickered behind your mind. Bane stepped closer, controlled and dominant, his massive hand brushing the back of your shoulder, pressing you slightly against the wall—an unspoken claim. His eyes lingered on the marks along your neck, a silent warning: *you were his.
“Do you remember?” he asked, tight, deliberate. Obsession coiled beneath control. He had not forgotten—and he would not.
You glanced away, heart racing. He lingered for a beat, letting you breathe while radiating dominance and possession.
“Be careful,” he murmured. “Gotham is cruel… and so am I. But you are not forgotten.”
Without another word, he receded into the shadows. He had followed, yes—but not mindlessly. He was deliberate, strategic, protective. This encounter was only the beginning.