Disclaimer: We have steadily traveled into NC-17 land. You've been warned

She taunts him with the things he despises; the inane apparel of the affluent that she wears as a socialite of Gotham, an exorbitant display of prosperity that sickens him on principal, and in practicality is useless in the hot winds of the desert, or the bitter chill of the mountains.

However, as her skirt falls to the floor and her silken shirt slips down her thin shoulders, it becomes harder for Bane to hate the trappings of wealth, for those costly raiment serve their purpose- they shield her true beauty from those who would not deserve to see her. She strips off the layers of Miranda Tate; the cashmere scarf, the silken shirt, the heels worth a small fortune, ridding herself of the costly garments that shield the true woman she is from the public's eye. She sheds them like dead skin, reborn into the most beautiful and deadly viper he has ever beheld, for she is truly fearsome in her power. She is small, so easy to overlook and underestimate, and yet more deadly than all of Bane's strength. In her bared skin, as Talia, she is an asp, always coiled and waiting to strike, the fire in her eyes matched only by her wrath. It is a truly terrifying revelation.

And Bane is enraptured.

She plays with him as a child pokes hot coals, hoping for a spark, a flash of heat. She licks at his heels, and he is quick to move, dancing to her pace as he avoids her burn. At times, her temper cools, but it is all too quick to smolder, destroying everything in its path. And for all of his might, Bane has never tried to temper the flames. For he knows he is no master of the fire, only a steady worshipper at the inferno.

And for this, she rewards him.

He, the most devout at the temple of her veneration, is also the most wealthy. Not in the terms of Gotham, for those things mean nothing to creatures of the Pit; no, in terms of her attention, her trust. Bane is who she schemes with, plots with, and often he is sent in her stead to fulfill duties for her. He is reverent in his position, knowing the faith she has in him.

His Goddess.

So he does not take it lightly when she names him the Demonhead in her stead, giving him the mantle of the League of Shadows. He is indoctrinated, of course, and knows the ways and dogmas of the group, but he did not live and breathe them as long as she did-he is not the true heir. She is willingly giving up a piece of her power to him, so he may better serve the Liberation. There is a balance of power between them, and she has tipped it in his favor.

Bane seeks to rectify this.

She comes before him, as she had done many times before, seeking the familiar comfort of his body and the release of their shared passion, and he takes the lead, towering over her as she lays naked across her bed.

He will return her to power.

She is his queen, and her pleasure is all Bane has ever strived for. Her satisfaction was always forefront in their coupling. He touches her reverently, trailing his rough hands up her thighs to her ribs, sliding his thumbs underneath the soft swell of her breasts, her nipples rosy and hardened. She is not patient, though, and while she accepts his devotion, she has never been a compassionate deity. She drives her nails into his shoulder; a stinging reminder to not lose focus.

It is precisely that which makes up his mind.

He hovers over her, her legs wrapped around his waist as he pulls away, tugging at the mechanism masking his face. He loosens the screws, pulling the straps from his face, and he can see her eyes widen ever so slightly before the monstrosity is dangling from his fingers, and his ruined mouth is exposed to her and her alone.

The pain is worse than he imagined, worse than he ever remembered.

She stares, though, stroking his marred face with ever so soft touches, and he forces himself to grip the blankets, fists clenching and teeth gritting through the torment. He will endure it, for her.

For she has given him all.

His muscles ache and scream in protest to his movements, but his plan has not yet come to fruition, and he would see it filled out. He would see her scream. He flips them, so she is on top of him, straddling his broad chest as he tries not to gasp and groan, biting into the skin of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. But his shaking hands grasp her hips, pulling her closer until she realizes what he means to do, and she slides forward to him, her eyes aglow with the promise of this new pleasure.

The first taste of her is the purest mix of agony and bliss he has ever known, and Bane knows it is the closest he will ever come to heaven. His tongue is weak from disuse, and his ruined lips make it near impossible to suckle her as he should, but as his large hands grasp her hips and he inhales the heady scent of her desire, she mewls, enrapt in pleasure, and it is his undoing. The stabbing pain that has blinded him persists, but it is no longer his focus as he drives his tongue into her, over and over, spreading her further and circling her clit. She responds by spreading her thighs wider to sink down onto him, and he knows if his head was not shorn she would have his locks in a vice grip, for even now she tries to drive him closer, pressing his head to her as though he could not feel the weight of her need. He is already addicted to her, though, the silken taste of her folds against his tongue, and the heat of her burning-

The pain, oh god, the fucking pain.

She does not know, though, and he will not tell her, the way each of his eyelashes feel as though it could be made of acid, for the weight it bears on his eyes is enough to make him consider clawing them from his face, for surely the pain of being blind is still nothing compared to this. It is fire, searing behind each layer of his skin, and he knows now this is the true price of his devotion; his penance. But he has started upon this rite of communion, and he must partake of each sacrament she bestows upon him.

Take; eat; this is my body which is given for you

He is determined; he will not stop, he will not disappoint her. He swirls his tongue against her as she grinds against his face, and he can no longer tell if it is her sweet nectar that runs down his cheeks, or the salty flow of his tears, as he grips her hips tighter, bruising. She shudders, though, and he must keep going, he cannot stop. Talia...he would moan if he could feel his lips, so set upon their task and the pain that has overtaken them, it burns through his flesh even as he forces his tongue to thrust back into her continuously, forgetting to care as she thrashes, his name a chant on her lips and he still he does not stop his furious pace, for the pain has driven him past the point of rational thought, he can now only repeat the motions and rely upon muscle memory until her thighs clench around his head so hard he is sure that she will kill him, and then the taste of her floods his mouth.

Take this, and drink from it

He drinks her in until he is sure he can take no more, for his throat is closing and he can no longer move his muscles, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Perhaps he is dying, he thinks, and for once he cannot bring himself to care. He knew in the Pit that the small child that stared at him with curious eyes through the cell bars would be his undoing. To have even seen the sun was a tribute to her fidelity. It would be a more pleasurable death than he ever envisioned, truly, the weight of her pressing down on him as he tastes her on his tongue.

Her will be done

But it is not Talia's wish that he dies, for she slides off from him, grabbing his mask and pressing it to his face, the cool gas shooting into his lungs, and she gathers his head in her lap, the large man trembling and convulsing as he draws deep gasps from his mask, the soothing analgesic a balm to the fire of his nerves. But as intense as the pain is, he does not regret this night, for she is happily sated, leaning against the headboard of the bed as she strokes his head tenderly, his body curled around her lap as he holds the mask to his face.

For thine is the kingdom

It is easy to see, when he is weakened like this, who is truly the strong one, the protector between them both. She is his castle, his refuge when he is so destroyed, and when he is strong again he will be her bastion of strength.

The League, the Pit, Gotham...all of it is hers. Her influence has grown to rival even her father's, and it is truly a empire to behold. But none of this has ever mattered to Bane. The numbers of the League hold no weight with him, because he cares not for anyone else. She is his little one. She is his home.

and the power

She knows, now, the power she has over him, the power he has willingly given to her. She has known of his loyalty, but never had he ventured to prove himself in such indelible terms. It is a heady knowledge, and it justifies her actions, giving her a rush of pride. The more he proved himself, the more power she would bestow upon him. Any man so devoted that he would subject himself to such pain at her expense, for her pleasure, was truly worthy of her titles.

and the glory

For that, he would be the face of the Liberation, the head of the League; he will even become the child who rose from the Pit. To him will go the glory, so she might slip quietly between the ribs of the man she most despises.

for ever and ever

It will not be long now before it is all over, she surmises. Gotham will burn. The fire will rise. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Amen