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Nine Hours of Sweet Torture - Part Four
Yes it is done. Yes I apologize. I had to temporarily die in the middle of things, there, because never ever ever ever fly cross-country during midterms, ever ever. Thank you.
In contrition, I was a code whore and here's how to get to the first three parts:
Part I - ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
kyrre
here
Part II - walksbyherself
here
Part III - phurie_dae
here
As we know, this is Tem-ve's fault.
Approx. 690 words. I fail at concise.
…Bruce made an incoherent sound as Ducard leaned down and hungrily licked the large droplet from his navel.
The room may have been warm, but it was not enough to mask the curls of heat that climbed from Ducard's stabbing tongue. He indulged just once, twice to be thorough and to properly layer the soft echoes of sharp, short cries, then lifted back to leave Bruce hot-cold, wet, and straining not to shiver for fear of the hand-spun anaconda tightening just a hair's-breadth above the chill. Bruce's breath came short but not shallow, because of the way the rope was wrapped, and a lightness began to swell behind his eyes. I will not hyperventilate. He worked to steady his breath and his pulse, could feel Ducard watching him as he did, with sharp, appraising eyes and complete stillness. It made him wish his legs were tied, just to have something to pull against. Bruce dropped his eyes shut and focused on breathing slowly. Taking control of his body. Mentally enforcing a sort of arranged lassitude, in which he ignored the heat insinuating through cloth between Ducard's thighs and his own. He clenched his jaw and made his body melt.
Ducard didn't say anything, but Bruce heard a small grunt as he probably nodded, or possibly cocked his chin up in that elegant, superior way he had. Bruce could see that perfectly in his mind's eye, and the image made him wedge his tongue against his teeth as he pushed his skittering gut back down again. Kept his eyes shut. Breathed through his nose. Carefully, slowly. In, out. It helped that beneath it all he was still ridiculously exhausted.
Then Ducard drew a crescent-shaped crack in Wayne's crafted inertia, sweeping the flat of the slick, cool blade under the crumpled fabric of Bruce's slunk-down trousers. It rested against the top of his thigh, and Bruce relaxed determinedly instead of arching into it. With his eyes held shut, he could almost pretend there was nothing happening until the blade slid around to the inside of his thigh and he twitched. Cold metal, warming fast bit into his skin. He gasped and bucked up, forgetting not to throw himself against the ropes. They crushed his ribs, turning his own strength against him, and he fell to the bed dizzy and well admonished.
Admonished enough for Ducard's taste, though, would be a matter open for discourse. He nudged Bruce's trousers and licked the little blood, then reached up to tap Bruce's temple and make him open his eyes. Ducard licked again, slowly, cool hungry gaze recording the way Bruce shuddered and coughed, then he glanced over Bruce's erection and seemed to get an idea.
He slid up the bed over Bruce's prone body, while his unbelted trousers dragged down to his knees. Strong, corded, scarred thighs framed Bruce's vision, and Ducard's arching cock stood proudly between.
Understated ice-grey eyes said everything, and Bruce opened his mouth.
Ducard was hot and heady against his tongue, made him want to hollow his mouth out just to fit more. It was sharp, and sweat, and blood, and darkness, and a rich stinging under-taste that had Bruce arching his tongue against it in needy waves again and again. He swallowed compulsively every time the tip tapped against the back of his throat, but never caught hold of anything but an echo. "You'll choke yourself," Ducard said when Bruce tried to pull his head free, and tightened his unquestionable iron hold. There wasn't a sign of strain in his voice.
Bruce moaned around the hot, steely silk that pushed over his tongue, put a twinge in his jaw and skewered his senses. The rope kept tightening with every abortive writhe, but to Bruce there was nothing but the smell, the taste and feel, the smooth animal power of Ducard taking his mouth. Everything outside was nothing at all. Bruce closed his eyes, then realized that the blackness had been while they were open.
He did choke for a moment, sputtered out a sloppy cough, as with swift alarm he realized that things were swirling and narrowing and he wasn't sure that he still had legs.
shrieking_ell? I believe that leaves it with you?
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batslash,
