Affixed

Pairing: Bruce/Ducard
Rating: NC-17
Words: Warnings: Kink and lots of it
Disclaimers: not for profit, and not mine
Notes: Sequel to shrieking_ell's Fixation and temve's Transfixed.

***

The men who tie him up all wear masks. Bruce's muscles shake from the harsh training of an hour previous, from dodging whips and blows and dancing on wooden pegs. The muscle spasms feel like phantom caresses under and over his skin. And now this new test: he is suspended on a slightly inclined board, with his feet only able to touch the ground if he stretches them down, stretches his shoulders just past the point of comfort. The torment is subtle, but it is torment all the same.

He faces an empty room, save for the mechanisms holding him here and a fireplace in the corner filled with burning embers banked in gray ash. The room is windowless, but Bruce imagines he can hear the shush of snow against the outer walls.

Bruce calms his breathing, and licks the cooling sweat from his upper lip. He ignores the tightening and itching of his skin as it dries. He cannot get out of these knots, not with his muscles so weak from practice. Earlier in the day perhaps he could have curled up from the waist, ignored the pressure in his hands as blood is trapped there, flipped himself over the board and found a way to undo these knots, but now his body won't obey him. His best hope is that the adrenaline of a new adversary will give him the power or the leverage he needs to do what his body won't do alone.

The room is silent. Bruce hears nothing but the pull and catch of his skin against the board, the creaking of the tethers that bind him, the pounding of his heartbeat. He strains his ears for the telltale signs of another human, and hears a catch of breath. Almost nothing—it could be the sigh of wind through a crevice in the building, but Bruce thinks not.

Bruce works to conceal what he's noticed, but the flicker of his eyelid, his own change in breathing, these are like tracks in the snow to one who knows how to look. A blindfold covers Bruce's eyes before he has a chance for more than a glimpse at the hands that do the work, but he feels long, attenuated fingers tie the knot behind his head. They do their work swiftly, well accustomed to tying knots. Bruce tests the blindfold, and cannot dislodge it by rubbing his face against his arms.

Bruce tenses and relaxes the muscles in his shoulders to try to force blood through them and pins and needles tracing up his arms reward his effort. Now his captor is in front of him. He must be one of their best, to move so stealthily. Or. Or this is Ducard, the master himself, walking on cat feet in front of Bruce's blind eyes.

He hasn't dared to hope so soon, but his body leaps ahead of his thought, tightening, warming; his cock presses against the front of his loose trousers.

Men on less quiet feet enter the room. He hears wood put on the fire, and the sound of a metal poker stirring up the coals. Bruce's legs are unfettered. He could kick out at them, with a fair surety of where these servants are, perhaps even pin one between his legs and force them to let him go. Bruce hesitates. The blindfold—so tight he cannot even open his eyes behind it—feels like fine silk. The thongs binding his hands felt like leather—hard against his wrists so he can't move, but a fine leather and well-cared for—not the rough straps that bind up weapons and armor, but something made for this purpose alone. Then the door closes again and Bruce has lost his chance for action.

The room is silent. A captor this skilled will trace out a radius just outside the swing of Bruce's legs, or he will be so confident in his ability to move silently, that he will come inside Bruce's guard? Will his captor say anything to him? In this game whoever speaks first loses something more than freedom, so Bruce stays silent.

Bruce hears the soft sliding of the man's footsteps bringing him into the radius of Bruce's legs, and he kicks. It is a poor hope, and half-hearted, because if this is Ducard, part of Bruce does not wish to be let go. Training is nothing without the will to act, Bruce hears in his head, and that will is what he lacks here and now. His captor catches his leg, absorbs all Bruce's strength without an audible stumble, then, keeping hold of his leg, comes up close to Bruce where he is tethered to the board, and pins his knee up.

Bruce draws his other leg up, reacting to the instinct to protect his more delicate parts. He feels warm, familiar breath against his chest, and arches his body enough so the skin of his side brushes the soft stiffness of a beard. Ducard's. He feels Ducard's smile, inches from his skin.

Use it, thinks Bruce, as if his thought can force Ducard's hand. Bruce lets his mouth hang a little open, wanton, shamelessly begging for what tools he knows Ducard must have with him.

He is not disappointed. He hears a low chuckle, and the leather he has imagined tasting is hard, prying his mouth open. It feels obscene against his tongue, forcing it back, forcing him to find a way to swallow his saliva around it. He pushes his lips and teeth against it as Ducard tightens the straps around his head.

"Don't bite," says Ducard's voice, urbane and amused. Bruce wants to hear something darker underneath, hear what he heard when Ducard was uncontrolled and thought he was alone, but the mask is firmly in place. Bruce tries to bite, and can't—the leather phallus has forced his lips too far back. Ducard chuckles—he must be watching this futile resistance. He lingers near for a moment, close enough that Bruce could attempt another attack, then makes a noise of satisfaction and steps away.

Now Ducard no longer troubles to be silent. Bruce hears a swish of fabric that Ducard somehow quieted before, and he hears the high pure song of a sword leaving its scabbard. This is not a practice blade, blunted and pocked with years of combat; this sound speaks instead of perfect balance, artistry and a razor edge. Bruce is not surprised when he feels the tip cut the waistband of his trousers, hears the sigh of leather and fabric parting wherever it touches.

The trousers pool around his feet, and Ducard uses the tip of the sword to cut them entirely free. Bruce feels the sword's touch again on the sensitive skin of his ankles—like a caress, but it stings after, and he knows it has broken skin. The stinging wakens an answering pain in his wrists where the leather straps bite in: a dull maw of pain to the needle-sharp teeth of this sword.

Finally Ducard cuts the blindfold off him, and Bruce can see him. Ducard is still in his practice gear, lacking only the mask he wore when he and the anonymous others brought Bruce here. His gaze touches Bruce like an insistent finger, lingering first on Bruce's face. Bruce fights to keep the fear out of his eyes, to let Ducard see only arousal, but that isn't difficult. Bruce's body wants to ignore his predicament in favor of the man in front of him. Ducard's gaze sweeps down Bruce's torso to his cock, which springs up with Ducard's eyes on it.

"Good," says Ducard, lingering on the word, drawing it out in a satisfied purr. "I have not underestimated you." Anger suffuses Bruce's blood, anger that Ducard has read his need so easily, but his treacherous body turns that anger back again into even more need. Bruce wants to be here, under Ducard's control. He wants their positions reversed. He wants Ducard's hands on him, invading him. He wants to see Ducard twist in the wind for needing him.

Ducard must see all this in Bruce's eyes, for he says, half to himself, "Rebellious always." With practiced movements, he uses a pulley to draw the board Bruce rests against up so it is vertical, then turns Bruce over, and before Bruce can react, moves the plane of the board to a lower angle so Bruce is lying more against it.

The strain on the bindings at his wrists decreases, and Bruce gasps at the agony of the blood returning to them. He flexes his hands to get through the pain quicker, and focuses on other sensations. The board is hard against his cheek. His cock presses painfully into it, denied its full extension. The new position forces the gag even further back into his mouth.

Bruce makes himself to relax into the new sensations, and feels newer sensations still—Ducard binding whisper-soft leather around one ankle and then the other and securing them to the edges of the board. His legs are far apart, and an errant breeze invades Bruce's most secret parts. His balls pull up closer to his body and he can feel Ducard watching him, cataloguing his responses.

He sees the bulk of Ducard's shadow as it moves around him, but all he can feel on his body is the air moving at his passing. His skin shivers with anticipation, silently begging for a touch of hands, a whip; even the sweep of Ducard's cloak or the sting of his sword would answer this longing somewhat.

Ducard lightly touches his shoulders, the length of his spine, and the cleft of his buttocks with gloved hands. Bruce strains against his bonds now, his only thought to force more of Ducard's hands on him—Bruce's control is in tatters next to this overwhelming hunger.

Ducard stands on the side where Bruce can see him, and strips off one glove, slowly, deliberately. He puts his hand in a hidden pocket on his trousers and it comes out glistening. Bruce fights the urge to rub himself against the rough surface of the board, fights the urge to end this too fast.

Ducard's fingers slip up between his legs and tease gently at his opening. Ducard is gentle only when to be gentle is more cruel than to be harsh. Bruce pushes himself back against Ducard's fingers, all shame gone. He won't beg, can't beg around the gag, but he hears the choked noises coming from his throat that amount to the same thing.

Ducard hears him too, and Bruce can imagine the vulpine smile he must be wearing now, to have Bruce so desperately at his mercy. He pushes two fingers in smoothly, but too much too fast, and Bruce's entrance spasms and tightens around them in half pleasure-half pain. Now Ducard is relentless. He sets up a rhythm with his fingers plunging into Bruce deep enough Bruce can feel them hit the swollen root of his cock. Ducard adds a third and a fourth finger, and Bruce shudders as though he will split apart, impaled upon them.

Bruce bucks his hips, and his cock rasps against the rough board as Ducard rips an orgasm from him, and doesn't even stop or slow the movements of his hand. Bruce's mouth works around the gag as he tries to give voice to the feeling of tearing release, but instead he swallows the noises, strangles on them.

Ducard continues with his relentless, deliberate invasion, until another orgasm more full of pain than satisfaction scrapes down Bruce's raw nerves and out through his cock again. "You are," says Ducard. Then, with a satisfied grunt, Ducard removes his fingers from Bruce's ass.

Bruce feels light and empty now, dried up and depleted, as if he might blow away. He becomes aware of all the ways he is hurting, practice bruises. He is what? Bruce doesn't know. He is here in Ducard's hands, totally and completely his if Ducard wants. But Bruce is also a serpent's tooth, and he wants Ducard here, where he is now, as much as he wants to be here again.

He still hasn't heard Ducard whimper for him.


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