Oh, sleep deprivation is a horrendous way to complete a fic. And this is the last chapter. I am not going to add onto this when I have nothing left to give. My fingers are numb since my heat isn't working and so on and so on, whine, moan, whine…
Also, considering I just got peppered up by a kickass, long-as-an-actual-fic review from RMMB, this chapter is going to be brighter than the others, with the darker undertones skittering around only just where you can see them from the peripheral of your vision. But, I promise, it will be good. Though, one should be warned that this last chapter is highly graphic in the darker areas.
-:-
I like restraint, if it doesn't go too far.
-Mae West.
{…Three months after stitches and help and movement and planting seeds to change…}
"This is disgusting."
Terry rolled his eyes from behind the protection of his sunglasses, the sunlight slithering around the breaks in the misty, dark grey clouds above their heads, ready very much to spew down more flood causing rain upon the two detectives as well as the rest of Gotham.
"No, Damian, it's a bowling alley," Terry corrected, pulling on his brother's arm so they could get into the warm building and out of the chilly wind, "And everyone's still waiting for us, so please move your ass."
Damian, still dressed in his usual black suit, but lacking a tie today, chomped his teeth twice, but allowed his younger brother to pull him into the double spinning doors of 'Collective Knives'; it was the only bowling alley downtown near the boys' now jointly owned apartment—may the gods fuck over Helena sometime soon for getting them to agree to actually rent an apartment with each other, rather than stay in the manor with the rest of their siblings; "Better for recovery" she said—that had sufficient low lighting for vampires and the darker supernaturals and Damian still knew, somehow, that the whole place was going to smell like cheap liquor, disinfectant spray, and those weird little glow sticks woman and children wore to stand out or whatever.
Truly disgusting.
{…Fifteen days after rape, torture and many narrow escapes…}
The highway stretched long and far, all white scrapes and ragged, unkempt fence lines that went as far as the eye could see. Deep black fingernails dug into the steering wheel. Muffled groans came from the back of the moving van the likes of which could spook a jaguar.
Humming under her breath a quiet lullaby that she recalled her mother singing to her and her little sister since they were a month old and could understand words and emotions the way seers could read tea leaves at certain times during the day and night, Delia turned on the road again, the tires causing slush on the ground to splash in waves and mix with half frozen mud. She absently flipped on the radio in an attempt to drawn out another one of her partner's moans as he added more vervain and mint to the infected wounds along his stomach (compliments of his kinda cute, snow white uncle) as well as the bite marks along his jaw near his left ear and quite prominently along his throat and muscled shoulder (compliments of the little brother that had given Delia less than half of her vision in her left eye, no matter how much crushed tiger lily, geranium, liquid mercury and raw meat she ate).
"…Do you believe in life after love? I can feel something inside me say, 'I really don't think I'm strong enough'…"
"Oh, goody, Sheryl Crow," the little demon smirked, turning up the volume even as Tallant finally stopped his belly aching and she the door that connected their sleeping arrangements in the back to the driver's cab.
He had put back on a rather simple black button up shirt, but the scent that emitted from his self medication and his injuries was still enough to make Delia glance over with her good eye—the one that didn't now have a cataract similar to a blind dog—and just look over the liquid rising from his bandages to the shirt's fabric. She grinned to herself and eased into another turn as he took a seat in the passenger's side.
The white reflections of the sun bounced in through the windows and onto Tallant's clean, sandy and Arabic skin. It made the moving van they virtually lived in until reaching Canada's border seem like a moving hospital; like he was a sick patient.
Stepping into the place was a sort of passport into the strange and truly unexpected. Damian and Terry were not at all expecting to be greeted by two large, spotted hyenas with matching red leather collars at the bottom of a flight of stairs that led into a large, high ceiling barroom with couples coddling in private booths, low, silky music and that was…well, again, not what was to be expected.
"Erm, hello," Terry spoke, tentatively showing the more dominant looking beast his open palm, to which it started sniffing, paused a moment, sniffed again—this time like it was double checking something in its head—and then looked up at Terry in a way the young vamp was sure to be the same scrutiny Alfred gave their family dog Ace whenever he came in from the rain and decided to dry out on the living room sofa.
The ridge between its eyes creased upwards—like it was amused—and moved aside, head nodding to the dark area that the bar occupied like an oasis in a vast desert. The other hyena was growling at Damian as the tan man with the scent of cinnamon, blood and various floral essences tried to hug the wall and get around it to no avail.
"Um," Terry started, lightly tapping the growling, smaller hyena on the rump, getting his attention just long enough for Damian to give it a sneer that clearly meant that the first chance he got he would be dropkicking it into the street they had just come from, "He's with me. We're looking for the bowling alley; do you know where we go? There are people waiting for us."
Both hyenas, with the singularity that came from twins, looked at each other, up at Terry and then gave two quiet giggles; the one that had growled at Damian and was still giving him an annoyed look, grabbed the end of Terry's coat tails. The other snuck up behind Damian—apparently, he was the boss between the two, exhibiting more poise and dignity—and gently nudged him after Terry.
Being lead into a place that showed all the signs of being a fancy bar/restaurant/escort service for the well paying and possibly high demanding gentle person by two hyenas was indeed rather…strange, but the two brothers had experienced even more disturbing things. Witnessing the wedding of an immortal that didn't look older than ten to a crocodile lycanthrope came to mind, and even more strange before that. Sentient hyenas with attitude didn't even make the top twenty in the list of things they'd seen.
Beyond the bar they came upon—all high ceilings and low lighting to give it a feel of being even deeper underground, three chandeliers hanging about with cut glass and fifteen carat gold trimmings spaced out to even the effects of light and dark—was a small, private looking restaurant and theater with various people the two detectives could recognize standing about drinking, laughing, listening to the band on stage. Everything was dark black and blues and green centerpieces on the few tables. Pamela Isley-an immortal that personified plant life in Gotham—sat at a table with her husband, a half-human demon from the section of Tartarus that handled gamblers that tried to cheat death, Harvey Dent. They were crooning and Damian felt and held back his gag at the way she kissed the rotted out side of his face. Near the bandstand were Paxton and Derek Powers (second rate vampires that Bruce Wayne had to deal with on occasion), drinking and looking over the waitresses and Chelsea, Blade and Bunny Vreeland, the three women singing 'Mr. Sandman'in their tight, socialite voices.
Passing by all those guests, none even bothering to look at the men as the hyenas lead them through expertly, Terry and Damian found themselves going down another set of stairs, these ones winding clockwise for three flights, until they could hear people laughing and what sounded like thunder, punctuated by loud crashes and shrieks of…joy?
Humming still along with the music of the radio as it turned to 'Samson' by Regina Spektor, their home away from home turning on the road and just able to make out the figure of a red barn in the far off distance, cows dotting the fields along the fence line, Delia fished around under her seat, until her little hand gripped the head of a bottle, still warm from when she left it in the sun that morning while Tallant had stopped his shift for driving and they got pancakes at a roadhouse diner with the big yellow 'R' in the 'DINER' missing.
Her smile not quite the red rictus it usually was, she set the bottle—jostling dark red, nearly black, on the inside—into Tallant's lap, but kept her eyes on the road, not wishing for them to crash because her eyes were off the road because she wanted to see his questioning look. The way his injuries affected his facial reactions were priceless.
The much older supernatural picked the bottle up to examine it, crossing his legs—one knee over another, one ankle doing the same, rather like his mother—and reading/translating the red print of the Russian on the blue paper pasted on the glass bottle. The Russian translated to
"Impeccable Lavender, circa 1823" but as he smelled the cap that had been broken, he could tell that only half of the liquid sloshing within was the wine.
"What is it?" He asked curiously, popping the cork with his thumb and pointer in the motion of signing "found" in English sign language.
"I think you're gonna like it," Delia answered mysteriously, stopping the vehicle abruptly as a shepherd and his big black and white Border Collie lead a flock of about twenty-something dark, coal colored sheep across the bridge both the supernaturals and the civilian farmer needed to cross to get to that small farming town about three hundred miles from Montreal that they would get to in about five hours. Tallant watched twin white lambs gander after their mother and out of the way of Delia's pressing of the gas pedal before continuing on the road; the vampire took out one of the crystal vodka glasses they kept in the glove box, poured himself one about half-full.
Downing it in one go, despite the fact that the mere act of moving his head in a backward motion made him supremely uncomfortable, the delightful tang of good late Victorian wine met his tongue and tickled the tastebuds delightfully. But, that was not what pleased him as Delia continued down the path and the real flavoring of the blend set fire to his eyes—turning them sort of like the bloodlust red of Damian, but with multi-functional dots and spots of his natural eye color and snaked poison green—and a wicked grin along his mouth; his teeth reached downwards at his radiating glee, but did not prick his tongue or lips.
The room they finally were brought to was about as tall and wide as the high school gym the Wayne family had contributed to for inter-city troubled youth. The colors on the carpets just before the cement, tile and sort-of wood flooring made especially for the actual factual bowling area gave off the feeling of being made up by the actresses of noir. All was Bawdy Rouge, Alcove Black and Full Moon White, save for the yellow lighting that showed off the lanes for the spinning balls and knock-around pins, the electric screens above each lane that kept score—two separate ones of which showcased the names of the teams playing, each with four names, 'Blue Jays' and 'Sparrows'—and the rolling balls themselves, all colored differently, brilliantly and (to Damian especially) horrendously painted.
Near the wall on the far side was a tiny little bar with a familiar barman behind it—Tygrus, of all people or large feline lycanthropes and one of Selina's only real friends—serving shot glasses and beer pitchers to the gathered family of Wayne, some of the people from Damian and Terry's therapy groups and (wonder of wonders) the sovereign Quinn, looking over the games in an almost suspicious manner.
Occupied with the sight of Selina talking with the blonde and radiant looking Harley Quinn—a larger, prettier and less spotted version of Deidre and Delia—neither of the brothers were prepared for the impact of a small, lithe body colliding with them, one arm wrapping around Damian's neck and another around Terry's arm.
"Well, it certainly took you guys forever to get down here," Helena smirked, removing Damian's coat to hang it on one of the pegs attached to the wall near the door, just above some untidy rows of variously sized shoes—a pair of which Damian noted (absently and just after he shut his mouth to keep from yelling at his sister about wrinkling his coat, brand new, yes it was) to be their father's sitting perfectly next to Selina's five inch heeled Prada.
Terry removed his own coat, revealing his formfitting brown button up with light brown cuffs all could no longer see because he had rolled them up earlier when told of this engagement they would all have to lighten their moods and cease this torrential feeling of misery that had taken over their lives at not knowing where the monsters no longer among them had disappeared to after escaping to Canada. He hooked it to the wall next to Damian's and, though Helena was taking Damian's shoes herself—him screaming that this was immature, pointless, idiotic—just slipped his own shoes from his feet, nicely lining them beside the Egyptian slippers he had seen Dusan wear more times than he could count. Terry's cop shoes—Burgen's loafers that went well with his thick, dry socks many hookers had commented on arrest was a big turnoff when they weren't cuffed and stretched all the way to his knees like a school girl—looked like Dusan's slippers' older, butch boyfriends.
The thought earned a smile as he approached his family sitting at the tables pressed to the walls to say hi; his feet slid against the carpet very nicely.
Bruce noticed him first and pulled up a seat for his youngest son, the seat furthest from contact with Tamara and Beryl—the two ladies engaged in whispering things in each others' ears, Tamara once and a while slipping her tongue along Beryl's cartilage, which made Terry feel happy for them way deep down under the part of him that was still mildly freaked out by the sight of any romantic contact that reminded him of his own personal Hell some time ago—as well as asked Tygrus for a Royal Smile Cocktail (with one ounce of Blue Whale blood rather than apple brandy).
Terry took his seat and nodded a thanks to his father, looking off to the side to find Damian with Helena holding his right leg in the air—the elder brother spitting Arabian profanities—in an attempt to remove his other shoe. From his seat, Terry could also see the two teams in the middle of bowling; Dick out on the floor with teammates (Terry supposed, since they were all behind him, sitting down until called to the floor and drinking various other drinks, eating those tiny little bowls of Pistachios and peanuts the bar up front offered) Melanie, Deidre and Tim cheering as the vamp bowled a strike, with Jason in the other lane, was just throwing his deep, bloody red ball downwards towards the pins set to be collided with. Jason's teammates—well, the two of them as Terry was fairly certain Helena was the third and was bothering Damian just until her turn came up—were Ghoul drinking, probably, a light beer and Dusan wearing still rather proper white slacks and a blue button-up, looking uncertain as to exactly why he was doing this when he'd never bowled—to anyone's knowledge—in his life.
His drink set down beside him, Terry looked at Bruce with his light blue eyes not quite meeting his as Bruce was looking at Selina, but Terry still knew he was paying attention to anything he had to say; his big hand was spinning a sword shaped swizzle stick in his ice cube lacking Black Maria (with Texas Steer blood rather than the two ounces of rum).
"Hey, dad," Terry greeted pleasantly enough, if not a little hesitantly, eyes no longer looking at Bruce, but near the table legs to find Ace at Selina's feet, the two large hyenas taking a gander at him from either side of Miss Quinn as she—apparently, though discreetly—kept track of what Selina was speaking with her about, but kept glaring over at Dick when he helped Deidre properly align herself with the little arrows painted on the floor to give proper direction for the bowler to hit a high score, his big hands on her skinny, almost-like-a-twelve-year-old-boy's hips, "How's work going today?"
Bruce grumbled lowly in his throat, throwing back his own drink so it was near half empty before he answered his youngest, eyes going back to his face when the burn of the blood in his drink worked its way into his lungs like heavy tobacco, "I wouldn't know. Your stepmother dragged me in here just after Alfred woke me up. I haven't been into work—but I will be after she's done watching Helena win out over Jason and her own team. She made a bet with Harley that if Helena came out with the best score, Harley has to contribute to that shelter program Selina's throwing next week at the pound. But if Helena doesn't get over a hundred points, Selina has to contribute more to this…establishment Selina, Harley and Miss Isley own jointly. As it stands, Selina hasn't been very involved with her portion of the place upstairs—the bar hasn't been doing well because of the limited selection of drinks. I'm praying Helena wins so I don't have to deal with the immortal blonde calling Selina over what to name bourbon on the rocks with albino leopard blood chaser."
"We can hear you, darling," Selina grinned from her spot, not turning to look at her husband, but expertly kicking him hard from under the table.
"That was kind of the point, sweet heart," Bruce ground out, ignoring the all-knowing/very used to this sort of thing grin on Terry's face as the young man removed himself from the 'adults table' to join Damian over in the lanes to pick out their own bowling balls. He had finished his drink and didn't want to be in the firing range when Bruce and Selina started making out after she would most probably—it had happened before, by god—kick him in the groin.
"Is this Terry's blood?" Tallant asked, taking another drink and savoring it even more than the first throw-back.
Delia smiled, turning right as they came to a road curving into a deep gorge, river at the bottom, road skittishly placed beside some rather useless fence lining meant to keep automobiles from crashing down into the water to certain death.
"Of course it is. Whatever else would I give you after you've been in such an awful way since Gotham?"
A small dribble of the blood and wine coasted over Tallant's bottom lip as he removed the bottle from his mouth, his tongue collecting it carefully and sweetly, his eyes tempted to roll into the back of his head, "Where'd you get it?"
She was still smiling and tapped her boney, monkey slipper clad left foot in time with the song playing from the radio, absently flicking some of her blonde hair out of her line of vision, "Hm, while you were getting the truck, I popped into the hospital he was staying at and made a drop into the chemical testing room. I knew that they'd draw blood to make sure you didn't give him Syphilis or Chlamydia or something melodramatic like that, and, wonder of wonders, it was freshly drawn. Two pints I managed to snatch. One's in that bottle," she paused, as she had to lean harder into the wheel so it would turn properly and not slicker out on the ice into the frozen over water far below that would gladly trap anyone that fell and broke through, "And the other I saved for when we get into town and rent a hotel. You can have it perfectly untainted while I go out and get us a…proper dinner."
Clicking his fingers over the glass, Tallant waited until they made it over the ridge and further toward civilization until he rather unilaterally decided to say something quite out of his own character and out of his own reasoning that he had lived by the past, oh, ten years. With one smooth movement, as their truck became shrouded behind some trees that were part of a short reaching, clipped forest that the map Delia was using as a guide said stood five miles before they reached town, Tallant reached over and turned the wheel onto a side road that the map said lead down to a small grove. She looked curiously at him, but continued on the route, despite the fact that the grove was basically just a cul-de-sac with flashy red, yellow and white tipped roses that were especially bread to resist the chill and freeze of winter.
"Three hundred, twenty-seven points to five hundred, fifty-three points. Spoils go to 'The Bluejays', thank you, ladies and gentlemen!"
As Dick raised his arms above his head like the a kicker that had just won the world series for soccer, Helena and Jason rolled their eyes and took off from the bowling area to skip and trudge over to the adults' table to pester Bruce and Selina and—maybe, though unlikely as neither of them were particularly doing so since they had only met her a couple times before—Harley. Tim clapped his brother over the back of his head, spouting off the fact that humility was a good practice to follow after a win; the shorter brother—a lawyer vamp, black sheep of this family, really—then tugged on Dick's ear and started dragging him over to the bar where they would probably sit, drink and talk with Tamara and Beryl. Melanie and Ghoul started re-writing up the scoreboard for re-assignment of teams: 'The Mansion of Alnath', with Terry heading as captain (much to chagrin) and Deidre and Dusan running up; 'The Mansion of Alchil'which graciously had Damian heading as captain (oh, someone was going to die from this) and stood with Melanie and Ghoul as his followers.
Melanie and Ghoul would keep the meaning of the team names to themselves, but agreed that Horns of Aries and Crown of Scorpio—both places and houses that lodged symbols in angelic zodiacs—were rather fitting for the occasion.
Terry powdered his hands with the white chalk stuff that came in little bowls built into the sitting area benches as well as the wall that housed the hundred-something bowling balls, and grinned at Damian doing to same thing—still very uncomfortable in the fact that (worse than wearing previously worn, disinfectant sprayed doubly colored shoes) he was not wearing shoes or socks. Terry was pretty sure that Dami would have been comfortable if he could have worn socks, but Helena assured the older vamp that this was a private area and everything was very clean. Terry grinned as Damian followed his little brother onto the floor and they each picked up their balls at the same time.
Terry's ball was Marble See-Through Red with black flecks painted to make them look like bats. Damian's ball was much heavier than necessary and simply Pitch Black that matched his hair color.
A special treat that only comes when Tallant is feeling very light and generous. Leather straps binding him to a pair of trees that stretched him spread-eagled, completely naked. His body scorched hot to the touch and his penis stood erect; Terry's full and only blood held greedily in a just a mouthful in his stomach, cocaine about to enter his system not as a stimulant, but as a sedative.
Delia sat on a stool that allowed her head to be level with his erection, her body only clothed in a spaghetti-strap white top, a pair of denim short-shorts, and her monkey slippers.
Very direct and not at all taking it slow—why should she? After all, he had given her permission to do what she wanted after such a great gift—she lathed her tongue over his swollen hardness twice and uncorked the bottle of cocaine she had bought in Russian before they had visited Gotham. She removed her mouth from the older supernatural and peppered his slit and then the glands with the white—one hundred percent pure, might she add—drug. She did not delight in any form of sexual activity from him, just as he did not enjoy having any arduous activity with her. Applying her oral appendages to his genitalia had once made her vomit up a delicious dinner the third time they'd met, but….
There was nothing like watching him lose control—shake the bottle, pop the cork—before her when he had just had something he really wanted.
After applying the drug one more time—this time with her much sharper pointer fingernail—to his slit, rubbing it in with her thumb afterwards, she removed her pocketknife and got off of the stool, moving behind him, very slowly.
Both balls, quickly and with great force—perhaps enough to have broken the pins in half if so desired—slammed into the pins at the end of the alleys, completely down the middle. Terry knocked them all down as surely as Damian did, though Terry's pins didn't launch forward into the gutters with a loud crash.
Deidre and Dusan clapped enthusiastically for the younger Wayne, as did Melanie and Ghoul for Damian, though one set was more honest and actually paying attention as the other two were more occupied with the sight of the rest of Damian's therapy group—the now hanging on each other and apparently drunk, Tamara and Beryl—giving them a small goodbye and left with Dick and Tim behind them, following simply to make sure the two ladies could get to their apartment without passing out in the street. Jason and Helena followed swiftly after them, with Jason covertly stealing Damian's shoes with his back turned and Helena covering his retreat with a wicked grin.
"Hey," Terry called over, walking to the door as Harley left silently with her hyenas—giving one last look at Deidre; Terry was fairly certain the regal blonde woman was glaring at Dusan sitting with her tomboyish looking daughter and chatting about nothing—and was being followed by Selina and Bruce, "Where are you guys heading off to in such a hurry?"
Bruce allowed Selina to proceed up the stairs, silently telling her he'd follow after in a moment, "Barbara and Mr. Fox just called to pull us into work before enjoyment overtakes our tiny little lives. You two stay here with your groups, have fun, do whatever."
Terry frowned a little at the flat, uncomfortable tone, "Gee, don't sound so enthusiastic to stay, dad."
Bruce frowned as well, putting on his coat with a sweeping motion, shoes being slipped on just as easily, not at all seeming too concerned with his son's tone, "Terry…"
"It's fine father."
Terry flinched a little as a tan hand settled onto his shoulder and a presence that had been hovering silently within fifty feet of him since his second attack by Tallant, but he didn't shrug off Damian's hand. It wasn't exactly comfortable for the younger man, but it was more comfortable than any other physical contact he'd had recently in the last few months (including from Dick, his parents, basically all of his other siblings, short of Helena, maybe).
Bruce looked a little more relieved as he was now being glared at by Damian—a sort of irritation he had grown used to a long time ago—rather than Terry, "Good to know you understand. Ace wants to stay, so I hope you'll return him after this….thing….is over with. Unless you want to keep him at your apartment for a while?"
"We'll see. Have a good day, Father."
Slits the length of about five inches were cut into common white collar drug using areas. Delia used her pocket knife at Tallant's elbows, the clip of both ankles, between his toes and, very carefully—like a surgeon she had once worshipped before she knew better—she cut a small hole through his tongue where some people put tongue piercings.
When she was done adding the cuts, she uncorked another bottle of cocaine—this one with the adage of some Special E—and started peppering the drugs into the blood that seeped from his wounds to put it directly into his bloodstream.
All of this, added to the cold from winter and the fact that he was bound and naked, left Tallant writhing sensually against his restraints. His eye were slowly turning the chalky, glowing white that only came from his most supreme and lethal form, his teeth were about the same length of a lion's, and Delia had to add more restraints to his wrists as well as his legs before she would add on the final touch and allow him to release. As well, she would need to add a muzzle that coned forward down his throat and was rather special for the last step.
When the last leather strap that kept his arms, legs and mouth in place were tightened and set, Delia took her seat back on her stool and just…absorbed the moment.
These kind of moments only really happened when Tallant felt especially guilty about the targets they chose and the victims they killed. He never asked for this with people who deserved it—fellow rapists, murderers, some molesters; all of which he picked out—but sometimes when Delia pushed him far—with small children, pregnant women and men of God, etc—he would ask her to do this sort of thing with a straight razor and liquid silver. This, on the other hand, was special. After he finished and was spent, he would do something similar—though, decidedly different—to her and they would sleep much better that night. But, she would just look at him for the moment and not think about that.
"I know he means well, but does he have to be so cold?"
Damian sighed, thanking Tygus for the raw and, more importantly, intoxicating Welsh Corgi blood on the rocks, and followed after Terry back to the alley. His blue eyes observed Melanie bowl a Straight, while Deidre caused Dusan to blush as she did a rather similar maneuver Dick had done earlier, by laying her tiny hands on his hips to help him guide his ball in. The elder Wayne patted Terry half-heartedly on the back, but grinned when Terry shook him off that time, taking a strong swig from the bottle of Blue Whale blood Tygrus had given him to avoid the young man getting even more depressed.
"That's the way he is little brother. I thought you learned that when you were still a toddler."
Terry grumbled, taking his seat back on the uncomfortable, squeaking plastic bench their teams shared, Damian taking his seat beside him, hooking a large arm behind Terry, hand coming to clasp the bench at Terry's shoulder.
Tallant whined pitifully, pupils long since gone as his erection was harder than rock at that point and he wanted to stroke it so badly, and then just rip himself free so he could tear out Delia's throat. Terry's blood in his stomach had dried at and run its course; the cocaine now making him agitated—even more so with Delia still just sitting there, once and a while pressing her fingernail sharply into his opening and his slit.
His pale eyes watched her sharply as she finally got off of the stool and went to the truck. She disappeared for a moment, but when she came out, it was with the rest of Terry's whole blood in a tiny, hotel mini-bar sized bottle. Drool escaped from the opening in his facemask and fell onto his erection, sending a sharp spike up his back.
Removing her shorts, but not her top, Delia revealed her own little erection—her penis was not quite as large as his, not quite as thick around, but it did the job—and unscrewed the small bottle, allowing some of the red liquid onto the palm of her hand.
Slowly and as though this was part of some procedure to the start of something new, rather than just a rarely played game, the little demon put her bloody palm to her own erection and smeared the blood up and down her length; her fingernail cuffing her own tiny slit and pressing the blood into that as well. But she didn't screw back on the cap to the bottle.
Making sure that her penis was completely red, Delia pressed her still slightly red hand to Tallant's stomach and wiped her palm, her fingers, her wrist on his tan skin until all the blood was off. It sent such a powerful surge through Tallant that the restraint holding his right hand almost broke and frayed completely off, but it wasn't enough to let his have freedom of movement. She blinked, smirking at his desperation, but continued…
"Do you suppose," Terry questioned, quiet and discreet so the others wouldn't hear, "That things will ever go back to normal?"
Damian took another drink and answered just as quietly, "You mean, will he ever stop treating you like a victim?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Probably not. But, at least he's not hugging you like Dick does so often."
Terry was torn between a smile and chastisement of his older brother, but…no, it was just Damian saying what was probably true.
Sighing and taking a drink as both of their teams hit a strike at once—neither brother much caring about the game, but willing to engage in it—Terry leaned into Damian and pretended not to notice when his big brother's hand came up to gently rub his shoulder from behind the bench.
"Yeah, there's nothing "worse" than being hugged too often by Dick."
"Exactly," Damian grinned, clinking his drink to Terry's and ignoring the fuzzy feeling of a migraine coming on as Ace started barking at Tygrus behind them and the rest of the group acting like children when Dusan finally managed a strike of his own. Terry clinked back and drank, hiding his own smile with the bottle of blood to his lips.
The tiny blood bottle inserted perfectly in the break of leather that opened into Tallant's mouth, onto his tongue. The blood drained swiftly out in little breaks from the bottle and down Tallant's throat, with him gladly and expertly catching every last drop.
With the blood finally in him and none of it left in the bottle, Delia kept the glass bottle in the mask's opening, and used both hands—she needed both of them, or it would never work—to position Tallant's erection much lower until it pressed against her blood encrusted and painted dick.
Writhing even more harshly against his bindings, Tallant's glowing white eyes contracted into pure midnight, soulless black for a blink…and then came orgasm.
Delia paid no attention to his face or his arms or anything else but Tallant's erection as he began pouring white from his painfully tender slit. She moved it in circles around her own erection like it was icing on an odd cake fixture—herself counting to twenty when she knew he would run out of juice.
When he exercised the whole of his orgasm and his eyes and teeth tinted and moved back to their more natural state, she began to remove his mask first, then his legs. She put the stool behind him before she unbound his arms and he dropped pliant and almost jell-o kneed onto the wooden seat. He stood still as she palmed his wristed and moved them to her hips to keep him steady, and once she was sure that he wouldn't fall backwards from exhaustion, she used both of her hands to hold his head still and rocked her hips forward to press her own erection into his mouth.
This was the main point of the exercise, the entire point, and he was back into action—eyes wide and back rigid straight—as the taste of himself and his little brother entered his system. She didn't really have a taste, a flavor, so all he was experiencing was himself in white and his brother in red.
It wasn't as good as the real thing, but damned if he didn't enjoy it.
