FIC: Transcendence (Adult Content Warning)
Title: Transcendence
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Dan/Rorschach
Date Written: 2010
Summary: There are places you can go where ideas like 'filth' and 'blame' and 'depravity' don't exist, where the physical world doesn't exist, where you don't exist.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17. Existentialist, but still explicit sex.
Notes: Kinkmeme fill. So, I didn't want to claim this one for a while because the kink is so extreme(sensory deprivation) and the characterization so different from usual, but whatever that's what experimenting is for, so here have some bizarre quasi-porn. If that's your kind of thing.
*
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here.
He has no means by which to mark the passing of time - no shift of light through the window, no ticking clock, no kitchen smells from downstairs to at least roughly pin down the mealtime. It might have been minutes or hours or days since he was left alone here, and because he has not moved in all that time, even touch is failing him, leaving him floating suspended in a blackness more complete than he’s ever seen. He’s not bound; he could move, but Daniel asked him not to and so he’s complied, trusting that there’s a reason.
(He was the one who asked for half of this, after all - suggested a blindfold, but of course Daniel had gotten a glint in his eye and that moon-huntress smile that said he had better ideas than that.)
So he’s stayed still(for minutes, hours, days), and second by second, sensation fades. The sheets bunched under his feet and knees, elbows and forearms, under his sweaty forehead - they don’t exist. The slick wetness between his thighs and higher doesn’t exist, except when there’s a draft or the air in the room shifts or maybe Daniel’s behind him, undetectable, breathing over wet flesh until his cock hardens again against his stomach and his balls tighten, until all he wants to do is lurch backwards and know-
The thickness of the sickening piece of plastic Daniel had worked into him(minutes, hours, days ago) and left there, that doesn’t exist either, until it suddenly moves, is sliding carefully out of him. A hand on his hip now, and he’s sure he can read the fingerprints right through his skin, every touch lit up like vision. He still doesn’t move; just floats, waiting.
The hand on his hip shifts, skin scraping over skin, and the swollen heat pressing against him, into him, is unbearably clear, etched by heightened senses into explicit detail - the KY slick, the strange sponginess of the flesh, the way he tightens again around the head once it’s in, the way he can feel the wet slide of the shaft over every nerve ending as Daniel leans into him. The fullness and weight of it and the dull fiery throb of pleasure every time it strikes him where he exists, where he’s real. He’s still unaware of time passing even as hands settle onto his shoulder blades, heavy and present enough that they burn - feels something sharp rattle up his own throat but he can’t hear it, he can’t-
(Minutes, hours, days-)
And this is the only sensation he has now, the only information his brain has available - the only proof that he exists, that there is a consciousness here somewhere in the black, thrashing and flailing and on fire, being consumed. It’s so pure that he just lets himself sink into it, the heat of another life swelling up inside him like every drop of blood in his veins has decided to coalesce down to this singular point of connection, where one body breaches the other, where they lose their borders and move together in waves, no need for sight or sound or smell or even touch-
Then there’s a warm hand between his legs, untelegraphed and wrapping around some disconnected expanse of flesh and tripping him headfirst into himself, the force of his orgasm wracking him and wrecking him and sending all the darkness and silence to shatter at the edges of the world.
*
Distantly, he feels a tugging, an emptiness. In its wake, everything collapses inward into a steady, droning hum, like a power transformer gone bad, and it’s almost as good as existing.
*
When the blindfold comes off, the earplugs out, the world coming back in all its dazzling brilliance is almost too much - too much distraction, too much noise. He closes his eyes again, does his best not to hear the lethargy-dulled endearments Daniel’s tumbling into his ear, not to feel fingers carding through his hair like he’s something tangible and real.
He tries to return to that dark, quiet place - where release is a white-hot spike of existence, is an uninterrupted column of light, is the death of stars. Is not of the physical, or of the weakness of flesh, or of the depraved world that spins sickeningly around him, with its filth and bad motives and endless complication.
He tries, but it slips through his fingers, even as Daniel nuzzles quiet affection into his throat. Gone.
*
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Dan/Rorschach
Date Written: 2010
Summary: There are places you can go where ideas like 'filth' and 'blame' and 'depravity' don't exist, where the physical world doesn't exist, where you don't exist.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17. Existentialist, but still explicit sex.
Notes: Kinkmeme fill. So, I didn't want to claim this one for a while because the kink is so extreme(sensory deprivation) and the characterization so different from usual, but whatever that's what experimenting is for, so here have some bizarre quasi-porn. If that's your kind of thing.
*
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here.
He has no means by which to mark the passing of time - no shift of light through the window, no ticking clock, no kitchen smells from downstairs to at least roughly pin down the mealtime. It might have been minutes or hours or days since he was left alone here, and because he has not moved in all that time, even touch is failing him, leaving him floating suspended in a blackness more complete than he’s ever seen. He’s not bound; he could move, but Daniel asked him not to and so he’s complied, trusting that there’s a reason.
(He was the one who asked for half of this, after all - suggested a blindfold, but of course Daniel had gotten a glint in his eye and that moon-huntress smile that said he had better ideas than that.)
So he’s stayed still(for minutes, hours, days), and second by second, sensation fades. The sheets bunched under his feet and knees, elbows and forearms, under his sweaty forehead - they don’t exist. The slick wetness between his thighs and higher doesn’t exist, except when there’s a draft or the air in the room shifts or maybe Daniel’s behind him, undetectable, breathing over wet flesh until his cock hardens again against his stomach and his balls tighten, until all he wants to do is lurch backwards and know-
The thickness of the sickening piece of plastic Daniel had worked into him(minutes, hours, days ago) and left there, that doesn’t exist either, until it suddenly moves, is sliding carefully out of him. A hand on his hip now, and he’s sure he can read the fingerprints right through his skin, every touch lit up like vision. He still doesn’t move; just floats, waiting.
The hand on his hip shifts, skin scraping over skin, and the swollen heat pressing against him, into him, is unbearably clear, etched by heightened senses into explicit detail - the KY slick, the strange sponginess of the flesh, the way he tightens again around the head once it’s in, the way he can feel the wet slide of the shaft over every nerve ending as Daniel leans into him. The fullness and weight of it and the dull fiery throb of pleasure every time it strikes him where he exists, where he’s real. He’s still unaware of time passing even as hands settle onto his shoulder blades, heavy and present enough that they burn - feels something sharp rattle up his own throat but he can’t hear it, he can’t-
(Minutes, hours, days-)
And this is the only sensation he has now, the only information his brain has available - the only proof that he exists, that there is a consciousness here somewhere in the black, thrashing and flailing and on fire, being consumed. It’s so pure that he just lets himself sink into it, the heat of another life swelling up inside him like every drop of blood in his veins has decided to coalesce down to this singular point of connection, where one body breaches the other, where they lose their borders and move together in waves, no need for sight or sound or smell or even touch-
Then there’s a warm hand between his legs, untelegraphed and wrapping around some disconnected expanse of flesh and tripping him headfirst into himself, the force of his orgasm wracking him and wrecking him and sending all the darkness and silence to shatter at the edges of the world.
*
Distantly, he feels a tugging, an emptiness. In its wake, everything collapses inward into a steady, droning hum, like a power transformer gone bad, and it’s almost as good as existing.
*
When the blindfold comes off, the earplugs out, the world coming back in all its dazzling brilliance is almost too much - too much distraction, too much noise. He closes his eyes again, does his best not to hear the lethargy-dulled endearments Daniel’s tumbling into his ear, not to feel fingers carding through his hair like he’s something tangible and real.
He tries to return to that dark, quiet place - where release is a white-hot spike of existence, is an uninterrupted column of light, is the death of stars. Is not of the physical, or of the weakness of flesh, or of the depraved world that spins sickeningly around him, with its filth and bad motives and endless complication.
He tries, but it slips through his fingers, even as Daniel nuzzles quiet affection into his throat. Gone.
*