Fixation
Fixation
PG-13?
Pre-Roche. Adrian/Rorschach. Crimebusters AU, Rorschach sucks honey off of Adrian's hand.
Fill for Suck, for mission_insane.
Rorschach lifts his mask just long enough to pop a butterscotch candy into his mouth. His jaw rolls once as he shifts it into his cheek, and the mask goes down again, erasing his brief moment of human pleasure. His attention remains on Nelson Gardner, who’s describing several new code words in detail. Adrian’s attention remains on Rorschach, and he studies with interest the movements of the ink in his mask and the faint tugs of fabric that are indicative of patient sucking.
Not once does Adrian hear the crack of candy between teeth.
*
Luring Rorschach into his apartment is remarkably easy, so much so that Adrian’s first attempt is only half-serious, the invitation posed while there are others in the room.
“Rorschach,” he says, “your input on this case would be invaluable. I’d like to talk with you about it in private.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spies the Comedian’s sneer and Nite Owl’s curious tilt of the head.
Rorschach only pauses long enough to turn his head to Ozymandias. His need for approval radiates off of him. “Certainly,” he says. “I can’t tonight.”
“Tomorrow, then?
His mask goes concave by his mouth. Adrian wonders if he’s sucking his bottom lip. “Tomorrow.”
*
They do not exchange names as Adrian serves him sweet tea with honey. When Rorschach drips honey onto his hand, he licks it off carefully, but only when Adrian’s head is turned away; he pretends his hand is not sticky when Adrian turns his gaze to him. His lips curl against the brim of the mug, and they linger there longer than they should, and when Adrian smiles at that, he does not jerk the cup away.
Adrian discusses his most recent case, maintaining a polite interest in Rorschach’s input. He lets a stray drop of honey land on his finger, but does not suck it away; instead, he watches Rorschach as it slides down his finger into the waiting mug of tea. Rorschach’s cheeks hollow, trapping air, envious of the tea or perhaps of the way Adrian wastes the sweetness by wiping the traces away.
*
“My, but he has a sweet tooth,” Adrian says to Nite Owl. They’re alone in his ship, and in the interest of gauging his chances, has brought up Rorschach. Partners, they call each other. Such a simple word with such a myriad of connotations.
Nite Owl does not hesitate to laugh. That bodes well for Adrian; he will be one less obstacle. “Oh, jeez, you wouldn’t believe-he’s carried sugar packets before, just plain sugar. He’s like a kid…”
Polite as ever, Adrian listens to Nite Owl’s stories, but he is thinking about honey.
*
Traditionally, third time is a charm.
Adrian has very little patience for tradition.
The tea he serves this time is bitter and black. Rorschach’s lip curls as he sniffs it; the tip of his tongue prods the surface and he scowls so openly that it’s charming. “Do you have honey?” he asks, his tone indicating that he doesn’t want to be rude but that the tea truly tastes like shit.
Adrian takes a long, pointed sip from his cup.
“Or sugar?”
“I might,” Adrian replies, relaxed. “Although you may have to work for it.”
Rorschach snorts. “Unconstitutional,” he grumbles, and sets the cup down with a clank. He thinks Adrian is joking.
“You had a difficult childhood, didn’t you?” Adrian asks. Delicately, he sets his tea on a coaster. He stands and glides into the kitchen, so that Rorschach is spared the indignity of someone watching as he has a minor mental breakdown behind the mask.
“That’s none of your business, Ozymandias,” he says, too forced to be calm. “You’ve been talking to Nite Owl, haven’t you?” It’s interesting that there’s a shred of genuine hurt trapped in the slump of his shoulders.
“A troubled life is a prerequisite for those of us who take this position, isn’t it?” Adrian asks. He returns with a bottle of honey, unopened. “No one would have to explain that to me.”
With a grunt, Rorschach reaches for the bottle; his hand remains open, waiting, as Adrian passes him and takes his seat.
“I’m sorry.” Adrian uncaps the honey. “It was insensitive to bring it up.” He upends the bottle and slowly squeezes a drop into the palm of his hand. “Here.” Again Rorschach reaches for the bottle, but Adrian extends his palm, as if the drop of honey were a precious, sacrificial offering.
Rorschach’s body tenses; his shoulders square; his jawline goes rigid. He lurches across the table. “Ozymandias,” each syllable barbed.
“No.”
How simple it is to stay his anger. Rorschach freezes as he is, ludicrously poised half-off the chair.
“No,” Adrian repeats, as clear as crystal. He leans so his hand is directly under Rorschach’s nose, where the sweet scent of honey can go straight through his nervous system, lighting him up as it goes.
This could go one of two ways. Adrian is braced for both.
Rorschach’s lip trembles. What is visible of his face turns violently red. His outstretched hand closes into a fist so tight that his glove creaks into the silence.
His tongue flits between his lips and touches the drop of honey. The humidity of his breath cascades over Adrian’s palm.
“Try the tea now,” Adrian murmurs.
He does, spilling some. “Too bitter,” he croaks.
“Still?” Adrian sighs. “Very well.” Using deliberate, careful movements, Adrian pours long strings of honey over his hand, one for each finger and a thin spiral in his palm. “Try this.”
Rorschach bares his teeth and clasps his hands tightly between his knees. “Put it in the cup,” he says.
Adrian waits, honey dripping down the sides of his fingers. “Don’t let it go to waste.”
Rorschach shudders. “Put it in the cup,” he demands, simultaneously bending across the table. “Ozymandias,” pitched just high enough to plead. He laps at a drop just before it falls off Adrian’s pinky. His jaw works furiously, and the soft grinding sound of his teeth flits through the room. Some of the color drains from his face and his knees tighten.
He sucks Adrian’s pinky into his mouth, hurried, perhaps thinking that the faster he does it, the easier it will be to deny when he is alone in whatever rundown bed he has and in which he has surely clasped his hands between his knees. He sucks viciously on the digit, his tongue swirling against it, then pulls back and takes Adrian’s ring finger, slower, knuckle by knuckle with wet, lewd noises. Adrian smiles. Rorschach works meticulously, lapping every bit of sweetness that he can before moving to the next finger. By the time he’s reached Adrian’s middle finger, he’s scooted so far out of the chair that his knees knock into the table.
Rorschach’s panting, now, hot huffs of breath through his nose that enhance the warm stickiness of the honey; Adrian’s eyes flicker shut so that he can focus on that sensation, just his hand and Rorschach’s needy mouth. When Rorschach takes his index finger, Adrian strokes his tongue. Startled, he draws back, a wet pop sounding in the silence. His lips glisten with spit, and traces of honey linger around his mouth.
“Try the tea,” Adrian suggests.
The cup clatters as Rorschach obeys, one hand still dutifully trapped between his knees.
“Well? How is it?”
“Awful.” Rorschach leans into Adrian’s hand and parts his lips to suck on his thumb, but Adrian retracts his hand.
“I wouldn’t serve awful tea to a guest,” he says.
Rorschach bites his lip, scrapes away what traces of sweetness linger there.
“Not a tea drinker,” he amends. “It all tastes…” Adrian luxuriously sucks his index finger clean. Rorschach swallows, tries the tea again, and says, “Must be an acquired taste.” Adrian’s not sure if he’s that opposed to lying or just that stubborn, but either way it’s cute, much like ten-year-olds playing war-which is to say, more depressing than cute. Adrian offers his hand again, out of pity.
Rorschach latches onto it, laps and sucks at his palm, clumsy, like he’s having sex for the first time. He tongues at the crevices between Adrian’s fingers, then sucks three of his fingers into his mouth, sucking audibly, seeking any last sweetness he’d missed. Adrian rocks his fingers in his mouth, an unmistakable gesture, and Rorschach freezes, nostrils flared-his teeth grind against Adrian’s knuckles. He’s coming, perfectly still and quiet, hands trapped, back arched.
When it passes, he lets out a long, shaky breath, and relinquishes Adrian’s fingers. The color returns to his face with a vengeance.
“Now I wonder if I should put some on my thighs,” Adrian says. He settles back in his chair so that his own erection is more prominent.
“I need to leave.”
“You’re welcome to use my restroom.”
“No-thank you.” Rorschach clambers to his feet. “Don’t mention this to anyone.” It’s a threat, but a poor one-his mask is still up around his nose, his lips red and wet, and his coat is bunched around his hips from scooting forward in the chair.
“Weren’t we going to discuss a case?” Adrian casually laps at his palm, rather feline, studying Rorschach.
He hesitates. “I have full confidence in your deductive skills,” he says, and shows himself out without another word.
*
Adrian brings a bar of chocolate to the next meeting. He eats it piece by piece, does not bite down, sucks each bit away while Rorschach pretends not to watch.
PG-13?
Pre-Roche. Adrian/Rorschach. Crimebusters AU, Rorschach sucks honey off of Adrian's hand.
Fill for Suck, for mission_insane.
Rorschach lifts his mask just long enough to pop a butterscotch candy into his mouth. His jaw rolls once as he shifts it into his cheek, and the mask goes down again, erasing his brief moment of human pleasure. His attention remains on Nelson Gardner, who’s describing several new code words in detail. Adrian’s attention remains on Rorschach, and he studies with interest the movements of the ink in his mask and the faint tugs of fabric that are indicative of patient sucking.
Not once does Adrian hear the crack of candy between teeth.
*
Luring Rorschach into his apartment is remarkably easy, so much so that Adrian’s first attempt is only half-serious, the invitation posed while there are others in the room.
“Rorschach,” he says, “your input on this case would be invaluable. I’d like to talk with you about it in private.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spies the Comedian’s sneer and Nite Owl’s curious tilt of the head.
Rorschach only pauses long enough to turn his head to Ozymandias. His need for approval radiates off of him. “Certainly,” he says. “I can’t tonight.”
“Tomorrow, then?
His mask goes concave by his mouth. Adrian wonders if he’s sucking his bottom lip. “Tomorrow.”
*
They do not exchange names as Adrian serves him sweet tea with honey. When Rorschach drips honey onto his hand, he licks it off carefully, but only when Adrian’s head is turned away; he pretends his hand is not sticky when Adrian turns his gaze to him. His lips curl against the brim of the mug, and they linger there longer than they should, and when Adrian smiles at that, he does not jerk the cup away.
Adrian discusses his most recent case, maintaining a polite interest in Rorschach’s input. He lets a stray drop of honey land on his finger, but does not suck it away; instead, he watches Rorschach as it slides down his finger into the waiting mug of tea. Rorschach’s cheeks hollow, trapping air, envious of the tea or perhaps of the way Adrian wastes the sweetness by wiping the traces away.
*
“My, but he has a sweet tooth,” Adrian says to Nite Owl. They’re alone in his ship, and in the interest of gauging his chances, has brought up Rorschach. Partners, they call each other. Such a simple word with such a myriad of connotations.
Nite Owl does not hesitate to laugh. That bodes well for Adrian; he will be one less obstacle. “Oh, jeez, you wouldn’t believe-he’s carried sugar packets before, just plain sugar. He’s like a kid…”
Polite as ever, Adrian listens to Nite Owl’s stories, but he is thinking about honey.
*
Traditionally, third time is a charm.
Adrian has very little patience for tradition.
The tea he serves this time is bitter and black. Rorschach’s lip curls as he sniffs it; the tip of his tongue prods the surface and he scowls so openly that it’s charming. “Do you have honey?” he asks, his tone indicating that he doesn’t want to be rude but that the tea truly tastes like shit.
Adrian takes a long, pointed sip from his cup.
“Or sugar?”
“I might,” Adrian replies, relaxed. “Although you may have to work for it.”
Rorschach snorts. “Unconstitutional,” he grumbles, and sets the cup down with a clank. He thinks Adrian is joking.
“You had a difficult childhood, didn’t you?” Adrian asks. Delicately, he sets his tea on a coaster. He stands and glides into the kitchen, so that Rorschach is spared the indignity of someone watching as he has a minor mental breakdown behind the mask.
“That’s none of your business, Ozymandias,” he says, too forced to be calm. “You’ve been talking to Nite Owl, haven’t you?” It’s interesting that there’s a shred of genuine hurt trapped in the slump of his shoulders.
“A troubled life is a prerequisite for those of us who take this position, isn’t it?” Adrian asks. He returns with a bottle of honey, unopened. “No one would have to explain that to me.”
With a grunt, Rorschach reaches for the bottle; his hand remains open, waiting, as Adrian passes him and takes his seat.
“I’m sorry.” Adrian uncaps the honey. “It was insensitive to bring it up.” He upends the bottle and slowly squeezes a drop into the palm of his hand. “Here.” Again Rorschach reaches for the bottle, but Adrian extends his palm, as if the drop of honey were a precious, sacrificial offering.
Rorschach’s body tenses; his shoulders square; his jawline goes rigid. He lurches across the table. “Ozymandias,” each syllable barbed.
“No.”
How simple it is to stay his anger. Rorschach freezes as he is, ludicrously poised half-off the chair.
“No,” Adrian repeats, as clear as crystal. He leans so his hand is directly under Rorschach’s nose, where the sweet scent of honey can go straight through his nervous system, lighting him up as it goes.
This could go one of two ways. Adrian is braced for both.
Rorschach’s lip trembles. What is visible of his face turns violently red. His outstretched hand closes into a fist so tight that his glove creaks into the silence.
His tongue flits between his lips and touches the drop of honey. The humidity of his breath cascades over Adrian’s palm.
“Try the tea now,” Adrian murmurs.
He does, spilling some. “Too bitter,” he croaks.
“Still?” Adrian sighs. “Very well.” Using deliberate, careful movements, Adrian pours long strings of honey over his hand, one for each finger and a thin spiral in his palm. “Try this.”
Rorschach bares his teeth and clasps his hands tightly between his knees. “Put it in the cup,” he says.
Adrian waits, honey dripping down the sides of his fingers. “Don’t let it go to waste.”
Rorschach shudders. “Put it in the cup,” he demands, simultaneously bending across the table. “Ozymandias,” pitched just high enough to plead. He laps at a drop just before it falls off Adrian’s pinky. His jaw works furiously, and the soft grinding sound of his teeth flits through the room. Some of the color drains from his face and his knees tighten.
He sucks Adrian’s pinky into his mouth, hurried, perhaps thinking that the faster he does it, the easier it will be to deny when he is alone in whatever rundown bed he has and in which he has surely clasped his hands between his knees. He sucks viciously on the digit, his tongue swirling against it, then pulls back and takes Adrian’s ring finger, slower, knuckle by knuckle with wet, lewd noises. Adrian smiles. Rorschach works meticulously, lapping every bit of sweetness that he can before moving to the next finger. By the time he’s reached Adrian’s middle finger, he’s scooted so far out of the chair that his knees knock into the table.
Rorschach’s panting, now, hot huffs of breath through his nose that enhance the warm stickiness of the honey; Adrian’s eyes flicker shut so that he can focus on that sensation, just his hand and Rorschach’s needy mouth. When Rorschach takes his index finger, Adrian strokes his tongue. Startled, he draws back, a wet pop sounding in the silence. His lips glisten with spit, and traces of honey linger around his mouth.
“Try the tea,” Adrian suggests.
The cup clatters as Rorschach obeys, one hand still dutifully trapped between his knees.
“Well? How is it?”
“Awful.” Rorschach leans into Adrian’s hand and parts his lips to suck on his thumb, but Adrian retracts his hand.
“I wouldn’t serve awful tea to a guest,” he says.
Rorschach bites his lip, scrapes away what traces of sweetness linger there.
“Not a tea drinker,” he amends. “It all tastes…” Adrian luxuriously sucks his index finger clean. Rorschach swallows, tries the tea again, and says, “Must be an acquired taste.” Adrian’s not sure if he’s that opposed to lying or just that stubborn, but either way it’s cute, much like ten-year-olds playing war-which is to say, more depressing than cute. Adrian offers his hand again, out of pity.
Rorschach latches onto it, laps and sucks at his palm, clumsy, like he’s having sex for the first time. He tongues at the crevices between Adrian’s fingers, then sucks three of his fingers into his mouth, sucking audibly, seeking any last sweetness he’d missed. Adrian rocks his fingers in his mouth, an unmistakable gesture, and Rorschach freezes, nostrils flared-his teeth grind against Adrian’s knuckles. He’s coming, perfectly still and quiet, hands trapped, back arched.
When it passes, he lets out a long, shaky breath, and relinquishes Adrian’s fingers. The color returns to his face with a vengeance.
“Now I wonder if I should put some on my thighs,” Adrian says. He settles back in his chair so that his own erection is more prominent.
“I need to leave.”
“You’re welcome to use my restroom.”
“No-thank you.” Rorschach clambers to his feet. “Don’t mention this to anyone.” It’s a threat, but a poor one-his mask is still up around his nose, his lips red and wet, and his coat is bunched around his hips from scooting forward in the chair.
“Weren’t we going to discuss a case?” Adrian casually laps at his palm, rather feline, studying Rorschach.
He hesitates. “I have full confidence in your deductive skills,” he says, and shows himself out without another word.
*
Adrian brings a bar of chocolate to the next meeting. He eats it piece by piece, does not bite down, sucks each bit away while Rorschach pretends not to watch.