Watchmen (Super Sentai) Five Kink Meme
Rules of the meme:
1. Anonymously(or not, because we seem to have stopped following this rule) post a pairing and prompt you would like to see written. Since this is a kink meme, there is supposted to be a kink involved, but normal well-written prompts should work just as well.
2. Anonymous will respond to your post and write it for you! Art and such ( Read more... )
Before he can protest, the Comedian starts to piss on his face, a long hot stream hitting just above his eye. Adrian flinches away and spits in disgust, but the Comedian snaps, "Head up."
He keeps his eyes screwed shut, knots coiling in his stomach, and lifts his face again. The Comedian resumes his business, hot urine streaking down Adrian's face, dripping onto his chest and from his hair. The hissing noise of it seems to sing in the alleyway, and the Comedian casually pisses zigzags from Adrian's closed mouth to his chest. "Open your mouth," he says, and Adrian shakes his head. "Open it," he snarls, and leans in to jerk Adrian's head by the hair.
Adrian complies, and the taste of urine fills his mouth, sharp and sour, though the Comedian doesn't actually seem concerned about aiming for his mouth. Thankfully, he also doesn't seem concerned about Adrian swallowing it, so Adrian lets it drip down his chin, letting it roll out of his mouth.
Finally, the Comedian finishes; it can't have lasted more than fifteen seconds, but it feels like an eternity is ending. Adrian is soaked, his costume clinging to his chest. He spits violently on the alleyway floor and, not caring about the Comedian's orders, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
When he straightens, the Comedian has already buttoned his pants and is lighting a cigar. "Next time I won't be so nice," he says, and flashes Adrian a grin. "Pussy," he adds, a casual afterthought, and then he's walking into the darkness.
Adrian can feel himself going cold.
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the only way this could have been better is if Adrian finds himself unwillingly turned on by the memory and seeks Eddie out for another taste. Sequel?
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It's not long before he throws out the magazines.
By July, he’s met Dr. Manhattan, and is so smitten by him that he hardly ever thinks about the Comedian, focusing instead on the bright headlights of the future.
Then President John F. Kennedy is shot while the Comedian is Dallas, and Adrian’s casual surveillance of him is shocked into an uneasy one. He keeps closer tabs on Edward Morgan Blake, alarmed that such a grotesque specimen of a man can have so much influence on the world.
He has a dream, in late February, about stumbling through Times Square, his body thrumming with the need to urinate. When he wakes up, all he can remember is Blake’s dick pressing into his thigh, urine streaming down his leg. Half-asleep, Adrian ruts into the mattress until the back of his neck is slick with sweat. He assures himself it won’t happen again, and takes care to put in more hours at the up-and-coming Veidt Enterprises.
But then, in 1966, the vague, timid fantasies of helping to create a better world go up in flame, and from the ashes there rises a diamond-crusted resolve to save humanity. The weight of what he will have to do is unspeakably heavy, and though he is much more adept at reining in his emotions than when he was young, the quiet horror at what he will have to do is unbridled. He realizes, as he is meditating one October evening, that if he is to follow through with this necessary evil, he will have to assuage his petty emotions one way or another; and, since the only people who ever made Adrian feel punished are now dead, he only has one fall-back.
Adrian frees a day in mid-November and spends his 3 A.M.’s with his prick tight in his hand, jerking until he’s almost come.
*
“You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”
“No.” Adrian maintains steadfast eye-contact and keeps his posture elegant and poised, entirely put together. “I assumed it wasn’t too radical a request, given how hastily you did it before.”
“Yeah, but that was…you’re fucked up, Ozzy,” Blake says, and he’s not amused in the slightest.
Adrian moves to Blake’s kitchen, still not breaking eye-contact. Blake shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking rather like a child caught with a hand in his mother’s purse. “All I want,” he says, taking a glass down from the cabinet, “is for a little something that I cannot acquire from other venues.” Water gushes out of the sink. “That’s all.”
An hour later, Adrian is lounging on Blake’s couch, waiting with extraordinary patience, given how long he's been dancing around this. Blake’s initial discomfort at the prospect has turned mean, and he watches Adrian like a ravenous wolf. He drained three large glasses in the last hour, savoring them. He’s been shifting in his seat for the past twenty minutes and tapping his foot, not lighting a cigar or moving from his chair.
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As if that motion is the cue he’s been waiting for, Blake jumps to his feet. He grabs a fistful of Adrian’s hair and hauls him up; it’s not necessarily the pain that makes Adrian cry out, but the surprise at how abrupt it is. Adrian struggles instinctively, but Blake hoists him up with one arm around his waist, using his grip in Adrian’s hair as leverage, and throws him into the kitchen. Adrian’s elbow cracks on the tiles. He rolls onto his back in time for Blake to stomp down on his chest; the breath rushes out of him, leaves him gasping.
“You’re a sicko, y’know that? A regular fucked-up nancy boy,” and he grinds his heel right against Adrian’s sternum.
“You’re a tool,” Adrian retorts, “and the most-the most vile-" one of his hands is dutifully pushing at Blake’s boot, but the other goes between his legs and grinds down hard.
Blake unbuttons and unzips his pants, and for the first time Adrian has a clear view of his ugly cock, dark hair curling at the base, flaccid and thick. He steps off Adrian, one foot on either side, and he scoots his legs further out, spreading himself-it would be remarkably easy to throw him off and get away, but instead Adrian goes very still, gripping Blake’s boot with all his might.
“Don’t lie to me, Ozzy. You queer bitch.”
Casually, he lifts his penis, aiming for Adrian’s face. There’s a silent moment where nothing happens, Blake rolling his head back, and then he starts to piss. The hot stream of it hits Adrian’s forehead, hard and steady, flowing down his face and into his hair. Adrian’s cock twitches and his hips buck involuntarily; he gasps at how good it feels, and how depraved. Above him, Blake moans, jerking his dick in little motions that send his piss up and down Adrian’s torso, soaking his shirt and pooling out on the floor by his neck.
“You dirty-shit-I’m going to fuck you so hard-“
Adrian moans and stretches his mouth open, wanting. He’s desperately rubbing himself through his pants, now, and when Blake’s piss streams into his mouth he forces his hand underneath the waistband; he’s slick with precome and harder than he’s been in years, dizzy and soaked and bright with disgust-and then Blake laughs and his orgasm takes him violently, blotting out reason and Dallas and New York and the terrible lies he will have to create, and it goes, and it goes, and it’s ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous that he’s never had any idea that he had this kind of mental weakness, or that he would want to encourage it.
Blake kneels down between Adrian’s legs, jerking himself into hardness. “Open your legs. C’mon. C’mon,” and Adrian complies, sweating and shaking slightly. Blake sucks the come off Adrian’s hand, off his cock, and then he dips to lick and suck behind Adrian’s balls, growling. Adrian’s surprised how long he stays there, his tongue sending lazy shocks of pleasure up Adrian’s spine, and it’s a bit of a relief when Blake crawls his way back up to Adrian’s face, fully erect.
Adrian doesn’t need to be told to suck him off, or to swallow when he comes, the sharp, bitter taste a base, pointless penance. He thinks he could wallow here forever. But the moment passes, and he is sticky and wet and cold, and if Blake tells him to stay the night, he will-so he shoves away from Blake and leaves, ignoring his offer to at least lend Adrian a towel.
Adrian takes the subway home, and stares back at anyone who gives him a second glace.
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That last line makes me want to see this Adrian with Hoboschach for extra foulness and stank. I'm usually not this turned on by piss pigs, (or literal filth) but when they're as pretty and elegant as Adrian, contrast makes it work. XD
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