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... )
The costume should still be there. Dan sneaks around the garbage, the stench of rotten eggs wafting through the alley. It was right-here-right between a dumpster with red graffiti on its lid and a flat tire. Dan glances up; it’s actually a pretty secluded spot, with enough clutter on both sides that it’s easy to duck out of view of the street. Dan crouches, one hand on the pistol hidden under his jacket. A faint buzz is in his ears. It should be under the moldy cardboard box. Should be-Dan carefully tips it, and there’s the costume, right where he thought it would be. Slowly, Dan takes the box away. The hat, mask, coat, suit, and even the gloves and shoes are here, all of them eliciting goosebumps on Dan’s arms.
The mask is frozen in place. Tentatively, Dan touches it, and the ink responds to his touch, curls against his fingers. The fabric is slick, like latex with some subtle difference. A little coarser, maybe. Dan licks his lips.
A door slams shut, scaring the shit out of Dan-without thinking, he covers the costume and springs to his feet, backs against the wall, and draws his pistol. He can hear some people laughing nearby. That’s enough, he tells himself; that’s all he needs to know. Rorschach didn’t see him.
Dan goes out onto the street; in the open, his adrenaline ebbs away, and he takes his place in the crowd, disappears.
-
Dan goes again the next day. He waits, with a patience that would make his old Scout leader proud, but the sun goes down and there is no sign of Rorschach. He’ll be late for work if he stays any longer, so, with some regret, Dan packs up and carefully leaves. He’s back the next day, and the next after, but either the first time was a fluke or Rorschach does know he’s being watched, if not the extent of it. It’ll be safer to lie low for a while-besides, he’s not accomplishing anything like this.
For a month, Dan works his regular beat-takes care of a particularly nasty car crash and a couple of low-key robberies, along with mountains of paperwork and the usual domestic complaints. There aren’t any sightings of Rorschach-and if, on occasion, Dan feels like he’s being followed, he attributes it to daily stresses toying with him. He can feel himself lapsing back into his routine: Bullshitting with coworkers, quick bites to eat during and after shifts, gallons of coffee. His sharp edges wear back down. He’s left exhausted and jaded and sick of himself.
One thing he does maintain, despite himself, is a workout schedule, and it’s a good feeling, pushing himself to his limit, having his heart race for a reason other than the dull panic that still comes with the more stressful parts of his job. Anywhere he goes, he goes armed, though he can’t shake the feeling that he’s borderline paranoid for strapping on his holster and jacket just to buy some milk down the block.
He takes his goggles with him in his patrol car-just in case.
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The heat’s finally broken into the tenuous coolness of fall, and Dan’s patrolling with his windows rolled down, soaking in the cool breeze, when a dispatcher comes on his radio to tell him about a robbery at a gas station nearby. There’s no mention of fatalities, but Dan expects the worst as he flips on his sirens and speeds through the late-night traffic.
To his surprise, the getaway car is still there-and the cashier, sweaty and pale in his red work shirt, is standing outside the shop, looking towards the dirty alleyway behind the store. Someone (the driver?) is shouting frantic obscenities, and as Dan runs toward the back, hand on his pistol, he wonders how the hell none of them heard his sirens, wonders if maybe it’s because there’s something more frightening than a cop to distract them.
Dan turns the corner. Rorschach is halfway down the alleyway, holding the hair of a young man and smashing his nose into the concrete, over and over. Someone is screaming, high-pitched and gargled-Dan draws his pistol and shouts “Freeze! This is the police!”
Rorschach pauses and lifts his head. Cants it to one side, like a bewildered dog.
“Let him go, Christ.”
The driver eggs Dan on, his constant stream of panicked, angry shouts blurring into so much white noise. Rorschach’s mask swirls lazily. The boy is limp underneath him.
“Put your hands up,” Dan repeats, sweaty hands slipping on his pistol. “Come on. Put them up!”
Mechanically, Rorschach rises to his feet, his hands limp at his sides; the boy stays where he is, blood leaking onto the concrete. “Funny meeting you again,” he growls. He takes a step back.
“Freeze!” The kid still hasn’t moved, and with each second the likelihood that he ever will move again is dwindling. The sound of fresh sirens fills the alleyway as another car rushes down the block-Rorschach tilts his head, listening.
“You can’t stop justice,” he says simply, and turns to run.
Dan knows logically that he can’t outrun Rorschach, not even if he was in his prime, but he takes after him without thinking, blind save for the image of the kid bleeding and the calm twist of Rorschach’s shoulders in the dark-the sirens fade as he and Rorschach bolt down the alleyway. Rorschach checks, leaps onto a dumpster and up a fire escape-he’s led Dan into a dead-end where the only way out is up. Panting, Dan lifts his gun, aims-fires twice-Rorschach stops on the edge of the roof and peers down.
Then, with the composed twist of an animal, knowing he’s won, he’s gone.
-
Dan marks the spot on his map in the vain hope that he’ll start to notice a pattern, but the more marks he has, the less Rorschach’s patterns make sense; although he does seem to have a limited radius, it’s not nearly as restricted as Dan initially assumed, and the only consistency is that they both happened to be at the same spots at the same time.
He makes a few extra notes in his profile, and then, defeated, feeling his age, climbs upstairs and goes to bed.
-
Dan doesn’t have another day off for two and a half weeks. He spends his precious time off sleeping and flipping through the stagnant, useless information that he has so far. It’s insane, just insane, that he knows what Rorschach looks like and where he lives, but not his name; he doesn't have any evidence strong enough to earn a search warrant for Rorschach's apartment. His best chance of arresting him right now is dumb luck. When he’s tired of himself, he puts the TV on and drinks beer until he falls asleep on the couch, head buzzing.
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He dreams of the dirty, twisted halls of Rorschach’s apartment building, of explaining to someone that he needs to talk to his brother (he’s got this incredibly red hair, never smiles-), of Rorschach’s glove covering his mouth-shh-
The room is warm when he wakes.
-
On Dan's next shift, he needs to catch up on paperwork, anyway, and when he asks the lieutenant if he expects to need Dan on the streets, the man just shrugs and waves his hand. For a few hours, Dan works on what he should, sips coffee and scribbles a few notes. He ends up idly flicking staples off his desk until several of the other cops end up flinging things at each other, too, an easy way to pass the time. Laughing, Dan excuses himself to the back or a break, and heads for the file room, where two tired secretaries smile at him and return to their work. Dan casually chats with Mrs. Smoot as he thumbs through the ‘trouble’ drawer; to his surprise, it’s already organized by vigilante, with the notable exceptions of Dr. Manhattan and the Comedian, who don't have anything on file. Dan flicks through Rorschach’s folder and takes out a thin handful of paper to make copies.
Neither of the women ask why he needs the files, and though their typing slows a little as he makes copies, it doesn’t stop. Dan is careful to return the files to their rightful place and lingers a little longer, asks about Mrs. Smoot's kids and Ms. Estes’ classes-“If you ever need some help, just ask,” he offers, to a knowing look between the women and a teasing “Mr. Harvard would make a hell of a tutor, huh?” from Mrs. Smoot. As the door closes behind him, he catches the faint words eligible bachelor, or maybe just-and his ears burn.
Just think about Rorschach, Dan tells himself. He’s gotten shit for his education ever since the academy, and the older he is, the more light teasing he suffers about ladies the other guys know, women who’d love to date him, that is, if he wants.…Actually, don’t think about Rorschach. He’s disturbed by the implications of both of those thoughts; thankfully, a stray pen flies past his head before he can backtrack and dig a deeper mental hole.
-
The least safe option, and the one Dan pursues first, is Rorschach’s landlady. He considers going in uniform, but odds are pretty good that it would make her clam up, so he puts on an unassuming pair of slacks and the cleanest shirt he can find. He practices a couple of stories in the mirror: I’m his cousin, his sister’s husband, a long-lost son he never knew he had-and settles on coworker, which has the most flexibility. He leaves the house by noon, steeling his nerves. Halfway there, he buys a pretzel and slathers cheese on it to distract himself, and spends half the walk eating and the rest licking cheese off his hands. It’s easy to find the tenement building again; he doesn’t hesitate at the front steps, just walks in and pauses, looking for the office.
One door is ajar, and there’s a sign so grimy and faded that Dan can only make out the letters AND and ICE. A little girl with matted brown hair slips past him to go outside. Dan glances at the metal stairs, listening for the sounds of doors slamming.
“Can I help you?”
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“We don’t have any vacancies,” she says, and opens the office door.
“No, actually, I’m looking for-uh, a friend. He lives here.”
“He didn’t give you his apartment number?” she asks, skeptical.
Dan smooths his hair back. A door opens upstairs. “He did, but I, uh, forgot it. He’s got red hair, on the short side?”
The steps creak with weight. The landlady raises an eyebrow, folds her arms across her chest, and leans against the doorframe. A scruffy, unwashed teenager shuffles past them, and Dan relaxes. “You’re his friend?”
“Well…coworker.”
“You got his paycheck on you?”
Dan tries to laugh and mostly succeeds. “No, no, I just want to talk. Is he in?”
She shrugs. “How should I know? He’s out half the time. Gives us time to air the place out.” She pauses, giving Dan a once-over. “Room 214.” And she gestures towards the stairs in a way that says now, if you don’t mind, fuck off.
Shit. “Actually…this is kind of embarrassing, but-what’s his last name? Y’know, we always call him Red and I never really…”
The woman doesn’t even twitch. “If you’re here to settle a debt,” she says, staring into Dan’s face without fear, “he doesn’t have shit you’d want. I don’t stand for trouble, you understand? I got my kids to look out for. I’m not afraid to call the cops on guys like you.”
Dan nods. “It’s nothing like that.”
“…Kovacs.” Her eyes flick towards the stairs, and disgust crinkles her features. “Speak of the devil.”
Rorschach is on the stairs, a cardboard sign slung over his shoulder, straight-backed, dressed in a tattered green coat. He stares at Dan, no expression on his ugly face, no tense aggression in his posture. “Hello, Dreiberg,” he says.
The landlady shuts her door with a little click. They’re alone. Dan can feel all the pitiful parts of him rising in his stomach, but Rorschach’s steady stare doesn’t allow for that, and either way, Dan can handle himself. He thinks about the soreness of his neck and his mother’s picture. His pistol is heavy in his jacket.
“Hey,” he says.
Rorschach walks up to Daniel, each step making his stench a little stronger, his gaze not breaking once. He stops an inch away from Dan. His eyes, to Dan’s surprise, are the color of copper. Dan can taste his sweat, he smells so badly, but he doesn’t move or look away. “Excuse me,” Rorschach says, very calmly.
Dan grits his teeth-he can’t just let him go. “I need to talk to you.” How had Rorschach said it? Just need a word. Something like that.
“Have previous engagements. Apologies. Maybe later,” and those last two words carry weight, sink into Dan’s amygdala. He digs the handle of the sign against Dan’s ribs-he could easily snap the wood forward and break one of them, puncture a lung-and nudges him out of the way, deliberate and slow. “Excuse me,” he repeats. He walks to the door outside, opens it, and, half-in, half-out, he pauses. Without turning around, he adds, “Breaking and entering is illegal, Mr. Dreiberg. Remember that.”
“This would be so much easier on you if you cooperated with us,” Dan says. “You can’t run forever.”
Rorschach snorts. “Not necessary. I only need run a little longer than you.”
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The conversation at the end is some powerful stuff. Is it bad how hot I find it?
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