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... )
He hides his goggles, pistol, and notebook under his layers.
At eight, he goes out into the city, a comb in his back pocket and the sunglasses on his forehead, and starts bar hopping.
He starts at the furthest bar he thinks Rorschach would visit, and it’s the kind of place Dan knows from calls and not much else. The grime seeps into him as he orders a house drink and tries to bring conversation around to vigilantes, which is pathetically easy, though most people seem interested in talking about the Comedian or Dr. Manhattan; when Dan suggests that Rorschach’s still active, people hush up and start to avoid him.
Next bar, then. As the night progresses, Dan adjusts his costume so he looks more in place, is careful to keep from mentioning Rorschach by name-he wants to shout at them that Rorschach’s not the god damn boogie-man, that he’s just a scrawny old crackpot who needs a thorough mental evaluation.
By five in the morning, Dan finds himself slumped on a bench, buzzed and tired, with four different bars that he knows have been frequented by Rorschach and two that either he hasn’t been to (and they want to keep it that way) or that he visits enough that they don’t want to think about it. He’s been to twenty bars, at least, and he’s so grimy and paranoid that he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to stay on the bench. He’s convinced that Rorschach is going to sneak up behind him and break his neck.
Which is ridiculous, of course. His biggest problem thus far has been the mistake of assuming that they were playing on equal ground, but Dan is the one with gear and information and a legal presence in the city; this has always been Rorschach scurrying away, no more frightening than a particularly violent rat. Mostly to prove the point, Dan stays where he is, monitoring his breathing and sipping at a cup of coffee until he’s no longer tipsy. By then, the morning crowd’s bearing down on the sidewalks, hunched shoulders and hurried paces, everyone wanting to be somewhere else.
Dan lurches to his feet. He’ll grab a bite to eat and then go home and sleep until his next shift. He won’t dream, and he won’t think about anything for a solid eight hours or so, and when he wakes up he’ll think about how to use this new knowledge to his advantage.
He’s halfway home when he passes a newsvendor. He’s not going to buy a paper, but he still glances at the headlines out of habit. What he sees makes his heart stop.
VIGILANTE DEFIES KEENE ACT, STRIKES AGAIN.
-
The man-early 20’s, a top-knot with luudes in his blood-was found in his studio apartment. Even though the man wasn’t found in Dan’s area and it’s not his job, Dan heads for the morgue. He knows the workers there, or most of them, anyway, and for a ten he’s allowed back to study the body. Looks like he was killed by asphyxiation, an unopened bag of heroin stuffed down his throat, but there’s also severe lacerations across his chest, and shards of glass embedded his face. Two of his fingers are broken.
Dan lets the gore sink into his brain until his own body is itching with the wounds. This is what he’s dealing with.
He goes from the morgue to Rorschach’s apartment, not sure what he’s going to do. Maybe he’ll just arrest him and let the rest work itself out-a thorough search of his apartment will surely bring up proof that he is, indeed, Rorschach. The sun works its way up the sky as Dan stalks back down familiar streets, hunting down Rorschach’s apartment building; nobody bothers him as he enters the building and goes upstairs, one hand on his pistol and the other clenched into a fist.
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It’s hardly a surprise, but a lack of surprise does not preclude the kind of disappointment he thought he’d outgrown when his father died.
Dan goes home and sleeps restlessly for a few hours; when he wakes, he goes to work, fitting into his blues with a sense of disconnect that he doesn’t think about.
As he works, he plans.
-
Dan writes out a list of all the things he’ll need for a trap against Rorschach to work-it has to be something he can’t escape from, something Dan doesn’t have to watch 24/7, and something that won’t catch unsuspecting citizens. He spends several long days working it out, sleeping so little that he catches himself nodding off during his shifts more than once.
It’s not perfect, but Dan has never operated under the delusion that he's above trial and error.
Four more bodies show up in half as many months, and New York is working itself into a frenzy-all of the dead men are criminals, but compared to Rorschach’s other known kills, they’re petty criminals. One has a felony for shoplifting, and one’s an ex-con who was in for a drug possession. One had several traffic violations. The most recent one had a gang-related tattoo, but he was so young that he didn’t even have a criminal record.
Dan hasn’t seen Rorschach since autumn, and the brittle, oppressive cold of winter serves to perpetuate the feelings of worthlessness that nag at him when his hands aren’t busy. Dan keeps himself very busy.
The work is fast. He sneaks out to five different spots, dressed in his plainest clothes, his goggles enlightening him to the underworld. Nobody notices him, which isn’t unusual for Dan. As a kid, he mastered the art of disappearing along the periphery to avoid disrupting his father and, later, the discriminate gaze of his peers. He tests the remote on each one-the end result is, quite frankly, bizarre, but Dan has confidence in it.
-
The two months after Dan sets his traps are tense. The city is waiting to see if Rorschach will kill again-and the police have begun muttering, crowded around their desks with coffee, about riots, and about their strike, and what good did it do, really? Dan begins to notice strange things around his house, little inconsistencies that can be chalked up to his perpetual state of exhaustion but that, when put against the increasingly scratched state of his locks, are unnerving. He carries his pistol everywhere, and keeps the remote for the traps on-hand-during the day, he sets off the traps casually, without pattern, and never for long. Each night, while he patrols, he turns one on and leaves it on from dusk until after midnight, then flips to another one from midnight to the end of his shift. He is careful to only check the traps on his days off, but they haven’t been tampered with, though two have accumulated an impressive amount of graffiti. When he triggers them, they’re perfectly functional.
A new tenant moves into Rorschach’s apartment.
-
The phone is ringing.
He is trapped underground, earth clots in his nostrils, in his mouth-the phone rings-some distant animal screeches, and-
“Oh,” he says out loud, back in bed and tangled in covers. He fumbles for the phone. “Hello,” he tries to say, but it mostly comes out as a long, exhausted groan.
“What, did I wake you up?”
Dan rubs his eyes, trying to place the voice. “Yes,” he says, too tired to skip around. He pulls his clock towards him-the hands point smugly at 9:30. He’s only slept a couple hours. “Who is this?”
“Laurie. Um, Juspeczyk. If it’s a bad time I can call you back.”
Dan sits up and fumbles with his glasses. He’s conscious of his shirtless state, his unruly hair-he runs a hand through his hair and catches on tangles. “Yeah. I mean, uh, no, this is fine.” He clears his throat of its sleepy rasp. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine.”
“Are you hurt?” he asks, still half-awake, skimming, not quite together enough to know that’s a stupid question. She’s Dr. Manhattan’s girlfriend; of course she’s not hurt.
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Dan goes still.
“And I told you I’d let you know if I learned anything, so here I am, calling you. Can you believe I still have your number?” There’s a pause in which Dan can hear her fumbling with a lighter.
“Did he tell you about the murders?” he asks, fumbling for his beaten-up notepad and a pen.
“He didn’t get that far,” she exhales, her breath filtering through the phone. “He pissed Jon off.”
Dan’s guts clench. “He…he killed him?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Laurie cracks up. “What? No! Ahaha-well,” she sobers, “I don’t think he did. He teleported him out of here. Though the creep would deserve it. He just…he was freaking out even before I said anything to him. He kept rambling about, I don’t know, these people after him or something, and how he was going to find someone. He said it was unfair.”
“Can you tell me exactly what he said?” Dan asks, swinging his legs off the bed.
“God, I don’t know, Dan. Okay. So I open the door-he’s reeking of like, burning garbage, and the first thing out of his-“
The line goes dead. Dan waits a moment, pen poised, not quite believing that the call’s been cut, certain that Laurie’s just collecting herself on the other end. It was probably an accident. He hangs up and scratches a long line down the page, carefully extrapolates that into a square-its lines are wonky, his hands are trembling-and he picks the phone back up, cradles it between his shoulder and ear. There is no dial tone. Dan covers his mouth. His generator kicks on, a loud humming from his back porch, and then turns off with an electric snap.
Dan tries his lamp. Nothing.
Paranoia doesn’t suit you, Dan thinks, in a voice that isn’t quite his.
Dan throws on a shirt and grabs his pistol, goggles, and the remote. He should be panicking. He isn’t. His room becomes strange in night-vision, full of another man’s things. They all seem useless with these eyes. He thumbs at the remote without thinking about it.
No sounds. No, that’s not right: There’s the wind and cars outside, the drip of his bathroom sink that he’s been meaning to fix, his steady breath, his careful footsteps, his heartbeat pounding in his chest, the intermittent creaks that he knows from seventeen years in this house.
His bedroom is clear. The hallway and hall closet are, too. Bathroom, guest room, that closet-the second floor is empty, devoid of life. Dan adjusts his grip on the pistol.
The remote rings shrilly in his hand, so abrupt that at first Dan has no idea where it’s coming from and so aims his pistol into the empty darkness of his stairwell. Panic, tight and immediate, lances through his chest. It beeps a few more times, then hushes. Dan stares at the blinking red light signaling trap number three, then, certain that it’s a malfunction, flips the device off and back on. The light continues to blink at him, proud of itself.
It can wait.
But Dan checks his house twice over and finds nothing more frightening than an old Halloween mask and nothing more incriminating than an unlocked window that he probably forgot to lock the night before; and the alarm is still blinking at him, patient.
Dan reluctantly returns to his bedroom and changes, pulling on his uniform. His shift starts in half an hour. No one will notice if he’s a little scruffier than usual-or anyway, they won’t think it’s strange, which is just as valuable.
-
The trap is like this: three speakers set up in alleyways that Dan knows, or hopes he knows, Rorschach has frequented in the past. There’s five sets of speakers in four alleys near bars, and one set in the alley by Rorschach’s old apartment. The speakers are the lure, and broadcast the sounds of struggle-sometimes the grunts and shouts of a gang fight, sometimes the cut-off shriek of a woman, and, on one, a child’s high-pitched scream, though Dan hopes that other people would actually respond to it, so it plays very rarely.
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The third trap is by a bar called Happy Harry’s, which is far enough away that it takes just shy of twenty minutes to walk there. On the way, Dan stops by a payphone and calls the station and apologizes, letting them know he’ll be a little late. He hardly hears the response.
Dan crouches on the roof of the bar and listens for any sign of movement from the dumpster. A cat probably set it off, or an inquisitive dog. A human would be banging on the sides, or at least moving enough to make the refuse clink and rattle audibly. Or, Dan thinks, sweat trickling down his side, someone knows what’s coming and is trying to stay quiet.
He swings off the edge of the building, shimmies and slides awkwardly down the metal ladder, and drops on top of the dumpster with a clang that reverberates in the alleyway. To be honest, he’s grateful that whoever’s inside can’t see the awkward way he hops off the dumpster, but he doesn’t feel self-conscious as he steadies himself-goggles in place, pistol in hand, shoulders squared. His hand doesn’t shake as he reaches into his pocket and flips the switch to unlock it. No movements, still. Dan glances at the time, then swallows and steps closer.
If it is a civilian, he’s in deep shit. It wasn’t until this moment that it occurred to him just how screwed he is if anyone other than Rorschach is trapped here, especially since he decided to show up in his god damn uniform. Shit. Any drunk could accidentally stumble into the mannequin and set off the trap, any hurried couple could choose just the wrong spot against the wall-but no, a civilian would have climbed out of the dumpster by now. Unless they’re hurt, or petrified of the maniac who just jumped on top of them. They might even think he’s Rorschach, which is so insane that he has to suppress a giggle. He’s screwed. He’s so screwed, even if Rorschach is the poor bastard who’s awaiting judgment.
And knowing that-that he’s reached some intangible threshold, that he can’t go back now, that he has no other choice than to follow through with this-to follow Rorschach’s grotesque career until either he or Rorschach is dead-comes as some comfort. He calms.
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Dan approaches it, slow, but not tentative, and palms the lid. He aims the pistol, poises a finger against the trigger. With an exhale, Dan flips the lid.
Putrefied meat splatters in his face, wet and thick and so putrid that he gags and stumbles back. He swipes at his nose and mouth-lurches, sick. Trash crumples noisily and Dan swings at Rorschach’s slim figure as it shoots out, and manages to clip the side of his face. Rorschach yanks him by the shirt-before he can do any more damage, Dan headbutts him-a cracking sound-and Rorschach fumbles with his hands-but no, Dan’s bigger than him, and stronger, he must be by now-they struggle, hand-to-hand, then Rorschach knees him in the gut. Dan vomits and staggers away-but Rorschach doesn’t run, grabbing a fistful of Dan’s hair-they’re on the ground, Rorschach grinding his hand over Dan’s goggles, shards of glass slicing into his cheeks and eyebrows. Dan rolls over, slams his elbow into Rorschach’s chest, panting.
Rorschach crouches, one hand on his chest, and in the moment of stillness he asks, winded and shocked, “What are you wearing?”
But Dan’s already moving again, catching Rorschach around the waist-if they stay on the ground he can throw his weight around, keep Rorschach too busy to hurt him badly-they wrestle, Rorschach struggling so violently that Dan’s certain he’s going to die-but he manages to flip Rorschach onto his stomach and straddle his back, and he pins his face into the ground. Rorschach roars and bucks, thrashes, nearly throwing Dan off-Dan fumbles with his handcuffs and manages to snap it around one of Rorschach’s wrists.
Rorschach claws at him-Dan jerks both of his hands between his back, his weight rocking against Rorschach. “Dreiberg,” he groans, and Dan lets go of him long enough to punch him in the face because he’s still nauseous and the taste of rotted meat is all down his throat. “Dreiberg, wait,” with a panicked edge, but Dan cuffs his second hand-and there. He has Rorschach. He did it. Rorschach is at Dan’s mercy.
Dan realizes, belatedly, that he’s fully erect, his hips pressed into Rorschach’s lower back. He holds the back of Rorschach’s neck, two of his fingers slipping underneath his mask. “You,” Dan starts, but heat trickles up his center, and instead he buries his nose into the nape of Rorschach’s neck.
He can smell his aftershave.
“Listen to me, Dreiberg,” very quiet, and very desperate.
“What the hell,” Dan gasps into his neck, “have you been doing?”
Someone screams from the street and Dan jumps-a woman is at the mouth of the alleyway, covering her mouth.
“Call the police!” Dan shouts, then realizes, with a tiny manic laugh, that he is the police. Keeping one hand on the back of Rorschach’s neck, he pulls out his radio, and he calls it in.
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I'll try to be more coherent in the morning but OMFG THIS IS SO AWESOME I DON'T EVEN
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And oh, I love you too, quietly tenacious badass genius inventor cop Dan! You and your awesome Wile E. Coyote dumpster mousetrap.
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