FIC: Enough (Adult Content Warning)
Title: Enough
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Dan/Rorschach
Date Written: 2009
Summary: Rorschach carries handcuffs on patrol for more than just the criminals.
Rating/Warnings: Definitely NC-17 this time. Smut. Explicit. Consensual, but imagery may push some dubcon buttons if you're sensitive to them.
Notes: More JUST PORN. Because the last one was fun and I decided to up the ante, and liodain insists that my smut-to-not_smut ratio is too low. XD Kinkmeme fill, prompt was for Rough!Suprise!Sex involving handcuffs. Ror, you are so, so messed up. D:
Extra Note: To the flist people and other watchers who are not interested in this sort of self-indulgent crap, seriously, don't worry - there will always be more serious character-and-plot-driven pieces than stuff like this - I'm just feeling playful lately, so I'm playing. :)
*
It takes less than a second.
Less than a second, and a motion so fast he doesn't even register it, out of the corner of his eye. The cuffs click shut somewhere above his head, a sound so quiet in a city that usually accompanies its betrayals and turnabouts with the echo of gunshots and screams. His hands are up there too, glove leather rubbing against the flaking rust of a fire escape's diagonal support.
He's face-first into a wall covered in unidentifiable filth and he's cuffed to a fire escape and the only other person left standing, much less carrying those familiar quick-lock handcuffs, had been his partner. Likely his ex-partner, if he doesn't come up with a very, very good explanation for this development quickly.
Very quickly.
Then he feels a small, compact body lean in against his back, heat seeping through the fabric layers of both of their costumes like water; penetrating through skin and muscle in a way that water can't. There's an obvious hardness digging into the back of his thigh, implications clear, and it's not a good explanation but it's at least an explanation. It's something. And there's enough slack in the handcuffs, he realizes, that he can bend his knees and drop himself just enough to compensate for the height difference and...
Dan shakes his head, hard, wondering just what in the hell he's thinking. "Rorschach." His voice is shakier than he expected, and the firm resolve he'd intended to inject into it isn't surfacing. His mouth is horrifically dry, and it makes the words harder to form. "What are you doing?"
"Need you," comes the broken, telegraphic fragment of a response, and it sounds like there's something sharp in his throat, preventing anything more eloquent from escaping, bloodying his voice from the inside out. There's a rustling sound as his arms thread around Dan's chest from behind, fingers curling to claw sharply down the planes of muscle, digging through the thin fabric of the costume. "Sick. Don't know why. But do."
Christ, Dan thinks, but it's not a surprise; not in the short term, with everything he can feel trembling loose from his partner's frame, and not in the long term either - this may have been building between them for years, a raw, shaky tension never acknowledged or dignified with naming, but he never expected Rorschach of all people to make a move. Never expected either of them to.
Never expected to find himself cuffed and helpless with his partner grinding his obviously long-neglected erection against his thigh, hands clutching at him like he'll disappear into a wisp of smoke should they let go for even a moment.
How long, he finds himself wondering. How long, just tonight, has he been hard under all the layers of his clothes, hiding it here in a swirl of motion, there in the angle of his posture, there again in the way he allows the streetlight to hit? How much practice has he had, hiding this in plain sight, night after night after -
Nothing in particular had happened tonight, nothing out of the ordinary to trigger this. No great catalyst - just a slow wearing-away of resolve, crumbling rationality into the ancient dust of the dead and gone.
"Know you want- like this. Have heard you talk in your sleep," Rorschach is muttering into his ear, fast and desperate, hands slipping up to unfasten the clasp that holds the cowl in place, and just when could he possibly have heard... "Depraved as I am. Not defiling anything sacred." A pause, fingers running up under the edges of the cowl, not actually pulling it back; a breath catches hard in Dan's throat. "Need you to say it."
And Dan should be fighting this, should be thinking about the partnership and what this'll do to it, should be thinking about the possibility of being found like this, but that familiar growling voice is doing things in his brain, is sending blood to pool like electricity, low and hungry, and he's cuffed and couldn't get free if he wanted to and Rorschach is asking.
There's no slack in the cuffs anymore. When a foot nudges at his, encouraging them to shift further apart, he obliges without thinking, leather soles dragging roughly on the age-bitten asphalt.
Of course he's asking. God. What does he think this is - his partner suddenly decided to just take what he wants and damn the morality? Nothing would make less sense in the world. He could say no, he realizes with startling clarity, and the cuffs would be off in an instant, and Rorschach would be gone down the alley, would disappear for a week, or a month, or-
Or might not be back at all. The shame would be...
Hips rock against his, motion demanding and sharp. He doesn't want to say no. Never has.
"...yeah," he finally breathes, pressing back into that pressure, heat dragging the word rough through his lips. He's not surprised when the answering full-body thrust is enough to flatten him into the wall, brick scraping his cheek, a shower of rust flakes swirling down from where the cuff chain rasps along the support. A hand is suddenly digging through his belt pouches, heedless of what it's scattering to the ground. "Yeah, I do. Fuck."
The pressure doesn't let up, hips rolling against him unrelentingly, and there's no control there anymore, as if the admission had snapped the last bonds of his partner's restraint. The searching hand disappears, having found whatever it was looking for. Machine oil, Dan realizes disconnectedly, head spinning. For Archie, for the throwing crescents, for the goddamned cuffs. There are hands on the lip of his cowl again, pulling it loose in one fast, unhesitating motion; the goggles are left where they are. A protest fights its way out; only manages to surface as a deep and displeased-sounding groan as a hand drops back to his hips, winds around the front of his belt.
"No one here," Rorschach growls, winding his free hand through Dan's hair, brushing the scalp lightly for just a moment before knotting in the strands and pulling back, hard. "Will put it back if anyone comes. Need to see you. Need to..." he trails off, and it's just as well, because teeth are sinking into his throat now, the shock of pain riding through his veins like good good good more and he's clawing at the cuffs, at his own hands, rocking between the needy hardness behind him and the clever hand unhooking his belt. It shoves the waistband of his uniform down to his thighs, and the chance of a coherent response is absolutely nil; he shivers against the temperate night air, exposed.
There's a space between them suddenly, and he feels something cool and slick hit his skin; the soft glove leather of one thumb drags through it, spreading it lower, lighting up a trail of nerves like wildfire. The thumb presses inside for just a moment, no warning or hesitation, and he bucks back against it, keening low in his throat, before it disppears. The cuffs are digging through the leather of his gauntlets, starting to bite in, and he's dragging down on them so hard he feels like his shoulders are a second from dislocating but he doesn't care, writhing in their impersonal grip. He needs that back, needs to feel those fingers, the worn leather, the brutal precision that Rorschach brings to bear in everything he does with them, needs them inside and moving and-
There's a rustling of leather and fabric, the sound of a zipper, and before he knows what's happening, the hand on his hip tightens and the hand in his hair peels him back to one side, teeth finding new purchase in the crook of his shoulder, biting down hard - and his cry is dragged out, lengthened and deepened and given a wavering note of fear, as Rorschach pushes inside in one long, hard stroke.
It's not enough. The oil - it isn't enough, there isn't enough of it, and Rorschach doesn't even skip a beat to breathe, to let him adjust, just starts pounding away as if this were a speed trial. As if he'll fall to pieces if he doesn't come in the next sixty seconds, and maybe he feels like he will. It's not enough and it hurts, it's agonizing, but behind every rough scrape of pain there's an answering burst of something warm and electric that bites even deeper, stings like the teeth on his throat, heady and disorienting and good. He can feel the skin of his face tearing on the jagged brickwork, and that's good too.
The hand in his hair disengages, wraps tight around his mouth, because the anguished sounds he's making aren't tapering off, are getting louder if anything, and the leather against his lips and teeth makes him choke - there's blood on it, old and new both, and who knows what else, ground deep under the surface - and he works his tongue over the fingers anyway, groaning hard against them when Rorschach jerks his hips just so and drives splinters of white light back behind his eyes.
"Being too loud, Daniel." The words take a moment to twist into something that makes sense, broken up and shuddery.
And he ignores them completely, because he isn't the one who decided to do this here, in a random alley, a stone's throw from a populated street, lit up in silhouetted profile by one guttering streetlamp. He moans something unintelligible from underneath the hand, and it could be anything, any of a thousand appeals, but as Rorschach batters him into the wall, striking him deeper and more hungrily than any of his fantasies have ever managed to do, the only thing it can possibly be is 'please'.
Please.
The hand on his hip pulls back sharply, angling him away from the wall, sliding into the gap in between and wrapping roughly around his cock. It drags along the length in a slow, drawn-out stroke that is as agonizing and burning as the teeth, as the solid thickness scraping along his insides, flaying him open, pulling the scrabbling and undone man out from inside the costume and setting him out in the light for everyone to see.
It's just a whimper - not a shout, not a moan that echoes with its wanton abandon - just a tiny, disconnected noise against the hand over his mouth as every muscle in his body pulls taut, spine arching into a hard curve as he jerks backwards and spills himself out onto the alley floor. When Rorschach is dragged along a moment later, his face is buried in Dan's hair, muffling a sound that is more like fear than release; a terror too great to bear alone, mouthed into his skin.
He's empty suddenly, and there's a small, metallic noise above him as the cuffs are unlocked; a shuffling of cloth; retreating footfalls, off-rhythm and unstable. And Dan's eyes are closed behind his goggles and his thoughts refuse to settle, stirred up into the wind, but he knows: It might be a week. It won't be a month.
Dan breathes, shuddery and weak, legs just barely holding his weight. Opens his eyes.
The echoing footsteps are almost gone, faded into the noisy backdrop of the city at night.
It might be a week, or two - but he'll be back. And that's good enough.
*
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Dan/Rorschach
Date Written: 2009
Summary: Rorschach carries handcuffs on patrol for more than just the criminals.
Rating/Warnings: Definitely NC-17 this time. Smut. Explicit. Consensual, but imagery may push some dubcon buttons if you're sensitive to them.
Notes: More JUST PORN. Because the last one was fun and I decided to up the ante, and liodain insists that my smut-to-not_smut ratio is too low. XD Kinkmeme fill, prompt was for Rough!Suprise!Sex involving handcuffs. Ror, you are so, so messed up. D:
Extra Note: To the flist people and other watchers who are not interested in this sort of self-indulgent crap, seriously, don't worry - there will always be more serious character-and-plot-driven pieces than stuff like this - I'm just feeling playful lately, so I'm playing. :)
*
It takes less than a second.
Less than a second, and a motion so fast he doesn't even register it, out of the corner of his eye. The cuffs click shut somewhere above his head, a sound so quiet in a city that usually accompanies its betrayals and turnabouts with the echo of gunshots and screams. His hands are up there too, glove leather rubbing against the flaking rust of a fire escape's diagonal support.
He's face-first into a wall covered in unidentifiable filth and he's cuffed to a fire escape and the only other person left standing, much less carrying those familiar quick-lock handcuffs, had been his partner. Likely his ex-partner, if he doesn't come up with a very, very good explanation for this development quickly.
Very quickly.
Then he feels a small, compact body lean in against his back, heat seeping through the fabric layers of both of their costumes like water; penetrating through skin and muscle in a way that water can't. There's an obvious hardness digging into the back of his thigh, implications clear, and it's not a good explanation but it's at least an explanation. It's something. And there's enough slack in the handcuffs, he realizes, that he can bend his knees and drop himself just enough to compensate for the height difference and...
Dan shakes his head, hard, wondering just what in the hell he's thinking. "Rorschach." His voice is shakier than he expected, and the firm resolve he'd intended to inject into it isn't surfacing. His mouth is horrifically dry, and it makes the words harder to form. "What are you doing?"
"Need you," comes the broken, telegraphic fragment of a response, and it sounds like there's something sharp in his throat, preventing anything more eloquent from escaping, bloodying his voice from the inside out. There's a rustling sound as his arms thread around Dan's chest from behind, fingers curling to claw sharply down the planes of muscle, digging through the thin fabric of the costume. "Sick. Don't know why. But do."
Christ, Dan thinks, but it's not a surprise; not in the short term, with everything he can feel trembling loose from his partner's frame, and not in the long term either - this may have been building between them for years, a raw, shaky tension never acknowledged or dignified with naming, but he never expected Rorschach of all people to make a move. Never expected either of them to.
Never expected to find himself cuffed and helpless with his partner grinding his obviously long-neglected erection against his thigh, hands clutching at him like he'll disappear into a wisp of smoke should they let go for even a moment.
How long, he finds himself wondering. How long, just tonight, has he been hard under all the layers of his clothes, hiding it here in a swirl of motion, there in the angle of his posture, there again in the way he allows the streetlight to hit? How much practice has he had, hiding this in plain sight, night after night after -
Nothing in particular had happened tonight, nothing out of the ordinary to trigger this. No great catalyst - just a slow wearing-away of resolve, crumbling rationality into the ancient dust of the dead and gone.
"Know you want- like this. Have heard you talk in your sleep," Rorschach is muttering into his ear, fast and desperate, hands slipping up to unfasten the clasp that holds the cowl in place, and just when could he possibly have heard... "Depraved as I am. Not defiling anything sacred." A pause, fingers running up under the edges of the cowl, not actually pulling it back; a breath catches hard in Dan's throat. "Need you to say it."
And Dan should be fighting this, should be thinking about the partnership and what this'll do to it, should be thinking about the possibility of being found like this, but that familiar growling voice is doing things in his brain, is sending blood to pool like electricity, low and hungry, and he's cuffed and couldn't get free if he wanted to and Rorschach is asking.
There's no slack in the cuffs anymore. When a foot nudges at his, encouraging them to shift further apart, he obliges without thinking, leather soles dragging roughly on the age-bitten asphalt.
Of course he's asking. God. What does he think this is - his partner suddenly decided to just take what he wants and damn the morality? Nothing would make less sense in the world. He could say no, he realizes with startling clarity, and the cuffs would be off in an instant, and Rorschach would be gone down the alley, would disappear for a week, or a month, or-
Or might not be back at all. The shame would be...
Hips rock against his, motion demanding and sharp. He doesn't want to say no. Never has.
"...yeah," he finally breathes, pressing back into that pressure, heat dragging the word rough through his lips. He's not surprised when the answering full-body thrust is enough to flatten him into the wall, brick scraping his cheek, a shower of rust flakes swirling down from where the cuff chain rasps along the support. A hand is suddenly digging through his belt pouches, heedless of what it's scattering to the ground. "Yeah, I do. Fuck."
The pressure doesn't let up, hips rolling against him unrelentingly, and there's no control there anymore, as if the admission had snapped the last bonds of his partner's restraint. The searching hand disappears, having found whatever it was looking for. Machine oil, Dan realizes disconnectedly, head spinning. For Archie, for the throwing crescents, for the goddamned cuffs. There are hands on the lip of his cowl again, pulling it loose in one fast, unhesitating motion; the goggles are left where they are. A protest fights its way out; only manages to surface as a deep and displeased-sounding groan as a hand drops back to his hips, winds around the front of his belt.
"No one here," Rorschach growls, winding his free hand through Dan's hair, brushing the scalp lightly for just a moment before knotting in the strands and pulling back, hard. "Will put it back if anyone comes. Need to see you. Need to..." he trails off, and it's just as well, because teeth are sinking into his throat now, the shock of pain riding through his veins like good good good more and he's clawing at the cuffs, at his own hands, rocking between the needy hardness behind him and the clever hand unhooking his belt. It shoves the waistband of his uniform down to his thighs, and the chance of a coherent response is absolutely nil; he shivers against the temperate night air, exposed.
There's a space between them suddenly, and he feels something cool and slick hit his skin; the soft glove leather of one thumb drags through it, spreading it lower, lighting up a trail of nerves like wildfire. The thumb presses inside for just a moment, no warning or hesitation, and he bucks back against it, keening low in his throat, before it disppears. The cuffs are digging through the leather of his gauntlets, starting to bite in, and he's dragging down on them so hard he feels like his shoulders are a second from dislocating but he doesn't care, writhing in their impersonal grip. He needs that back, needs to feel those fingers, the worn leather, the brutal precision that Rorschach brings to bear in everything he does with them, needs them inside and moving and-
There's a rustling of leather and fabric, the sound of a zipper, and before he knows what's happening, the hand on his hip tightens and the hand in his hair peels him back to one side, teeth finding new purchase in the crook of his shoulder, biting down hard - and his cry is dragged out, lengthened and deepened and given a wavering note of fear, as Rorschach pushes inside in one long, hard stroke.
It's not enough. The oil - it isn't enough, there isn't enough of it, and Rorschach doesn't even skip a beat to breathe, to let him adjust, just starts pounding away as if this were a speed trial. As if he'll fall to pieces if he doesn't come in the next sixty seconds, and maybe he feels like he will. It's not enough and it hurts, it's agonizing, but behind every rough scrape of pain there's an answering burst of something warm and electric that bites even deeper, stings like the teeth on his throat, heady and disorienting and good. He can feel the skin of his face tearing on the jagged brickwork, and that's good too.
The hand in his hair disengages, wraps tight around his mouth, because the anguished sounds he's making aren't tapering off, are getting louder if anything, and the leather against his lips and teeth makes him choke - there's blood on it, old and new both, and who knows what else, ground deep under the surface - and he works his tongue over the fingers anyway, groaning hard against them when Rorschach jerks his hips just so and drives splinters of white light back behind his eyes.
"Being too loud, Daniel." The words take a moment to twist into something that makes sense, broken up and shuddery.
And he ignores them completely, because he isn't the one who decided to do this here, in a random alley, a stone's throw from a populated street, lit up in silhouetted profile by one guttering streetlamp. He moans something unintelligible from underneath the hand, and it could be anything, any of a thousand appeals, but as Rorschach batters him into the wall, striking him deeper and more hungrily than any of his fantasies have ever managed to do, the only thing it can possibly be is 'please'.
Please.
The hand on his hip pulls back sharply, angling him away from the wall, sliding into the gap in between and wrapping roughly around his cock. It drags along the length in a slow, drawn-out stroke that is as agonizing and burning as the teeth, as the solid thickness scraping along his insides, flaying him open, pulling the scrabbling and undone man out from inside the costume and setting him out in the light for everyone to see.
It's just a whimper - not a shout, not a moan that echoes with its wanton abandon - just a tiny, disconnected noise against the hand over his mouth as every muscle in his body pulls taut, spine arching into a hard curve as he jerks backwards and spills himself out onto the alley floor. When Rorschach is dragged along a moment later, his face is buried in Dan's hair, muffling a sound that is more like fear than release; a terror too great to bear alone, mouthed into his skin.
He's empty suddenly, and there's a small, metallic noise above him as the cuffs are unlocked; a shuffling of cloth; retreating footfalls, off-rhythm and unstable. And Dan's eyes are closed behind his goggles and his thoughts refuse to settle, stirred up into the wind, but he knows: It might be a week. It won't be a month.
Dan breathes, shuddery and weak, legs just barely holding his weight. Opens his eyes.
The echoing footsteps are almost gone, faded into the noisy backdrop of the city at night.
It might be a week, or two - but he'll be back. And that's good enough.
*