Fic: Control (Adult Content Warning)
Title: Control
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Dan/Rorschach.
Date Written: 2009
Summary: Blame, responsibility, accountability - all disintegrate when control is forfeit.
Rating/Warnings: R for nonexplicit sexytimes. Slash. Light/illusory bondage.
Notes: Kinkmeme fic, prompt was for porn involving Ror's fanony suspenders(braces, for those overseas). More self-indulgence, sorry. I'm trying to break through a nasty writer's block on BtB and my other serious pieces, so I'm trying to see if writing 'fun' things will help with it.
*
He’s tied, and he doesn’t like that.
He could get free, easily. The soft purple elastic coiled around his wrists doesn’t bite in, doesn’t threaten to cut off circulation when he tugs, doesn’t hold him in place half as securely as his scarf would have. Suspenders stretch - it’s in their nature, and all he’d have to do is pull and he could slip free.
He could, but he doesn’t, because Daniel is sliding up the length of his body, fingers leading, following the contour of muscle and bone like water. Is slipping his hands up along the line of his throat, the contact humming with electricity and raising heat in his skin everywhere it lands - is pressing fingertips under the edges of his mask, tracing the outline of flesh and bone underneath.
A shock of fear: Daniel could unmask him. Could. He tenses, ready to pull free from his bonds.
“Shh,” Daniel murmurs against the outline of his mouth, pressing the sound into him, vibrating it through the latex. The fingers don’t retreat but neither do they delve any farther; just dance there, on the bleeding edge of that last boundary. When the voice becomes a kiss, becomes a tongue working to push his own mask down inside of him, a shudder shakes its way free from somewhere deep and he whines into the indistinct press of lips, and his hands unclench, and the elastic holds - for now.
Control is leaking away rapidly, fewer and fewer of his reactions planned or deliberate, and he knows that that is the point. Daniel is raking his fingernails down his arms, leaving bloodless white trails over the curve of bunched and tense muscle, making him shake and jump, and that is the point. He is rolling his hips relentlessly, the friction between them unbearable, and that is the point. There is a hard nip through the mask, and the whine transmutes into a groan without his consent, and that is the point: Daniel will do what he pleases and Rorschach will let him, and even when the lips leave the latex he is still making that low, desperate noise, pleading into a mouth that has moved on because there is something about this that is so- that is-
He could get free. He could pull to get some slack and slip his hands loose and push them through Daniel’s hair, use them to latch on to his hips and haul him around until their positions are reversed and familiar and comfortable, until he is the one pinning Daniel by the shoulders, taking Daniel to pieces with his hands, rocking Daniel into the creaking mattress with something that always verges on violence, angry and wild.
Angry and-
The mouth is on his throat now, sucking and biting, and hands settle low on his hips, thumbs circling against his thighs. Heat and blood are straining, hard and urgent and dangerous, and then the fingers curl and bite in and are pulling him up to buck against Daniel’s own arousal, contact he couldn’t resist or control if he wanted to.
If he wanted-
The body over him is large, oppressive, the space he occupies between flesh and bedsprings claustrophobic. It is a hot and immediate place, breath and sweat and a constant thread of terror vibrating through it, heavy hot hands and possessive mouth and grinding urgency and the smooth wood of the headboard against the backs of his wrists and no control over any of it and-
No blame and-
He could get free. He could. Fingers are clawing into his thighs and teeth scraping over his collarbone and he feels himself disintegrating under their touch, shattering, disappearing, and he could get free.
He could.
But he doesn’t.
*
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Dan/Rorschach.
Date Written: 2009
Summary: Blame, responsibility, accountability - all disintegrate when control is forfeit.
Rating/Warnings: R for nonexplicit sexytimes. Slash. Light/illusory bondage.
Notes: Kinkmeme fic, prompt was for porn involving Ror's fanony suspenders(braces, for those overseas). More self-indulgence, sorry. I'm trying to break through a nasty writer's block on BtB and my other serious pieces, so I'm trying to see if writing 'fun' things will help with it.
*
He’s tied, and he doesn’t like that.
He could get free, easily. The soft purple elastic coiled around his wrists doesn’t bite in, doesn’t threaten to cut off circulation when he tugs, doesn’t hold him in place half as securely as his scarf would have. Suspenders stretch - it’s in their nature, and all he’d have to do is pull and he could slip free.
He could, but he doesn’t, because Daniel is sliding up the length of his body, fingers leading, following the contour of muscle and bone like water. Is slipping his hands up along the line of his throat, the contact humming with electricity and raising heat in his skin everywhere it lands - is pressing fingertips under the edges of his mask, tracing the outline of flesh and bone underneath.
A shock of fear: Daniel could unmask him. Could. He tenses, ready to pull free from his bonds.
“Shh,” Daniel murmurs against the outline of his mouth, pressing the sound into him, vibrating it through the latex. The fingers don’t retreat but neither do they delve any farther; just dance there, on the bleeding edge of that last boundary. When the voice becomes a kiss, becomes a tongue working to push his own mask down inside of him, a shudder shakes its way free from somewhere deep and he whines into the indistinct press of lips, and his hands unclench, and the elastic holds - for now.
Control is leaking away rapidly, fewer and fewer of his reactions planned or deliberate, and he knows that that is the point. Daniel is raking his fingernails down his arms, leaving bloodless white trails over the curve of bunched and tense muscle, making him shake and jump, and that is the point. He is rolling his hips relentlessly, the friction between them unbearable, and that is the point. There is a hard nip through the mask, and the whine transmutes into a groan without his consent, and that is the point: Daniel will do what he pleases and Rorschach will let him, and even when the lips leave the latex he is still making that low, desperate noise, pleading into a mouth that has moved on because there is something about this that is so- that is-
He could get free. He could pull to get some slack and slip his hands loose and push them through Daniel’s hair, use them to latch on to his hips and haul him around until their positions are reversed and familiar and comfortable, until he is the one pinning Daniel by the shoulders, taking Daniel to pieces with his hands, rocking Daniel into the creaking mattress with something that always verges on violence, angry and wild.
Angry and-
The mouth is on his throat now, sucking and biting, and hands settle low on his hips, thumbs circling against his thighs. Heat and blood are straining, hard and urgent and dangerous, and then the fingers curl and bite in and are pulling him up to buck against Daniel’s own arousal, contact he couldn’t resist or control if he wanted to.
If he wanted-
The body over him is large, oppressive, the space he occupies between flesh and bedsprings claustrophobic. It is a hot and immediate place, breath and sweat and a constant thread of terror vibrating through it, heavy hot hands and possessive mouth and grinding urgency and the smooth wood of the headboard against the backs of his wrists and no control over any of it and-
No blame and-
He could get free. He could. Fingers are clawing into his thighs and teeth scraping over his collarbone and he feels himself disintegrating under their touch, shattering, disappearing, and he could get free.
He could.
But he doesn’t.
*