Someday Something's Coming
Someday Something's Coming
NC-17
1960-1966. Adrian/Eddie. Eddie urinates on Adrian, twice, and Adrian is fucked-up about it.
For the prompt Hair, for mission_insane. Originally posted on the kinkmeme. Title from "Lovecraft in Brooklyn" by The Mountain Goats. Just gonna rip this bandage right off.
Contains: Non-consensual watersports, consensual watersports, homophobic shaming, humiliation, implied rimming
There is blood in Adrian's mouth. The copper taste makes him feel surprisingly vulnerable, while the Comedian holding him on his knees by the hair is almost boring, because he expected that. He tongues at the source of the blood and doesn't look up at the Comedian, focusing instead just past his hips. He can handle whatever the Comedian chooses to do; Adrian is not easy to shame or to cow, and the Comedian is laughably primal in all things, subscribing to his id except when absolutely necessary. So he's going to fuck Adrian. It doesn't make a difference in the long-run, because now that he's beaten Adrian, Adrian knows how to devastate him. Nevertheless, the blood in his mouth makes him feel very young, and very foolish.
"Hands behind your back." With his free hand, the Comedian takes his pistol from its holster; he taps it underneath Adrian's chin. "Don't want you gettin' any ideas," he adds, grinning. Adrian still cares enough about the situation to feel indignant - if he hasn't fought back already, why does the Comedian think he will? - but he complies, folding his hands together neatly and tipping his head away from the barrel of the pistol.
Adrian has sucked men off before, and when the Comedian goes to unzip his pants one-handed, he shuts his eyes, replaying each time. The dark, musky scent of the Comedian's dick hits Adrian, and he opens his eyes again; the Comedian uses the pistol to nudge Adrian's head back before sliding the cold metal against his cheek. He's flaccid, and he nudges the head of his cock against Adrian's lips, brushing it against his cheek.
"Look at me. C'mon, pretty boy, the trashcan ain't gonna get you out of this."
"I'd rather you not patronize me," Adrian replies coolly, but he looks up into the Comedian's face. There's not much to see; the night is black, and he lost his cigar in the fight, but a nearby streetlight is making the whites of his eyes gleam. He looks rather like a monster. "If you wanted me to suck you off, you know, you could have asked."
"What, you seriously think I'm putting my dick in your mouth?" He smacks Adrian with the pistol, not with any real force, just enough for it to sting. It's a remarkably territorial action, like the growling and snapping of dogs. "I'm not an idiot." Adrian blinks. In the time it takes for Adrian to reorient himself, the Comedian's put his pistol back in its holster and released his hair.
For a brief second, Adrian wonders if he's going to let him go. The Comedian rubs his prick against his mouth, dispelling that, and Adrian obliges him by opening his mouth and letting his lips curl around the head. To his surprise, the Comedian yanks him back.
"What the fuck did I just tell you?"
"If you don't want me to suck you off, why don't you let me go?" Adrian asks. He is unpleasantly surprised by the pleading tone.
Then the Comedian takes half a step back and spreads his legs, and Adrian understands.
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.
*
Adrian doesn’t forget, of course. But he pretends he does; he is so busy between nursing his infant business and fighting crime, and rarely has a moment’s sleep, much less a moment to dwell on a maniac urinating on him. Sometimes, very rarely, the primal stink of urine hits him like a well-placed uppercut and he is left dazed, the taste of blood in his mouth. Sometimes, when he’s shaken himself back to reality, he is half-erect. Rather than invest time mulling over that reaction, he purchases a few lewd magazines and jerks himself off to pictures of young men with their erect penises canting towards the camera, their expressions silly and seductive.
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.
Adrian stretches, well-aware that his erection is visible and that his disgust is not. He almost wonders why he is here, but to lament it would be to martyr himself and this is in part to kill the martyr in him. He brushes his hair back from his forehead, and the memory of the Comedian’s piss dripping coolly from the tips of his bangs is so vivid that he has to shut his eyes. The taste of blood fills his mouth.
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.
NC-17
1960-1966. Adrian/Eddie. Eddie urinates on Adrian, twice, and Adrian is fucked-up about it.
For the prompt Hair, for mission_insane. Originally posted on the kinkmeme. Title from "Lovecraft in Brooklyn" by The Mountain Goats. Just gonna rip this bandage right off.
Contains: Non-consensual watersports, consensual watersports, homophobic shaming, humiliation, implied rimming
There is blood in Adrian's mouth. The copper taste makes him feel surprisingly vulnerable, while the Comedian holding him on his knees by the hair is almost boring, because he expected that. He tongues at the source of the blood and doesn't look up at the Comedian, focusing instead just past his hips. He can handle whatever the Comedian chooses to do; Adrian is not easy to shame or to cow, and the Comedian is laughably primal in all things, subscribing to his id except when absolutely necessary. So he's going to fuck Adrian. It doesn't make a difference in the long-run, because now that he's beaten Adrian, Adrian knows how to devastate him. Nevertheless, the blood in his mouth makes him feel very young, and very foolish.
"Hands behind your back." With his free hand, the Comedian takes his pistol from its holster; he taps it underneath Adrian's chin. "Don't want you gettin' any ideas," he adds, grinning. Adrian still cares enough about the situation to feel indignant - if he hasn't fought back already, why does the Comedian think he will? - but he complies, folding his hands together neatly and tipping his head away from the barrel of the pistol.
Adrian has sucked men off before, and when the Comedian goes to unzip his pants one-handed, he shuts his eyes, replaying each time. The dark, musky scent of the Comedian's dick hits Adrian, and he opens his eyes again; the Comedian uses the pistol to nudge Adrian's head back before sliding the cold metal against his cheek. He's flaccid, and he nudges the head of his cock against Adrian's lips, brushing it against his cheek.
"Look at me. C'mon, pretty boy, the trashcan ain't gonna get you out of this."
"I'd rather you not patronize me," Adrian replies coolly, but he looks up into the Comedian's face. There's not much to see; the night is black, and he lost his cigar in the fight, but a nearby streetlight is making the whites of his eyes gleam. He looks rather like a monster. "If you wanted me to suck you off, you know, you could have asked."
"What, you seriously think I'm putting my dick in your mouth?" He smacks Adrian with the pistol, not with any real force, just enough for it to sting. It's a remarkably territorial action, like the growling and snapping of dogs. "I'm not an idiot." Adrian blinks. In the time it takes for Adrian to reorient himself, the Comedian's put his pistol back in its holster and released his hair.
For a brief second, Adrian wonders if he's going to let him go. The Comedian rubs his prick against his mouth, dispelling that, and Adrian obliges him by opening his mouth and letting his lips curl around the head. To his surprise, the Comedian yanks him back.
"What the fuck did I just tell you?"
"If you don't want me to suck you off, why don't you let me go?" Adrian asks. He is unpleasantly surprised by the pleading tone.
Then the Comedian takes half a step back and spreads his legs, and Adrian understands.
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.
*
Adrian doesn’t forget, of course. But he pretends he does; he is so busy between nursing his infant business and fighting crime, and rarely has a moment’s sleep, much less a moment to dwell on a maniac urinating on him. Sometimes, very rarely, the primal stink of urine hits him like a well-placed uppercut and he is left dazed, the taste of blood in his mouth. Sometimes, when he’s shaken himself back to reality, he is half-erect. Rather than invest time mulling over that reaction, he purchases a few lewd magazines and jerks himself off to pictures of young men with their erect penises canting towards the camera, their expressions silly and seductive.
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.
Adrian stretches, well-aware that his erection is visible and that his disgust is not. He almost wonders why he is here, but to lament it would be to martyr himself and this is in part to kill the martyr in him. He brushes his hair back from his forehead, and the memory of the Comedian’s piss dripping coolly from the tips of his bangs is so vivid that he has to shut his eyes. The taste of blood fills his mouth.
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.