Siren
Siren
NC-17
Pre-Roche. Twilight Lady/Rorschach, Twilight Lady/Dan, Dan/Rorschach. Rorschach, rather than Dan, visits the Twilight Lady.
Originally posted on the kinkmeme, also a fill for Fall, for mission_insane. Edited some.
Contains: Dubcon, voyeurism, rimming, bondage, pegging...etc
Rorschach knows, like a prophet first envisioning the apocalypse, that this vile woman is going to ruin him. She’s on a rooftop, one foot braced against a red neon sign, riding crop resting on the inside of her thigh. “Maybe I’ll see you boys around!” She strokes her thigh with the crop. Rorschach tenses.
Nite Owl lets out a long breath as she disappears, a trail of sultry red and midnight black. “Talk about a killer,” he says. Remembering himself, he touches his hand to his mouth and clears his throat. “She won’t be much trouble for us, though.”
Rorschach bares his teeth. “Don’t be so sure.”
*
“I guess I’ll settle for you,” the Twilight Lady murmurs, one hand on her hip. “Though I have to say, I was hoping your partner would come first.” Her tongue flicks over her lips, a satisfied quirk of her mouth at the double entendre. Rorschach’s ears burn, and it takes conscious effort to not loosen his scarf.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he growls. “I’m here to put you away.” He leaps at her, feints an uppercut, and instead drops to the ground, snaps his heel at her knee. She jumps back and lashes his leg with her riding crop-pain explodes down his leg and he snarls. He propels himself with as much strength as he can-catches her around her middle-they slam into the floor, noise and pain and then, very slowly, her hand crawling up his neck.
“All right,” she gasps, “you have me. Now what?”
Rorschach scrabbles for her hand; he has to pin her before she-touches-but she doesn’t struggle, letting him stretch her arms over her head. Her back arches. Her breasts, barely contained in the leather catsuit, brush his chest. Rorschach’s breath hitches and he tightens his fingers as if her hands were a safe port-but he knows the truth, what song her fingertips promise.
Knowing his hesitation, perhaps knowing that hesitation from dozens of other men, she tips her mouth towards his, parts her slick red lips, and licks his jaw. Rorschach shivers violently. “If you’re not going to ravish me, sweetheart, then I think we should switch places.”
“You’re disgusting,” he snarls. He takes one hand away from her to grab the handcuffs in his coat, but she’s too quick. With a deft jerk, she breaks free of his hand and pulls a butterfly knife from the space between her breasts. Holds it against his throat. That’s enough.
“On your back, dear,” she purrs.
Rorschach’s stomach lurches and he spread his legs over her, leans into the knife-he’s not afraid. Nothing can cow Rorschach-nothing-but he is trembling very slightly and the dead taste of sugar is in the back of his throat. The guilty reek of cotton is in his nostrils. He is a child again, on his back in the Lillian Charlton home. Her free hand slips between his legs and he comes without thinking, mouth stretched against the latex of his mask.
She quirks an eyebrow. Shame washes through him, tidal, and he slides away-but she doesn’t let him go, sits up with the knife still at his throat, bearing down until he’s on his back, shame and fear mixing in a way that’s so organic that he’s not sure that this isn’t a dream and that her face won’t distort soon, shadows crawling from her body to take him. Clucking her tongue, she slips her hand down his chest. “So soon? Shhh, sweetheart, that just means I have a job to do.” Knives in her smile, twisting and twisting in his gut. Rorschach can taste blood.
The butterfly knife slips away, down along his scarf, tracing, so close to cutting through his clothes, but it never does. She is utterly in control. She doesn’t need to tie him down or bribe him. All she needs is the sheet of red hair slipping over her shoulder and her thighs pinching around his stomach. In that moment, Rorschach knows what he truly is. He knows loathing. The mask is a noose-the knife slips down his stomach, tapping each button, and the Twilight Lady keeps smiling. Perhaps, he thinks, it doesn’t matter that he’s not sleeping-perhaps she is a monster either way, no matter how she transforms or transforms him.
She cuts the button of his pants. “Aren’t you even going to pretend to fight?” she asks, theatrical, disappointed. It’s a cinch of freedom, and Rorschach accepts it-punches her in the face as hard as he can from this angle, with come cooling in his pants and his body overheated-and she collapses to the side, shouts in pain. He scrambles to his feet and backs away, backs until he hits a wall and stays there. She spits blood onto the floor and laughs, wild. She throws her hair like a mane. “That’s better,” she says, and slinks to her feet-advances-but Rorschach is close enough to his senses that he can head for the door, scrabble with the doorknob, throw the door open, and run as fast as he can from the implications.
*
His apartment is empty, temperate. Someone paces next door as he sheds himself as quickly as he can, revolted. Something has crawled inside of him, something vile and sick, multi-faceted, and he kneels on the bed, succumbs to himself again with one hand between his legs and the other between his teeth, working and working. The ugly sound of skin echoes in the empty room-his neighbor stops pacing, settles in their distant bed-Walter orgasms. It’s quick and shallow and he stays as he is, panting through his nose, pain throbbing in his hand.
*
“I just don’t get why Wagner is helping them,” Daniel says, bent over his workbench with a pen in hand, papers strewn across the table. “As far as we can tell, he’s not gaining anything-and he wouldn’t lose anything if he quit. I think he’s playing the scapegoat-but for who?”
He waits for Rorschach to respond-knowing Rorschach, he’ll either dismiss the question outright and insist they go digging to find out, or lay out a list of names of potential suspects-maybe some women who’re involved with the gang. However, Rorschach doesn’t move, staring into the middle-space in what Dan thought was concentration.
“Rorschach?” His head snaps up. “Were you listening?”
“Yes,” he rasps, but he takes half a step back and puts his hands in his pocket, defensive. “I just think our luck will be found in the sewers. Per usual.”
“Right.” A little worm of worry digs into Dan’s stomach, the kind that he knows won’t pass until Rorschach’s behavior is either explained or settled.
*
The hallway is lush with dim yellow lamps, deep red carpet and paintings that are too abstract to be openly pornographic and too erotic to pass for art. Rorschach tugs his collar closer around his neck; he tells himself over and over that he's not going to let her hurt him again, that this is going to be his battle and that he is going to win. Tomorrow morning, she will be languishing in jail, her leather-rimmed smile put to rest. There will be bruises on her face that are platonic and just.
A long, anguished moan lilts through a doorway and Rorschach freezes. The dialogue is perfectly familiar, makes him shut his eyes and touch the bridge of his nose so he won't touch somewhere else-in his past, two silhouettes merge, and a woman is being hurt. Rorschach bares his teeth. The woman's voice is not the Twilight Lady's, though from the angry tone she is in her typical place, so he continues, sticking closer to the walls as if they'll help him move faster, turn him into a bird diving into the wind.
She's not alone when he finds her. To his revulsion, there is a woman between her knees, arms bound behind her back and a blindfold over her eyes. The Twilight Lady sits a little straighter as he opens the door-in an instant, her annoyance flashes into a smile so brilliant that he flinches. "Oh my goodness, to what do I owe this honor?” The woman lifts her head, and she adds, “Don't stop."
"Scum," he manages to wring from his gut. "You're everything that's wrong with this city. If you come quietly," he says, as much derision as he can fit in his voice, "I'll put in a good word at the station so they'll go easy on you. Which is more than you deserve."
The Twilight Lady moans rapturously and caresses the woman's neck-Rorschach can see her tongue flicking and he screws his eyes shut, grateful for his mask. "That's enough, dear," she says with a little sigh. She thumbs the blindfold down around the woman's neck. "Why don't you go into the other room while I handle this. I won't be long."
It's easy to avoid looking between her legs as the Twilight Lady adjusts her suit, but less easy to keep out the intrusive thoughts about her opulence. The sharp click of her boots snaps through the room as she stands, fixing her hair. "Darling, if I needed someone to go easy on me, I wouldn't be in this business."
Now, he thinks, fists clenched. Now. It would be so simple. She's unarmed, loose, too relaxed. Although she's capable of protecting herself, she's a joke compared to the kind of men Rorschach has fought. He could have her in handcuffs in thirty seconds. Now!
But already his body is betraying him, heat swirling down his neck, and his fists stay at his sides. The Twilight Lady just keeps smiling, her high cheekbones flushed in the low light. He can smell her perfume. It's sweet, sticky, trapped in his nostrils. He won't lose the smell of her for days. Weeks.
"Come on, then. Arrest me." She stops just in front of him, peering down at him through her black mask. For a long, long moment she waits, and he struggles to find the strength in him to do the right thing. Tries to overcome the heat that is translating to a need buried so deep that he can't fathom what it might mean. His fists go loose. "So you're done playing?" He doesn't move. "Good." She yanks him by the wrist, using the momentum to throw him towards the bed. He collapses, legs splayed awkwardly behind him; his body catches up to his mind, finally, and he thrashes, tries to kick out at her-but she straddles him and grabs his wrist.
A familiar metallic whir-she snaps a pair of handcuffs over his wrist, and Rorschach doesn't want to think about where she procured them from, in what dark recesses of her costume she hid them. He paws at her hand as she snaps the second cuff to an ornate rose in the headboard. Satisfied with her work, she sits in the middle of his back and pushes his head down into the pillows, where the scent of her perfume is overwhelming. Rorschach gags.
"There. I think that'll do, don't you?"
One of his hands is still free, but the act of being tied down has driven the momentum out of him. He gasps against the pillow and waits, tense.
"Now then, what first...ah, sweetie, relax! I'm here to help," her fingers digging into his tense neck.
"No," voice muffled by the pillow. "No."
"No? Darling, all I do is help people. I think I can manage you. You're a textbook case, really." She slides off, her thighs leaving hot stripes on his body as she goes. "Where to start." Slowly, Rorschach lifts his head, braces himself with his elbow so he can watch her. She opens a mahogany drawer. Rorschach's eyes flit shut-his mother is in the hallway, against a wall, drunk, asking a stranger if he thinks she's fine-they open again and the Twilight Lady is by the bed, holding nothing more incriminating than a small white bottle.
"Whore," he breathes.
She smacks him across the face--his head cracks against the headboard and he grunts in pain. "You don't talk to me like that, bitch," she snarls. "I’m either Mistress or Ma'am to you."
Heat blooms in Rorschach's gut; his dick starts to go stiff. "Go to Hell," he growls. This time she smacks his ass-his groin grinds against the mattress and he grits his teeth to not make a noise. It doesn't help. She smacks again, harder, really hurting him, and he's more grateful for that than anything because if he's going to be degraded, then at least let it not be a farce, let it take away his dignity but leave him intact.
"What was that?" she asks, one hand cupping his upper thigh, just below the sting.
"Go to Hell," he says, and braces for another smack that doesn't come. What does is worse-her soft laugh like bells, racing down his spine.
"All right, honey. Play the tough guy. We'll see how tough you really are." She slides her hand up his thigh, strokes very slowly at his balls through the layers, and he jumps. Rorschach buries his head in the pillow again, torn between his disgust and frayed nerves. Her hand works around his hips-just barely misses touching his hard cock-and she unzips his pants. Slides them down around his knees. The cool air hits his thighs, makes his body flare, feverish. She doesn't pull them any farther than that, and as the realization hits him a decadent stretch of self-loathing rolls through him. Something about being half-dressed makes him feel filthy, like he's some trick in an alleyway.
Which, he considers, he nearly is. All that's missing is a dirty fistful of bills.
Something slick drips onto his thigh and he bites his lip. He knows what that is, what it's for, but he can't fathom why she would want-her hand slicks up his thigh, slips over his ass. He shivers; surely she wouldn't really-but her finger dips between his buttocks and circles the sensitive flesh; his cock twitches and he bites the pillow to keep still. More cool wetness, and he can hear her humming to herself as she spreads it over her fingers, slicks his ass and teases just around the entrance, her fingers like silk, nothing like his have been in rare lust-induced hazes, vicious and needy.
"You're such an easy little slut," she coos. One finger sinks into him, rocks once against the tight muscle. She pushes it in until her knuckles are grinding into his ass and he can't even try to think of something else, his cock's so hard. He's going to come before she even has the chance to taunt him. His back arches. Somewhere between his mask and his knees he's losing himself, disoriented and not sure who he is or what he stands for; briefly, he remembers Nite Owl, poised on a fire escape, and he wishes he hadn't because what if Daniel knew, what if Daniel finds out.
Her finger pulls out and he grunts very quietly.
"Do you want more?" she asks, one hand on his spine, the other tracing slow figure eights up and down his thighs. "Answer me."
He rocks his hips into the mattress; if he can orgasm now, her spell will break, leaving him empty, rational. Huffing out an irritated breath, she smacks his bare ass, hard. The sound reverberates and Rorschach can feel the aftermath of her palm, radiating pain, and his balls draw up-he's so very close, if he just-but she yanks his hips up off the bed, forces his knees forward.
"Ah-ah-ah, naughty boy. You don't get to come until I say you can. I can be a benevolent mistress, dear, but you really must cooperate. Now: Do you want me to fuck your tight little ass, or not?"
"Yes," Rorschach rasps. "Yes."
"Yes...?"
"Yes, ma'am."
With those two words, wrought from the self-loathing and a lifetime of wanting, a strange sense of liberation shines through his lust. Rorschach is everything Walter cannot be, but he's not really Rorschach here, even with the mask clutching at his sweaty face.
The mask, after all, only has power when no one can see through it.
"Good boy," she purrs, stroking a steady circle, massaging him. "That's my good little whore." She pushes both of her fingers in, the stretching abrupt enough to make him gasp and grit his teeth against it. She fucks him like that, her fingers rocking up and in, rough, her fingertips grinding against him until he's breathless, fucking himself on her, his cock hard against his stomach, a drop of precome sliding down his dick.
"Please," he gasps without thinking, "please, ma'am, let me-ehn, hurts, it hurts," and she dips down by his ear, fucking him faster than he's ever done himself, murmurs, "Go ahead, sweetheart, come for me."
He does, his synapses firing, come spurting onto her lush bed, his thighs trembling. The pleasure peaks, wrings him down to something subhuman. When it's passed, he doesn't have the strength of will to stay awake, drifts instead into an empty blackness without rebuke.
*
Rorschach wakes an indeterminate time later, stripped bare save for his mask. One hand is still cuffed to the bed, and he’s sore. Disoriented, he tries to remember where he is and why. Panic shoots through him; he tamps it down and scoots onto his knees so he can sit up and look around. He's alone. He's been written on with what must be red lipstick, hearts and lips trailing down his body and several arrows pointing at his flaccid dick.
For a moment he can't do anything but wallow in disgust. He’s been so careful all his life; he's always done the right thing, never touched himself if he could help it, never spied on women or ducked into a shop that peddled pornography, never gave himself to the dark underworld of lace and cheap perfume. And more than that-he's seen how humans really are, seen them leave their fellow man to die, seen them abuse and neglect and kill each other. He has surpassed that; Rorschach is just the physical manifestation of what he's been all along. Now here he is in a whorehouse, cuffed to a lavish bed, some small, but not insignificant, part of him hoping the Twilight Lady will return before he can break free, and his heart thuds a little faster at the memory of her slick hands on his body.
He is not an animal. He's not.
With that hope to spur him, he looks around the room, taking inventory. To his surprise, a single silver key is on the bedside table, just within reach. A note is folded neatly next to it; Rorschach ignores the note for now, unlocks the handcuff from his sore wrist and carefully massages life back into his fingers. He gingerly climbs off the bed, testing his equilibrium; he doesn't feel drugged or ache in any way he wouldn't expect. That's a good start. He cups one hand over his crotch in case someone enters the room and grabs the note. No harm in reading it.
The script is astonishingly beautiful; if not outright calligraphy, then at least the work of someone who's learned it.
Good luck finding your clothes! I do hope none of my more zealous clients have taken them. Don't worry, Sweetheart, they're easier to find than you think.
Love,
T.L.
Bristling, Rorschach crumples the note and throws it, not paying attention to where it lands. There's a closet and a mahogany dresser here; surely there's something passable that he can wear until he finds his costume in this hellhole.
Of course not. The closet is full of gaudy, feminine clothes, feathery or silky or strapped leather and none of them even close to something he could wear without making this worse. There's no clocks here, and he has no time to dawdle-he can’t miss work under any circumstances-so with a snarl, he rips the blankets off the bed and wraps himself thoroughly.
She'll pay for this. She will.
The building is quiet enough that he suspects it's very early in the morning. No one else is in the halls, and when he finally musters the courage to open a door, it's empty, too-completely barren, in fact, with the exception of a poker table. Curious. He makes a mental note to check the room later and moves on, warily opening door after door, finding bedrooms and bathrooms and rooms with hanging ropes and chains. It seems endless, and with each passing moment his sense of unease escalates.
The basement, unfortunately, is not empty. In fact, there are at least seven girls lounging in the room, spread on couches and chairs and smoking. They simultaneously look at him--there is a beat of stunned silence in which a tiny part of Rorschach's brain tries to encourage him to scan the room for his costume and the rest of his brain freezes in horror. Then-peals of laughter chase Rorschach back up the stairs, his face on fire and guts black with rage. It's only once he slams the door and leans against it that he sees a sliver of purple out of the corner of his eye-there is a glass case full of bizarre trinkets, most likely gifts from clients. On the bottom shelf is one of his gloves, folded in on itself, with one finger leaning against the glass so it points up.
His costume is taped to the ceiling, spread-eagle.
*
Rorschach's been in such a sour mood all night that Dan's starting to regret suggesting they patrol the streets rather than investigate one of the recent smuggling rings. The case is at a stand-still, currently, so there didn't seem to be much point until the smugglers' next move. No use catching them without evidence. He thought that there might be enough to do on a Thursday night to keep them busy, but there's hardly anything for them to do and no clusters of teenagers stupid enough to stick around with Nite Owl and Rorschach stalking the sidewalks.
"Awfully quiet tonight," Dan says around one in the morning. "I almost wish somebody would kick up a fuss. The Twilight Lady made last week interesting. Do you think she's found a new place to set up shop?"
Rorschach hunches his shoulders and doesn't reply, tense.
"I'd be willing to bet that she's not just in the sex trade, now that I’m thinking about it. A woman that smart-and that rich-must have some drug connections, too. She might lead us to a bigger bust."
He grunts. Even on his best of days, Rorschach's reticent to talk about prostitution in any form, but when he's irritated he can at last work up a good rant about how sex-crazed men and women are ruining American society. Between a vitriolic rant and some young, misguided criminal becoming a victim of Rorschach's latent anger, Dan would rather the rant.
Dan prods, "She’s from a different planet than Big Figure, anyway."
Nothing.
"Martin's a good source for that kind of info; maybe we could drop by and see if he knows anything about her?"
"Forget it, Nite Owl. Not worth the time. Whores have their own methods of culling themselves." There's something strange about the way he says it, some odd tone that Dan's never heard. Strange, Dan thinks, that Rorschach wouldn't latch onto the potential drug bust. Drugs are what first lead Rorschach to Big Figure; they're easy cases in terms of bringing the culprits to justice, since the evidence is typically overwhelming. Murders aren't always so clear-cut. Twice now they've caught a murderer and taken them in, only to be released because of too little evidence. (They have their own ways of rectifying that.)
"I don't know, if she can lead us to bigger crime-willingly or not-then I’d say she's worth further investigation."
"Never," Rorschach growls, "consort with a criminal, Nite Owl. Normal women are already rife with lies. Imagine what fabrications a woman like her could weave. Not here to play games."
Consort? Since when, Dan wonders, did investigation involve consorting with anyone? "All right," he says with a little shrug.
Rorschach takes a sugar cube from his pocket, unwraps it, holds it between his forefinger and thumb for a moment as if he's not sure he really wants it. It’s too late, now.
*
Rorschach wakes slowly, information flitting away just as his senses start to catch up. He can't move his hands, which is strange, but he drifts again, tries to shift into a more comfortable position-he can't move his hands. He can't-he can't move. Rorschach snaps awake and struggles in vain for a moment. He's been tied down to a chair, his hands bound behind him with rope and his ankles tied to the legs of the chair. Tense, still groggy and disoriented from whatever cocktail of drugs is in his system, Rorschach tries to remember what happened. He can't. He was on his way to a suspicious warehouse and was waiting to cross a street, and...that's it. There’s no vague memory of violence. He can't recall feeling ill before now.
Fluorescent lights flood the room, blow out Rorschach's vision for a few seconds. He ducks his head, snarling. "Oh, good, you're awake," a familiar voice says.
"Twilight Lady," he attempts to growl, slurring instead. "Let me go."
"I must've given you a little too high a dose, hmm? Well, I don't think your performance will suffer."
"What did you do to me?" He starts to mentally list known drugs and their side-effects, but it's much more difficult than it usually is and he keeps getting distracted by the pale dip of skin between her breasts.
“You'll get over it." She sits in his lap, wraps one arm around his shoulders. "The important thing is that you owe me."
"Owe you?"
"Well, goodness, it's twice now that I've gotten you off, isn't it?" She whisks his fedora off his head and tosses it behind them, then rests her hand just underneath his scarf. "That's not counting all the times you've masturbated while thinking of me, of course-and here I am, giving and giving and not receiving anything for my trouble. That's just unfair, don't you think?"
Rorschach starts to work on the ropes at his wrists, flexing and relaxing his muscles. "I never asked for that."
She laughs, amazed. "Sweetie, you begged for it. You can lie to yourself, but don't even try to lie to me. Speaking of lies, how's your partner, hmm? Have you been telling him to avoid me?" she asks, nudging his jaw up so she can mouth at his neck.
"Shut up," he snaps, leaning away from her. "Don't bring him into this." The thought of dragging Daniel into this horrible mess makes him feel sick. Daniel is kind, and good, and honest. He does not deserve this.
"I don't blame you for wanting me all to yourself, but really, dear, sharing is so much more fun." She slides away from him and her posture stiffens, becomes high-shouldered and professional. The honey saps from her voice. "When you get out of there, you're going to come find me, and you're going to fuck me until I tell you to stop. Do you understand?"
Yes, he thinks. "You'll regret this," he says, trying to clear his head. "You've been lucky before. Luck is an inconvenient ally. Don't mistake our earlier-encounters."
"Oh, stuff it," she says, rolling her eyes. "Do hurry; I'm a busy woman." She shuts the door behind her with a delicate click, leaving a gaping silence in her wake.
Rorschach sucks in a slow, deep breath and looks around. The room's bare, not even a window to break the cold concrete walls. The rope is already loose enough that, if he pulled hard, he could free his hands. Child's play, really, and of course it is, all of this a construction. He wants to believe that once he frees himself from the chair, he'll do the right thing.
But the rope slips from his hands, falls from his ankles; he gathers it up and heads for the door. She won’t be far. Rorschach doesn't recognize the building, and isn't sure that he's happy about that. It seems wrong to spread his carelessness across too many places.
When he finds her, she's lying on the bed, propped on one elbow. Her costume is zipped open just a little more than it usually is, the smooth curves of her breasts mostly visible. He can't face her smug, satisfied grin, so instead sets the rope on the ground and sticks his hands in his pockets. Stares at the ground, and waits.
"Come here," she sings, relaxed. Rorschach takes a step closer. Waits. With a little roll of her eyes, she slithers out of bed and covers the distance between them with three long-legged strides. Rorschach closes his eyes. “You’re awfully resistant for such a kinky bastard. What, are you Catholic?” She grabs him by the scarf and tugs him close, right up against her body, her breasts soft against his chest. He has the sudden urge to duck his head into them, bury himself there. Her free hand traces the back of his thigh, very slowly. “Come, dear, it’s all right. No one’s going to know about this….Unless, of course, you want them to know.” Her nails dig into his thigh and he startles.
Then she’s gone, leaving only traces of heat and her perfume behind. Her heels click on the floor, three times. The bed creaks. Hating himself, Rorschach looks up; she's sprawled with her legs spread, one hand caressing her thigh, the other tracing down her neck.
"If you don't fuck me right now," she tells him calmly, "you won't ever get to fuck me again. That's a promise."
And even as he's thinking about how wonderful that would be, to never have to worry about her temptation again, to have forever passed her island, he's moving toward the bed. He's not sure what part of him wants her, only that he wants so badly that he's willing to do anything for it. She smiles, watching him, and strokes his back as he climbs on top of her. Kisses him through the mask, even as he pants like a dog, like one of the disgusting, red-faced men who would line up for his mother, who would-
She grips his cock through his pants and he tenses, pleasure shooting up his spine; he ducks his head against her shoulder. Rorschach braces for her to unzip him, but she doesn't right away, just rubs at him until he's sure he'll come before he can even push inside of her.
"Touch me like I'm touching you," she instructs, and slides his hand down her body for him, right between her legs. Rorschach bites his lip under the mask and obeys, clumsy, grateful for the layers between them; she shimmies her hips and breathes a long sigh as he touches her. “Come on, dear, you can do better than that,” she says.
"Don't know how," he croaks. His touch, which had been forceful at first, falters, and he bends his head down so he doesn't have to look at her. The Twilight Lady laughs lightly and spreads her legs, pets his back with one hand and guides his hand underneath the tight leather of her catsuit; she moves his fingers with hers, up and down the pliable flesh, and then at a spot just above her slit, which she makes him push.
"Right there," she says. "For now, anyway."
Rorschach rucks his mask up over his nose and dips down to suck at the pale skin of her breasts, rubbing hard and fast between her legs. His gloves go slick with her and he can't tell, even as she starts to moan, if he's doing what she wants; he sucks and licks a path across her breast and nudges her costume out of the way of her nipple, which he takes in his mouth, needy. Her groan in response is so loud that he jerks back.
"What?" he says, frozen.
She grips his ass and jerks his hips along her thigh. "When I do that," she murmurs, breathy and dark with lust, "you don't stop what you're doing."
Rorschach grunts quietly at the friction and shifts, straddling her thigh and pressing his hardness against her; obediently, he returns to rubbing between her legs, but is hesitant to return to the hard nub of her nipple. His face, he knows, is red with shame. She traces up his back with one hand, then shoves his head down to her breast so his lips hover just over her skin, so that when he sucks in each shaky breath he can taste the salt of her.
He is beyond resisting. With a low groan, he laps at her breast, at the smoothness of her, amazed at how good it feels on his tongue, just to have something to anchor him.
When he tentatively moves his hand down against her slit, his glove slips--the tips of his fingers pushes against her entrance and he can feel her clench around him. The Twilight Lady moans, long and loud, and rolls them over, pets his chest and grinds her hips in fast circles against his stomach. He can feel her wetness through his shirt.
"Good," she breathes, unzipping the rest of her suit, the sound cutting through the air. Rorschach's cock twitches and he bucks his hips without wanting to. "Not great, but it'll do. Why don't we step it up, then, hm? Oh, honey, please, enough with the games," she says when he turns his head away from her exposed body. "You're about to get a face full of this, stop kidding yourself."
"What?"
She adjusts her mask and tightens her gloves, then crawls up Rorschach's body, lets her breasts trail across his torso. Her face is flushed with lust. "You'll see." She grabs the headboard and swings herself over his face. Rorschach gasps and grips himself through his pants; the smell of her arousal hits him like a freight train and he's coming before he can stop himself. The Twilight Lady just smirks down at him and brushes her hair over one shoulder so it dangles over her breast, a taunting banner. She lowers so she's nearly sitting on his mouth; the leather of her boots creaks with the movement. "That's fine," she says softly. "Come all you want, darling. Just remember: You come, I come. And if you really start to upset me, well," she grinds against his mouth very slowly and he presses his lips closed, whimpering as her wet cunt drags across his mouth, "I'll start to make it you once, me twice."
There's nothing left for him to do.
He leans into her and starts to tongue at her folds, surprised by the taste. There's something claustrophobic about this, the Twilight Lady rocking back and forth over him as he laps between her legs, trapped and alone on a lush bed, surrounded by deceptive softness on all sides. He can't escape. He doesn't want to escape. If someone burst into the room right now, he thinks, he wouldn't stop. Not if the world came crashing down. He’s drowning, a willing victim to her siren song.
Rorschach starts to suck at the button of her clit, and shuts his eyes against the way her thighs shiver in response and her steady rocking becomes more insistent. It's hard to breathe with her laboring over him and he welcomes that, too, grips her legs and holds them as he eats her out, mouthing whatever he can reach and scraping his teeth until she tells him to go easy, dear.
She comes without warning, wetness dripping onto his chin and mouth, and he doesn't stop as she groans and shudders over him, hopes she won't make him stop when she's done. The taste of her will stay with him for days.
When her shivering orgasm stops, she slips down and licks her slickness off his chin very slowly, then kisses him. "That's a good boy," she murmurs. "But we aren't done yet. I told you I wanted you to fuck me, didn't I?"
"Yes," he says. He clears his throat and adds, "Ma'am." He licks his lips.
"All right. I only have two rules. One: You do not come before I do." Rorschach nods, knowing already that he won't succeed. Eager, in all his debauchery, to know what she will do if he breaks the rules. "Two: You don't stop fucking me for any reason, until I tell you we're through."
*
She runs him ragged, making him fuck her over and over until he can't get hard anymore and she has to strap a dildo onto him so that he won't stop. When he begs for her to let him rest, she refuses, driving him until he can't think anymore, can only feel, aching and exhausted and still willing to follow her orders.
When she's done with him, she tosses a clean towel on his stomach. Her long, red hair is a mess, but she's relaxed and smiling with the same secretive confidence she's had from the beginning. He's amazed she can stand.
"You've been so good," she says, stroking his sweaty face. Rorschach watches a bead of sweat drip down her neck. "But our time's up. I'll see you, oh, next week?"
No, Rorschach thinks, without any conviction.
"There's a shower right through there. Tata for now." She kisses his cheek and pats his thigh with the rough affection usually reserved for dogs. Rorschach lets his head flop to the side and watches her leave, stares at the door and the empty room. There's no space inside of him for self-loathing. In the morning he knows it will return, fierce and all-consuming until he can barely breathe. For now, he is very comfortable, and very tired, and doesn't want to clean her off of him just yet.
*
Most of what Dan’s learned about Rorschach has come from the point when Dan’s respect for his partner’s privacy is eclipsed by his worry. It doesn’t happen often, because Dan is a private man himself and can empathize, but when Rorschach misses not one, but two patrols, and offers mumbled excuses that are so pathetic that even Rorschach just shrugs at them.
So, one night, Dan knows the few things he does know about Rorschach against him. He waits in an alleyway, knowing Rorschach will come by this street eventually, and when he does, Dan follows him, quiet and careful as he can be.
Rorschach slips into a derelict factory, and though Dan waits for hours, he does not return.
Dan leaves. He’ll come back in the morning and investigate.
*
Rorschach's thighs and back are sore from the Twilight Lady's lashings, a sharp, throbbing pain that is too similar to arousal for his comfort. His hands are tied to the headboard and his ankles to the bedposts so his legs are spread, with some leeway in the rope so that he can manage to pull himself onto his knees and not do much else. Several minutes ago-or perhaps fifteen minutes, or half an hour, it's difficult to judge time here-she stroked him to hardness and told him to wait. Told him that she had a surprise for him. At his back, a clock ticks away, and other than his steady breathing, there are no other sounds in the room.
He may have, he supposes, taken this too far. The pretense of arresting her-no, the excuse-faded away a month ago, perhaps wasn't really ever there at all. There have been more than enough opportunities to follow through on his threats. Ironic that he's the one in captivity. Maybe just sad.
The sound of the Twilight Lady's voice in the hallway breaks the silence and his balls tighten, the steady pleasure from his anticipation working against him. Two sets of footsteps echo in the hallway. She's not alone. The anticipation drains out of him and is replaced with panic-why would she bring someone else into this? That isn't fair, this is a private affair between just the two of them, her girls and men who sing lewd remarks as he arrives and leaves be damned. The rope's lewd appeal shatters and he can't breathe, struggles against the binds, grateful for his mask until he remembers that without the mask he's no one, that his reputation as Rorschach is so much more important than personal dignity. He utters his despair.
The door opens: "Just in here," the Twilight Lady says, and Rorschach bows his head, screws his eyes shut. "Careful, now, don't trip."
A very familiar noise, half-laugh and half-sigh, hangs in the air. Rorschach has heard it countless times in the dark, has elicited that sound so many times that he could mimic it. Rorschach lifts his head, very slowly.
Nite Owl has been leashed and cuffed; a blindfold covers his eyes, tied around his cowl, the fabric taut. His cheeks are touched with pink, but he's smiling in a crooked way and his tights cling a little more obviously to his crotch. He licks his lips and says, "Okay, so what's here?"
"I just wanted to give us a little privacy," she lies. She looks at Rorschach, victory written on her thin face.
If he speaks, if he so much as moves-and he can’t let Nite Owl know he’s here, must spare the other man that indignity as much as he needs to save his own skin. Rorschach’s cowardice floods him, fills his lungs, and the pain of it drags him down, a solid weight.
“Goodness, what fun we can have together,” the Twilight Lady says, petting Nite Owl’s chest, her hand slipping down his stomach, down between his legs, where she cups the bulge of his cock and slowly rocks the heel of her hand against him. Nite Owl jerks onto the balls of his feet and bites his lip. “Where should we start? Where oh where…hmm. God, I want your thick cock inside of me,” she moans, her lips brushing against Nite Owl’s face. “I never have boys as big as you, and none nearly as naughty.” It’s too theatrical, blatantly pornographic, but it’s still affecting Nite Owl, making him rut against her touch.
Rorschach’s erection twitches.
“Talk dirty to me, baby,” she croons, pushing him onto his knees. “I want to hear how bad you want me.”
Nite Owl licks his lips, fumbles with his words; the line of his dick stands out against the spandex, and Rorschach can’t stop staring at the head of it, wondering what it looks like. “I want…I want to have sex with you,” he says, breathy. The Twilight Lady strokes his face, lets a gloved thumb suck into his mouth; Nite Owl leans into it immediately and sucks on it with a needy groan. Rorschach lets his eyes flicker shut, imagining how that must feel, knowing the way her gloves can penetrate defenses. “I want you,” Dan adds, shaky. Rorschach opens his eyes to watch, fascinated, as Daniel tries to stave off his embarrassment. “I want inside of you.”
“My, that’s pathetic.” She pushes his head between her legs and he shudders visibly; he opens his mouth and starts to suck at her thighs, between her legs, his lewd, pink tongue tracing up to her abdomen and back down. He nuzzles at the latex with a little whine. Rorschach sinks silently against the mattress, where he can nestle his hard cock against the sheets. He’s afraid to grind against the bed, certain that it’ll make too much noise, but he needs some kind of pressure. The Twilight Lady moans and guides Daniel’s face between her legs again, rocks against his face when he responds with loud sucking noises.
This is wrong.
“Leslie,” Daniel says, “touch me, please. Touch me.”
This is wrong.
With a tug of the leash, the Twilight Lady-and is her name really Leslie, or is that the name of some woman Dan knew long ago?-leads Nite Owl towards the bed. He crawls on his knees, utterly subservient, his lips wet and red. “Right here,” she murmurs, pushing him face-down into the edge of the mattress. Rorschach’s body lists. Daniel isn’t two feet away from him like this. Rorschach can smell his sweat. Surely Dan can smell his. She ties the leash to a bedpost and takes her hands away, watches Nite Owl squirm with a devil’s grin-then, very lightly, using just one finger, she strokes the inside of his thigh, from the back of his knees to his ass. Daniel grunts and buries his face in the mattress. “Stay put, darling.”
“Please,” Daniel whimpers as she walks away. But he doesn’t move. The Twilight Lady opens a drawer at the far end of the room and extracts a strap-on, noisily attaches it to herself, the metal click of the buckles ringing in the air. Rorschach bites his lip and rolls his hips as slowly as possible against the bed, praying Daniel won’t notice the movement. If he does, he doesn’t act on the knowledge, merely tilts his head to listen to the Twilight Lady’s gunshot steps, closer and closer.
She crouches down behind Nite Owl and works his tights down, his belt clattering on the hardwood floor, disarming him, making him vulnerable. She slicks him, bends down to tongue between his legs, and Daniel jumps and spreads his knees. Rorschach wants to see his dick, but his hips are dipped too low, the bed and the smooth arch of his back obscuring it.
“Maybe you can fuck me when you learn how to ask like a man,” she says, straightening. She starts to rock against the cleft of Dan’s ass in sharp, quick motions. Rorschach’s thighs clench. “Until then, well…it looks like I have a new pet.”
“Leslie-“ he gasps, and then she’s guiding the dildo inside of him, inch by inch, and the moan that wrenches out of him is laced with ruin. His knees spread a little further. His hands are tight fists behind his back, tugging in a rhythmic way at the cuffs.
“There’s a good boy,” she purrs, once she’s settled the full length into him. “You take it like my girls, what a good little slut. Do you want me to fuck you like a slut, Nite Owl?”
“Yes.”
Rorschach comes, his whole body tensing, and as he does she starts to rock into Nite Owl with sharp thrusts. She braces one hand against the back of his neck, and for a brief moment she stretches out her other hand to pet Rorschach’s sore flank. He has to bite back a grunt of surprise, pleasure wrenching out of him, spilling between his stomach and the mattress. The bed starts to rock with the Twilight Lady’s thrusts, and Rorschach watches through a hazy lens as she fucks Nite Owl harder and harder, each of her thrusts long rough, until his whole body is moving with it, his mouth stretched open in pleasure.
When he orgasms, he screams, wordless and strained.
The Twilight Lady, as he's drifting back to reality, unties the leash from the bedpost, touches him gently and whispers to him. With a tug from the leash, Nite Owl staggers to his feet. His flaccid dick hangs between his legs, and Rorschach stares at it, knowing he can help it, knowing he could simply shut his eyes and save himself. Save them both.
"Where are we going now?" he asks, as she leads him towards the door.
"You'll see," she promises, smiling at Rorschach.
The door shuts behind them, and Rorschach is alone. He is sticky, and cold, and sore, and something has changed inside of him.
It's a long time before he frees himself, and a longer time before he makes his way home to his empty apartment. He looks at himself in the mirror, and takes no comfort in the emptiness of his mask, because he knows the truth: No matter how he dolls it up, the ugly human inside of him will always behave in self-interest, that he will always turn away when doing the right thing is too frightening.
When he sleeps, he dreams of long red hair, a banner in an empty sea, and in his dream he is taken by the sea.
NC-17
Pre-Roche. Twilight Lady/Rorschach, Twilight Lady/Dan, Dan/Rorschach. Rorschach, rather than Dan, visits the Twilight Lady.
Originally posted on the kinkmeme, also a fill for Fall, for mission_insane. Edited some.
Contains: Dubcon, voyeurism, rimming, bondage, pegging...etc
Rorschach knows, like a prophet first envisioning the apocalypse, that this vile woman is going to ruin him. She’s on a rooftop, one foot braced against a red neon sign, riding crop resting on the inside of her thigh. “Maybe I’ll see you boys around!” She strokes her thigh with the crop. Rorschach tenses.
Nite Owl lets out a long breath as she disappears, a trail of sultry red and midnight black. “Talk about a killer,” he says. Remembering himself, he touches his hand to his mouth and clears his throat. “She won’t be much trouble for us, though.”
Rorschach bares his teeth. “Don’t be so sure.”
*
“I guess I’ll settle for you,” the Twilight Lady murmurs, one hand on her hip. “Though I have to say, I was hoping your partner would come first.” Her tongue flicks over her lips, a satisfied quirk of her mouth at the double entendre. Rorschach’s ears burn, and it takes conscious effort to not loosen his scarf.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he growls. “I’m here to put you away.” He leaps at her, feints an uppercut, and instead drops to the ground, snaps his heel at her knee. She jumps back and lashes his leg with her riding crop-pain explodes down his leg and he snarls. He propels himself with as much strength as he can-catches her around her middle-they slam into the floor, noise and pain and then, very slowly, her hand crawling up his neck.
“All right,” she gasps, “you have me. Now what?”
Rorschach scrabbles for her hand; he has to pin her before she-touches-but she doesn’t struggle, letting him stretch her arms over her head. Her back arches. Her breasts, barely contained in the leather catsuit, brush his chest. Rorschach’s breath hitches and he tightens his fingers as if her hands were a safe port-but he knows the truth, what song her fingertips promise.
Knowing his hesitation, perhaps knowing that hesitation from dozens of other men, she tips her mouth towards his, parts her slick red lips, and licks his jaw. Rorschach shivers violently. “If you’re not going to ravish me, sweetheart, then I think we should switch places.”
“You’re disgusting,” he snarls. He takes one hand away from her to grab the handcuffs in his coat, but she’s too quick. With a deft jerk, she breaks free of his hand and pulls a butterfly knife from the space between her breasts. Holds it against his throat. That’s enough.
“On your back, dear,” she purrs.
Rorschach’s stomach lurches and he spread his legs over her, leans into the knife-he’s not afraid. Nothing can cow Rorschach-nothing-but he is trembling very slightly and the dead taste of sugar is in the back of his throat. The guilty reek of cotton is in his nostrils. He is a child again, on his back in the Lillian Charlton home. Her free hand slips between his legs and he comes without thinking, mouth stretched against the latex of his mask.
She quirks an eyebrow. Shame washes through him, tidal, and he slides away-but she doesn’t let him go, sits up with the knife still at his throat, bearing down until he’s on his back, shame and fear mixing in a way that’s so organic that he’s not sure that this isn’t a dream and that her face won’t distort soon, shadows crawling from her body to take him. Clucking her tongue, she slips her hand down his chest. “So soon? Shhh, sweetheart, that just means I have a job to do.” Knives in her smile, twisting and twisting in his gut. Rorschach can taste blood.
The butterfly knife slips away, down along his scarf, tracing, so close to cutting through his clothes, but it never does. She is utterly in control. She doesn’t need to tie him down or bribe him. All she needs is the sheet of red hair slipping over her shoulder and her thighs pinching around his stomach. In that moment, Rorschach knows what he truly is. He knows loathing. The mask is a noose-the knife slips down his stomach, tapping each button, and the Twilight Lady keeps smiling. Perhaps, he thinks, it doesn’t matter that he’s not sleeping-perhaps she is a monster either way, no matter how she transforms or transforms him.
She cuts the button of his pants. “Aren’t you even going to pretend to fight?” she asks, theatrical, disappointed. It’s a cinch of freedom, and Rorschach accepts it-punches her in the face as hard as he can from this angle, with come cooling in his pants and his body overheated-and she collapses to the side, shouts in pain. He scrambles to his feet and backs away, backs until he hits a wall and stays there. She spits blood onto the floor and laughs, wild. She throws her hair like a mane. “That’s better,” she says, and slinks to her feet-advances-but Rorschach is close enough to his senses that he can head for the door, scrabble with the doorknob, throw the door open, and run as fast as he can from the implications.
*
His apartment is empty, temperate. Someone paces next door as he sheds himself as quickly as he can, revolted. Something has crawled inside of him, something vile and sick, multi-faceted, and he kneels on the bed, succumbs to himself again with one hand between his legs and the other between his teeth, working and working. The ugly sound of skin echoes in the empty room-his neighbor stops pacing, settles in their distant bed-Walter orgasms. It’s quick and shallow and he stays as he is, panting through his nose, pain throbbing in his hand.
*
“I just don’t get why Wagner is helping them,” Daniel says, bent over his workbench with a pen in hand, papers strewn across the table. “As far as we can tell, he’s not gaining anything-and he wouldn’t lose anything if he quit. I think he’s playing the scapegoat-but for who?”
He waits for Rorschach to respond-knowing Rorschach, he’ll either dismiss the question outright and insist they go digging to find out, or lay out a list of names of potential suspects-maybe some women who’re involved with the gang. However, Rorschach doesn’t move, staring into the middle-space in what Dan thought was concentration.
“Rorschach?” His head snaps up. “Were you listening?”
“Yes,” he rasps, but he takes half a step back and puts his hands in his pocket, defensive. “I just think our luck will be found in the sewers. Per usual.”
“Right.” A little worm of worry digs into Dan’s stomach, the kind that he knows won’t pass until Rorschach’s behavior is either explained or settled.
*
The hallway is lush with dim yellow lamps, deep red carpet and paintings that are too abstract to be openly pornographic and too erotic to pass for art. Rorschach tugs his collar closer around his neck; he tells himself over and over that he's not going to let her hurt him again, that this is going to be his battle and that he is going to win. Tomorrow morning, she will be languishing in jail, her leather-rimmed smile put to rest. There will be bruises on her face that are platonic and just.
A long, anguished moan lilts through a doorway and Rorschach freezes. The dialogue is perfectly familiar, makes him shut his eyes and touch the bridge of his nose so he won't touch somewhere else-in his past, two silhouettes merge, and a woman is being hurt. Rorschach bares his teeth. The woman's voice is not the Twilight Lady's, though from the angry tone she is in her typical place, so he continues, sticking closer to the walls as if they'll help him move faster, turn him into a bird diving into the wind.
She's not alone when he finds her. To his revulsion, there is a woman between her knees, arms bound behind her back and a blindfold over her eyes. The Twilight Lady sits a little straighter as he opens the door-in an instant, her annoyance flashes into a smile so brilliant that he flinches. "Oh my goodness, to what do I owe this honor?” The woman lifts her head, and she adds, “Don't stop."
"Scum," he manages to wring from his gut. "You're everything that's wrong with this city. If you come quietly," he says, as much derision as he can fit in his voice, "I'll put in a good word at the station so they'll go easy on you. Which is more than you deserve."
The Twilight Lady moans rapturously and caresses the woman's neck-Rorschach can see her tongue flicking and he screws his eyes shut, grateful for his mask. "That's enough, dear," she says with a little sigh. She thumbs the blindfold down around the woman's neck. "Why don't you go into the other room while I handle this. I won't be long."
It's easy to avoid looking between her legs as the Twilight Lady adjusts her suit, but less easy to keep out the intrusive thoughts about her opulence. The sharp click of her boots snaps through the room as she stands, fixing her hair. "Darling, if I needed someone to go easy on me, I wouldn't be in this business."
Now, he thinks, fists clenched. Now. It would be so simple. She's unarmed, loose, too relaxed. Although she's capable of protecting herself, she's a joke compared to the kind of men Rorschach has fought. He could have her in handcuffs in thirty seconds. Now!
But already his body is betraying him, heat swirling down his neck, and his fists stay at his sides. The Twilight Lady just keeps smiling, her high cheekbones flushed in the low light. He can smell her perfume. It's sweet, sticky, trapped in his nostrils. He won't lose the smell of her for days. Weeks.
"Come on, then. Arrest me." She stops just in front of him, peering down at him through her black mask. For a long, long moment she waits, and he struggles to find the strength in him to do the right thing. Tries to overcome the heat that is translating to a need buried so deep that he can't fathom what it might mean. His fists go loose. "So you're done playing?" He doesn't move. "Good." She yanks him by the wrist, using the momentum to throw him towards the bed. He collapses, legs splayed awkwardly behind him; his body catches up to his mind, finally, and he thrashes, tries to kick out at her-but she straddles him and grabs his wrist.
A familiar metallic whir-she snaps a pair of handcuffs over his wrist, and Rorschach doesn't want to think about where she procured them from, in what dark recesses of her costume she hid them. He paws at her hand as she snaps the second cuff to an ornate rose in the headboard. Satisfied with her work, she sits in the middle of his back and pushes his head down into the pillows, where the scent of her perfume is overwhelming. Rorschach gags.
"There. I think that'll do, don't you?"
One of his hands is still free, but the act of being tied down has driven the momentum out of him. He gasps against the pillow and waits, tense.
"Now then, what first...ah, sweetie, relax! I'm here to help," her fingers digging into his tense neck.
"No," voice muffled by the pillow. "No."
"No? Darling, all I do is help people. I think I can manage you. You're a textbook case, really." She slides off, her thighs leaving hot stripes on his body as she goes. "Where to start." Slowly, Rorschach lifts his head, braces himself with his elbow so he can watch her. She opens a mahogany drawer. Rorschach's eyes flit shut-his mother is in the hallway, against a wall, drunk, asking a stranger if he thinks she's fine-they open again and the Twilight Lady is by the bed, holding nothing more incriminating than a small white bottle.
"Whore," he breathes.
She smacks him across the face--his head cracks against the headboard and he grunts in pain. "You don't talk to me like that, bitch," she snarls. "I’m either Mistress or Ma'am to you."
Heat blooms in Rorschach's gut; his dick starts to go stiff. "Go to Hell," he growls. This time she smacks his ass-his groin grinds against the mattress and he grits his teeth to not make a noise. It doesn't help. She smacks again, harder, really hurting him, and he's more grateful for that than anything because if he's going to be degraded, then at least let it not be a farce, let it take away his dignity but leave him intact.
"What was that?" she asks, one hand cupping his upper thigh, just below the sting.
"Go to Hell," he says, and braces for another smack that doesn't come. What does is worse-her soft laugh like bells, racing down his spine.
"All right, honey. Play the tough guy. We'll see how tough you really are." She slides her hand up his thigh, strokes very slowly at his balls through the layers, and he jumps. Rorschach buries his head in the pillow again, torn between his disgust and frayed nerves. Her hand works around his hips-just barely misses touching his hard cock-and she unzips his pants. Slides them down around his knees. The cool air hits his thighs, makes his body flare, feverish. She doesn't pull them any farther than that, and as the realization hits him a decadent stretch of self-loathing rolls through him. Something about being half-dressed makes him feel filthy, like he's some trick in an alleyway.
Which, he considers, he nearly is. All that's missing is a dirty fistful of bills.
Something slick drips onto his thigh and he bites his lip. He knows what that is, what it's for, but he can't fathom why she would want-her hand slicks up his thigh, slips over his ass. He shivers; surely she wouldn't really-but her finger dips between his buttocks and circles the sensitive flesh; his cock twitches and he bites the pillow to keep still. More cool wetness, and he can hear her humming to herself as she spreads it over her fingers, slicks his ass and teases just around the entrance, her fingers like silk, nothing like his have been in rare lust-induced hazes, vicious and needy.
"You're such an easy little slut," she coos. One finger sinks into him, rocks once against the tight muscle. She pushes it in until her knuckles are grinding into his ass and he can't even try to think of something else, his cock's so hard. He's going to come before she even has the chance to taunt him. His back arches. Somewhere between his mask and his knees he's losing himself, disoriented and not sure who he is or what he stands for; briefly, he remembers Nite Owl, poised on a fire escape, and he wishes he hadn't because what if Daniel knew, what if Daniel finds out.
Her finger pulls out and he grunts very quietly.
"Do you want more?" she asks, one hand on his spine, the other tracing slow figure eights up and down his thighs. "Answer me."
He rocks his hips into the mattress; if he can orgasm now, her spell will break, leaving him empty, rational. Huffing out an irritated breath, she smacks his bare ass, hard. The sound reverberates and Rorschach can feel the aftermath of her palm, radiating pain, and his balls draw up-he's so very close, if he just-but she yanks his hips up off the bed, forces his knees forward.
"Ah-ah-ah, naughty boy. You don't get to come until I say you can. I can be a benevolent mistress, dear, but you really must cooperate. Now: Do you want me to fuck your tight little ass, or not?"
"Yes," Rorschach rasps. "Yes."
"Yes...?"
"Yes, ma'am."
With those two words, wrought from the self-loathing and a lifetime of wanting, a strange sense of liberation shines through his lust. Rorschach is everything Walter cannot be, but he's not really Rorschach here, even with the mask clutching at his sweaty face.
The mask, after all, only has power when no one can see through it.
"Good boy," she purrs, stroking a steady circle, massaging him. "That's my good little whore." She pushes both of her fingers in, the stretching abrupt enough to make him gasp and grit his teeth against it. She fucks him like that, her fingers rocking up and in, rough, her fingertips grinding against him until he's breathless, fucking himself on her, his cock hard against his stomach, a drop of precome sliding down his dick.
"Please," he gasps without thinking, "please, ma'am, let me-ehn, hurts, it hurts," and she dips down by his ear, fucking him faster than he's ever done himself, murmurs, "Go ahead, sweetheart, come for me."
He does, his synapses firing, come spurting onto her lush bed, his thighs trembling. The pleasure peaks, wrings him down to something subhuman. When it's passed, he doesn't have the strength of will to stay awake, drifts instead into an empty blackness without rebuke.
*
Rorschach wakes an indeterminate time later, stripped bare save for his mask. One hand is still cuffed to the bed, and he’s sore. Disoriented, he tries to remember where he is and why. Panic shoots through him; he tamps it down and scoots onto his knees so he can sit up and look around. He's alone. He's been written on with what must be red lipstick, hearts and lips trailing down his body and several arrows pointing at his flaccid dick.
For a moment he can't do anything but wallow in disgust. He’s been so careful all his life; he's always done the right thing, never touched himself if he could help it, never spied on women or ducked into a shop that peddled pornography, never gave himself to the dark underworld of lace and cheap perfume. And more than that-he's seen how humans really are, seen them leave their fellow man to die, seen them abuse and neglect and kill each other. He has surpassed that; Rorschach is just the physical manifestation of what he's been all along. Now here he is in a whorehouse, cuffed to a lavish bed, some small, but not insignificant, part of him hoping the Twilight Lady will return before he can break free, and his heart thuds a little faster at the memory of her slick hands on his body.
He is not an animal. He's not.
With that hope to spur him, he looks around the room, taking inventory. To his surprise, a single silver key is on the bedside table, just within reach. A note is folded neatly next to it; Rorschach ignores the note for now, unlocks the handcuff from his sore wrist and carefully massages life back into his fingers. He gingerly climbs off the bed, testing his equilibrium; he doesn't feel drugged or ache in any way he wouldn't expect. That's a good start. He cups one hand over his crotch in case someone enters the room and grabs the note. No harm in reading it.
The script is astonishingly beautiful; if not outright calligraphy, then at least the work of someone who's learned it.
Good luck finding your clothes! I do hope none of my more zealous clients have taken them. Don't worry, Sweetheart, they're easier to find than you think.
Love,
T.L.
Bristling, Rorschach crumples the note and throws it, not paying attention to where it lands. There's a closet and a mahogany dresser here; surely there's something passable that he can wear until he finds his costume in this hellhole.
Of course not. The closet is full of gaudy, feminine clothes, feathery or silky or strapped leather and none of them even close to something he could wear without making this worse. There's no clocks here, and he has no time to dawdle-he can’t miss work under any circumstances-so with a snarl, he rips the blankets off the bed and wraps himself thoroughly.
She'll pay for this. She will.
The building is quiet enough that he suspects it's very early in the morning. No one else is in the halls, and when he finally musters the courage to open a door, it's empty, too-completely barren, in fact, with the exception of a poker table. Curious. He makes a mental note to check the room later and moves on, warily opening door after door, finding bedrooms and bathrooms and rooms with hanging ropes and chains. It seems endless, and with each passing moment his sense of unease escalates.
The basement, unfortunately, is not empty. In fact, there are at least seven girls lounging in the room, spread on couches and chairs and smoking. They simultaneously look at him--there is a beat of stunned silence in which a tiny part of Rorschach's brain tries to encourage him to scan the room for his costume and the rest of his brain freezes in horror. Then-peals of laughter chase Rorschach back up the stairs, his face on fire and guts black with rage. It's only once he slams the door and leans against it that he sees a sliver of purple out of the corner of his eye-there is a glass case full of bizarre trinkets, most likely gifts from clients. On the bottom shelf is one of his gloves, folded in on itself, with one finger leaning against the glass so it points up.
His costume is taped to the ceiling, spread-eagle.
*
Rorschach's been in such a sour mood all night that Dan's starting to regret suggesting they patrol the streets rather than investigate one of the recent smuggling rings. The case is at a stand-still, currently, so there didn't seem to be much point until the smugglers' next move. No use catching them without evidence. He thought that there might be enough to do on a Thursday night to keep them busy, but there's hardly anything for them to do and no clusters of teenagers stupid enough to stick around with Nite Owl and Rorschach stalking the sidewalks.
"Awfully quiet tonight," Dan says around one in the morning. "I almost wish somebody would kick up a fuss. The Twilight Lady made last week interesting. Do you think she's found a new place to set up shop?"
Rorschach hunches his shoulders and doesn't reply, tense.
"I'd be willing to bet that she's not just in the sex trade, now that I’m thinking about it. A woman that smart-and that rich-must have some drug connections, too. She might lead us to a bigger bust."
He grunts. Even on his best of days, Rorschach's reticent to talk about prostitution in any form, but when he's irritated he can at last work up a good rant about how sex-crazed men and women are ruining American society. Between a vitriolic rant and some young, misguided criminal becoming a victim of Rorschach's latent anger, Dan would rather the rant.
Dan prods, "She’s from a different planet than Big Figure, anyway."
Nothing.
"Martin's a good source for that kind of info; maybe we could drop by and see if he knows anything about her?"
"Forget it, Nite Owl. Not worth the time. Whores have their own methods of culling themselves." There's something strange about the way he says it, some odd tone that Dan's never heard. Strange, Dan thinks, that Rorschach wouldn't latch onto the potential drug bust. Drugs are what first lead Rorschach to Big Figure; they're easy cases in terms of bringing the culprits to justice, since the evidence is typically overwhelming. Murders aren't always so clear-cut. Twice now they've caught a murderer and taken them in, only to be released because of too little evidence. (They have their own ways of rectifying that.)
"I don't know, if she can lead us to bigger crime-willingly or not-then I’d say she's worth further investigation."
"Never," Rorschach growls, "consort with a criminal, Nite Owl. Normal women are already rife with lies. Imagine what fabrications a woman like her could weave. Not here to play games."
Consort? Since when, Dan wonders, did investigation involve consorting with anyone? "All right," he says with a little shrug.
Rorschach takes a sugar cube from his pocket, unwraps it, holds it between his forefinger and thumb for a moment as if he's not sure he really wants it. It’s too late, now.
*
Rorschach wakes slowly, information flitting away just as his senses start to catch up. He can't move his hands, which is strange, but he drifts again, tries to shift into a more comfortable position-he can't move his hands. He can't-he can't move. Rorschach snaps awake and struggles in vain for a moment. He's been tied down to a chair, his hands bound behind him with rope and his ankles tied to the legs of the chair. Tense, still groggy and disoriented from whatever cocktail of drugs is in his system, Rorschach tries to remember what happened. He can't. He was on his way to a suspicious warehouse and was waiting to cross a street, and...that's it. There’s no vague memory of violence. He can't recall feeling ill before now.
Fluorescent lights flood the room, blow out Rorschach's vision for a few seconds. He ducks his head, snarling. "Oh, good, you're awake," a familiar voice says.
"Twilight Lady," he attempts to growl, slurring instead. "Let me go."
"I must've given you a little too high a dose, hmm? Well, I don't think your performance will suffer."
"What did you do to me?" He starts to mentally list known drugs and their side-effects, but it's much more difficult than it usually is and he keeps getting distracted by the pale dip of skin between her breasts.
“You'll get over it." She sits in his lap, wraps one arm around his shoulders. "The important thing is that you owe me."
"Owe you?"
"Well, goodness, it's twice now that I've gotten you off, isn't it?" She whisks his fedora off his head and tosses it behind them, then rests her hand just underneath his scarf. "That's not counting all the times you've masturbated while thinking of me, of course-and here I am, giving and giving and not receiving anything for my trouble. That's just unfair, don't you think?"
Rorschach starts to work on the ropes at his wrists, flexing and relaxing his muscles. "I never asked for that."
She laughs, amazed. "Sweetie, you begged for it. You can lie to yourself, but don't even try to lie to me. Speaking of lies, how's your partner, hmm? Have you been telling him to avoid me?" she asks, nudging his jaw up so she can mouth at his neck.
"Shut up," he snaps, leaning away from her. "Don't bring him into this." The thought of dragging Daniel into this horrible mess makes him feel sick. Daniel is kind, and good, and honest. He does not deserve this.
"I don't blame you for wanting me all to yourself, but really, dear, sharing is so much more fun." She slides away from him and her posture stiffens, becomes high-shouldered and professional. The honey saps from her voice. "When you get out of there, you're going to come find me, and you're going to fuck me until I tell you to stop. Do you understand?"
Yes, he thinks. "You'll regret this," he says, trying to clear his head. "You've been lucky before. Luck is an inconvenient ally. Don't mistake our earlier-encounters."
"Oh, stuff it," she says, rolling her eyes. "Do hurry; I'm a busy woman." She shuts the door behind her with a delicate click, leaving a gaping silence in her wake.
Rorschach sucks in a slow, deep breath and looks around. The room's bare, not even a window to break the cold concrete walls. The rope is already loose enough that, if he pulled hard, he could free his hands. Child's play, really, and of course it is, all of this a construction. He wants to believe that once he frees himself from the chair, he'll do the right thing.
But the rope slips from his hands, falls from his ankles; he gathers it up and heads for the door. She won’t be far. Rorschach doesn't recognize the building, and isn't sure that he's happy about that. It seems wrong to spread his carelessness across too many places.
When he finds her, she's lying on the bed, propped on one elbow. Her costume is zipped open just a little more than it usually is, the smooth curves of her breasts mostly visible. He can't face her smug, satisfied grin, so instead sets the rope on the ground and sticks his hands in his pockets. Stares at the ground, and waits.
"Come here," she sings, relaxed. Rorschach takes a step closer. Waits. With a little roll of her eyes, she slithers out of bed and covers the distance between them with three long-legged strides. Rorschach closes his eyes. “You’re awfully resistant for such a kinky bastard. What, are you Catholic?” She grabs him by the scarf and tugs him close, right up against her body, her breasts soft against his chest. He has the sudden urge to duck his head into them, bury himself there. Her free hand traces the back of his thigh, very slowly. “Come, dear, it’s all right. No one’s going to know about this….Unless, of course, you want them to know.” Her nails dig into his thigh and he startles.
Then she’s gone, leaving only traces of heat and her perfume behind. Her heels click on the floor, three times. The bed creaks. Hating himself, Rorschach looks up; she's sprawled with her legs spread, one hand caressing her thigh, the other tracing down her neck.
"If you don't fuck me right now," she tells him calmly, "you won't ever get to fuck me again. That's a promise."
And even as he's thinking about how wonderful that would be, to never have to worry about her temptation again, to have forever passed her island, he's moving toward the bed. He's not sure what part of him wants her, only that he wants so badly that he's willing to do anything for it. She smiles, watching him, and strokes his back as he climbs on top of her. Kisses him through the mask, even as he pants like a dog, like one of the disgusting, red-faced men who would line up for his mother, who would-
She grips his cock through his pants and he tenses, pleasure shooting up his spine; he ducks his head against her shoulder. Rorschach braces for her to unzip him, but she doesn't right away, just rubs at him until he's sure he'll come before he can even push inside of her.
"Touch me like I'm touching you," she instructs, and slides his hand down her body for him, right between her legs. Rorschach bites his lip under the mask and obeys, clumsy, grateful for the layers between them; she shimmies her hips and breathes a long sigh as he touches her. “Come on, dear, you can do better than that,” she says.
"Don't know how," he croaks. His touch, which had been forceful at first, falters, and he bends his head down so he doesn't have to look at her. The Twilight Lady laughs lightly and spreads her legs, pets his back with one hand and guides his hand underneath the tight leather of her catsuit; she moves his fingers with hers, up and down the pliable flesh, and then at a spot just above her slit, which she makes him push.
"Right there," she says. "For now, anyway."
Rorschach rucks his mask up over his nose and dips down to suck at the pale skin of her breasts, rubbing hard and fast between her legs. His gloves go slick with her and he can't tell, even as she starts to moan, if he's doing what she wants; he sucks and licks a path across her breast and nudges her costume out of the way of her nipple, which he takes in his mouth, needy. Her groan in response is so loud that he jerks back.
"What?" he says, frozen.
She grips his ass and jerks his hips along her thigh. "When I do that," she murmurs, breathy and dark with lust, "you don't stop what you're doing."
Rorschach grunts quietly at the friction and shifts, straddling her thigh and pressing his hardness against her; obediently, he returns to rubbing between her legs, but is hesitant to return to the hard nub of her nipple. His face, he knows, is red with shame. She traces up his back with one hand, then shoves his head down to her breast so his lips hover just over her skin, so that when he sucks in each shaky breath he can taste the salt of her.
He is beyond resisting. With a low groan, he laps at her breast, at the smoothness of her, amazed at how good it feels on his tongue, just to have something to anchor him.
When he tentatively moves his hand down against her slit, his glove slips--the tips of his fingers pushes against her entrance and he can feel her clench around him. The Twilight Lady moans, long and loud, and rolls them over, pets his chest and grinds her hips in fast circles against his stomach. He can feel her wetness through his shirt.
"Good," she breathes, unzipping the rest of her suit, the sound cutting through the air. Rorschach's cock twitches and he bucks his hips without wanting to. "Not great, but it'll do. Why don't we step it up, then, hm? Oh, honey, please, enough with the games," she says when he turns his head away from her exposed body. "You're about to get a face full of this, stop kidding yourself."
"What?"
She adjusts her mask and tightens her gloves, then crawls up Rorschach's body, lets her breasts trail across his torso. Her face is flushed with lust. "You'll see." She grabs the headboard and swings herself over his face. Rorschach gasps and grips himself through his pants; the smell of her arousal hits him like a freight train and he's coming before he can stop himself. The Twilight Lady just smirks down at him and brushes her hair over one shoulder so it dangles over her breast, a taunting banner. She lowers so she's nearly sitting on his mouth; the leather of her boots creaks with the movement. "That's fine," she says softly. "Come all you want, darling. Just remember: You come, I come. And if you really start to upset me, well," she grinds against his mouth very slowly and he presses his lips closed, whimpering as her wet cunt drags across his mouth, "I'll start to make it you once, me twice."
There's nothing left for him to do.
He leans into her and starts to tongue at her folds, surprised by the taste. There's something claustrophobic about this, the Twilight Lady rocking back and forth over him as he laps between her legs, trapped and alone on a lush bed, surrounded by deceptive softness on all sides. He can't escape. He doesn't want to escape. If someone burst into the room right now, he thinks, he wouldn't stop. Not if the world came crashing down. He’s drowning, a willing victim to her siren song.
Rorschach starts to suck at the button of her clit, and shuts his eyes against the way her thighs shiver in response and her steady rocking becomes more insistent. It's hard to breathe with her laboring over him and he welcomes that, too, grips her legs and holds them as he eats her out, mouthing whatever he can reach and scraping his teeth until she tells him to go easy, dear.
She comes without warning, wetness dripping onto his chin and mouth, and he doesn't stop as she groans and shudders over him, hopes she won't make him stop when she's done. The taste of her will stay with him for days.
When her shivering orgasm stops, she slips down and licks her slickness off his chin very slowly, then kisses him. "That's a good boy," she murmurs. "But we aren't done yet. I told you I wanted you to fuck me, didn't I?"
"Yes," he says. He clears his throat and adds, "Ma'am." He licks his lips.
"All right. I only have two rules. One: You do not come before I do." Rorschach nods, knowing already that he won't succeed. Eager, in all his debauchery, to know what she will do if he breaks the rules. "Two: You don't stop fucking me for any reason, until I tell you we're through."
*
She runs him ragged, making him fuck her over and over until he can't get hard anymore and she has to strap a dildo onto him so that he won't stop. When he begs for her to let him rest, she refuses, driving him until he can't think anymore, can only feel, aching and exhausted and still willing to follow her orders.
When she's done with him, she tosses a clean towel on his stomach. Her long, red hair is a mess, but she's relaxed and smiling with the same secretive confidence she's had from the beginning. He's amazed she can stand.
"You've been so good," she says, stroking his sweaty face. Rorschach watches a bead of sweat drip down her neck. "But our time's up. I'll see you, oh, next week?"
No, Rorschach thinks, without any conviction.
"There's a shower right through there. Tata for now." She kisses his cheek and pats his thigh with the rough affection usually reserved for dogs. Rorschach lets his head flop to the side and watches her leave, stares at the door and the empty room. There's no space inside of him for self-loathing. In the morning he knows it will return, fierce and all-consuming until he can barely breathe. For now, he is very comfortable, and very tired, and doesn't want to clean her off of him just yet.
*
Most of what Dan’s learned about Rorschach has come from the point when Dan’s respect for his partner’s privacy is eclipsed by his worry. It doesn’t happen often, because Dan is a private man himself and can empathize, but when Rorschach misses not one, but two patrols, and offers mumbled excuses that are so pathetic that even Rorschach just shrugs at them.
So, one night, Dan knows the few things he does know about Rorschach against him. He waits in an alleyway, knowing Rorschach will come by this street eventually, and when he does, Dan follows him, quiet and careful as he can be.
Rorschach slips into a derelict factory, and though Dan waits for hours, he does not return.
Dan leaves. He’ll come back in the morning and investigate.
*
Rorschach's thighs and back are sore from the Twilight Lady's lashings, a sharp, throbbing pain that is too similar to arousal for his comfort. His hands are tied to the headboard and his ankles to the bedposts so his legs are spread, with some leeway in the rope so that he can manage to pull himself onto his knees and not do much else. Several minutes ago-or perhaps fifteen minutes, or half an hour, it's difficult to judge time here-she stroked him to hardness and told him to wait. Told him that she had a surprise for him. At his back, a clock ticks away, and other than his steady breathing, there are no other sounds in the room.
He may have, he supposes, taken this too far. The pretense of arresting her-no, the excuse-faded away a month ago, perhaps wasn't really ever there at all. There have been more than enough opportunities to follow through on his threats. Ironic that he's the one in captivity. Maybe just sad.
The sound of the Twilight Lady's voice in the hallway breaks the silence and his balls tighten, the steady pleasure from his anticipation working against him. Two sets of footsteps echo in the hallway. She's not alone. The anticipation drains out of him and is replaced with panic-why would she bring someone else into this? That isn't fair, this is a private affair between just the two of them, her girls and men who sing lewd remarks as he arrives and leaves be damned. The rope's lewd appeal shatters and he can't breathe, struggles against the binds, grateful for his mask until he remembers that without the mask he's no one, that his reputation as Rorschach is so much more important than personal dignity. He utters his despair.
The door opens: "Just in here," the Twilight Lady says, and Rorschach bows his head, screws his eyes shut. "Careful, now, don't trip."
A very familiar noise, half-laugh and half-sigh, hangs in the air. Rorschach has heard it countless times in the dark, has elicited that sound so many times that he could mimic it. Rorschach lifts his head, very slowly.
Nite Owl has been leashed and cuffed; a blindfold covers his eyes, tied around his cowl, the fabric taut. His cheeks are touched with pink, but he's smiling in a crooked way and his tights cling a little more obviously to his crotch. He licks his lips and says, "Okay, so what's here?"
"I just wanted to give us a little privacy," she lies. She looks at Rorschach, victory written on her thin face.
If he speaks, if he so much as moves-and he can’t let Nite Owl know he’s here, must spare the other man that indignity as much as he needs to save his own skin. Rorschach’s cowardice floods him, fills his lungs, and the pain of it drags him down, a solid weight.
“Goodness, what fun we can have together,” the Twilight Lady says, petting Nite Owl’s chest, her hand slipping down his stomach, down between his legs, where she cups the bulge of his cock and slowly rocks the heel of her hand against him. Nite Owl jerks onto the balls of his feet and bites his lip. “Where should we start? Where oh where…hmm. God, I want your thick cock inside of me,” she moans, her lips brushing against Nite Owl’s face. “I never have boys as big as you, and none nearly as naughty.” It’s too theatrical, blatantly pornographic, but it’s still affecting Nite Owl, making him rut against her touch.
Rorschach’s erection twitches.
“Talk dirty to me, baby,” she croons, pushing him onto his knees. “I want to hear how bad you want me.”
Nite Owl licks his lips, fumbles with his words; the line of his dick stands out against the spandex, and Rorschach can’t stop staring at the head of it, wondering what it looks like. “I want…I want to have sex with you,” he says, breathy. The Twilight Lady strokes his face, lets a gloved thumb suck into his mouth; Nite Owl leans into it immediately and sucks on it with a needy groan. Rorschach lets his eyes flicker shut, imagining how that must feel, knowing the way her gloves can penetrate defenses. “I want you,” Dan adds, shaky. Rorschach opens his eyes to watch, fascinated, as Daniel tries to stave off his embarrassment. “I want inside of you.”
“My, that’s pathetic.” She pushes his head between her legs and he shudders visibly; he opens his mouth and starts to suck at her thighs, between her legs, his lewd, pink tongue tracing up to her abdomen and back down. He nuzzles at the latex with a little whine. Rorschach sinks silently against the mattress, where he can nestle his hard cock against the sheets. He’s afraid to grind against the bed, certain that it’ll make too much noise, but he needs some kind of pressure. The Twilight Lady moans and guides Daniel’s face between her legs again, rocks against his face when he responds with loud sucking noises.
This is wrong.
“Leslie,” Daniel says, “touch me, please. Touch me.”
This is wrong.
With a tug of the leash, the Twilight Lady-and is her name really Leslie, or is that the name of some woman Dan knew long ago?-leads Nite Owl towards the bed. He crawls on his knees, utterly subservient, his lips wet and red. “Right here,” she murmurs, pushing him face-down into the edge of the mattress. Rorschach’s body lists. Daniel isn’t two feet away from him like this. Rorschach can smell his sweat. Surely Dan can smell his. She ties the leash to a bedpost and takes her hands away, watches Nite Owl squirm with a devil’s grin-then, very lightly, using just one finger, she strokes the inside of his thigh, from the back of his knees to his ass. Daniel grunts and buries his face in the mattress. “Stay put, darling.”
“Please,” Daniel whimpers as she walks away. But he doesn’t move. The Twilight Lady opens a drawer at the far end of the room and extracts a strap-on, noisily attaches it to herself, the metal click of the buckles ringing in the air. Rorschach bites his lip and rolls his hips as slowly as possible against the bed, praying Daniel won’t notice the movement. If he does, he doesn’t act on the knowledge, merely tilts his head to listen to the Twilight Lady’s gunshot steps, closer and closer.
She crouches down behind Nite Owl and works his tights down, his belt clattering on the hardwood floor, disarming him, making him vulnerable. She slicks him, bends down to tongue between his legs, and Daniel jumps and spreads his knees. Rorschach wants to see his dick, but his hips are dipped too low, the bed and the smooth arch of his back obscuring it.
“Maybe you can fuck me when you learn how to ask like a man,” she says, straightening. She starts to rock against the cleft of Dan’s ass in sharp, quick motions. Rorschach’s thighs clench. “Until then, well…it looks like I have a new pet.”
“Leslie-“ he gasps, and then she’s guiding the dildo inside of him, inch by inch, and the moan that wrenches out of him is laced with ruin. His knees spread a little further. His hands are tight fists behind his back, tugging in a rhythmic way at the cuffs.
“There’s a good boy,” she purrs, once she’s settled the full length into him. “You take it like my girls, what a good little slut. Do you want me to fuck you like a slut, Nite Owl?”
“Yes.”
Rorschach comes, his whole body tensing, and as he does she starts to rock into Nite Owl with sharp thrusts. She braces one hand against the back of his neck, and for a brief moment she stretches out her other hand to pet Rorschach’s sore flank. He has to bite back a grunt of surprise, pleasure wrenching out of him, spilling between his stomach and the mattress. The bed starts to rock with the Twilight Lady’s thrusts, and Rorschach watches through a hazy lens as she fucks Nite Owl harder and harder, each of her thrusts long rough, until his whole body is moving with it, his mouth stretched open in pleasure.
When he orgasms, he screams, wordless and strained.
The Twilight Lady, as he's drifting back to reality, unties the leash from the bedpost, touches him gently and whispers to him. With a tug from the leash, Nite Owl staggers to his feet. His flaccid dick hangs between his legs, and Rorschach stares at it, knowing he can help it, knowing he could simply shut his eyes and save himself. Save them both.
"Where are we going now?" he asks, as she leads him towards the door.
"You'll see," she promises, smiling at Rorschach.
The door shuts behind them, and Rorschach is alone. He is sticky, and cold, and sore, and something has changed inside of him.
It's a long time before he frees himself, and a longer time before he makes his way home to his empty apartment. He looks at himself in the mirror, and takes no comfort in the emptiness of his mask, because he knows the truth: No matter how he dolls it up, the ugly human inside of him will always behave in self-interest, that he will always turn away when doing the right thing is too frightening.
When he sleeps, he dreams of long red hair, a banner in an empty sea, and in his dream he is taken by the sea.