Watchmen fic: A Small Death
Title: A Small Death
Characters: Rorschach/63!Dan.
Rating: Mature, explicit. Sort of non-con-ish.
Word count: 531
Summary: Rorschach dreams about Danielle.
Initially, I was like, 'hmmm, should I write this with canon!Daniel or the Rule 63 version?' In the end, I decided to go with the Rule 63 version, simply because I was more interested in Rorschach's sex guilt/man-angst, and his fear/hatred of women and their women-bits.
===
Even months after Grice, he doesn't sleep much, but when he does sleep...
--
He's Rorschach, not Kovacs, but he still finds himself in the dormitory of the Home.
He knows where his bed is, just as he knows the lines on his own palm. His bed is occupied; he looks closer, and sees soft flesh, obscenity, nakedness.
On his bed is a woman, and he knows who she is; he doesn't have to look at her face, he doesn't want to look at her face. If he did look at her face, he knows that he'd see expressive blue eyes, a strong nose, full lips that are usually slightly pursed, a square jawline that has softened over the years. He's dimly aware of the way that her hair spills over the mattress, although he doesn't note her expression.
She's on her back, and her hands are tied above her head. Her legs have been spread by a metal bar, leaving her wide open. Inevitably, he finds himself looking at the shadow between her legs, the dark opening that would allow him to reach inside of her and hurt her very badly.
His hands could wander over her skin, over the curve of her belly, over the mounds of her breasts.... but he knows that such a thing would not be allowed. Still, she's as passive as a corpse. Her head is turned to one side, at an uncomfortable angle - he's reminded of the time that they investigated the murder of a woman (prostitute) who'd been pushed from a fourth floor window; the way that her body was twisted against the pavement; how her skirt was stuck around her waist.
He isn't aware of unfastening his pants, but when he glances down, he sees his erection, raw and ugly, jutting free of his clothes.
With horrible dream-logic, he knows what he's going to do.
He kneels between her thighs, closing his eyes because he can't look, and hungrily presses his mouth against her sex. She's held open for him, although he still wishes that she could wrap her legs around his shoulders, drawing him into her. He can't taste, smell or feel her; his tongue only meets the smooth, slippery resistance of his mask (face), and all he can taste is himself. She moans - he's heard her make noises in pain before, and the sound is a lot like that.
He doesn't feel anything.
--
He wakes abruptly, and sits bolt upright. The room is illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlight; the light seems to have a weight and texture to it, as if he can feel it on his skin, heavy and dull. His crotch is unpleasantly damp, and the realization makes his stomach twist.
Sleep will now be impossible, so he hauls himself out of bed and goes to change his underwear. He isn't quite sure who he is.
He's in no state to do anything productive, so he spends the next few hours reading, although his mind is unable to retain information.
The thing that bothers him most about the dream is the fact that he could have chosen to untie her, but didn't.
Characters: Rorschach/63!Dan.
Rating: Mature, explicit. Sort of non-con-ish.
Word count: 531
Summary: Rorschach dreams about Danielle.
Initially, I was like, 'hmmm, should I write this with canon!Daniel or the Rule 63 version?' In the end, I decided to go with the Rule 63 version, simply because I was more interested in Rorschach's sex guilt/man-angst, and his fear/hatred of women and their women-bits.
===
Even months after Grice, he doesn't sleep much, but when he does sleep...
--
He's Rorschach, not Kovacs, but he still finds himself in the dormitory of the Home.
He knows where his bed is, just as he knows the lines on his own palm. His bed is occupied; he looks closer, and sees soft flesh, obscenity, nakedness.
On his bed is a woman, and he knows who she is; he doesn't have to look at her face, he doesn't want to look at her face. If he did look at her face, he knows that he'd see expressive blue eyes, a strong nose, full lips that are usually slightly pursed, a square jawline that has softened over the years. He's dimly aware of the way that her hair spills over the mattress, although he doesn't note her expression.
She's on her back, and her hands are tied above her head. Her legs have been spread by a metal bar, leaving her wide open. Inevitably, he finds himself looking at the shadow between her legs, the dark opening that would allow him to reach inside of her and hurt her very badly.
His hands could wander over her skin, over the curve of her belly, over the mounds of her breasts.... but he knows that such a thing would not be allowed. Still, she's as passive as a corpse. Her head is turned to one side, at an uncomfortable angle - he's reminded of the time that they investigated the murder of a woman (prostitute) who'd been pushed from a fourth floor window; the way that her body was twisted against the pavement; how her skirt was stuck around her waist.
He isn't aware of unfastening his pants, but when he glances down, he sees his erection, raw and ugly, jutting free of his clothes.
With horrible dream-logic, he knows what he's going to do.
He kneels between her thighs, closing his eyes because he can't look, and hungrily presses his mouth against her sex. She's held open for him, although he still wishes that she could wrap her legs around his shoulders, drawing him into her. He can't taste, smell or feel her; his tongue only meets the smooth, slippery resistance of his mask (face), and all he can taste is himself. She moans - he's heard her make noises in pain before, and the sound is a lot like that.
He doesn't feel anything.
--
He wakes abruptly, and sits bolt upright. The room is illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlight; the light seems to have a weight and texture to it, as if he can feel it on his skin, heavy and dull. His crotch is unpleasantly damp, and the realization makes his stomach twist.
Sleep will now be impossible, so he hauls himself out of bed and goes to change his underwear. He isn't quite sure who he is.
He's in no state to do anything productive, so he spends the next few hours reading, although his mind is unable to retain information.
The thing that bothers him most about the dream is the fact that he could have chosen to untie her, but didn't.