|Fic: Imposition (WIP)
||[Apr. 5th, 2009|10:28 pm]
I hate works in progress. And I always get sucked into reading them, and then spending the rest of the week F5'ing to see if a new bit has been posted, and once it has I'm all yayyayyay...aw, I've read it now...F5...F5...F5.
Still. This one's turning into a monster, so maybe just this once I'll experiment with looking at it in bite-size chunks. And I'll just apologise in advance for where it breaks off.
Sequel to: Compromise
Disclaimer: I only own action figures
Rating: eventually NC-17
Warning: Graphic m/m sexual activity, dubious consent
Summary: Sex! Angst! ...and stuff.
The Comedian was becoming a creature of pointless habits, and that bothered him. Maybe he’d just been too long in the states, fundamentally cooling his heels until a conflict requiring his special skills popped up, but he was actually policing his loosely defined territory instead of kicking in a few deserving heads and knocking off to a bar for the rest of the night.
And he’d taken to finishing up in the same place, sitting on a particular dock that wasn’t technically his responsibility, smoking meditatively until nearly dawn.
The locals with any brains in their larcenous skulls soon found alternative inlets to the city, and within mere days that dock was so clean you could eat off it.
Blake kicked a bloated rat carcass into the water and settled back onto his usual pylon, pondering tomorrow’s Crimebusters meeting. He wondered if his two new favourites would show up separately or at all or together and choking back almost unbearable tension, but without enthusiasm.
To his growing horror, the thoughts made him feel petty, like some high school queen lording it over her little flock of sheep. And he’d pulled something in his back throwing through a would-be robber through the store’s plate-glass window, which ached like something that would seize up solid after a few hour’s sleep. And he was getting splinters in his ass next to a river that smelled like last week’s sardine vomit with an economy-sized packet of condoms and a spare switchblade tucked in his utility belt for absolutely no reason.
But when he felt a burning glare on the back of his neck and heard deliberate footsteps behind him as he ambled off in an especially followable way, Blake thought he knew what he’d been waiting for.
He palmed the switchblade and abruptly changed direction, heading into the narrow canyon between two steep warehouses. The footsteps behind him ceased, and Blake slowed, slightly disappointed his assailant hadn’t followed. Was he running around the building to cut him off at the other side?
Blake turned back the way he’d come and walked into a punch that nearly dislocated his jaw.
He cursed himself for the rookie mistake and flicked his switchblade open, knowing it was too late for that, far too late, already feeling a knife across his unprotected neck, or deep in his belly where there was that gap he’d always intended to shore up, or –
Instead, the blade was knocked out of his hand, and it was only a fist that slammed into that one vulnerable spot on his abdomen.
Then, wonder of wonders, his attacker nimbly moved back out of range and dropped his guard, standing as still as possible for a hundred and forty pounds of pure nervous energy to be. Blake gaped at him.
The blotted head tilted. “Better?”
“Better?” Blake parroted in disbelief, raising his fists against the incomprehensible freak.
What, he wants a confession before he knocks me off?
“No?” the other man asked, uncertainty in his voice.
He straightened his already straight hat and shook his head slightly – Blake wondered what, exactly, had Rorschach embarrassed about a perfectly executed ambush – and answered his own question.
“No. I guess not.”
Quick as a thought, he leapt at Blake, who caught his foot and flipped him to the pavement. He was back on his feet before Blake could press the advantage, and they joined in earnest, Blake aware he was fighting for his life.
Or was he? He battered the smaller man back into a pair of overflowing dumpsters, sliding on better-left-unrecognised muck, but as soon as Rorschach had landed two solid punches, he dropped his fists again and waited expectantly. Rorschach was hemmed in on three sides and made no effort to fight his way back out, and the sheer lunacy of it made Blake pause.
“Still no better?” Rorschach asked, and sighed.
Blake scratched the back of his neck, glaring at the vigilante, who shifted from foot to foot.
“I really have been working on it,” he muttered, sounding like a schoolboy on the verge of rebellion.
Blake re-ran the last ten minutes of his life, trying to picture them from Rorschach’s perspective. Unfortunately, “batshit orphan boy” wasn’t one he was personally familiar with, so…
That had been his favourite punch, just faster, less powerful, and at an angle he never bothered with, given that he towered over nearly any opponent. In other words, completely unrecognisable.
But not bad, he thought grudgingly, rubbing his slightly unhinged jaw.
“It’ll do,” he growled.
The other man perked up. “I’m happy to hear any suggestions – ”
“It’s fine,” Blake cut him off. He stretched carefully, annoyed that he now hurt on both sides of his torso.
“Pretty good, actually,” he allowed. “Don’t see how it could be improved.”
The other man stood up straighter, now almost glowing in the pre-dawn gloom. Blake snorted and wondered how many grudging compliments it would take for the man whose name made hardened lifers wet their panties to abandon his partner and follow the Comedian around like a kicked puppy.
Blake briefly considered the pros and cons of a fierce but emotionally retarded sidekick, and reluctantly decided to end the conversation. He stepped back and gestured for Rorschach to leave ahead of him, still not entirely comfortable with leaving his back exposed. The kid seemed the type to regard murdering one’s master the surest means of advancement.
Rorschach ignored the gesture, instead leaning back on the filthy wall. The mask stared back at Blake with a pattern of animal footprints.
Why is he still breathing like that? Blake wondered. You’d think he expected me to jump him agai – oh.
Caution gave way to irritation, which merged with and amplified the unfocused horniness that had dogged his steps all week, almost held in check by vigilance against ambush. It was a more complex emotional state than he preferred to endure.
Blake pinned the cause of it to the wall and raised a finger.
“Listen,” he began, without any clear idea how to follow that up. His immediate impulse was to continue with Fuck off, you weird little bastard, and never bother me again, but he already had plenty of borderline psychotic enemies in the city.
An entirely different impulse made him look both ways and estimate he had a good twenty minutes before the approaching dawn made his costume too ridiculous for the streets.
Rorschach decided for him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him close. He looked away as he ground into Blake’s thigh, almost over his shoulder, like a man franticly trying to get some distance from his own body.
Blake’s diffuse and irritating arousal was suddenly much more…fused. But the irritation only increased.
“You’re supposed to be trying to kill me,” he grumbled.
Rorschach paused. “I am?”
Blake saw a labyrinth in the mask that faced him, a convoluted path he’d have to navigate just to get from point A to B, when it was an easy stroll to point C: any of a dozen warm beds and warmer thighs that would happily open for him.
A knee rubbed uncertainly against his.
“Metaphorically, anyway,” Blake allowed, pushing the other man’s trenchcoat aside. He tore the other man’s fly open, the noise of the zipper pornographically loud in the hushed alley, and groped without preamble.
Rorschach swallowed a groan and melted back against the wall. He was hard as stone and Blake ached in sympathy. He could almost suspect the guy hadn’t even jerked off since he’d seen him last.
Impatient hands worked Blake’s belt free and started to slide into his pants, then, maddeningly, stopped.
Blake growled wordlessly and pushed forward, trying to force a reaction. He pulled roughly on the other man’s cock, rubbing calloused fingers hard against every spot that was sensitive on him, expecting a complaint.
He received instead one sharp breath as inadequate warning and a handful of come.
It was sort of flattering, he had to admit, taking the threadbare handkerchief from the other man’s lapel. Rorschach ducked his head, breathing hard, and pulled his mask up to rub a shaking hand over his nose. Blake didn’t offer any reassurances. He just held up a newly clean hand as the other man tried to push past him, doing up his pants.
“You don’t think you’re going?” he asked, incredulous.
Rorschach froze, one hand ready to pull the mask back down. “Why?” he muttered.
The alley was light enough now to reveal the twitching muscles in his jaw.
“Just get back here.” Blake pulled him back into the anonymity of the dumpsters. “This isn’t a one-way favor, y’know. Well it is, a favor, because it sure as shit isn’t something I want to do, but it’s not happening out of the goodness of my heart.”
Blake cursed the tiredness that made…words…hard…something…he cursed the world and everyone in it for not making a goddam lick of sense. Rorschach at least seemed to finally catch on to the obvious and returned his attention to Blake’s open fly, tentatively wrapping his hand around his half-mast cock.
Blake shook his head. The Comedian simply didn’t settle for a furtive handjob in a back alley.
He pinned Rorschach against the wall and rubbed his thumb along the exposed lips. With the other man’s face tucked into his chest, Blake was spared the sight, but he could picture it very well: the gloved digit pushing between teeth, startled tongue flattened underneath and bewildered lips closing over the invader, half protest and half suckle.
He quickly stroked himself to full hardness and nudged Rorschach’s shoulder downward.
Blake heaved a put-upon sigh when the man didn’t take either hint, rescued his thumb from the tongue that rubbed aimlessly along it, and pushed Rorschach down to his knees. Something squelched underneath fabric.
“We’re short on time here, kid,” he reminded him, though the wait and the fuzzy thought of getting caught by some early-bird garbageman was just turning his crank tighter and tighter.
“O-okay,” Rorschach replied, visibly steeling himself. His lips twisted and opened reluctantly, almost making Blake laugh at the face of a boy who didn’t want to eat his vegetables, but hissed instead as the grim mouth closed over him. Rorschach swallowed convulsively, and Blake shivered at the movement around his cock and the sharp pinpricks of pain.
“Watch the teeth.”
Blake knew he was being cruel – knew that the filthy desires that ran through a man’s mind as he rutted in giving flesh were as appealing as Sunday morning sidewalk pizza the moment he came, that now Rorschach only wanted to roll over and sleep, and maybe a sandwich – but he was in the mood for a little cruelty. He hated the sight of that mask, not for making him watch his back all week – God knew he hadn’t slept without one eye open since he was 16 – but because it appeared in his mind’s eye at the worst times. With some pretty bird cooing against his neck, acres of breast and hip and ass under his hands, he still came thinking of a scrap of red hair, lurid against the newsprint contrast of black and white.
And wasn’t it just his luck he’d seduced the only faggot in the city who couldn’t play the skin flute for shit?
It was almost bright enough to make out the brick patterns at both ends of the alley. There was no time left. They shouldn’t even be doing this now, here.
Blake steadied Rorschach’s head with both hands. “Just keep still. And seriously, watch the goddamned teeth.”
He pushed forward gingerly, already wincing in anticipation of the jaws clamping together, but too desperate to care. Rorschach pulled away, and Blake came that close to backhanding the bastard, but he only licked his dry lips and tried again.
Blake rocked forward, more quickly as the other man adjusted his mouth into something that wouldn’t tear away strips of skin. He almost cradled the head, like an egg that could crack, but caught himself. He’d seen the guy absorb blows that would floor most men without breaking stride; he could damn well take anything Blake wanted to dish out.
Rorschach’s head now tapped the wall with every stroke. The driving rhythm was almost, almost enough. He looked up at the lightening sky and closed his eyes, moving his fingers to feel the other man’s cheeks hollow and slacken in time to his hammering heartbeat.
He moved his other hand to the back of his skull, lifting the edge of the latex mask. Rorschach stiffened and – Jesus Christ – growled around his cock, but Blake only slid his fingers inside and tangled them in hair, ordinary sweaty matted human hair that probably smelled like nothing but hot plastic.
Fingers like steel bands gripped his thighs for support, tightening until they would surely leave bruises. He felt the tension uncoiling from the bottom of his spine and made a final vicious thrust, crushing the man’s nose to his stomach, deliberately offering no warning.
Blake rested his forehead on the cool brick while Rorschach choked and spat, rubbing his mouth. He offered him his handkerchief back, but Rorschach waved it away, coughing on his sleeve. Blake felt empty and tired in the best way and his closest safehouse and a long nap was only a few blocks north. He put himself back together and stretched, scratching his belly under the armor.
Rorschach remained crouched in the shadows, swiping at the muck coating his knees.
“Go home,” Blake told him cheerfully. “You’ve got the boy scout jamboree tonight to prepare for.”
The other man chuckled mirthlessly, a hard and confident sound at odds with his slumped posture. “Garbage in dumpster,” he growled in a voice that was low and harsh and made a chill attempt to creep along Blake’s satiated nerves. “How appropriate.”
He grabbed the smaller man by his lapels and yanked him out, half throwing him back the way they’d come. “Go home,” he said with more force. “Sun’s almost up. It’s the good citizens’ city now, not ours.”
It occurred to him he could follow Rorschach, add his home address to the file, but Blake was too slow. He turned the corner seconds after the other man, but saw only the movement of a manhole cover settling back into place.
At least he had no reason to ever come back to this godforsaken stretch of the rotten apple ever again.
By the end of the week, there was an empty scotch bottle and a small mountain of cigar butts gently decomposing at the end of the dock, and he’d started to seriously contemplate bringing a fishing rod to see what mutated horrors he could hook out of that cesspool.
Nite Owl had approached him mid-week and demanded to be let in on whatever investigation he was running in their district, clenching and unclenching his gauntleted fists.
“I think you’ll find this is the sole innocent block in the goddamn city,” Blake snorted, outwardly watching the water and inwardly ready to spring.
“Then why would you be here?” Nite Owl simpered.
Blake showed him his teeth, stained but very strong. “It’s my thinkin’ spot.”
Nite Owl looked around them, wrinkling his nose.
“You got any other urgent questions, Hooter?”
Blake wasn’t much taller than the other man, only a couple of inches and that was mostly boot, but he’d been practicing his loom since this featherweight’s most dangerous foe was the big-boy potty. The callow young vigilante crumbled, though his neck muscles were tight as bridge cables, and stomped off with his tail feathers between his legs.
No, legs. As in “chicken legs.”
Or was it talons?
That was why Blake had stuck to a simple, practical theme. No tortured metaphors.
In any case, that was Chicken Legs out of his hair. He had the place to himself every other night, aside from brief feeling of being watched from quite far away. He always left when the sensation faded, never heading in the same direction.
Earlier tonight, while idly mulling on whether the repeat offender with the familiar face deserved only the usual bag and tag or if he should treat him to a nice curbstomping, Blake had found himself looking forward to a quiet drink and well earned cigar, watching the lights of New Jersey flicker on with the early risers. The feeling disgusted him.
He flicked the chewed cigar butt into the river and told himself enough was enough. With a man like him, introspective haunts turned into desert watering holes, ringed by smaller predators hoping to get lucky.
One of them waited around a corner to the north, startling when a broken tooth – not his – he hadn’t noticed getting trapped in the folds of his coat came loose. Blake didn’t see the other man pick it off the pavement in confusion or poke at his mouth through layers of latex looking for an unfelt gap, only heard him running to catch up after Blake jumped to catch a fire escape ladder and scrambled to the top floor of a seedy motel.
Blake listened to the other man’s careful progress up the metal steps while he picked the lock of a corner door, next to the broken ice machine. He owned this room – unlike the others, it was soundproofed, secure, and didn’t have generations of lice colonising the mattress – but he hated carrying keys. He’d seen a guy machine-gunned to palm-sized pieces, once, because he’d sentimentally held on to his stateside key ring, which got caught on a clip as he eased into position and – plop. Dropped twenty feet down and got everyone’s attention.
Blake lingered in the open doorway until he saw movement. Cautious feet checking for traps, he noted with approval. He left the door hanging open.
I’m getting the hang of that little bastard, Blake thought later, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling and easing toward sleep, still sniffling blood back into his sinuses.
The kid was one of those knight types. Have to be perfect to fight evil, keep yourself up on the white steed and look on anything human as disgusting filth so you don’t have to ask yourself why exactly you love breaking people to pieces so much.
And all that jive, Blake thought, remembering a word some junkie had spit at him. It seemed to fit. ’Course, he’s also a healthy young guy, so he’s gotta get his rocks off anyway. Dying for it.
Just got to take the choice out of his hands. Just be the guy whose word is law. The father who can raise your allowance if you don’t tell your ma where he goes every night. Right or wrong is what you say it is.
Blake chuckled at the mental image. Fucked up ole world, innit?
And when the subtle coercion runs thin, the blunt. The fight had been shorter, in the privacy of Blake’s room. A few punches, a gloriously unfair kick to someone’s oversensitive groin, and a choke hold, while awkwardly propped on the corner of the mattress, had about summed it up.
Worthwhile effort, he now realised. When you had the guy beat, he didn’t just yield and suffer through it.
Give him a scrap of plausible deniability, and he’ll bang like a screen door in a hurricane, Blake grinned to himself, safely hidden in the dark, unknown room.
He remembered wishing he could see the other man’s face, not the features but the expressions floating across them, as he crouched over Blake’s pelvis. Pants grudgingly pulled down around his thighs, muscles churning with machine precision as he impaled himself, boots muddying and tearing the thin hotel sheets.
He remembered the strange moment when, for no real reason, he thought of the owlship and mumbled, “By the way, my name’s not Dan,” and could almost hear the needle scratching off some gigantic record as every muscle in his new protégé’s body vapor-locked, which was exceedingly painful to the part of his body currently stretching those muscles.
“But – ow – it’s a fine – ow – name. Ow. Relax, dammit! Dan’s fine. Anything but ‘Comedian’ right now is fine.”
The head tilted. “Daniel?”
Blake gave him a sarcastic little wave. “Hello. Now ease up, for fuck’s sake.”
With more conviction: “Daniel. Daniel…oh…god…Daniel…”
He remembered grabbing those hips as the other man jerked, setting a hard, punishing rhythm, panting and groaning into the soundproofed walls, and fell asleep sure it couldn’t be gay if there was no kissing.
And when, the next time, he caught himself almost touching his lips to the other man’s back, he bit instead, drawing blood where neck became shoulder. So that was still okay. And if he growled mine into the skin, tasting copper, that was a natural possessiveness. It was clear the kid was obsessed with him, obviously going without for days until their paths happened to cross again. It gave a man thoughts, when someone handed themselves over on a silver platter, no helping that.
Careless with haste, neither had noticed the man in college-boy clothes following them through the pre-dawn gloom.