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This is how Dan likes it best, when they've been hard-focused on a case and it's been weeks since Rorschach has touched him or has let himself be touched. Frustrating in the short term when he has nothing but his own hand (and that's for relief rather than pleasure), but oh so satisfying when the day is won; when everything goes down perfectly, when adrenaline and anticipation quickens them both. They are exultant, invincible, and Rorschach always, always makes the first move.
(They've long since stopped couching this in tenuous excuses; they no longer pretend that they're dulling their over-sharp edges on each other for safety's sake. They do this because they want to, but there are some rules still, unspoken.)
Rorschach doesn't bother with niceties here any more than he does anywhere else. He bats Dan into a corner of the sofa, takes his mouth with nips and bites that make Dan moan and slide down against the leather upholstery, unresisting.
"No," Rorschach says, bunching his fists into Dan's shirt. "Not this time. Up."
Dan makes a vague noise of complaint, scrapes his teeth along skin that prickles with three days' worth of stubble and a loop or two of suture thread. Finds himself hauled upright, shoved around unceremoniously until Rorschach's stomach is at his back, one freckled forearm braced across his chest. His legs stretch out along the length of the sofa, sandwiched between pinstriped ones.
A lazy smile uncurls across Dan's face. "What's this?" he asks, lolling his head back as Rorschach works one-handed at his belt. This is not the way it typically goes.
"Quiet," Rorschach mutters, tugging at the waistband of Dan's pants. Dan lifts his hips obediently; the fabric concertinas into folds around his thighs, becomes tight and immobilizing.
He swallows, breathes out a laugh. "You'll have to talk, then," he says, lightly enough to make it a joke if he needs to. There's no response at first, just the rasp of scruff against his collar. Rorschach's breath warms the shell of his ear as he unbuttons the shirt, peels it away.
"About what?" he asks quietly. His palm curves over Dan's thigh, fingertips pressing into the dip and rise of muscle. He slides his hand inward, up, skates around the prominent bulge in Dan's underwear to rub the ridge of his hipbone.
Dan squirms; this strange playfulness is having a profound effect. He's used to being slammed into the wall or being pinned against Archie's deck, but this is something new. He decides that Rorschach is not the only one who can change the rules, and there's something he's wanted for a while now.
"Don't care," he says. "Just want to listen to you. Talk to me. Tell me...things."
Rorschach shifts; Dan can feel him against the small of his back, hard. He makes a noise, maybe a laugh. "Remember first time we met," he says. His hand trails up Dan's stomach, up to his chest to toy with the dusting of hair there, fingers curling and raking.
Dan grins to himself. This wasn't quite what he meant, but maybe getting some dirty talk out of his partner was a touch optimistic, even for him. He wonders if Rorschach realizes that he sounds like a hopeless romantic.
"Eyes met across crowded alleyway, knew from that moment we were destined to be together." Dry as a bone; of course he realizes.
"You almost broke my wrist, you asshole." Dan's laughter is interrupted as blunt fingernails scrape over a nipple. He gasps, and those fingers push between his parted lips.
"Suck," Rorschach suggests in his ear, and Dan almost comes from the surprise alone. It's no time to be dumbfounded – hell, it's what he wanted to hear, right? – so he obliges, works his tongue between the digits and over each nailbed (and tries not to think about what crime scene lurks under his fingernails).
Dan catches the pad of Rorschach's index finger between his teeth and drags a groan from him when he bites; just hard enough, just the right side of painful. He tastes coppery and sharp, like adrenaline, danger.
The arm across his chest tightens, pulls him closer. Rorschach's hips roll against him, once.
"Thought you were a criminal," Rorschach says, gravel scoured out of his voice and replaced with something whispery and intimate.
Dan doesn't think he's going to last very long at all.
The fingers slip from his mouth, and Dan twists his head to watch Rorschach lick his palm, red tongue gliding against the fair skin of his hand. It's utterly obscene. Pornographic, and somehow made a hundred times more so by the mask still being on; rolled up so high that Dan can see the flick of pale lashes in the triangle of shadow beneath the latex.
There's a hundred things he wants to say about that, but instead settles on: "I was dressed like an owl." He sounds dazed even to his own ears.
Rorschach tugs down Dan's underwear, wraps his hand around the base of his cock and squeezes, hard. Dan makes an embarrassing noise, claws his fingers into the sofa cushions and lets his head fall back onto his partner's shoulder.
"First impression was of a bat," Rorschach says, sounding far, far too collected still. He tugs gently, easing his grip and letting it slide at an infuriatingly slow pace. "Malevolent creature. Know better, now."
"A bat? Who the hell would dress like a– aahh...god."
"Arch your back," Rorschach says, and bites at the curve of Dan's neck. The hand that isn't dragging along Dan's cock cups his jaw, presses a thumb back between his lips. "...and be quiet."
Dan makes a helpless noise around the digit, and arches into Rorschach's grip. He's rewarded with a low growl and the rough swipe of Rorschach's thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the moisture there. The languid pull and twist of Rorschach's hand is driving him crazy; the way he's touching him so deliberately, it's as if he'd been planning this.
That such thoughts exist behind that inscrutable mask still kind of shocks him. It's goddamn hot to imagine that Dan's not the only one thinking of this while they're out on the streets, while they fight side by side; that Rorschach might be stealing glances or admiring the lines of Nite Owl's body in combat—
"Strong," Rorschach breathes, so quietly Dan almost doesn't hear him over the thundering of his own blood. He slides his thumb from Dan's mouth and runs it over his throat, his pectorals and tensed abdominals, over mottled yellow bruising, leaving a ribbon of saliva in its wake. "Honed. Dedicated. Gave over your body to...to pursuit of justice, to...hhn."
"Body is my weapon," Dan murmurs. He knows he's struck at the heart of things when he hears Rorschach's breath catch in his throat. Yeah, not being told to shut up now. He'll bet that wasn't part of Rorschach's plan, but he has no idea how easily Dan can read him, sometimes. "It's in your hands."
Dan can pinpoint the exact moment Rorschach's composure snaps: it's the same time his own does.
Rorschach bucks against him, and Dan reaches up, holds the back of his partner's neck and thrusts into his tightened fist, lets him mouth words against his shoulder. He catches fragments at first – my hands; feel this; Daniel – then he lifts his head to suck in a deep breath, says, "Daniel. Want to..."
"Tell me," Dan says, groaning as waves of tension gather themselves and pull taut until he's digging his heels into the sofa cushions. "Please. I wanna hear you."
"Want to..." Rorschach repeats, hesitates again and god Dan wants him to just lose it, wants him to pour out every filthy word he knows and shape them into promises.
They've never been inside each other, neither of them in the right headspace for it or simply not yet brave enough for that level of intimacy, but Dan is finding his courage. Finding something, a deep animalistic urge that wants Rorschach to push him down and fuck him until the only words they can find for each other are disgracefully profane.
Rorschach's strokes are becoming irregular and jerky. He's shamelessly grinding against Dan's ass, and when he shudders bodily, presses his masked forehead into Dan's hair and swears, Dan comes over his hand in intense waves that gray the edges of his vision.
[#]
Dan is roused from his post-orgasm nirvana by Rorschach drowsily wiping his hand down his arm.
"Oh my god," he says, yawning. "You're disgusting."
He rolls over, knowing full well that the come pooled in his navel is going to make a mess of Rorschach's pinstripes, but it's always good to give him some incentive to do his laundry. Rorschach grumbles to himself, words indistinct and blurring on the soft edge of sleep.
Dan nudges at his chin with the bridge of his nose. "Hey," he murmurs, happy to take advantage of Rorschach's pliable state for the sake of his curiosity. "I wanna know. What was it you wanted?"
"Mn," Rorschach says, fingers drawing idle patterns over Dan's back. "Tell you next time."