Practice

Mar. 28th, 2010 01:24 pm
[personal profile] brancher
Title: Practice
Pairing: Dan/Rosie Palm, Dan/Rorschach
Summary: Dan thinks about his partner. For kinkmeme.



Dan knows what he's going to do

He knows, and all through dinner, he has that feeling he gets when he's going to do something illegal later -- anticipatory guilt. Guilty anticipation? He doesn't know, but it's a jittery warmth and constriction in his chest. He's already getting hard while he eats and while he clears the table, and on his way upstairs it's actually awkward to walk, so in his room he just strips off, letting his clothes lay where they fall, and clambers onto the bed.

He reaches for the little tub of Vaseline on the bedside table.

This is hardly the first time he's done this, though it's been a while. The first time he fingered himself and thought about his partner was back in '66. He had been virtuous, had tried very hard to be virtuous, all that first year, because it seemed like thinking about Rorschach that way would be a violation of the man's fierce reserve. But then the night they'd put the Big Figure away, there had been a giddy moment when it seemed like Rorschach might actually kiss him -- his gloved hand on the back of Dan's neck, his mask pushed up, mouth inches away from Dan's. Dan had thought he's going to and then oh god and then what if I want him to and then Rorschach had pulled away, pulled the mask back down.

Fuck, he's so hard, but he won't touch himself there. Instead he splays his legs across the bed, reaches back and slicks the Vaseline roughly across his hole. He'd always been afraid of this; he told Leslie, when she asked, that he'd thought about sucking guys off but didn't want to get fucked. She'd smiled like she knew he was lying.

He stretches his fingers wide, letting out deep shuddering breaths like Leslie taught him, trying to relax. He feels himself flare outward, tender and quivering. It's hard not to squeeze down again as he shoves his fingers in deeper, fucking them back and forth a little, feeling the strange sensation that always comes with a little bit of fear.

He pictures Rorschach, fully dressed and gloved, watching as Dan opens himself up. Maybe he'd tell Dan to do it, tell him to stretch himself, to get himself ready for him. He knows Rorschach wouldn't touch him right away. God, no, he'd make Dan wait for it. Wait until he couldn't stand it, until he was whining and pleading a little, saying Rorschach's name over and over.

It's not good enough, not deep enough, using his own fingers: the angle's wrong, but that adds to the frustration and the tension that's making his dick leak at the tip. He feels hot and swollen and tight there, and Dan lets himself move his hips a little to feel the drag of the cool sheets against his skin. Thinks about gloved hands on his hips, pulling him back, about how it would feel for Rorschach to fit his cock to his opening, not thrusting in, just nudging back and forth against Dan's fingers and the sensitive skin there. Rorschach would hesitate until Dan told him, told him how much he'd wanted this, and for how long; how much it meant that Rorschach would do this for him, please, please do this for him.

God, and he'd -- he'd slide in then, and Dan would feel him, deeper and hotter and not at all like Leslie's toys, because he'd be pulsing and alive and inexorable and Rorschach, the most vulnerable part of him inside Dan, for Dan to keep --

God --

He'd hold still for a moment, just inside him, just keeping Dan pinned on his cock. And then -- Dan starts to rock his hips, feeling the scrape of cotton along his length, thinking about Rorschach moving in him, thrusting, pushing him against the sheets -- losing control, letting himself get a little rough, hurting Dan a little even, but only because he can't -- can't help himself --

Can't stop himself when it's Dan -- when it's Dan under him, when he's inside --

Dan breathes hard, pushing the orgasm out of himself, biting the heel of his hand and rubbing his dick helplessly against the bed. He hates the moment when it tips over, when he comes, because in that moment he's already alone again, already aware of the mess on his fingers and against his stomach, thinking that he'll need to change the sheets, and how ridiculous he must look and how Rorschach would never ...

He opens his eyes, then, and gingerly extracts his fingers. The clock on the bedside table reads 8:45pm. In another hour, he'll have to dress to meet his partner.

They have work to do.


-end-

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