Wonderful Monster, a watchmen fanfic

Title: Wonderful Monster
Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own the Watchmen or the characters said comic. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Alan Moore and I do believe DC. No infringement is intended.
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters: Captain Carnage ("Christopher Good"), Rorschach, Nite Owl II
Continuity: Set in some vague time during the glory days of Rorschach and Nite Owl II
Warnings: Minor violence. Implied self-pleasure. Disturbing content. Slash. Language.
Rating: Mature
Summary: The man who would be Captain Carnage is a deeply sick man, and, most of the time, he knows it. But sometimes, he just can't help himself.
Author's Note: Mature readers only, please. Hard crit, as always, welcomed with open arms.

Yes, this is how I entertain myself on rainy afternoons.

Christopher Good is decidedly unhappy.

Gingerly, he eases himself into easy chair, hissing between his teeth, a rictus smile stretched across his narrow face. The bruises have not all healed yet, thankfully, but they are getting old, fading into the landscape of his skin. Half watching the television, his fingers drift down over his thigh, tracing the sensitive, warm flesh, the watercolor mark of a bruise. He can just imagine her knee there, again, soft and yet so hard, driving into him with a gleeful disregard for injury. Just – ah – enough pressure to simulate that callous blow, palm striking hard and fast, slapping, raising gooseflesh and turning his hip a ruddy red.

His satiated cat-smile twists up a little higher, pulling his still-split lip open a tingle-rush of pain.

Oh, that had been a nice one; she had rammed his face right up against the side of a building, scraped hard enough for his teeth to catch on the filthy brickwork. A little too much force for his dental work, but oh, so worth it.

He sighs, nestling down into his chair, finger swirling back at the bruise. Silk Spectre. Most men saw only her scantily clad body, all lithe sinew and false promises. But he, he understood her, knew her, knew all of them. He understood their potential for violence, the raw power lying suppressed and embryonic inside them, waiting to be released.

And the first, oh, the first, it had been amazing. He had wanted to weep, to cry out in rapture as her balled fists descended upon him, knuckles and knees and quick-strike sensations.

Oh, he had thought, she's just the youngest. The softest one. Hungry for more – always more – he had sought out better fare, more willing partners, who would do what was necessary. Nite Owl, he had so much potential. He seemed so intimidating, so solid and beautifully unbreakable – but he had run off at the first sign of the Captain, had shuffled off like he was ashamed of what Christopher offered. He only wanted them to realize their possibilities, to see the, the anger inside of them, to feel it and take it in and make it a part of himself.

His fingers stop mid-swirl, digging his nails into the center of the blemish, tugging madly at the traitorous, healing skin until it tears. His mouth curls down in a snarl, and he throws his head back against the soft cushions. No, no, the Owl has failed him, failed him utterly. Hurt him without hurting, in the worst way of all. Almost makes him want to give it up, go back to the pretentious doms, with their stupid leather and play-violence, and their soft, spongy hands.

Fuck.

Irritated – even the self-play isn't tingling the way it should – he settles back again, jabbing the remote to turn up the volume. The celluloid glow throws out shadows on all sides of him, looming figures that have no power to touch, to feel with him, for him. Just empty stares. Watching him. Always watching.

The news plays out before him, detached from its content, rolling from tragedy to incoherent tragedy. It is easy to think it all a lie, perhaps, some elaborate hoax; he can almost see the patterns if he squints enough, if he drinks enough. But he's not really watching, tonight, and he hasn't had a beer in more than a week.

Nothing to really drink to.

"… with increasing violence. Protestors have begun to rise up in unexpected quarters…"

Maybe not so much a pattern. A thread of commonality, some little thing that most people lose in the information overload, a word to thread it all together. Hell, he doesn't know. He's just a disappointed and disillusioned man, trying to get his little thrill of the week to keep himself going with his dead-end job at some fancy tuxedo shop. Nobody knows him, nobody understands; Nite Owl has proven that in one fell swoop—

"…sometimes leaving his victims comatose and on the edge of death…"

–with his callous disregard—

"…despite claims to the contrary from other such 'vigilantes'…"

– his stubborn refusal to do what was necessary—

"… a menace. A deranged menace on society. This 'Rorschach' is a plague of violence on our city, arguably worse than the criminal element…"

… What was this now?

"Of all these costumed 'heroes', it is he who is most consistently aggressive, more than brutal. He's mostly the reason we even galvanized like we did. I don't care if they're the worst scumbags on the face of the earth, he has no right to decide these things, none of them do. No right at all. I mean, did any of us elect them? Choose them? I certainly didn't. I would never choose such morally corrupt people." The pretty representative is saying, her hands waving emphatically to further illustrate her point. "Every single one of them need to be stopped. I don't know why it's so popular; it's probably some residue from the forties, some weird thing for larger-than-life and Good Ol' Boys thinking. It's sick, that's what it is. Every one of them, sickos…"

Sicko.

People have called Christopher that, before. And other things, worse things, God, so many awful words.

Something warm swells in his chest, a thread of kinship suddenly winding tight about his ribs. Oh, yes, he knows what it is like to be labeled such awful things, to be ostracized because of one's little faults.

The screen splits the woman's face in half, a dumpy man with a too-earnest sneer in his words overriding the pretty woman and her quiet indignation. "Maybe his methods are slightly, er, well, extreme, but at least he's doing what's necessary. They all are. They're keeping this city safer than it has been in years; I don't care what you think. I think they're heroes. Honest-to-God heroes. I wish more of our men in blue were willing to do this—" The screen beeps, covering the gauche slip in decorum with an equally offensive sound. Christopher doesn't pay it much mind, however, already slumping back, staring with a dumbfounded grin plastered across his long face, hand resting lightly against his chest. His heart beats a staccato rhythm, his stomach almost cramping with the sudden flood of warmth that goes through him at the thrilling idea already taking root in his mind.

And all he could think, thumbing off the top button of his pants, is that, suddenly, his evening is looking so much better.

The first night is a total disaster.

He had lurked in the 'usual' haunts, places he knew the vigilante favored. Seedy bars at the start of the night – he would never do that again, not in costume, with all those strangers and their leers and blank stares like shadows in his living room – and slowly working his way through the alleys, creeping after the sound of ambulances. He feels a rush at every scuffling footstep, a shivering anticipation at the rasp of old newspapers rubbing together in dumpsters. He thought he had found his quarry once; the wet smack was so reminiscent of a fist against a soft belly, but, no, it was just two more useless, pliant people, going at it against a dumpster. He lingered a while there, watching, hoping for a little more rough play, but in the end he lost interest; there was only so much pleasure to be found in secondhand sex.

No, by morning he is exhausted, worn at the edges, slumped in defeat as he trudges for home. The boots are uncomfortable, painful, after just a few hours wear; by the time he manages to wrest them off, his toes have swollen and his heels are blistered from the chafe. It is the wrong kind of hurt, with no pleasant memory to be reminded of. No bliss. No hard hands and leather gloves and the looming figure in a trench coat to slam him up against a wall and—

Before he can really process it, he has already tumbled into bed, kicking off his clingy pants with one leg and fumbling at his underwear's elastic band with the other. Oh, yes. A strong grip around his throat, a knee grinding up against his groin, just enough pressure to make him writhe with pain. The wet, gritty feel of brick against his back, his thighs, trapping him in. Concealed lips at his ear, telling him he's been a bad boy – no, that's silly, stupid – that he couldn't run, had nowhere to go. That he is as good as gone. That Christopher wants it, and he knows it, has known it all along. Yes. Telling him all the ways he can make him hurt. Bruises. All over him. Tastes of somewhere filthy, maybe he is flung up against a dumpster, like those anonymous silhouettes, a shoulder holding him in place while he tears at him, tugs and jerks and rubs him enough to abrade, dragging his orgasm out with a shriek that isn't entirely rapturous—

He ends the night somewhat frustrated, sated and yet wanting more.

But there's always tomorrow.

The second night is no better than the first.

Halfway through his patrol he sits on a garbage can, watching stray cats yowl for food and sex and whatever else it is that compells them to make such awful, sinful noises. He pretends he is shrieking, instead, that it is his voice that rises so plaintively into the murmur of the city, and under all the purring and hissing of engines and creaking of beds there's a deep voice, low enough to not know the words but the intent is unmistakable and…

He beats a retreat for home earlier than before.

He has work in the morning, after all.

He is late despite this precaution.

He realizes he can't really sleep anymore; nightmares keep him awake, flinching and rolling and moaning into his pillow. But this excuse isn't acceptable, is somehow wrong; instead he mutters his vacant apology, and sits in the storage room, rubbing his knees anxiously while customers go unattended.

The manager lets him off with a warning.

But he is still late the next day.

The week crawls by.

His job is boring. He wants to go home and sulk, or put on his suit and watch himself pinch his hips in the full body mirror by his bed, or even just watch some good old all-American porn. But he smiles at all the customers, like they're friends, like he's happy for them to be there, and secretly wonders what they do in the long night, and if it's half as exciting as what he does.

By Friday he's overanxious, short with his fellow staff and shorter with the stupid customers. A man complains that his suit is too tight when Christopher takes his measurements, whines endlessly because he's spoiled and entitled and thinks he's so much better than everybody because he's not sick inside, because nothing's eating him up at night. Because he doesn't fantasize of leather hands on his entitled little dick; no, he probably thinks of soft lips and warm tongues, and Christopher finds this unforgivable. And without really meaning to, tells him all about it.

He is fired by the end of the shift.

But it's okay; he has always hated his job anyways, and it gives him more time to search when he doesn't have to worry about early morning commutes.

He thinks he is getting close.

He can taste it, sometimes, if he really thinks about it, how the latex must be like when he runs his tongue along it, along the lips beneath. He knows it's just a matter of time before they meet, because it's fate, it's explosive, it's throwing them together like a star going nova, and neither of them can escape it now.

Oh, yes, he is so close.

He saw him last night, he is certain of it. Just a flash of a trench coat, anonymous but unmistakable. He can barely hold himself together through the day. His hands are shaking, trembling, because it's coming down to the wire, because it's there. What he's been waiting for.

In the morning he breaks his coffee cup, because he can't keep his grip on the hot ceramic handle. It just slips out, and he doesn't even realize it until it hits the floor, unbearably loud in the otherwise silent house.

He doesn't bother to clean it up, and the coffee is sticky and congealed by the time nine o'clock rolls around.

He'll get it when he gets home.

Because it's tonight. It's going to happen tonight.

Well, so much for prescience.

He's somewhere between snarling and sobbing and laughing, because it's getting so hard to focus on anything now, and he starts to think that, yes, maybe he is more than a little sick, and maybe he should get some help. Normal people don't have urges – obsessions – like this, this little game. They don't long for bruises on their nether regions. They don't feel like he does.

He sits on his comfortable chair and stares at the wall, just above the television, thinking about his childhood and where this all started, where he's been. Maybe he could be happy, if he stops, if he lets it go. Settles. Gets some medication. Some self-help. Fuck, some help, period.

Looks at his bruises for the first time, and feels a dull pang of surprise. Yes, he really did do that to himself in his frenzy. Yes, he really is that depraved. Is that… strange.

But one last time. One last try, and then he'll quit, just after tonight, one more time, please, because he can't quite let go.

"I've been looking for you," Captain Carnage says, giddy at this accidental discovery. He had thought he was only going to find more quaking junkies in this cleaned-out rat hole of an abandoned building, more disappointment. But there, outlined against the skyline, there. There. At last. Finally. There.

He feels overwhelmed, this immense sense of awe at what creature is before him, in flesh and blood and living color. Wonders if – can he even think it? – if Rorschach feels the same. The thread around his ribs binds tight, squeezing all of him, crushing him. He is ecstatic. He is relieved.

He is horny.

"Hn?" Rorschach asks with a growl that is so achingly animalistic, rough and echoing around them both. "Why?"

Christopher licks his lips, glances at his quarry aside, all coy denial. Oh, yes, Rorschach knows. Has to know. Has to feel the electricity between them. Christopher can barely keep his hands from flying all over him, all over himself, but no, no, he has to wait, because they're still playing their game. Oh, yes, the game. The culmination of all his work and deprivation.

Did Rorschach dream of this too?

"Hit me," He whispers, suddenly iniquitous. "Please. Please."

Rorschach's head tilts, pretending he doesn't understand, but the ink blots shift, and Christopher knows that he is almost ready. Almost.

"Oh, God, please, please, hit me, beat me, please," Christopher begs, helpless under that scrutiny, whining and writhing even though there is nothing to hold him back. "Please, just, punish me."

Rorschach doesn't move from where he is, like he's frozen, like he's waiting for something.

Christopher licks his lips again, mouth going dry. Tugs a little at his collar, tries to work it loose, so Rorschach can see the skin he's kept unblemished just for him, so he can write out all those beautiful things across his flesh. So he can mark him. Claim him. Be him. "You want a show? You want to fuck after? Anything. God. I want your fists on me. Hit me."

"No."

Christopher halts all motion, eyes flying open. "B-but," he croaks, shocked. "But, I. I just. What?"

Rorschach is already moving away, still half-slouched as he goes for the door, turning his back like he doesn't care at all what havoc he is wreaking. "I said no."

Christopher stops.

He. He can't do this.

No.

Before he can think about it, he's grabbed on to Rorschach's arm, tugging him around and thrusting his head forward to awkwardly slide his lips across latex, not really sure if he's hitting Rorschach's mouth or nose and he doesn't really care because he can't do this.

It doesn't taste exotic.

But it gets him there.

He feels the arm he's captured go stiff, muscles flexing in surprise and perhaps pleasure, it has to be, because, God, this is getting him hard already and—

Christopher hits the ground and bounces a little, his head cracking back against the stripped concrete. He rolls on instinct, cradling his twisted wrist, and, fuck, he never would have dreamed Rorschach could move so fast, be so brutal. His eyes are tearing up but he peeks and sees the wonderful monster looming above him, trembling with something that could be called rage, or arousal, or...

"Oh, fuck, yes," Christopher manages through his bloody lip, as the leather hands of his dreams, of his nightmares, seizes his collar, hefts him up so they're face to face.

"Nff. You had no right," Rorschach hisses, like he does in Christopher's mind, shaking him just right. "No right."

"God, yes," Chris whimpers, trying to grind his hips against Rorschach's. "Yes, please."

For a moment, it seems like Rorschach doesn't know what to do. He tilts his head back, looking between their bodies like he has never seen a man in the throes of passion before, has never felt that fucking need eating him up. "Hrm," He says, contemplatively, outside the sensations, outside such human things.

But those hands, those hands twisted up in his shirt when they should be twisted up in him – Christopher can't take it. "Jesus fuck, hurt me, hurt me, oh, God, punish me!"

More consideration. Silence. Then, quiet, just enough for the word to be lost under Christopher's noisy breath but the intent is unmistakable—

"Yes."

It's like a bomb goes off inside.

Christopher is squriming and thrashing and grunting with the effort of thrusting at such an angle. He has an extreme disadvantage, without leverage, without purchase, and he can't get his timing right, but, fuck, if this isn't the best experience of his life he doesn't, he doesn't, he doesn't even know.

And Rorschach doesn't budge an inch, like he is some dead thing, some immovable bastion. Like he's untouched. Just staring. Like living room shadows. Like strangers in a bar.

Always watching.

Christopher lets his head roll back, his eyes slipping closed, moving frantically under the thin shield of his eyelids. He is close, he is so fucking close and they haven't even done anything really and he's just, oh, oh, he's there, he's right there.

Rorschach starts half-carrying him, half-dragging him somewhere, but he doesn't open his eyes, lost in this visceral, incredibly sexual experience. Oh, yes. Oh yes, yes, yesyesyesyes—

And suddenly the floor isn't there.

And his stomach is dropping out.

And his eyes open, wide and startled, as Rorschach drops him.

And nobody's watching when he falls.

Epilogue

"So, you were kinda late tonight."

"Mph."

Dan frowns, adjusting his goggles with one hand. "So, what, stuck in traffic?" He laughs a little at the rather bland joke, only a trifle nervous; after all, they have worked together almost a year, he feels some ribbing is well within his rights.

Rorschach shrugs expressively, staring out Archie's window. "A man attempted to molest me. Asked me to hurt him. So I dropped him down an elevator shaft." His voice is flat, and he betrays no hint of levity.

Dan starts, jerking on the controls. His head whips around to regard his partner, and he makes a strained chuckle, shocked by the unexpected joke. Just when he thought he had a handle on Rorschach's mind, he's thrown for another loop; it's oddly endearing. "Oh, heh. Um. That's, uh, that's an, um, an interesting sense of humor you've got, Rorschach."

Rorschach stares at him.

"Uh. Wow. Heh."

The ink blots betray nothing.

"You're kidding, right? I mean… elevator shaft?"

Silence.

Dan bites his lip, then guffaws. It's too ridiculous to entertain; it has to be a joke. "No. No, you're not gonna fool me with that stoic act. I'm on to you." He waggles his finger admonishingly, only half-fearing Rorschach will lash out and break it. Yes, they'd been together long enough for a little teasing. Of course. Yes. It was natural.

Really. Elevator shafts. Pfft.

"You're not a bad guy, really. It's, uh, kinda funny. Yeah. Funny."

Rorschach shrugs ambivalently, and goes back to watching out the window. The rest of the night is uneventful, quiet. They do not mention it again.

It takes Dan exactly three days to realize out that he was being serious.