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So he's lying face down on Archie's console, which happens. He's a new toy, a complicated one, and there's still a multitude of teething problems to work on and a lot of those involve Dan prying up the dash and squinting at the wiring. Or sometimes they'll be in flight and hit some turbulence, and if Dan had been standing and gazing out over New York, all sparking like a reflection of the sky, well, he's found himself sprawled over the controls more than once that way, too.
He wasn't quite prepared to meet the console on these terms, half-naked and bruised and trying to figure out if he's just been kissed or punched in the mouth, but as Rorschach blindly works the catch of his belt with almost feral impatience, he finds he's kinda coming around to the idea.
A tug at his hips and his shorts are peeled away, taking gray spandex with them to puddle shapelessly over his boots. His skin roughs up into goosebumps as Rorschach presses against him, wraps his arms around Dan's belly. His trench is coarse and gritty against Dan's back and the buttons dig uncomfortably; under his chest, the dash controls bite at his flesh. He feels like he's being chewed on.
Rorschach presses his mouth between Dan's shoulder blades, all warm latex and the impression of teeth, and Dan hears himself whine, low, with an embarrassingly desperate edge. His cock is squashed against the console and actually... he's kind of nervous about all the buttons he's lying on, because hey, they're a couple thousand feet up and if they survive a crash landing he really, really doesn't want to have to explain what was going on the the relevant authorities. Sorry, officer, I hit the wrong button because my partner had just worked one gloved finger inside me, and—
"Ow, fuck." Dan gasps. "Wait, wait..." He's got a pretty high threshold for pain – something of a necessity in their line of work – but that doesn't mean he particularly enjoys it, especially if it can be avoided. "Need some lube. Spit or, or... something."
"Spit?" Rorschach echoes, sounding so goddamn prim it makes Dan want to laugh.
"Or something," he says, twisting onto his back. He rubs his fingers and thumb together, miming. "You know. Nothing in your pockets?"
Rorschach just hikes his mask over his nose and stares down at him, patterns swirling above a thin-lipped mouth.
"So much for the improvisational genius. You are not fucking me into the dash without—"
"Ehn! No need to be crude, Daniel."
"Don't be so coy." Dan does laugh this time, gives Rorschach's shoulder a pat and shimmies off the console.
He's vaguely self-conscious about his nakedness; mostly because Rorschach always stays dressed for as long as he possibly can when they do this. Sometimes it's exhilarating to be Daniel Dreiberg and at his mercy, or to be Nite Owl and fighting for dominance, but sometimes Dan just wants to be with the quiet, grim man who animates the mask, whoever he is.
There's a bottle of mineral oil stashed behind one of the maintenance panels, almost full. Perfect. He hands it to Rorschach, and tugs at the belt of his trench, hoping he'll get the hint.
He does, pushing Dan back against the console and shrugging a few layers at once. Dan is certain he'll never get tired of the way he pulls his gloves off with his teeth, revealing bruised knuckles and crookedly-healed fingers. Dan's tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, anticipating.
Rorschach pops the bottle cap and smears his fingers with the oil, smells them. Looks down his nose at them, then touches one fingertip to the end of his tongue.
"Oh, god, come on," Dan says, not sure if he wants to be irritated or enraptured. "You're killing me here. It's not poisonous."
"Can't be too careful," Rorschach says, leaning over so Dan can unbutton his vest and shirt for him. "Something you use to maintain Owlship is not usually something you should use to...hn." His mouth twitches in distaste.
"Trust me on this," Dan says, and slips the suspenders off his shoulders. "It's fine. Keep it away from your mask, though, it doesn't play well with latex."
Rorschach stiffens and pulls away.
Dan hooks his hand around suspender elastic and gives it a tug. Rorschach does this fairly often, kind of quietly freaks out and needs gentling; sometimes Dan gets a knee to the balls for his troubles, sometimes a fierce embrace. Dan suspects he's gotten pretty damaged somewhere along the way. But then, show him a masked vigilante who isn't a little bit strange in the head.
"Hey," he says. "What's up? You okay?"
"Don't want to risk ruining it," Rorschach says. "Have a spare, but only one." He slides his fingers between his face and his mask; the blots ripple as he rolls it up and off. He tucks it into the back pocket of his pants.
"Oh," Dan says. "Hi." At this point in their relationship it would have been hard to miss the fact that he's a redhead, of course, but wow. And he's...well. Not the prettiest flower in the pot. Dan can't help but grin anyway, ear to ear. "What should I call you?"
"Rorschach," Rorschach says.
"Of course, what else. Wh—hey, steady!"
Rorschach raises an eyebrow as he tips the bottle, slopping way too much oil over Dan's stomach. "Problem?"
Dan hisses, takes a breath to grouse about how cold the damn stuff is or complain about the mess it's going to make, but then Rorschach slides his hands over him and spreads the oil downwards, leaving glistening lines in his wake. It runs in viscous rivulets between his legs, down his inner thighs.
Dan decides that no, he has absolutely no problem at all. If there's anything that messing around with his partner has taught him, it's that as far as sex with Rorschach is concerned, better too much lube than not enough.
It's slick and slippery and oozing into all the dips and creases of their skin, makes it hard to keep a grip as they wrestle each other over the console, but at least it's warming now, heated by the rising temperature of their bodies as they roughhouse, working each other into an adrenaline high.
Dan's fighting laughter; they're making some terrible squelchy wet noises, and it's obviously scandalizing Rorschach. He takes pity and bites his throat to redirect his attention, holds him as still as he can while he works his hand between them and tries to unfasten his pinstripes, but it's hard to get a grip on the zipper. Dan can feel the shape of him through the cloth, pushing into his hand while he's trying to concentrate, goddamn it. He scrabbles at the dampened fabric in frustration.
Rorschach growls and squirms free, manages to divest himself of his pants after a few attempts and then he's gripping Dan's hips like a vice, oil gathering in shining rills around his fingers. He rocks Dan against the console in deliberate thrusts, the length of his cock gliding smoothly alongside Dan's own and against his stomach. It feels wet and strange and so fucking good, like velvet sliding over his skin; it sends Dan's nerve-ends flaring, tingling on the verge of sensory overload. He arches up into it and closes his hand around them both, sharpening the sensations into something high and bright and almost unbearable.
Rorschach makes an anguished noise and loses his grip, sliding and lurching against him with a moist slap; Dan tries to catch him but his palms skid and slip and Dan ends up with a face full of damp curls. He laughs breathlessly into Rorschach's hair, wraps his arms around him in a fruitless attempt to keep them pressed chest-to-chest. Rorschach slithers down Dan's body, maybe deliberately but possibly not; either way he braces one hand at the juncture of Dan's groin and thigh and sinks a finger into him, up to the knuckle.
Dan lets slip a string of unintelligible half-words as Rorschach slides his finger out and pushes back in with two, works him slowly with long, careful strokes. He's moving inside him so easily, so slick and uninhibited. There's none of the hard burn he's used to but god, it's just as good as rough friction and coarse fingers, just as good.
He shifts in order to push down and take things deeper, but that just sends him into an inexorable slide over the console; his hands can't get any purchase and they flail off the greased metal.
"Going somewhere?" Rorschach hitches him back onto the controls, encourages him to hook his legs up, without much success. He sounds short of breath and is flushed a deep pink from chest to hairline. The dash lights are reflecting off him, making him shine and glint with speculars that emphasize his physique; he's all sharp angles and tough sinew, battle-worn and hardy and imperfect, battered into the shape he owns.
He seems to give up on keeping Dan's leg from slipping off his shoulder. He settles for cradling it in the crook of his arm instead, and returns his attention to the task at hand.
"No," Dan says, pitched high as he curls his fingers just so. "You got me. Oh, Jesus."
Dan tightens around his fingers, and Rorschach withdraws as if it were some coded signal, and then runs his hand over his cock like it isn't already slick enough. He's being goddamn leisurely about it. Dan won't be too ashamed to beg if Rorschach decides he's going to have his own private party instead, but then he's nudging at Dan's ass, lining himself up.
Rorschach pushes inside him, taking him in one full thrust, lubricant allowing him to glide like silk. Dan can't breathe for a long moment, and for a moment more it feels like he can only let it out in broken fragments or he might burst into a thousand tiny splinters. He grabs at Rorschach, fingers skidding over slippery flesh until he leans over and lets Dan loop his arms over his shoulders.
Dan pulls him down so their cheeks press together, listens to the swell and grate of Rorschach's breathing as he rolls his hips, the filthy wet noises as he drives into him with fluid rhythm. He's as uncompromising and relentless as he ever is, but if Dan wanted soft and tender, he'd be sleeping with someone else.
Rorschach pants in his ear as he brings them to a shuddering pause, too soon. Dan bucks his hips, pleading; he's almost there, all he needs is a little more, that unyielding pressure right there, and...
Rorschach catches his breath, exhales on a long, fractured groan, and Dan knows that sound pretty well now and knows how he can make it good. He reaches down and wraps a fist around his cock, bites his lip at the decadent slide of the lubricant and bears down around the heat inside him. He rides out his orgasm with tenacity, and it's not long until he's watching Rorschach squeeze his eyes shut as he comes.
Dan takes the opportunity study Rorschach as he comes back to himself, sweating and shaken out, momentarily vulnerable on all levels. It's in these brief moments that Dan wants to say something – that he loves him, perhaps, or something like that, whatever it is. Taboo, regardless – but they are always too fleeting. For the best, he knows. The words are slippery anyway, hard to make the right shape for how they are, inclined to swirl and reform into different meanings, and he resents the mess that would come of that. Instead, he's content to let them slide off the console into a slick, oily tangle and leave the clean-up and clarity for later.