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He never asks. You just don't ask Rorschach for things, especially this. ('This' is Dan getting thrown over the arm of the couch so hard that the wind is knocked out of him and the couch skids an inch along the carpet.) He puts up just enough of a fight to avoid suspicion as Rorschach yanks his pants down, taking a layer of skin with them. Because that's what this is to Rorschach: a fight. Something that happens when he comes around to invite Nite Owl out to play, and Dan has homework or an early class, and Rorschach lets his disdain for higher education be known, and an argument turns physical.
As for Dan, well...they say that college is a time for experimentation, and instead of playing doctor with a pretty co-ed, he is figuring out exactly how he feels about being violently sodomized by an unstable partner whose real name he does not know and whose face he has only half-glimpsed.
He does not push back (too eager) when he hears the now-familiar sound of Rorschach's mask lifting and the crude, wet hock of his partner spitting into his hand. He does not look over his shoulder (too confrontational), staring instead at the reflection of Rorschach's sharp, naked jaw and uneven mouth in the television screen. He does not try to escape (counter-productive), not really. He only moves, writhing, bucking, clawing at the couch cushions until Rorschach, predictably, makes a rough sound in his throat and grabs his wrists.
It's never handcuffs, never rope. Those are for criminals, and even when they're fighting, Rorschach seems to still regard him as a partner—just a seriously misguided one. This isn't anything as perverted as bondage in Rorschach's head, Dan imagines. It's only a way of keeping Dan still when he is being uncooperative.
There's a brief struggle and the muffled thump of Rorschach's heavy coat hitting the floor. The rustle of cloth. Dan wrenches free for verisimilitude because just one of Rorschach's gloved hands should not plausibly be able to hold both his wrists; he's quickly recaptured, however, and then his hands are bound together with three brisk, tight loops of a suspender strap.
Something shudders through him as he's rendered immobile, his face pressed into the couch. He feels the first spit-wet nudge, and then he's crying out sharply. It's addictive, crimefighting. Not just the rush of saving someone or righting a wrong, but the physicality of it. He never sleeps better than when every muscle has been strained—when he's bruised, hurt, healing—and now when he's too long without a fight, his body feels lax and weak and soft.
Not like Rorschach, who's all hard edges all the time. Muscle and bone, and a way of fucking that's more like a stabbing in progress than anything resembling lovemaking. He has no sense of rhythm, no concept of foreplay or teasing or style. It is only one firm hand at the back of Dan's neck, and the other on Dan's hip, and thrusts that come harder and faster and longer than any ordinary man should be able to muster.
Short, stupid sounds are driven out of Dan's throat with every searing stab (ah—ah—God), and he lets them come, lets them be loud until a gloved hand clamps over his mouth, until leather-clad fingers push past his lips, stretching his jaw wide. His glasses, which have miraculously managed to stay on up until now, work their way down his nose as Rorschach's pace impossibly quickens. They clatter to the floor, and Dan lets out an almighty caterwaul as his vision goes fuzzy with more than the loss of them.
Then (he shakes) there's another motion behind him, and in the television's reflection, something white billows. The scarf covers his face, twists, pulls tight across his mouth. He tastes the reek of old sweat and spilled coffee as his head is yanked back, as his whole body arches, and he swallows down his voice so that whatever strange mechanism in Rorschach's brain that decides these things will parse the scarf as Helpful.
He bites down on the stiff wool as he grinds against the arm of the couch, his breath coming raggedly through his nose. Gagged, he can hear what was muffled before. The slap of their bodies slamming together grows sharper, and the glove creaks as fingers dig brutally into his hip, and the ragged, gargling-rock sounds spilling from Rorschach’s throat take on the vague shape of "Daniel, Daniel, Daniel ..."
Dan doesn't plead. He can't, his mouth clamped down on the scarf. Begging would only make Rorschach stop, besides. So he sags forward instead, held fast by scarf and suspender and glove as the pain and pleasure merge into a single raw, pulsing force inside him. He doesn't ask—never asks Rorschach for anything.
He doesn’t have to.