| >> |
No. 79365
Who wants more porn!
Nite Owl has been watching him strangely all night. It's nothing immediately worrying – he doesn't think he's injured, can feel no defects in his body save the usual aches and bruises, product of a night spent answering the highest calling – but it's all corner-of-the-eye nonsense, something he'd expect from someone less aware of just how little Rorschach misses.
Which means that Nite Owl wants him to notice. Curious and unsettling, all at once.
When they stop on a rooftop for a few minutes' surveillance (there is always more of it to do, more monsters to watch and secrets to uncover) Nite Owl indulges in a sidelong glance that lasts an infuriatingly long time. A man would have to be literally blind to miss it.
Inside Rorschach's gloves, fingers go hot and tingly; his throat is dry. "What," he asks, letting that heat manifest as irritation.
Nite Owl gets halfway to a word before he shakes his head. Looks at his hands, his feet, the distant skyline – anywhere but into the mask, and Rorschach knows it's always asked its own questions.
"Nothing," he finally says, with a catch in his voice that says it's definitely something, but Rorschach isn't in the mood to argue with him.
--
The tunnel back to the Owl's Nest is long, always seems longer at the end of the night than at the beginning. It echoes abandonment from every curved wall, and everything's monochromatic and magnified here, taken to simplified extremes. More than once they've stopped under one of these lights, riding high on the city's pulse and unable to wait another quarter mile, and Nite Owl would–
No. He's not going to lose himself to those thoughts now, because Nite Owl clearly already has, walking with a loose and careless grace, lines of his body falling into a desperately inviting curve. And one of them has to take point, has to pay attention, has to be present, even if they have walked these rails a hundred times, will walk them a hundred more, know the tunnel well enough to go blindfolded from one end to the other without ever touching the walls. Even if it is well and truly abandoned, no footsteps but theirs for years.
Nights like these, anything could happen.
--
Over coffee in the kitchen, his partner will not stop staring, long legs spread under the table and taking up far more space than he needs to. He's low in his chair, eyes dark and suggestive, and in retrospect, the odd looks started days ago. They've felt like some question Nite Owl's incapable of asking, too finely lit in moonlight and justice, too idealized even in his own mind.
Daniel, though...
Rorschach sets his coffee mug down, hard.
--
"God," Daniel breathes, harshly. He's on his back, like he always is, naked as he always is, night's battles written in abstract post-modern shorthand on the canvas of his skin, blue and purple and black. Walter's still mostly disguised as Rorschach, as he always is. The mask is up and his coat and jacket and vest and shirt are all opened down the middle, peeled and pinned back like delicate layers of membrane and skin, and that's hard enough. But he hasn't shed them entirely and they're at least some protection against this.
Still, Daniel asks for more.
"Please," he whines, curling hard fingers into Walter's hipbones, tugging them closer together. One leg tries to hitch up over the worn-smooth leather of his coat, finds no purchase.
It's obscene, what he's asked for, with nothing but the spread of thighs and clawing hands and a high whine that should come from no good man's mouth. A crossing of boundaries that is easy to find condemning words for – whorish, depraved – when it's distant, when it's women in alleyways begging for this, hitching their skirts and allowing themselves to be braced up against walls and pushed inside of, taken.
This close, with all the heat and smell of sweat and the awareness that it's him Daniel wants inside, his own flesh sliding into those dark and disgusting places, the words are forced right out his head. He looks down at Daniel, writhing and lifting his hips invitingly and burbling nonsense and he can't even put his mind around what's happening.
It's too close, too...
He pulls away, shifts off the bed – closes his eyes behind the mask so that he doesn't have to see the look of disappointment to match the low, despairing moan. Works on buttoning his clothes back up, from the inside out, like closing a wound.
"Rorschach..." Daniel starts, and Walter winces, because Rorschach would never be here, here every night like an addict haunting his supplier's doorway; would not be flushed under his clothes and trying desperately to shape bewilderment into disgust instead of the temptation it keeps trying to be. He wills his hands to work faster. "Look, don't... I wasn't trying to scare you off."
"Not scared," Walter hisses, but his voice is in slightly the wrong register and his fingers fumble the tiny buttons of his vest.
"Then why are you–"
"Clearly at cross-purposes tonight. Better to disengage."
Daniel shifts, leverages himself up onto his elbows. "I thought we both pretty much wanted to get off," he says, smirking a little, and Walter freezes midway through smoothing the waistcoat points flat against his hips.
Silence in the dark room, for a good while; it'll be dawn soon.
Then Walter finds himself on Daniel again, pinning his shoulders to the mattress with a controlled violence, looming. He waits for the flare of heat in Daniel's eyes to subside back to nervousness.
"Interested in taking something equitable and... enh, marginally honorable, and turning it into a farce," he says, and now the nervousness on Daniel's face shifts again, into confusion. "Degrading yourself, forcing me to degrade you. Not a... this isn't... not a whore, Daniel."
"I... shit, I never said you were–"
"Not me," Walter growls, and his voice is still a little too high and tight but it echoes against the stretched hollow of Daniel's throat. "You."
A whimper, low in the chest; he can feel Daniel swallow at air. "Please."
"No."
"I'm not... I'm not like that and you know it," Daniel says, raking fingers down Walter's coatsleeves. "I just, I need it, need to feel you, please."
"No."
Daniel groans, rough and fractured, arches his head back. It hits Walter like running into a wall, old brickwork scratching at his senses: Daniel's wallowing in this, in the denial.
He shapes the words in his head again – No, Daniel – and feels a spike of something low and hot.
"Tell me what you want," he says, before he can even be sure why he's saying it.
"You already–"
"Say it."
Daniel looks up at him, without any of the soft boyishness that'd once made Walter certain Daniel wasn't as filthy and compromised as he was; this creature is all sharpness and need, shameless. "I want you to fuck me."
"Not going to," Walter growls, peeling Daniel's hands from his sleeves and pressing them flat to the mattress; they're shaking. "Tell me why you want it."
Daniel's flushing now, a new kind of heat in his eyes. He still replies, careful, like reciting a script: "I want to know what it's like."
"Know what it's like?" Walter rocks against him, a hot, careful grind that leaves even him feeling teased and deprived. Daniel must be... "To be violated? Object for another's pleasure? Taken, like some cheap, throwaway toy?"
"I... no, god, it's not like that," Daniel says, and it's almost like he's appalled by the words but the sharp buck of his hips gives him away. Sweat's pooling in the dip of his collarbone, and Walter ducks to lick along it, still too solid and slow, too gone when it's gone. Daniel groans, low, needy.
"Not the real reason." Walter runs a hand up the cleft of Daniel's ass, one finger finding him relaxed and inviting; he makes an inarticulate sound, surprise and arousal. "Have obviously done it before. Why do you want it?"
Daniel doesn't answer, biting his lip, saliva shining there in the diffuse light from the window.
The finger pushes in, dry, to the first knuckle.
"Fuck." It comes out explosive and thin, like a held breath. "Fuck, Rorschach."
"No."
"But you're–"
"Said no," and now it's Walter that gives his own game up, heat rising through his limbs with the words, and this feels so good he can't even allow himself to think about it. He crooks his finger instead, vindictive. "Also told you to tell me why."
Grit teeth, breath through his nose. Daniel still doesn't answer at first, stays silent until Rorschach's just starting to contemplate what his next option is shy of breaking fingers.
"Because it's you," he finally says, and his shining eyes betray it as truth. The words pick up speed as they go. "Because I know what your... ah, god. I know what your hands feel like on me, what you do to other people with them, how you move, how your body... I know what you could do inside me."
Silence, delicate, and he can feel Daniel's pulse racing against the enveloped tip of his finger.
Daniel swallows. "I want that."
"Don't get something just because you want it."
A low vocalization, as close to pure pleasure as Rorschach can identify. He eases the finger out, careful, and the sound changes pitch, becomes more desperate.
"Certainly don't get something the first time you ask," Rorschach says, and it feels like the filthiest thing he's ever said.
"Of course," Daniel says; then, contradicting, "Please."
"Asked nicely." Rorschach wraps a hand around both of them, rocking into the friction; Daniel moves with him, hands still curled into the sheets where Rorschach put them, like they're still being pinned there. "But that doesn't get you everywhere."
Daniel whimpers, and something breaks open, letting a stream of babble free. "Goddamn it, Rorschach, please," he says, then repeats himself, endless variations on the theme until what's leaving his mouth is barely language. "Come on, I'm..."
I'm begging you, here.
Under the lifted line of the mask, Rorschach feels his face shift; he's smiling, just a little, as he tightens his grip and twists, pulls Daniel's orgasm out of him and finishes himself a moment later, soiling them both in symmetric, equal measure.
--
"Oh my–" Daniel says, interrupting himself with breathless laughter. "Oh my god, Rorschach."
Walter doesn't respond, doesn't bother correcting him; even with the trench and jacket splayed open and his pants undone and his cock going soft against his leg, he still feels like something strong, now.
"God," and Daniel is repeating himself, uselessly awe-struck. "I can't believe you were getting off on that. A kink for being disagreeable and uncooperative, there's one for the books."
An annoyed huff of breath, louder than he means it to be.
Daniel runs the back of his hand over his forehead, collecting sweat. "Only you, man."
"Noticed," Walter finally finds the energy to rebut, acerbic, "that I was not the only one enjoying it."
And it's natural enough in this state for them to drift a little, so the pause that follows doesn't strike Walter as strange until Daniel breaks it by rolling to face him, threading one arm over his chest. The moment feels tight, suddenly.
"You weren't," Daniel says, mumbling into his throat, strangely serious. "I was... that was really hot, god. Saying things like that, and you... but, Rorschach. I don't, uh. I don't say things I don't mean."
Walter shuts his eyes again, tries to keep his breathing steady under Daniel's arm. Behind closed lids, sparks are still dancing.
"I do want... I do want you," Daniel's voice continues, vibrating against his skin. "Like that. Because I think it'd be amazing. And because I... ah, hell."
Breath catches in his throat when he feels Daniel drag his mouth up over his jawline, come to rest just under his ear, take a moment to form soundless endearments there. When he continues, it's almost a whisper.
"But you know? I'll beg as long as you need me to, buddy."
|