[AU - fic] Atrocity Exhibition
Adrenaline is still burning its way up and down every vein long after the scum has been captured and handed over to the police. Rorschach and Nite Owl are real heroes, now. The Riddler will be locked up and see trial for his crimes and maybe, the two vigilantes will get a nod for their work. Either way, the laughter between the two of them for the whole trip home is still ringing in Rorschach's ears.
Daniel's gone to bed. He's shed Nite Owl and put the hero away because the man underneath --the good and honest and strong man-- has work in the morning. Rorschach is left awake and anxious in the living room, unable to rest, to settle, to sleep. He tells himself it's the rush of their success, but he knows that isn't all. The nagging feel of his pulse pounding out his needs like a telegraph of unbidden lust and the tight strain against his pants won't let him forget. He can't forget Daniel's smile exposed in Nite Owl's mask, panting with exertion as his suit shone with a light glisten of rain on his heaving chest. He can't forget the way Daniel's voice sounded --Nite Owl's voice sounded-- when he shouted for the Riddler to 'Quit his games. There'll be plenty of time to play in Blackgate' and how it sent shivers through him. ... He can't forget how sick he is.
He growls in frustration, in anger, in perverse need. Walter rips his mask off and tosses it aside. He pulls his gloves off as fast as he can, fumbling with them. Rorschach doesn't have these thoughts. Rorschach hands don't do these ...these things Walter wants to do. Less than a hundred feet away, Daniel Dreiberg is dreaming a hero's dreams. He's clean and noble and worthy of his place as one of this city's protectors. Not like Walter. Not like horrible, dirty, whoreson Walter.
Walter drops down pitifully on the couch --on Daniel's couch, dear god-- and lets out a small sound between a gasp and a sob as he runs a hand under his waistband. So many nights now, he and Daniel have sat together here. Side by side, poring over clues and riddles. Working as a team. He undoes his fly and rubs a bit more firmly. He moans quietly and leans back, head tilting back to stare up at the ceiling. He's fallen asleep in this position before. He's woken up here to Daniel's gentle voice and a soft touch on his shoulder. He wraps his fingers around the hot skin of his sinful erection.
I'm sorry, Daniel. is all he can think as his body shivers with the feel of his own touch. Walter rolls his head to the side. He can smell Daniel's cologne on the couch's upholstery. He lets the breath out, slow and shaking, as if his body is trying to hold that scent captive. All the while, Walter's hand pumps with a mind of its own. He thinks of the phone ringing and Daniel stepping out from the shower in nothing but a towel to answer. Standing there, wet and barely covered and paying Walter no mind at all. God, how he stared how his throat seemed to close and he had to turn his head. Walter turns his head and his back arches with the intensity of sensation, long denied.
No. He can't do this. He can't do this to Daniel. Walter can't dirty the man's home, his image, the thought of him... They're friends, and he's destroying it with the tool of his sickness gripped firm in one hand. Walter grunts and reaches his free hand up, pulling tight at his scarf. The fabric tightens, rather than slip free. This is what sodomites deserve. This is what abominations deserve. Walter wraps scarf around his hand twice and pulls again. Pulls harder. A quiet, choked, gasp gurgles past and two streams of slip down from the corners of two watering eyes. His face is hot and he can hear his pulse thudding like a bass drum in his ears. His lips mouth the word 'mother' as his body jerks.
He feels like he may explode in that split moment before the hot, thick evidence of his deviancy runs over his hand and stomach. Bright, white flowers bloom and burst in his vision and darkness encroaches from all sides. His hand and the scarf loosen enough as dizziness claims him for the last note of a strangled cry to escape his throat as Walter falls in a heap to lay, unconscious, sweaty, and soiled on Daniel's couch. Daniel's scent rises to him from the upholstery.
Daniel's gone to bed. He's shed Nite Owl and put the hero away because the man underneath --the good and honest and strong man-- has work in the morning. Rorschach is left awake and anxious in the living room, unable to rest, to settle, to sleep. He tells himself it's the rush of their success, but he knows that isn't all. The nagging feel of his pulse pounding out his needs like a telegraph of unbidden lust and the tight strain against his pants won't let him forget. He can't forget Daniel's smile exposed in Nite Owl's mask, panting with exertion as his suit shone with a light glisten of rain on his heaving chest. He can't forget the way Daniel's voice sounded --Nite Owl's voice sounded-- when he shouted for the Riddler to 'Quit his games. There'll be plenty of time to play in Blackgate' and how it sent shivers through him. ... He can't forget how sick he is.
He growls in frustration, in anger, in perverse need. Walter rips his mask off and tosses it aside. He pulls his gloves off as fast as he can, fumbling with them. Rorschach doesn't have these thoughts. Rorschach hands don't do these ...these things Walter wants to do. Less than a hundred feet away, Daniel Dreiberg is dreaming a hero's dreams. He's clean and noble and worthy of his place as one of this city's protectors. Not like Walter. Not like horrible, dirty, whoreson Walter.
Walter drops down pitifully on the couch --on Daniel's couch, dear god-- and lets out a small sound between a gasp and a sob as he runs a hand under his waistband. So many nights now, he and Daniel have sat together here. Side by side, poring over clues and riddles. Working as a team. He undoes his fly and rubs a bit more firmly. He moans quietly and leans back, head tilting back to stare up at the ceiling. He's fallen asleep in this position before. He's woken up here to Daniel's gentle voice and a soft touch on his shoulder. He wraps his fingers around the hot skin of his sinful erection.
I'm sorry, Daniel. is all he can think as his body shivers with the feel of his own touch. Walter rolls his head to the side. He can smell Daniel's cologne on the couch's upholstery. He lets the breath out, slow and shaking, as if his body is trying to hold that scent captive. All the while, Walter's hand pumps with a mind of its own. He thinks of the phone ringing and Daniel stepping out from the shower in nothing but a towel to answer. Standing there, wet and barely covered and paying Walter no mind at all. God, how he stared how his throat seemed to close and he had to turn his head. Walter turns his head and his back arches with the intensity of sensation, long denied.
No. He can't do this. He can't do this to Daniel. Walter can't dirty the man's home, his image, the thought of him... They're friends, and he's destroying it with the tool of his sickness gripped firm in one hand. Walter grunts and reaches his free hand up, pulling tight at his scarf. The fabric tightens, rather than slip free. This is what sodomites deserve. This is what abominations deserve. Walter wraps scarf around his hand twice and pulls again. Pulls harder. A quiet, choked, gasp gurgles past and two streams of slip down from the corners of two watering eyes. His face is hot and he can hear his pulse thudding like a bass drum in his ears. His lips mouth the word 'mother' as his body jerks.
He feels like he may explode in that split moment before the hot, thick evidence of his deviancy runs over his hand and stomach. Bright, white flowers bloom and burst in his vision and darkness encroaches from all sides. His hand and the scarf loosen enough as dizziness claims him for the last note of a strangled cry to escape his throat as Walter falls in a heap to lay, unconscious, sweaty, and soiled on Daniel's couch. Daniel's scent rises to him from the upholstery.