[FIC] Watchmen - Dan/Rorschach - NC17 - "Whoreson"
Title: "Whoreson"
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Nite Owl II/ Rorschach
Word Count: 743
Warnings: Kind of depressing.
Summary: Rorschach self gratifies.
Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen. I never will. I just love and adore the characters of Watchmen.
Notes: Oh god, what have I begun here?
i. Confused
ii. Frustrated
iii. Worried
iv. Staring
v. Connecting
Rorschach got home just after sunrise and became Walter Kovacs.
He stripped down to his wife beater and boxers, folding his clothes neatly and hiding them beneath the floorboards, then went to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time.
His cheek bones were high in an unattractive way, his ears were too small. His skin was pale and dotted with dark freckles that no one would ever love. He grimaced at himself. His lips were puffy, swollen from the kiss he'd stolen at the Nite Owl's home. His fingers traced them, his eyes losing focus as the memory of the kiss sent a flush of warmth through his body.
Coming back to himself, he frowned, lips curling in disgust at what he had become. Who was he trying to fool? Daniel wouldn't love him. Not once he saw the hideous whoreson that was behind the inkblot mask. His latex face was far more attractive than the one he hid beneath it.
But Daniel had wanted him to stay, had wanted to share more kisses and touches. Walter licked his lips, the memory of how his friend had looked bringing back all the uncomfortable arousal he'd felt at the time. Brown hair had been messy, curling, and pale cheeks had been flushed from emotion. Walter's breathing quickened, parts of him that he'd thought long dormant coming to life at the mental image.
He groaned, looked into his own eyes in the mirror, and wished they were Daniel's.
He moved out of the bathroom, to his bed, pulling off his wife beater and boxers, draping them over the back of a nearby chair. His erection throbbed between his legs as he crawled into bed and lay on his back, eyes slipping closed to conjure the only image he had that he could think of in such a way. Daniel, back pressed to the door frame, eyes dark from arousal. With a hitched inhale of breath his fingers wrapped around his aching member, squeezing clumsily. A grunt of disappointment jolted through him that he had to touch himself, that he hadn't stayed with his partner and let things go further. Draping his free arm across his eyes, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, he whimpered, imagining that it was Daniel touching him.
He imagined it was Daniel who gave him a slow, firm stroke, that it was Daniel who dragged his calloused thumb over the weeping head of his cock. He let out a noise, a mix of a gasp and a sob, grinding his teeth together, his hips bucking up into his hand. It felt so good to be touched, to touch; but it was sickening. To give in to such impulses, to become like his mother. A whore. Whoreson.
He gasped loudly, back arching off the bed, Daniel's eyes clearly etched out across his mind. Dark, focused, filled with want. Want for Rorschach. Want to touch him, and be touched by him. His hand stoked faster, warmth beginning to pool in his groin. Daniel's voice, husky in his ear.
Stay with me.
He cried out, eyes squeezing tighter closed, tears gathering in their corners and running down to his ears.
Stay.
His body went tense like a tightly strung bow, heat engulfing him, pulling at him. It dragged him under a cresting wave, twisted him and choked him. He heard his voice shout Daniel's name as came, hot spurts of white spilling across his taught stomach, sticking to his hand. He rode out the feeling, body spasming, then falling still as post orgasm lethargy set in. He breathed heavily, his heart fluttering in his chest. He bit down on his lower lip, hard enough that it split. The blood tasted like pennies and salt, and his tongue darted out to clean it from the wound.
He was sick.
A deviant.
A whore.
He curled slowly into a fetal position on his side, dragging the blankets up over his naked form. He could feel his semen drying on his skin, but washing it off would require going to the bathroom, where he would have to look at himself in the mirror.
He didn't want to have to look at himself.
So instead he curled up in the dim light of the morning, shaking and feeling sick.
If he couldn't bear to see his face, then why would anyone else want to look at it?
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Nite Owl II/ Rorschach
Word Count: 743
Warnings: Kind of depressing.
Summary: Rorschach self gratifies.
Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen. I never will. I just love and adore the characters of Watchmen.
Notes: Oh god, what have I begun here?
i. Confused
ii. Frustrated
iii. Worried
iv. Staring
v. Connecting
Rorschach got home just after sunrise and became Walter Kovacs.
He stripped down to his wife beater and boxers, folding his clothes neatly and hiding them beneath the floorboards, then went to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time.
His cheek bones were high in an unattractive way, his ears were too small. His skin was pale and dotted with dark freckles that no one would ever love. He grimaced at himself. His lips were puffy, swollen from the kiss he'd stolen at the Nite Owl's home. His fingers traced them, his eyes losing focus as the memory of the kiss sent a flush of warmth through his body.
Coming back to himself, he frowned, lips curling in disgust at what he had become. Who was he trying to fool? Daniel wouldn't love him. Not once he saw the hideous whoreson that was behind the inkblot mask. His latex face was far more attractive than the one he hid beneath it.
But Daniel had wanted him to stay, had wanted to share more kisses and touches. Walter licked his lips, the memory of how his friend had looked bringing back all the uncomfortable arousal he'd felt at the time. Brown hair had been messy, curling, and pale cheeks had been flushed from emotion. Walter's breathing quickened, parts of him that he'd thought long dormant coming to life at the mental image.
He groaned, looked into his own eyes in the mirror, and wished they were Daniel's.
He moved out of the bathroom, to his bed, pulling off his wife beater and boxers, draping them over the back of a nearby chair. His erection throbbed between his legs as he crawled into bed and lay on his back, eyes slipping closed to conjure the only image he had that he could think of in such a way. Daniel, back pressed to the door frame, eyes dark from arousal. With a hitched inhale of breath his fingers wrapped around his aching member, squeezing clumsily. A grunt of disappointment jolted through him that he had to touch himself, that he hadn't stayed with his partner and let things go further. Draping his free arm across his eyes, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, he whimpered, imagining that it was Daniel touching him.
He imagined it was Daniel who gave him a slow, firm stroke, that it was Daniel who dragged his calloused thumb over the weeping head of his cock. He let out a noise, a mix of a gasp and a sob, grinding his teeth together, his hips bucking up into his hand. It felt so good to be touched, to touch; but it was sickening. To give in to such impulses, to become like his mother. A whore. Whoreson.
He gasped loudly, back arching off the bed, Daniel's eyes clearly etched out across his mind. Dark, focused, filled with want. Want for Rorschach. Want to touch him, and be touched by him. His hand stoked faster, warmth beginning to pool in his groin. Daniel's voice, husky in his ear.
Stay with me.
He cried out, eyes squeezing tighter closed, tears gathering in their corners and running down to his ears.
Stay.
His body went tense like a tightly strung bow, heat engulfing him, pulling at him. It dragged him under a cresting wave, twisted him and choked him. He heard his voice shout Daniel's name as came, hot spurts of white spilling across his taught stomach, sticking to his hand. He rode out the feeling, body spasming, then falling still as post orgasm lethargy set in. He breathed heavily, his heart fluttering in his chest. He bit down on his lower lip, hard enough that it split. The blood tasted like pennies and salt, and his tongue darted out to clean it from the wound.
He was sick.
A deviant.
A whore.
He curled slowly into a fetal position on his side, dragging the blankets up over his naked form. He could feel his semen drying on his skin, but washing it off would require going to the bathroom, where he would have to look at himself in the mirror.
He didn't want to have to look at himself.
So instead he curled up in the dim light of the morning, shaking and feeling sick.
If he couldn't bear to see his face, then why would anyone else want to look at it?