It Makes Me Look The Way I Feel

by vlives (ao3)

Chapter 1: Rebirth

The dress was beautiful.

More than that. It was ethereal—perfect. It almost made him forget the garmet was for a girl, the female figure near lost in its kaleidoscope of beauty.

He’s pinching the sleeves out at arms length, gawking at it, and is almost grateful when his boss jolts him from his stupor.

“--No orders at all,” he shouts at the manager tailing him, and Walter jerks his head to greet them, feeling as if he’d been caught doing something terrible.

“You!” He shoves his finger at Walter and he keeps his gaze. “Just throw that out, won’t you?”

His heart sank. “Why?” He puts the dress back on the table, and his manager shoots him a look for the question.

“She canceled on it—the girl—called it ugly, and damn it, she’s right.” His boss shakes his head.

There was a lot Walter could say to that. Instead, a thought occurs to him, so he asks, “We have a box of this fabric, didn’t we, sir?”

“Yeah yeah. Just throw it out too, won’t you? We can’t sell any of this shit.” His boss mutters, his nose creasing in disgust. “Garbage. Don’t know why I thought this would take off.” He mumbles something more, storming off with the manager at his heels.

Alone in the storage room, Walter glances at the dress. It’s latex, which under any other circumstance would make his stomach turn, but other latex dresses aren’t white and don’t have ink constantly shaping and moving like water in the wind, never mixing, never grey, mysterious and drawing all at once.

Transfixed, Walter lays his fingertips on top of the garment.

The fabric responded, the ink spilling toward his hand to lap at it like a dog, or a fish coming up to the pond’s surface.

He lifted it away, and the ink dispersed, an ecosystem of pigment gliding and joining and pluming into gorgeous, alien shapes. Unwanted.

This was meant for him.

It wasn’t ugly, and Walter would take it and the box of its fabrics home later that night.

—

On impulse, Walter fashions a mask. Two of them, learning to heat his scissors with the flat part of his iron at home, from the dress. Cutting it up and turning it from a woman to a tool.

When staring at himself again, some emotion curls in his chest.
The face is a gorgeous, kinetic fractal of black and white, unmarred by the sickly artificial light of the bathroom and he takes it all in for too long, much longer than he’s ever looked at himself in the mirror before.

It felt right.

He rolls his neck, admiring the way the ink stayed on his face, not dipping down to the sleeve that covered his neck or under his chin. It’s then he glances down to his shoulders, his chest peeking from his A-shirt , his freckles marking his skin like chicken pox. He’s reminded of his own face under the beauty, reflected in these sores, and the uneven coloration of his skin, some of it pale, some darker, some red, some pink, and never a ubiquitous color. Of how it pulled over his muscles, of how ugly he really was.

He rips off the mask.

—

He wasn’t sure of the latex body, at first.

The mask held snug to his face, near plastered to his nose and lips, and when he had put it on for the first time the stench of the material and its closeness almost made him rip it off and dry heave.

Eventually, he acclimated – he had no choice.

Walter avoided clothes that fit him proper, usually — the cloth always bunched and itched, pinching his skin where it did — and he could get away with a size up.

But he needed a body to go with the head, and the image of latex hanging from his arms made him disgusted.

So, he got to work.

—

It took too long. Way too long. The process kept him up at night, the lamp at his desk seared into his retinas and he’d burned himself more than once on the scissors and iron.

Walter wipes sweat from his brow, setting his sewing machine again for the 10th time this day, surrounded by the heat and noises of the other machines and the tired bodies of people he never learned the names of.

It gave him something to look forward to after the factory and gym, and selfishly he was both dreading and eager to finish it.

He messed it up multiple times, burning the seams too early or too late, and he was always grateful for the 20 spreads of the fabric, because although he knew all his own measurements the fabric was finicky and didn’t like to stay put.

Eventually, he finished it.

–

He had a plan going into the construction, and knew it would be a pain to take on and off. A zipper on the back, material borrowed from work, was lost in the controlled chaos of the ink, didn’t stand out as much as he was dreading it would.

He stared at the pelt in his hands, filtering about hypnotically, even when bunched up unceremoniously in his hands.

Walter took a breath, spreading it out and putting one foot in.
Glove, pant, shirt, sleeve – all one cloth. The suit stuck to him, in that near suffocating way he was afraid it would.

But…

The suit was compressing–but, not unpleasant. Not really tacky.

Walter glances at the mirror.

The shadows, planes of his abdomen and chest, caught in the stretch of the fabric over his body, highlighted by the shine of the latex, but only just, because the gorgeous black clouds conjoin and spread over it all, demanding–no, commanding attention. Spreading delicately over the terrain of muscle, the blackness harmonizes its movements across his vessel, ethereal and powerful all at once.

Alluring, almost, and it immediately put Walter off. He shucked off the suit, standing bare in his skivvies with a new kind of vexation stirring in his mind and gut.

—-

Soon, it became clear that he had no use for the garb. He never did, and though he was attached to the result, this had been a useless exercise. One with a lingering dash of escapism and self-pity that wasn’t lost on 22 year old Walter, and it made him ashamed.

It was an art project, and Walter hid the costume away, its initial draw taxidermied.

Then came 1964 and its tell-tale heart began to beat, and Walter would never learn to ignore it again.

__

It fits him as well as it did two years ago.

He stands in front of his mirror, and even with the hard line of a crack running down the middle, his new flesh stands out against the normalcy, the filth, abstract and pulsing and shimmering in the darkness of his apartment. A figure the underbelly of New York would come to know, to whisper to each other about in the dark corners of bars and strip clubs, their eyes filled with the kind of primal fear Walter could only call Lovecraftian.

Not ugly. Not ugly at all.

Chapter 2: Apex

                                                                                                      –1965 –

Nite Owl stood stark against the black expanse of the sky, stars snuffed out from the neon light of Manhattan. His cape flitters slightly in the breeze, brushing against one of the unconscious bodies that laid on the ground.

“Uh,” He says dumbly.

“Nite Owl,” the figure gruffs. It takes longer than Daniel would admit to Hollis later that night to realize he had been asked a question.

“Yes, that’s me,” he spits out, voice surprisingly even. He reaches out his hand. “And you are…?” Incredible.

The head cocks, hypnotic face swirling at the gesture and Nite Owl considered withdrawing before a ghost white-black hand meets his, grip firm and brief.

Latex?

“Rorschach,” the figment answers. It’s–His entire body is…

“Ah,” Nite Owl smiles,“Fitting.”

                                                                                                              –--

Daniel had never met somebody whose presence alone could send his heart racing and head spinning, even after knowing them for long enough. Enough time to know what kind of man lived under the mystique, and yes, Hollis, he bled.

He used to call it jealousy–leave it to the mask who called himself Rorschach to bring out introspection–at how this all seemed mere second nature to his partner. The late nights, the strained social life (he assumed, he hoped even, he wasn’t alone in this), the creeping demoralization for the world settling into his soul. The fear, and the pain.

Envy, maybe, for the self assured way Rorschach simply was. A way Daniel had to fight himself tooth and nail for, and still spiraled due to the lack of.

He used the name of his mentor and hero, and appropriated the power and grace of an owl: at times, he felt he was an imposter through and through, basking in the shadow of a man he thought of greater than he was and a quiet, absurd echo of Earth’s excellence.

Rorschach, however…

His partner was an entirely different animal. Effortless in spirit, pain, and mind; in perfect predatory grace, he’d stalk on a ledge, leap, bring his fists and arms and entire being into the motion, his silhouette broken in the fray, body becoming a beautiful writhing mass of black and white–a pulsing phantom in the night that no one had learned to strike.

And if Dan were to be a complete dork about it–God knew he was willing–he’d compare it to a barn owl’s white belly and underwing, blinding its prey into shock and a swift death.

He was a force of nature, really — Inevitable. Dangerous.

Dan smirked at his mind’s theatrics, looking back down to his table–the guts of his project trailed out of a metallic bulb, like the reaching roots of a vegetable.

Rorschach wasn’t all vicious–he was deliberate. Smart as a whip, as Hollis would put it.

Daniel picks through one of the spools of wire.

And as oddly an idealist as he was callous and condescending.

Dan pressed a button on the inside of the metal bloom, retracting his hand as the wires reeled in and the five hollow slices of the container’s shell snapped closed.

Thoughtful wasn’t a word that should ever be in the same sentence as Rorschach, unless it was describing a quality he lacked. And yet…

He could be funny.

Dan found his partner was occupying more and more of his mind these days.

It didn’t help that he was… attracted to him. Because, damn it, how couldn’t he be?

That suit was vacuumed to his body. Hugged his chest, ass, thighs – everything, like a second skin.

And it was…
Latex. A goddamn latex catsuit, actually, gimp mask included, and Daniel had enough sense to know that even thinking about the goons of Twilight Lady near Rorschach would earn him a busted lip. Or a broken nose. Both, really.

But it was hard to ignore. Dan was such a simple man.

His partner leaned on another desk a few feet in front of him, face trained on the map of New York’s sewer systems, marked to hell with different colored pens and adorned with scraps of paper Rorshach and he had written on. The suit and mask caught the bare light of the Nest, calling attention to its slick material and the topography underneath.

Fittingly, the ink seemed to completely avoid his hips and groin, almost an extension of its master's staunch physical and ideological celibacy, curling around his waist and mixing along the planes of his back, caressing the terrain of wired muscle and the divot of his spine, meeting itself on the back of his thighs and calves. Now, it dared lower, seemingly forgetting its boundaries and swiped the dimples of his lower back.

Dan feels heat haunt his cheeks and he looks down at his project. “Anything yet?”

“No,” Rorschach grunts, voice low. “Nothing new. No pattern.” He rubbed his brow, massaging invisible sweat and annoyance away.

Dan tracks the movement. He deduced the suit was heat sensitive–on patrol it could get to swirling at a dizzying speed, reacting to Rorschach’s rising body heat with every violent, graceful movement, rolling across his muscles like oil. Other times, like now, it clouded lazily.

Dr. Manhattan’s discontinued fabric, he learned it was, carefully tailored by deadly hands. He had no idea how it was made–he wasn’t that type of engineer. He made weapons and gadgets and flying machines.

Then suddenly it hits Daniel, nearly knocks him over. He leaves his table, striding to his partner in a few deft steps. If Rorschach was surprised at his change of place he didn’t let on, turning to give him a cryptic glance.

Daniel studies the map, eyes trailing back and forth and up and down until he finds it.
“Mmmm,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I think I know where we have to go,”he taps his finger on an innocuous crossing of tunnels, “but you’re not going to like it.”

“Hmph,” Rorschach mutters. Continue, please.

“There used to be a bar there 20 years ago. But before they could build it, the city had to expand the lines over to that area and beyond. But these buildings specifically have been out of commission for well over a decade–until recently.” Dan glances at his partner’s shifting form.

“Now there’s an..alternate club there.”

“Loose Lips,” Rorschach grunts. Dan can hear the grimace in his tone and he catches his smirk before it blooms across his face.

“Right. There isn’t much happening over there now, except that club.” Dan moves his finger to other red circles, farther away. “There isn’t a pattern overall, but these channels specifically were built along with those original tunnels and lead to these big drop points.”

Rorschach says nothing. Then he glances to Daniel, head slightly cocked to the side. “You know this…”

Dan shrugged. “I had to when picking out a place to set up shop. If it weren’t for that subway tunnel we would probably be trucking through sewer muck.” With or without Archie.

“Why didn’t you say this before?” Indignance snaked its way into Rorschach’s tone–as it often found itself–and Dan felt defensiveness spike.

Dan brings his other hand to rest on his hip, leaning on the table with the other. “I didn’t remember until now. If you brought me this map sooner I could’ve thought of it faster. We’re a team, you know. I can’t help if I don’t know,” he finished tersely.

Rorschach makes a noncommittal noise, training his face on their target. Dan hadn’t expected anything else.

“Since we know they’re slinging through the sewers, we could set up camp there and see what we can find.” Dan notices again how reactive Rorschach’s suit is, the black nearest to his shoulder slipping to and fro from their closeness. Daniel was sure if he reached out to press his hand to it, the warmth of his palm would make it go faster, causing a chain reaction to the other shifting faces like swarms of starlings.

If he ran his hand down his back, rested it just above the curve of his ass, he might goad it to push lower. Would he be able to tell the swirl of a blush under the mask from its regular movement?

“Didn’t mean to insult,” Rorschach’s voice cut through Dan’s trance. “Just frustrated, is all.” He abruptly turns, walking toward his deep blue trench coat folded neatly on one of the chairs and leaving Daniel feeling cold. “Now it seems obvious. A stupid oversight–birds of a feather, after all.”

The implication wasn’t lost on Dan, and as he watched amused as Rorschach sealed his cut, compact body away in the coat, he made sure to keep the comment “you’d fit in just fine with the flock there, buddy” to himself.

“Until the cat comes.” He smiled wide, and Rorschach ignores the way it revealed a dimple on his cheek.

Chapter 3

They had almost been right about the club. 

It was too risky to venture into the sewers, and barging into the venue was out of the question. They instead took to the rooftops, staking out the streets and watching the club’s patrons filter in and out as the occasional street vagrant stumbled into the alleyways. 

It wasn’t perfect. Nothing they did ever was, and while his partner was right about the chance the deal would be entirely in-doors, Dan just didn’t like the odds of fighting in such an enclosed, tight space, with their every move echoing across the sewer tunnels with little to no cover. 

Besides, from their perch, they might see a drop off–‘Might’ being the million dollar word that put his partner in a mood for a piece of the night–but it was a start. If there really was nothing, they could let themselves into the building to look for the sewer entrance. 

That’s what Daniel had told Rorschach, and just barely made out the mumbled arguments of Waste of the night and tactical intimidation before he resigned himself to the other side of the roof. You’re right and I don’t like it, Danny. Sorry for being difficult. 

Though they were covered in darkness, being up so high, they were still close enough to have a clear view of the area; clear enough, to where surveillance was likely too much of an important word to put on it. 

So, Nite Owl stole a glance at his partner, glaring at the city below, like a two toned gargoyle only marginally more grim. And much more glossy. He neglected wearing the trenchcoat tonight, unusual despite shedding it anyway when it came to an attack, to frighten and confuse–Daniel pretended not be giddy about his musings on “ display behavior” –so he could appreciate the gentle shine on rubber muscle, the subtle mix of ink over contour. 

Rorschach had allowed him to see his face; at least, half of it, a few weeks ago. 

A scraping of facial hair along the ridge of his jaw, as harsh as the line of his mouth. His mask rolled up just above the blunt tip of his nose, no further, the glimpse he had got of his cheeks reminded Daniel of the wooden figures his bubbe would make for him–hard, deliberate cuts with a knife, the little grim faces too small for nuance. 

Wonderfully fitting and instantly appealing, and Daniel can check another box off for being embarrassingly easy to please. 

It was an almost incidental reveal, mask pulled up so Rorschach could spit blood into the trash on Archie, and he just neglected to put it back down, even when back at the Nest. 

But it wasn’t neglect, because Rorschach didn’t neglect anything he thought important; his anonymity was just as part of him as the suit was, his ferocity. It had to have been on purpose, right?

It certainly meant something. 

Rorschach was allowing himself to stay longer after patrol… 

Was one man’s indifference another’s lovefelt confession? Daniel would’ve laughed aloud at his own joke if he weren’t so pathetic. 

At the third hour mark, a black impala came crawling down the main road, headlights off, and the pair watched as it passed by Loose Lips and three buildings before slowing to a stop. They only exchanged glances before heading off the roof. 

A once humble four story industrial, their target had long since been abandoned, for either lack of money or interest. Stalking on the opposite end of where the men entered, they ducked under windows and weaved themselves to the other entrance. 

Nite Owl took a mirror from his belt pouch– an insistent addition by Hollis–tilting it to reflect the inside of the building. No street lights, so nothing would glint into the eyes of the mules. 

He motioned to Rorschach, then gestured 6. 2  left. 4 right. Guns. 

Rorschach’s face swirls for a moment or two, then he signed back Rush. Right first. Cover.

Nite Owl nodded once, digging into another pouch and opening his palm to Rorschach, who tilts his head up in terse approval. 

It was instant. Nite Owl pitches the pellets to the floor, the symphony of “Fuck!” “Shit!” “Bird and fuckin Rorschach ,” painting the rotten walls in adrenaline as guns are almost fired into allies, pocket knifes haphazardly unsheathed before being slammed into the floor. 

There’s a loud hiss and more vapor suddenly joins their’s, reddish in hue. “Have fun with that, you fucking fr-” a man yells before Rorschach finds him and pitches his fist into his face.

Nite Owl almost thinks about it before he jerks his head to the side to avoid knuckles, grabbing the wrist, twisting and throwing his assailant to the ground. 

It was over in less than five minutes. Both smoke bombs fizzle out, leaving the fruits of their labor groaning on the floor, a single briefcase the prize.

“We need to start interrogating right now,” Rorschach says, tying off his last wire. “Friends probably all lurking underground, waiting for a signal.”

“Would you relax?” Nite Owl retorts, pressing his fingers into the jaw of an unconscious assailant. “You messed this guy up. You’re lucky you didn’t break his nose.”

“He’s lucky,” Rorschach shoots back, and Nite Owl rolls his eyes. “Not losing this lead because you’re busy playing doctor.”

“Just flip them over,” Daniel says, exasperated. “We’ll start interrogation after they’re secured.”

Christ, did he have to have such a stick up his ass? Tonight was going well.  

Nite Owl studies the man’s face for a few more seconds, getting ready to tie the last thug up before he notices something.He squints, tipping his head back slightly to get a better look.

Noseplugs? He takes them out on impulse, opening up air flow–but, did they all–

“Nite Owl!” Rorschach shouts, facing away and Daniel follows his eyes and catches the heel of a man running out of the entrance.

【❖】【❖】【❖】

3am–the club was long empty, thank Christ, but as soon as they barged in they both felt a curl of unease seeping into the backs of their minds, stepping into the pitch black building. 

They wait a few beats inside, shrouded in darkness, and Nite Owl begins rummaging for his flashlight. 

“Shut up,” Rorschach grunts. “They’ll hear us. Probably down there already.” ‘There’ being the sewer entrance, which may or may not even exist, which irks Daniel so much, and he hadn’t even said anything and god damn it, he’s hot.

Nite Owl scoffs, wiping sweat from his nose. “ Me shut up?”

“Loud.”

Where the hell did he put that stupid pin light? He pats his belt, it slowly dawning on him how stupid and incompetent he was being. Just what the hell was wrong with him? It wasn’t adrenaline. 

“You’re lucky your suit doesn’t squeak every time you walk,” Nite Owl grumbles. “Or leak lube everywhere.” He finds the damn thing, slipping it out of its band and flashing the room in white light. He must have said that last part louder than he meant to because his partner makes a scandalized noise, jerking his head in his direction. 

“Don’t look at me like that. I meant for when you get in and out of that thing.”

“I don’t use lube,” Rorschach snaps in a tone that suggests Daniel might as well have suggested he attends orgies or can fly. 

“Uh-huh,” Nite Owl drones, wiping his forehead. “Then–God damn, why is it so–are you boiling in here?” His skin is feverish, the owl suit collecting sweat in it’s creases. He wants to rip the damn cowl off to fan his cheeks, instead balling a fist at his side. 

“Being dramatic. Shine the light over there.” Rorschach gestured stiffly to the back of the club, revealing a bar, pit couch and a short hallway with a door tucked to the side. 

“Went down there.” His voice was heavy with irritation and if Nite Owl were a smaller man he’d plant his boots in the ground and yell at him right here. 

Nite Owl goes to peel his cowl away from his face an inch, to let the mounting heat of his irritation escape when a familiar, heavy sensation strokes in his stomach.

Daniel brushes his fingers against his cheeks. His skin perks up. 

He touches his neck, his stomach.

Oh. Oh no. The shout–

The smoke. That was in the briefcase–?

“Rorschach, wait.” The warning is followed by a fluttering in his core, sending hot tingles scattering into his limbs and he cracks his mouth shut. 

His partner ignores him, intending to take another step but stops abruptly, his shoulders jumping up in a tense, hard line. “What.”

“I…” Oh God, what? 

His heart beating hard in his chest, Daniel speaks again. ‘I don’t feel…good.” He suddenly feels hysterical, touching his chest to confirm what he already knows and panicking at how goosebumps bloom, his nipples harden.He looks to Rorschach and Daniel realizes that he’s looking for his partner’s erection through the suit, and the scent of latex stings his nostrils, making his mouth water. His heart leaps into his throat. 

“Don’t feel good,” Rorschach echoes, a question. He makes like he’s about to talk more, but doesn’t, the ink pooling in his mouth flashing like he’d sucked in a breath.

“You feel it too,” Dan mutters.

Rorschach’s conceding silence follows, and Daniel flinches at the hot, interested stir in his stomach 

“Shit,” Dan mutters. “God, whatever they had back there is-“ even through his panic he hears them. 

Nite Owl whips around at the two men that appeared from behind another couch, guns drawn but Dan is already flinging a canister at the floor in front of them. 

It cracks open in slices, sending wires shooting out and Nite Owl yanks Rorschach out of its reach, colliding with the club’s wall and, holy shit, through the chaos he still manages to blush at the confused sound Rorschach makes.

Two wires stick their targets, sending them to the floor unconscious. After a few seconds the wires whir back into the canister, the whole thing snapping shut. 

They’re both panting hard, and Rorschach looks to Nite Owl.

“Lower volts,” he roused. “Higher amp, more than a taser. It should”-- arousal pulses straight to his cock, and he bites his lip to keep from groaning–”keep them out, for a while.” He practically rips himself from the wall, anything to get away from being that close to Rorschach. He picks up the project like a zombie, and he starts thinking, because that’s all he fucking can do right now.

He thought of finding Liz. Twilight Lady, she could alleviate….this. Maybe if they rushed to Archie now, he could find her and-

But what about Rorschach? God, what ABOUT Rorschach?

An image of his partner intertwined with another person in latex manifests horrifically in his mind and does nothing to quell the heat in his gut. 

“We need to leave,” Rorschach hisses between a short, deliberate breath. “We’ve been poisoned, maybe worse.” Something bordering  fear colors his voice, ink splotching the contours of his face. 

“Are you kidding me? In this condition we’re both screwed,” and there was a joke there but Daniel was horrified of running into a pedestrian, a cop, anybody, because what happens to them? What happens to them ?

“Ruined if we’re found. Dead if we stay.” Rorschach begins stalking toward the exit. 

“Damn it, Rorschach, hold on-” Nite Owl rushes to grab his shoulder and nearly lets go as Rorschach tries to wrench himself from his grasp, snarling something and Nite Owl practically bear hugs him, trapping the other man in his arms. They had to–

Something surges in his belly when their bodies touch, shocking them both speechless. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind Daniel knows he should find the sudden burst of movement across Rorschach’s face hilarious, the ink zipping to spill into the slight crevices of his eyes and cheeks– looking very astonished for a man without eyes or a nose or mouth, black splattered like flecks of paint where it didn’t gather. 

His hands are gliding down and around his back, palms sliding effortlessly across his partner’s slick waist, rubbing his hips. 

He feels incredible . Silky smooth, all over, and each pass of his hands makes them tingle, his mouth water. He feels–relief, flooding his chest, palming around to his thick, curved ass, kneading, his forehead dropping to Rorschach’s shoulder. 

His hands slides back up to

“Ungh..Petting me, Nite Owl,” Rorschach grits out. His arms had come to bar himself from being fully flush against Dan’s body, resting firmly on his chest. 

Nite Owl snaps his head up, eyes trying to refocus on the undulating body in front of him. Daniel opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Um,” his hands still resting on his partner’s trim waist, fingertips almost grazing each other. 

Nite Owl jerks away, ripping his hands off his partner. “Oh, Jesus–I’m sorry. I don’t-” He slaps his hands together, wringing them when his anxiously beating heart dares to fuel arousal. 

He tears his eyes away from Rorschach, biting his lip briefly. “You’re right. Shit, we need to go.”

【❖】【❖】【❖】

“Must you do this,” Rorschach grumbled lowly. 

10 minutes. 10 minutes hobbling down alleys and streets was all it took for ‘it’ to be too much. Dan had slowed to a stop, breathing raggedly with a heavy, pulsing lust between his legs. 

“Look man, I’m sorry ,” Daniel snapped, sounding bratty to his own ears, but it’s not like he wanted this. He didn’t want to be this vulnerable. He didn’t want the hooking anxiety tugging at the higher part of his wake that reminded him that, maybe, whatever mysterious rapport  he’d built with his partner would mean nothing after tonight. 

“But I have to, okay? Jesus, it’s like I’ll die if I don’t,” the words had barely left his mouth when he rubs over the tent in his pants, tipping his head back as pleasure rockets up his spine, nearly making him moan and oh god, god. He braces himself against the alley wall, sinking into his arms and he’s really about to do this. 

“Just turn around, cover your ears or something, okay?” he breathes. “I’ll be quick.” 

He pressed his sweaty forehead against his forearm, biting his lip. This was stupid, stupid, stupid.  He skates his hand down his abdomen, shivering at his own touch as goosebumps blossom in its wake. This is so bad, so bad, he twists his hand into his trunks.

He’s fully erect and leaking, his cup cutting into his shaft but, fuck, it doesn’t hurt at all. Any pressure is flashing whatever neurons are the most sick in his brain, rewarding his entire body with faux relief every time he even brushes against something.

He strokes fast, sucking in his lip, thinking of shirts too tight and breasts spilling out of low necklines, of a hookup’s rumbling laugh vibrating into his neck when he touches his–

Of Rorschach forcing him against the wall, growling to stay put as he reached around and groped him hard through his trunks. 

Daniel’s hand stutters. 

Rorschach panting in his ear as he rocked his hips against him, his cock hard and hot even through the–

Nite Owl bucks in his hand, gasping loudly. 

【❖】【❖】【❖】

It’s a few seconds before Daniel can feel his arms, his legs, trying hard to steady his breathing. Earth-shattering was a descriptor he’d known only from seedy paperbacks and he was quickly learning it wasn’t an over blown hyperbole. 

“Feeling better,” Rorshach asked dryly. He was opposite to Daniel, arms crossed and decidedly facing one end of the dark aisle.

 Daniel refused to dignify that with a response, instead tucking himself hastily back into his pants and taking a step to test his footing.

It’s like walking while drunk, his head still cloudy, but it’s manageable. It’ll have to be, if they want to make it back to the safety of the ship. 

“Let’s go,” Nite Owl managed. Rorschach’s shoulders twitch, releasing a short, stiff breath, before uprooting from his spot. The ink almost looks anxious, puffing thinly at the ends of its fluctuations, drawing in and out slower than Daniel’s seen it. 

If Daniel couldn’t make it 10 minutes…

“Rorschach-”

“Won’t,” he snaps. 

【❖】【❖】【❖】

They’re both lucky Daniel left Archie hovering only a few blocks down, high above the cloud cover.

We’re in such deep shit, Daniel thinks dully, the bust, the criminals, the police, what happens tomorrow? But the thoughts dissolve as something more agreeable takes hold, watching his partner flee up the fire escape on lust heavy legs, gorgeous body catching the light of streetlamps far away and black ink stretching over plump muscle. 

Trembling slightly as he pulled himself up on the ladder, Daniel wishes to press his face into his back and he adjusts himself in his pants. 

【❖】【❖】【❖】

Daniel breathed hard through his mouth, pressing his body as much as he could against the cold wall and cursing the raw pulse that courses through him. 

His entire body is thrumming, singing, and aching everywhere that wasn’t flush against the wall.

But–he needed, to get Archie in the air. He peels himself from the wall and limps to the dash, punching in commands and trying to glare at his reflection as he eases them into the sky. 

He’s hard again, cock rubbing lovingly against his briefs, his drive fading in a way Daniel knows they won’t make it back to the Nest, until he can’t think about anything other than humping the dash so he stalls Archie high in the night sky, collapsing in the pilot chair. He glances at the hazy form reflected in Archie’s eyes, and Daniel drags his eyes to look at Rorschach. 

Rorschach  was slumped against the corner of Archie farthest away from him, arms by his side and palms planted flat to the grated floor. His chest is rising and falling,his ear tucked to his shoulder, the ink of his face swirling lethargically, caressing the bridge of his nose and where his cheeks would meet his cheekbones. When he thinks he meets his eyes, the ink scatters, the black on his body following.

A proper thought squirms– rising body temp, brains boiling in skulls–he needs to–help. Daniel’s there before it even registers that he got up. 

He drops, too fast, kneeling with his thighs framing the smaller, muscular body under him. 

“D’niel,” Rorschach husks, shaking his head once.

The thick outline of his cock pressed against his stomach. The ink there curls coyly around the stiff, gently dispersing to rejoin itself and begin again on the same path. 

“Buddy,” he breathed, “Christ, you need to….” Daniel pressed his palm to his chest to keep him from squirming away and Rorschach chokes. The ink of his torso surges toward his hand, darting away only to come back again. 

“I….”

“Nite-Owl,” Rorschach pleads, taking care to form each syllable because his tongue feels too big for his mouth, perspiration coating his face, every cell alive and teeming with sex. Sweat was trapped between him and the suit, punctuating his agony with every wet movement, every moment he laid flush against Archie’s floor. He wanted to shed himself of it, latex carapace flayed open so he could scratch and rip and slough every treacherous inch of his body.

Because it was his body, ugly and red from nauseous lust, that kept urging him to touch, to feel, to massage and grind into his hands. 

Because it wasn’t the first time he wanted this. Daniel’s mouth, Daniel’s touch. 

His goggles were around his neck, the naked skin of his face a shade fiercer than pink. Walter’s eyes flick involuntarily to watch his partner’s tongue dart out to lick the sweat gathering on his lips. He looked wrecked, his doeish brown eyes blown black, the bright, searching quality dampened to something that makes his cock twitch.  

His soft open face, solid body, a modern day adonis with strong hands and a brilliant mind, wanting him and Walter’s grip on reality is gnawed away by selfish want and  must and need and Daniel’s hands were so big, firm where they had stroked down his back and over his ass, broad palms as hard and warm as he was. 

Walter wants to bite that full bottom lip, to scrape the delicately masculine slopes of his cheeks and jaw with his teeth.  

His head is spinning, and he lets his thighs fall open wider, knees bumping into Dan’s legs. He wants–he wants. 

Daniel groans softly when Rorschach wraps his hands around his wrists, forcing them down to touch his torso. Both hands, palming down the slick, smooth terrain of his abs, petting back up to his chest, ink chasing and dispersing in their wake. He can feel his nipples, hard even through the latex, and he rubs at them in slow, even circles. 

“Ghhnn,” Rorschach gags. “Nnngh Owl,” he tips his head back, shuddering. It spurs Dan on, trailing a hand back down to the obvious tent in the latex. He cups the shape of his cock, stroking with his palm up and down the shaft, enamored with the tingles in his own arm, his head, the ink kissing his hand.  

Rorschach jumps up into his touch, but Daniel–can’t keep his hands still, running down and petting his stomach, thighs, calves, before caressing back and wedging between the floor and his gorgeous ass, squeezing him hard with both hands. 

They both moan, the back of Walter’s head hits the wall when Nite Owl slips his strong fingers between his legs to stroke his perineum. He can’t help sinking into his touch, wanting to be molded to fit  Daniel’s hands. 

But more, his Id trills, more, more.

HIs hand shoots up to his neck and for a tantalizing second Daniel’s heart leaps, but instead of taking off his mask Rorschach scours his fingers to his throat, just under his chin.

Daniel furrows his brows, confused even through the haze before the stench of sweat and latex and musk whafs over him, filling his mouth and nose and oh.

Rorschach unzips, slow and languid, revealing the  hard-alley cut of his chest and abdomen shining with sweat. Pale brown freckles jump out against the reddish flush of his skin, spattering down his stomach to the v of his hips, his hard cock leaking all over his abs.

Daniel presses his face between the swell of his pecs, breathing deep and panting into hot, wet skin. 

Rorschach makes a small noise, just on the cusp of a whimper and it goes straight to Dan’s cock. He kisses his chest, mouthing over his nipples, earning him another strangled sound when he licks them with the broad side of his tongue. Daniel moans against Walter’s sternum, canting his hips to rub against his leg. 

Nite Owl’s body traps Walter against the floor, heavy weight pinning his hips and legs and torso where he drapes across him. His skin buzzes where the kevlar is flush against his skin, rough and catching and making it hard to think about anything at all.

Dan’s thick fingers are splayed, four points of heat tucked between the latex and his skin, thumb driving into the softest part of his hip just as he whines against his lips, Walter tasting his breath through the mask. 

He gasps, back snapping into an arch when his orgasm tears through his core as he comes, Daniel groaning as he finishes with him. 

【❖】【❖】【❖】

They lay there, heads spinning with the heady, toxic afterglow. 

Eventually, Daniel wobbles up onto his feet, fuzz ringing his vision, his head not an inch clearer than before. His body aches, and he’s trudging to the control panel on instinct, because he has to do something–something important–

He’s shoved down onto the dash, smooth hands gripping his hips and suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore. 

Rorschach growls, suppressing a moan. He swipes the cape from Nite Owl’s back, revealing the imprints of hard muscle pressing tight against the thinnest kevlar Walter had ever known, strong but light and he runs his hand roughly over the shoulder blades, sides and down the spine, earning him the sweetest gasp as Dan tries to push up into his touch. 

Rorschach tugs on the cape, and Daniel laughs, he laughs because the thing doesn’t come off unless his cowl goes off with it and he can’t form a thought to do that because he’s unbuckling his belt with one hand, the other white knuckled on the dash. 

“Pl’s fuckme,” he mushes, too gone to care about anything else. 

Rorschach makes a grating sound in his throat, digging his fingers into the waistband of those stupid, feather studded briefs to rip them down as far as strictly necessary to expose Dan’s tight ass.

Then Rorschach pauses, too many thoughts coursing through his mind, he’d wanted to rip the rest of Dan’s costume off so he could get at all of him, but Dan’s on his toes, calves and thighs straining and Walter sees the muscle ripple in the fat swell of his–

Should–he–

Daniel whimpers, skin singing with lust and any sense he had left was drying in his trunks so he grinds mindlessly back against Rorschach, shuddering at the hard length between his buttocks.

“ Yes , Oh, God, c’mon man, c’mon–”

A hard smack to his ass and Daniel almost squeals, caught in his throat as Rorschach reels to recover. He throws himself onto Daniel’s back, grunting at the friction and slapping a hand over his mouth to stop the whorey filth from spilling from his lips. 

“Ggghuuh,” Dan moans as two fingers shove into his swollen mouth, slopping onto his tongue. He whimpers at the sudden, balmy flavor of latex. 

“A tease,” Rorschach snarls in his ear. “You’re a tease.” Touching himself in the alley like a dirty trick, moaning so loud Walter wanted to cover his mouth and fuck him like this. It’s like he wanted this, like Walter wanted this, and that shouldn’t happen. Nite Owl, Daniel, was too good for this.

"I’m sorry,” Daniel groans around the fingers in his mouth and Walter growls as the vibrations shoot up his arm, trembling it in his core. 

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Rorschach. Please,” he gurgles when the fingers push deeper, closing his lips and trying to swallow. It feels good to have something filling his mouth, so good, weight on his back keeping him still. 

Walter can’t—help it, Nite Owl sucking his fingers, a razor’s edge away from ecstasy, and Daniel is his , 

Rorschach drives his hips into him, rocking him forward and he nearly yells his approval. Again and again and he wants it to last forever, caught between the dash and Rorschach’s cock, his body, his skin, his hands, each thrust of his hips forcing pleased little noises from deep inside his chest. 

So that’s why when latex fingers go from his mouth to grasp at his chin, forcing him to look up and to the side Daniel arches his back because he wants to be good, wants to do what Rorschach wants because that’s all that matters and he’s met with thin lips, a rough jaw and Daniel is fucking delighted, mewling happily into a warm, wet kiss that’s more teeth than tongue because Walter can’t–never has–

Both hands back on Nite Owl’s hips, Walter moves and drops his chin to Dan’s shoulder,  heat curling tighter and tighter in his stomach, All–Everything– where the latex skin still clings to his arms, legs, thighs–squeezes, squeezing him, he ruts into Dan’s soft warmth, Daniel moaning wordless promises at Archie’s ceiling. Daniel can’t tell where he ends, where Rorschach begins, 

Walter comes, moaning low and harsh into the shell of Dan’s ear under the cowl, shuddering at his partner’s cracking shout as he comes for the third time that night. 

【❖】【❖】【❖】

Hurts. His head hurts. 

Daniel tries to open his eyes, blinking at the ceiling. He’s sore and…in the…

“Flew us back to Nest,” a voice rasps, and Daniel drops his head to the other side to see a black and white cloud, terrifying in its familiarity. 

“Before dawn. Witnesses extremely unlikely.” Rorschach is tucked to his side. 

Rorschach is…

“Talk later,” he breathes and he can feel it rumble in his chest. 

“Will we?” Daniel croaks.

Rorschach doesn’t say anything, instead resigning himself back to resting his head against Nite Owl. Promise.