Watchmen Kink Meme 3. Weeeeeeee.
Rules of the meme:
1. Anonymously post a pairing and prompt you would like to see written. Since this is a kink meme, there is supposted to be a kink involved, but normal well-written prompts should work just as well.
2. Anonymous will respond to your post and write it for you! Art and such is also acceptable/awesome. Multiple people may respond to ( Read more... )
"It'll be a minuet or two, but I can ring you up while you wait." She smiled back and ...Fluttered? her eyes?
... OH. Hell. Yes. I am still hot!
Laurie smiles and leans on the counter.
"Sure. Go right ahead. I can think of worse company to spend my time waiting in. ... How much do I owe you?"
She giggles. "$13.37"
"Here's fifteen. Keep the change."
Laure picks up a toothpick and chews the end.
"You seem kinda slow. I would think you'd be starting to pick up by now."
"Well, there's a Dave's down the block. They do a lot of the bacon and waffles type fare, so most of the early risers who just want standard breakfast food go there. It's not too bad for me though, I'm hourly, so I never get tips anyway."
She blushes and shrugs.
"Well almost never."
"Well since you never get them, I should give you another."
Laurie leans forward conspiratorially.
"Never wear that shade of blue. It doesn't begin to do your eyes justice."
"The girl, honest to god titters, and goes off to get the food.
She comes back with the bag and a Styrofoam cup.
"Hey, a customer ordered this, then left before it was done. Want a Chai for the road?"
"Well, sweet and pretty. Sure, I'd love one. (checks her tag) Thank you Mandi. Maybe I'll see you around."
Sipping the steaming Chai on the way back to the station, she just can't help it.
"What's that Ms. Mandypenny? The name? It's Bond, James Bond."
Once on the subway she has to restrain a victory squeal into something like a cough when she notices a phone number written on the Styrofoam with a heart that says Mandi inside with big swirling script.
35 minuets after she left, she's back at Dan's house, bags in tow, and he still Hasn't gotten Rorschach out of the shower.
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captcha says "riots quintet" Four riots if there isn't more!!! >:O
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although I have to add: m-i-n-u-t-e. A minuet is a piece of music. :)
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"LEWD!" He hears the shriek all the way down in the basement and groans, setting down the never-used EMP generator he had been tinkering with to go and break it up.
"Are you hearing yourself? You sound like the goddamn mom from "Carrie"!"
"DO NOT SOUND LIKE MOTHER!"
And then there's some crashing noises and Dan hurries up. He finds them tussling like kids on the kitchen floor, and takes it as a sign of how well Laurie has taken to manhood that she's doing her best to hold Rorschach off without hurting him. Not that that's working too well, given how much Laurie works out and how vicious and desperate the present situation has made Rorschach.
"Jesus, guys!" Dan grabs Rorschach, hauling him back. "Come on, let's just stop this and talk about shit like actually grownups...'
"Hey, I was willing to until Mother Superior here--"
"NOT MOTHER!" He screams again, and Dan bearhugs him to keep him from flying at Laurie again.
"Sssshhh. Laurie, let's not go there for the moment, okay?"
She rolls her eyes. "Fine, but nun-man here apparently thinks walking down the hall is some kind of perversion."
"Is when you do it." He hisses, eyes flat. "Slinking around like a tomcat. Can smell women on you. Whore!"
Laurie slaps him across the face. "Stop. Calling me. A whore." She growls, and holy shit, she really does sound like Rorschach. "I might've been homewrecking jailbait, but I've only slept with two guys in my life. I'm not a whore, and I guess I can hit a girl if she's me anyway, so just you say it again." For a miracle, Rorschach shuts up. "And I'm not really into women, but your body is, and so I keep hitting on them. I'm sure as shit not going to do anything without your permission, or bring anyone home when the whole thing would be a lie."
Rorschach growls low in his chest, and it's... it's pretty good, even with Laurie's higher voice, and Dan shifts uncomfortably, not wanting this discussion to get any more awkward. "Always been ugly. Don't get to change that."
She snorts derisively. "And I've always been hot. Get out of the fucking muumuu and then we'll talk."
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AND THEN
MAYBE WE WON'T "TALK" SO MUCH AS "FUCK" BUT SAME IDEA
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She acts like she's confidant and attractive, thus she is.
You are slouching and in a mumu. Funny how that body was hotter with her pulling the strings.
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He doesn't like to see the way she makes him beautiful: the roll she puts in his hips, the smirk she fashions out of his thin mouth. He's spent so long believing his body is ugly, and now he can see that it was only the person inside who made it that way.
After his dismal initial attempt at female dress, he wears his own clothes -- workshirts and trousers, with a tight vest underneath to keep him flattened. That way he can't forget who and what he is.
But late at night, in the privacy of Dan's guest room, he undresses and looks at himself in the mirror. Laurel's breasts are smaller than he had imagined, slightly lopsided. Her body is taut and balanced and powerful. He has tried to keep her long hair clean, using conditioner the way she showed him so it doesn't tangle, and when he lets it down it falls over his shoulders like a glossy dark curtain.
Among the clothes she left with him is a long skirt, made out of heavy silk. When he pulls it over Laurel's hips, the fabric pulls tight around his thighs and falls like water to his ankles.
The sweater is good quality too; cashmere, he thinks approvingly. He's never worn anything so soft before in his life, but it's Laurel's; her body has a right to it, has a claim on beauty that Walter himself does not. He pulls the sweater over his head, letting that softness settle over his skin.
He stares at himself for a long time in the dim room, touching himself carefully, the tip of the right breast, the base of the neck, feeling little tremors come and go inside him.
Her genitalia, when he brings himself to touch it, is not at all what he expected; there's no gaping hole, no cartoon tunnel, but folds of flesh that lie together like a pair of folded hands. He shies away from the knot of nerves at the apex, hard and pulsing in a way that's familiar enough that he knows it's a trap.
He slips his hand back out from under the skirt. In the mirror the woman looks at him, her hair loose, her body feral in black silk and wool. He stares hard and tries to see the ugliness inside.
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The way you anesthetized him to Laurie's body by making it so vividly clear to him that it is her that is making HIM beautiful (silly Walter we love you already) and, in turn he is trying to make her (himself) ugly and unable to forget himself.
Unfortunately for him slender built women look really hot in dress shirts slacks and extremely fitted vests. (I'm picturing Cameron from House Md here.)
Captcha says: 207's salivary. Yes Captcha, I'm drooling too.
Then, however this leads to the late night mirror inspections where he has to check whether his ugliness is seeping through.
*sigh* No honey. Your still stuck inside a pretty lady.
On a tangential note, your description of female genitalia from his first-time perspective was surprising, as well as sweet. The image of clasped hands is one that would be particularly evocative for Rorschach. Comforting.
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His own voice sounds sharply through the door: "Hey Rorschach, let me-- oh for fuck's sake," there's a bang against the door and then a series of soft thumps, objects hitting the carpet. "Can I come in? Please."
There's real, willing deference in the "please" so he hauls himself off the mattress and opens the door, peering out from under the veil of hair. Laurel is collecting bottles off the floor, one in each hand and more tucked under her arms. She looks up at him and her knit brows--the expression for once recognizable, briefly--fly up to compose a ludicrous look of concern, and she drops all the bottles again and reaches out. He flinches and she pulls away, her hand barely an inch from his stringy, tangled hair.
"Oh my god, if my mother could see you she'd have a fit."
"Obviously." He tries to keep his voice level. It's mortifying whenever the words come out high and sharp, like having his voice crack as a teenager.
"Here, I brought these," she crouches to gather the bottles, "for your hair."
Some of the bottles are wet with water when she thrusts them into his hands. They all smell, of soap and chemical perfumes. "Laurel--"
"It'll make it easier, I promise. You don't have to use them all. Look, this one's just shampoo, you know, lather, rinse, repeat, all that. And these are body wash, face cleanser, and moisturizer. Glorified soap really, but if you feel adventurous you can read the instructions and try them out. It's okay if you don't."
"Kind of you, Laurel."
"Don't be a dick. This is the one you'll wanna use, it's conditioner. It'll let you comb your hair so you don't have to skulk around looking like a swamp creature."
"Could just cut it off."
His face takes on a horribly wounded expression before resolving into Laurel's determined smirk. "You do that and there's things I'll be cutting off, then you can go and join a choir when we switch back."
"Fine. Don't die of blood loss. I can do the stitches."
She goes pale and the smirk drops away, leaving him looking pathetic as ever. "Rorschach, I don't even...just please don't cut my hair. Not yet anyway, not until we know there's no..."
He takes the conditioner from her. "Instructions on the bottle?"
A smile now, not a smirk; she looks like a jack-o'-lantern with his crooked teeth. "Yeah. It doesn't lather like shampoo, you just drag it through your hair, with the, I don't know, grain of the hair--"
"Understood, Laurel," he says a little shrilly, and she stops brushing her own hair back with her fingers.
"Sorry. Um, once it's in, you just let it sit a couple minutes then rinse it out. I usually shave my legs while I'm waiting," she adds, testing his reaction.
It's still unnerving to hear laughter in his voice, so he nods gravely and takes the bottles, turning away as phantom hands comb relentlessly over his scalp.
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You know, those simple day-to-day pleasures we take for granted.
Can we watch him shave!?! ...The sadist in me wants to see him navigate a bikini line.
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Pissed as she was at the time, she couldn't bring herself to care, but now that the argument is over the words keep running through her head.
"Always been ugly. Don't get to change that."
Oddly it struck her all the harder for being in her own voice. The crinkle of her own face glaring back at her, bitter, angry, and with a glimmer of something else hidden deep in those eyes. But those eyes were hers, and she knew that look, had seen it on her own face a thousand times before.
When she went to some physics banquet thing and saw a single tear slide down Janey Slater's cheek before she got up and excused herself. Jon never even noticed. It was there for a week afterward.
When she was too late to save the man from that car jacking. He took a .45 to the chest and she was still across the street when the mugger drove off. There wasn't much left of his heart but with a few faint contractions it seemed like it still managed to pour out half his blood in seconds. He died in her arms, with no time for last words.
There have been other times, God knows, Each one etched in her memory. Those aren't the kind of moments you get to forget. Neither is the consuming self-loathing that accompanies every fuck up and failure.
But Laurie is nothing if not direct, and being afraid to look in the mirror was never a luxury she could afford. She did it every night. Every time she plastered on the face that accompanies her costume she takes a good hard look and reminds herself that she is only human. That she is only better as long as she earns it, only a hero to the ones she can save.
She has no delusions. She may not be the most deep person, but she has stared into her own soul more deeply and often than most people ever care to.
She is beginning to be disturbed by how much more she can read of Rorschach's through the cipher of er face.
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"Always been ugly. Don't get to change that."
She had always been told she was beautiful. Pretty as a picture. Lovely. 'Have your mother's good looks!'
Seeing her face screwed up, meaning every word. She wonders what he would have heard to make him believe it with such conviction.
If what he saw in mirrors even factored in.
She looked into the mirror, stared deeply into vivid blue eyes she had never really seen before and thought it strange that she could still see herself staring back. It was young, this face. Much younger than she had first guessed. Not a whole lot older than her really. 4 maybe 5 years? The freckles and upturned nose the only real hold youth has over it.
The Freckles!
They were a surprise. And she knows there half why the girls flirt. They think it's cute, part of his(her) charm. An endearing and innocent quality that contrasts nicely to the charismatic smirk she wears.
She runs her hands down hollow cheeks and over auburn stubble, tracing frown lines already starting to appear. She notices the bags under her eyes and wonders if he's sleeping through the night in her skin. Wonders if he's been fired for not showing up to some job by now.
I should ask if I need to call in sick somewhere.
She looks at that face in the mirror, slightly gaunt, and down to the corded rippling muscle below, clearly defined, not the slightest trace of fat; thinks that maybe it wasn't the change that mad her so hungry.
She runs her fingers through his hair. It's short,
Too short. Makes his ears look big. Think I'll let it grow a bit while I'm here.
And a violent, glowing, orange.
She sees the way he acts in her. hunched, withdrawn, like he's trying not to be noticed. It's less effective in her 5'8 frame than it would be in this compact 5'6 (5'4 really) body. She gets the idea that, for all his bold as brass behavior behind the mask, this is closer to his manner without it.
Almost timid.
Except the eyes. The eyes have a constant spark of challenge when they meet hers. They are the only part of her that looks right with him wearing it.
She continues playing with the hair, putting various products in it until it pleases her, the curls more defined, choppy, and a deeper red luster overtaking the shock of orange. Her mother would be so proud, and jealous. Her red has come out of a bottle the last four years, gray being an insult not to be abided, apparently.
She rinses her hands and lets her eyes drift lower. The freckles continue on over sharply contoured muscle. But there are scars, more noticeable now, on this skin which never sees the light of day. Not enough to be considered shocking on a vigilante, but startling on one so very young.
She is looking closer now and many are a pale, pale white; older by far than the other half. Childhood injuries? Perhaps things received while fighting as a teenager. She had acquired several in her training over the years, but if that was how he got these he must have had a very poor teacher, or perhaps been a very stubborn student.
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