Full House: Two Jacks and Three Queens 1/4
Title: Full House: Two Jacks and Three Queens
Pairings: R/NO
Warnings: AU, mildly sexual scenes, rampant cliches, OCs (that's a warning, right?)
Disclaimer: Sing it with me, now!
Alan Moore, he had a book,
E-I-E-I-O!
And in that book, there were hot guys,
E-I-E-I-O!
And I don't own them, so please don't sue,
Here a "don't," there a "sue," everywhere a "don't sue,"
Please don't sue me, 'cause I'm broke,
E-I-E-I-O!
Summary: Rorschach and Nite Owl are captured by a pair of vice queens. The terms of their release are simple, but simple doesn't always mean easy...
Author's Notes: *brushes off cobwebs* Wow, journal, long time, no see. Am beginning the long and arduous process of combing through the Watchmen kinkmemes, cleaning up all the rubbish I've written and archiving it here for posterity. This was written in July as a co-op fic with tonights, and if it's well-received (and I pry her out of the clutches of grad school), I'd like to do a DVD commentary. This fic is set pre-Roche, when Rorschach was given to sanity, pronoun usage and bathing. Enjoy!
Despite the protection his eyes were afforded by his goggles, Dan couldn't help but wince as the bag was yanked unceremoniously off his head and light flooded his sensors. He shook himself as much as he could (considering that both of his arms were pinned by a pair of tall, fit men in monocles, waistcoats and bowler hats) and took stock of his surroundings.
The subterranean room was plushly appointed, smelling of incense and recycled air. Rich Oriental rugs spilled across the polished floorboards in patterns of intricate symmetry. The backlighting of an imposing stained glass window cast multicolored shadows into the niches of the furniture, the leather of the settee and ottoman, the velvet and brocade of the large bed and its draperies. Picked out in colored glass, a large green tree loomed over Dan, branches ripe with apples, a snake grinning subtly from its vantage point on a bough. It was a room of unparalleled luxury, elegant and expensive, the type of room that would require an average citizen to pay several months' salary to secure simply one night.
It was a whore's room. And on the far side of the chamber, artfully posed in a sight to make his blood boil, were the whores.
Abbess Constance trailed her small fingers over the back of her captive's neck, just under the mask, ignoring his struggling against the silken ropes that bound him to the straight-backed wooden chair, a smile quirking the corner of her dark red lips. A short woman, her dark blue frock spilled down to her stockinged knees, flared out with hints of lacy petticoats. Froths of white lace gathered at her wrists and the front of her square-cut bodice. Her dark hair was plaited in thick barrel curls, her face pale, her eyes thickly lined in kohl, all as sculpted and unnatural as a Dresden doll. The overall effect was as unsettling as it was alluring, a mixture of child and temptress in a white pinafore and tall black Mary Janes. Abbess Constance may not have been as striking or poised as her business partner and bosom companion, but she had developed a reputation for peering guilelessly into the secret thoughts of men and extracting exactly what they wanted.
Abbess Mercy strode across the room to stand in front of Dan, her floor-length burgundy bustle skirt swishing softly on the expensive carpets, tapping a black leather riding crop gently against her side. She was nearly as tall as he was, auburn hair pulled back to fall in a spill of red curls at the nape of her neck and topped with a small black feathered hat that angled jauntily over one dramatically smoky eye. "Nite Owl!" she cried in mocking delight. "What a pleasure to have you as our guest. I'm sorry we had to resort to such crude means to obtain a visit, but I rather thought an engraved invitation wouldn't be the correct choice under the circumstances. You know where you are, I trust?" She laid an elegant hand on his cheek, a hand clad in an elbow-length black glove studded with brass buttons, and he gave a short nod. "You see, we need you to attend to a problem we're having with a certain business associate of yours."
Dan barely heard any of this. He felt like he was going to explode, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest as he surveyed possible escape routes. But his gaze kept returning to Rorschach, tied to the chair and obviously making a mighty effort to stay stoic and silent. Constance, amused by his conflict, giggled charmingly and bent to blow softly across the skin where her fingers had been, prompting an involuntary growl from the smaller vigilante.
Mercy tugged Dan's chin and his eyes left Rorschach and met hers - long-lashed, brown and incredibly amused. Her face looked like porcelain, and he wanted to break it into a million pieces. "Constance and I could attend to it ourselves, but we believe it'll be more beneficial to all parties involved if you'd take care of it instead." She gave a tiny jerk of her head towards the chair. Constance smiled sweetly as Dan turned in her direction, giving a coy wave before returning her fingers to Rorschach, sliding across the line of his jacketless shoulders, fingertips catching on the line where his vest lay across the once-white of his shirt.
Take care of it? Take care of it? Dan raged inside his head, but he didn't open his mouth. Couldn't. Wouldn't. She'd know his voice in an instant, he was already grateful he was wearing his goggles or she would have recognized his eyes. How many times had he heard that deep voice laughing over wine and discussion, seen those eyes light with understanding as he detailed every last one of his desires? Mercy! He'd seen that red hair spread wantonly across a pillowcase, undone her corset strings, been teased to begging by the riding crop she now held so casually by her side. Daniel Dreiberg had been to this brothel so many times he'd lost count - it was the only place in town, maybe the only place in the world, where intelligent conversation was valued as highly as sex, and Mercy and Constance were both experts at meeting all of their patrons' needs. He'd trusted them with things he'd never told another human being, and now Mercy was giving him a confident, predatory smile that looked like she wanted to eat him. If he spoke, the pair would recognize him in an instant as "our darling Mr. Dreiberg," whose "amusement" was a source of personal challenge to them.
As if reading his mind, Constance spoke. "Don't worry, Mr. Owl," she said blithely, her sweet smile unchanged as she looked from Dan to Rorschach. "We're not interested in who you really are. We brought you here to do a little research for us, nothing more. If you're familiar with the Abbey, you'll know how much we value research! All you have to do is what we ask and then you'll both be free and on your way."
He gave her a ferocious stare that he devoutly hoped would set her aflame, but at the same time couldn't suppress a memory of the last time he'd seen Constance, frilly skirts rucked up around her waist and mouth open in an O of delight as he took her, soft arms and tender hands stroking him in the aftermath as he gasped against pale skin scented with sweat and oranges. He composed himself enough to disguise his voice and growled "Research?" in a voice that wasn't entirely un-Rorschach-like.
Mercy gave him that smile again. "Yes. Research. You see, we're testing a promising new chemical compound. The purpose of this compound is to.... inspire, shall we say? Yes. To inspire the reluctant to partake of the sexual congress of which we here are so fond. And who, pray tell, is more reluctant than New York's most repressed vigilante?"
He stared at her in utter incomprehension. In response, she took a step closer, her full-lipped smiling mouth level with his, her skirts brushing against the front of his armor. He could smell her scent, oil of amber and crushed jungle blooms. She was clearly enjoying herself immensely and he hated her for it. (Hated remembering the swell of her breasts under his lips, the feel of her hands tangled in his hair.) He was angry and horny and terrified for his partner and all of the feelings were at war with one another. As she spoke again, her breath ghosted across his face. "It's a metabolic agent that has a couple of nasty side effects - fever, nausea, muscle cramps, sweating."
"Oh, the poor darling, he already has that last one rather well underway," Constance cooed as she dabbed Rorschach's neck with a clean lace handkerchief. It looked absurdly dainty next to the shifting black blots of his mask.
"If the antidote isn't administered within a proper amount of time," Mercy continued with undisguised glee, "there's also seizures, organ failure and eventually, death. Dreadful, that. No way around it. Luckily, the antidote is common, easy to come by and entertaining to administer."
"What's the antidote?" he spat at her, almost forgetting to disguise his voice in the sudden swell of rage and panic that gripped him. He made a motion as though he would headbutt her and the brothel's two thugs pinioned him even tighter.
"The antidote," she said softly, putting her hand up to his face again and tracing her gloved thumb over his lips, "is the subcutaneous absorption of a mixture of chemicals - dopamine, epinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin and nerve growth factor - as released in conjunction with a second party."
He stared wildly from Mercy to Constance and back. Constance answered his look by blowing him a kiss.
"Sex, Nite Owl," Mercy elaborated, clearly relishing every word. "You're going to need to have sex with your partner to save his life. Make love to him. Fuck him, dear boy. And do be generous about it, since the chemicals he'll require are only released by orgasm!" Rorschach made a sudden noise, a strangled and convulsive sound that had obviously escaped his throat in a split second of weakness. Ignoring him, Mercy consulted the gold pocketwatch that hung on a chain at her hip. "Half an hour ought to do it, but the longer you go, the better he'll feel! You too, I expect." She winked at Dan obscenely and patted his cheek. "After that, you'll both be absolutely free to go. We'll make sure Rodney and Nigel deliver you somewhere safe and shall never bother you again. Promise."
I'm taking back that clockwork owl, Dan thought hopelessly. You conniving bitches, I had no idea you were capable of - but no, that was wrong. He'd known for years exactly what they were capable of. A small part of him knew that he shouldn't be so affronted, that they were directing their taunts not at Daniel Dreiberg but at Nite Owl, the vigilante who put the Twilight Lady away. But then his eyes flickered to Rorschach again, bound and helpless and proudly silent, and his outrage grew too great to manage.
"Not that we would mind conducting the research ourselves," Constance added, moving around the chair to face Rorschach, fingertips never leaving the smaller man's shoulders. "He's a perfect little puzzle. All wrapped up..." small, cunning fingers undid the first of Rorschach's shirt buttons, "in so many layers..." Another button came undone before Rorschach wrenched himself against his bonds, his snarl of rage cut off an a series of gulping swallows, as if he were trying not to retch. "It would be such a joy to uncover them all," Constance said to Dan, trotting over to Mercy's side, smiling coyly up at the captive hero, "but he doesn't seem to like us very much. We thought he might be a bit more receptive to a friend and... partner." She stood on delicate tiptoe, one hand shielding her painted lips as she stage-whispered, "Did you know, Mr. Owl, that he's... ginger?"
So I was right! Pushing away the unbidden thought, Dan shouted at her in a rising black fury. "Don't touch him! You can't just do this, kidnap people and ... and force them to...."
"Why yes, Mr. Owl. We can. Furthermore, we have." Constance offered him a giggle and a coquettish bat of long eyelashes.
Mercy patted his cheek again, gave him one more vulpine smile. "If you don't mind, we'll be taking our leave and letting you get on with it. Rodney and Nigel will be right outside in case you happen to require anything." The two women bustled towards the exit in a swish of silk and lace, Mercy cutting a stately path to the door, Constance nearly skipping along at her side. The deadbolts clunked into place behind them.
Chapter Two
Pairings: R/NO
Warnings: AU, mildly sexual scenes, rampant cliches, OCs (that's a warning, right?)
Disclaimer: Sing it with me, now!
Alan Moore, he had a book,
E-I-E-I-O!
And in that book, there were hot guys,
E-I-E-I-O!
And I don't own them, so please don't sue,
Here a "don't," there a "sue," everywhere a "don't sue,"
Please don't sue me, 'cause I'm broke,
E-I-E-I-O!
Summary: Rorschach and Nite Owl are captured by a pair of vice queens. The terms of their release are simple, but simple doesn't always mean easy...
Author's Notes: *brushes off cobwebs* Wow, journal, long time, no see. Am beginning the long and arduous process of combing through the Watchmen kinkmemes, cleaning up all the rubbish I've written and archiving it here for posterity. This was written in July as a co-op fic with tonights, and if it's well-received (and I pry her out of the clutches of grad school), I'd like to do a DVD commentary. This fic is set pre-Roche, when Rorschach was given to sanity, pronoun usage and bathing. Enjoy!
Despite the protection his eyes were afforded by his goggles, Dan couldn't help but wince as the bag was yanked unceremoniously off his head and light flooded his sensors. He shook himself as much as he could (considering that both of his arms were pinned by a pair of tall, fit men in monocles, waistcoats and bowler hats) and took stock of his surroundings.
The subterranean room was plushly appointed, smelling of incense and recycled air. Rich Oriental rugs spilled across the polished floorboards in patterns of intricate symmetry. The backlighting of an imposing stained glass window cast multicolored shadows into the niches of the furniture, the leather of the settee and ottoman, the velvet and brocade of the large bed and its draperies. Picked out in colored glass, a large green tree loomed over Dan, branches ripe with apples, a snake grinning subtly from its vantage point on a bough. It was a room of unparalleled luxury, elegant and expensive, the type of room that would require an average citizen to pay several months' salary to secure simply one night.
It was a whore's room. And on the far side of the chamber, artfully posed in a sight to make his blood boil, were the whores.
Abbess Constance trailed her small fingers over the back of her captive's neck, just under the mask, ignoring his struggling against the silken ropes that bound him to the straight-backed wooden chair, a smile quirking the corner of her dark red lips. A short woman, her dark blue frock spilled down to her stockinged knees, flared out with hints of lacy petticoats. Froths of white lace gathered at her wrists and the front of her square-cut bodice. Her dark hair was plaited in thick barrel curls, her face pale, her eyes thickly lined in kohl, all as sculpted and unnatural as a Dresden doll. The overall effect was as unsettling as it was alluring, a mixture of child and temptress in a white pinafore and tall black Mary Janes. Abbess Constance may not have been as striking or poised as her business partner and bosom companion, but she had developed a reputation for peering guilelessly into the secret thoughts of men and extracting exactly what they wanted.
Abbess Mercy strode across the room to stand in front of Dan, her floor-length burgundy bustle skirt swishing softly on the expensive carpets, tapping a black leather riding crop gently against her side. She was nearly as tall as he was, auburn hair pulled back to fall in a spill of red curls at the nape of her neck and topped with a small black feathered hat that angled jauntily over one dramatically smoky eye. "Nite Owl!" she cried in mocking delight. "What a pleasure to have you as our guest. I'm sorry we had to resort to such crude means to obtain a visit, but I rather thought an engraved invitation wouldn't be the correct choice under the circumstances. You know where you are, I trust?" She laid an elegant hand on his cheek, a hand clad in an elbow-length black glove studded with brass buttons, and he gave a short nod. "You see, we need you to attend to a problem we're having with a certain business associate of yours."
Dan barely heard any of this. He felt like he was going to explode, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest as he surveyed possible escape routes. But his gaze kept returning to Rorschach, tied to the chair and obviously making a mighty effort to stay stoic and silent. Constance, amused by his conflict, giggled charmingly and bent to blow softly across the skin where her fingers had been, prompting an involuntary growl from the smaller vigilante.
Mercy tugged Dan's chin and his eyes left Rorschach and met hers - long-lashed, brown and incredibly amused. Her face looked like porcelain, and he wanted to break it into a million pieces. "Constance and I could attend to it ourselves, but we believe it'll be more beneficial to all parties involved if you'd take care of it instead." She gave a tiny jerk of her head towards the chair. Constance smiled sweetly as Dan turned in her direction, giving a coy wave before returning her fingers to Rorschach, sliding across the line of his jacketless shoulders, fingertips catching on the line where his vest lay across the once-white of his shirt.
Take care of it? Take care of it? Dan raged inside his head, but he didn't open his mouth. Couldn't. Wouldn't. She'd know his voice in an instant, he was already grateful he was wearing his goggles or she would have recognized his eyes. How many times had he heard that deep voice laughing over wine and discussion, seen those eyes light with understanding as he detailed every last one of his desires? Mercy! He'd seen that red hair spread wantonly across a pillowcase, undone her corset strings, been teased to begging by the riding crop she now held so casually by her side. Daniel Dreiberg had been to this brothel so many times he'd lost count - it was the only place in town, maybe the only place in the world, where intelligent conversation was valued as highly as sex, and Mercy and Constance were both experts at meeting all of their patrons' needs. He'd trusted them with things he'd never told another human being, and now Mercy was giving him a confident, predatory smile that looked like she wanted to eat him. If he spoke, the pair would recognize him in an instant as "our darling Mr. Dreiberg," whose "amusement" was a source of personal challenge to them.
As if reading his mind, Constance spoke. "Don't worry, Mr. Owl," she said blithely, her sweet smile unchanged as she looked from Dan to Rorschach. "We're not interested in who you really are. We brought you here to do a little research for us, nothing more. If you're familiar with the Abbey, you'll know how much we value research! All you have to do is what we ask and then you'll both be free and on your way."
He gave her a ferocious stare that he devoutly hoped would set her aflame, but at the same time couldn't suppress a memory of the last time he'd seen Constance, frilly skirts rucked up around her waist and mouth open in an O of delight as he took her, soft arms and tender hands stroking him in the aftermath as he gasped against pale skin scented with sweat and oranges. He composed himself enough to disguise his voice and growled "Research?" in a voice that wasn't entirely un-Rorschach-like.
Mercy gave him that smile again. "Yes. Research. You see, we're testing a promising new chemical compound. The purpose of this compound is to.... inspire, shall we say? Yes. To inspire the reluctant to partake of the sexual congress of which we here are so fond. And who, pray tell, is more reluctant than New York's most repressed vigilante?"
He stared at her in utter incomprehension. In response, she took a step closer, her full-lipped smiling mouth level with his, her skirts brushing against the front of his armor. He could smell her scent, oil of amber and crushed jungle blooms. She was clearly enjoying herself immensely and he hated her for it. (Hated remembering the swell of her breasts under his lips, the feel of her hands tangled in his hair.) He was angry and horny and terrified for his partner and all of the feelings were at war with one another. As she spoke again, her breath ghosted across his face. "It's a metabolic agent that has a couple of nasty side effects - fever, nausea, muscle cramps, sweating."
"Oh, the poor darling, he already has that last one rather well underway," Constance cooed as she dabbed Rorschach's neck with a clean lace handkerchief. It looked absurdly dainty next to the shifting black blots of his mask.
"If the antidote isn't administered within a proper amount of time," Mercy continued with undisguised glee, "there's also seizures, organ failure and eventually, death. Dreadful, that. No way around it. Luckily, the antidote is common, easy to come by and entertaining to administer."
"What's the antidote?" he spat at her, almost forgetting to disguise his voice in the sudden swell of rage and panic that gripped him. He made a motion as though he would headbutt her and the brothel's two thugs pinioned him even tighter.
"The antidote," she said softly, putting her hand up to his face again and tracing her gloved thumb over his lips, "is the subcutaneous absorption of a mixture of chemicals - dopamine, epinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin and nerve growth factor - as released in conjunction with a second party."
He stared wildly from Mercy to Constance and back. Constance answered his look by blowing him a kiss.
"Sex, Nite Owl," Mercy elaborated, clearly relishing every word. "You're going to need to have sex with your partner to save his life. Make love to him. Fuck him, dear boy. And do be generous about it, since the chemicals he'll require are only released by orgasm!" Rorschach made a sudden noise, a strangled and convulsive sound that had obviously escaped his throat in a split second of weakness. Ignoring him, Mercy consulted the gold pocketwatch that hung on a chain at her hip. "Half an hour ought to do it, but the longer you go, the better he'll feel! You too, I expect." She winked at Dan obscenely and patted his cheek. "After that, you'll both be absolutely free to go. We'll make sure Rodney and Nigel deliver you somewhere safe and shall never bother you again. Promise."
I'm taking back that clockwork owl, Dan thought hopelessly. You conniving bitches, I had no idea you were capable of - but no, that was wrong. He'd known for years exactly what they were capable of. A small part of him knew that he shouldn't be so affronted, that they were directing their taunts not at Daniel Dreiberg but at Nite Owl, the vigilante who put the Twilight Lady away. But then his eyes flickered to Rorschach again, bound and helpless and proudly silent, and his outrage grew too great to manage.
"Not that we would mind conducting the research ourselves," Constance added, moving around the chair to face Rorschach, fingertips never leaving the smaller man's shoulders. "He's a perfect little puzzle. All wrapped up..." small, cunning fingers undid the first of Rorschach's shirt buttons, "in so many layers..." Another button came undone before Rorschach wrenched himself against his bonds, his snarl of rage cut off an a series of gulping swallows, as if he were trying not to retch. "It would be such a joy to uncover them all," Constance said to Dan, trotting over to Mercy's side, smiling coyly up at the captive hero, "but he doesn't seem to like us very much. We thought he might be a bit more receptive to a friend and... partner." She stood on delicate tiptoe, one hand shielding her painted lips as she stage-whispered, "Did you know, Mr. Owl, that he's... ginger?"
So I was right! Pushing away the unbidden thought, Dan shouted at her in a rising black fury. "Don't touch him! You can't just do this, kidnap people and ... and force them to...."
"Why yes, Mr. Owl. We can. Furthermore, we have." Constance offered him a giggle and a coquettish bat of long eyelashes.
Mercy patted his cheek again, gave him one more vulpine smile. "If you don't mind, we'll be taking our leave and letting you get on with it. Rodney and Nigel will be right outside in case you happen to require anything." The two women bustled towards the exit in a swish of silk and lace, Mercy cutting a stately path to the door, Constance nearly skipping along at her side. The deadbolts clunked into place behind them.
Chapter Two