FIC: The Sincerest Form of Flattery (Adult Content Warning)
Title: The Sincerest Form of Flattery
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Laurie(/Dan/Walter) solo
Date Written: 2010
Summary: Laurie takes Rorschach's new suit for a spin; confusing identity fuckery results.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17.
Notes: For Kink Bingo(prompt: 'crossdressing'), posted early just so I don't porn-bomb flists when I'm done. Not being crossposted until then.
*
She's not planning this, when she slides the closet door back. She's snooping, sure; just a little, just enough to give her curiosity a taste, fleeting on the tongue. Nothing really private, just a few mundane puzzle pieces for her brain to chew on.
Instead, her eyes go immediately to the fresh-looking suit hung in plain sight, still in its plastic, tags from a local low-scale tailorshop wedged into the hanger. Brilliantly, richly violet, untouched and unfaded by years of staining and washing, and she'd heard him talk about finally having to replace the old one. Laurie slides her fingers up under the sheeting, runs them down along the gabardine, following the stripes.
She's not even sure why - there's just something charged about it, about the way he ties so much up in these scraps of cloth, and they will see so much violence before they're threadbare and retired in turn - but she's doing the mental calculations immediately: she's a little taller than him but not by much, and they're built similarly apart from the obvious, and all of Dan's first-aid kits have thick rolls of cloth bandages tucked into them, don't they?
Then she's hauled the kit down from the top shelf and into Walter's bathroom, has peeled her top away, is winding the bandages around and around.
Dan and Walter will be gone for hours. She has time.
*
She ends up looking like a pretty thin guy with disproportionately built pecs - there's only so much she can do without injuring herself, here - and the hips aren't going anywhere any time soon, but maybe the straight clean lines will mask some of the curves.
On an impulse, Laurie wads up the last roll of bandages and pushes it carefully down into her panties - tries to imagine Walter wearing them, flimsy over his narrow hipbones and just barely holding him in, and has to rock the heel of her hand over the bulge a few times, the friction it rubs out against her rough and undirected.
She closes her eyes, hand palming over her imaginary dick, and she already knows where this is going.
*
That is, of course, no reason not to take her time.
They've been enforcing use of the laundry so it's not hard to find clean socks, underwear, undershirt; she puts each piece on slowly, feeling all the ways in which they don't fit and all the ways in which they do. Too tight around her hips, over her chest. The sock garters clip around her calves perfectly, anchoring on the compact muscle, and the boxers slide on over her own underwear and look correct in profile, if not strictly accurate. (She suspects Rorschach has more inconvenient hardons in costume than he ever admits to.)
The dress shirt sits just right across her shoulders, sleeves a little short. Slacks and suspenders and vest, because Rorschach is frankly a little fucking ridiculous like that, and then the suitcoat over it all.
This is where the magic starts to happen, one button at a time, and she runs her fingers down the stripes again, tracing from the contained swell of her breast down to her waist in one straight drop. She can barely see it, like a map with its topography flattened out, and the hand continues down over her still too-prominent hip as if it were smoothing away all these things that jut and protrude, shaping herself like clay.
She looks up; catches herself in the bedroom mirror this time, one hand palming her thigh while the other drapes suggestively over her chest, and she knows immediately that she must see Rorschach like this, touching himself through all his armor, debauched and undone.
*
She won't touch the mask - ridiculous as it seems in the circumstances, there are lines she won't cross - but the gloves and scarf and hat are easy enough to find and if she looks at herself with the brim low and her face in shadow and lets her eyes unfocus, she can almost see it.
It's striking, this close and under her control, this sharp cut of violence. The color's not even as ridiculous as it could be; it's the purple of bruises, and the layers make her feel like something untouchable.
Laurie rubs one hand heavy over her crotch and then slides it inside the fly, fondling the wadded bandages lazily. In the mirror, Rorschach does the same.
He's always so rigid, so upright and immovable, dressed like this. They've both seen Walter run through with pleasure and writhing under their touch in nothing short of abandon, but Rorschach, the stubborn jackass, may as well have ice water in his veins. She never gets to see him like this, legs spread and hand down his open slacks, arching back to support himself with one hand as the dispassionate mirror looks on.
She jacks the thickness in her underwear as if she can feel it, rocking it roughly against her clit, wallowing in the skin-warmth of the glove's leather and how tight and restricted it all is, how little room she has to work in. She thinks of Dan (because Rorschach would, and that's the shade she's occupying right now, long legs draped in outline-breaking stripes, fingers as rough and calloused as his) in a way she's only seen him a few times thanks to the modern miracle of silicone: on spread knees, chest buried in the blankets, thick hands reaching back to hold himself open for her.
She imagines it, pushing in, but this time she can feel it, the tight heat and the softness and the way he clenches and moans when she gets the last inch in, settles against his back with a contented sigh before those first few hungry thrusts.
*
[Filthy, the voice in her head says, timbre of a thousand damages and a thousand moments of love terribly misplaced, and it feels as much at home here as the slickness of the gloves, the tight constriction of the scarf at her throat, biting in. She ignores it, keeps fucking Daniel, until he's a wrecked, babbling creature, tightening around her as he finishes and she can feel it wringing the come right out of her, something like pleasure made manifest before it spills over into this welcoming hot body-]
*
She halts her hand, pulling and holding a breath until the peak recedes, backing away from the edge. She doesn't want this over yet, and she takes a moment to look in the mirror again, to tip her head forward and glower at herself for looking so disgraceful, for soiling herself in such a base way. Supposed to be stronger than this, she imagines him saying, and isn't sure if it'd be directed at her or himself.
One hand splays over mirror-Rorschach's stomach, over all the strong, hard lines of muscle hidden just under cloth, and it's almost like she can't feel herself moving; just watches, fascinated, as he fists the hand in his pants too sharply, too hard, doubles over on himself out of phantom pain and maybe that's what the mask needs to fuel its ruthless isolation: All intimacy transmuted to agony.
*
[Nite Owl is in front of her in the dark, hands flat against an alley wall and trembling because they've never done this before and he knows what violence she's capable of. She watches, detached, as her hands unhook his belt, pull his uniform bottoms down to pool around his knees, grease him up and guide her cock inside - hard, deep, all in one stroke. Over the sounds of the city, loud and grotesque and ringing with degeneracy and despair, Nite Owl howls.]
*
She works the glove leather under the bandages now, rocking slickness over her clit, arching her back against the bed where she's fallen still just within the mirror's view. The slacks constrict tightly around her thighs, make her look as piston-strong as she is when her legs brace on the floor and lift her hips from the bed-
*
[Her fingers fisting through Daniel's hair and pulling, making him cry out and beg for more in the same breath, and she bites down on his shoulder and tastes blood and this isn't Rorschach at all, this is her, she's done this so many times-]
*
When she feels the warmth start to build, she groans, and it's too high and clear and not resonant enough but that's okay, she can still see herself (Rorschach) in the mirror spread open over the bed, scarf splayed over his chest, hips bucking, and she-
*
[Walter, strung between them, so strong in the way he submits to their hands, trusts them to take him apart because he knows they can put him together again. Making a sound so close to fear it breaks her heart every time Dan rocks him into her, and it's like he's being tossed between a storm and a sucking whirlpool, both sure to destroy him.
He stays between them anyway, until the storm spends itself and the water gives up its hold and he is empty, and there is so much courage in that.]
*
"Fuck," she swears under her breath, curling onto her side as the swell of heat hits, slips through her veins like a drug, tightens her breath and blows out her vision and the last thing she sees is Rorschach tucked up hard into a fetal ball, weak and shaking and lost.
*
A few minutes later (she's still drifting, eyes closed and one gloved hand playing idly with the edge of the blanket) there's a dip in the mattress behind her. Hands around her middle, lips pressed to her neck just above the scarf. Must be Dan. This should worry her, for some reason.
"Wow, so," he says after a moment, nuzzling into the scarf itself, inhaling the mingled scents. "That was about the hottest thing I've ever seen."
This should worry her. It should. Lazily, the thought connects: "You're home?"
"Walter's in the kitchen," he mumbles, tonguing her ear, and it's the answer to the question she'd almost but not quite asked. "Putting the groceries away."
"Mn," she says, rolling towards him. The hat slips off, rolls to the floor, and she grinds her hips into his, packing and all. "We have time for a quickie?"
Laughter, rumbling close to her ear. "We didn't buy that much stuff. But you've got time to get out of that before this becomes a murder scene."
She groans unhappily, hooking one leg over his.
"Which I think," he says, a little nervousness creeping in, "might be a good goal for the moment?"
"Spoilsport." She grins, rolls off the bed and starts stripping with practiced efficiency.
Halfway through, she realizes that Dan's still watching her, and her eyes follow his as they track the shedding of this borrowed skin.
"I'll, uh," Dan says once she's down to the slacks and suspenders, clearing his throat. "I'll try to find out what he's doing with the old one though, okay?"
"Perverted," she growls, pitch perfect; slips the suspenders suggestively.
Dan just shrugs, still sprawled on his side on Walter's unmade bed, and she can't quite tell where both his hands are. "You know me too well, Ms. Juspeczyk."
*
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairings: Laurie(/Dan/Walter) solo
Date Written: 2010
Summary: Laurie takes Rorschach's new suit for a spin; confusing identity fuckery results.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17.
Notes: For Kink Bingo(prompt: 'crossdressing'), posted early just so I don't porn-bomb flists when I'm done. Not being crossposted until then.
*
She's not planning this, when she slides the closet door back. She's snooping, sure; just a little, just enough to give her curiosity a taste, fleeting on the tongue. Nothing really private, just a few mundane puzzle pieces for her brain to chew on.
Instead, her eyes go immediately to the fresh-looking suit hung in plain sight, still in its plastic, tags from a local low-scale tailorshop wedged into the hanger. Brilliantly, richly violet, untouched and unfaded by years of staining and washing, and she'd heard him talk about finally having to replace the old one. Laurie slides her fingers up under the sheeting, runs them down along the gabardine, following the stripes.
She's not even sure why - there's just something charged about it, about the way he ties so much up in these scraps of cloth, and they will see so much violence before they're threadbare and retired in turn - but she's doing the mental calculations immediately: she's a little taller than him but not by much, and they're built similarly apart from the obvious, and all of Dan's first-aid kits have thick rolls of cloth bandages tucked into them, don't they?
Then she's hauled the kit down from the top shelf and into Walter's bathroom, has peeled her top away, is winding the bandages around and around.
Dan and Walter will be gone for hours. She has time.
*
She ends up looking like a pretty thin guy with disproportionately built pecs - there's only so much she can do without injuring herself, here - and the hips aren't going anywhere any time soon, but maybe the straight clean lines will mask some of the curves.
On an impulse, Laurie wads up the last roll of bandages and pushes it carefully down into her panties - tries to imagine Walter wearing them, flimsy over his narrow hipbones and just barely holding him in, and has to rock the heel of her hand over the bulge a few times, the friction it rubs out against her rough and undirected.
She closes her eyes, hand palming over her imaginary dick, and she already knows where this is going.
*
That is, of course, no reason not to take her time.
They've been enforcing use of the laundry so it's not hard to find clean socks, underwear, undershirt; she puts each piece on slowly, feeling all the ways in which they don't fit and all the ways in which they do. Too tight around her hips, over her chest. The sock garters clip around her calves perfectly, anchoring on the compact muscle, and the boxers slide on over her own underwear and look correct in profile, if not strictly accurate. (She suspects Rorschach has more inconvenient hardons in costume than he ever admits to.)
The dress shirt sits just right across her shoulders, sleeves a little short. Slacks and suspenders and vest, because Rorschach is frankly a little fucking ridiculous like that, and then the suitcoat over it all.
This is where the magic starts to happen, one button at a time, and she runs her fingers down the stripes again, tracing from the contained swell of her breast down to her waist in one straight drop. She can barely see it, like a map with its topography flattened out, and the hand continues down over her still too-prominent hip as if it were smoothing away all these things that jut and protrude, shaping herself like clay.
She looks up; catches herself in the bedroom mirror this time, one hand palming her thigh while the other drapes suggestively over her chest, and she knows immediately that she must see Rorschach like this, touching himself through all his armor, debauched and undone.
*
She won't touch the mask - ridiculous as it seems in the circumstances, there are lines she won't cross - but the gloves and scarf and hat are easy enough to find and if she looks at herself with the brim low and her face in shadow and lets her eyes unfocus, she can almost see it.
It's striking, this close and under her control, this sharp cut of violence. The color's not even as ridiculous as it could be; it's the purple of bruises, and the layers make her feel like something untouchable.
Laurie rubs one hand heavy over her crotch and then slides it inside the fly, fondling the wadded bandages lazily. In the mirror, Rorschach does the same.
He's always so rigid, so upright and immovable, dressed like this. They've both seen Walter run through with pleasure and writhing under their touch in nothing short of abandon, but Rorschach, the stubborn jackass, may as well have ice water in his veins. She never gets to see him like this, legs spread and hand down his open slacks, arching back to support himself with one hand as the dispassionate mirror looks on.
She jacks the thickness in her underwear as if she can feel it, rocking it roughly against her clit, wallowing in the skin-warmth of the glove's leather and how tight and restricted it all is, how little room she has to work in. She thinks of Dan (because Rorschach would, and that's the shade she's occupying right now, long legs draped in outline-breaking stripes, fingers as rough and calloused as his) in a way she's only seen him a few times thanks to the modern miracle of silicone: on spread knees, chest buried in the blankets, thick hands reaching back to hold himself open for her.
She imagines it, pushing in, but this time she can feel it, the tight heat and the softness and the way he clenches and moans when she gets the last inch in, settles against his back with a contented sigh before those first few hungry thrusts.
*
[Filthy, the voice in her head says, timbre of a thousand damages and a thousand moments of love terribly misplaced, and it feels as much at home here as the slickness of the gloves, the tight constriction of the scarf at her throat, biting in. She ignores it, keeps fucking Daniel, until he's a wrecked, babbling creature, tightening around her as he finishes and she can feel it wringing the come right out of her, something like pleasure made manifest before it spills over into this welcoming hot body-]
*
She halts her hand, pulling and holding a breath until the peak recedes, backing away from the edge. She doesn't want this over yet, and she takes a moment to look in the mirror again, to tip her head forward and glower at herself for looking so disgraceful, for soiling herself in such a base way. Supposed to be stronger than this, she imagines him saying, and isn't sure if it'd be directed at her or himself.
One hand splays over mirror-Rorschach's stomach, over all the strong, hard lines of muscle hidden just under cloth, and it's almost like she can't feel herself moving; just watches, fascinated, as he fists the hand in his pants too sharply, too hard, doubles over on himself out of phantom pain and maybe that's what the mask needs to fuel its ruthless isolation: All intimacy transmuted to agony.
*
[Nite Owl is in front of her in the dark, hands flat against an alley wall and trembling because they've never done this before and he knows what violence she's capable of. She watches, detached, as her hands unhook his belt, pull his uniform bottoms down to pool around his knees, grease him up and guide her cock inside - hard, deep, all in one stroke. Over the sounds of the city, loud and grotesque and ringing with degeneracy and despair, Nite Owl howls.]
*
She works the glove leather under the bandages now, rocking slickness over her clit, arching her back against the bed where she's fallen still just within the mirror's view. The slacks constrict tightly around her thighs, make her look as piston-strong as she is when her legs brace on the floor and lift her hips from the bed-
*
[Her fingers fisting through Daniel's hair and pulling, making him cry out and beg for more in the same breath, and she bites down on his shoulder and tastes blood and this isn't Rorschach at all, this is her, she's done this so many times-]
*
When she feels the warmth start to build, she groans, and it's too high and clear and not resonant enough but that's okay, she can still see herself (Rorschach) in the mirror spread open over the bed, scarf splayed over his chest, hips bucking, and she-
*
[Walter, strung between them, so strong in the way he submits to their hands, trusts them to take him apart because he knows they can put him together again. Making a sound so close to fear it breaks her heart every time Dan rocks him into her, and it's like he's being tossed between a storm and a sucking whirlpool, both sure to destroy him.
He stays between them anyway, until the storm spends itself and the water gives up its hold and he is empty, and there is so much courage in that.]
*
"Fuck," she swears under her breath, curling onto her side as the swell of heat hits, slips through her veins like a drug, tightens her breath and blows out her vision and the last thing she sees is Rorschach tucked up hard into a fetal ball, weak and shaking and lost.
*
A few minutes later (she's still drifting, eyes closed and one gloved hand playing idly with the edge of the blanket) there's a dip in the mattress behind her. Hands around her middle, lips pressed to her neck just above the scarf. Must be Dan. This should worry her, for some reason.
"Wow, so," he says after a moment, nuzzling into the scarf itself, inhaling the mingled scents. "That was about the hottest thing I've ever seen."
This should worry her. It should. Lazily, the thought connects: "You're home?"
"Walter's in the kitchen," he mumbles, tonguing her ear, and it's the answer to the question she'd almost but not quite asked. "Putting the groceries away."
"Mn," she says, rolling towards him. The hat slips off, rolls to the floor, and she grinds her hips into his, packing and all. "We have time for a quickie?"
Laughter, rumbling close to her ear. "We didn't buy that much stuff. But you've got time to get out of that before this becomes a murder scene."
She groans unhappily, hooking one leg over his.
"Which I think," he says, a little nervousness creeping in, "might be a good goal for the moment?"
"Spoilsport." She grins, rolls off the bed and starts stripping with practiced efficiency.
Halfway through, she realizes that Dan's still watching her, and her eyes follow his as they track the shedding of this borrowed skin.
"I'll, uh," Dan says once she's down to the slacks and suspenders, clearing his throat. "I'll try to find out what he's doing with the old one though, okay?"
"Perverted," she growls, pitch perfect; slips the suspenders suggestively.
Dan just shrugs, still sprawled on his side on Walter's unmade bed, and she can't quite tell where both his hands are. "You know me too well, Ms. Juspeczyk."
*