Watchmen fic: And Sure in Language Strange She Said...
I went ahead and wrote 63!Veidt porn anyway. I got sucked into the Id Vortex.
Title: And Sure in Language Strange She Said...
Characters: Rorschach/63!Veidt
Rating: NC-17, het, porn. Rorschach/63!Veidt. I think this qualifies as dubcon rape considering the power dynamic and Rorschach's issues with sex. Written to please my id.
Word count: 1777
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Alan Moore.
Summary: Rorschach goes to tell Veidt about the Comedian. It does not go well for him.
Unbeta'd, 'cos it's short.
---
One entire wall of the office is occupied by a glass cabinet full of dolls: a legion of plastic Adi Veidts, all dressed differently (explorer, fashion model, actress, athlete, etc.), all with the same smile. Rorschach is watched by at least a hundred unblinking blue eyes.
The real Adi Veidt sits at her desk, immaculate.
In person, she's not imposingly beautiful, like some of the photographers make her out to be. She's pretty and unthreatening, a Disney princess who rescued herself: bobbed blonde hair, light makeup, fresh-faced, girl-next-door. The heavy kohl eyeliner and Art Deco severity that helped to make her famous belongs solely to her adventuring alter-ego, Cleopatra, a persona that is safely tucked away in a closet whenever Adi doesn't need to scare people. She smiles at Rorschach, despite the polite hostility that he has always shown towards her. Between Adi and her dolls, there's an awful lot of smiling going on inside the room.
"The Comedian was murdered," Rorschach tells her, to wipe the smile off her face. "Two nights ago. Was thrown through his apartment window."
"...What? He's dead? Really?" She frowns with the bare minimum of wrinkles. (There are several rumors regarding how she maintains her youth. She makes a killing from the sale of her cosmetics line.) "Why?"
"Thought you had an answer for everything, Miss Veidt," Rorschach replies. He takes a few steps closer to her desk, drawn to a gaudy statue of Isis that she uses as a paperweight - despite his distaste, he still has to pick the idol up and examine it. "You tell me."
Adi shakes her head, at a loss. "Listen, could it have been a political killing? Maybe the Soviets..."
Rorschach cuts her off. "Dreiberg said the same thing. Don't believe it. America has Dr. Manhattan. Reds have been running scared since '65. They'd never dare antagonize us. I think we've got a mask killer."
"Well, um, we don't know that's necessarily the case, Rorschach. The Comedian had plenty of other enemies to choose from, even discounting the Russians..." Adi almost sounds apologetic. She can appear deferential when she needs to. (It's no accident that she chose a diminutive name for herself.) "Everyone knows that the man was practically a nazi."
Rorschach bristles slightly. He puts the idol back down. "He stood up for his country, Miss Veidt. Never let anybody retire him. Never set up a company and sold his own image in order to seduce people into parting with their money. Never became a prostitute."
"Excuse me?" Adi says.
For few seconds, there's no sound in the room except for the patter of the rain against the window.
"Did you actually just say what I think you said?" Adi regards Rorschach with wide eyes, although she seems to be perversely amused by him. She does not give him the chance to apologise. Perhaps she doesn't expect him to. "I... My goodness, I'm actually speechless. I know that we've never been friends, but using such a sexualised insult just makes you seem... juvenile. Good god, I actually gave a talk to a group of sex workers just last week while I was opening a new walk-in clinic at one of the women's centers we fund, so I hope you're smart enough to see why using the word 'prostitute' as a put-down is problematic on several levels."
There's the creak of leather as Rorschach's hands tighten into fists. He says nothing.
Adi stands up, and begins to walk around, her footsteps measured by the metronomic click-click-click of her heels, like the ticking of a clock on an unexploded bomb, or the rhythm of a hypnotist's watch. Click. Click. Click. Rorschach has to listen closely, because her words are slow and quiet: "I do know what you think of me, you know. I suppose it's never occurred to you to examine your assumption that a woman in a position of power is also sexually promiscuous, as if female sexuality itself is such a bad thing. Slut-shaming is weak and tiresome. I'm not just some femme fatale, Rorschach. I'm a complicated human being. I can't be reduced to a misogynistic archetype."
When she finishes speaking, Rorschach realises too late that she's been inching nearer to him the whole time, and he's been inching away from her. His situational awareness as a fighter has failed him - but then, he's never had an opponent quite like her before.
Now she's standing far too close, and when he unthinkingly steps back, his shoulders brush against the window behind him. His body is tensed from the reflexive urge to shove her away.
"Of course, I don't really expect that you'll ever change your mind. Trying to convince you that I'm an actual person is probably another exercise in futility, but perhaps I've just grown to like the sound of my own voice." Adi gives him another one of those painted-on smiles. Her lipstick is the shade of pink you'd expect to see in a 12-year-old girl's bedroom, as opposed to the dark, wet red that she wears while in costume. Rorschach has never seen her so closely before, and whenever she opens her mouth to speak, he finds himself looking at her perfect white teeth. "Really, I know it's trite, but it has actually got to the point where your animosity makes me wonder..."
Is she angry at him? He can't tell.
He feels a strong need to say sorry now, and it has nothing to do with courtesy.
Adi's smile changes subtly, but remains unreadable. She cants her head to one side, just like he sometimes does. "You've gone very quiet," she states. Her voice is gently sarcastic. "Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms?"
She takes a final step forward, and he has nowhere to go.
As if it's the simplest thing in the world, she slips her hand between his legs. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath and he grits his teeth, his hands spread uselessly against the window behind him. She takes advantage of his shock - she has always sought refuge in audacity - and he does not attack her when she begins to rub his cock through his clothing.
He could still reject her, could still rationalize it by saying that it's not right and he's meant to be a better person - but nothing is ever quite that easy in practice. As a man, there are certain things expected of him, and one of those things is that he won't run away in horror when 'the world's most beautiful woman' has her hand on his crotch.
Uncertainty leaves him paralytic.
Around them, the innumerable eyes of the dolls stare benevolently.
Adi kicks off her shoes, making herself smaller so that she's almost gazing up at him, and she leans against him, pressing her breasts to his chest. He catches himself looking down her blouse. In some dark corner of his brain, he knows that she's doing this to undermine him, but he's already shamefully hard and there's no way he can win.
She unbuttons his coat, deft and dispassionate, so that she's able to unfasten his pants and yank his underwear down. Then she delicately spits into her palm. And she takes his cock in her small, perfect, manicured hands, and she jerks him off.
It's not much consolation that they're seventy stories up and that the only thing between Rorschach and oblivion is a pane of glass.
"It's alright," she murmurs, as a forlorn sound is wrenched out of him. She has stopped smiling now. "I don't kiss and tell. I like to think that I have some honor left."
Rorschach's eyes are closed, although it's doubtful that she can tell - and for the first time in years, he looks away from something. His breathing is like that of a drowning man; for him, there is no great divide between lust and panic. When Adi uses her free hand to push his mask up over the bridge of his nose, it's such a blatant act of violation that he flinches, but she shushes him. With his face half bare, she can see his dejected grimace. She doesn't kiss him, although they're so close that he can no doubt feel her breath against his face; proof, if nothing else, that she still breathes and he still feels.
Her hand slides under his jacket and shirt, to brush a thumb against his left nipple, and he stifles a moan against her shoulder. Somehow, he has ended up leaning against her. He's heavy, but she's strong enough to support them both. He can smell the artificial sweetness of her perfume; strangely, it makes him think of vases of flowers on kitchen tables, something feminine but somehow clean. As he ruts desperately against her hand, he wants nothing more than to hide his face between her breasts and inhale that scent until he can forget the smell of burning corpses.
Adi's mouth is close to his ear. "My god, you are such a little pervert," she whispers, although her voice lacks any real contempt. The absence of sincerity is the only thing that stops the words from hurting too much, so that they just hurt enough. "Dirty bastard," she says. The bucking of his hips becomes more irregular, and she knows that he's yielding. She slows her rhythm, just so that she can feel his pulse against her fingers.
"That's it. Good boy," she murmurs. There's no love there, but the impersonal warmth in her voice is close enough. He knows she's a monster but he's too far gone to care.
He climaxes with a broken whimper, spilling himself into her hand, and she strokes him through it until his discomfort outweighs his pleasure. She knows when to let him go.
They remain together for a few seconds more, and then she steps away. He anticipates disgust and does not look at her, although if he did meet her eyes, then he would see nothing in them at all.
"Now," she says, "don't you feel better?"
Of course, he doesn't reply; he just clumsily tugs his pants back up and buttons his coat, while she stalks over to her desk to clean her hand with a tissue. He remembers, belatedly, to pull his mask back down, and she puts her shoes back on, so that she's taller again. They reprise their previous roles, as if they have the luxury of pretending that nothing has changed.
He leaves as he came in, via the window. She rolls her eyes.
---
Author's note: Why does Rorschach always get jerked off in my Watchmen porn fics? I never knew I had the kink. I guess that it's partly because handjobs can be relatively impersonal.
I chose the name 'Cleopatra' for 63!Veidt because she's a female ruler associated with glamour (and, the world being what it is, I thought that a female Veidt would probably have to play on her beauty and sex appeal more than a male Veidt would), and 'Adi' because it sounds like 'Edie'.
I'd like to apologise to Keats. :(
Title: And Sure in Language Strange She Said...
Characters: Rorschach/63!Veidt
Rating: NC-17, het, porn. Rorschach/63!Veidt. I think this qualifies as dubcon rape considering the power dynamic and Rorschach's issues with sex. Written to please my id.
Word count: 1777
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Alan Moore.
Summary: Rorschach goes to tell Veidt about the Comedian. It does not go well for him.
Unbeta'd, 'cos it's short.
---
One entire wall of the office is occupied by a glass cabinet full of dolls: a legion of plastic Adi Veidts, all dressed differently (explorer, fashion model, actress, athlete, etc.), all with the same smile. Rorschach is watched by at least a hundred unblinking blue eyes.
The real Adi Veidt sits at her desk, immaculate.
In person, she's not imposingly beautiful, like some of the photographers make her out to be. She's pretty and unthreatening, a Disney princess who rescued herself: bobbed blonde hair, light makeup, fresh-faced, girl-next-door. The heavy kohl eyeliner and Art Deco severity that helped to make her famous belongs solely to her adventuring alter-ego, Cleopatra, a persona that is safely tucked away in a closet whenever Adi doesn't need to scare people. She smiles at Rorschach, despite the polite hostility that he has always shown towards her. Between Adi and her dolls, there's an awful lot of smiling going on inside the room.
"The Comedian was murdered," Rorschach tells her, to wipe the smile off her face. "Two nights ago. Was thrown through his apartment window."
"...What? He's dead? Really?" She frowns with the bare minimum of wrinkles. (There are several rumors regarding how she maintains her youth. She makes a killing from the sale of her cosmetics line.) "Why?"
"Thought you had an answer for everything, Miss Veidt," Rorschach replies. He takes a few steps closer to her desk, drawn to a gaudy statue of Isis that she uses as a paperweight - despite his distaste, he still has to pick the idol up and examine it. "You tell me."
Adi shakes her head, at a loss. "Listen, could it have been a political killing? Maybe the Soviets..."
Rorschach cuts her off. "Dreiberg said the same thing. Don't believe it. America has Dr. Manhattan. Reds have been running scared since '65. They'd never dare antagonize us. I think we've got a mask killer."
"Well, um, we don't know that's necessarily the case, Rorschach. The Comedian had plenty of other enemies to choose from, even discounting the Russians..." Adi almost sounds apologetic. She can appear deferential when she needs to. (It's no accident that she chose a diminutive name for herself.) "Everyone knows that the man was practically a nazi."
Rorschach bristles slightly. He puts the idol back down. "He stood up for his country, Miss Veidt. Never let anybody retire him. Never set up a company and sold his own image in order to seduce people into parting with their money. Never became a prostitute."
"Excuse me?" Adi says.
For few seconds, there's no sound in the room except for the patter of the rain against the window.
"Did you actually just say what I think you said?" Adi regards Rorschach with wide eyes, although she seems to be perversely amused by him. She does not give him the chance to apologise. Perhaps she doesn't expect him to. "I... My goodness, I'm actually speechless. I know that we've never been friends, but using such a sexualised insult just makes you seem... juvenile. Good god, I actually gave a talk to a group of sex workers just last week while I was opening a new walk-in clinic at one of the women's centers we fund, so I hope you're smart enough to see why using the word 'prostitute' as a put-down is problematic on several levels."
There's the creak of leather as Rorschach's hands tighten into fists. He says nothing.
Adi stands up, and begins to walk around, her footsteps measured by the metronomic click-click-click of her heels, like the ticking of a clock on an unexploded bomb, or the rhythm of a hypnotist's watch. Click. Click. Click. Rorschach has to listen closely, because her words are slow and quiet: "I do know what you think of me, you know. I suppose it's never occurred to you to examine your assumption that a woman in a position of power is also sexually promiscuous, as if female sexuality itself is such a bad thing. Slut-shaming is weak and tiresome. I'm not just some femme fatale, Rorschach. I'm a complicated human being. I can't be reduced to a misogynistic archetype."
When she finishes speaking, Rorschach realises too late that she's been inching nearer to him the whole time, and he's been inching away from her. His situational awareness as a fighter has failed him - but then, he's never had an opponent quite like her before.
Now she's standing far too close, and when he unthinkingly steps back, his shoulders brush against the window behind him. His body is tensed from the reflexive urge to shove her away.
"Of course, I don't really expect that you'll ever change your mind. Trying to convince you that I'm an actual person is probably another exercise in futility, but perhaps I've just grown to like the sound of my own voice." Adi gives him another one of those painted-on smiles. Her lipstick is the shade of pink you'd expect to see in a 12-year-old girl's bedroom, as opposed to the dark, wet red that she wears while in costume. Rorschach has never seen her so closely before, and whenever she opens her mouth to speak, he finds himself looking at her perfect white teeth. "Really, I know it's trite, but it has actually got to the point where your animosity makes me wonder..."
Is she angry at him? He can't tell.
He feels a strong need to say sorry now, and it has nothing to do with courtesy.
Adi's smile changes subtly, but remains unreadable. She cants her head to one side, just like he sometimes does. "You've gone very quiet," she states. Her voice is gently sarcastic. "Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms?"
She takes a final step forward, and he has nowhere to go.
As if it's the simplest thing in the world, she slips her hand between his legs. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath and he grits his teeth, his hands spread uselessly against the window behind him. She takes advantage of his shock - she has always sought refuge in audacity - and he does not attack her when she begins to rub his cock through his clothing.
He could still reject her, could still rationalize it by saying that it's not right and he's meant to be a better person - but nothing is ever quite that easy in practice. As a man, there are certain things expected of him, and one of those things is that he won't run away in horror when 'the world's most beautiful woman' has her hand on his crotch.
Uncertainty leaves him paralytic.
Around them, the innumerable eyes of the dolls stare benevolently.
Adi kicks off her shoes, making herself smaller so that she's almost gazing up at him, and she leans against him, pressing her breasts to his chest. He catches himself looking down her blouse. In some dark corner of his brain, he knows that she's doing this to undermine him, but he's already shamefully hard and there's no way he can win.
She unbuttons his coat, deft and dispassionate, so that she's able to unfasten his pants and yank his underwear down. Then she delicately spits into her palm. And she takes his cock in her small, perfect, manicured hands, and she jerks him off.
It's not much consolation that they're seventy stories up and that the only thing between Rorschach and oblivion is a pane of glass.
"It's alright," she murmurs, as a forlorn sound is wrenched out of him. She has stopped smiling now. "I don't kiss and tell. I like to think that I have some honor left."
Rorschach's eyes are closed, although it's doubtful that she can tell - and for the first time in years, he looks away from something. His breathing is like that of a drowning man; for him, there is no great divide between lust and panic. When Adi uses her free hand to push his mask up over the bridge of his nose, it's such a blatant act of violation that he flinches, but she shushes him. With his face half bare, she can see his dejected grimace. She doesn't kiss him, although they're so close that he can no doubt feel her breath against his face; proof, if nothing else, that she still breathes and he still feels.
Her hand slides under his jacket and shirt, to brush a thumb against his left nipple, and he stifles a moan against her shoulder. Somehow, he has ended up leaning against her. He's heavy, but she's strong enough to support them both. He can smell the artificial sweetness of her perfume; strangely, it makes him think of vases of flowers on kitchen tables, something feminine but somehow clean. As he ruts desperately against her hand, he wants nothing more than to hide his face between her breasts and inhale that scent until he can forget the smell of burning corpses.
Adi's mouth is close to his ear. "My god, you are such a little pervert," she whispers, although her voice lacks any real contempt. The absence of sincerity is the only thing that stops the words from hurting too much, so that they just hurt enough. "Dirty bastard," she says. The bucking of his hips becomes more irregular, and she knows that he's yielding. She slows her rhythm, just so that she can feel his pulse against her fingers.
"That's it. Good boy," she murmurs. There's no love there, but the impersonal warmth in her voice is close enough. He knows she's a monster but he's too far gone to care.
He climaxes with a broken whimper, spilling himself into her hand, and she strokes him through it until his discomfort outweighs his pleasure. She knows when to let him go.
They remain together for a few seconds more, and then she steps away. He anticipates disgust and does not look at her, although if he did meet her eyes, then he would see nothing in them at all.
"Now," she says, "don't you feel better?"
Of course, he doesn't reply; he just clumsily tugs his pants back up and buttons his coat, while she stalks over to her desk to clean her hand with a tissue. He remembers, belatedly, to pull his mask back down, and she puts her shoes back on, so that she's taller again. They reprise their previous roles, as if they have the luxury of pretending that nothing has changed.
He leaves as he came in, via the window. She rolls her eyes.
---
Author's note: Why does Rorschach always get jerked off in my Watchmen porn fics? I never knew I had the kink. I guess that it's partly because handjobs can be relatively impersonal.
I chose the name 'Cleopatra' for 63!Veidt because she's a female ruler associated with glamour (and, the world being what it is, I thought that a female Veidt would probably have to play on her beauty and sex appeal more than a male Veidt would), and 'Adi' because it sounds like 'Edie'.
I'd like to apologise to Keats. :(