Vampiric
Title: Vampiric
Author: quietprofanity
Fandom: Watchmen
Pairings: female!Rorschach/female!Nite Owl
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine and are used for non-profit purposes.
Warnings: Rule 63. Explicit f/f sex. BDSM. Wanda’s self-hating misogyny. Does not actually contain vampires.
Summary: PWP. Wanda wants and doesn’t want to take Danielle.
Acknowledgments: Awesome cover image by radishface. Also, check out ook's picture, here. Thank you both!
~*~*~
There is no part of this that Rorschach doesn’t find repulsive.
They’re entangled together in Danielle’s guest room bed, both of them still wearing every part of their costumes. Even their shoes - Danielle had looked a bit perturbed when Rorschach first laid her feet on the comforter, but after a moment Danielle sighed, shrugged and got on top of the bed with her boots still on.
Those boots now dig into Rorschach’s calves as Danielle wraps her arms and legs around her. There is no space between them, and Rorschach can feel every curve of Danielle’s body. Rorschach’s arms are around Danielle as well. She grabs onto Danielle’s cape, fights the urge to let her hands go lower, to cup her hands around Danielle’s buttocks and squeeze until Danielle cries …
This wasn’t supposed to happen. They’re supposed to be partners, bound together in their mutual passion to uphold justice, to clean the filth from the streets. What they have together shouldn’t be about this.
If only she’d been able to see the signs for what they were. One of the things Rorschach learned first-hand from her dual life was that women treat men differently than they do each other. However, she’d never had a female friend before Danielle, never realized women will do and say things to each other that they wouldn’t to a male friend. So when Danielle squeezed Rorschach’s shoulder after Rorschach found a good clue, grabbed Rorschach’s wrist and pulled her across the Owl’s Nest to show her Minnie’s new features, even took Rorschach in an embrace after a particularly close call, Rorschach felt an uncomfortable shock at first, but reminded herself these gestures were only friendly among two women, weren’t meant to carry an implication of something darker, something illicit, the way they would if Danielle still thought Rorschach was a man.
They weren’t meant to, anyway. After they kissed for the first time, Danielle said she’d also been telling herself her actions were innocent.
Danielle is kissing Rorschach now, leaving a trail along her mask. When she’s done she laughs.
“What is it?” Rorschach asks.
“Oh … heh,” Danielle smiles, runs a gloved finger along the edge of Rorschach’s cheek. “It’s just that the black spots follow my kisses.”
Rorschach feels ashamed. She shouldn’t have agreed to this. Danielle is so … well, no. Not childlike. Children do not go out into the night to do battle with pimps and drug dealers. Children do not do things like this. But Danielle seems like a child in the way she’s drawn to this depravity, like a little girl reaching out to caress the glinting edge of a knife. It’s foolish and naive but Rorschach shouldn’t want to defile it with the sick urges that bubble inside her. She should be strong and convince Danielle how wrong this all is, tell her how women shouldn’t behave like this, don’t behave like this.
That neither of them is much like a woman is barely a comfort.
Danielle’s hands rove over Rorschach’s body, rubbing Rorschach’s hips before moving up to her back, then around to her sides. Danielle’s unpinned hand moves almost to Rorschach’s chest. It lingers there, uncertain.
“Can I?” Danielle asks.
Rorschach doesn’t understand.
“I, uh, I want to feel them,” Danielle says. Her thumb circles against Rorschach’s side; Rorschach tenses as Danielle brushes against the layers of cloth above her chest. “You don’t have to take off the suit if you don’t want to. But I … I want to feel the real you.”
Rorschach growls, short and low, in response. She’s ready to remind Danielle - as she has many times - that the mask is her true self, that the person who fights by Nite Owl’s side every night is the only part of Rorschach Danielle needs to know. And yet, Rorschach is free from lust, committed only to justice. This burning hunger inside her, this need to turn Rorschach’s only friend - one of the few morally fit and healthy women in this city of sluts and prostitutes - into a gasping, begging shadow of her true self, sweaty and eyes glazed with lust, can only come from Wanda. And Wanda wants Danielle to touch.
“They’re not …” Rorschach’s hands reach down between their bodies to untie the knot of her trenchcoat. She takes care to avoid touching Danielle’s breasts as she reaches down, which are large and feel hard pressed against her. Rorschach looks down at them, and feels her body warm with lust. The words “like yours” die in Rorschach’s throat. Ridiculous. As if she’s back in the locker room at Lillian Charlton, sitting half-dressed and alone in the corner, listening to the other girls squabble and peck at each other, trying not to look at them in their indecent states. No, she has no wish to return to that.
Danielle grabs Rorschach’s hand, pulls her up so they are kneeling next to each other on the bed. Danielle reaches beneath Rorschach’s jacket and vest, pulls the dress shirt and undershirt out from where it’s tucked inside her pants. As she does so, Danielle’s gloved palm accidentally brushes against Rorschach’s stomach, making Rorschach flinch. Danielle finds the clip of the bandage, squeezes it free, pinching some skin with it.
“Careful,” Rorschach says, letting the word out in an angry breath.
“Sorry.”
Danielle’s hands are gentle now as they unravel the bandage around Rorschach’s chest. Her movements are slow, respectful even, but to Rorschach they’re a new agony. She feels like she’s being taken apart, and her breathing comes out in fast, panicky bursts even as she feels her nipples harden beneath the bandage.
“Are you okay?” Danielle asks. “Do you want me to -?”
“Finish it,” Rorschach snaps.
Danielle pauses. Rorschach is glad she can’t see Danielle’s eyes beneath her goggles, can’t see the pity in them. Danielle has been looking at her like that a lot lately, usually after Rorschach says something about women. Before she knew, Danielle would have instead been indignant, would have argued. This change is something Rorschach wants to stop.
(It’s perhaps why she’s here.)
Danielle finishes, pulling the bandage out beneath Rorschach’s clothes, putting it aside on the bed. She kisses Rorschach first, like this is something sweet and gentle, not a violation of everything pure, everything virtuous women are supposed to be. Then her hands are on Rorschach’s chest, palming and groping over layers of clothing. Rorschach reaches out, grips onto Danielle’s shoulders. Danielle makes a quiet little “uh” of pain, but doesn’t stop, makes her touches harder. It feels good, and it’s hard for Rorschach to keep focus, keep her head from rocking backward and her mouth from going slack beneath the mask. Her hands itch inside her gloves, eager to move, eager to mirror Danielle’s actions, although Danielle is much larger than Wanda, and her suit is thin and tight, coloring and molding her chest into a cruder form of its naked self and Rorschach has always told herself it does not affect her, but … she grips harder on Danielle’s shoulders.
Danielle stops. She moves her hands to around Rorschach’s waist, pulls Rorschach closer. Then Danielle sits down on her heels, crouching down so her face is level with Rorschach’s chest. She leans forward so her face is buried in Rorschach’s chest, nuzzles.
No.
Rorschach pushes Danielle away, shoves her back onto the bed. Before the bedsprings have stopped creaking Rorschach is on top of her. Danielle looks up at Rorschach, lips parted, and Rorschach has the urge to stick a gloved finger inside.
“Rorschach?” Danielle’s voice is breathy, eager.
She doesn’t listen, finds herself grabbing onto Danielle’s wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, kneeling on Danielle’s thighs so she’s holding her in place. Danielle squirms underneath her, her breath coming out in high-pitched little gasps as she struggles against Rorschach’s grip. (Although not struggling enough, Rorschach thinks. She knows Danielle is stronger than this.) It feels right to be in this position, assuages something feral and needy within, although it also makes her conscious of Wanda’s breasts dangling inside Rorschach’s clothes, of the horrible inequity of treating a partner this way and how she would not suffer Danielle doing this to her.
Rorschach suddenly wishes, not for the first time, that she was a real man. Not because men are good. Men are rapists and murderers. Men scurry along the streets of the city, crawl into the beds of women like Wanda’s mother like rats preparing to feast on garbage. Yet it is natural for men to have these urges, part of their blood to be driven to sin by their need to fornicate and destroy, the sign of a good man if he can suppress these urges. If Rorschach were to lapse as a man, to take Danielle as a man, it would be wrong, but explicable.
Not so for Wanda. Rorschach knows about lesbians, remembers Mr. Hodgkins at Lillian Charlton telling Wanda and the other girls about women with unnatural urges for each other, preying upon innocent girls like vampires and turning them away from men. (And Danielle must have been with men before tonight, Rorschach thinks.) She thought she could exorcise these feelings inside her. She always felt like she could before when she pulled Rorschach’s face over hers, knew that if Wanda ever looked at Danielle for too long or with lust in her heart Rorschach would never let Wanda act upon it. And yet now …
“Hey,” Danielle says, her voice tentative, thin. She squirms in Rorschach’s grasp again. “You can keep going, if you want.”
‘If you want,’ Rorschach thinks. If Danielle knew the half of what Wanda wants …
“I-I like it this way,” Danielle continues, her cheeks reddening in the harsh light of the guest room lamp. “I mean, I don’t know what you like. But if you want to hold me down or … or tie me up. It’s okay.”
She would like it. Craves it, in fact. But this violence, this capture, is for criminals, is for those who need to be punished. To use it otherwise would be a violation of what they do and they’re already perverting enough, touching each other in their costumes like this.
Rorschach is about to refuse; then Danielle stretches in her grasp, her chest and torso moving upwards and Rorschach chokes on a gasp, wonders if Danielle is presenting. She looks into Danielle’s goggles, can see nothing but the dual reflections of her own moving face in the convex glass. Yet Danielle catches the silent question, responds with the same awkward smile she gives when something slips out of her hands, or she makes a joke that Rorschach doesn’t like.
She wasn’t presenting. So it was an accident. Just an accident. Danielle doesn’t mean to have this effect on her.
Rorschach curls her free hand around Danielle’s neck. She doesn’t squeeze, but it’s enough to make Danielle freeze, make her look up at Rorschach with her mouth twisted open in fear and awe. It’s not fair to do this to Danielle, to scare Danielle like this, but the need to assert control as her body betrays her, as Danielle coaxes out every sick urge with a smile or the touch of her palm, pounds through Rorschach’s blood. Rorschach bends down low toward Danielle, so Danielle’s face is only an inch away from hers.
“Don’t. Move.”
Danielle nods.
Rorschach takes her abandoned chest wrap from its spot on the bed. She stretches it between her hands and even though she still feels exposed without it the gesture feels right. She threads the bandages underneath Danielle’s forearms, which Danielle still obediently holds together. Rorschach hears Danielle breathe in heavy gasps as she wraps them tight, mummifying them.
“God. Oh God, this has been on your …” Danielle moans, and it’s so obscene. Rorschach wants to order her to stop. Yet as Rorschach clips the bandage, Danielle looks up at her tied arms, pulls against her bonds. Her arms don’t separate, and she moans again.
She likes it.
“I don’t understand,” Rorschach says.
Danielle looks at her, a confused frown outlined in her eyebrows and lips.
“Could happen to you,” Rorschach grips onto Danielle’s tied wrists. “Scum of the streets could tie you up. Hurt you. Violate you.”
“That’s so different,” Danielle says. “That’s real. This is just playing.”
Playing? Rorschach thinks. This doesn’t feel like a game.
“It’s you. You wouldn’t seriously hurt me. That’s what makes this different,” Danielle insists. “Please, Rorschach, I want this from you. I trust you.”
Rorschach still doesn’t understand, but she reaches for Danielle anyway.
She pulls the shirt of Danielle’s costume up out from where it’s tucked underneath her belt, grabs the fabric and peels it away from the skin. A large, angry bruise has bloomed underneath Danielle’s left ribs, alarms Rorschach until she remembers the fight with the man with the crowbar that happened two days ago. (He’d called Danielle a pig, made a squealing noise after he’d struck her. His cry of pain as Rorschach grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face against the brick wall, leaving his nose smashed and bleeding and his teeth cracked, had been very satisfying.) Rorschach pauses, then bites her lips beneath her mask as she pulls the shirt over Danielle’s breasts.
The bra Danielle wears - plain white with no lace, a modest garment - doesn’t fit her properly, crushes her breasts against her body. (It’s to keep them tied down and unmoving, Rorschach realizes. She must remember to alter it or make a new one for Danielle later.) Rorschach reaches underneath it, pushes it up over Danielle’s breasts so that her clothing bunches up underneath where her cape covers her upper chest. Rorschach moves her hands down to touch Danielle, but she catches sight of her black gloves. She removes them. If she will fall, she will feel every moment of it.
Danielle’s breasts are warm in Rorschach’s hands. They’re soft, too, although they firm up beneath her touches and Danielle makes tiny, high-pitched sounds in return. Danielle moves her arms, tries to curl in on herself, but Rorschach holds her tied arms down again with her right hand, continues to touch Danielle with her left. Danielle’s nipples are hard now. It makes Danielle look less fragile (“Too soft.”), makes Rorschach bolder. She kneads one breast roughly in her free hand, lays her index finger and thumb on either side of the nipple and squeezes. The sounds turn into a cry.
It makes Rorschach shiver, calls to Wanda’s body. She’s suddenly conscious of the wetness between her legs. Rorschach wants to vomit. Of all the disgusting parts of being a woman, this is the worst. Periods hurt and make her bleed, but Miss Skinners had explained that all women have them. They couldn’t be avoided. Yet Wanda’s teachers never even had a name for the clear liquid that she began to find on her underpants when she was 12 years old; it wasn’t supposed to exist. When Rorschach realized its true purpose years later, she didn’t feel any differently.
Yet she wonders if Danielle …
Rorschach’s hands unbuckle the latch on Danielle’s belt before she realizes what she’s doing. Danielle pushes up her hips, causing Rorschach’s legs to slip off hers and Rorschach is about to be mad when she realizes why. Rorschach grabs the edge of the fabric that run along Danielle’s back, pulls it down and around the curve of her buttocks.
“Oh, yes,” Danielle moans. “Please, yes …”
The hair between Danielle’s legs is dark and curly, and she finds the damp locks of it before she finds the flesh itself. It is wet. And she can smell it. It’s gross and slick beneath her fingers but it is evidence that Danielle is like her, and somehow this vestige of the lust that is not supposed to exist binds them together. Rorschach pulls her mask up until it’s resting over the bridge of her nose, wants to take in more of the smell.
She rubs the pink skin between the hairs with her first two fingers, moves up the wet flesh. Desperate little gasps force their way out Danielle’s mouth and Rorschach realizes she’s echoing them, breathing out in short pants. Rorschach presses against a certain spot, and Danielle throws her head back against the pillow, lets out a moan that seems to make her body vibrate. When Rorschach rubs against it, the vibrations turn into shaking and Danielle cries out.
“Oh God,” Danielle gasps, “God … please, I need more. Please.”
Rorschach has never seen her partner like this, never seen her this weak and decadent but Rorschach likes Danielle like this even though she’s always admired Danielle for being noble and strong. It doesn’t make any sense at all.
Rorschach lets her thumb trail down Danielle’s sex, starts to push it inside her.
Danielle suddenly flinches. “No!”
Rorschach stops, looks up at Danielle. What happened? Did she hurt her?
“I, uh … I can’t … I can’t really be penetrated,” Danielle says. “It’s nothing you did, and I can still do other things but … well … I don’t know, something may be wrong with me.”
Rorschach feels her face warm, doesn’t know how to respond to that.
“Um, can you come up here?” Danielle asks. She’s straining her neck, trying to look through her bound arms, trying to look over her … oh. “I’m kind of having trouble seeing you.”
Rorschach moves, crawls so that she’s sitting next to Danielle’s side. Stupid, she tells herself. Stupid, stupid. She was supposed to be the strong one and now she’s pushed Danielle too far. Rorschach could have hurt her and she should be ashamed of that but she still wants, can still feel Wanda’s flesh pulse inside her.
Danielle rolls over onto her side. Rorschach stares at the curve of her torso and hips, misses what she says.
“What?”
“I want to apologize,” Danielle says.
Rorschach shakes her head. “No need. Should have asked.”
“Yeah, but … Well, I feel bad. I did ask for more and I didn’t say what that meant. And, uh, I really want to do something for you. Will you let me?”
Do something for her? But Rorschach has already taken so much.
Still, curiosity gets the better of her.
Danielle shuffles closer to Rorschach, struggling to move with her bound arms. When she reaches her, Danielle lays her head in Rorschach’s lap, kisses Rorschach’s legs, moving up them and closer to the space where Rorschach’s legs meet, to the pulse and the wet and the heat. Rorschach wants to push her away, but Danielle licks the fabric over that source of her misery. Rorschach throws her head back and what comes out of her mouth is so, so close to a scream.
Danielle lets out a cry of protest as Rorschach gets up in a kneeling position and Danielle slides off her. Yet Rorschach fumbles with her belt, tries to hold down the sobs trying to escape her chest as she pulls down her pants to her knees, sits back and spreads her legs as far as she can.
Slut, Rorschach thinks to herself even as she reaches underneath Danielle’s arms and pulls her between her legs. Dirty, ugly lesbian. Not a good man. Don’t make better, only corrupt, sully Danielle like a vampire and …
Oh. Oh.
Wanda gulps hard, trembles, she didn’t know it would feel like this.
Danielle’s tongue is a moist heat between her legs, moving over her sex rapidly, stroking against the outside, occasionally dipping deep inside of her. The sensations are so powerful, follow each other so closely that Wanda’s mind feels numbed even though her body is anything but. Her breasts are firm and erect beneath her clothes. Gooseflesh breaks out all over her body as she tenses. And she’s so, so wet, can feel her sex get wetter with every pulse and Danielle is lapping it up. Danielle’s lips suck near the top of her sex and Wanda doesn’t know when she started making these desperate, high-pitched gasps but they’re not gasps anymore and this feeling boiling inside her overtakes her body, expels in a wave of pleasure and satiation and relief and …
And Danielle is still licking at her. Wanda opens her mouth to protest but Danielle’s tongue finds the spot again. Wanda’s eyes roll back in her head underneath her mask and she’s still tense, still moaning. God, she thinks as she feels it rise in her body again, she has more of this inside her …
Rorschach holds Danielle’s head still as her second orgasm fades, as she tries to catch her breath. Danielle’s mouth is open, trembles as she breathes. Her lips shine with moisture and Rorschach almost wants to lick them before she remembers it is hers. But oh, she looks beautiful this way. Rorschach suddenly wants to see more of her. She reaches underneath Danielle’s cowl to free her long, wavy hair from the bun at her neck, pushes up the goggles onto Danielle’s forehead so she can see her eyes.
Neither of them do anything for a minute. Rorschach just takes in the sight of Danielle, almost on all fours, her buttocks lifted in the air and her breasts hanging down from her chest, mostly naked besides the costume over her arms and legs, her eyes full of longing. Rorschach feels exhausted, feels drained and weak, yet the sight of Danielle like this makes her want again, makes her eager to lose her true self again even though she is free and Danielle is tied.
Rorschach wonders if perhaps it’s not she who is the vampire.
“Are … are you okay?” Danielle asks.
Sometimes Danielle asks stupid questions.
Rorschach grabs Danielle’s wrists and yanks her up so she’s on her knees, pulls Danielle close against her own body. Rorschach wraps her arms around Danielle’s back and Danielle sighs and leans against Rorschach. She must think it’s an embrace. Rorschach flattens her left hand, slaps it against Danielle’s rear.
Danielle gasps, presses her body, those breasts, against Rorschach as she does. “Rorschach, why did you -?”
Rorschach snorts. “Like it. Don’t pretend.”
“I do, but I didn’t think you’d …”
“Been very bad,” Rorschach interrupts, not wanting to talk about it, not wanting Danielle’s words to blunt the edges of this. She strikes Danielle again, makes her cry out. “Seduced me, Danielle. Made me weak. Can’t control your urges. Need to be punished.”
“Jesus,” Danielle groans, “you’re so fucked up.”
The next hit is harder.
“Language, Danielle.”
Danielle whimpers, although more from need than from pain.
Rorschach’s continues her blows. She’s barely using her strength, although that doesn’t matter to either of them. Rorschach speaks as if what she’s doing is torture and Danielle makes gasping sobs like a child. Yet Danielle also moves against her, bends down to rub her sex against Rorschach’s leg, so slick and so wet.
“Wanton, Danielle,” Rorschach says, squeezes Danielle hard after the next hit. “Have no discipline.”
“Oh,” Danielle draws out the word, shuts her eyes tight and leans her head against Rorschach’s. Rorschach lets her hands tangle in Danielle’s hair. “God, you really think so? You really think I haven’t held this in for so long? I wanted you back when I thought you were a man and when I found out you weren’t I just …”
Whatever Danielle was trying to say dissolves into panting, groaning. She keeps thrusting against Rorschach, her body stiff with tension ready to be set free. The prospect of seeing Danielle lose herself makes Rorschach shamefully eager. She runs her tongue along Danielle’s cheek, her neck, tender even as she continues to punish.
“Tell me,” Rorschach breathes. “Confess.”
Danielle groans. “It just excited me more. I felt like I should have been angry with you for keeping such a secret from me but, oh God, I already loved the costume and the mask but now there was like this whole different person underneath all that and oh, I want to know you so badly. I want to know every little part and piece of you, Rorschach.”
There’s a hard lump inside Wanda’s chest. She kisses Danielle, comforting with every strike. “Don’t want that, Danielle. Don’t want that at all.”
But Danielle comes anyway.
When it’s over, when Danielle is lying against her, her body slick with sweat, Rorschach wants to leave. This won’t happen again, she tells herself. She won’t encourage this perversion of their mission, won’t open herself more for Danielle, won’t allow them to turn something based on partnership and friendship into this sick feeding on each other’s baser urges, won’t hurt Danielle anymore. They are better than that. She tries to push Danielle off her.
“Hey,” Danielle says.
Danielle brings her bound forearms down and close to her. She reaches for the clasp with her teeth, pulls it off, and then uses her mouth to unravel the bandage, but only slightly. She’s still mostly, willingly tied.
Rorschach bites her lips, wonders when Danielle became less an owl and more of a siren.
“You don’t have to worry about hurting me, okay?” Danielle smiles. She kisses Rorschach on her mask, on her lips. “I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”
Rorschach still wonders if that’s strong enough. Yet they lie together for the rest of the night, half-clothed, touching foreheads and knees, Danielle’s bound hands held in Rorschach’s, their shoes still on their feet.
The End.
Author: quietprofanity
Fandom: Watchmen
Pairings: female!Rorschach/female!Nite Owl
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine and are used for non-profit purposes.
Warnings: Rule 63. Explicit f/f sex. BDSM. Wanda’s self-hating misogyny. Does not actually contain vampires.
Summary: PWP. Wanda wants and doesn’t want to take Danielle.
Acknowledgments: Awesome cover image by radishface. Also, check out ook's picture, here. Thank you both!
~*~*~
There is no part of this that Rorschach doesn’t find repulsive.
They’re entangled together in Danielle’s guest room bed, both of them still wearing every part of their costumes. Even their shoes - Danielle had looked a bit perturbed when Rorschach first laid her feet on the comforter, but after a moment Danielle sighed, shrugged and got on top of the bed with her boots still on.
Those boots now dig into Rorschach’s calves as Danielle wraps her arms and legs around her. There is no space between them, and Rorschach can feel every curve of Danielle’s body. Rorschach’s arms are around Danielle as well. She grabs onto Danielle’s cape, fights the urge to let her hands go lower, to cup her hands around Danielle’s buttocks and squeeze until Danielle cries …
This wasn’t supposed to happen. They’re supposed to be partners, bound together in their mutual passion to uphold justice, to clean the filth from the streets. What they have together shouldn’t be about this.
If only she’d been able to see the signs for what they were. One of the things Rorschach learned first-hand from her dual life was that women treat men differently than they do each other. However, she’d never had a female friend before Danielle, never realized women will do and say things to each other that they wouldn’t to a male friend. So when Danielle squeezed Rorschach’s shoulder after Rorschach found a good clue, grabbed Rorschach’s wrist and pulled her across the Owl’s Nest to show her Minnie’s new features, even took Rorschach in an embrace after a particularly close call, Rorschach felt an uncomfortable shock at first, but reminded herself these gestures were only friendly among two women, weren’t meant to carry an implication of something darker, something illicit, the way they would if Danielle still thought Rorschach was a man.
They weren’t meant to, anyway. After they kissed for the first time, Danielle said she’d also been telling herself her actions were innocent.
Danielle is kissing Rorschach now, leaving a trail along her mask. When she’s done she laughs.
“What is it?” Rorschach asks.
“Oh … heh,” Danielle smiles, runs a gloved finger along the edge of Rorschach’s cheek. “It’s just that the black spots follow my kisses.”
Rorschach feels ashamed. She shouldn’t have agreed to this. Danielle is so … well, no. Not childlike. Children do not go out into the night to do battle with pimps and drug dealers. Children do not do things like this. But Danielle seems like a child in the way she’s drawn to this depravity, like a little girl reaching out to caress the glinting edge of a knife. It’s foolish and naive but Rorschach shouldn’t want to defile it with the sick urges that bubble inside her. She should be strong and convince Danielle how wrong this all is, tell her how women shouldn’t behave like this, don’t behave like this.
That neither of them is much like a woman is barely a comfort.
Danielle’s hands rove over Rorschach’s body, rubbing Rorschach’s hips before moving up to her back, then around to her sides. Danielle’s unpinned hand moves almost to Rorschach’s chest. It lingers there, uncertain.
“Can I?” Danielle asks.
Rorschach doesn’t understand.
“I, uh, I want to feel them,” Danielle says. Her thumb circles against Rorschach’s side; Rorschach tenses as Danielle brushes against the layers of cloth above her chest. “You don’t have to take off the suit if you don’t want to. But I … I want to feel the real you.”
Rorschach growls, short and low, in response. She’s ready to remind Danielle - as she has many times - that the mask is her true self, that the person who fights by Nite Owl’s side every night is the only part of Rorschach Danielle needs to know. And yet, Rorschach is free from lust, committed only to justice. This burning hunger inside her, this need to turn Rorschach’s only friend - one of the few morally fit and healthy women in this city of sluts and prostitutes - into a gasping, begging shadow of her true self, sweaty and eyes glazed with lust, can only come from Wanda. And Wanda wants Danielle to touch.
“They’re not …” Rorschach’s hands reach down between their bodies to untie the knot of her trenchcoat. She takes care to avoid touching Danielle’s breasts as she reaches down, which are large and feel hard pressed against her. Rorschach looks down at them, and feels her body warm with lust. The words “like yours” die in Rorschach’s throat. Ridiculous. As if she’s back in the locker room at Lillian Charlton, sitting half-dressed and alone in the corner, listening to the other girls squabble and peck at each other, trying not to look at them in their indecent states. No, she has no wish to return to that.
Danielle grabs Rorschach’s hand, pulls her up so they are kneeling next to each other on the bed. Danielle reaches beneath Rorschach’s jacket and vest, pulls the dress shirt and undershirt out from where it’s tucked inside her pants. As she does so, Danielle’s gloved palm accidentally brushes against Rorschach’s stomach, making Rorschach flinch. Danielle finds the clip of the bandage, squeezes it free, pinching some skin with it.
“Careful,” Rorschach says, letting the word out in an angry breath.
“Sorry.”
Danielle’s hands are gentle now as they unravel the bandage around Rorschach’s chest. Her movements are slow, respectful even, but to Rorschach they’re a new agony. She feels like she’s being taken apart, and her breathing comes out in fast, panicky bursts even as she feels her nipples harden beneath the bandage.
“Are you okay?” Danielle asks. “Do you want me to -?”
“Finish it,” Rorschach snaps.
Danielle pauses. Rorschach is glad she can’t see Danielle’s eyes beneath her goggles, can’t see the pity in them. Danielle has been looking at her like that a lot lately, usually after Rorschach says something about women. Before she knew, Danielle would have instead been indignant, would have argued. This change is something Rorschach wants to stop.
(It’s perhaps why she’s here.)
Danielle finishes, pulling the bandage out beneath Rorschach’s clothes, putting it aside on the bed. She kisses Rorschach first, like this is something sweet and gentle, not a violation of everything pure, everything virtuous women are supposed to be. Then her hands are on Rorschach’s chest, palming and groping over layers of clothing. Rorschach reaches out, grips onto Danielle’s shoulders. Danielle makes a quiet little “uh” of pain, but doesn’t stop, makes her touches harder. It feels good, and it’s hard for Rorschach to keep focus, keep her head from rocking backward and her mouth from going slack beneath the mask. Her hands itch inside her gloves, eager to move, eager to mirror Danielle’s actions, although Danielle is much larger than Wanda, and her suit is thin and tight, coloring and molding her chest into a cruder form of its naked self and Rorschach has always told herself it does not affect her, but … she grips harder on Danielle’s shoulders.
Danielle stops. She moves her hands to around Rorschach’s waist, pulls Rorschach closer. Then Danielle sits down on her heels, crouching down so her face is level with Rorschach’s chest. She leans forward so her face is buried in Rorschach’s chest, nuzzles.
No.
Rorschach pushes Danielle away, shoves her back onto the bed. Before the bedsprings have stopped creaking Rorschach is on top of her. Danielle looks up at Rorschach, lips parted, and Rorschach has the urge to stick a gloved finger inside.
“Rorschach?” Danielle’s voice is breathy, eager.
She doesn’t listen, finds herself grabbing onto Danielle’s wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, kneeling on Danielle’s thighs so she’s holding her in place. Danielle squirms underneath her, her breath coming out in high-pitched little gasps as she struggles against Rorschach’s grip. (Although not struggling enough, Rorschach thinks. She knows Danielle is stronger than this.) It feels right to be in this position, assuages something feral and needy within, although it also makes her conscious of Wanda’s breasts dangling inside Rorschach’s clothes, of the horrible inequity of treating a partner this way and how she would not suffer Danielle doing this to her.
Rorschach suddenly wishes, not for the first time, that she was a real man. Not because men are good. Men are rapists and murderers. Men scurry along the streets of the city, crawl into the beds of women like Wanda’s mother like rats preparing to feast on garbage. Yet it is natural for men to have these urges, part of their blood to be driven to sin by their need to fornicate and destroy, the sign of a good man if he can suppress these urges. If Rorschach were to lapse as a man, to take Danielle as a man, it would be wrong, but explicable.
Not so for Wanda. Rorschach knows about lesbians, remembers Mr. Hodgkins at Lillian Charlton telling Wanda and the other girls about women with unnatural urges for each other, preying upon innocent girls like vampires and turning them away from men. (And Danielle must have been with men before tonight, Rorschach thinks.) She thought she could exorcise these feelings inside her. She always felt like she could before when she pulled Rorschach’s face over hers, knew that if Wanda ever looked at Danielle for too long or with lust in her heart Rorschach would never let Wanda act upon it. And yet now …
“Hey,” Danielle says, her voice tentative, thin. She squirms in Rorschach’s grasp again. “You can keep going, if you want.”
‘If you want,’ Rorschach thinks. If Danielle knew the half of what Wanda wants …
“I-I like it this way,” Danielle continues, her cheeks reddening in the harsh light of the guest room lamp. “I mean, I don’t know what you like. But if you want to hold me down or … or tie me up. It’s okay.”
She would like it. Craves it, in fact. But this violence, this capture, is for criminals, is for those who need to be punished. To use it otherwise would be a violation of what they do and they’re already perverting enough, touching each other in their costumes like this.
Rorschach is about to refuse; then Danielle stretches in her grasp, her chest and torso moving upwards and Rorschach chokes on a gasp, wonders if Danielle is presenting. She looks into Danielle’s goggles, can see nothing but the dual reflections of her own moving face in the convex glass. Yet Danielle catches the silent question, responds with the same awkward smile she gives when something slips out of her hands, or she makes a joke that Rorschach doesn’t like.
She wasn’t presenting. So it was an accident. Just an accident. Danielle doesn’t mean to have this effect on her.
Rorschach curls her free hand around Danielle’s neck. She doesn’t squeeze, but it’s enough to make Danielle freeze, make her look up at Rorschach with her mouth twisted open in fear and awe. It’s not fair to do this to Danielle, to scare Danielle like this, but the need to assert control as her body betrays her, as Danielle coaxes out every sick urge with a smile or the touch of her palm, pounds through Rorschach’s blood. Rorschach bends down low toward Danielle, so Danielle’s face is only an inch away from hers.
“Don’t. Move.”
Danielle nods.
Rorschach takes her abandoned chest wrap from its spot on the bed. She stretches it between her hands and even though she still feels exposed without it the gesture feels right. She threads the bandages underneath Danielle’s forearms, which Danielle still obediently holds together. Rorschach hears Danielle breathe in heavy gasps as she wraps them tight, mummifying them.
“God. Oh God, this has been on your …” Danielle moans, and it’s so obscene. Rorschach wants to order her to stop. Yet as Rorschach clips the bandage, Danielle looks up at her tied arms, pulls against her bonds. Her arms don’t separate, and she moans again.
She likes it.
“I don’t understand,” Rorschach says.
Danielle looks at her, a confused frown outlined in her eyebrows and lips.
“Could happen to you,” Rorschach grips onto Danielle’s tied wrists. “Scum of the streets could tie you up. Hurt you. Violate you.”
“That’s so different,” Danielle says. “That’s real. This is just playing.”
Playing? Rorschach thinks. This doesn’t feel like a game.
“It’s you. You wouldn’t seriously hurt me. That’s what makes this different,” Danielle insists. “Please, Rorschach, I want this from you. I trust you.”
Rorschach still doesn’t understand, but she reaches for Danielle anyway.
She pulls the shirt of Danielle’s costume up out from where it’s tucked underneath her belt, grabs the fabric and peels it away from the skin. A large, angry bruise has bloomed underneath Danielle’s left ribs, alarms Rorschach until she remembers the fight with the man with the crowbar that happened two days ago. (He’d called Danielle a pig, made a squealing noise after he’d struck her. His cry of pain as Rorschach grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face against the brick wall, leaving his nose smashed and bleeding and his teeth cracked, had been very satisfying.) Rorschach pauses, then bites her lips beneath her mask as she pulls the shirt over Danielle’s breasts.
The bra Danielle wears - plain white with no lace, a modest garment - doesn’t fit her properly, crushes her breasts against her body. (It’s to keep them tied down and unmoving, Rorschach realizes. She must remember to alter it or make a new one for Danielle later.) Rorschach reaches underneath it, pushes it up over Danielle’s breasts so that her clothing bunches up underneath where her cape covers her upper chest. Rorschach moves her hands down to touch Danielle, but she catches sight of her black gloves. She removes them. If she will fall, she will feel every moment of it.
Danielle’s breasts are warm in Rorschach’s hands. They’re soft, too, although they firm up beneath her touches and Danielle makes tiny, high-pitched sounds in return. Danielle moves her arms, tries to curl in on herself, but Rorschach holds her tied arms down again with her right hand, continues to touch Danielle with her left. Danielle’s nipples are hard now. It makes Danielle look less fragile (“Too soft.”), makes Rorschach bolder. She kneads one breast roughly in her free hand, lays her index finger and thumb on either side of the nipple and squeezes. The sounds turn into a cry.
It makes Rorschach shiver, calls to Wanda’s body. She’s suddenly conscious of the wetness between her legs. Rorschach wants to vomit. Of all the disgusting parts of being a woman, this is the worst. Periods hurt and make her bleed, but Miss Skinners had explained that all women have them. They couldn’t be avoided. Yet Wanda’s teachers never even had a name for the clear liquid that she began to find on her underpants when she was 12 years old; it wasn’t supposed to exist. When Rorschach realized its true purpose years later, she didn’t feel any differently.
Yet she wonders if Danielle …
Rorschach’s hands unbuckle the latch on Danielle’s belt before she realizes what she’s doing. Danielle pushes up her hips, causing Rorschach’s legs to slip off hers and Rorschach is about to be mad when she realizes why. Rorschach grabs the edge of the fabric that run along Danielle’s back, pulls it down and around the curve of her buttocks.
“Oh, yes,” Danielle moans. “Please, yes …”
The hair between Danielle’s legs is dark and curly, and she finds the damp locks of it before she finds the flesh itself. It is wet. And she can smell it. It’s gross and slick beneath her fingers but it is evidence that Danielle is like her, and somehow this vestige of the lust that is not supposed to exist binds them together. Rorschach pulls her mask up until it’s resting over the bridge of her nose, wants to take in more of the smell.
She rubs the pink skin between the hairs with her first two fingers, moves up the wet flesh. Desperate little gasps force their way out Danielle’s mouth and Rorschach realizes she’s echoing them, breathing out in short pants. Rorschach presses against a certain spot, and Danielle throws her head back against the pillow, lets out a moan that seems to make her body vibrate. When Rorschach rubs against it, the vibrations turn into shaking and Danielle cries out.
“Oh God,” Danielle gasps, “God … please, I need more. Please.”
Rorschach has never seen her partner like this, never seen her this weak and decadent but Rorschach likes Danielle like this even though she’s always admired Danielle for being noble and strong. It doesn’t make any sense at all.
Rorschach lets her thumb trail down Danielle’s sex, starts to push it inside her.
Danielle suddenly flinches. “No!”
Rorschach stops, looks up at Danielle. What happened? Did she hurt her?
“I, uh … I can’t … I can’t really be penetrated,” Danielle says. “It’s nothing you did, and I can still do other things but … well … I don’t know, something may be wrong with me.”
Rorschach feels her face warm, doesn’t know how to respond to that.
“Um, can you come up here?” Danielle asks. She’s straining her neck, trying to look through her bound arms, trying to look over her … oh. “I’m kind of having trouble seeing you.”
Rorschach moves, crawls so that she’s sitting next to Danielle’s side. Stupid, she tells herself. Stupid, stupid. She was supposed to be the strong one and now she’s pushed Danielle too far. Rorschach could have hurt her and she should be ashamed of that but she still wants, can still feel Wanda’s flesh pulse inside her.
Danielle rolls over onto her side. Rorschach stares at the curve of her torso and hips, misses what she says.
“What?”
“I want to apologize,” Danielle says.
Rorschach shakes her head. “No need. Should have asked.”
“Yeah, but … Well, I feel bad. I did ask for more and I didn’t say what that meant. And, uh, I really want to do something for you. Will you let me?”
Do something for her? But Rorschach has already taken so much.
Still, curiosity gets the better of her.
Danielle shuffles closer to Rorschach, struggling to move with her bound arms. When she reaches her, Danielle lays her head in Rorschach’s lap, kisses Rorschach’s legs, moving up them and closer to the space where Rorschach’s legs meet, to the pulse and the wet and the heat. Rorschach wants to push her away, but Danielle licks the fabric over that source of her misery. Rorschach throws her head back and what comes out of her mouth is so, so close to a scream.
Danielle lets out a cry of protest as Rorschach gets up in a kneeling position and Danielle slides off her. Yet Rorschach fumbles with her belt, tries to hold down the sobs trying to escape her chest as she pulls down her pants to her knees, sits back and spreads her legs as far as she can.
Slut, Rorschach thinks to herself even as she reaches underneath Danielle’s arms and pulls her between her legs. Dirty, ugly lesbian. Not a good man. Don’t make better, only corrupt, sully Danielle like a vampire and …
Oh. Oh.
Wanda gulps hard, trembles, she didn’t know it would feel like this.
Danielle’s tongue is a moist heat between her legs, moving over her sex rapidly, stroking against the outside, occasionally dipping deep inside of her. The sensations are so powerful, follow each other so closely that Wanda’s mind feels numbed even though her body is anything but. Her breasts are firm and erect beneath her clothes. Gooseflesh breaks out all over her body as she tenses. And she’s so, so wet, can feel her sex get wetter with every pulse and Danielle is lapping it up. Danielle’s lips suck near the top of her sex and Wanda doesn’t know when she started making these desperate, high-pitched gasps but they’re not gasps anymore and this feeling boiling inside her overtakes her body, expels in a wave of pleasure and satiation and relief and …
And Danielle is still licking at her. Wanda opens her mouth to protest but Danielle’s tongue finds the spot again. Wanda’s eyes roll back in her head underneath her mask and she’s still tense, still moaning. God, she thinks as she feels it rise in her body again, she has more of this inside her …
Rorschach holds Danielle’s head still as her second orgasm fades, as she tries to catch her breath. Danielle’s mouth is open, trembles as she breathes. Her lips shine with moisture and Rorschach almost wants to lick them before she remembers it is hers. But oh, she looks beautiful this way. Rorschach suddenly wants to see more of her. She reaches underneath Danielle’s cowl to free her long, wavy hair from the bun at her neck, pushes up the goggles onto Danielle’s forehead so she can see her eyes.
Neither of them do anything for a minute. Rorschach just takes in the sight of Danielle, almost on all fours, her buttocks lifted in the air and her breasts hanging down from her chest, mostly naked besides the costume over her arms and legs, her eyes full of longing. Rorschach feels exhausted, feels drained and weak, yet the sight of Danielle like this makes her want again, makes her eager to lose her true self again even though she is free and Danielle is tied.
Rorschach wonders if perhaps it’s not she who is the vampire.
“Are … are you okay?” Danielle asks.
Sometimes Danielle asks stupid questions.
Rorschach grabs Danielle’s wrists and yanks her up so she’s on her knees, pulls Danielle close against her own body. Rorschach wraps her arms around Danielle’s back and Danielle sighs and leans against Rorschach. She must think it’s an embrace. Rorschach flattens her left hand, slaps it against Danielle’s rear.
Danielle gasps, presses her body, those breasts, against Rorschach as she does. “Rorschach, why did you -?”
Rorschach snorts. “Like it. Don’t pretend.”
“I do, but I didn’t think you’d …”
“Been very bad,” Rorschach interrupts, not wanting to talk about it, not wanting Danielle’s words to blunt the edges of this. She strikes Danielle again, makes her cry out. “Seduced me, Danielle. Made me weak. Can’t control your urges. Need to be punished.”
“Jesus,” Danielle groans, “you’re so fucked up.”
The next hit is harder.
“Language, Danielle.”
Danielle whimpers, although more from need than from pain.
Rorschach’s continues her blows. She’s barely using her strength, although that doesn’t matter to either of them. Rorschach speaks as if what she’s doing is torture and Danielle makes gasping sobs like a child. Yet Danielle also moves against her, bends down to rub her sex against Rorschach’s leg, so slick and so wet.
“Wanton, Danielle,” Rorschach says, squeezes Danielle hard after the next hit. “Have no discipline.”
“Oh,” Danielle draws out the word, shuts her eyes tight and leans her head against Rorschach’s. Rorschach lets her hands tangle in Danielle’s hair. “God, you really think so? You really think I haven’t held this in for so long? I wanted you back when I thought you were a man and when I found out you weren’t I just …”
Whatever Danielle was trying to say dissolves into panting, groaning. She keeps thrusting against Rorschach, her body stiff with tension ready to be set free. The prospect of seeing Danielle lose herself makes Rorschach shamefully eager. She runs her tongue along Danielle’s cheek, her neck, tender even as she continues to punish.
“Tell me,” Rorschach breathes. “Confess.”
Danielle groans. “It just excited me more. I felt like I should have been angry with you for keeping such a secret from me but, oh God, I already loved the costume and the mask but now there was like this whole different person underneath all that and oh, I want to know you so badly. I want to know every little part and piece of you, Rorschach.”
There’s a hard lump inside Wanda’s chest. She kisses Danielle, comforting with every strike. “Don’t want that, Danielle. Don’t want that at all.”
But Danielle comes anyway.
When it’s over, when Danielle is lying against her, her body slick with sweat, Rorschach wants to leave. This won’t happen again, she tells herself. She won’t encourage this perversion of their mission, won’t open herself more for Danielle, won’t allow them to turn something based on partnership and friendship into this sick feeding on each other’s baser urges, won’t hurt Danielle anymore. They are better than that. She tries to push Danielle off her.
“Hey,” Danielle says.
Danielle brings her bound forearms down and close to her. She reaches for the clasp with her teeth, pulls it off, and then uses her mouth to unravel the bandage, but only slightly. She’s still mostly, willingly tied.
Rorschach bites her lips, wonders when Danielle became less an owl and more of a siren.
“You don’t have to worry about hurting me, okay?” Danielle smiles. She kisses Rorschach on her mask, on her lips. “I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”
Rorschach still wonders if that’s strong enough. Yet they lie together for the rest of the night, half-clothed, touching foreheads and knees, Danielle’s bound hands held in Rorschach’s, their shoes still on their feet.
The End.