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Summary:

A close call pushes Rorschach to act on her feelings for her partner, but they hit some stumbling blocks along the way (specifically, self-hatred and internalized lesbophobia).

Chapter 1

Notes:

Newly edited chapter one! Chapter two will hopefully be up in the next couple of days.

I didn't change much of the actual content, but I added a bit to the kitchen conversation.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“You...wanna come upstairs for a bit?”

Danielle holds her breath as the invitation hangs in the air.  She hadn’t meant to ask tonight .  Figures if there’s any person you want to go slow with, it’s Rorschach.

“...Sure,” comes the response, surprising both of them.


One hour earlier

Rorschach ducked a vicious swipe from a broken bottle and swung one leg around, sweeping her attacker’s feet out from under them.  The thug landed hard on his back and groaned. Rorschach looked around. A moment ago she had been surrounded by at least three unruly youths spoiling for a fight, but now the alleyway was empty and silent except for her own harsh breathing and the soft moaning of the katiehead at her feet.

Where was Nite Owl?

Rorschach could have sworn she’d been right behind her as they turned the corner into this alley, but now there was no sign of her.  Or the other gang members.

A gunshot.

Rorschach took off, back in the direction she’d come from, felled criminal forgotten in an instant.

A block away and she skidded to a halt.  Blood. Not a lot, but there’s a dark splash on the ground, and a trail of droplets leading back towards where they’d left Archie.  Rorschach thought she might have heard footsteps pattering, the attackers running away, but it was difficult to tell over the sound of her own pulse roaring in her ears.  She pulled her mask up over her nose to make it easier to breathe and ran again, following the drips of blood.

They took her to Archie.  Rorshach didn’t pause for breath as she grabbed onto the side and propelled herself through the open door.

Nite Owl was leaning against the far wall, pulling gauze out of a first aid kit and pressing it against a small gash below her elbow.  She was giggling, coming down from the adrenaline high.

“Sorry, I think—I put the first aid kit on the console, I think the guns went off. I hope I didn’t—”  Rorschach strode forward, grabbed Nite Owl’s face with both hands, stared at her for several seconds, and kissed her.


Danielle pours some coffee into a mug and puts it down on the kitchen table in front of Rorschach.  She sets the bag of sugar cubes next to it and pours herself a steaming mugful before sitting down in the chair opposite her partner.

“Thanks for the—” she lifts her elbow, the delicate row of stitches in her forearm pulling slightly with the motion. “You know how annoying it is, trying to do your own arm.”  Both of them carry unevenly healed scars from the days before they’d partnered up.

Rorschach nods after a moment, but doesn’t say anything, instead pulling off her gloves and dropping several sugar cubes into her coffee with a series of small plops .

Danielle watches, brow creasing slightly.

“I’m really sorry for worrying you, back there,” she says—although seeing Rorscach drinking the sugary coffee makes her remember the way her lips tasted slightly sweet, and Danielle finds she can’t actually regret the way events had transpired that evening.

Rorschach looks down. “I...my fault. Should have known better, wasn’t thinking straight. Not enough blood for you to—” she grips her mug hard. “...for anything serious to have happened.”

Danielle smiles, ducking her head to meet Rorschach’s gaze through the mask. “You don’t have to apologize for caring.”  An expression she can’t place flits over Rorschach’s face, so quickly she nearly doesn’t see it. Emboldened, Danielle reaches for her hand where it rests on the table.

For a moment her hand rests tentatively on her partner’s, and then Rorschach tenses, pulling away.  Danielle opens her mouth to apologize, but she’s cut off by a sudden declaration.

“I’m a girl.”

Danielle frowns. “So am I? I don’t—” Understanding dawns and her eyes widen. “Oh! Rorschach, I—you thought I didn’t know that?”

Rorschach lets out a breath and slides down in her seat a little, hunched in on herself. “Wasn’t sure,” she admits sheepishly.  She lifts her head again, looking concerned. “Not... obvious , is it?” she asks, anxious.  Danielle laughs (reassuringly, she hopes).

“No, I don’t think so. Not to other people.” She smiles warmly.  (She can’t seem to stop smiling.)  “But once we started partnering up and I was around you all the time, I realized pretty quickly.” She makes a face. “Also, you steal my tampons.”

The lower half of Rorschach’s face reddens.  Danielle finds it adorable.

“Anyway, I never said anything because I figured you’d have told me early on if you wanted me to know. And it didn’t matter to me.”

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping and slurping their coffee.

“So it’s not...a problem, then?” Rorschach asks softly, picking up the threads of the conversation.  Danielle snorts.

“You being a girl? That’s the opposite of a problem.” Danielle stops, brow furrowing. “...Is it a problem for you?”  Rorschach stares into her mug of coffee, looking much smaller than usual.

“Should be,” she says, “but no.”  Danielle sighs and reaches across the table for her partner’s hand again.  This time she’s allowed to hold it. The skin is calloused, but still softer than she’d have expected (and she had thought about it, even before tonight).

They can navigate the evils of homosexuality later.  For now, they drain the last dregs from their mugs with their hands entwined.

Rorschach looks at the clock over the stove and sighs.  It’s past two. She reluctantly untangles her fingers from Danielle’s.

“Work, in the morning,” she explains.  Danielle nods and stands up from her chair, collecting the mugs and putting them in the sink.  When she turns around, Rorschach is hovering awkwardly near the door to the basement, twisting her gloved hands together.  She hasn’t pulled the mask back down. Danielle walks over slowly and reaches out to still Rorschach’s restless hands. With her other hand she cups the back of Rorschach’s neck, twisting her fingers into the reddish curls there and tilting the shorter woman’s head up a little.

“May I?” she whispers.  There’s a slight hesitation and then a barely perceptible nod in response.

It’s even sweeter this time.




 

Notes:

So I'm guessing this will be three or four chapters, each about this length, and I hope to have it finished in the next couple weeks. Hold me accountable!

Please point out any typos or tense inconsistencies you see! All comments and criticisms are greatly appreciated.

I'm trying to get myself writing again, and it feels right to return to this fandom. I've never actually finished more than a one-shot, but this is the fandom where I've gotten closest and the one that got me writing my own fanfiction in the first place.

I'm working on some longer original stories, so I'm hoping that putting myself out there a bit and posting smaller works in the meantime will keep my motivation up.

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Danielle lies awake for a long time after Rorschach leaves, so unreasonably happy that she can’t seem to quiet her mind enough for sleep.

She hasn’t kissed a woman in years; it must be nearly since college, jesus.  She’s found it’s just easier , dating men.  Less chance of misunderstandings, when you don’t have to linger on the edge of friendship, trying to confess your feelings in some kind of code in case you’ve misread the situation.  Danielle, being generally a pretty forward person, had done that once or twice before she learned. It was horribly embarrassing at best, and dangerous at worst.

So she’d forgotten just how nice it was: the soft, stubble-less skin; the smell, a bit lighter, with less musk underneath.  Although, with Rorschach...probably best not to dwell on the smell.

Danielle rolls over and hugs herself beneath the covers, smiling uncontrollably.  After kissing her, Rorschach had clung to the fabric of the Nite Owl suit for several minutes, breath shuddering not quite like sobs while Danielle murmured soothingly and tried not to bleed on her.  It wasn’t even a bad cut. After they separated, they took their respective seats in the Owlship and hadn’t spoken the whole way back, not until Danielle invited Rorschach upstairs for coffee.

The whole evening is replaying over and over in her mind, until eventually she turns her thoughts forward, to all the potential futures they might have, even ridiculous ones she knows are impossible.

She’s picturing grandchildren when she finally drifts off, and she sleeps well.


 

Rorschach doesn’t show up for patrol the next evening, but there is a note left on the workbench in the basement:

See you tomorrow

and her funny little ".][." symbol at the bottom.  Danielle is disappointed. She can’t wait to see Rorschach again—but one day is fine, really, better than she could have hoped for.  She hadn’t seen her partner for a full week after the first time she came downstairs out of costume and introduced herself as Danielle.

Her partner .  She giggles.

She takes Archie out that night anyway, just to fly, just because she can .  And if Nite Owl takes the steering column up to the roof and pulls off the cowl, lets the wind whip through her hair; if Danielle shouts into the empty sky and the glittering city sprawled out below, “ Rorschach kissed me! ”, well.  Nobody hears.


 

True to her word as always, Rorschach does come back the next day.  She shuffles her feet awkwardly when Danielle first makes her way down to the Nest, but other than a quick hug in greeting, they set off for patrol like normal.

Danielle is glad to see her relax over the next hour or so, as it becomes clear that this hasn’t changed.

It’s a quiet night (or maybe they aren’t looking very hard), so they head back a little earlier than usual.  Danielle makes hot chocolate this time, and hardly believes it when Rorschach pauses at the kitchen table, half turns, and jerks her head towards the living room questioningly.  They sit down on the couch together and talk about nothing for a while. It’s domestic in a way that wouldn’t have seemed possible three nights ago. It still doesn’t seem possible, frankly.

Danielle finally gets up to put their empty mugs away.  When she returns, Rorschach has her hands folded in her lap and is staring down at them, mouth pressed into a thin line.  It’s the still, tense look she gets when she’s working up the nerve to say something. She’s taken her scarf off; it’s folded neatly on the coffee table next to the discarded trench and hat.

She looks up at Danielle standing in the doorway and pats the couch next to her with a solemnity belying the gesture.  Danielle sits down obediently, trying not to stare at the pale, freckly skin of Rorschach’s neck (which really shouldn’t be so fascinating anyway), and waits patiently for her to say something.

She never does.  Instead, she takes a deep breath and, in one fluid movement, swings her leg over Danielle’s lap and plants her hands on her shoulders.

Danielle’s brain seems to short-circuit, and for some reason (self-preservation, probably) what she fixates on is how odd it feels to be looking up at her partner for a change, rather than the fact that Rorschach is straddling her lap and clutching at her sweater like it’s a lifeline.

She doesn’t dare move, barely even breathing as she stares round-eyed into the pools of ink where Rorschach’s eyes are.  The mask is bunched way up over the bridge of her nose, pulled higher than Danielle has ever seen it. It makes the inkblots swirl into unfamiliar patterns, or maybe Rorschach is just making an expression she’s never seen before.  It’s funny, she thinks, how seeing more of her partner’s face makes it harder to tell what she’s thinking. She’s flushing pink, though, a delicate bloom creeping over her cheeks and spreading down her neck.

Danielle carefully moves her right hand up to cup Rorschach’s cheek.  There’s a small sigh and Rorschach leans slightly into the touch. Danielle thinks she might have closed her eyes.  There is perfect stillness, and then she tenses again; surges forward, fists tugging Danielle up to meet her.

She doesn’t know what she was thinking before; there is nothing soft about this.  It’s more like an attack than a kiss, but Danielle doesn’t mind at all .  There’s teeth and tongue and bruising lips, and gasping for air when they finally break apart.  Rorschach’s elbows are hooked around her neck and Danielle has one arm wrapped tightly around her waist and the other clutching the back of her skull and they are impossibly close together.  They seem to be breathing in and out as one being.  Danielle never wants to move from this position—but Rorschach leans down hungrily to kiss her again, and that’s not bad either.


 

The next morning, Danielle half thinks she must have dreamt it.  Rorschach and Nite Owl, making out on the couch like teenagers? It sounds like something out of the tabloids. But she goes to brush her teeth and there’s a hickey on her neck in the bathroom mirror.  A hickey. From Rorschach .  It’s surreal.

Rorschach does turn up for patrol that night, thankfully.  Danielle had been desperately hoping that she would, which is embarrassing and seems kind of needy, so she tries not to show it.  She’s never exactly been a master of self control, though, and Rorschach is standing very close.  She can’t resist putting one arm around her waist, piloting Archie out through the tunnel one-handed.  Glancing over, she can see a telltale flush of ink spread over Rorschach’s face. But she doesn’t move away, and Danielle only lets go when she needs both hands to steer.


 

Life takes on a dreamlike quality, and the next week feels like a ridiculous, giddy blur.  They settle into a new post-patrol routine: Danielle showers while Rorschach makes coffee or scrounges through the cupboards for a snack, they laugh and talk or just sit together for a while, and then they inevitably end up collapsing on the couch together, cuddling and kissing until Rorschach has to head home.  Danielle sinks onto her pillow every night grinning like an idiot and feeling unbelievably lucky.

Maybe Rorschach is riding a similar high, and maybe that’s what makes her sloppy tonight.

They’ve been split up, are fighting opposite each other, when Rorschach catches a punch to the gut.  It’s not a particularly hard hit—most nights she’d have blocked it without a thought—and it surprises her more than it does any actual damage.  But it does make her stagger back a couple steps and they’re fighting on a roof .

They’d dropped from Archie into the middle of a rooftop drug deal—hoping to interrogate, more than anything else—but the involved parties were jumpier than expected and things escalated quickly.  It turned into a fight before they had the chance to threaten a single broken digit.  

Nite Owl is too far away to do anything, but she has a perfect view when the attacker swings his fist again and Rorschach takes another step back to avoid it.

It feels like the ground has vanished from beneath Danielle’s feet, too.

She doesn’t watch Rorschach fall, closes her eyes instead and delivers a precise kick to her opponent’s head that drops them instantly.  There must be something dangerous in her body language because the other one, the one who hit Rorschach, scarpers.

Danielle isn’t sure if she’s hyperventilating or not breathing at all as she approaches the edge of the roof.  Then she hears a groan from over the side, and whatever thread is pulled taught inside her snaps. The ground feels solid again.  Peering down, she sees swimming inkblots staring back from just a couple of yards below. Rorschach is lying flat on her back on the building’s sturdy fire escape, only her hat having fallen the full five stories to the ground.  Danielle lowers herself down and Rorschach grunts again. She’s had the wind knocked out of her twice in less than ten seconds, and hasn’t gotten her breath back yet. Danielle carefully, reverently examines her head and neck to make sure nothing’s broken, then deftly scoops her up, bride style.

“Can stand,” grumbles Rorschach, lungs evidently working again.

“Nope,” says Danielle, and calls Archie.

She sets Rorschach gently in the copilot’s chair and makes sure she’s comfortable before going back to find the hat.


 

Danielle is still mostly in costume when they sit down together on the couch, having paused in the basement just long enough to pull off her cowl and goggles.  She feels silly, dressed as an owl in her own living room, in a way that she doesn’t in public. She leans against Rorschach and lets her head rest on her shoulder.

“I get it, now,” she says quietly, after a long silence.  She feels the questioning tilt of Rorschach’s head and glances at her face, continuing, “You seemed so broken , the other night. When you...thought I’d been hurt. Now I understand.”  Danielle had felt shattered herself, in that small eternity between seeing her partner step off the edge and seeing her alive on the fire escape.  She turns her head, noses into Rorschach’s white scarf until she finds skin and presses a kiss there.

“...Yes.”

It’s only one word, one gravelly word rumbling in the throat beneath her lips, and she hadn’t even really asked a question.  But from Rorschach, her partner who communicates in grunts and head-tilts and facial expressions no one can see—from Rorschach, one word can carry a thousand unspoken meanings.  This one is a confession, an admission of vulnerability that nearly tears Danielle to pieces all over again, and she suddenly finds that she cannot bear to be left alone tonight. It’s Friday; she knows Rorschach doesn’t work tomorrow (knows that neither of them will have anything else planned).

“Stay?” It comes out more pleading than she intended—but Rorschach just bared a piece of her soul so it’s only fair that she be vulnerable tonight, too.

She is relieved but not surprised when Rorschach nods.


 

Danielle leads Rorschach down the hall towards her room at the end, but Rorschach stops, opens the door to the guest room instead.  For a moment she thinks this is all she gets, that sharing a bed crosses the invisible line she fears Rorschach has already drawn between them.  Then she’s being pulled over the threshold, and she isn’t particularly attached to her own bed anyway.

They stand facing each other in the gloom for several moments before Danielle lifts up Rorschach’s hand and pecks a kiss on the back of it.

“I’m going to go get changed,” she whispers into her knuckles.  It feels like a whispering sort of moment. “You can...well, I hope you’ll stay of course, but it’s fine if you—change your mind, or whatever. I—uhm, I don’t, I mean...” she trails off, fumbling.  She can’t figure out how to say Don’t worry, I’m not expecting sex or anything without alarming Rorschach by introducing the subject in the first place.  (And, equally important but probably less relevant, she really doesn’t want Rorschach thinking she’s opposed to the idea.)  “I just need you close tonight,” she settles on.  Rorschach squeezes her hand like a person familiar with the concept of reassuring someone but who has never had the opportunity to try it themselves.

“Will be here,” and the complete lack of affected growl to her voice is reassurance enough in itself.

So Danielle heads to her own room, finds some of her dorky owl printed sleep-shorts and a soft old tee for a nightshirt.  It occurs to her that she should have offered to lend Rorschach some pajamas, but she decides that there’s no way she (either of them, if she’s honest) would be ready for that kind of intimacy.  Anyway, they’d never fit.

She changes slowly, wanting to give Rorschach time to settle physically and mentally.  She brushes her teeth, and flosses too as an afterthought. She really should get back into the habit of doing it every day, anyway.

It’s been at least ten minutes when Danielle pads barefoot back down the hall.  She knocks lightly on the door; it’s cracked and swings open slightly at the touch.  There’s an answering nngk that probably means “come in” (and definitely doesn’t mean “come hither”), so she slips into the room, pushing the door closed behind her.  On the bed, Rorschach’s black and white visage stands out even in the weak light filtering through the curtains.  The mask is rolled up so she can breathe (a tiny part of Danielle had hoped it would come off , but that’s ridiculous), but the covers are pulled all the way up to her chin as an extra layer of protection.  It looks a bit like the disembodied head of some alien with pale skin and huge, black eyes is sitting in the middle of the pillow.  Mildly disconcerting, but to most people finding Rorschach in their bed would be equally alarming (not to mention equally unlikely).

Danielle tiptoes over to the bed, inky alien eyes tracking her like the Mona Lisa.  Rorschach is lying on her back, but she rolls over to face Danielle as she crawls under the blankets.  She keeps a careful distance between them, but Rorschach makes a noise in her throat and scoots closer.  Danielle reaches for her hands and they meet in the middle, breath warming the space between them. Rorschach is smiling, a slight but genuine upturn of lips that is remarkable for how normal it would be on anyone else’s face.  Danielle leans forward and kisses her, first the tip of her nose, then the latex covering each eye, and finally that small, new smile.

They drift asleep facing each other, hands clasped and heads bent together.




Notes:

Hooray! Chapter two! It's looking like four chapters total.

Chapter three will be my attempt at ~steamy~, so we'll see how that goes. The character development involved is important enough that I don't want to just do a tasteful cutaway, but I haven't ever tried to write a sex scene so it probably won't end up very explicit.

Comments, complaints, criticisms always welcome! :)

Edit: was rereading some of my Watchmen bookmarks and realized I owe a shoutout to Partners In and Out of Crime by ItsClydeBitches, specifically chapter 8 "What's In a Name?". I'm like 99% sure it subconsciously inspired part of this chapter. No spoilers, so you'll have to go read it to find out which part. Which you should do anyway because it's good.

Chapter 3

Notes:

July 2019: Oh, I'll have this finished in a couple weeks!

July 2020: WHOOPS MY BAD

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Yellow-gold sunlight wakes Danielle, slanting in through the window.  It’s late morning, and she wants to get up and stretch, but Rorschach is still clutching her hand.  In fact, the two of them don’t seem to have moved at all except that their legs have tangled up together as well as their arms.

She had expected to wake up alone, maybe find a note left somewhere, maybe just some cereal missing from the cupboard (maybe nothing at all). Rorschach doesn’t seem the type to sleep in, and does seem the type to flee without saying goodbye the morning after.  Not that it is the morning after, not like that.

Danielle takes the rare opportunity to observe her partner.  It is by far the most vulnerable she’s ever seen her—the most vulnerable anyone has ever seen her, probably.  The thought sends a shiver down Danielle’s spine, delighted and at the same time feeling like she’s seeing something she shouldn’t be.  Like spotting your teacher at the grocery store, only more so.

Not only is Rorschach asleep, she is wearing so few of her usual obfuscating layers.  Danielle has never seen more than her neck and jaw, not counting the occasional patch of skin carefully bared by necessity to clean up a wound.  Now Danielle can see her whole arm where it rests on the blankets, freckled shoulder down to knobby fingers.  She’s wearing a sleeveless white undershirt, worn thin and meticulously repaired in places.  Underneath looks like an ace bandage, and Danielle winces.  That can’t be comfortable (or healthy) to sleep in—or to fight crime in, for that matter.  Danielle wonders how much wheedling it would take to get Rorschach to try on a sports bra.

Even with all that skin on display, her face is still the most interesting.  The features aren’t new, but their relaxed expression is.  Slack jaw, parted lips, nostrils flaring gently with each breath... Danielle tries to commit all of it to memory.  There’s a spot of drool on the pillow, and maybe that should be gross but it isn’t.  Even the mask seems altered somehow by sleep, and she stares unabashedly.  Ostensibly, there’s nothing different about the blots.  They might move more sluggishly, but not by much.  Nevertheless, staring into them, Danielle can spot the exact moment Rorschach wakes up, even before she closes her mouth and swallows, body just barely tenser than it was a moment before.  Danielle beams.

“Good morning!”

“Mmphrrrggh” is what she gets in reply, followed by a loud yawn.  “Hurm. Morning, Danielle.”

“Are you hungry? I was thinking french toast and bacon.”

“Mrph.” Rorschach buries her face in the pillow, voice muffled. “Stay here.” She slips her arm back beneath the covers and puts it over Danielle’s waist, hand splayed over the small of her back; tugs, rolling onto her stomach as she does, and pulls Danielle flush against her side.  She seems ready to go back to sleep like that, facedown and squeezing Danielle like a teddy bear.  A flushed, slightly breathless teddy bear who is finding it difficult to think straight.

In fact, her thoughts at that moment are about as far from straight as you can get.

Rorschach probably didn’t realize that Danielle’s nightshirt had ridden up a bit in the night, and that her hand—her whole arm, actually—is resting on Danielle’s bare skin.  Or possibly she did notice, and simply wasn’t counting on her partner’s ridiculous hair-trigger libido.

Rorschach’s palm is warm against the arch of her spine, and her legs are sandwiched between Danielle’s.  There’s a jolt of shock and heat as she notices that they are skin to skin there, too.  Rorschach isn’t wearing her pinstripes.

Danielle feels a whine building in her throat, but she does her best to hold it back and what comes out is more like a small squeak.  They are touching in too many places.

Admittedly, things have been getting more physical over the past week.  But hands have only just started wandering, and always over layers of clothing.  The skin contact is very new.

Danielle grits her teeth, and firmly dictates a plan of action in her head.  She will wait until Rorschach is properly asleep again, then extricate herself so she can sneak away, grab her vibrator, and take some alone time in the shower.

There’s another grumble from the pillow.

“Alright, Danielle?”

“Fine!” She can tell her voice is too thin, too high, and clears her throat. “Um, fine. Why do you—”

“Squirming.” The tone is accusatory and Danielle freezes.  She realizes, belatedly, that she has indeed been moving, hips bucking slightly in an attempt to find friction.  She lets out a nervous giggle.

“Oh. Sorry?” Her voice still sounds strained.  Rorschach turns her head sideways on the pillow, looking into the face Danielle knows is radiating heat and guilt.  She is assessed for a moment.

“Hurm.”

Danielle tries to pull away just a little, and finds she can’t.  She has seen Rorschach’s strength in action, knows those arms can pin criminals twice her size easily, but has never been on the receiving end of their vice-grip before.  It’s...interesting.  In a way that does not lessen her current predicament at all.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” she breaks off, swallows, tries again. “It’s just you—you’re—”

“Danielle.” Rorschach is still watching her face intently. “Hush.”

Danielle hushes, as the hand is finally removed from beneath her shirt, only to return to press insistently on her shoulder.  She lets herself be guided onto her back.  Rorschach raises her torso off the bed, twisting and straightening her arms on either side of Danielle’s head.  She’s half-hovering now, looming in a way that belies her short stature, and Danielle is beginning to understand the pattern here: Rorschach must gain control before she can lose it.  And Danielle, for her part, is perfectly willing—eager, frankly—to relinquish that control.

She keeps herself still, enduring Rorschach’s scrutiny for what feels like forever.

Evidently she finds whatever she was looking for in Danielle’s eyes, because Rorschach moves to settle between her legs, knees tucked under her.  The blanket slides down her back as she sits up, and Danielle’s not surprised to learn that Rorschach wears boxers, but it makes her mouth go dry all the same.  Danielle lifts herself onto her elbows, and waits.

She’s sure as hell not gonna make the first move.

Still, it surprises her a little when Rorschach leans forward and carefully slides one hand underneath her t-shirt, keeping her gaze fixed on Danielle’s face.  She shivers and sucks in a breath when the hand rests against her stomach, cold against sleep-warmed flesh.  Danielle closes her eyes.

They snap open again when the touch vanishes, replaced by cool air as Rorschach lifts the hem of her shirt.  Danielle sits up and pulls it off the rest of the way, shaking her hair out.  She forces away the urge to slouch, feeling a blush heat her face even as the draft raises goosebumps across her bare chest.  Rorschach is definitely staring, and something about that emboldens her.

Moving with the same deliberate slowness, Danielle gently grasps the bottom of her partner’s threadbare undershirt, watching her face for any sign she should stop.  Rorschach just lifts her arms obediently and lets the shirt be pulled over her head.

They sit for a moment, watching each other.  Danielle sets the ball of soft white fabric gently off to one side.  She opens her mouth to say—something, but Rorschach shakes her head minutely and she swallows the unformed words.  She would only have spoiled the moment by saying something dumb, anyway.

Rorschach pulls free the tucked end of her ace bandage and unwinds it from her chest.  Danielle tries not to cringe at her little sigh of relief, and is saved by the incredibly effective distraction of Rorschach’s breasts.

For a few long seconds they just blink nervously at each other, unashamed but terrified all the same.  Rorschach reaches out first, skimming her hand down the left side of Danielle’s ribcage.  After a moment Danielle mirrors the movement, marveling at the melting sigh she feels beneath her fingertips.  Their touches are light, brushing over skin and tracing curves.

This is Danielle’s favorite part of any new relationship: the exploration of an unfamiliar body, learning the shape of it and searching out every exquisite little difference with hands that are deliberate and soft and sure.

She remembers doing something like this as a young teenager, with a girl who had giggled and swatted her hand away when her touches became too eager.  Don’t make it weird, Danielle.

She had been so confused, didn’t understand then how someone could look at such beauty and not want to touch.

As she caresses Rorschach’s pale skin, splays her fingers over soft flesh and hard muscle and tries to map every inch of it, Danielle finds she still doesn’t understand.


The house is silent, and that probably just means the heater is broken again, but for now it feels like the world is holding its breath for them.  Like a generous god has gifted them their own golden bubble to exist in for a while, where all is peace and quiet joy and the soft slide of skin on skin.

It’s a funny thing how different it is, kissing topless.  Chest to chest like this, Rorschach’s skin is so hot ; how could a few millimeters of cloth between them have concealed such heat?  Then again, Rorschach has shed something more than just clothing.  The woman in Danielle’s arms barely is Rorschach; only the faint smell of latex keeps her grounded.  She feels so small like this, her spine knobby beneath Danielle’s palm.

When Danielle pulls away slightly to palm over one breast, Rorschach lets out a moan that splits the morning air like a whip.  She freezes, probably embarrassed, but Danielle smiles against her lips and gently catches her wrist before she can draw it away.  She places Rorschach’s hand on her own chest and, leaning into the contact, breathes a moan of her own.

There is another beat of silence, and then it’s like a switch has been flipped for both of them.  Any anxiety is gone, devoured by a greedy fire that leaves no room for nerves; they are all hands and mouths and burning hot skin.

When Rorschach slips a finger into the waistband of her shorts, Danielle whines and rises onto her knees automatically so she can shove the garment down her thighs.  Rorschach is running fingers through her short-cropped curls before she even gets her underwear down, and Danielle fights the instinct to close her eyes.  It’s a sight she wants to drink in for as long as possible: Rorschach sitting in front of her, the white dome of her head tilted back to gaze up at Danielle, freckled cheeks flushed a pleasant pink.  She wraps her arms around Rorschach’s neck and feels herself suck in a breath at the first slide of calloused fingers against slick flesh.  Her knees spread apart of their own accord, pulling taut the elastic of her underwear.

Danielle leans down to kiss Rorschach again, gasping against her partner’s mouth each time she finds a new sensitive spot.  Rorschach is inexperienced, Danielle knows; however, she is also attentive to detail and adept at nonverbal communication.  She reads Danielle’s reactions and responds accordingly, adjusting her movements with the same precision she applies to everything.  It isn’t long before Danielle is panting, clutching Rorschach’s shoulders and letting out a constant stream of barely coherent curse words.

Rorschach’s fingers are delicate, careful as they press deeper—and she’s seen those fingers break a man’s wrist but now they’re taking her apart just as deftly, rending and making her whole again in the same instant, gentle strokes reforming her over and over until she can’t breathe and her eyes squeeze shut and her mouth falls open and—

Danielle clings, trembling, limbs wrapped around Rorschach as though she’s the only thing keeping her from floating up into the sky, kissing her as hard as she’s ever kissed.  For a few moments she is lost, and cannot think of anything beyond the desire to meld her body into that of the (gorgeous, mad, utterly marvelous ) woman in her arms.

Then, gradually coming down from the high, she registers the way that same woman is panting against her mouth, thighs clenched and hips moving jerkily.

Well, that won’t do.

Danielle presses one hand down between them, finds the opening at the front of Rorschach’s boxers.  There’s a yelp and a jerk, and then Danielle’s wrist is caught in the vice-grip of Rorschach’s thighs as her partner writhes against her.  Her arm is trapped as well, crushed between them as Rorschach clutches her shoulders.  Danielle can just about move her fingers, but that’s it.  It’s easy to let Rorschach set her own pace, grinding against Danielle’s palm with short, stuttering movements.  Eventually the movement stops altogether, and Rorschach quivers for several seconds, the muscles in her thighs shaking with tension.  All at once she stiffens with a gasp, and after a moment curls in on herself just as suddenly.  She bows her head to rest it on Danielle’s shoulder and there’s something like a sob, muffled where her open mouth is pressed to Danielle’s collarbone.

Danielle rests her cheek against Rorschach’s masked head and strokes soothingly down her spine with her free hand.  She gingerly extracts the other, wincing at the slight squelching noise.  Rorschach doesn’t seem to hear it, though, and continues blissfully melting onto Danielle, the ink of her mask slowing into its usual lazy patterns.

When it feels like she’s falling asleep, arms looped around Danielle’s neck, Danielle turns her face and pecks a kiss onto the latex.

“Do you need a shower?” she whispers.  Rorschach shakes her head, and that’s a little gross but it’s a little hot, too. “Well, I do.” she gently peels Rorschach’s arms away from her neck and leans back to look at her.  Her expression is almost as unguarded as when she was asleep, and Danielle smiles softly. “How about you go back to sleep, and I’ll come wake you when breakfast’s ready?”

Rorschach nods, and her smile is only a little uncertain.  She sinks back down into the fluffy, tousled bedspread, looking very small and very content as she closes her eyes.


Notes:

As always, comments and feedback are very welcome, especially as this is my first time writing a sex scene!