Nightwing Smut
This is my first-ever Batfic, and it takes place after Nightwing #93. I hope you like it
Title: Turmoil
Summary: Dick tries not to think of the consequences of Nightwing #93
Pairings: Nightwing/Tarantula
Rating: NC-17
Turmoil
By Angela
07-05-04
She wrapped her legs around my waist.
I don’t know why I fixated on that moment, why, in the swirl of sensation and her soft Spanish accent against my neck, I noticed her legs. Maybe it was because it had been so long since a woman had done that to me (had been able to do that to me)? She pulled hard with her legs, tensing her muscles and gripping me, mimicking the way her hands pulled at my hair, and I closed my eyes, breathing in the sweat-and-vinyl scent of her.
Babs always smelled like shampoo. Like coconut and bath soap and that unique scent of Barbara that had been a part of my life almost as long as masks and crime fighting.
Nails raking my back brought me back to the present-to the gorgeous woman still half-dressed in orange and black, her mask tangled in her hair, shoved away from her eyes. Of course. Babs and I would never stoop to this-rutting like animals on a filthy motel carpet, forgetting even to kiss in our urgency to come together. My desperation was obvious; it was easy to understand how I’d ended up there, trying to erase emotion with mean physicality. But I didn’t understand her. Why was she here? What benefit came from being fucked senseless by a masked vigilante who could barely remember how he’d come to be with her?
“Ah, Queirido,” she moaned into my ear. “You are as powerful as you look.”
But I guessed she didn’t care about things like that-like sentiment and emotion and all the messy strings that usually came from affairs like this. She arched beneath me, her thighs clamping painfully around my hips as she cried out. I didn’t pause, realizing that it barely made a difference to me that she’d come-that’s when I realized that I didn’t care about emotion and sentiment, either. That there wouldn’t be any messy ramifications to this.
She didn’t matter.
As though the realization freed me, I came to a shuddering finish. I pulled away and rolled off of her, for the first time getting the full effect of the musty carpet. The smell seemed to cling to my skin and my uniform, mingling with the musky scent of sex and making me long to be clean.
Being the gentleman that Bruce always insisted upon, I suggested she use the shower first. When she shook her head and flopped onto the bed, I didn’t insist.
The pressure was low, but the water was hot. I breathed the steam and scrubbed my skin with the milky little bar of soap left by the motel staff. I felt filthy, and not just from fucking Tarantula on that disgusting floor. It was as though the sweat and the spit and the mildew had just reinforced a deeper sense of dirt.
Blockbuster.
I would have to tell them-Bruce and Babs would have to know about this. About all of this. Bruce would turn his cold disapproval on me, maybe even break ties. I’d been out of favor often enough in the past, but I suspected that I’d seen barely the tip of the iceberg in that regard. And Babs . . . . Well, I didn’t know what to expect there. I knew I’d lost my shot at getting her back, if I even had a shot to lose. She’d never hate me, but somehow that made it worse.
The shower curtain was yanked open and Tarantula stood there-naked and gorgeous with her long hair tumbling everywhere. She smiled. “Any room for me?”
Before I could answer she was in the shower, slick with water and looking at me with narrow eyes. “It hurts if you think too much, Queirido.”
She was the antithesis of everything I loved, but she was right. Another moment found us pressed against the tiles, this time remembering to kiss. I braced her against the wall and she wrapped those long, lean legs around me again, and I found it easier (much easier) not to think at all.
Title: Turmoil
Summary: Dick tries not to think of the consequences of Nightwing #93
Pairings: Nightwing/Tarantula
Rating: NC-17
Turmoil
By Angela
07-05-04
She wrapped her legs around my waist.
I don’t know why I fixated on that moment, why, in the swirl of sensation and her soft Spanish accent against my neck, I noticed her legs. Maybe it was because it had been so long since a woman had done that to me (had been able to do that to me)? She pulled hard with her legs, tensing her muscles and gripping me, mimicking the way her hands pulled at my hair, and I closed my eyes, breathing in the sweat-and-vinyl scent of her.
Babs always smelled like shampoo. Like coconut and bath soap and that unique scent of Barbara that had been a part of my life almost as long as masks and crime fighting.
Nails raking my back brought me back to the present-to the gorgeous woman still half-dressed in orange and black, her mask tangled in her hair, shoved away from her eyes. Of course. Babs and I would never stoop to this-rutting like animals on a filthy motel carpet, forgetting even to kiss in our urgency to come together. My desperation was obvious; it was easy to understand how I’d ended up there, trying to erase emotion with mean physicality. But I didn’t understand her. Why was she here? What benefit came from being fucked senseless by a masked vigilante who could barely remember how he’d come to be with her?
“Ah, Queirido,” she moaned into my ear. “You are as powerful as you look.”
But I guessed she didn’t care about things like that-like sentiment and emotion and all the messy strings that usually came from affairs like this. She arched beneath me, her thighs clamping painfully around my hips as she cried out. I didn’t pause, realizing that it barely made a difference to me that she’d come-that’s when I realized that I didn’t care about emotion and sentiment, either. That there wouldn’t be any messy ramifications to this.
She didn’t matter.
As though the realization freed me, I came to a shuddering finish. I pulled away and rolled off of her, for the first time getting the full effect of the musty carpet. The smell seemed to cling to my skin and my uniform, mingling with the musky scent of sex and making me long to be clean.
Being the gentleman that Bruce always insisted upon, I suggested she use the shower first. When she shook her head and flopped onto the bed, I didn’t insist.
The pressure was low, but the water was hot. I breathed the steam and scrubbed my skin with the milky little bar of soap left by the motel staff. I felt filthy, and not just from fucking Tarantula on that disgusting floor. It was as though the sweat and the spit and the mildew had just reinforced a deeper sense of dirt.
Blockbuster.
I would have to tell them-Bruce and Babs would have to know about this. About all of this. Bruce would turn his cold disapproval on me, maybe even break ties. I’d been out of favor often enough in the past, but I suspected that I’d seen barely the tip of the iceberg in that regard. And Babs . . . . Well, I didn’t know what to expect there. I knew I’d lost my shot at getting her back, if I even had a shot to lose. She’d never hate me, but somehow that made it worse.
The shower curtain was yanked open and Tarantula stood there-naked and gorgeous with her long hair tumbling everywhere. She smiled. “Any room for me?”
Before I could answer she was in the shower, slick with water and looking at me with narrow eyes. “It hurts if you think too much, Queirido.”
She was the antithesis of everything I loved, but she was right. Another moment found us pressed against the tiles, this time remembering to kiss. I braced her against the wall and she wrapped those long, lean legs around me again, and I found it easier (much easier) not to think at all.