Archive of Our Own

Title: As If In Jubilation
Fandom: DC Comics
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The two of them, perched on a straight-backed chair.
Pairings: Oracle/Nightwing (Babs/Dick)
Warnings/Features: het, appliances, hints.
Spoilers For/Based On: Missing scene after Nightwing 58
Erudite and Exacting Beta-Reader: brown_betty
Disclaimer: These characters belong to DC Comics.
Title from: 'Of Course It Hurts' by Karin Boye, translated by Jenny Nunn

She says, "Come here, Man Wonder," and he does, wearing nothing but his eager grin and his thoughtless grace. He has a couple of red new scars, not a few pale shiny old ones, and lots of blotchy fading bruises, and none of it detracts from his beauty.

"Here I am, Babs." He stands in front of her, so close she could reach out and wrap her hand around his hip, or his arm, or his (damn nickname) erection bobbing beneath his navel. Or she could run her fingertips over his abdominals or thighs, as perfect and individual as his face.

"Closer." She chooses his wrist, pressing her fingertips over his pulse as she pulls him slowly towards her. As he leans further and further, never wobbling off balance, as she pulls and he bends, he smiles as if she's beautiful. Sometimes she wonders if he's just seeing his memories of who she used to be, but the only reflection she finds in his eyes is her own face without her glasses, the tilt of her head and her mouth softening when he looks at her like that.

So she closes her eyes, and she can feel his smile against her mouth, before his lips shape to hers and he kisses her.

She kisses him back, parting her lips, tugging his hand to the back of the chair. It's a plain side chair from her dining set, high-backed and armless, set in the middle of her living room; she keeps her thumb in his palm and her fingers on the tendons of his hand, watching by feel as he folds his hand around the wood beside her head. When he shifts his weight so he's pulling against the chair she slips her thumb from his hand, trailing her fingers up his wrist.

He only needs one hand to hold on; she hears the little creaks of the harness strap as he fingers it, checking it one more time, before she feels his free hand abruptly come into focus over her ribs. He likes touching her all over, both where she has sensation and where she doesn't. There are times when that really pisses her off. There are times, like now, when it makes her feel whole. She bites his lip lightly, leaning into the touch, and he chuckles, gently skimming his hand over her breast, up over her shoulder and her neck and through her hair before he grasps the chair. Her skin prickles where he strokes her, as if he hadn't nicely worn her out before already, but she doesn't push against his arm or catch his hand and pull it back. This part is for him.

Well, mostly. She does get to watch.

If she could, she'd feel his thighs hard with tension on either side of hers. What she can feel is the shift in his breathing, the light rasp of hair and the heat off his skin as he settles against her, the scars along his sides and the way his hips fit into her hands. He pulls his head up, breaking the kiss, hissing with concentration rather than effort, and she opens her eyes to watch him. His eyes are closed, his cheeks are flushed a toothsome red, and the vibration as he balances on the struts of the chair travels up its back into hers.

"Ready, Kink Wonder?" she murmurs, and watches him smile, slow and wide and breathtaking.

"Ready, Mistress Babs." She rakes her nails down over his ass, which barely dents, feels it clench as he gasps shakily, and laughs just a little. Reluctantly, even though she knows it'll be worth it, she lets go of him to steady the dildo; she doesn't let herself blink as she watches his face, every flickering crease across his forehead, every tremble of his eyelashes and tiny quaver of his lips, as he eases himself back onto it.

Even "beautiful" doesn't cut it. She's a librarian by trade and coordinates information in her second calling, she's good friends with concepts and quite fond of words, and there isn't a single one she can think of that quite describes how he looks as he lets go, for once, of everything but the two of them perched on a straight-backed chair as they make love. As she fucks him. "There you go," she croons, pressing her hands flat on his back; the muscles under her fingers shift minutely as his eyebrows lift a little more, and the first beads of sweat glisten on his forehead. Another inch or three, and if she lifts her chin she could lick his hairline. "Just a little further."

"God," he gasps, laughter and strain in his voice. "God almighty." He rocks up a little, and down further, pushing maybe harder than he should, and when he sinks an abrupt inch she can see his eyes roll beneath their lids, feel the wave up his spine bending his neck and making him gasp. "God dammit. 'S'big."

"Size queen," she reminds him, brushing her mouth through his hanging hair, and runs her tongue along his hairline. He turns towards her, hands tightening on the chair till it creaks, and laughs breathlessly. The pulse in his temple is fast and steady against her lips, his cheek is soft and tangy with aftershave. "Move," she murmurs, and kisses his jaw. "I want to feel you move."

"Mmmh." It's not a word, it is an assent. She kisses his shoulder as he pushes himself up, all tension and heat and strength; she drags her lips over the bullet scar, and he settles, slow and even. Good boy. Wonderful boy.

"Beautiful," she tells him, whispering into his neck like she could mark it on him, add it to the imprints his life has left on his body. It's not enough, but it's true. He shakes his head, laughing on an exhale, pushing himself up on a gasp. She adds teeth, literally as she bites his jaw, more so when she hisses, "yes," and he shakes all over.

"More," she tells him, and he speeds up, moving harder and faster; he groans softly, his lips trembling against her hair. Her command voice has gotten much better since it took over some duties from her legs. Maybe that's why she uses so few words, sometimes, when they're in bed, or on a chair. She loves playing with him, snarking at him, but sometimes she wants to see exactly what he's capable of, how much he can hear in how little she says.

If she bites his collarbone... mmm, she loves the way he whimpers. Her hands slide on his damp back, over the flexing muscles. They're generating a little bubble of humid air, and the bandage on his other shoulder peels beneath her roving mouth. She kisses the new purplish scar, and grins at the "God, Babs," he moans into her hair. Sometimes he's so easy.

If only it were easier to make him ease up on himself. She kisses his shoulder again, harder, covering for her vanished smile. That's the one thing he doesn't hear, no matter what she says. They've turned his recuperation into a date, but she's only had him so long because he got pretty badly hurt this time. When he's well, or thinks he is, he'll take off again, back to being a cop by day and a cape by night, back to pushing himself too hard.

She can slow him down here at least, and considering the moan she can hear in the back of his throat, a little louder on each exhale and downstroke, she should. She strokes up his neck, and his head tips right back into her hand. "Slower." She grasps a fistful of his hair, and the low sweet noise he makes is nearly as satisfying as the way he obeys her immediately. If he listened to her like this all the time... he wouldn't be so adorably stubborn. She watches him bite his lip, his eyes shut so tightly there's a crinkle between them, and licks his throat, and snickers gently when he moans.

He retaliates, of course. Grinning openmouthed, gasping, he twists, pushing into her hold, writhing gorgeously. She hears her own gasp, hears him breathlessly laugh. God, he's beautiful. She tugs his hair to bend him backwards, forcing him down a little harder, running her teeth along the vein in his neck; his grin fades into a teeth-gritting groan, and then into, "Please, ah, please..."

She could watch him like this forever, arched and sweating and twisting in her lap, but she's not actually cruel. Much. She licks his taste off her hand and presses her wet fingers against his nipple, and that groan was distinctly high. She tweaks it, just this side of twisting, gripping the nape of his neck to direct most of his writhing into vertical movement. She could pet his belly forever, the muscles and the scars, but his head might blow up and she'd be out a Man Wonder, so she curls her thumb and two fingers around the base of his cock, letting the other two trail lightly along the big vein as she strokes him.

If he could convulse off her lap that would've done it. He's shuddering now, begging in noises too broken to be words, and she pushes his head gently to her shoulder. "Yes," she whispers, her lips a millimeter from his glowing red ear.

"Oh," he groans, pushing his open mouth against her neck, and comes hard enough to spatter both their ribcages. Eyes closed, she tightens her arm across his back as he quakes to a stop, until he slumps a little, pressing her against the back of the chair. Her hand's pinned between them, her nipples ache, and he's got her damp and sweaty all over. Damn, he feels good.

They drift for awhile in their warm little bubble. The only breeze is across is her neck, where he's alternately kissing her and gasping. She chuckles, a little breathless herself, combing her fingers through his hair, and he pulls one hand off the chair to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her in a little bit tighter. "B--" he puffs, and she smiles, and waits.

"Bat--" he gasps. Her smile freezes in the pause. "--Girl," he whispers, searing over her skin.

"Yeah," Babs sighs, stroking his cheek with hers as she turns her face inwards. Dick's smile is as gorgeous as ever, his lips parting eagerly as he lifts up for one more kiss.