Disclaimers: Not mine. Dammit.
Spoilers: Nothing specific. Spec on near-future
events within Robin.
Summary: Yet another story I *could* have called
"It's A Robin Thing."
Ratings Note: NC-17.
Author's Note: Jack wanted porn. This was the first
thing that occurred to me.
Acknowledgments: To Jack, Livia, and Weirdness
Magnet for audiencing.
It's different now.
Well, in truth, a number of things are different
now, and it isn't as though Tim isn't *used* to
change. If there's one lesson life has taught
him -- thoroughly -- it's that nothing lasts
forever, and that nothing and no one will stay
around long enough to *let* him believe in
them. Parents, homes, cities, friends...
None of it is permanent.
Which is for the best, really.
*He* isn't permanent, either, after all.
Somewhere in the back of Tim's mind, Dick is
smirking. Tim has quite a large variety of Dick
smirks to call upon, and this is one of the more
smug ones. The ones that tend to infuriate
most people. Not him.
Life has also taught him to treat the small
annoyances as precisely that.
And Dick is wrong, anyway.
Tim *isn't* going to do this forever.
"R-point four, Robin?"
"Yes, Robin," he says, and lets Spoiler --
*Robin* -- take point.
He isn't going to do this forever, but he wasn't
*ready* to quit yet. It's *his* choice. *All* of
this has been his choice, from the day he made
the librarian teach him about microfiche so he
could look up information on the late, lamented
Flying Graysons, to the day he put on the suit.
He'll take it off when he's ready, and not one
Well. In a figurative sense, anyway.
R-point four is a (moderately) quake-damaged
warehouse that's going to stay condemned right
up until Batman no longer has any use for it.
The windows are long gone, and the support
beams won't stand up to too much abuse.
Robin pulls her punches, a little.
Tim pulls his, too. A little.
It isn't a fight, not really. He never would with
Stephanie, anyway. Not like this -- and not any
*other* way, if he could possibly help it. That
sort of imbroglio really *isn't* to his taste. If
he'd ever thought about it consciously, he
would've told himself that *this* isn't, either.
His life is filled with violence. It wouldn't be at
all prudent to develop a fetish.
Still, he thinks, as he dodges two black-booted
kicks (she's getting better, more flexible), and
three green-gauntleted punches (she's never
needed improvement *there*), as he catches a
third kick with his ribs, as he dives and rolls
and catches her pounce and licks and bites and
*tastes* Robin's red, red lipstick...
There's certainly something to *this*.
Robin growls into his mouth and bites his
tongue and *bucks*, and Tim catches her by
the hair to stay on, Tim grinds *down*, armor
to armor, Tim hears himself make an indiscreet
sound and watches Robin lick her bitten mouth.
The eyeshadow she's wearing behind her mask
He knows this, the way he knows that Robin is
pissed-off at the way green nail polish --
gauntlets or no gauntlets -- would just be a little
too... too. He feels Robin's frustration.
He feels other things.
Her skirt is red and armored and *tight* -- too
tight for convenience, and far too tight for
practicality... if it wasn't so short.
He shoves it up to her waist and she punches
him in the jaw. When he gets his head back
around, Robin's grin is wide and shiny. White
teeth, red lips.
"Pay attention, Boy Wonder."
It isn't a punch. He just shoves his knuckles
against the crotch of her tights. Nice and hard.
Her smile turns into a snarl, and her eyes
widen enough that he can tell, even through the
"I *am* paying attention, Girl Wonder. I know
exactly how much you like this."
She spreads her thighs and lifts, wrapping her
legs around his waist and squeezing hard. Her
lower body strength is better than his. She knows
it. If she twists, just a little -- and if he doesn't
fight -- she can make this painful.
It's probably not a good sign that he wants her
He thinks about telling her he loves her when
"Robin," he says, instead, and her mouth twists
into something a lot more like talking than
screwing, but he still has his hand in place, and
he knows how to use it.
Bruce was right -- training never really ends.
Tim isn't sure he wants to believe *this* training
will prove useful in other situations or not. It
isn't that he's thinking about anyone else, or
that he doesn't see the potential... *potential*
in being as good at sex as he is in several other
It's just that being good at this, at making Robin
push her hips up and up until he can feel her
heat through her tights and his gauntlet, being
good at this on *top* of wanting this...
He doesn't think he's doing this right. This
He's almost certain that it shouldn't be easier
now than it ever was before, with Steph's
pretty blue eyes hidden behind the white-out
lenses and Steph's voice low and clipped and
*Robin*, even when he stops using the
armored knuckles of the gauntlets on her and
curls his fingers under the waistband of her tights
"*Robin*," she says, and Tim's dick flexes behind
Her panties are cotton and almost precisely the
same shade as her lipstick. He makes a note to
buy her more. Better.
She likes it when he does things like that. She
likes it when he's hard for her, when she can
tell with more than the obvious way his hands
fumble at his own shorts and tights. It makes
perfect sense. He's done an excellent job at
being the sort of boyfriend from whom tangible
reassurance is necessary, and everything he
does now makes her happier, calmer, more...
Six months ago he never would've considered
anything of the kind.
"I like looking at you," he says, and it's the
absolute truth -- the wetness on her panties
darkens the red to the *precisely* correct shade.
It's also an excellent way to make her growl
again, make her grab him with her legs again
and dig in with her knees.
"You can touch, too," she says. "You *should*
Over her bare thighs -- he didn't pull the tights
down *too* far -- and through the panties. He
can smell her.
The scent of her arousal is no different than it
ever was, when all he'd been able to think was
that the material of the Spoiler costume was
much too thin, when he used to wonder how
she was able to walk *around* like that, outside,
where anyone with decently trained senses would
know precisely how much --
"*Robin*," she says, and this time it sounds like
she'd rather be saying his name. Irritable,
impatient, and turned on.
"Yes, Robin?" And he smiles at her just to see the
shock, the moment of realization.
"You pick the *weirdest* freaking times to -- oh.
Play, she didn't say, because she knows him --
enough -- to know that he is. He rubs her hard,
maybe too, and her mouth twists into another
one of the snarls he loves to see. It's the same
one she uses when some skel or another gets in
a good enough shot to piss her off.
When she's about to start using the more vicious
moves Batgirl's been teaching her, the moves
that make Bruce make *that* face, the *memory*
face, and Jason's ghost flies around them all and
Tim wonders if Jason would've liked Steph.
If he'd been Robin for long enough to need it
just like this, to have to yank those red panties
down with the green tights and push his face
into her yellow, yellow hair. Maybe he would've
wanted to do it anyway.
The insides of her thighs are smooth against his
cheeks, and she's so wet he has to suck her a
little before she starts making the especially
pleased noises. The ones that start low and
spiral higher, higher into something almost
He'd never really thought he'd enjoy doing this,
and he still isn't sure how he feels about the
taste, but it *feels* right, especially when she
starts bucking hard and arrythmically, when Tim
has to be careful to avoid getting hurt by her pubic
She likes it when he cups her ass and digs his
thumbs into her broad, round hips and holds on.
He likes it when she shoves her gauntleted hands
into his hair and holds on.
"Oh -- oh fuck, oh fuck *Robin* --"
"Robin," he says against her hard little clit.
"You -- oh *Christ* --" And she says something
else, but it's hard to tell what. She's growling
again, yanking at his hair in a less than purposeful
way. Pushing him. He knows what she wants. He
pulls back, kneeling up and -- finally, some needy
part of his mind insists -- shoving down the jock
while she pushes the skirt down enough to get
to her belt, where she keeps the condoms.
It's practical -- she still isn't trained with all the
accessories *he* carries, and so isn't *allowed*
to carry them. She has room he doesn't.
Eventually, they'll have to figure out another
For now, he loves the way it looks when she
slips a condom out of the belt pocket that should
hold shuriken or extra tranquilizer darts, when
one side of her mouth pulls up in that wicked
little smirk that says 'I know what you're
thinking, and I like it.'
This makes sense, as well. She's tired of sweet,
shy Tim Drake, and she's long past ready for
the boy she's probably always thought Robin
should be. She has a point. Dick would've had
sex with her the *first* time she asked.
And he's heard enough about Jason to suggest
that *he* wouldn't have made her wait much
longer than that. And possibly wouldn't have
made her *ask*.
'I'm doing this for the legacy,' he thinks, and feels
another part of his mind splinter off to laugh
hysterically while they do a clumsy, awkward,
wonderful, hot -- fuck, *gauntlets* -- job of getting
the condom on him.
She squeezes him *hard* and looks at him with
blank eyes and a ready mouth.
"One day we'll do this *naked*," she says, and it
isn't a question and it has absolutely nothing to
do with *what* clothes they're still wearing.
Except for the fact that it does. He makes an
effort. "It's not... not just the suit."
"Yeah. You don't have a fetish at *all*, *Robin*,"
she says and lies back down, rubbing her breasts
through the tunic.
It can't possibly feel as good as it looks. The
tunic is armored. He takes himself in hand and
pushes in, and one of the nice things about
having practice at this is that he doesn't have to
look away. Gauntlets, tunic, and Robin looking like
she can't decide whether to laugh or groan.
She does both, and then she *just* groans,
because he's in, right to the hilt, and she likes it
when he touches her with the gauntlets. He
has to be careful, but she likes it when he isn't,
She likes -- she feels so *good*. Tight and hot
and *slick* around him, and she'd feel even
better if he stopped rubbing her and just braced
himself on the floor, but he still has a little --
She flexes around him.
Control. He has to -- he... "Oh God, Robin --"
"That's me," she says, and flexes even harder.
"Come on, Boy Wonder..."
Tim groans and pinches her once, twice, and
listens to her growl and gives up and leans over
her, one hand on the floor and the other on and
in her hair, and she whines high in her throat
and rolls under him like she's struggling not to
buck, and she must be *squeezing* her eyes
shut, because the mask holes narrow and she's
so beautiful it hurts --
"T -- Robin --"
And he doesn't know why he's fucking her harder
and he's kind of afraid to ask himself that
question. He just knows that this is why he's
doing this, having *sex*, right here. Because his
dick couldn't be happier, and he can't fucking
*breathe*, and Robin's all around him, all over
him and through him and one day maybe *in*
him, because he wants her to fuck him, too.
He leans in closer, close enough to get his mouth
next to her ear, to taste her sweat on his
"Steph," he whispers, and suddenly it doesn't
matter at all that he's ruined the angle, because
he can feel her *coming* around him, one
rapid, vicious flex after another --
"Oh *God* --"
And maybe it's like this for her, too. Maybe she
feels it the way he does, the way suddenly, for
the first time since he was a child, there's
something that really *does* roll all through him,
that spreads over every aspect of his life -- his
*mind* -- and just insists on *being*.
Steph for his parents, and the people who think
they're his friends.
*Robin* wrapped tight around him and rolling
them over and pushing his shoulders down
against the cold, cement floor and taking Tim deep
and *riding* him.
Grinning down at him, flushed and red.
He shoves up hard into her and squeezes her hip
with one hand and grabs one of *her* hands with
"Oh *fuck*, I love it when you bite my fingers --"
And she shoves them in deep, and her gauntlet
tastes like dust and someone else's blood
(*red*), and Tim comes groaning, eyes rolling up
in his head behind the mask.
She gives him a goodbye squeeze before pulling
her fingers out of his mouth and standing up.
Tim lets himself watch her get her uniform back
together for a moment before he pulls off the
condom, knots it off, bags it, and tucks it into
his -- heh -- evidence pocket.
Robin shakes her head at him, and makes no
bones about watching him get *his* uniform
"I still think you're going to mess up one day
and hand one of those over to Batman with
the night's take."
One of the things he isn't going to say is "'Take'
makes it sound like we're criminals.'" The other
thing he isn't going to say is "What makes you
think he doesn't already know?" He raises an
eyebrow at her, instead.
"Nothing, really. But... you have plans for
tonight?" He's also not going to say "just once?"
"Batgirl says there might be a new operation
moving in on the docks." She shrugs. "I thought
we could, like, do some recon or something."
Robin narrows her eyes at him. "What? Like I
can't want to do the extra cred -- wait. It's
totally turning you *on* that I want to do more
patrol, isn't it?"
Absolutely yes. "Maybe you're just sexy."
She giggles and straightens her hair. "You
should tell Batman that you think we should
train together more."
Her headband is a little crooked. He fixes it.
He's pretty sure she's rolling her eyes. "Like
you *don't* wanna do it in the Cave, Kink
Tim blinks. Again. Robin looks at him with
Steph's softness around her mouth, and he isn't
entirely sure what he's supposed to see.
He just knows it's beautiful.
And then she shakes her head and shoots her
grapple up through one of the larger holes in
the roof, taking off with a grace she didn't
have even a month ago.
Tim follows, and does his best not to look up
It's different. It's... good, even though he should
probably be a little less... or maybe a little
He isn't sure.
But right now it's his.