That boy and girl game
by Te
October 8, 2006

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Post-ROBIN #125, pre-"War Games."
Some faintly AU-ized references.

Summary: This *isn't* rocket science.

Ratings Note: Sexual content.

Author's Note: Started as an answer to Audz' request for
a snippet for this icon, but actually works for
Amarin's request and, well, Glock's request for this icon,
too. I'm... um... efficient?

Acknowledgments: To Katarik for audiencing,
encouragement, and helpful suggestions.


She was actually all set to stick -- *firmly* -- to her sense
that it was kinda stupid for Bats to be so freaking *adamant*
about keeping all the metas and other super-powered types
out of Gotham at all times. It was just stupid, considering
how much of a shit-hole Gotham could be at times.

It wasn't that she *minded* the work -- not like this, not
*ever* -- but still. It was hard enough to deal with the fact
that people were getting killed or raped or robbed (or all of
the above) practically every night when she was just Spoiler
and mostly working the suburbs.

Now that she's Robin, every single victim is *hers*, and it
doesn't actually matter that she knows Bats and Cass feel
the same. It's something she'd always really loved about
Tim, and something that always scared her, but -- now she
gets it.

She thinks it must be written all over her sometimes (she
knows it is, because the way Bats looks at her now just isn't
the same as it used to be), and she's okay with that, too,
but -- still.

She was all set in her *head* with thinking that it would be
nice if a Flash or something occasionally ran through to take
care of just a *few* of the horrible things they couldn't, but

Now she's kind of thinking Bats had the right idea.

Mostly because she has a dick. And testicles.

Now, the part of her that isn't (just *dangling* there, right
*there*, and what the hell is she supposed to *do* with it?
Them. Thing.) really averse to stupid jokes (because Bats
likes them, and that's the weirdest thing ever, but it's
*true*) isn't all that fucked-up about this. There are all sorts
of jokes to be made, and it's not like Bats won't figure out a
way to *fix* it pretty soon -- certainly, once that freaky
sorcerer dude wakes up, he'll *be* answering some
questions, whether or *not* he thinks he will.

It's, well. It's the *thing*, right?

Robin is 'supposed to' be a boy, and now she is. He is.
Whatever. A medium-sized blond boy with a nice package --
too nice for the tights, really, and Steph is going to be
*really* glad to get off this bike and into a nice pair of
stirrups or something -- and, if she does say so herself, a
mean right hook.

The fact that Cass was laughing so hard she nearly smacked
herself face-first into a building when she first took off on
her jump-line after the cops take custody of their target...

Well, Cass is really cute when she laughs, and it totally *is*

(Do Gotham cops know how to deal with sorcerers? If
anyone would, it'd be them, but... still.)

Even though the joke starts getting uncomfortable when
Steph realizes that her hair's still the same length and she
starts wondering if maybe she looks like a refugee from the
late and unlamented 80s or something.

She's *seen* that VH-1 special, and it was *not* pretty.

Of course, neither is she at the moment.

She frowns to herself and kicks the bike up over ninety,
because that's the best way to keep herself from shifting
around too much on the seat. She's not gonna get herself
killed just because she has what the boys in school refer to
as 'junk.'

She is, however, going to *want* to die if she doesn't
remember the junk in question the *next* time she, say,
sits down on something hard and leather and seat-like and
really, really not designed for the crotch of a male of the

She makes a mental note, and it doesn't really take three
zillion hours to get back to the Cave, even though it feels
that way.

Most of the time, she waits until she gets at least *close* to
the showers before stripping down, but even though it
*also* isn't three zillion miles between her parking space
and there -- yeah.

Her eyes actually cross a little when she pulls off the tights --
it feels *that* good, and, even though the skirt is crazy tight
and short, it's better than the evil, wrong, impossibly hard
tights that had never felt like cruel torture before, but just
the same. Evil and wrong.

Once they're gone, she can focus on her top, and... yeah,
that's no fun, either. The t-shirt's fine, but when she brushes
a little too hard against the tunic, there's a *hollow* sound
that kind of makes her want to puke. When she twists her
mouth up, she catches a whiff of her own lipstick *and*
her own sweat.

Which is... different and really kind of --

Kind of.

So, yeah, tunic's gotta *go*. And so does the cape, because
her shoulders aren't...

Well, her neck doesn't *feel* any different, but the cape just
doesn't fall right, anymore, and she's thinking that has a lot
to do with how the t-shirt fits just perfectly except where it
cuts in under her arms.

She's always had pretty broad shoulders for a girl, and...
yeah. Right, okay.

She's fine.

And then it's just a matter of waiting, really, because she
was supposed to spend pretty much all night patrolling with
Cass, and it's not like Bats makes it all that easy to contact
him when she -- oh. She *can* totally call Oracle.

So she does, and yeah, that's --

She doesn't think she ever actually needs to hear a laugh in
the freak-o synthesized voice of creepy *doom*, again, and
no, it *doesn't* matter that she knows Oracle's just the
chick who used to be Batgirl.

All she can really *see* in her head is that big green mask,
which is totally making the scrunch-face of 'I may actually
*die* from laughing,' and it also doesn't matter that she's
pretty sure Oracle doesn't have one of those programmed.

Still, she calls the man, and the man says he'll be back in
twenty, and that's -- good enough.

Even though she feels incredibly naked with just the t-shirt
and the skirt. Her *legs* are bare -- and she can see
*every* individual bit of stubble, and also the completely
bare parts that the evil, evil tights rubbed raw, and.

Did the old Robins shave? The ones before Tim who had to
wear... things that actually cover a *little* less than the
skirt. Damn. She's gotta remember not to bend *over*...
but whatever.

It's not like the Case has anything to say about it.

And she's gotta admit, she's kind of.


She hadn't ever spent a lot of time around Tim when he was
changing -- there are probably Amish chicks in the world
less body-shy than Tim, and it totally *doesn't* count that
he'd strip down fast enough if he was injured -- but she'd
spent *enough* to know that he really, really liked the jock.

And probably liked it in ways kind of different than the way
she's starting to like the tight, armored, and
just-a-little-rough skirt and no, she is *not* grabbing her --
her *dick*, and there's no one there who could've seen her
not doing it, and anyway she's a teenaged boy so the entire
universe can just shut the hell up.


If she's gonna be a boy Robin, she kind of *needs* a jock.

She squints at the Case and... okay, no, she's not gonna
steal the dead boy's panties. No one ever *said*, but she's
pretty sure that's kind of a no-no.

Even if they *do* look like they'd fit. Hadn't Tim said they
were too big for him when he'd worn them...?

She's not gonna do it. She -- she doesn't *have* to, because
Bats is Bats, and while she's not sure whether or not she's
*supposed* to know where he keeps Tim's old and
never-used uniforms, she absolutely does.

They're tucked back in a panel that isn't even *seriously*
locked, and Bats probably lights a candle to them whenever
she's not around. If they *aren't* in perfect condition, she'll
eat her damned headband, sharp points and all.

And -- yep. There they all are. Set up on their own creepy
mannequins like nothing she wants to think about, like Tim
is either dead or dying or... seconds from taking this back
from her.

No, and no.

The jocks are in a little drawer-thing (the other ones have a
lot of computer equipment and tiny lock-picks -- she's never
getting over that fingernail thing, *ever* -- and stuff), all
neatly-folded and white and armored and --

"What. Are you doing?"

And Bats is Bats, which means that he's spooky enough to
make Steph's heart try to jump right out of her flat,
muscular chest, but familiar enough that she doesn't fall on
her ass, despite the fact that she's only half-into one of
Tim's jocks.

Which is pretty damned impressive, even though Bats
doesn't seem likely to congratulate her for it.


"I need to finish my patrol, Bats," she says, and tries to
figure out if she dresses right or left.

"You -- you."

That... wasn't exactly coherent. Steph tries right, straightens
up, and -- ow. "Dammit, why didn't you make Tim *eat*
more?" The jock's cutting into her thighs, and it's.


She wiggles a little, and she really wants to wince, but. No
showing weakness around Spookyman. "Okay, never mind,
why didn't you... something. Shit, Tim's dick didn't *seem*
all that small."

"I. Stephanie."

"Okay, so maybe it's my balls. Jesus. You wouldn't... I
mean, is there somewhere back here where you keep Jason
Todd's -- okay, where are you going?"

It's never especially -- or, like *remotely* -- cool to try to
keep up with Bats when there's somewhere not-near-you
he really wants to be, but it's totally worse than usual
now. The jock is a tiny, tiny elasticized prison, and the skirt
wants to trip her, and, it's possible she's hopping as much
as she's jogging.

"Seriously, Bats, come *on* --"

"You," he says, totally unhelpfully.

"Maybe we could just pin up one of your jocks or
something? Or -- I don't even know. How big *are* your --"


"Bats," she says, and continues to not fall on her face. She
plants her hands on her hips while she's at it -- "Wait, how
gay do I look right now?"

It shouldn't be possible for a cowl to look pained, but...
there you go.

"Oh, come on, I just -- you'll figure out how to fix me, and
we'll all just pretend this never happened, but, you know,
in the mean time -- Gotham! Out there! Full of crime!"

"You... are absolutely right."

"Awesome! Finally!"

And that's when there's a dart in her neck.

"Oh -- Jesus, what --"

Sometime after that -- the specs on the tranq darts say
somewhere between ninety minutes and two hours -- she
wakes up just in time to watch Alfred tucking a measuring
tape in the pocket of his apron.

"Oh, what the fuck."

"Ah, Ma -- Mistress Stephanie. Your mellifluous tones cheer
me ever so."

"Seriously -- what the fuck?" She sits up -- she lays back
down. "Oh. Ow. That's. Ow. Scrotums *suck*."

Alfred sniffs.

"I mean. Okay. *New* scrotums suck."

"I fear my earliest memories of my anatomy have faded
rather dramatically, young... miss, and so I cannot comment
either way. For the moment, you may rest assured that
you'll have... fitting undergarments, soon enough."

"Really? Oh, awesome! Wait. Wait." Steph sits up more
carefully. "Are you. Did you seriously just..." She gestures
at her package, currently lurking under the skirt.

Alfred raises an eyebrow.

And. Okay, so he's done this before, probably with *all* of
the Robins, and maybe this is some kind of rite of
passage -- Robin hits puberty in a package-tastic way, Bats
drugs them unconscious to make the tailoring session as...

Disturbing as humanly possible.

"Yeah, no, Al, I'm sticking with ew."

"Your feelings are noted, Mistress Stephanie. And now I
fear I must excuse myself --"

"To make me a jock?"

"Yes, to fashion for you a 'jock,'" Alfred says, and sighs.
"Though I must admit my first priority will be tracking down...
your partner, who appears to have gone into seclusion.

Steph nods. It makes sense. Gotham *needs* a Batman,
and, like, not one who's hiding somewhere. "I don't suppose
there's any underwear that might fit, you know, before
then? Or even... loose pants? Tight pants that won't...
bind? I'm feeling a little... wild and free here, Al."

It's kind of impressive to be able to tell that Alfred's totally
counting backwards from one million by thirteens when all
he's technically doing is standing ramrod straight and
staring off to the left.

Though, now that she thinks about it, it's probably where
Bats gets it.

"I... might I recommend perusing the third secret panel
beneath the modified all-terrain-vehicle in the northwest
corner of the Cave, young miss?"

"Oooh. Is *that* where Jason's old stuff is?"

Alfred brushes microscopic lint off of his apron, then
removes and folds it. "It is a wide and fascinating world,
young miss. Anything," he says, and begins to move for
the stairs, "is possible."

Which is how Steph winds up in her very first pair of
boxer-briefs and her very fourth pair of men's jeans -- her
Dad hadn't been all that picky about stuff from Goodwill,
back in the day -- and a bright green t-shirt which makes
her feel Robin-y *enough* to almost make up for the fact
that she'd been tranqed right out of her patrol.

And, okay, so the seat of her bike still looks pretty terrifying,
judging by the way her balls kind of twitch a little, but after
a brief heart-to-junk about the bike's vibration, and how
she's pretty sure she can get some fascinatingly (and maybe
disturbingly, but maybe not) homoerotic sympathy make-out
out of Tim once she gets to his house.

That makes things settle down (and kind of *not*) in her
pants enough to let her get -- carefully -- back on the bike --
it's all about leaning back a little, and also hoping, and also
wondering how the hell guys *do* this all the time, and
then she's off.

She makes it all the way to the curb in front of Tim's parents'
brownstone before she remembers that she really *can't*
walk up to the front door like this, unless she's ready to tell
the Drakes that she's actually her own desperately
unfashionable and really fucking impolite -- it's about
half-past late and edging up on early -- long-lost twin, which
she is most emphatically not.

So, she finds an alley to park in and creeps back in Jason's
big, clunky boots. Her feet aren't as big as Jason's were, but
it turned out that her Robin-boots were a lot more forgiving
than her cross-trainers. Her feet are *wider* now, and also
there's hair on the toes and --

And she really doesn't care about her feet, because it's Tim,
and so he totally heard the bike *and* knew it was hers
long enough ago that his window is open and he's got a
little light on.

She can't *see* him, but she can feel him, and if she can't
tell whether her arms are just *that* much stronger or if
she's just really, really psyched to see her freaky tiny-penis
boyfriend, it doesn't really matter.

Because the look on his face when she vaults in from the
fire escape is -- fucking *priceless*.

Like, even including the fact that the ready-position he's in
is one of those 'break your face in thirty seconds or less'
ones. Possibly *because* of that.

She probably looks *insanely* gay when she giggles.

"... Steph?"

The snickering's probably sexuality-neutral.

"You. I. Um."

"*You* sound just like *Bats*, boyfriend."

"I... do? Er."

Though, to be fair, he's actually doing better on the number
of syllables-per-sentence thing. "*Anyway*, Alfred says
Bats is hiding out somewhere -- he really freaked *hard*
sometime either right before or right after he tranqed me --
and I missed half of my patrol, and... um..." Okay, she
probably should've thought this out a little better.

She'd given up trying the 'turn meaningful look on clueless
boy' method of getting Tim to jump her, like, a *year* ago,
not to mention the 'get into moderately uncomfortable but
totally seductive pose' method, which would also look kind
of weird in this body, and also she isn't sure how she feels
about just *jumping* Tim in this body -- way too stupid
frat-boy, somehow -- and.



Even worse because it was *one* thing to totally be used
to the way the big-eyes-plus-blush thing on Tim's face made
her squirmy in *all* of her places, but it's totally something
else when the squirming is all... muscular. And stuff.

"Oh. *Oh*. Steph. Um."

"Oh... crap, I just grabbed myself again, didn't I?"

"You... can't tell?" Tim's doing that thing where he's about
three rapid blinks from whipping out the palm-top that's in
the belt he isn't wearing and taking notes. "You --"

"I don't *wanna* tell. Shit, could you just. Uh."

"Tell me, Steph --"

"Can we please make out? Because -- I missed patrol, and
I want sympathy, and also you're my boyfriend."

"I. You. We. Steph."

"And *please* stop making me think about Bats, because
really, I think he probably would've fallen over if I'd stolen
Jason's panties, even though they would've fit way better
than that jock of yours I found --"


"-- and that's just not what I want to *think* about when
I'm totally and completely about to start jacking off. You're
really *cute*, Tim -- and did you just say 'gih?'"



"Steph. Steph. You. May I...?"

"Jesus, this is what I'm say --"

The rest of it is pretty much gone, what with how she's
against the wall and Tim's tongue is in her mouth, but
she's *okay* with that.

Tim kisses the way he always does -- like it's something that
Steph's gonna grade him on, and if he brings home a bad
report card Bats will, like, set fire to the Redbird while he

Not that the Redbird is still around, but Tim kisses like Bats
will bring it back just *to* set fire to it, and fire is a really
good word, because Tim's doing that thing *she* taught
him, where it's all about licking the other person's canines
and also the roof of their mouth and back to the canines
and back to the roof and, see, this has always been
*Steph's* trick for making the kiss so damned interesting
Tim won't want to stop to, like, fight crime or something,
and --

Well, it's not like Tim has *never* used it before, but the
only times he has is when they've had *time*. And, like,
not been in the same house as Tim's parents in the
middle of the night with too many penises in the room.

Not that she minds, per se, but -- still.

When she pushes, Tim actually *coughs* from all the
breathing he wasn't doing before.

"Whoa --"

"Oh. I -- I'm sorry, I thought. I mean." And then Tim licks
his *lips*. Which actually have some of her lipstick on.

Steph rubs it off with her really kind of square-looking
thumb, and --

Steph *starts* to rub it off, but Tim's mouth *falls* open,
and his breath is hot and damp and not even the messy
and chipped remains of her nail polish -- she really doesn't
know why she ever bothers, but it was a really *nice*
shade of (Robin) red -- can really distract from. That.

"Uh. Boyfriend?"

"Yes. I mean -- I --"

And Tim's blinking a lot again, and starting to pull *away*,
and that's just kind of -- not right.

So she grabs him by the hair --

And Tim bucks his hips like she'd just grabbed him
somewhere *way* more interesting.

"*Jesus*, Tim --"

"I. You. Maybe I -- maybe you should. Steph, you're really --"

"Hot, even with the hair?"

"May I -- it's actually -- the texture seems. Different."

"My --" Okay, so maybe it's her turn to blink. She's been
kind of avoiding mirrors, but... well. She reaches up with
her free hand, and -- Tim's right. It *is* different. Kind of
thinner, a little, like maybe she won't have a bitch of a time
brushing out the tangles if she doesn't hit it with conditioner
tonight. Hunh.

And Tim is kind of -- pulling.

"Are you -- trying to get *back* here?"

"No. Maybe. Yes. Steph, you're really... very. Attractive."

Steph narrows her eyes a little. "Are you saying you think
I'm hotter *now*?"

And Tim actually looks kind of *miserable*, which is awful,
even though the fact that he also looks like some part of his
mind is already slamming her back against the wall makes
it kind of interesting. Juxtaposition, and stuff.

"Seriously, how gay are you?"

"Um. Is this -- a conversation. You. Want to have. Now."

The impressive thing is that he's totally looking *right* at
her. Like, sure, she's got him by the hair -- and,
apparently, the *dick* -- but still. Steph frowns.

"Steph, I love you. You know that -- please tell me you
know that. I. You -- if you don't want to -- with me, I
understand, but I."

"Really, *really* want to?"

There's something actually kind of *scary* -- on top of all
the other what-the-fuck going on in her head right now --
about Tim's expression. It's just -- he's never looked at her
the way other guys do, and he still isn't *now*. She's not
getting perved on by a teenaged boy, she's getting perved
on by *Robin*.


She's Robin, too. And Tim.

Tim has never been like other guys. Not -- not even a little.
And maybe licking her own lips is sending the wrong
message, but maybe it *isn't*. Because when she slips her
hand out of Tim's hair and cups his cheek, when she cups
his *other* cheek with her *other* hand...

God. Her hands have been bigger than Tim's almost since
they started dating, but now they *really* are. Her thumbs
look insane and huge against his cheeks, under his sharp
and *hot* blue eyes, his *Robin* eyes --

"God you -- we're really gonna have to *talk*, boyfriend,
but for now --"


"For now I'm kinda wishing I hadn't changed out of the suit."

"You -- that skirt --"

"Felt *really* good once I got myself loose from the
damned tights, Tim -- shit, are you *growling* --

And he absolutely was -- she'd lay money -- because he
knocks her arms away from his face and smiles this tiny
sharp *grin* and -- gives her a come-on.

And she's in a ready position before she can even think
about it, she's circling and he's circling -- he's still *smiling* --
and they haven't.

They haven't *ever* sparred, practically, because it doesn't
fucking count when he's just showing her some neat little
move and it doesn't count when they're back to back
against gang members or whatever, and it's --

Jason's old boots catch a little on the carpet. The *carpet*,
because they're in a *house* which belongs to Tim's
*parents* who are sleeping right over *there* somewhere --
she steps back out of the ready-stance, and barely holds
back a wince.

There's physical pain and then there's *pain*.


"Your *parents*, Boy Pervo!"

And Tim isn't circling anymore, but he's still all *crouched*
and his thighs are actually a little bigger now, all that
no-patrolling putting *meat* on him, and fuck, he's *hard*
under his *pajama* pants --

Focus. She can focus. "Seriously --"

"One, I probably wouldn't immediately think to ask *you*
to make out with *me* if I got turned into a woman, Steph.
And two -- don't tell me B hasn't taught you how to be...

And the look on his face is *way* more about whatever
sounds he can make her make than about sparring, but --

That's just one more reason why it's *on*.

He twists mostly out of range of her tackle, but she's
*used* to being slower than her opponents, and Tim's got
nothing on *Cass* -- who would've caught that kick with
her forearm -- or just plain *caught* it -- as opposed to
taking a hit in the bicep. The twinge in her balls makes it

Tim doesn't even grunt before spinning around and coming
for *her*, but she's trained enough now that she can bend
herself backwards into a rough somersault before the strike
he aims at her thighs can hit -- but then she's backed up
against the bed.

Trapped --

Except for how she had more upper body strength than Tim
even *before*, and now --

When he tries to tackle her *against* the bed, she can
shove him off and away *easily* -- but not before he gets
in a jab over her ribs.

The ribs she'd *bruised*, and motherfucking ow that
*hurts*, but pain just means it's time to *move*. It meant
that before she was Spoiler and it means that *now*, and
she catches Tim's ankle --

And takes a kick to the damned *spine*, but even though
she's got almost no leverage -- she's on her belly and
braced on one elbow -- in this position, Tim is *still*
lighter than what Bats makes her bench-press, and he
goes down *hard* when she yanks.

Too hard -- that *thump* --

"Time," Tim says, and Steph nods, and they wait, and they
*listen* --

There's a big-ass clock ticking in the hallway, and the street
sounds are quieter in this neighborhood, but still *there*,
and there's a siren somewhere to the west that makes her
*teeth* ache with being pissed at Batman for taking her
*out* of things --

And when she looks at Tim, she knows he hears it, too.

"Tim --"

The head-shake is brief and kind of violent, and the grin is
even moreso.

And then he twists his ankle out of her grip, kicks her in the
*shoulder*, and rolls and bounces to his feet just like the
flooring is made out of rubber as opposed to out of

He's lean and sharp and so fucking *good*, staring down at
her and *wanting*, and it doesn't matter that the look has
at least as much to do with the fact that she's in the wrong
damned body as it does with *anything* else, she can't
help grinning *right* back -- and rolling away when he tries
to come down on her.

This time, he checks his landing with his fingers and toes
and barely makes a sound -- but that takes more time than
Steph's willing to give him.

She gets in a jab over *his* ribs, and *flexes* when he
gasps, and --

And it feels so -- so --

She *misses* with her next jab, and he's *on* her, and it's
all she can do not to grind her knees against his bony little
hipbones and it's all she can do not to break the skin when
he comes in for a kiss and she catches his lower lip between
her teeth.

"*Steph* --"

And then she just -- *can't*, because Tim's sweating
enough for her to *smell* it, and it hits her where it always
does, *how* it always does. *Robin* --

"Oh, God, *Robin* --"

And the sound she makes probably skips right past gay to
*girly*, but that's more of a relief than anything else, and
more than *that* when she gets her tongue in his mouth
and rolls them *over*.

Her dick is telling her that she needs to be rubbing it *on*
Tim, on Robin, on the hottest sweetest most fucked-up boy
she's ever known, on the boy whose face she's hiding with
her hair, the boy who's sucking on her tongue and
moaning, desperate and hot and loud right into her *mouth*.

And she may have never tried to bone *with* a bone, but
every thrust -- every *grind* -- of her own hips is telling her
this *isn't* rocket science, and Tim makes this hot and
*nasty* little whimpering noise and --

"Don't -- don't *stop* --"

She hadn't even been *thinking* of *him* getting off on
this, but now she is. God, she'd just been fucking up against
his *stomach*, but it only takes a second to get the crotch
of Jason's jeans lined up against Tim's crotch --

And Tim bangs his *head* against the floor --

And Steph isn't so much grinding anymore as humping like
a damned *boy*, but that -- but Tim --

"Steph, oh please Steph, *please* --"

"Shh," she says, but she doesn't mean it, she swears she
doesn't mean it, because the way Tim is looking at her right
now is.

It's the way he always has.

"Oh, fuck, I *love* you, you *bastard*," she says, and then
God punches her in the spine.

Or possibly she just comes in Jason fucking Todd's boxer

Fuck it, he'd died while he was *still* a teenaged boy, and
the odds are that this really isn't the first semen that's
wound up there.

Still. Kind of ew.

She's gonna need new underwear.

Just as soon as she can stop shaking and panting and -- and
Tim looks pretty blown, too. So that's. That's okay. Or --

Steph rolls off --

And Tim catches her, and grabs *her* by the hair, and
kisses her so hard she cuts her lip on her own teeth.

And then just keeps kissing her.

Steph closes her eyes and goes with it. Especially since
'going with it' totally covers the way she can't keep herself
from reaching down and *in* to Tim's pajamas, which are
sticky like her boxer-briefs and wet and --

God, she'd just made Tim *come*.

And now she's making him shake.

"Steph -- God. I."

"'Don't stop,' Boyfriend Wonder...?"

"Robin," he says, and he's still shaking when he kisses her

Maybe she can convince Alfred to shoot *Bats* with a
damned tranq dart before he goes out to vigorously
question the sorcerer guy.

Just, you know. For a little while.