Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/203136.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      DCU_-_Comicverse, DCU
  Relationship:
      Stephanie_Brown/Bruce_Wayne
  Character:
      Batman, Robin_(DCU), Stephanie_Brown, Bruce_Wayne
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Identity_Porn, Bruce's_Issues_Are_Legion
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-05-22 Words: 642
****** for want of a nail ******
by irrelevant
Summary
     If Steph as Bruce's Robin isn't the best thing ever, it's pretty damn
     close.
The monitor creaks again, and you hear something start to give—
And she catches herself, shifting her weight at the last possible second.
“Check it out, boss,” she says, breathless in her triumph, and the keyboard
shifts under your fingers with the creak and sway, and you don’t look up.
You say, “If you have the energy for that, you can run the course again,” and
she groans (moans), she whines (whimpers), and she’s vertical and then she’s
not, toppled down into your lap.
Straddling you, smiling at you, for you, and she’s on you, touching you, she’s
so close—
She has Dick’s joy. Jason’s fearlessness.
You don’t know what Tim has given her, if anything.
You’re not sure you want to know, but you need—
You should know.
But she’s laughing now, hands (gauntlets, rusty streaks on banged up green) on
your shoulders and you are—
(so glad)
Relieved she’s still wearing the mask. That you are wearing the cowl.
And she’s kneading your shoulders (strong grip, stronger than last week and
you’ll make her even stronger), leaning back into the hands you automatically
lift to support her and smiling, bright, brilliant, Robin.
“Robin,” you say, and she leans in, and you smell her, sweat and blood and
something like powder…
“Say it again,” she says, breathless hitching words, asking you for something
you never would have given and want to (will not ever) take back. Her breath
sings against your chin, panting, still begging—
“B,” she whispers, whimpers, “B, please—”
“Robin.” It’s out of you without deliberation or intention. “Robin.” And her
hands are tightening and the sound of her is—
“Oh.” Rounded mouth and you think her eyes must be too, under her lenses. Blue
eyes. They all have—
“Oh!” again, rocking up into you, gripping you with her legs and riding your
lap, your armor.
“Put,” she says, gasps, “put your hands on me, B, I won’t break, ever,” and you
believe her, you do, and you give her your hands, your gauntlets because she’s
Robin and they’re what she wants. On her cheek and over her heart, cupped
around the armoring, your thumb on the R…
And, “Robin,” again, and she’s laughing again. And, “Mine,” because she is,
she—
“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants in your ear, her cheek pressed against the cowl, so
young, so soft, but not untried, not—
“Yours, B,” and her mouth, so close to yours, and she’s pressing your hand hard
into the R over her breast, pushing your other hand down between her legs,
tugging at her tights. “Yours, you can do, you can—”
She’s wet inside. You can’t feel but the slide in is easy and then her muscles
tighten, grip your fingers, and she’s—
“Oh god.”
She’s kissing you, as wet, as strong as she is everywhere else, around your
fingers, gripping your legs, clamping down—
Sighing her relief into your mouth. Sharing with you the taste of her pleasure.
Her forehead rests briefly on your shoulder, and then you’re sliding your
fingers free, slippery slick, and you know the soft sound she makes will echo
through your dreams for at least a month.
She lifts her head so you can see the tilt of her mouth. Pleased, though not so
much with herself as with—
“Think I’ll take another shot at the course,” she says as she slides off your
lap, pulling her tights back into place.
“Yes,” you say. “You’re ready for the fourth level.”
She groans, but it’s not a protest. Acceptance and… something new. Something
you’ve been listening for without knowing you were listening.
The training course hums to life. Running footsteps, flap of her cape and the
staff, connecting with her target—
Laughter free of regret.
You look down at your hand. Watch your fingers curl in, clench. Release.
You can still smell her.
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