[fic] The Girl Who Lives on Heaven Hill (Steph/Tim, adult)
Title: The Girl Who Lives on Heaven Hill
Pairing: Steph/Tim
Rating: Adult
Summary: "I'd trade big mountains and rooms full of gold/For just one look at the beauty of this woman's soul."
Spoilers/timeline: The brief and glorious reign of Robin IV.
Disclaimer: DC, not me.
Notes: Porn is good for the aggrieved soul. This is, in a sense, a (much more) cheerful remix of Terms of Psychic Warfare; like that story, the title and summary are from the Husker Du song. Or maybe this is just the newest installment in the Chronicles of Timothy Drake, World's Foremost Robinosexual.
Beta/cheerleading by the inimitable katarik.
I'd say this is for monkeycrackmary, but there's no obligation here. Just a whole lot of love and gratitude and admiration for her.
"Wednesday's no good," Steph tells Tim. "What about Friday? After..." Patrol, she stops herself from saying.
"Friday night, then," Tim says. "Well. Saturday morning. Technically."
There's a pause, and Steph busies herself with combing back the fringe on her blanket.
"Rocket Diner okay?" he adds, finally, and she's nodding before she remembers they're on the phone.
"Down on Collins, sure, okay, good, great -" She clamps her mouth shut.
"Right," Tim says.
"Looking forward to it!" She grimaces like the goober she truly *is* after saying that. The rest of the conversation is as abbreviated as ever.
*
She's known him for *years* now. There's no reason to be as nervous as she is.
It's just that she hasn't really seen Tim since the news hit about the female Robin. Not for any real length of time, not without him excusing himself on some Normal Life errand, not without her being left feeling like there's something to apologize for.
Luckily, there's work to distract her.
She wraps up patrol tonight with a total of seven perps bagged and zip-stripped for the cops, one kitten rescued from a fire escape, and two, count 'em, *two* working girls given fifty bucks and a referral to Catwoman's new shelter.
The big guy is off in space somewhere with the JLA and Cass is doing her creepy stealth thing somewhere around the harbor front, so Steph - make that *Robin* - swings happily from street lamp to rooftop, zigzagging her way over to Collins.
She makes it to the diner with ten minutes to spare. More than enough time to let the sweat dry, brush out her hair, and change into the dress in her bag.
Except, three blocks north of the diner, on a stretch of Collins where only one out of every three streetlights is lit, she hears shouts. The scrape and bang of a garbage can overturned, the tinkle of breaking glass.
Robin grins, shaking her head a little, as she shoots a low line and swings half the block. It never ends.
She's pretty sure she wouldn't have it any other way.
"Okay, what do we have here?" She lands with bent knees, hands on her hips, hair streaming off her neck. Perfect form, *yes*. "'cause I've got a date and I don't want -"
The street's dark, which - okay, she already knew that. But it's also *silent*.
She considers just shrugging it off and hurrying down to the diner to change in the bathroom.
But Robin doesn't shrug anything off.
So she straightens up and takes stock of her surroundings. The broken glass and overturned garbage can could be evidence of the fight she could swear she heard - or they could just be evidence of the regular crappy state of Gotham's Public Works Department.
Just to be sure, she snaps a couple shots of the street and puts two shards of glass into an evidence pouch.
When she's dusting off her gloves and shaking a few sweaty strands of hair off her face, she hears a low, strange whimper.
From about thirty-seven degrees south, two buildings down. There's about two and a half feet - a *meter*, she needs to think in metric - between the buildings. She checks over each shoulder, grasps her tiny-but-powerful Robinflashlight, and steps inside.
The light lands on a guy sitting on the ground, knees up to his chest, head down. In the glare, for a second it's hard to tell what color his hair is, even how big he is.
"Hey, buddy, you okay?" She stops out of striking range and keeps one finger cocked for the emergency comm, just in case. "Wanna tell me what happened here?"
And then he looks up, eyes wide and dazed, dark hair parting off his forehead, and he's *Tim*, and he's saying, "Robin, thank god you're here -"
"Um," she says and crosses her arms. "Are you all right?"
Tim pulls himself to his feet and looks around. There's a familiar knapsack, *his*, black nylon and beat-to-hell, by her foot and she kicks it toward him.
"Th-thank you," he says, stumbling a little as he tries to gather up the books and pens that spilled out of it.
She grabs his elbow and pulls him back up. "Seriously, you're not -" She cocks her head. "You get hit or something?"
His determination to have a Normal Life - and those capital letters are *all* Tim Drake, not hers - can't extend to letting himself get beat up. She hopes.
"Robin," he says, and she grins.
"Yes, Tim, I'm Robin. And you're -"
Concussed, she wants to say, or crazy, or -. Something.
But he's tilting his head and looking at her, his eyes still wide, but - it's like for a different reason, a calmer one, and she hasn't seen Tim *calm* for god knows how long, and his mouth is doing its invisible smile and before she can help herself, she's kissing him.
Tim makes a little 'oof' noise that's not a protest. More like a 'please' mixed with surprise. His mouth opens under hers and somehow they're shuffling back, his arm going around her neck, until he's against a wall and she's kissing the hell out of him.
Tim has always kissed like a scientist who's not so sure he should be enjoying himself, but tonight he's kissing like a boy, like - *himself*, and he tastes like nothing but heat and warmth and his hand is in her hair, petting and bunching it and when she breaks to breathe, he's actually *smiling*.
"Robin," he says again and kisses her jaw, down the side of her neck where the sweat's been gathering all night. She should find that gross, but he's doing a flickery little tongue motion and squeezing, tugging, at her hair, and all she can do is push his shoulder back firmly against the wall and maneuver until she can kiss his mouth again.
His hands are moving under her cape, over the tunic, his short nails brushing at the bare skin over her elbows, dipping under the gloves, moving and sweeping, and Steph's laughing a little, gasping, "Ticklish", feeling him smile against her lips and nibble on her cheek.
He sucks down the length of her throat, right to the gorget, which seems to occupy *a lot* of his attention. Steph's head swims as she goes up on tiptoes, grabbing his head, feeling the short, fine hair slide through her fingers.
"I brought -" She arches against his mouth and fights to remember how to speak. "A dress..."
"Like this," Tim says, hand cupping her breast under the R, the other snaking under the tunic. "Look great like this, I like -"
"Yeah, I can *tell*." Steph laughs and works her knee between his.
This is usually the point where Tim will pull away, straighten out his clothes, and make an excuse. In the old days, the excuse would concern Batman and/or Gotham; more recently, it's been his dad and his homework - as if Tim ever left homework until the day before it was due.
But he's dropping a little, spreading his legs, until her thigh's right up against his crotch. His silly preppie khakis have pleats that are bunching up and - "Jeez, buddy!"
Just to be sure, as his hands settle on her waist and pull her right up against him, she rocks her leg and, yes.
He's hard, all the way, and he's biting his lip, looking up at her through long dark lashes that she would *kill* for, and he's *letting* her.
Letting her rock, letting her mash her mouth against his and work one gauntlet'd hand down the back of his waistband, and he's making these little 'ruh-ruh-ruh' noises in the back of his throat like a kid playing cars.
"You sure?" she asks against his ear, and he buries his face in her sweaty, stinky hair and *shivers* against her.
Robin grins and pulls the gauntlet off with her free hand. "Okay, I'm taking that as a yes -"
He's white and almost *ghostly* in the dark, his mouth open and teeth shining, as she opens his fly and pushes her hand into the damp warmth of his boxers.
His gray pinstriped boxers. "Oh, Tim -" she says before she can help it, because he's shivering again and biting his lip and tweaking the tunic approximately where her nipple is under the armor.
"Robin, *please* -"
"Got you," she murmurs and kisses him gently, twisting her wrist until her knuckles graze his shaft and his hips jerk upward. "Sshhh, sssh, got you right here -"
If he were just a civilian, he wouldn't know how to unlatch the tunic at the left, under her armpit. Then again, she wouldn't be giving a civilian a handjob. Not at all, and definitely not here like this, kissing his mouth swollen and jerking him towards her until he's gasping and red-faced. His hands are on her undershirt now, skating over her waist, across her belly, plucking and touching like they're Lewis and Freaking *Clark* or something, learning the landscape.
"Robin, I -" He jolts, head to toe, turns his head away and comes in her hand. His breath's a shriek, then a fast stutter, against her shoulder and she eases him back down, kissing his cheek (trying not to think of putting babysitting charges down for the night, because that's just *wrong*, no matter how strongly the comparison's coming to her).
Tim slides down to his knees, hands slipping over her hips, pushing up her thighs.
"Easy, tiger," she tells him and moves a little, around and down, until she can lean against the wall. She pets his hair with her clean, still gauntlet'd hand, and he turns his face to meet her palm, rests his cheek against the gauntlet and closes his eyes. "Tim -"
He leans forward, pressing his face against her thigh, rolling his head a little, and she has to rock up to meet him. It's been a while, what with training and learning to live without sleep, since she's so much as masturbated, and all that delayed need is suddenly clenching inside of her now, a little angry, a lot intense. She squeezes her thighs together, rhythmically, rocking against his face, feeling his breath through her leggings.
"I need -" She plucks at his hair, as lightly as she can, then tugs her tights down when he finally gets it and leans back. "I really want -"
"Anything," Tim says and that's a dangerous thing to promise.
Especially considering how *wet* she is.
"Right. Um." The wall is gritty and hard against her ass, but it's bearable - she's definitely had sex in grodier places - and then *nothing* matters. Because he's looking up at her like she's Wonder Woman or something, eyes glittering as he bites his lip, and she feels about eleven feet tall and *gorgeous*. "Could you -"
She cups her mound, rubbing the heel of her hand against it, as she spreads her outer lips and closes her eyes.
"Anything, I said so -" Tim's speaking right against her thigh, tongue and teeth on her cold skin.
And she's not cold any more, because he's wrapping his arms around her knees and kind of *yanking* her forward until she hits him in the nose.
"Sorry, sorry, I -"
"Anything," he says, hoarse and firm, and exhales over her clit. "Robin."
"Yeah -" She forgets what else to say then, because he's opening his mouth and her hand's curling around the back of his neck, and -. What else is there to say, really? It's not like she can describe what he's doing, except that his kisses were nothing like this hungry sucking-nibbling-*exploring* thing he's doing, and he's grunting, breathing through his nose, and she's pulling his hair without meaning to, because there's heat, and tension, and if he could just keep this up, he could turn the heat higher and make her *fly*.
No, she's already learned to fly.
This is just as good, though. The tension torques more and more, corkscrewing through her gut. His tongue flickers and probes and he's making these weird, hungry, *satisfied* noises, and she never, ever dreamed that Robin - that *Tim* would know what to do with a girl.
Not like this. But she's Robin now, and Tim's a Normal Kid, and maybe they're teaching Advanced Eating Out in the ritzy school he goes to. His fingers are splayed behind her knees, working the leggings down over her boots, and she's rocking, and *rocking*, banging her free hand against the building, cresting.
Cresting and she swallows the scream she wants to let out when she starts to come and Tim *pinches* his thumb and forefinger in the space between her hole and her ass, and she keeps coming. Or comes again, all over his face, until it's white light and sharp, flat pain, and she has to shove him away.
"Holy, ho-" She grasps her knees and bends over until she can catch her breath. "Holy *crap*, Drake. What was that?"
He's in profile now, looking over his shoulder at her, something sly about the tilt to his smile. "Just a grateful civilian. Robin."
She should play along. At least string it out, because - well, because he's *smiling*.
But he's also a dork, and she's hungry as hell, and the sun's starting to come up.
So she punches his shoulder, then hauls him to his feet. "C'mon, cheese fries. I'm buying."
"'kay," Tim says.
She makes him wait out on the street while she changes into her incredibly wrinkled dress.
When she steps out of the alley, he blinks a couple times, then takes her hand. He kisses her knuckles and Steph laughs until she wheezes.
[end]
Pairing: Steph/Tim
Rating: Adult
Summary: "I'd trade big mountains and rooms full of gold/For just one look at the beauty of this woman's soul."
Spoilers/timeline: The brief and glorious reign of Robin IV.
Disclaimer: DC, not me.
Notes: Porn is good for the aggrieved soul. This is, in a sense, a (much more) cheerful remix of Terms of Psychic Warfare; like that story, the title and summary are from the Husker Du song. Or maybe this is just the newest installment in the Chronicles of Timothy Drake, World's Foremost Robinosexual.
Beta/cheerleading by the inimitable katarik.
I'd say this is for monkeycrackmary, but there's no obligation here. Just a whole lot of love and gratitude and admiration for her.
"Wednesday's no good," Steph tells Tim. "What about Friday? After..." Patrol, she stops herself from saying.
"Friday night, then," Tim says. "Well. Saturday morning. Technically."
There's a pause, and Steph busies herself with combing back the fringe on her blanket.
"Rocket Diner okay?" he adds, finally, and she's nodding before she remembers they're on the phone.
"Down on Collins, sure, okay, good, great -" She clamps her mouth shut.
"Right," Tim says.
"Looking forward to it!" She grimaces like the goober she truly *is* after saying that. The rest of the conversation is as abbreviated as ever.
*
She's known him for *years* now. There's no reason to be as nervous as she is.
It's just that she hasn't really seen Tim since the news hit about the female Robin. Not for any real length of time, not without him excusing himself on some Normal Life errand, not without her being left feeling like there's something to apologize for.
Luckily, there's work to distract her.
She wraps up patrol tonight with a total of seven perps bagged and zip-stripped for the cops, one kitten rescued from a fire escape, and two, count 'em, *two* working girls given fifty bucks and a referral to Catwoman's new shelter.
The big guy is off in space somewhere with the JLA and Cass is doing her creepy stealth thing somewhere around the harbor front, so Steph - make that *Robin* - swings happily from street lamp to rooftop, zigzagging her way over to Collins.
She makes it to the diner with ten minutes to spare. More than enough time to let the sweat dry, brush out her hair, and change into the dress in her bag.
Except, three blocks north of the diner, on a stretch of Collins where only one out of every three streetlights is lit, she hears shouts. The scrape and bang of a garbage can overturned, the tinkle of breaking glass.
Robin grins, shaking her head a little, as she shoots a low line and swings half the block. It never ends.
She's pretty sure she wouldn't have it any other way.
"Okay, what do we have here?" She lands with bent knees, hands on her hips, hair streaming off her neck. Perfect form, *yes*. "'cause I've got a date and I don't want -"
The street's dark, which - okay, she already knew that. But it's also *silent*.
She considers just shrugging it off and hurrying down to the diner to change in the bathroom.
But Robin doesn't shrug anything off.
So she straightens up and takes stock of her surroundings. The broken glass and overturned garbage can could be evidence of the fight she could swear she heard - or they could just be evidence of the regular crappy state of Gotham's Public Works Department.
Just to be sure, she snaps a couple shots of the street and puts two shards of glass into an evidence pouch.
When she's dusting off her gloves and shaking a few sweaty strands of hair off her face, she hears a low, strange whimper.
From about thirty-seven degrees south, two buildings down. There's about two and a half feet - a *meter*, she needs to think in metric - between the buildings. She checks over each shoulder, grasps her tiny-but-powerful Robinflashlight, and steps inside.
The light lands on a guy sitting on the ground, knees up to his chest, head down. In the glare, for a second it's hard to tell what color his hair is, even how big he is.
"Hey, buddy, you okay?" She stops out of striking range and keeps one finger cocked for the emergency comm, just in case. "Wanna tell me what happened here?"
And then he looks up, eyes wide and dazed, dark hair parting off his forehead, and he's *Tim*, and he's saying, "Robin, thank god you're here -"
"Um," she says and crosses her arms. "Are you all right?"
Tim pulls himself to his feet and looks around. There's a familiar knapsack, *his*, black nylon and beat-to-hell, by her foot and she kicks it toward him.
"Th-thank you," he says, stumbling a little as he tries to gather up the books and pens that spilled out of it.
She grabs his elbow and pulls him back up. "Seriously, you're not -" She cocks her head. "You get hit or something?"
His determination to have a Normal Life - and those capital letters are *all* Tim Drake, not hers - can't extend to letting himself get beat up. She hopes.
"Robin," he says, and she grins.
"Yes, Tim, I'm Robin. And you're -"
Concussed, she wants to say, or crazy, or -. Something.
But he's tilting his head and looking at her, his eyes still wide, but - it's like for a different reason, a calmer one, and she hasn't seen Tim *calm* for god knows how long, and his mouth is doing its invisible smile and before she can help herself, she's kissing him.
Tim makes a little 'oof' noise that's not a protest. More like a 'please' mixed with surprise. His mouth opens under hers and somehow they're shuffling back, his arm going around her neck, until he's against a wall and she's kissing the hell out of him.
Tim has always kissed like a scientist who's not so sure he should be enjoying himself, but tonight he's kissing like a boy, like - *himself*, and he tastes like nothing but heat and warmth and his hand is in her hair, petting and bunching it and when she breaks to breathe, he's actually *smiling*.
"Robin," he says again and kisses her jaw, down the side of her neck where the sweat's been gathering all night. She should find that gross, but he's doing a flickery little tongue motion and squeezing, tugging, at her hair, and all she can do is push his shoulder back firmly against the wall and maneuver until she can kiss his mouth again.
His hands are moving under her cape, over the tunic, his short nails brushing at the bare skin over her elbows, dipping under the gloves, moving and sweeping, and Steph's laughing a little, gasping, "Ticklish", feeling him smile against her lips and nibble on her cheek.
He sucks down the length of her throat, right to the gorget, which seems to occupy *a lot* of his attention. Steph's head swims as she goes up on tiptoes, grabbing his head, feeling the short, fine hair slide through her fingers.
"I brought -" She arches against his mouth and fights to remember how to speak. "A dress..."
"Like this," Tim says, hand cupping her breast under the R, the other snaking under the tunic. "Look great like this, I like -"
"Yeah, I can *tell*." Steph laughs and works her knee between his.
This is usually the point where Tim will pull away, straighten out his clothes, and make an excuse. In the old days, the excuse would concern Batman and/or Gotham; more recently, it's been his dad and his homework - as if Tim ever left homework until the day before it was due.
But he's dropping a little, spreading his legs, until her thigh's right up against his crotch. His silly preppie khakis have pleats that are bunching up and - "Jeez, buddy!"
Just to be sure, as his hands settle on her waist and pull her right up against him, she rocks her leg and, yes.
He's hard, all the way, and he's biting his lip, looking up at her through long dark lashes that she would *kill* for, and he's *letting* her.
Letting her rock, letting her mash her mouth against his and work one gauntlet'd hand down the back of his waistband, and he's making these little 'ruh-ruh-ruh' noises in the back of his throat like a kid playing cars.
"You sure?" she asks against his ear, and he buries his face in her sweaty, stinky hair and *shivers* against her.
Robin grins and pulls the gauntlet off with her free hand. "Okay, I'm taking that as a yes -"
He's white and almost *ghostly* in the dark, his mouth open and teeth shining, as she opens his fly and pushes her hand into the damp warmth of his boxers.
His gray pinstriped boxers. "Oh, Tim -" she says before she can help it, because he's shivering again and biting his lip and tweaking the tunic approximately where her nipple is under the armor.
"Robin, *please* -"
"Got you," she murmurs and kisses him gently, twisting her wrist until her knuckles graze his shaft and his hips jerk upward. "Sshhh, sssh, got you right here -"
If he were just a civilian, he wouldn't know how to unlatch the tunic at the left, under her armpit. Then again, she wouldn't be giving a civilian a handjob. Not at all, and definitely not here like this, kissing his mouth swollen and jerking him towards her until he's gasping and red-faced. His hands are on her undershirt now, skating over her waist, across her belly, plucking and touching like they're Lewis and Freaking *Clark* or something, learning the landscape.
"Robin, I -" He jolts, head to toe, turns his head away and comes in her hand. His breath's a shriek, then a fast stutter, against her shoulder and she eases him back down, kissing his cheek (trying not to think of putting babysitting charges down for the night, because that's just *wrong*, no matter how strongly the comparison's coming to her).
Tim slides down to his knees, hands slipping over her hips, pushing up her thighs.
"Easy, tiger," she tells him and moves a little, around and down, until she can lean against the wall. She pets his hair with her clean, still gauntlet'd hand, and he turns his face to meet her palm, rests his cheek against the gauntlet and closes his eyes. "Tim -"
He leans forward, pressing his face against her thigh, rolling his head a little, and she has to rock up to meet him. It's been a while, what with training and learning to live without sleep, since she's so much as masturbated, and all that delayed need is suddenly clenching inside of her now, a little angry, a lot intense. She squeezes her thighs together, rhythmically, rocking against his face, feeling his breath through her leggings.
"I need -" She plucks at his hair, as lightly as she can, then tugs her tights down when he finally gets it and leans back. "I really want -"
"Anything," Tim says and that's a dangerous thing to promise.
Especially considering how *wet* she is.
"Right. Um." The wall is gritty and hard against her ass, but it's bearable - she's definitely had sex in grodier places - and then *nothing* matters. Because he's looking up at her like she's Wonder Woman or something, eyes glittering as he bites his lip, and she feels about eleven feet tall and *gorgeous*. "Could you -"
She cups her mound, rubbing the heel of her hand against it, as she spreads her outer lips and closes her eyes.
"Anything, I said so -" Tim's speaking right against her thigh, tongue and teeth on her cold skin.
And she's not cold any more, because he's wrapping his arms around her knees and kind of *yanking* her forward until she hits him in the nose.
"Sorry, sorry, I -"
"Anything," he says, hoarse and firm, and exhales over her clit. "Robin."
"Yeah -" She forgets what else to say then, because he's opening his mouth and her hand's curling around the back of his neck, and -. What else is there to say, really? It's not like she can describe what he's doing, except that his kisses were nothing like this hungry sucking-nibbling-*exploring* thing he's doing, and he's grunting, breathing through his nose, and she's pulling his hair without meaning to, because there's heat, and tension, and if he could just keep this up, he could turn the heat higher and make her *fly*.
No, she's already learned to fly.
This is just as good, though. The tension torques more and more, corkscrewing through her gut. His tongue flickers and probes and he's making these weird, hungry, *satisfied* noises, and she never, ever dreamed that Robin - that *Tim* would know what to do with a girl.
Not like this. But she's Robin now, and Tim's a Normal Kid, and maybe they're teaching Advanced Eating Out in the ritzy school he goes to. His fingers are splayed behind her knees, working the leggings down over her boots, and she's rocking, and *rocking*, banging her free hand against the building, cresting.
Cresting and she swallows the scream she wants to let out when she starts to come and Tim *pinches* his thumb and forefinger in the space between her hole and her ass, and she keeps coming. Or comes again, all over his face, until it's white light and sharp, flat pain, and she has to shove him away.
"Holy, ho-" She grasps her knees and bends over until she can catch her breath. "Holy *crap*, Drake. What was that?"
He's in profile now, looking over his shoulder at her, something sly about the tilt to his smile. "Just a grateful civilian. Robin."
She should play along. At least string it out, because - well, because he's *smiling*.
But he's also a dork, and she's hungry as hell, and the sun's starting to come up.
So she punches his shoulder, then hauls him to his feet. "C'mon, cheese fries. I'm buying."
"'kay," Tim says.
She makes him wait out on the street while she changes into her incredibly wrinkled dress.
When she steps out of the alley, he blinks a couple times, then takes her hand. He kisses her knuckles and Steph laughs until she wheezes.
[end]