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Lateral Stresses

by Te

Lateral Stresses
by Te
January 16, 2004

Disclaimers: Not mine. Though I'd probably dress them just as gay.

Spoilers: None, really. Assume this takes place in current Robin and Nightwing canon.

Summary: Tim's zen. Dick's not.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: I'm blaming my subconscious for this one.

Acknowledgments: To Livia and Jack for audiencing and encouragement. Jack also gave me a title.

Feedback: Mm-hmm.


Dick pulls a Zesti out of the fridge for Tim and a bottle of water for himself. There are beers, and one would be nice -- it's hot enough that Bludhaven stinks more than usual these days -- but Gannon's not due over until Sunday.

No reason to pretend he's anything he's not until then, at least, and it's not like the beer will do anything good for his body.

And... ouch.

He wonders when Tim's going to stop sucking down the carbonated sugar water and switch to something like Gatorade. From there, it's a slippery slope to bottled water and a fridge full of fresh vegetables, and honestly, should they really be doing this to another kid?

He grins to himself and heads back into his living room, where the kid in question would look perfectly normal -- clothes four sizes too big for him, TV remote in hand -- were it not for the fact that he was also reading Dick's Shooter's Bible even while flipping through the channels.

And, okay, that stuff is interesting, and more illicit than porn could ever be, considering, and... fuck. "Heads up, kid."

Tim drops the remote and puts a hand up for the carefully tossed can, not looking away from the book.

It may already be too late.

Dick turns off the television as he walks into the room --

"Hey, I was listening to that --"

And removes the book full of tasty, sexy, deadly weaponry from Tim's hand.

"And reading that." The glare is impressive.

His is still better. But, subtlety is key. Right. "You can watch TV and read at home, Tim."

"You're feeling needy, aren't you? Come talk to Uncle Tim." Tim's smirk may, in fact, be better than his. Dammit.

"No, I'm feeling curious. There's a small but desperately important difference."

Tim gives him the I'm-patiently-waiting-for-you-tostop -being-an-asshole look.

Dick rolls his eyes and drops into the chair across from him. But... how do you go about asking a guy how his Bat-related anal-retentiveness is coming along? He looks at Tim.

"Aw, man, this isn't going to be one of those serious talks, is it? Because I swear to God, my angst is at normal, baseline teenaged levels."

"Yeah, but do you have another girlfriend, yet?"


"It's Friday night. You're on a designated night off. And you're here."

"Oh, for Christ's -- I have a social life. I'm getting together with some of the other kids on Sunday --"

"For a study session."

"And I'm going to a dance next weekend. An actual dance. With people. Happy?"

And, okay, that's not bad, but... "No girlfriend?"

Tim glares at him. "I've got at least a few more months before my also-designated grieving period is over."

"No more than two, and that's not the point. I mean, seriously Tim, you ought to at least be actively avoiding a specific person."

"Okay, see, this is what I don't get. What's the point?"

"The point? Didn't Bruce have that talk with you? The one with --"

"The really helpful photographs, diagrams, and list of approved websites?" He waves a hand. "Yeah, years ago. I have, actually, achieved puberty, asshole."

Dick makes himself look nice and sincere. "And you'll hit that growth spurt any day now, I promise."

"You know, I have my staff in my bag."

"You'll never get to it."

"You're assuming I'd try to use that first."

There's a coffee table that would probably survive anything they did, but the Zesti can is probably still at least half-full and the blinds are open... Dick and Tim share a look. Not right now.

"Anyway, yeah, like I was saying, I don't really get the whole girlfriend thing."

"What's to get? Curves, Tim. Curves."

"And I can appreciate that. I'm a red-blooded American male, and I can freely admit to my firm belief that breasts are a wonderful idea, but."

"But what?"

Tim finishes off his soda and wings the can at the recycle bin in the corner. It almost bounces out.

"Ooh, weak."

"Fuck you, you need to empty that thing out more than once a month. But think about it. When do I have time for a girlfriend?"

"This is what I'm saying --"

"Uh, huh. And how many free nights a week did you have, Mr. Founding-Member-Of-The-Titans? And hell, at least you lived with Bruce. I'm technically supposed to show up at my house every night."

"But --"

"And let's assume that I come up with someone who a) isn't a criminal, b) doesn't have more issues than, like, hair accessories, and c) is someone who Bruce and my Dad and Dana approve of."

"It's not that hard --"

"This is me, not commenting on the bleak wreckage that is your love life, Dick, but okay. Let's further assume that this paragon of feminine virtue doesn't mind the fact that I've got time to see her maybe once a week, and will also put up with me periodically running out on our dates, hanging up on her, and otherwise being Not There at all, because I'm Robin."

"Okay, I admit, that part's hard."

"Oh, that's big of you. Really fucking huge. So, we've got the Nice Girl. We've got the Nice Girl who's apparently a freaking doormat, or possibly just brain-dead, because sooner or later? The sex thing."

"You can't possibly come up with a reason why sex is bad."

"Hey, I'm willing to admit that billions of human beings probably aren't wrong --"

"Wait, you're still a virgin?"

Tim glares at him. "Would you listen to me?"

"I'm listening, I'm listening. Go on."

"Okay --"

"Aren't you sixteen? And, yeah, you're small, but you're --"

"There's grass on the damned infield, jerkoff, now pay attention."

Grass on the... "Oh, that's wrong."

Tim isn't quite snickering, but he's getting there. "I try. Here's the deal. The deal breaker. Because, yeah, lots of things an enterprising young man and his girlfriend can get up to."

"Good things. Really. You should --"

"Shut up. Because see, eventually? They want you to take your clothes off." And he sits back and folds his arms and generally looks like he's just passed down wisdom from on high that Dick is supposed to automatically get.

"Um. You do know that breasts are even better --"

"I'm not talking about her body, jackass, I'm talking about mine. And no, don't even start, this isn't even remotely about insecurity. It's about the scars. And the bruises, and the recent stitches and... Jesus Christ, if I move around too much I'll be bleeding from somewhere right now."

Dick blinks. Thinks about it. How had he...? "Skiing accident. Skateboarding accident. You --"

"Walked into a door? See, look, there are ways around it, and a particularly forgiving or, again, CLUELESS girl would let me get me away with it, but... fucking A, man. It's just not worth it."

"So what you're saying is that you've completely given up on getting laid because it's inconvenient?"

"Not completely. I mean, not forever or anything like that. I figure I'll have a little more room when I get to college, you know? But right now?" He gestures, vaguely. "All I need."

Dick nods slowly. Takes another swallow of water.

"Admit it, I'm totally right about this."

"You do realize that you're even more fucked up than Bruce, right? I mean, this has occurred to you, hasn't it?"

Tim laughs at him. "What, because I'm practical? Admit it, your life is ten times easier when you're not dancing around some woman than when you are."

"It's not about easier. It's about --"

"Kissing, touching, sucking, fucking. Yeah, I get it. I have an active and varied fantasy life. And hey, it's not like I'll be eighty tomorrow or something. If it makes it easier for you, you can just pretend I'm saving it for my wedding night."

"You're honestly trying to make me feel better. Tim, what the fuck?"

"C'mon, Dick, that's what this is really about, right? You looked at me or thought about Bruce or whatever and suddenly you were thinking about how narrow and anal you are, and decided it was time to be Big Brother Nightwing to poor, mistreated Robin because you're a good guy and so you have to save me.

"Or else you aren't such a good guy, right?"

Dick stares at him. Tim couldn't look more smug if he tried.

And Tim just nods like the conversation is over, and reaches for the remote.

Dick keeps staring. And... thinking about it. Because, yeah, Tim has a point. This was, at least in part, about his own issues and worries and issues. He's not blind -- he knows when he's getting a little neurotic.

And yet.

Here's this guy, this kid, sitting on his couch, feeling full of himself because he'd discovered the zen of abstinence or some bullshit like that. Feeling superior, because hey, it's not like he was one of those lowly, needy types, right?

Little bastard.

Really, it's almost awe-inspiring.

But mostly...

Tim glances at him between channel-flips. "What?"

"Just thinking." Dick knows his voice is a little too low.

"About...?" The barest hint of suspicion. Nowhere near enough.

"Sucking you off."

Tim blinks.

Dick smirks and leans back in the chair, throwing his arm along the back and spreading his legs.

Tim breaks and gasps out laughter. "Oh, dude, you're good. I thought --"

"That I was serious?" He purrs it out slow. "I am."

"You wanna suck my dick. To prove a point." Tim's expression is stuck between a gape and a smirk. "And I'm the one who's fucked up?"

Dick slides his free hand between his legs and gives himself a squeeze. The blood's prickling hot beneath his skin, like maybe he'd be a little flushed if he looked in a mirror. He's not hard. Yet. "I never said I wasn't."

Tim nods slowly, mouth shut again in that slightly off way that means he's probably running his tongue along his teeth or something. "This is a dare."

"More like a challenge. Up to it?"

"Hey, I said I still had needs and everything. I'm not a freaking robot --"

"You're hard right now, right? You're really, really happy you wore those jeans."

Tim narrows his eyes at him. He can look pretty dangerous. For a kid.

"You're thinking about what it would be like. My mouth on you."

Tim doesn't move, or even shift. But he's still as stone, and that tells Dick all he needs to know.

"I'm not your girlfriend, Tim. You don't have to take me home."

And it's all over his face. Wondering if this is where he apologizes, or makes a joke, or maybe just calls Dick's bluff -- and wondering if it is a bluff, and what he's supposed to do if it isn't.

Dick smirks a little wider. Tim hates not being able to make a decision. And it fucking kills him when he can't read people.

And yeah. Now he's hard.

"C'mon, kid. Make a decision."

The snarl is on and off Tim's face almost fast enough to miss.

"Or maybe you just can't take it."

"You need. So. Much. Therapy."

"You're wondering how fast you can get out of here with your dignity intact. Your image. I bet you don't even make it to the roof before your pants are around your --"

"Do it."

Dick's heart thuds painfully hard, and he hears himself suck a breath in through his teeth. And then Tim moves, standing up and yanking his belt open and his zipper down.

He's hard enough already that his boxers are tented, and there's a nice-looking little wet spot.

Dick waits until Tim's fingers are under the waistband. "Leave those on."

He stills, and shoots Dick a look.

Yeah. Now. He stands up and steps over the coffee table and rests his palm against the center of Tim's chest. Gives him a little push.

There's a wonderfully wary look on Tim's face that Dick can't wait to validate, but he sits down, jeans puddled around his ankles and legs spread.

Dick kneels and slides his hands up Tim's thighs, digging his thumbs in a little and spreading them wider. Holding his gaze and rubbing small circles until Tim starts to breathe harder.


This is going to be much too easy.


"Nobody ever touch you here, Tim?"

Tim just stares.

"Or is it that no one's ever touched you like this?" Dick slides his hands up higher, bunching up the right leg of the boxers and sliding under the left. "Mm. I like the way this feels. What about you?"

"Dick --"

"See, what you're not getting -- what you've utterly failed to get, is just what I can do to you long before I get my lips wrapped around your dick."

Tim makes a little hurt sound, face crumpling with that old, familiar mix of do-me and oh-fuck before he manages to even it out again.

"But maybe I should be nice about it." He leans in close enough to breathe hot against the tent in Tim's boxers. "I'm a good guy," he says, looking up. "Right?"

"Jesus, Dick --" Tim's biting his lip now.

He slides his right hand back slow, pushing a little with his fingertips until Tim jerks and shakes, just for a moment. "How bad do you want it?" And pushes his left hand in, twisting past the fabric to pet Tim's sac. "You can tell me."

Dick watches sweat break out on Tim's forehead and keeps petting.

"Wide and varied fantasy life, right? So you must have thought about someone's hand wrapped around your balls, right? Squeezing just hard enough to --"


It makes his dick twitch, lust and surprise rolling through his gut in a wave. Virgin. Such a virgin. "You ready for me?"

Tim shakes harder under his hands, gasping like he's trying to hold in something loud and damning. Something like real pain.

And for a moment it's tempting as hell to just make him come in his pants exactly like the teenager he is, and for more reason than just his wounded ego, but... another time. Not Tim's first. He pulls back just long enough to get Tim's dick out of his boxers, wrapping one hand around the base and getting his lips around the head before he starts playing with his balls in earnest.

He gets one good taste and one good suck before Tim arches off the couch --

"Fuck --"

And comes in his mouth, digging his fingers into the cushions and shouting wordless at the ceiling.

Dick swallows and lets him go, licking his lips and enjoying the sight of Tim sprawled out on his couch like the end of a particularly good orgy. He stands up --

And falls right down on top of Tim when he hooks Dick's legs out from under him.

"No. You just... no --"

Tim cuts himself off by kissing Dick awkwardly as he rolls him down to the couch. Lips on his chin and teeth on the line of his jaw, teeth on his lower lip and then Tim kisses his mouth, groaning into it and tearing at his pants. Growling when he fails to get them open one-handed, and then Tim's moving, kneeling up and working on Dick's fly with grim determination.

Dick laughs helplessly. "No, go ahead, get your own back, kid --"

Tim glares at him and Dick laughs even harder. Right up until Tim licks his hand and wraps it around him.

"Oh man, Tim --"

"Shut up." Fingers on his nipple, twisting much too hard, sending jagged flares of feeling all through him as Tim pumps and strokes and --

"Fuck --"

"Shut up --" And Tim's leaning in and kissing him again, straddling the leg that isn't half-off the couch and jerking him hard, and there's nothing to do but go with it.

He slides his hands into Tim's hair and angles them for a deeper kiss, thrusting into Tim's fist and doing some groaning of his own.

Tim breaks the kiss and gasps against his mouth. His eyes are still wide and shocky, but his lips are red and swollen and pressed into a tight line.

Dick lays back and takes it, and even just thinking that is enough to drive him higher. Because Tim would just...

He slips his hand out of Tim's hair and reaches up and back, stretching out and clenching his hands together, wishing he was naked and knowing it's good enough when Tim loses his rhythm and stares at the way Dick's t-shirt is pulling tight over his chest, face twisting into a scowl.

And Dick knows Tim's getting hard again, and that's gonna make him smirk just as soon... "Harder."

And it's probably just the tone of voice, but Tim doesn't even hesitate, pinching Dick's nipple and working his dick, and then it's just the feeling, good enough for it to be anyone, and even better because it's Tim.

Making Dick come because he has to.

For himself.

"Mm," he says, when he's done gasping. He stretches and shifts into a more comfortable position, and watches Tim stare at his own hands like they belong to someone else. "You okay?"

Tim frowns, mostly to himself, and wipes his sticky hand on Dick's t-shirt. Thoroughly. And scoots back to the other end of the couch.

Dick winces internally. "Tim?"

"See, what's killing me is that all you've done is ensure that I'm going to be as fucked up as the rest of you people."

Which is... okay, true. Still. "Worth it, though, right?"

Tim has to have learned that withering look from Alfred. It's a lot less believable when it comes from someone whose dick you've had in your mouth.

Dick decides to examine that revelation... pretty much never. He puts on his best grin.

Tim gives up on the glare and kicks him. "You're on the remote, asshole."

He hands it over graciously and relaxes.

Tim's got maybe ten minutes before the new erection becomes just as important as the old.

Dick can wait.


If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Te

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