Some people are like Slinkies. Not really good for anything, but you still can't help but smile when you see them fall down the stairs.
Bart flopped his landing for the eighth time that afternoon, and Tim couldn't help but smile at the speedster's theatrical moans and groans.
Tim walked over to his boyfriend and, staring down at his cutely pouting face, chided, "You shouldn't have tried to use your speed on the off-ramp, Bart."
Bart shakily flopped over onto his back – dislodging his skateboard from same to clatter against the roof of the Titans Tower – and pushed himself into a sitting position with a grunt. "But if I could just figure out the right ratio of the…" Bart said in a pained whimper.
Tim waved the mathematical discussion off for another time. "And quit complaining; you did the first seven times this happened, and it's gotten old," he said firmly, but not unkindly. Bart couldn't have been that badly hurt; he was wearing his Kid Flash suit (which was made out of a new type of frictionless Kevlar/Nomex weave, a change that Robin had insisted on when Impulse was shot in the knee by Deathstroke). Tim, however, was only wearing a T-Shirt and jeans, since he didn't have superspeed with which he tried to defeat the laws of physics on a regular (in subjective time) basis.
"But it still hurts," Bart said, pouting prettily. He allowed a single tear to trail down his cheek and gave an exaggerated sniff.
He'd obviously been taking acting lessons from Gar – again.
"Do you want me to kiss it better?" Tim asked facetiously, knowing even as he asked what the answer would be.
Bart brightened and sniffled once, before nodding vigorously.
Tim sighed, rolled his eyes, and gave in to the inevitable. Dropping down to one knee next to his boyfriend, Tim pressed his lips to the rapidly disappearing white line on Bart's forehead that was all that was left of the previous bloody gash. Superspeed healing rocked.
Except when it meant that Bart had to have his kneecap replaced without anesthetic. Bart had complained about that for weeks of non-subjective time.
Once he felt the scar disappear from Bart's skin, Tim trailed a line of kisses down his boyfriend's cheek – lapping up the tear on his way – before finally arriving at Bart's mouth. He placed only the briefest of pecks on those begging lips before sitting back.
"Better now?" Tim asked, one eyebrow raised in a knowing smirk at the sight of the bugle tenting Bart's baggy jeans.
Bart batted his insanely long golden eyelashes and said coyly, "I'd be better if you finished what you started," before giving Tim his best attempt at a leer. Bart really did look too innocent to leer properly.
Too innocent to someone who hadn't spent the past nine months reaping the benefits of Bart's knowledge of the San Francisco Library's Sexuality section.
Tim heaved a mock sigh, and gave in – or, rather, was pulled by eager speedster hands and pawed by eager speedster fingers – to the inevitable. Their lips mashed together in a lustful battle, and Tim winced as the hand he flung out to keep his balance scraped across concrete. "Maybe," he gasped out as Bart started kissing his way around his collarbone, "we should go back inside."
"Why?" Bart asked, nibbling on Tim's ear.
"It's dangerous," Tim murmured, humming in enjoyment as Bart did that buzzing thing with his tongue on his earlobe.
Bart pulled back and said, wide grin at odds with Tim's frown, "But the danger makes it fun." He then vibrated his and Tim's clothes off, plastering himself to the other teen and nuzzling his boyfriend's neck. Tim whimpered as a too-warm (for a non-speedster) tongue swirled around his nipples before descending southward.
Tim once again had the thought that he should be worried about how many of their sexcapades involved mutual bumps, bruises, and contusions. He could have blamed it on battle lust, but most of their make-out-sessions-as-teenage-preludes-to-sex started out just like this – with one of them (most probably Bart) getting hurt while having non-sex fun, and demanding the other one kiss it better.
Tim definitely blamed the superhero lifestyle for irrevocably intertwining pain and pleasure in his mind. Not that he really cared at times like these…
Oh, well, Tim thought with the last of his working brain cells that hadn't yet been caught up in a swirl of pleasure, at least if we fall off the edge of the building, Bart is fast enough to catch us.
And then he could be the one demanding Bart make him feel better.