Very few concerns could rattle Dick's cages after taking on the identity of Robin, becoming the leader of the Team — maturing into adulthood and fitting himself a new persona of justice, a new legend; someone disregarded by their family and ignored of what needs may have laid outside perfunctory duties and The Mission. Tim, however… he worried about Tim. (So young, so willing to please, to defend those who couldn't, and it was maybe too much of all of the above, at once.)

A private kind of worry, burrowing away into Dick's cerebrum; worries that kept him up some nights, nightmarish and shrieking their dark promises as he lurks in and out of the unlit bedroom and hallway of his apartment in Bludhaven, running his naked fingers over his face and into dark, snarled hair as the mound of his blankets rises with soft, obvious snores. No one had ever asked Tim to join this world of bloodshed and crime; Tim was more than happy to take his lickings and the hardened criticism from Batman. Much, much more than happy. Dick suspected that this was what Tim sincerely wanted in his life — to get away from the gainsay of his parents' decisions, from overindulgence and scholarship and rich comforts, from the slow-reaching hooks of an ordinary mortality and come towards the inevitable purpose for what his life has been. Bruce almost wouldn't let him. No one wanted to experience Jason all over again.

That everlasting knot in Dick's heart tightens somewhat at the fainter memories.

He sinks down into his mattress, leaning into a near identical mess of black hair and nuzzling his face into sleep-warm scalp.

A yawn. Tim's eyes crack open, stormcloud grays and blues.

" 'wing," he murmurs, and Dick shakes his head a little, eyes still adjusting to the shit lighting, even with the low, fluorescent glow slitting from the closed bathroom door. He shushes him, removing the top layer of blanket and skimming a hand across Tim's wrinkling forehead, flattening down his bangs when the teen shifts on his back then grimaces, expression flaring in excruciating pain.

"Hey, hey… aj…" the older man breathes out, sternly. As if Tim understands the accented command, he goes still while Dick peels away the last blanket and examines the bandages winding Tim's bruising, sinewy chest and torso. Missing a whole ten hours during a Gotham-wide crisis. No viable leads other than Huntress' report through the secured comm.-link that Tim had been last seen fighting off 'jokerified' citizens in the sewers. A slew of bloodied, mangled corpses — chunks of white chalky skin, strings of apple green hair, stretched, red lips in permanently smiling faces — ripening in murky, tunnel water and none could match Tim's DNA. Almost hopeless until Batgirl discovered a torn, soaking Robin tunic a mile or so underground, emblem clawed right off. Flecks of reptilian flesh. Killer Croc.

But no other visible signs of a body. Dick's stomach had spasmed rebelliously in a mix of physical nausea and horror at the concept of eaten alive. Wasn't impossible. Seen it countless times. Probably more of a plausible explanation than anyone else could offer up then.

"How are the stitches holding up, little brother?"

Tim's eyes roll slightly, good-naturedly at the endearment. It sticks with Dick after the full initiation, after running the gauntlet successfully, and Dick insisted they're all family, despite the lack of blood relation — Batgirl just kinda grinned quietly at the pair of them while Bruce finished scrolling through a set of holo-med reports and grunted when Alfred's stoic face warms momentarily before he announced dinner.

"Decent," Tim says, covering his palm over his bandages without putting any strain, bringing the other male back to the moment. "You're not a bad nurse."

Dick scratches a bit of his colorless, fleece undershirt.

"Learned from the best," he replies, grinning big.

"Please tell me you're talking about Alfred…"

A soft, humored laugh. "'Course I'm talking about Alfred," Dick agrees, leaning down again. The dry, blunt pressure of Tim's lips meeting his and he cradles the back of Tim's neck to steady him. Ever the careful kisser, Tim takes his time, tracing and memorizing the shape, the wet, fleshy seam of Dick's lips.

Slowly taking in the grainy taste of cereal on Dick's saliva and appreciating the hollowness of Dick's opening mouth when their tongues slide together. The muscles in Tim's fingers grip hesitantly onto Dick's tricep. To him, Tim seems to treat every little thing with caution and wariness, no matter what it is — disassembles the motives and individual perception and emotions. Scarily enough, it's an inherent Batman trait. He's perfect for this. He will become Batman, because Dick doesn't want it.

With some reluctance, Dick breaks the kiss and rubs the pad of his thumb against Tim's spit-slick, lower lip. Temptingly smooth. "Take it easy, Tim. You're resting…"

"I know that." Tim's fingers crawl up into Dick's hair, as if he's comforting the older man.

His voice still heavy and edging with the painkillers he had been forced down. Oh, god, when he had finally found Tim's body in an alley… the severity of blood loss alone prompted an immediate hospital visit but Tim, somehow still grasping those few, delirious seconds of consciousness, clutching Dick's arm wrapping around him. He begged, begged no no please just take me to the apartment please and Alfred had been enough of a saint to breathe not a word to anyone, driving into town with the IV equipment and bags of blood.

"Batman doesn't treat me like a toddler so you shouldn't either."

At the statement, Dick makes a rare sour face. "Never talk about robbing cradles or your mentor when you're trying to get laid by me, man…" He scolds lightly, hearing Tim's amused exhale, "C'mon now…"

"Does that mean there's a possibility of getting laid tonight?"

"… …Just how happy are those pain meds making you?"

"Dunno…" Tim murmurs, but there's a lot of ambiguity shining in the depths of those eyes. "They might be wearing off."

Dick's large, scarred hand on the nape of Tim's neck drifts away, cupping and massaging around the front of the thin, cotton of Tim's boxers. "Tell the good nurse where it hurts, Timmy," he teases, watching the teen squirm with pleasure on his back. "Might be able to kiss it and make it all better for you."

"Ohh, d-don't…" Tim gasps, arching his hips — and strike him dead now if the sight isn't worth jerking a nice, hard one out, "call me Timmy, you weird…"

"Dirty talk, too? Didn't know you went all out on your kinky roleplay." Dick's hand yanks away the clothed barrier, squeezes periodically with the rolling strokes on his cock, and Tim's cheeks flush darkly in begrudging embarrassment when Dick's mouth touches one in affection and heat. "I'll have to remember that," he murmurs, legs separating. Dick's own fingers wiggle underneath the waistband of his drawstring pajama pants and underwear, touching around his own erection.

The rhythm of Dick's hands increase, as does how much harder Tim tries to thrust up into one of them without bending himself.

"Nightwing… nnh," he pants, when the older man scoots himself down, lowering one of Tim's legs out of his way. Lets out a loud, whimpering groan as puffs of hot air dampen his skin, as Dick lowers his mouth to outline the red, swollen head of his cock and swallow part of the length.

For such a somber and analytic partner, Tim becomes the opposite in bed — willing for the fucked out bliss, the right amount of noisy responses and appreciative temperament to someone else. But god forbid, the urge to fool around be summoned to life in the Batcave, they would be hanged. And, hell, Dick's been in some unusual situations considering the subject — up against a factory stairwell; that slow, aching drag of bare contact amplifies chromatic stars behind his eyelids when Roy's dick plunges repeatedly into him — cramped and hidden inside a steel crate box; a sweating Artemis grinds down onto him, muscles inside her drenched and fluttering around his layer-gloved, skilled fingers.

Not bothering to starve it off, he pulses into his left hand and inside his underwear, the dark blue, sticky fabric seeming to blacken.

A sharp, warning pull of Dick's hair, but he doesn't pull off when the first wave of Tim's orgasm thickly coats his mouth and throat. Not the most fantastic sensation to experience nor is choking the first six times, trying to get a hang of a blowjob, but he settles for a mediocre score. Better than a failing grade. He continues stroking, milking Tim for everything left to devour before slipping him from his lips, savoring a deep breath of the musky aroma as Dick's nose boldly nudges coarse pubic hair.

"Timmy…" he mumbles, earning another weaker, annoyed hair pull.

"Geez, okay, no more," Dick replies, giving a hearty laugh and shifting up to meet his companion's eyes. "So, when would you like to schedule your next appointment?"

Tim's eyes roll again, but he returns a breathier laugh and says nothing, letting Dick's arms embrace around his middle.

But there's nothing to worry about, really — Tim will lead The Team, will continue to prove himself.

Maybe the knot will loosen.


YJ is not mine. There's no info on how old Tim is in Earth-16 (as of now) so I'm going to guesstimate at 16 or 17. And that's probably accurate. And this is the second year I'm publishing a fic through the YJ fandom on my birthday. Hehhe. I can't seem to escape these characters or this show. Hope you enjoy reading! Now, I'm about to go to my first day of work at the grocery store. Wooo!

YJAM Prompt:


Super intense OMG you almost died sex."


+ aj - "stay" in Anglo-Romani

+ jokerified - referencing events in "Joker: Last Laugh" which also follow Tim's brief disappearance in the sewers