Title: That Which Has Been Seen Cannot Be Unseen
Fandom: Pairing: Teen Titans/Justice League: Bruce/Wally
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar glitch, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: Dark and twisted. **Wally is 17. Batman's fantasies include violence, bloodletting, dub-con/non-con, whipping, biting, a St Andrew's Cross and marks of ownership.**
Summary: Batman watches. And then he sees. And then he fantasizes.
Notes: Written for my dcu_freeforall BatFlash table, prompt T16; P62: quicksand.
That Which Has Been Seen Cannot Be Unseen
Batman watches. It's what he does.
He watches them grow into a team; watches them forge bonds of friendship that will likely hinder more than help them in years to come. He watches as they find and test their own and each other's strengths and weaknesses.
He watches, but he doesn't see.
Until one day he does.
It's just a small detour, barely even a hundred miles out of his way, and he's there before he gets around to having second thoughts.
He's bringing the Batcopter in to land on the roof of Titans Tower when he sees someone – a decidedly male, disturbingly beautiful someone – already there, sprawled out on their stomach across a ragged towel, leisurely soaking up the rays of the early evening sun.
Mind suddenly empty of every other concern, Batman hungrily drinks in the exposed form. His examination (devourment) starts at the pale soles of oddly delicate feet; slowly inching up the long, bronzed legs, over sculpted calves and powerful muscled thighs until his gaze is caught by the only piece of clothing in sight. It's a pair of faded denim shorts most likely fashioned from a decrepit pair of jeans, one leg an inch or so longer than the other, the fabric almost worn through at the seams. The left rear pocket is entirely gone, ripped off, he assumes, leaving a triangular flap of loose material that's folded back, exposing a tempting sliver of peach pale skin.
Sweat glistens in the hollow at the base of his spine, half-shadowed by the fraying (easily torn) waistband stretched taut between narrow hips. Bruce licks his lips and imagines he tastes salt. He wants so desperately to steal a bite of that firm, ripe peach.
As he watches, the sunbather (sleeper?) moves, stretches, rearranges himself, so that his arms are raised alongside his head, one cheek now resting on his stacked hands. One knee is bent out to the side, just a little – just enough for Batman to wish the sun was overhead, instead of casting oblique shadows into the newly revealed flesh and denim valley at the apex of those glorious thighs.
His ribs are visible now, as faint striations of shade and gilded skin that draw the gaze ever upward, step by golden step, following the sinuous sine curve of spine to the flared wings of scapulae and the solid musculature of deltoid and trapezius that disappears beneath a damp, coppery tangle of too-long hair.
And just like that, Batman is back in his own head, now full of even more guilt and self-loathing.
Wallace Rudolph West.
He's just spent untold minutes (seconds? hours?) gorging himself on the sight of this underage boy – what is he, sixteen? no, seventeen – who counts Dick as one of his closest friends; a boy who follows his every move with worshipful eyes.
He can't land now. Can't walk into the Tower and act as though nothing has changed; as though he hasn't seen something he was never meant to see, never wanted to see.
But he can't forget.
The hateful (treasured) memory catches hold of him in quiet moments, and then suddenly he's back there, trying to will away those ancient shorts, trying to will that lithe body to roll over and expose its soft belly, along with the rest of its hidden delights.
He always feels dirty after. Always needs to shower too. He'd awoken that first morning 'after', cock limp and sticky, limbs still shaking from the freight train of a climax that had ridden straight over him as he slept. He'd spent the next few nights lying awake and fitful for those few hours he usually slept, but, eventually, exhaustion had taken its toll and he'd slipped under. And dreamed. And once again woke only when he came, wracked by guilt and aftershocks, trying in vain to erase (hold on to!) the fragments of his dream.
Logic doesn't work any more. Not on this problem. He tries hard to push Wally – Kid Flash, dammit – back into the box he used to inhabit in the Bat's mental organiser. It's labelled 'Teen Titan least likely to go rogue. All knees, elbows and attitude; more of a danger to himself than others.'
But somehow, while he hadn't been looking (too busy watching, maybe?), the tightly wound bundle of kinetic energy known as Kid Flash has metamorphosed into a sleek, wicked temptation. He's become dangerous to Batman's peace of mind; all thoughts of him become as treacherous as quicksand, drawing its victim ever deeper even as he struggles to escape.
It's almost two months before Batman has cause to visit the Tower, cause he can't escape. And, of course, Kid Flash is there, suited and booted, masked and primed, ready for action.
Batman wants nothing more than to send him away on some frivolous other-side-of-the-world errand; wants nothing more than to drag him back to the Batcave and strip him bare, touch and taste every inch of tanned and especially untanned skin until he's begging to be taken, to be owned, violated.
Self-loathing tastes sharply bitter, and sounds a lot like anger when he grits out something totally nonsensical about reviewing the Titans' training schedules as they seem to be getting sloppy during downtime.
He's halfway back to Gotham before he realises he'd spit the words directly into Wally's upturned face, instantaneously incandescent with rage that the boy hadn't heard him – heard the Batcopter – hovering just a short jump away.
It could have been anyone. And they could have done anything. He could have done anything. Could have used gas or a tranquilizer dart to immobilize him; could have had him hogtied and helpless before he'd woken up enough to even start to struggle. He would have (could have) had that perfect body to use and abuse at his leisure, and it comes down to either getting angry, or getting off. And he's not quite that far gone. Yet.
The flight back to Gotham seems to take forever.
The palm of his gauntlet feels cool and slightly gritty around his cock. He comes so fast he'd be embarrassed if there was anyone there to witness it.
His hands are shaking when he finally climbs out of the Batcopter.
He stops fighting so hard after that, and it gets easier. He still jerks off every time he gets back from Titans Tower, whether Kid Flash was there or not. Just the memory of him being there is apparently enough. He even stops snarling at the boy, most of the time anyway, though the attitude's still there – enough for any three men – and he tries not to read anything into the fact that Wally always seems to stand a hair's-breadth too close, blames his speed – or lack of it – for bumping into him, brushing past him; tiny, incidental contacts that leave Batman tight-jawed and breathless. Ravenous.
Memory inspires fantasy and it's never the same twice. He's had Wally a thousand different ways inside the privacy of his head, but some scenarios bear repeating. He doesn't like to think that he has favourites, but the first one has always been the best.
Up there, on the roof, open and easy; no resistance, just raw-edged pleading, begging to be touched. Denim shorts fall to pieces beneath his gauntlets to reveal a perfect peach of an ass that makes his mouth water and his cock impossibly hard.
He's slick already, and thoroughly prepped, like he's been waiting for this, just lying there waiting – taunting, teasing. It's so easy to press forward and in, to layer clothed body over naked, hiding them both within the confines of the cape that ripples rhythmically as Batman thrusts and shifts and thrusts some more.
Wally gasps and pushes back as much as he's able, trapped beneath Batman's weight, his wrists pinned to the rooftop in Batman's tight grip. The back of his neck is a tangle of wet curls that Batman noses aside so he can suck a scarlet mark into his nape. It fades too fast, even as he watches, and he thinks he could maybe spend a lifetime or two trying to leave a permanent mark on Wally's flawless body, the way he knows he's bound to leave countless scars on his soul.
Sometimes his thoughts are not so easy, so… unencumbered. Sometimes his nightmares throw off shoots that twine their way into his fantasies and leave him gasping for breath in sweat-soaked, stained and shredded sheets.
A St Andrew's Cross, solid and plain, a dull matt black, stands in the middle of a good-sized room beneath Wayne Manor, plenty of space on every side. He doesn't want anything to impede his fun.
Wally is naked, his wrists and ankles bound to the corners of the cross with de-cel line. Narrow streaks of drying blood are proof that he's struggled to free himself more than once and failed. He'll try and fail again before too long.
Sometimes he's Batman here, sometimes Bruce – it varies with his mood, with whatever's brought this particular scenario floating up from the depths of his subconscious. Cowl or not, he's always stripped to the waist, torso gleaming with perspiration, over and between his many scars.
There's a braided leather bullwhip in his hand, black and bloodied, with a tiny, shiny, sharp-edged bat at the very tip. The crack of it is loud as he draws his arm back and snaps it forward, laying open a long crimson crease across Wally's lower back.
Wally screams and Bruce waits, watches as the torn skin begins to pull together, to heal as good as new.
Then he swings again. And again. And again and again, until Wally's back is a patchwork quilt of ragged skin stitched together by tangled strands of dripping, scarlet thread.
Once the screaming stops, he steps forward, nude now, his entire being centered on the hot and heavy weight between his legs. His veins are thrumming with urgency; his pulse is humming; his heart is beating so fast inside his chest he feels his sternum vibrate.
Blood is inadequate as lube but it's the closest thing they’ve got. He swipes his open hand across the freshest of the lashes and gathers what he can, anointing himself before forcing his way in.
Wally keens, high and long, as Bruce pushes inside him, pressing hard against the raw, open wounds of his back and thighs. It doesn't take long before he breaks and begs, "Please, Batman… Bruce, please. Please! Love you, always, pl- please, let me COME!"
The taste of blood always lingers on his tongue when he wakes from that one, lingers until he washes it away with scotch and self-flagellation. Mental, of course.
And all the while, Wally grows older (slowly). And Bruce watches. And waits. And dreams.
'What If... Batman Plays The Game, But Lets Wally Set The Pace'
"What If... Wally Had a Plan"