Title: What If... Wally Had a Plan
Previous Chapters: The second alternative sequel to 'That Which Has Been Seen Cannot Be Unseen'. The first was 'What If... Batman Plays The Game, But Lets Wally Set The Pace'
Fandom: Pairing: Teen Titans/Justice League: Bruce/Wally
Rating: NC-17 overall
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: **Wally is somewhere between 15 and 17. Ish.**
Summary: What if Wally was up on the rooftop for a reason when Batman dropped by?
Author's Note #1: Written for my dcu_freeforall BatFlash table, prompt T08; P46: Rooftop.
Author's Note #2: 'That Which Has Been Seen…' did not grow the legs that are necessary for a sequel, it grew tentacles. Honestly, this fic has turned into an octopus, with each leg a different 'What If...' scenario. In the end, I stopped trying to chop off the extras and just went with it. This is the second. There will be more.
When Wally glances up and spots the Batcopter heading towards Titans Tower, he's on the move before the idea is fully formed, slowing down just enough to change his trajectory without tearing up the asphalt or sidewalk with a careless skid.
In his room at the Tower, he rapidly changes into and out of a dozen different outfits, swapping boxers for briefs for shorts before settling on the too tight cut-offs that he hasn't had the nerve to wear since he lost one of the pockets to an unnoticed door handle last month. Every shirt he owns is examined and rejected in an instant, filling the air around him with fluttering, gently falling clouds of cotton.
With a deceptively innocent grin, he decides that plenty of naked skin is the best thing to wear for this… experiment. Enticement.
He's rearranged himself seventeen different ways across his towel before the Batcopter finally appears on the horizon. Just the thought of Batman seeing him like this has him so turned on that facedown is his only real option, unless he wants to make a stunningly bold, unmistakeable statement of intent. Or embarrass himself so much he has to quit the Titans and go live in a cave somewhere. But he's not quite that bold or desperate. Yet. So, instead, he stretches out his legs, rests his head on a doubled up roll of towel and lays his arms at his sides. And waits.
He hears the Batcopter approach but it doesn't land, and Wally thinks that maybe Batman's received a call to say he's needed elsewhere, but the 'copter doesn't leave.
It doesn't leave, and it doesn't land.
The Batcopter – Batman – hangs there in the air above the roof of Titans Tower for so long that Wally starts to think that maybe something's happened, something's wrong. There's no immediately obvious reason why Batman is still up there, instead of down here on the roof with…
The possibility that Batman is hovering up there because he likes the view has Wally's cock hard enough to strain the zipper on his new favorite pair of shorts. The tiny metal teeth are biting into sensitive skin, trapped between his throbbing erection and the unforgiving rooftop.
Wally has to move, but he does so carefully, as though he's shifting in his sleep, not trying to lessen the unrelenting pressure in his shorts. He eases his arms up and around, stacking his hands beneath his cheek, and flexing his shoulder muscles and those along his back for his silent audience of one.
He bends his knee and slides it out to one side, angling his hips and thigh to give Wally Junior a little breathing room. There's a moment of intense pain as something down there catches and pulls, and then the head of his cock is free, jutting proud above his waistband, and painting damp, sticky kisses on his belly and the towel beneath him.
The Batcopter is still there, almost silent, blades stirring the air just enough to tickle the sweat-curled tangle of hair at the nape of Wally's neck. He can barely breathe from the excitement – bone-deep arousal – of imagining he can feel Batman's gaze burning patterns into every plane of muscle, line of sinew, curve of bone – from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head.
He's three seconds away from kissing his sanity goodbye; three seconds from rolling onto his back and displaying himself – his cock, his belly, his hunger – to those watching eyes.
Surely not even Batman could resist a lure so open and enticing. God, Wally hopes not.
As Wally tenses in preparation – palms braced, biceps taut, thighs trembling with anticipation – the barely audible hum of the Batcopter's engine shifts, rises and falls, and begins to fade out as the vehicle angles up and away, churning the air as it heads in the general direction of Gotham City.
Close escape? Or the biggest regret of his life so far? Wally can't make up his mind whether to heave a sigh of relief or rage at the heavens. He settles for flipping onto his back and letting the light breeze dance across the moist head of his cock, across his sweat-slick skin. He slides his left hand over the sharp jut of bone at his hip; over the firm, concave plane of his belly. Up and across, to drag the ragged edge of his thumbnail over his right nipple, again and again, tormenting the flesh until it's tight and hard and sensitive, almost to the point of pain. Then he moves his attentions to the other nub.
His right hand is busy too, fumbling for the tab of his zipper and carefully – carefully – easing the mechanism down over swollen flesh and wiry copper curls. He uses his wrist to hold his tumescence tight against his belly until the zip is completely open and the shorts pushed down below his balls, out of the way. Then he pulls back, just enough to let his erection spring free, a vivid curve of want and need, of hunger and teenage hormones.
Twisting and pinching his left nipple between his left thumb and forefinger, Wally lifts his right hand to his mouth and licks the palm, tasting himself in the smear of precome left on his wrist. Then he reaches back down and takes his cock in a teasingly loose grip; toying with himself as he imagines what if…
The Batcopter touches down gently, almost silently, but Wally still feels the impact in very cell of his being. He holds himself still as heavy footsteps approach, knowing the heaviness, the sound and vibration, is entirely for his benefit.
He doesn't move, barely even breathes, when Batman's shadow falls across his thighs and stomach, the sudden loss of the sun's direct warmth sending tiny, atavistic shivers rippling out from his core.
Wally fists his cock and imagines Batman's eyes following his every move.
He can't hear much over the jackhammer pounding of his heartbeat heavy in his chest, but the crunch-scuffle of gravel just inches from his ear is unmistakeable.
So is Batman's voice, low-toned and sibilant. Hungry.
"Such a tempting, pretty little morsel. Does anyone on your team know where you are, Wally? Do they know you're up here, touching yourself, putting on a show for anyone to see?"
Wally catches his lower lip between his teeth, trying to stifle a whimper as he shakes his head.
"No? So, I could do anything I wanted to you. I could take my time and make a meal of you, and none of your friends would think to come looking? I could hold you down and play with you for hours; make you scream and beg and whimper…"
Wally's hand on his cock is almost a blur as he comes. His heels and the backs of his shoulders are his only contacts with the rooftop as he wrings the last drops of pleasure from the moment, and then sags back onto his wrinkled, sorely abused towel.
He's gasping for air. His fingers are sticky and slick, his belly too, and he can feel a rapidly cooling smear of wetness just below the curve of his ribs. He's vaguely impressed, and still a little bit stunned by how hard he's come, simply by imagining Batman talking dirty to him.
Judging by the evidence at hand, actual sex with Batman might end up killing him, but, Wally decides, wriggling back into his shorts, he's willing to take the chance.
He starts planning.