I tried to write you Teh Behr, and this is what happened, because I am so very predictable. No wolfdick, but maybe Batcock is an adequate substitute? If it helps, DB could be playing Batman.
Title: Black and Bright and Red All Over
Media: Roswell & DCU
Length: 2000 words
Summary: This is the Bat's city, and Zan's not from around here.
Disclaimer: In the end, WB owns all; characters were the creations of Jason Katims and Bob Kane.
Spoilers/setting: Roswell 2x08, "Meet the Dupes", and A Death in the Family/Nightwing: Year One.
Notes: Only standard pop-cultural knowledge of Batman is required, save for the significance of the red sweatshirt, which is explained here and here (*my* fandom has canonical underage bondage!). Enormous thanks to fox1013 and anonymous_sibyl for Roswell aid and general hand-holding; beta by anonymous_sibyl and thenotoriousg, who also sends her love and good wishes.
When they - his friends, his only family - tried to kill him, Zan lay still for a very long time. On his back, while smog and clouds wheeled above him, erasing the map home, he waited.
And when they finally left, slithering back down to the sewers, he closed his eyes. He knew them, knew that Lonnie's hand was twined in the back of Ava's hair, dragging her close, while Rath's tongue looped up Lonnie's neck.
Finally, he dragged himself to his feet, hobbled around the corner, and kept going.
And everything hurt, and he kept moving, ran when he could, ran and ran until day broke and he was stumbling down the wide stairs of Penn Station.
The bus transfer fished from the depths of his pocket got transfigured into a New Jersey Transit ticket. The sun whited out the sky as the bus heaved itself out of the Lincoln Tunnel. Zan's teeth were loose in his gums, he stank of old sweat and new fear, and blood puddled, squished, in his shoes.
And he was free. Into the blind morning, he rode, his back turned to galaxies and kingship, his bruised face lifted toward the carious skyline of another city, a darker and meaner one, a new home.
In Gotham, Zan doesn't remember much of his previous life, and even less of the sewers. Here, alone, he is too busy living to spend much time on memory. He lives far aboveground now, the top floor of a ten-storey squat in Bristol Heights where the lights from the Sprang bridge constellate across his hands at night.
He only has himself to care for now. He set his own leg, back on the bus, pulled out the loose teeth when he found a place to crash, got a job delivering pizzas and cheesesteak fajitas. He transforms fives into twenties, avoids cops like they were skins, keeps his head down and refuses to think.
He's the man, and he has no plan, and that's just the way he likes it. Ava's berry-sweet mouth, Rath's callused fingers gripping Zan's thigh, the look of awe on Lonnie's face when she comes (the only thing that ever catches - caught - her by surprise): he forgets these as (incompletely) he did the weight of the scepter, the certainty of the rule.
Nothing is certain here, and he's alone, and it's all light as air, as light itself, dragged through space.
And then he fucks up.
On his way home after work one night, hands deep in the pockets of his red hoodie, he hears a girl is screaming. When she stops, and a big guy runs out of the alley, Zan heads in. She's splayed out on the filthy ground beside a dumpster, her eyes swelling closed, her dress ripped open from sternum to thigh, blood and bruises swirling over her skin.
He drops to his bad knee, hearing it crack, and puts his hands on her. *Feels* her pain, red as iron and just as strong, as he reaches into the emptiness between atoms and rearranges, one by one, until she's breathing again and her spleen is whole and the blood on her thighs is starting to clot.
"Step away from the girl." The voice is bass-low, growling and reverberating.
"I didn't -"
"Get. Away. From her."
Raising his hands over his head, Zan does as he's told.
He's heard things. Even back in New York, you hear about the Bat.
Still. Nothing can prepare you for the first sight you get. Of *black*, matte and depthless, that fills the alley and deadens your vision. That curling mouth, the inhuman mask, the cape that carries shadows to spare, shoulders that tilt architecture and recast geography.
He shoves Zan against the wall, twists his arms behind his back, and cuffs him with a strip of plastic. The weight of him is more spectacle than sensation, but Zan hunches away anyway.
There's something territorial, *bestial*, in the way the Bat moves him, back to front, sniffing his nape.
"I didn't hurt her." Zan *hears* himself croak, and coughs, and tries again.
The Bat ignores him, checking the girl's pulse, speaking to her softly. Good thing she's got two black eyes; no one needs to see *that* thing so close when they're so hurt.
"She'll live," Batman says. Zan nods hurriedly, stops and goes still when Batman looks over his shoulder at him. "What about you?"
The zip-strip bites into his wrists as Zan shrugs. "I didn't do anything."
"Look at me."
Ragged boy, underfed and angry, and the slick underside of the city's soul, regarding each other. Batman's axe-square jaw shifts, like he's gritting his teeth, and Zan refuses to blink. Until a siren sounds closer, and closer yet, and the Bat shoots a grapple line upward, grabs Zan around the waist, and they fly.
"Fuck!" Zan shouts, as they're swinging higher, then higher again, and Batman stuffs a length of fabric into Zan's open mouth.
Geometry goes viral, *feral*, as they fly.
The city tilts one way, the other, up and down, sharp and then oblique, below them as Batman touches down on a fire escape, flies again to a gargoyle, a rooftop, the side of a water-tower.
Zan retches and twists away when they stop, finally, on the narrow, gravel-covered roof of some anonymous office building. He falls to his bad knee, gets grabbed around the neck, and the Bat almost *smirks* when Zan flails and stumbles again.
"What did you do to that girl?" One hand on Zan's throat, holding him here.
"Nothing, duke. *Nothing*."
The Bat's cowl creases, like he's squinting, but that has to be a trick of the light. "You don't belong here."
Zan's laugh is desperate, choked. "Hell, no."
"Your hands..." The shadows shift, faster than any plain old human should move, and Zan finds his wrists cuffed in front of him. Batman's glove is smooth - *alien*, and the laughter chokes again - on Zan's palm. "You did something. To her."
There's no point in trying to help *anybody*. It just gets you kicked to the curb, into the street, under a truck. Up on a roof with a cowled psycho stroking your hand.
"Do your fucking worst," Zan says. "Just -. Fucking get it *over* with, would you?"
The Bat cocks his head, pushes Zan's sweatshirt open, spreading it down his arms, trapping him further. Sirens far below them, the anxious mutter of pigeons somewhere near, and Zan butts his chest forward. Into the curve of the glove, into touch.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Batman murmurs. It's a different voice, much more like the one he used on the girl, soothing. Or it would be soothing if he didn't look like he does, if his breath wasn't a little sour, his hands huge on Zan's neck, his waist. "I don't want to -"
"Felt worse," Zan says in his best Rath-imitation, all challenge and empty, meth-quick threat. "C'mon."
Batman kicks Zan's legs apart, curls his fingers in Zan's collar and hauls him close. The hand on Zan's waist sweeps over his belly, down to cup his cock and *squeeze*. The bristle of incipient stubble on Batman's jaw scrapes across Zan's cheek.
"Harder," Zan says, because there's touch, *everywhere*, and he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to watch himself, and he gasps when his fly scrapes open and his cock is gripped painfully hard. He and the others used to suck ripe lemons, pour chili flakes down their throats, wrestle and pummel each other, *anything* to feel like they were something more, better, than the rats and the slime.
"Your jacket..." Batman doesn't finish the thought, but his free hand goes light, feathery, on Zan's hoodie, even as his other hand pulls at Zan's dick, firm and mean and relentless.
"Untie me and I -" Zan's hips buck, his head falls back, on a particularly hard squeeze and twist. "*Fuck*, duke, do it, let me go, I -"
Batman's mouth is on Zan's neck, biting sharp little kisses that're going to bruise. Later, and Zan's not thinking about later, he's twisting his hands, flapping them, until he succeeds in melting the plastic and freeing himself. He grips Batman's upper arms, beneath the cape, and arches back. The sky flips over him, teeth scrape over his cheek and lips, and he's on his knees now, palms in the gravel.
Like a dog, like a fucking *whore*, and he's so hard in Batman's hand that he fucks himself forward, then back, hard and jittery, when Batman tugs down his pants and slides two fingers down his crack.
Too much, it's almost too much. Zan's forehead bounces on the gravel as he raises his ass, bites his own forearm, and rocks against the fingers in his crack.
Batman pushes Zan's shirt up, all the way, over his head, *tenting* him. Exposing him and there are stars in Zan's eyes, galaxies that gaze and swirl and recede as slick burns cold around his hole and a finger, then two, burns and stretches inside.
He could be anyone, any kid, any mouthy darkhaired street punk with the bad luck to cross the Bat's path. And that's just right, exactly *perfect*, because he's no king, no brother, never a lover, just a bundle of hybrid nerves and human skin, and he's getting fucked right here. In the dark, yearning back, as Batman's cock - big as the rest of him, just as mean, just as *inevitable* - pushes inside, then deeper, and deeper again.
There's a hand on Zan's hip, pulling him back, matching Batman's thrusts, and Zan twists, yowls and *howls* for more. He shoves one hand down, to grab his dick and bring himself off, but Batman's *there*, sees fucking *all*, and he bats Zan's hand away, pulls his dick himself and snaps his hips until Zan sees more stars, burning out red and white, centers of flames and mysteries that swallow him up.
He comes in a heaving rush, all over Batman's glove, all over *himself*. He's panting, begging in a language he thought he'd forgotten, as Batman pulls him up against his chest, his cock shifting deep and *perfect* up Zan's hole, wrapping his arms around Zan's chest. Licking the side of Zan's neck, sucking on his ear, words snagging and disappearing in the riot of his breathing.
Don't go and I'm sorry and, maybe, jay - birds and other flying things, something of a theme - the pigeons rising in a clattering rush as Zan shouts again, dick twitching still, as Batman shoves home, shoves deep, and shakes as he keeps on coming.
Afterward, Batman says nothing. He kisses Zan's hand, his fingers and the tingling center of his palms, then knocks him out with some kind of gas. It takes three doses to succeed, exacerbating Batman's suspicions that the boy *is* a meta, and Zan sleeps like an angel, dirt streaking his skin, long silky lashes curling against his cheeks.
Batman cleans Zan up with gentle strokes, straightens his clothes, but keeps the sweatshirt for himself.
When Superman arrives, a quick scan confirms that the boy is no human.
Zan is not who Batman thought he was, but nor is he who he thought he had to be.
In the end, that's almost like a fairy tale: the king who would be common.