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There is one human city that Bruce enjoys wandering. Even before the nostalgic event of claiming his Robin Gotham called to him, a darkness in its alleys that resonates with his soul. Its citizens are a kind of wild so rarely found outside the Fae Realms and they have come to think of the Batman as something akin to a hero.
(Bruce doesn’t really care how the populous portrays him; he only cares that stories are often better when they have time to come to a natural conclusion and so will, on occasion, intervene to prevent a premature end to a tale. It is simply selfishness, the kind one should always expect from the Fae but humans so often forget.)
It is in Gotham that he finds his next boy.
He finds him cornered against a dirty wall by a man twice his size, his red hooded jacket standing out amongst the grime. Bruce is still deciding whether this will be one of those times he reveals himself when there is a sharp squeal and the pounding of old boots on older pavement.
The boy had hit the man in the most tender of areas with a tire iron and bolted before his enemy had a chance to recover.
On a whim the Dark Knight follows the spirited child, silent as a whisper. He follows him through one night and returns and follows him again the next. The boy is the inverse of his Robin; a rough and tumble hoodlum persona covering a soft soul. A bonfire; loud and raging yet spreading a comforting warmth all the same.
The Batman makes his choice; this boy will be his.
—-
His hoodlum is more world-wary than his Robin. He does not trust the food that Bruce “drops” at the door to his makeshift home in the ruinous abandoned building. He’s clearly alert to the laws of they Fae; he’s perfectly willing to swindle and steal from fellow humans but if he cannot see the owner he refuses to touch anything no matter how tempting the feast on display.
It is frustrating but not the end of the Dark Knight’s options.
After all, the people call him a hero. Is it not fair he claim a boon?
—-
The mayor is less than receptive to the proposed deal but takes it to a vote. It’s such a small margin but 50.34% in favor is still a majorly.
A ward of the state is surrendered by that state’s defenders to Batman and Bruce makes sure to intervene before a stabbing has the chance to turn fatal, clearing his debt before the sun rises to a red skied morning.
(The people had likely thought the Dark Knight had meant the deal to ensure continuous protection. Bruce, however, had been very clear with his words.
A life for a life. And he was bound to nothing more than that singular deed.)
With a clear conscious and no debt he snatches the red hood and drags his claimed boon into the shadows.
Jason Todd joins a list of missing persons, the list of names no one expects to ever find.
—-
His hoodlum screams and fights and amuses Bruce greatly. His hits are more likely to bruise his own knuckles and his teeth are too blunt to have hope of breaking thought Fae skin. His control on this child is less than his Robin, the claim forged by others rather than the boy’s own free will.
Not as strong but still binding, still inescapable.
He continues to fight even as the Batman floods his mind with arousal, continues to fight as his red hood is ripped away, as his body is stripped bare, as he is pushed to his hands and knees. He continues to fights right up to the moment Bruce pushes into his tight hole, first with fingers then with his cock, sealing his claim to his boy’s body.
His Hoodlum goes lax in his grasp, ineffectual battle cries giving way to reluctant moans as the fae pounds in and out until he fills the small figure with warm seed.
All the while his past Robin watches from his cage, eyes unsure of this new creature. It will do no good to foster jealousy in his possessions so with a thought he curls the bone cage back and beckons his first boy over.
A decade earlier Bruce had gotten bored and grew his Robin. His bird had sung beautifully as his bones stretched and swelled, flesh tearing and reforming to cover the extra mass. As well crafted as the Dark Knight’s magic is, after nearly a century frozen in the form child the artificial aging had ripped away the lingering traces of humanity. The figure that crawls onto the shadow-mass that is the Batman’s nest appears almost as a man of 20 but there is undeniably something off. His movements are at once too jerky and too graceful, his eyes glimmer though reflect no light, his hair sways as though in perpetual motion even when he stills.
No longer a Robin, now a Nightwing.
As his bird approaches Bruce pulls his hoodlum up against his body, protruding spine pressed to muscled stomach. With a century of conditioning his Wing knows what to do when a hard cock is displayed to him and is quick to wrap his lips around the small shaft, pressing his nose into sparse hairs and sucking eagerly. His new boy tightens at the sensation and it’s enough to reinvigorate the Dark Knight. He hardens, quick to resume his harsh pounding, forcing his hoodlum impossibly deeper into Nightwing’s throat.
It’s too much for the child to handle. Pressed between the Fae and It’s twisted creation, body and mind overtaken by the Batman, with a hoarse cry he cums and collapses. Nightwing moans, swallowing the mess as Bruce continues to push the limp body into his mouth.
Half the fun is gone now his new plaything is no longer singing and has relaxed into unconsciousness so he focuses on his Claim and forces the boy awake. With the cave once again echoing with song the Batman revels in his new possession, the impossibly tight press of his bloodied hole, the wailing moans of unwanted pleasure. He moves slower, drawing out each thrust to truly soak up each whimper and whine, the drag of torn velvet skin against his cock.
No light can reach the depths of the cave but his innate sense of celestial motion tells him the sun has begun to rise before he takes mercy on his boy and allows himself to spill his second load. He pulls out, letting the exhausted body drop into Nightwing’s arms, awareness gone the instant Bruce is no longer holding him awake.
He has his Wing lap the blood and cum off his shaft before shooing him back to his cage taking the hoodlum with him. Setting the scraps of ruined clothing that litter his cave aflame the Batman is struck with the thought that his new boy will need a new name now his distinctive hood has been burned away and Nightwing has conveniently outgrown his previous title.
“Robin,” he dubs the sleeping form of his new possession. Nightwing bristles at the stolen name but is cowed with a growl and a warning flare of power through their bond.
This new bird’s song may be a different tune but he sung just as sweetly. He may adjust the bones later to make the cage more suited to two but for the moment his birds look so nice piled on top of each other, naked flesh twined together.
Bruce leaves the pair in the cage meant for one and returns to his nest of shadows, the smell of blood and sex and the promise of making his new Robin sing again ushering him to sleep as the sun rises higher.