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Chapter Text

One could hope dying once would kill enough of his fucking biology to at least redeem him sterile. One fucking perk! Was that so much to ask for?

Another wave of pain racked his lower abdomen, and made him grunt at the same time his fist punched in the skull of the last low ranking drug dealer who had tried to play funny with the omega workers of crime alley. At least the satisfying crack of bone breaking, was somewhat rewarding in the face of the last fucking shit in Jason's life.

Finally, the guy fell to the ground among his other four peers, unconscious and looking at a few months worth of rehabilitation with as many fractures as Hood had inflicted.

Just a warning really.

These ones had been terrorizing the omega workers of his territory for an abusive percentage of their earnings, but not real damage whatsoever. Only reason they were getting out alive, should they make a second attempt they would be arriving at the hospital inside a plastic bag.

And damn, now that the fight was over, the symptoms were making themselves better known, overpowering the adrenaline and battle rage to make his whole body ache, and the air inside the helmet seem oppressive, no matter the filtration system installed.

Fuck his freaking life.

He toyed with the idea of taking out his stash from one of the discrete pockets on his leather jacket, and downing at least two tablets of suppressants dry. However, much the Bats liked to accuse Jason of lacking any self-survival instincts whatsoever, he wasn't really into endeavors which could potentially cripple him for life… or plunge him into madness as was the case, at least not when there were not criminal organizations involved.

He had already surpassed the supposedly safe limit of three months suppressed heaths around nine months ago, toeing the line of the possible consequences, such as infertility, seizures, and his favorite, heat denial mental breakdown with all the perfect care of a bullhead.

Yet, however a pro he was at denying his own bodily urges, this time his pre-symptoms were getting so noticeable even in the very early stage he was supposed to be at, Jason knew he had pushed too damn far.

So screw his fucking "work", but Red Hood would have to trust matters into his second hand man for a week or so worth of stuffing himself with fake cock.

Roy better take care of the gang war brewing between the new drug Lord trying to ascertain his position in the docks, and the old Guy not so happy with a newbie taking a chunk of his particular cake.
Hood had been keeping the hostilities out of the streets, by means of demonstrating quite "clearly" what happened to those who started a gunfight in a place where innocent people could get shot. But… When the cat isn't home, mouses get to play.

So yeah, better make the situation crystal clear. Not that he didn't trust the beta, as he was one of the very few he considered friends and a lethal sniper with a bow, but, the redhead could be easily distracted from duty by… Well, many things really.

He got out of the small smelly alley they had been at, and marched down the darkened streets in search of his motorbike, signaling the calling feature of his helmet, rabidly aware of the sweat dampening his hair and skin, beneath metal, cotton, kevlar and leather, and the pain radiating from his lower abdomen to slowly cramp its way up his back, and down the muscles of his thighs.

The kevlar chafed against his chest, further irritating Jason as he called Roy, his niples getting so sensitive now, that he knew soon he would start getting wet in ways he would much rather not experience outside his safest hideout.

"What the.. Jay, it's four of the fucking morning." answered a somewhat groggy male voice, raspy from sleep and irritation.

"And hello to you too sunshine." Jason smiled crookedly, satisfied at least he wasn't the only one bearing a shitty night.

"I hope you know I really hate you." Roy huffed, but his words held no reall heat, and his voice had started to pitch barely into the octave Jason knew meant his friend was actually worried "It's something the matter?"

Better not to beat around the bush.

"Listen," he cut, serious "I will have to take a few days off, maybe a week, Could you keep an eye in my territory until I get back?"

There was some more scuffing on the phone that meant the redhead must be getting out of bed.

"Are you hurt? Do you need my help?" Roy asked, all grogginess having fled his words, replaced by the sharp clarity the sniper was known for.

And dam if the beta's strong and matter of fact tone didn't go straight through Jason's spine, making him shiver just a hair. He was really, really fucked, if such a nimious stimuli could affect him.

"No." He gritted his teeth, frustrated with his own flawed biology. "Everything's peachy, just need a few days for some "joyful" time." Jason nearly hissed, because yea, really, TV advertisements and soap operas could praise the ever loving fuck out of being and omega, and experiencing great world shattering heats all they wanted, but any self-conscious one out there would tell you it was all bullshit.

No orgasm, great it might be, could compensate for the very real threat of losing one's liberty. Heats made omegas too vulnerable, easy prey for forced bonding to happen, and justice didn't protect the victims all it should, no matter what self entitled alfas wished to sprout.

Another failure in the system. Another reason expeditious intervention was needed.

"Man, that's awful." God bless Harper for his sharp mind, catching everything with just those few words. "Are you stashed for the time being? I could run a few errands and drop them at your safest in thirty." He offered.

"No need, I'm all set," Jason declined with a barely there huff of ill hidden warm at the beta´s aptitude "just take care of my rounds. The usual, nothing too much; The drug dealers I told you about, remember to keep an eye on them, let's they decide come out to play, but yeah, that's that."

"Ok, don't worry. Call if you need anything, you heard me?" Such a mother hen.

Jason huffed affectionately.
"Yeah, you worrywart, see you next week."

The call disconnected just when he finally arrived at the darkened corner where his motorbike waited, throwing his leg over the sleek metal frame to straddle it….
The sudden rush of having something big and hard, stashed between his thighs, short circuited his nerves like lighting, arching his back and dragging a breathy groan through his throat, his chuckles becoming white around the handlebars during the second it took for the Red Hood to reign himself in line with a few colorful curses.

Furious at himself, the vigilant speed down the street like fire was at his heels.



Chapter Text

It's barely been a day and a half since he sequestered himself into his safest hideout; a small house at the outskirts of Gotham.

Quiet neighbourhood, residential, families and dogs, and cared for parks. So boring, not a place one would think to search for an infamous vigilante with a penchant for killing, and one Jason didn't visit often.

The one floor so normal house was supposed to remain as secret as possible, away from his usual hunting grounds. A safe haven from when shit really did hit the fan.

And damn, did it hit this time.

He feels like shit, pained, tired, strung taunt and so damn sensitive, he can barely tolerate the rough fabric of his own bed sheets beneath his naked body. Clothes stopped being an option yesterday morning, when he got awoken from his much deserved after patrol sleep by cramps so hard, he had to swallow down half a dozen painkillers before it got bearable enough to try sleeping again… only for his skin to start crawling.

After that, sleep and clothes became a long lost hope, along with the wish this fucking heat would pass quickly and leave him be.

A day and a half and it was still building, the pain that had started at his lower abdomen growing to take hold of his whole freaking anatomy, firing up nerves, tensing muscle into iron cords, and dampening his skin and hair with furnace hot sweat.

Even so, he was accustomed to pain, knew how to take it, how to use it to fuel his own drive, pain was not the problem here, it was the fucking sensitivity.

His skin felt like damn paper tissue, so thin and raw any brush was a goddamn torture. And yet, as horny as he felt, as needy, he wasn't getting hard, not damp like he should be. Like any omega into heat should, and had he been an ordinary one he might have been worried, but no, Jason had never been an omega in the usual sense.

Too big, too aggressive, too independent, so of course not even his heats would fall into the expected line.

Since his very first, the final climb to his actual heat had always been a tortuous experience of building up pain, thirst, need, until it all came to a excruciating peak of rapture that finally did erald the start of the actual heat; a few days worth of near madness sex drive, until it all calmed down again.

But this time, the build up was not reaching any peak, it just continued getting worse and worse.

And it hurt so damn fucking much.

His insides were scorching hot, dry heaving with need, and he still wasn't… He Wasn't…

It had never taken so long.

Jason twisted with a grunt, reaching out tiredly for the bottle of painkillers in the nightstand, the brush of sweat damp sheets breaking a new wave of goosebumps on his already over sensitive skin. For a second he couldn't even open the small plastic container, his fingers trembling around the cap. How pathetic was that? He felt disgusting, the whole situation did.

Damn cursed heats.

He gulped down two tablets, not even bothering with the water bottle next in line at the table, letting himself fall back against the pillow with the very vague hope of maybe this time being able to fall asleep, and hopefully wake up when the build up did finally break into something that would actually feel at least good.

However, barely had his heavy head hit soft plushnes, eyes blissfully closed, when his phone started vibrating from its place at the bedside.

"Seriously?“ Jason croaked, cracking open one teal colored iris to glare at the offending object, feeling so, so tired and irritated, he had the idea of throwing the freaking device against the wall and be done, when he saw the ID flashing on the screen.


He grabbed the phone to his ear.

"What's happened?" Not even a greeting from Red Hood. There was not need when they both knew she wouldn't be calling if there was any other option.

"Hood" Just a word.

She didn't waste time either, her voice so sharp as to cut steel, racking his eardrums and making Jason tremble so hard he had to grit his teeth just to keep the phone on his hand. It wasn't still the need to submit, he wasn't at his heat yet, but he was so close now it was a very near thing.

For a moment he had the impulse of cutting the line, get out, out, out, before anything else was said. A self protective instinct that got lost a second latter.

"Batman and Red are in for very bad news, need as much help as they can get, Nightwing is on his way too, but still nearly an hour out, you're the closest." Hood didn't even blink at the implication she had him tracked, she was Oracle, it was expected.

"What are they facing?“ he asked, voice gone hoarse with tension. If it would be something he could trust into Roy's hands, he wouldn't need to abandon his nest (as pathetically bare it was, not even a cloth piece of his friend on it), so near his heat.

"Joker has taken Robin" Four words.

"Send the coordinates to my hub"



Chapter Text

“I'm connecting it to our system, you will have live info on his position."-Oracle doesn't waste time, the sound of fast fingers on the keyboard already on the background.

“Robin's tracker is still on?“ Jason asks darkly through clenched teeth, already knowing the answer.

There is a breath of tense silence, and when her response comes is as strained as his question.

" Yeah."

Because Joker might seem chaos, but he is terrifically intelligent, and this, this is a trap. Cause the brat's tracker still staying on after being taken by the clown? That's not casual.
That's deliberate.

It's a fucking neon sign.

The psycho clown´s way of issuing an invitation to “play”.

And they both know it.

“Will contact on the way” Jason nearly growls, and it's a fight just to end the exchange as calmly as he does.
The call disconnects with a brutal crack as the phone finally does hit the wall.

All his muscles scream with the sudden movement, skin tight, sweat beading down his temple and back, and fuck does it hurt, but at least it's just the burn out ache of heath and rage, and not the cold pain of the memories straining at his control; Those he keeps locked down into the darkest recesses of his mind.

(the tic tic tic of a clock counting down…)

He closes his hands into white knuckled fists, and manages to push the barely awakened image, back. Doesn't let himself even acknowledge it was there, grabs hold of the FURY that wants to consume him to keep it that way.

It's a fucking lose/lose move, the green rage wants to consume him as much as the past, but fucking dammit, he needs it, nearly wants to let it swallow him whole. Can already savour the savage calmness, devoid of any thinking, that would instill in him. How good would feel the after effects when coming back to his senses and finding the gutted corpse of the Joker at his feet.

However, there are reasons Jason maintains a tight leash on the part of himself affected by the Pit, knows the consequences of letting it rein free, too well. And if he lets fury control him now, the clown's body wouldn't be the only one there when it all ended.

So all be damned, but he is NOT going to be the cause of the demon spawn's death, be it by his hand in the confusing chaos of the battle, or by the Joker's, warned of his presence by coming in guns blazing and rage consumed.

Therefore he takes one final deep rumbling breath, fingernails pressing into the now sensitive skin of his palms (of his whole body, really), manages to seat the sharp teeth of his own blood lust, and turns the clever latch hidden at the juncture between wall and floor.

The wooden panels of half the bedroom part to reveal the hidden stash of weapons of this particular hideout.

He had stashed this place from when shit did really hit the fan.

Now, as he looks at the arsenal available, Hood's glad for the insight.



He comes to his senses fast, but keeps his breathing slow and even, eyes closed, body lose into the restraints he can feel tightly keeping his arms tied at his back, and to what must be the chair he's sitting in. A barely there taunten of his leg muscles, reveals they are similarly bound.

The air smells fresh, damp, and yet he can distinguish the dusty scent of cement powder, so it's likely he's at an open construction site. However, what truly irritates Damian's sensitive nose is the lingering stench of at least a dozen other alphas. As expected of the Joker, who much prefers them for his subordinates, with the sole exception of Queen, his alleged omega.

A petty title for a pathetic woman that had more in common with a lap dog than with an omega, even in this weak western country, where they were supposed to be little more than pretty accessories for their masters.


Could she still be called one when the clown had not even scented her?

He hears the scuffle of soes on concrete a second before a hand grabs him by his short hair, and drags his head up, long nails racking his scalp.

"A, there, there, little bird, you awake now?" the voice is playful and oddly empty, unsettling, much like its owner. However, he refuses to be affected by such obvious tactics.

Damian opens his eyes to coldly gaze at the Joker hovering over him through the domino mask still in place.

The lanky devil looks as manic as expected, green, nearly luminescent eyes wide and sharp, focused on his every move, smile painted a gaudy red of very prominent teeth. He studies Damian like he is prey.

An error he's all willing to teach the clown about, the moment he gets an opening. He inhales intuitively, trying to catch any hint in his enemy's scent.

Still as close as he is, he doesn't even smell the clown, but that was not so strange even if slightly infuriating, seeing as the psychopath has barely any scent whatsoever and the place is full with the odours of others.

Here it is why and alpha shouldn't bred with another of the same kind.

Damian knows his alleged "brothers" believe him self-entitled and most possibly a sexist, but here he is, facing the very argument of his; a creature with all the viciousness an alpha is capable of, and no protective drive to temper it whatsoever.

A pitiful thing bereft of its own scent, incapable of smelling others the way it should, driven to the very edge of society by its shortcomings, and in the end a monster.

There is a reason alpha to alpha pregnancies are so rare and difficult to carry to term. There is a reason his mother had to tamper with genetics for his very own conception, lest he be born faulty from the two alphas siring him.

It hadn't been the case. Mother made an excellent work; Damian is more than faultless, he is improved in both sense of smell and instincts. However the exception does not invalidate the rule.

As if to give credit to his point, he feels the press of a blade to the neck of his Robin uniform.

"Seems to me you are thinking toooooo much" green tresses bounce around a bony white face, as the singsong goes on, "let's make you some less mooooody."

And so the play begins.


Getting dressed is a torture on it's own, made only bearable because he is so fucking pissed pain and sensitivity barely register. What does register, the moment he starts downing kevlar and leather from the racks, it's the sweat beading on his skin.

He is drenched, thin layer of dampness covering his very hot body (damn he is gonna fry inside his usual gear) and matting his hair like hes a fucking race horse at the end of the line. Usually and before a mission, Jason would be taking a shower and applying spray scent blockers, just like any other bat.

Just like B. That's one of the first lessons any Robin learns to implement, hide your designation, make yourself smelless, and you would not only better protect your identity, but actually be fucking untraceable, and with the appropriate training, become a shadow your enemies won't see coming until it's too late.

Jason looks at the clock hanging on the wall, it's already been 5 minutes since Oracle called…
"Fucking dammit!“

Damian doesn't have all that much time, but neither can he go in stinking of omega in heat, no matter Jason wasn't technically at it yet, he knew how he smelled at the moment… or could he?

A crazy idea starts taking root.

Everyone knew the Joker's sense of smell was nearly non-existent, and he liked to surround himself with alpha goodies when he decided some minions were in order.

Alphas that would be utterly distracted by the enticing aroma of an omega in heat… a risky tactic, as they would try to take him down in ways much crueler than a mere bullet could get. His stealth maneuverability would be much reduced too, and he himself would be sensitive to their scents as well, could be pushed into true heat by the presence of too many alphas, and into a kind of vulnerability Jason's not sure he can overcome all that easily.

But maybe with the filters inside the helmet blocking his sense of smell… he could actually pull this crazy thing.

"Only one way of knowing, yeah?"


Chapter Text


By the time he comes down to the garage, helmet in hand, Jason is as prepared as he could get with the shitty circumstances they had been dealt; sniper rifle strapped at his back, pair of glocks on the holsters under his armpits (not his usual easier to drag from, thigh ones, but he doesn't kid himself on his ability to wear those at the moment), and another dozen surprises, pack his jacket's lining, boots and belt.

It will get nasty if he has to use some of those, but Hood is past the point of giving a fuck.

His bike waits where it got parked nearly two days ago, next to the bench clustered with second hand mechanical pieces he mostly uses for repairs. So it shouldn't have been so much a surprise punch to the nose, when the stench of oil and grease hit him, the second he came near.

Nausea tries to turn his stomach, but there is nothing there to expulse save the two tablets he took half an hour ago, and those he fights to keep down.

Will need them.

Grunting, Jason downs the helmet fast and hard, instantly breathing better into the filtered air, as the hud powers up with a nearly non-existent whine.

For a second there, he acknowledges the smell shouldn't have affected him as much a it did, same as with the pain still racking his muscles, and the building need that continues taking momentum.
The symptoms are only getting worse the longer it takes for his heath to kick start.

(Still soft, dry where he should be damp, and fucking drenched everywhere else, so hot its like boiling inside out.)

Fucking dammit!

He will worry about the infuriating cycle once the demon spawn is back at the Bat's nest, and hopefully the Joker two feet underground, (unlikely with Bruce involved, but one can only dream).

Makes a last check of the gear, better adjusting the strap of the rifle, and knowing what's coming, braces for the rush of instinct when mounting the sleek steel frame, internally cursing the day he decided buying a bike instead of a car was such a good idea, (even if he does love the shitty piece of tech).

It's worse than last time.

His spine groans under the force of the arch it wants to bend into, whole body shuddering, trembles violently for a moment, and it's like someone has put a fork to his intestines and is trying work them like spaghetti.

"Fuck, fuck, JODER!"

The pain is excruciating.

Need ricochets up a few noks, and it's about the most twisted roller coaster of; wanna fuck and my insides are melting not in the nice way. With the fanfuckingtastic addition of, as desert dry as he is, feeling like a burn where he sits on the saddle.

A new sheet of sweat breaks across his flesh, as Jason dry heaves, managing a second time, in as many minutes, to keep the painkillers down. Suddenly grateful he hadn't been eating at all since the night before.

So fucking weak now, he won't be much help even if he manages to arrive on time.

The second that thought blossoms in his brain, Jason reels back growling.

There are THINGS Jason does not do, letting the Joker have any shoot at another Robin, being up there in the top 1, alongside any kind of rapist walking out alive on his watch.

The notion of what could happen, of what is likely already happening, makes him see green, has the rage that had subsided as he got prepped, resurfacing.

It's enough to push instinct back. Teeth clenched so hard they chatter, as Jason makes himself straighten, hands around the handlebars so tense, they might have broken the metal, had they had enough strength.

Finally, the door of the garage opens at his helmet's command, letting him leave behind the small house as he speeds down the quiet residential neighborhood, bare of anyone at this time of night,(proper citizens go early to bed), as advantageous now, as it was when he arrived nearly two days ago.

Even if someone came awake by the roaring of the engine, no one would have the time to make it to a window and see the crime lord speed past them, and into Gotham proper, before he's already gone.

They will blame some punk kid.

Under the first neon lights of the city razing past, Red Hood chases down the blinking point in the map of his hud.


Pain is understandable, pain is base, easy to account for, leash and control. He knows all there is to know of it. Mother made sure, way before he was released into his father's pack.

Therefore, this should be nothing, something to bear until he either scapes, or father comes to his aid.

In the meantime he takes stock of the rooms occupants; the Joker, not far away, working on something at a side table, pushed against one of the only two finished walls of the space under construction they are at, and Quinn, having arrived not long after the clown started his play, attentively bend at his side. The alphas he knows by smell must be somewhere in the vicinity, are not visible.

There is little else at hand.

He has already observed a square drop of some hundred meters at his right (most surely for an elevator in the near future), a tangle of exposed pipes and support beams above, and what appears to be some docen small rooms in various degrees of completion around them, offices most likely.

When he manages to evade the bindings, he would have places to use as cover (stealthy as he is), that is, as long as his injuries don't pose much of a liability.

There's warm trailing down his now bare torso, riluets he knows to be blood, falling from the ragged places where the serrated knife cut through armour and into flesh, as the clown worked to remove the top of his Robin's uniform.

Some of the cuts are deep, but not near enough vital points, or bleeding so heavily, as to warrant concern.

Friction burns he can track to where the ropes cut too tight against skin. Expected, as he works slowly into freeing himself.
Joker, or one of his goons, might have taken his globes before tying him when unconscious, removing with them Damian's carefully hidden blades, but it's wishful thinking that such a thing would manage to keep an Al Ghoul down.

He is trained to scape much harsher confinement, even if it will take time to remove the bindings.

The most pressing matter are his arms, slowly getting numb from cut blood circulation. That could get slightly problematic, if he finds himself unable to react as fast and precisely as needed when he does manage to cut lose. Hence why he lets himself stir some, flexing into the bonds as to retain mobility, as subtly as he can manage.

It might look like nervous fidgeting from a outsider.

No sooner has he thought this, that the grating little singsong the psychopath had been humming all the way, stops, and his lanky figure abandons what he was fiddling with on the table to stalk over, this time a syringe in hand, until he stops barely a feet away.

In his position, tied to a chair, Damian has to lean his head back, just to catch the unsettling gaze directed his way.

It's annoying.

He bows to break both the clowns legs, so he experiences the delightful pleasure of having to bend his neck so, just to look at his grin.

"So, now that you are feeling less moody birdie, let's speak about why you're here, shall we?" the clown's voice grats, full as it comes of false syrupy care. Long neck gracefully twisted to the side to better observe Damian.
His resemblance to a two legded feline is remarcable, yet unwelcome. Damian likes cats, he does not appreciate the aberration studying him. Less so when it's evident it means to inject him with the dubious substance on hand.

He squints some, trying to assess what could possibly contain the crystal tube, but its very light bluish colour doesn't reveal much.

"Now, now, not spoiling the surprise baby bird." the psychopath tuts at him, as to a recalcitrant kit. Damian might be young, but he is not child, has the blood on his hands to prove his passing of age. The platitudes unnerve him now as much as they do when coming from western, spoiled omegas, at his father's parties.

Even so, a deprecating;
"Tt" it's all he offers.

Doesn't see the use of giving words to a lunatic.

Predictably, the psychopath doesn't take it well. His lips twist some, and his pupils contract into tween needlepoints of coldness.

"Seems to me Bats didn't teach you manners." he speaks contemplatively, looking at Damian like he's nothing but raw matter to play. "Must be all the work, with catching criminals and taking care of so many chicks. Nowadays it's like he can't stop collecting Robins." purses his obscenous red lips in mock concern, and touches one long purple painted nail to his waxy cheek.
Then, suddenly, a cruel smile opens itself across the white face, blooming like a crimson knife."Then so, why don't we help Batsy take care of his nest? I believe what he needs is a nice omega his baby birds can imprint to. If only we had one… Oh, but we do, don't we? Harley dear?" he looks at his back, and on clue the blonde omega bounces to her alphas side, all smiles of adoration and light feet.

Even from across the room, before coming near, she had smelled much too sweet, clogging, evident the use of scent enhancers. So strong the sick sirupy aroma, it masks any other subtleties to the point he can't even tell her state of mind, (details of surrounding people he usually finds easy to distinguish), and now that she has come near, the stench racks Damian's sensitive nose with its artificiality.


An omega's scent should never be so debased.

Even her voice is much too forced, pinched high and too childish.
"Yess munchkin?" she asks her alpha.

Damian feels the snarl he has been containing, as to avoid being much noticed when working to gain freedom, nearly tear his stoick scowl.

Thankfully she doesn't seem to have eyes for anything but the clown, and he too seems now some distracted, looking at her with noticeable less care (if there is such thing as care in the monster at all).

"I believe you asked for a pup some time back?“ Joker intones.

Damian's blood runs suddenly cold.

Quinn smiles whole heartedly.
"Yes, pudding. Have you thought about it then?" She sounds so hopeful nausea clenches Damian's insides.

Surely he is not thinking of…surely they won't…

The mere idea makes his skin crawl.

"Yeah, yeah, I did. Well, this one is a little older than you wanted, I know, but beggars and all that"

Quinn nearly squeals with delight.

Suddenly a claw like hand buries itself in his nape's short hair, twisting his head savagely back. The cold point of the needle touches his neck.
"There now, birdie." Joker croons, so bend above him, his breath touches his face."Say hi, to your new mama."

Damian bares his teeth and snarls, his hands nearly free now.



The place turns out to be a skyscraper under construction, in one of those shitty neighborhoods of Gotham that someone thought would be nice to recuperate.
Push all the old, starved for better, residents, out, and tear everything down, in order to built a new set of shiny crystal and metal blocks of assholery.

Great, truly beautiful.

One of this days Jason should press his very idea of what recuperating should be, right into the cranium of one of the premium assholes responsible. The notion, however, is a fleeting thing, fast forgotten in the chaotic feverish haze of motion at arrival.

By then, adrenaline and green battle rage have pretty much taken over his mindset, and his body's demands can go fuck themselves for all he's willing to cater to them. Brain changing gears every few seconds, as he contemplates strategies, different sceneries coming to the forefront, and others being discarded.

After hiding his bike into a dark dead end, he makes himself climb to the roof of an old decrepit building, barely two storeys tall, across the street from the site.
It's a good enough vantage point from witch to stalk the situation, once the infrared vision on his helmet is activated.

"Let's see how many fuckers he's brought"

A dozen or so figures appear as red smears on various points across the building, seemingly prepared for some nasty surprise. However, a congregation of three of them in the upper levels catches his attention; there's one seemingly seated, and actually smaller than the rest. His hud helpfully blinks with the signal of Robin's tracker.

"Got you little brat." he murmurs activating the comm. "O, I'm on site."

She doesn't take a second to answer, voice still tense above the ongoing sound of fast tipping taking the background.
"Good. I have taken control of all cameras in the vicinity, if I see something worthwhile you will know." This time her voice doesn't affect him as much, maybe because of the adrenaline, maybe cause of something else entirely. Jason doesn't let himself contemplate the unexpected lucky patch, just rolls with it.

"Nice. Tell the Bats there's a dozen shitheads on site, and two more in the upper levels, where it's supposed to be Robin," Won't put pass the clown to just have cut out the tracker, and left someone else to spring the trap. But the idea does lack the dramatics he usually prefers, so let's hope that's actually the demon spawn and not someone else sitting his place."most likely those two are Joker and Queen."

"Got it, but would be easier if all of you shared the same comm line. Less chance of someone encountering something they shouldn't have because I have to run contact." she asks again.

It's not the first time Babs has suggested sharing info between them, instead of through her, but Jason is realistic. If he has to hold a conversation with the santactimonous Bats, they would devolve into a fight one minute in. That not taking into account the Bat itself. And hey, he does like the tacit deal they have going now, where everyone remains in their territories, and no one minds anyone's business, as long as he keeps the dead count to a minimum and they can't be tracked to him.

It's a win win all around, so no, he won't be talking to them, less than ever now; A few of the most intense alphas of Gotham talking business in his ear so near his heat.. Sure, fuck it, That's not gonna happen.

The only reason he's here is because the magnitude of the threat warrants it, and that's that.

"Sorry but no can do"
There's a short moment of near silent rest on the comm, where Jason thinks she must have been sighing.

"As you wish." She intones, and he knows it means she's letting it pass cause there's pressing matters to attend to, but that she has made note of it, and will most likely nag Hood about his lack of communication in the near future.


There is a support beam good enough for his grappling gun on sight.

"I'm going in. Remind the Bats to wear their filter masks." he presses and cuts the line.
Lets them think its because of the possibility of Joker toxin, and not Jason's own pheromones running rampant. Last thing he wants now, is for them to catch fact of his heat, before he has the chance to end this. Hopefully, by then, the Bats will just be arriving on place, preferably after Jason has already run back to his nest.


Chapter Text


It happens smoothly, so much so they don't see it coming until it's already too late.

Nightwing is in Bludhaven when Batman and Robin get a call about a Scarecrow attack.
They rush over, filtering mask on, to a mob already running across the streets of the commercial district, some trying to escape their own invisible monsters, others trying to leave the infected zone.
Cars crass against one another to avoid the bystanders getting on the road.

It's utter chaos.

Thankfully the batmobile holds a stash of generic toxin antidotes they can use, a mix of neutralizers best delivered into the bloodstream. Should be enough for the ones affected.

Only problem is how the infected are hurting themselves and others in the frenzy of hallucinations, too irrational for the injection to be easily administered.

Under the circumstances Batman calls Red Robin in, when in the middle of his own patrol, to help get them all before anyone is seriously wounded, or manages to get away, where, left for the venom to wear down on its own, could lose their minds permanently.

The three of them separate in order to work faster, all the way trying to locate Scarecrow, the supposed culprit, who must had been around, but hadn't made an appearance until then.

A perfect chain of events, so smoothly planned, not even Tim saw it coming until half an hour in.


(Tim Drake)

Tim notices Damian's silence on the comm ten minutes into their solo efforts, but at the moment he's too occupied wrestling innocent people into forcibly administered medication, to think anything of it.

The break is even welcome.
Joined missions with Batman and Robin always leave him feeling raw, since the insufferable teen has made habit of diminishing anything Tim related, again and again, until he either risks losing his temper, or just walks away. That's not taking into account how he acts at the manor.

Damian's jealousy over him is something sharp, vicious, and it doesn't look about to abate anytime soon.

It's exhausting.

So the oddness of radio silence doesn't even register as worrying until fifteen minutes later, when he asks about Robin's situation, and the brat doesn't answer.

By then Tim knows something is wrong. Scarecrow is a perfectionist who plan's well beforehand, his schemes are terrifying but always seamlessly brought to life. And this chaos that is taking place? Doesn't have any discernible pattern.

It's not like the fired university teacher, and that, alongside Damian's silence…

He warns both O and B, but then Scarecrow finally decides to make a furious appearance, and all of them know for sure something is up.

The old psychologist comes rabid at them, laughing raucously, barely coherent.

His suspicions turn from worrying, to downright blaring alarms, and he hopes for all it's worth this is not "someone" else's hand on play.

A chill rakes Red's guts as Batman throws himself into battling the new threat, and he takes over containing and medicating the affected mob. A seamless move born from the years of working together.

Doesn't need to look at Bruce to know he's thinking as Tim, reaching the same dreadful conclusions, can already tell by the tension on his shoulders, and the way his hits gets sharper, careful, as if he's consciously controlling himself to not inflict more than the necessary pain.

Red remembers the Batman after Jason's death, doesn't want to get to know the one that will turn out, if Damian gets killed.

So he works, wrestles people, administers injections, stops the ones that try to escape without treatment, and waits for Barbara to investigate Robin's whereabouts, as the confrontation between Batman and Scarecrow becomes tricky against an opponent that is not easy to read or anticipate. Mind sharp, attentive, to any help he could offer, and whichever noise coming from the comm.

"Please" he thinks "Let it be anyone else, anyone but him"

But when O contacts them five minutes latter, her voice hard as steel, he already knows...

"Robin's tracker is out, so I hacked the nearby traffic cameras. Managed to get what happened to him."


Into the screen, the grainy recording of a darkened alley corner replays.

Robin's limp body being dragged away, a dark tall shadow, and just before leaving the field of vision, for a second, a sadistic curve of crimson lips.

Barbara's blood feels icy.

"Joker has taken him."



He comes in through the third floor of the skyscraper, finished enough to hold some cover in the form of under construction halls and rooms, but not so much so, as to actually have a facade.
Landing without anything to break on the way in, and with the training he has had for two lives now, his arrival is silent as a shadow, even in combat boots, and gives him the advantage of surprise.

At least for now, Jason's not stupid enough to believe his presence will go unnoticed for longer than a few minutes. Not in a place without air filters. Hell, not even complete walls to hinder his spreading pheromones. He's drenched in sweat under leather and body armour, it's a wonder they don't come looking for him a minute in.

There are reasons an omega in heat doesn't leave his nest, apart from the obvious ones. The pheromones they let out are, literally, an advertisement for "Here, horny omega, please Fuck." But it's just that, a natural warning for possible suitors, and a call for their own pack when in one. So yeah, people knows, but they are not forced to respond, to do anything at all.

And yet, there are always shitheads who don't care all that much about controlling themselves. After all, if you are out in such a state, well, should have known better, shouldn't you, bitch?

Jason is counting on the ones here being some of those. All in all there is just a few types of fucks, desperate, or crazy enough, to work for the clown, and none of them are the self-restrained kind.

His lips twist darkly under his helmet, as the first set of footsteps come his way.



(Tim Drake)

He manages to administer the antidotes efficiently, leaves people unconscious, carefully put out of the way. But even if he makes a sizable dent on the number of infected, there's still people trapped into the cars that had been involved in the multiple accidents along the road.

Desperately they try to leave by any means necessary, breaking windshields from the inside, racing past… but with the toxin present in the air… Running just makes the venom pump faster through lungs and into the bloodstream. And the number of shots the has left is running low.

He keeps track of the fight between Scarecrow and Batman in fits and spurts. It's like seeing B go against a rabid nightmare. No matter what he hits, or how he does it, the other doesn't even seem to notice. It's evident the only way to put him down will be to leave the ex-profesor unconscious, but B is having trouble pinning him in place long enough for it.

He's too rushed, not taking proper advantage of the openings left. O's words affected him too much. And Tim can't help, needs to keep trying to contain the spread of the toxin.

Red can't but think Joker's plan must be this, Batman and Red Robin trapped in one place, unable to leave, to help, as he works whatever scheme on Robin.


Damian could be dying, or worse. Tim read Jason's death's report, shaw the photos…
Something sits heavy on his stomach. He doesn't like the demon spawn, more than once has wished him gone, but not this way, not at the hands of the same psychopath that killed and gutted all Jason was as Robin, (so fierce, bright, and good in all the ways Tim believes matter) and into a kind of monster.

If he could turn Jason into the Red Hood, what could he do with a kid that's already halfway into a serial killer?

They need to get to Damian.

O contacts them ten minutes later; Robin's tracker is somehow back on. Maybe he had been in an insulated place, and now whatever the reason, he's not.
Doesn't matter.

She's called Nightwing back at Bludhaven, time of arrival, one hour out. Insufficient, too much can happen in sixty minutes. Steph and Cas aren't even in the country, taking a mission halfway across the world.

Tim feels himself tense with every minute that passes since, doesn't let himself keep count of them, focuses on the mission, on getting it done as fast they can.

Then, suddenly, Oracle's voice comes again through the comms, hard as steel;
"I'm bringing Hood in" is a statement, not a question.

Batman falters for a second, catches a punch with the mouth, but goes on like nothing, his next hit lands fast and too hard, and has Scarecrow scrambling to stay upright. He answers through the comm calmly, but Tim can see the tell-tales…

"No." Batman decrees, "Leave Hood out of this"

Understandable, and under other circumstances Red would have agreed. Jason is more stable now, than he was a year ago, kills only in a very few truly shitty cases, keeps the darkest part of Gotham more or less steady, quarantined, and guards himself away from the family like he himself is some kind of disease that could spread into them, or maybe the disease are them, and he's the one trying to keep himself clean. Whatever the case, it's rare the moment one of them catches eye of the elusive rogue.

He's uncharted territory, they don't know him, don't know how he will react if found in the same room as the Joker. He could lose it again, recede into the madness of the Pit. Was it worth the possibility of losing two Robins to the clown, just to maybe, at that is a big if, resque one?

But if they don't manage to take Damian back, whatever comes to be of Bruce won't be pretty. Batman already overcame Jason's death once, can do it a second time. However, his own blood son's…

Barbara seems to think the same.

"I already did, he's on his way."

Tim cuts any possible answer.
"What's done it's done B, let's just finish this up and go help them."




Suddenly a claw like hand buries itself in his nape's short hair, twisting his head savagely back. The cold point of the needle touches his neck.
"There now, birdie." Joker croons, so bend above him, his breath touches his face."Say hi, to your new mama."

Damian bares his teeth and snarls, his hands nearly free now.


The injection penetrantes his neck fast and savage, and as the cold contents enter his bloodstream, Damian finally breaks his arms free.

He lashes out fast as the snake mother made him, strikes the clown on the wrist that holds the injection, tears the syringe from his own trachea, and tries to stab it into the aberration's left eye. However the clown is swift too, more than he thought, more than Damian can keep up with with his legs still bound to the chair.

His attack misses the poisonous green iris by a hair, racks the needle across one cheekbone spraying blood across his chuckles.
It's not enough.
He should had been able to inflict a fatal wound with the enemy as near as the monster had been.

Mother would be disappointed.

It's but a second of a thought, but the shock that tears through his insides is immediate. Something soft splits were there shouldn't be any give left, and it's like he's three again, fallen in the cold stone floor of the training room, beaten, tired, hurt, and doesn't understand why mother is not helping.
A whine builds at the very back of his throat, one he manages to strangle between his clenched teeth.

Dread, as he confirms what he suspected, turns his blood into ice.

This is no venom, it's a medical concoction for orphaned tilfs (babies), mean to make them receptive to accepting a new omega as their nurturing mother. Small ones need scenting and contact as much as feeding and care, but as they can instinctively recognize their birth mother (something ingrained into their smell memory even before being born), they don't always take well to a new caretaker beyond those of their pack. And when there is no pack, no mother left…

Many a kit has died by refusing to be feed by an estranged one, even when adoption, or instituted care, could be provided.
Therefore, in time medications to atone for the issue had been developed. Those that kick start the ingrained instinct of bonding usually reserved for newborns. A cocktail of overbearing hormones resembling the levels a kit would experience inside the womb, that allow for imprinting on the one that offers scent and contact enough.

It's mean for very small kits, not beyond a year of age, the consequences on an older one whose scent glands has already fully developed… The consequences on himself… He could very well die from the shock to his system…Lose his mind in the crash of his leveled hormones against the artificial ones introduced. Or… If it works as it should on a tilf…

The moment of distress induced instronspection, costs Damian much; He doesn't react in time as a hard kick lands on his chest, sends him and the chair skidding to the floor.

Landing against concrete is brutal, takes all the air from his lungs, leaves him heaving, slightly dizzy… Too dizzy, and getting worse by the second. Quinn's too syrupy scent pounds against his brain like a drum… makes him retch, were before it had only been nausea. He manages to keep his stomach contents in, but vomiting is a very near thing.

He feels shick, knows it's not from the hit, even if he took it bare chested. The shot it's acting too fast, he's already getting aftershocks barely seconds into being drugged.

A sudder racks his whole body, feels too hot, yet clammy, knows the start to a fever. Needs to get away before this really does kill him. Doesn't let himself contemplate the alternative. It doesn't bear thought.

He WILL break free.

In a split second Damian registers his ribs as bruised, his cranium aching where he landed, the syringe broken on his hand, leaving glass shards struck on his flesh. He can use those, the pain he discards.

The clown stalks over quick as no one he has known before, so Damian racks the bigger shard of glass on his hand across the ropes on his legs. The movement is ugly, if not for the reinforced material of his Robin uniform there would have been tears on his flesh. It doesn't matter as long as he can get up.

Does so the same instant the clown closes in, and has the distinct feeling that, had the other wanted, he could have taken Damian before he managed as much.

The psycho is playing with him, much like a predator with wounded prey. He does not appreciate the role.

The second the monster is near enough, he lashes out.


Chapter Text


It's too damn easy.

He waits, rifle set, hidden by the shadows of an unfinished wall, as the alpha comes around the corner of the hall; a tall male, even if not as tall as Jason, with black greasy hair that hasn't seen a shower in days, wide somewhat muscled shoulders, and a pouch-like stomach.

Seriously, the quality of goons nowadays is going down the drain.

Doesn't improve his assessment that the fucker comes at his hiding place glassy eyed, murmuring stupid shit like: "There, there little babe, come out. I will take soooo good care of you." and already straining hard on his jeans.

That's fucking pathetic on a whole new level...Was the guy drugged? He looked high enough to start talking to the walls any second now.

At least now he's near enough, Jason recognizes the lump of a gun hidden on the belt under the shirt at the alpha's lower back, along a curious set of little purple devices hanging in a string from one of the belt holes. Those look like crystal. Nothing good comes out of crystal unidentified shit.

So maybe let's ask some questions.

The moment the man gets level with his hiding spot, Hood knocks him in the face with the butt of the rifle hard enough to break his nose, and maybe dislodge a tooth or two. Shitface goes down like nothing.

Jason doesn't waste time in zip tying his hands at the back, taking both gun and the string of crystal balls, before dragging the unconscious would-be rapist, into the shadows with him. Once secure again into the hidden spot, proceeds to palm him down in search of more weapons and communication devices.

Just a rundown phone comes out, a battered thing Hood doesn't waste time in dismantling and crushing under his boot, just to make absolutely sure.
By then, his catch had started stirring, so he does the "charitable" thing and pushes a hand against his mouth to keep the thug silent, as he draws out one of his wicked blades, crouched above the man's heavy belly.
Bleary eyes flutter open, irises kind of bluish, but watery, like fish, Jason expects them to widen in terror, but instead they remain unfocused, trained in him like magnets. Hungry and hazy. Yeah, definitely drugged. One can no longer even trust a thug to hold some professionalism.

On the other hand it could be an advantage if he's lucid enough to answer his questions, but not so much as to try lying.

Well then.

"Let's make things clear," he murmurs darkly, through the voice filtering of the helmet, "I will ask some questions, you will answer them, and if don't like what you have to say...." He puts the serrated edge into the alpha's lower belly, where the shirt had riled up over the overflowing fat, hinting at other, nearby, anatomy pieces. "Well," Hood continues, pressing against bulging flesh to extract the first, thin red line, of blood, "I'm very creative with the knife."

By then, the man's eyes are as terrified as he wants.




He goes for the legs, kicks low, seemingly intend on making the clown fall, remove the advantage he holds being taller and stronger than Damian. The movement makes his dizziness worse, his muscles buckle, but it's necessary, so he makes himself do.

The psycho ducks, fast.

That's what Damian had waited for.
Same moment the monster moves, he throws the bloody crystal shards on his hand, at his face, blinding him for a second, the second he calculates to kick the aberration's chest, hard enough to send him tumbling down the hundred meters drop of the lift tunnel, he had moved near to, when dodging Robin's first attack.

However, just as Damian draws back with all his strength, strike about to make contact, something blunt and much to heavy impacts forcefully against the side of his head, sending him to the ground limp as a rag doll, blackness stuttering his vision.

He had not expected Quinn, focused as he had been on the clown.

This time he can't hold in the vomit, barely manages to get on his side, so as not to choke on tonight's half-digested dinner, before emptying his stomach on the floor. Bile burns his trachea going out, makes him cough. He can no longer contain the tremors rocking his muscles…
He feels feverish, mind getting hazy…

Suddenly there is the clown's homega kneeling by him. Her enhanced artificial smell making the nausea worse, pulling whatever is left on his guts, forcefully out. The sense of WRONG so strong, his skull feels about to shatter.

"Oh my, are you okay sweetie?“ the syrupy falsetto accent makes him cringe, makes him shake harder. Something is breaking inside, and Damian feels powerless to prevent it."So sorry, baby, but you should obey papa. He knows best"

The words unnerve him, make him snarl, Quinn might sounds genuinely concerned, but she was the one to struck Damian with her hammer.

Then the madwoman dares put her hand on his hair.. . Her fingers too slim, her touch much too soft, to be that of mother's…

Suddenly it's like being engulfed by a raging inferno, his instincts scream, RAW, forcefully awakened. "WRONG, not mother!!", Damian snaps.

Grabs the intruder's wrist and twists, swift, brutal, bone grinds against bone, she screams…
The Joker kicks him in the back strong enough to crack ribs, takes what's left of his breath. Pain smooths the screech of Damian's instincts.

His hold on Quinn slacks, needs both hands to push against his ribs as he fights to inhale, so bone shards move as little as possible under his choked panting, and the worsening shivers that shake his muscles.
In the feverish moment, somehow, he registers the stickiness on his fingers, pressed into the still open wounds on his torso, and knows it as blood. He's distracted, dizzy…

"There there chap" Joker crouches in front of him, pats Damian on the check now that he's too weak to do much. "You must not talk back to mommy, will make her sad, you know? How about you both hug and make it better?“ the suggestion makes Robin's flesh finally break into cold sweat.
And as he's grabbed against his will, helpless. Barely conscious, catching himself hoping father will come. He can't but wonder if this was how Todd felt when Joker was about to kill him.

If so, he thinks he understands now.



"O, the fuckers are carrying a new Joker toxin. Crystal balls, supposed to let out some kinda goo when broken, work both like gas and into skin contact." Jason relais, twirling one of the purple bombs he took from this first alpha, on his hand.

"Copied" Oracle answers after a beat, slower than she had the whole night. She must be listening into the Bat's too, no reason to add the other bit of info he has taken from the fucker, to her load.
Knowing that the thugs here were supposed to delay the Bats as much they could, wouldn't do anything but raise the Bats hackles further.

"Hood out." He finishes, closing the com for now. Barbara will handle the rest.

At his feet, the goon groans in pain, unable to do much else, as Jason thinks fast.
What he knows is not much to go on, but at least suggests that, whatever the psycho has planned, won't be immediate. If they are all lucky, the brat will stay alive and mentally sane, long enough for him to make his way to where the tracker points.

"Hold on"

He's just about to gag the thug and keep going, when the fucker makes an stupid effort to break free, by launching himself at Jason's middle, still zip-tied.

The impact moves him back a step, but nothing else, and only manages to piss Hood off enough that he plumbs a fist in the alphas already swollen face, definitely finishes breaking his nose, shatters the right cheekbone, and knocks him out cold again.

"The fucker." He spits. What had the shithead been thinking, hitting an omega about to enter a heat in the abdomen?!

Instinct makes his blood boil.

Did he know the pain it could cause?! The thought enrages Jason further, thankfully he hadn't felt much…

That's when the realization really hits; It didn't hurt. Not really.
"Me caguen la hostia!“ he curses as loud he dares.
There's no pain, no discomfort, no sensitivity to be found. He feels ok, nearly back to normal. When had he stopped feeling ill? Damn, damn, DAMN!!
He had been so focused into ignoring the pain like a pro, he didn't keep tabs on how his heat was advancing. And now he was at "That time". The eye of the storm, he calls it in his mind. That period of minutes, when the build up has reached the peak, but the heat has not broken, and everything feels back to normal, just before his body plumbs head on into the fiery depths.

Jason shudders for a second, knowing that, with as hard as the build up has been this time, the heat would be worse than anything before.

Time is about to run out.

He needs to get Damian out, NOW.

Red Hood goes up the skyscraper taking goons out, one after another, like a nightmare.



He resists, but it's like trying to move underwater. The clown too strong and his body too weak to do much, more so when each taken breath, full of rancid omega pheromones, drains his strength further. Raises his fever higher…

He thinks he blanks out for a moment, barely registers being dragged up, being pushed into Quinn's open arms, half draped across her lap.

Face pressed against her chest, her artificial scent into his nose, he gags again, even if there's nothing else left in him to vomit. His stomach constricts painfully trying to dislodge something that it's not there to expulse.

He's shuddering continuously now. Feels damp, cold… it takes him a minute to understand he's cold sweating.

"Sssh, there there, baby." Quinn hush's against his hair, pat's shootingly his back, unlikely anything mother ever did for him.

It feels… nice.

Wrong, WRONG, WRONG! (his instincts scream, screech, pulled into two different assessments)

Damian twists, feverish, wants to snarl, to bite, to break her too grabby impure fingers... To encircle his arms around her.

He can't…. his body refuses to obey, and even if it did, he's trapped with Quinn at his front, and the wiry hard chest of the monster at his back.

It's too much, too much, TOO MUCH!

He growls, trashes, trapped between two pulling forces. Knowing Quinn is NOT MOTHER, but feeling the pull nonetheless, is torture. Then, suddenly, long spidery fingers are closing on the back of his neck, into an unforgiven clamp.

It's a scruff, mostly used in kits, Damian recognizes the feeling, he was trained to resist such a move from the crib, is now even old enough it shouldn't affect him at all. But on the face of the hormones raging his blood, his muscles fail, whole body goes limp against the clown's omega, and is all he can do not to whimper, as Quinn purrs nuzzling him.




He gets the call from O, when he's returning from patrol on his bike, tired, sweaty, and about to kill for a bath.
"Nightwing" his com activates, Babs sounds tense, way more than usual.

"What can I do for you, O?“ he chimes in, paints a smile on his voice, tries to ease her discomfort, pushing the tiredness away for later, as he takes the next intersection that will carry him toward Gotham. For O to call him on patrol, there's usually only one reason, and that's the Bats.

His reasoning hits true as she answers.

"B needs your help." Oracle deadpans. Unusual, normally she would take the bait and ease some, but not today. It must be something big.

"Of course, what's this time?“ he asks, smiling still.

"Robin has been taken by the Joker"

His blood turns cold. Nightwing's hand presses the accelerator to its limit.



He can't move, can barely breathe, his skull feels about to splinter in two. Trembling, trembling…

"Poor pup" he hears the clown intone at his back, honey false "he doesn't look too well. Think he's wet himself?"
A spidery hand makes its way between his legs, and Damian can do nothing but grit his teeth under the mortification, until it retreats a moment later. "No, that's not it." the psycho tuts, thoughtful.

"Maybe he's hungry?“ this time the one to talk is Quinn, her too syrupy tone racking his ears, same time his whole body shudders pleasantly. It doesn't seem to matter how ill he's feeling, how feverish and broken, he's still slipping, and all Damian can do is curse internally, grabbing at what he knows to be the truth with all his might, as he pushes the unwanted feelings away best he can.

But with every new breath of pheromones he feels worse and worse, and so, he starts dreading the moment he won't be able to stay conscious to fight it. "Father, please, do come." he pleads silently. A testament of how lost he feels…

"Oh, true! He must be hungry." The monster answers in mock surprise. "So then, Harley dear, why don't you feed him some milk?"

For a second there, he can't even process the implication.

"Sure, poor baby must be starving. Awake at this time of night." the omega purrs.

And so, he's being gently shifted as she works to open the zip across her costume, from neck to navel, exposing an ample expanse of creamy white skin, and one of her breasts.

His whole self recoils, Damian gags again painfully. His pulse ricochets up into a mad stakato, and he has the nerve wrecking realization he's never felt as sick as he's feeling now. Not even when undertaking mother's training into developing the most common venoms immunity, has he felt as close to breaking, as he's feeling at this moment.

"No." he manages between strained breaths, nearly sobs into the word.
"Come on sweety, you will feel better after some dinner, yes?“ she croons, and makes to press his face against her breast.

Chapped, cold lips, come into contact against warm flesh. He presses his teeth together, refuses with all the small strength he's lef. Doesn't even let himself contemplate the idea of biting out, afraid once it touches his tongue, he won't be able to continue keeping his mind.

Niples are strong pheromone spots, more so for omegas. And on one that has already taken enhancers….

"Don't be rude with mama, pup" the clown admonishes.

Damian tenses, knows his time is running out, when he smells it; it hits him like a fresh breath of air. Like oxygen after nearly drowning. The strong, pure, untampered with, scent, of another omega. At the moment he doesn't know if it's a consequence of having been drenched into the impure odour of Quinn for so long, or if his assessment runs true, but he's never taken in such a glorious scent.

It's not overly sweet, as many omegas tend to smell, but just the right amount, spicy, and strong. It makes him think of the almond, cinnamon and saffron, sweets, mother used to share with him on special occasions, as accompaniment for tea.

A treat he still treasures for its rarity and rich flavour, as well as for the fond memories attached, even if he rarely lets himself contemplate those.

"Now now" the clown is speaking again, calling his wavering attention. "Open up, pup." and those fingers he hates, close around his jaw, intent of making him open his mouth.

In desperation Damian grabs at the new scent with all his worth, opens himself to it fully, and let's his instincts latch into it like too much needed relief. Doesn't matter who is the omega he's tying himself to, as long as it's not the psycho's one, he can deal with it.



The brat looks always so much older than he is, carries himself with the assuredness of an alpha trained under the shadows, speaks like one, acts like one, has the blood on his hands to prove his worth.

Under Nanda Parbat's laws, he's an adult.

Jason has always respected that, knows that age has little to do with being able to care for oneself.
But when he arrives at where the tracker signals, stalking the place through the shadows, already blood painted and sweaty after fighting his way in, and sees Damian's broken, small body bloody, trapped, fighting to breathe, trembling and unable to young the kid truly his stabs him in the gut like a knife.

And that instant, what his mind knows means nothing, because nearly in heat his instincts are raw, bare, terribly sharp, and what they scream is that Damian is a CUB from his pack, and he needs him.

Jason loses it.

"Wha..?!“ Quinn lifts her head, nostrils trembling finely with far too slow realization.. . When the vibration of a gunshot hits deafening near, and her broken scream reverberates against Damian.

The red smell of blood blooms with the savage shape that comes from the shadows, a blur of strength and viciousness that tears him from the claws of both monsters. Metallic snarl rumbling down his bones, in wrath as heady as those of alphas in death challenge.

For an instant, Damian finds himself pressed against the hard planes of an armored chest, engulfed by the scent of almond, cinnamon and saffron, now drenched in the fiery spice of fury.
The moment is but that, but let's his gaze fall on the bright carmine wings of a bat painted across black armour.


It's Todd.

He remembers the estranged omega father refuses to talk about, seldom seen across territory borders on patrol. A shadow hunted into the dark corners of the manor, yet still present in the shape of a room forever closen, averted gazes, and estilled words. The one who dares bear against the pack's alpha's word, by murdering those evil enough to warrant it.

The same one he knows mother took in, and trained, and kept in the luxurious privacy of her high reaching harem, until he deemed escape, but that Damian had never seen before arriving at Gotham. And even then, always in the distance.

In all reason Todd shouldn't be here, shouldn't have cared enough to come for Damian. Yet here he is, and his presence is warm coal beneath his breast.

The clown comes swift, retaliates, attacks at them. Todd twists, sidesteps him, puts Damian at his back, protected, and lunges himself. Robin stays on the floor, unable to even try to get to his feet, still trembling harshly with the substance pumped into his veins. However, now that he has a new scent to grab for, the fever is losing its hold, thus watching acutely as Todd goes against the monster like a hungry predator, becomes easy.

Hood fights beautifully, not in the artful way of Nightwing, but with the grace of efficiency, not a move is wasted, not a hit pulled. He reveals himself as a skilled warrior; attentive and fast, in the ragged way one who has known to fight desperately since youth, is. Strong and flexible, as father's training warrants, and above all, vicious, as one taken by the shadows must.

His powerful attacks crippling and painful, drenched in blood lust, yet always firmly positioned between the clown and him, protective.

And all Damian can think is; Araksurayek, omega warrior. The most coveted of omegas.

Here, in the west, omegas are expected to be little, weak, things, beautiful for exhibition, but stupid otherwise. Always in need of guidance and protection. Pampered without merit.


In Nanda Parbat, the shadow city, omegas are wise, for they know to be the key that holds the pack. Respected, for they fearlessly keep in check the harsh tempers of alphas.

Keep in high esteem, as an alpha can always trust his omega will do best they can for the pack, knows that even if he himself is taken down in duty, can still rest assured his mate will give life and limb for the kits. And among these, there is no deadlier protector than a harsh trained omega warrior, whose instincts and ability run in perfect sync.

Few and far between, those omegas who take the pat of war are desired, respected beyond word, courted restlessly. For, is there any higher pride than that of knowing one who has proven skilled, intelligent, deadly, has chosen to submit to you, even if it's only on a battlefield of sheets and intercourse? Is there a more thrilling challenge but that of gaining such affection?

Damian has seldom contemplated these matters, now he does.