Top Omega Jason Todd x bottom Alpha Reader
————————————————————————————————————————————————
The Biology of the "Bitched" Alpha
In this universe, the transformation from a biological Alpha (or Omega) to the oposite presentation a "bitched" or "forcibly re-presented" state is a traumatic biological rewrite:
The Physical Shift: As a "bitched" Alpha, the Reader’s (Y/N) scent has been artificially dampened from raw cedar and heavy musk to a muted, sterile sweet scent. The "knot" has receded into a dormant state, and normal testosterone and Alpha hormone productions are heavily suppressed.
The Nursing Instinct: Despite the lack of an Omega’s internal reproductive anatomy, (Y/N) retains the "Pack Caretaker" trait—the biological ability to lactate and produce milk for the pack’s young, sick, or injured. Once a source of profound shame imposed by his abusers, it becomes a literal lifesaver for his new pack.
The Heats: Instead of the aggressive, dominant Ruts of an Alpha, (Y/N) suffers from "Stalled Heats"—periods of intense physical exhaustion, a soaring fever, and a desperate, agonizing biological need for nesting, touch, and pack scent-marking.
****************************************************
The transition from the sun-drenched, suffocating suburbs of New Jersey to the gray, monolithic shadows of Gotham felt like a baptism. For (Y/N), it was the first time in six years he could breathe without the acrid scent of his stepfather’s dominant Alpha pheromones coating the back of his throat.
The "bitching" process had been thorough. From the age of twelve, (Y/N) had been a lab rat for his stepfather’s deep-seated insecurities. Every morning was a blue pill of Omega-mimicking hormones; every evening was a lesson in forced submission and how to physicaly serve an Alpha. His body, which genetically wanted to grow broad, tall, and assertive as a dominant Alpha, had been sculpted into something else. By eighteen, he was 175cm of lean, "feminized" muscle—curves shaped by mandated Pilates, skin kept soft, and a mind trained to respond instantly to the snap of a finger.
The summer after graduation was the breaking point. His first "Bitch-Heat"—a chemical storm induced by synthetic aphrodisiacs and suppressed, screaming Alpha biology—lasted two agonizing weeks. He had been a prisoner in his own nest, a ghost watching his stepfather and his cronies treat him like a communal toy. When the fog finally cleared, the scent of ripe pears and sandalwood—his unique, "spoiled" Alpha scent—clung to the walls like a crime scene.
He left with nothing but a duffel bag of necessities, three stolen pistols, all the cash in the bastard’s wallets, and a burning realization: he was a Meta-human. Every bruise they left had vanished within hours. Every internal ache healed. He ran and he never looked back.
(Y/N) wiped his brow, the fluorescent lights of the Gotham General clinic flickering overhead. He was a nurse now—a "Beta" according to his forged papers. It had been almost 4 years scince he ran away and settled into Gotham. He kept his head down, his light, domestic sweaters hiding the lean, hidden strength of his frame. He spent his nights in the Narrows, using his meta-healing touch to knit the bones of street kids and alley cats.
Coming home to a 24-hour eviction notice was the most "Gotham" thing to happen to him. With no options, he dragged his four bags into the Bowery, seeking a location he’d heard from the homeless: an "empty" warehouse complex near the docks that even the local gangs avoided.
He didn't find an empty warehouse. He found a sanctuary.
The heavy aluminum ladle clicked against the rim of the pot, a soft, metallic metronome in the vast, echoing silence of the Bowery warehouse. For seven days, (Y/N) had existed as a ghost within these monolithic concrete walls. He had scrubbed the grease-stained floors until his knuckles bled, scraped dried blood and copper shavings from the high-tech workbenches, and organized the chaotic sprawl of military-grade munitions into neat, labeled crates. His body, systematically broken and re-sculpted by years of forced chemical submission, knew no other way to process isolation. When left alone, he created a sanctuary. He built a nest. He filled the massive, industrial refrigerator with rows of prepped vegetables, marinating meats, and glass jars of bone broth. It was a compulsion—the deeply ingrained behavior of a "bitched" Alpha whose primary biological driving force had been twisted into that of a hyper-domestic caretaker.
He was in the middle of stirring a massive pot of chicken paprikash, the rich, smoky scent of sweet Hungarian paprika, rendered chicken fat, and caramelized onions swelling into the high rafters, when the metal doors opened.
The heavy steel blast doors did not merely open; they hissed violently, grinding against their tracks as a chaotic, suffocating tempest of scents blasted into the warehouse.
(Y/N) froze, the wooden spoon suspended over the boiling red broth. His instincts, fractured as they were, instantly cataloged the intruders by their chemical signatures.
First came Jason. The Red Hood. A raging, thunderous Omega pheromone that felt like a physical anvil dropping onto the room—heavy with the scent of old leather, charred gunpowder, and a terrifying, sharp undercurrent of Lazarus-pit green fury. Right behind him was Roy Harper. An Alpha scent that was sharp, comforting, yet jagged with immediate panic—clove, machine oil, and spicy cinnamon, spiked hot with adrenaline. Then came Artemis. A dominant Beta whose presence was so vast, so heavily weighted with the scent of sun-baked iron, desert sand, and sharp ozone, that it rivaled any prime Alpha (Y/N) had ever encountered in the fighting pits of New Jersey.
Finally, trailing at the absolute rear, was Bizarro. His scent was a strange, sterile paradox—faintly reminiscent of chalk and lightning, entirely lacking the complex hormonal presentation of a mature second gender. Instead, he projected the overwhelming, psychological aura of a frightened, vulnerable pack pup.
"Don't move," Artemis barked, her voice a low, rocky timber that vibrated through the floorboards. Her hand was already clamped tightly around the hilt of the massive broadsword slung across her back. Her sharp eyes darted from the spotless, clean concrete floors to the neatly arranged medical kits on the counter, and finally to (Y/N).
Jason was suspended between Roy and Artemis, his head dragging, a massive, jagged tear through his tactical hoodie dripping dark, heavy crimson onto the floor he had cleaned just days prior. The Lazarus green in his eyes was blinding, clouding his pupils with a feral, cornered madness. He was an Omega in severe pain, and every instinct he possessed told him to kill anything that looked at him.
"Who the hell are you," Jason growled, a deep, primal rasp that scraped against his vocal cords. He tried to pull away from Roy, his fingers curling into claws. "Why does my base... smell like a damn orchard? Why does it smell like... pears?"
(Y/N) did not drop his gaze entirely out of fear, but out of a deep, biological reflex. His "bitch-Alpha" training had conditioned his body to never trigger an Omega’s fierce territorial aggression or challenge a dominant Beta's authority. He lowered his chin, exposing the pale, vulnerable line of his throat, his posture softening into an explicit display of non-aggression. He kept his hands visible, fingers loose and unclenching.
"Smells nice," Roy muttered, his voice strained under Jason's dead weight. He blinked, a bewildered, deeply intrigued grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he took a deep breath of the warm, Paprikash-scented air. He looked at the spotless kitchen, then at the neat lavender sweater (Y/N) wore to hide the lean strength of his shoulders. "What are you making?"
"The food is almost done," (Y/N) said softly. He kept his voice low, tilting it into a melodic, submissive register that felt like a soothing balm against the jagged edges of the room. "There’s chicken paprikash with rice. You look hurt... if you want, I could help. I’m a nurse."
"We don't accept charity from squatters," Artemis spat, though she didn't draw her sword. She dragged Jason toward the central medical cot, her muscles straining. "Roy, drop the kid. Secure the perimeter. I want this one tied down before we bleed out."
"He's not bleeding out because of me," (Y/N) countered gently, stepping forward with a slow, deliberate grace that caught Roy's attention. (Y/N) grabbed a sterile tray of gauze, local anesthetic, and surgical needles he had organized earlier. "His lower left quadrant is punctured. The armor took the brunt, but the blade was serrated. He’s going to shock if you don't pack it now."
Roy looked at Jason, whose breathing was turning into shallow, thready gasps, then back at (Y/N). "He’s right, Artie. Look at his hands—he’s got the medical stance. Let him look. If he twitches toward a weapon, I’ll put an arrow through his throat."
"Fine," Artemis snarled, her dominant Beta scent flaring like a localized dust storm, pinning (Y/N) with its sheer authority. "Move. Now."
(Y/N) slid beside the cot, his movements smooth and practiced. The moment his hands hovered over Jason’s torn flesh, a soft, pale golden light began to pulse from his palms—his hidden meta-human gift. He didn't close the wound completely—that would look too suspicious—but he used the energy to knit the ruptured deep blood vessels, stopping the hemorrhaging within seconds while he applied traditional sutures to the skin.
Jason let out a long, shuddering sigh, the Lazarus green in his eyes receding slightly as the agonizing pressure in his gut dissolved. His head rolled to the side, his nose catching the deep, warm sandalwood and pear scent radiating from (Y/N)’s wrists. It wasn't the scent of an invading Alpha trying to claim his territory; it was something quiet, domestic, and utterly safe.
Behind them, Bizarro let out a massive, rumbling whimper. He approached the kitchen island, his giant, gray-skinned fingers hooking over the marble edge. He stared at the giant pot of stew, his stomach letting out a noise like a tectonic shift.
Roy chuckled weakly, sliding into a barstool, his own Alpha pheromones finally dropping from their panic-induced spike. "Well, nurse... looks like you just bought yourself an interrogation. Sit down. Don't touch the stove." Roy repremented Bizzaro without looking while addressing (Y/N).
The interrogation took place around the heavy steel briefing table, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Jason was propped up on the medical cot, his torso wrapped in clean white linen, his eyes fixed on (Y/N) like a hawk tracking a rabbit. Artemis stood behind (Y/N)’s chair, her presence a heavy, physical weight, while Roy sat across from him, flipping through a thin manila folder containing (Y/N)’s forged identification papers.
"Name says (Y/N). Age twenty-two. Certified Beta nurse, formerly of Gotham General," Roy read aloud, his voice flat, professional, yet dangerous. He tapped the paper with a long, calloused finger. "Everything looks clean. Too clean for a guy who just happened to find an invisible safehouse in the middle of the Bowery. Who gave you the coordinates?"
"No one," (Y/N) replied, keeping his hands flat on the cold steel table. He kept his shoulders slightly rounded, a defensive posture that had become second nature. "I was working the night shift in the Narrows clinic. The street kids—the ones who run errands for the local crews—they talk. They said there was a sector near the old dry docks that even the skull-masks wouldn't touch. They said it was haunted by a red ghost. I didn't want a fight. I just needed a roof."
"And the deep cleaning?" Artemis asked, her voice dropping into his ear from behind. She leaned forward, the metallic tang of her armor mixing with the scent of desert sand. "The organized ammunition? The fresh groceries? Betas don't walk into a strange, dangerous warehouse and start playing house-husband, little bird. You scent-marked the kitchen. Pears and sandalwood. It’s light, but it’s there."
(Y/N) swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I... I like order. My stepfather was very particular about cleanliness. If things weren't spotless, there were... consequences. It’s an old habit."
Jason leaned forward, his fingers digging into the edge of his mattress. His Omega instincts were deeply conflicted. The logic of his training told him to distrust this stranger, but his biology was humming with a strange, lazy comfort. The pear scent in the room wasn't aggressive. It didn't challenge his status as the leader of the safehouse, nor did it try to dominate him. It was a secondary scent that seemed designed purely to soothe.
"You’re not a Beta," Jason said plainly. His green eyes locked onto (Y/N)’s. "Betas don't have that kind of muscle density beneath a wool sweater. What are you? An Omega hiding your heat?"
"No," (Y/N) whispered, a sharp pang of old shame tightening his chest. He looked down at his own fingers. "I'm a Beta. The papers are real enough to pass the hospital scanners."
"We'll see about that," Roy said, tossing the folder onto the table. He stood up, walking over to the stove where the chicken paprikash had been left on a low simmer. He grabbed a clean ceramic bowl, ladled a heavy portion of the thick, red stew, and took a deliberate bite.
Artemis watched him, her hand twitching toward her hip. "Roy. Don't be an idiot."
Roy chewed slowly, his eyes widening. He swallowed, looking at (Y/N) with a mixture of awe and suspicion. "If he’s trying to poison us, he’s doing it with the best damn comfort food in the Tri-State area. Artie, taste this. Seriously."
Bizarro, seeing Roy eat, shuffled forward with a loud, demanding grunt. "Me am not hungry! Me hate red soup!" he bellowed in his backwards tongue, his giant hands reaching out like a toddler begging for a bottle.
(Y/N) instinctively stood up before Artemis could stop him. His movements were fluid, devoid of any threat. He picked up a large wooden bowl, filled it to the brim with the paprikash, and added two thick slices of crusty bread he had baked the night before. He walked right up to the seven-foot-tall clone, whose gray skin was scarred and hardened like granite.
"Here you go," (Y/N) said, his voice dropping into that deep, rhythmic, caretaker rumble. He didn't look Bizarro in the eye—which an Alpha would do to assert dominance—but instead kept his chin low, offering the food with open palms. "Be careful. It’s still a little hot."
Bizarro snatched the bowl, his giant chest vibrating with a massive, rumbling sound that was the clone’s version of a happy purr. He sat directly on the concrete floor, using his bare fingers to scoop the chicken into his mouth, completely ignoring the rest of the room.
Artemis watched the interaction, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied the way (Y/N) handled the giant. "You didn't flinch," she noted, her voice losing some of its razor-sharp edge. "Most men run when the big guy moves. You treated him like a child."
"Isn’t he? He was hungry," (Y/N) said simply, returning to his seat and folding his hands back over his lap. "And he smells like he’s stressed. Food helps."
Jason watched the scene from his cot, his thumb tracing the seam of his blanket. His eyes drifted from (Y/N)’s soft sweater down to the neat, orderly rows of bandages on his own stomach. The pain was nearly gone, replaced by a warm, heavy lethargy.
"He stays," Jason ordered, his voice brooking no argument. "For now. He stays in the back corner by the tech monitors. He doesn't touch the weapon caches. He cooks, he cleans, and if anyone gets hit on patrol, he fixes them. But if I catch you looking through my files, nurse... I'll let Artemis use you for target practice."
(Y/N) let out a small breath, his head bowing in deep gratitude. "Thank you, Red Hood. I won't be a burden."
For the first month, (Y/N) existed on the absolute fringe of the Outlaws' dynamic. He learned their schedules by heart—the precise hour Jason would stumble back from the docks covered in salt water and industrial grease; the erratic, late-night tech binges Roy would go on, fueled by black coffee and the scent of bitter cloves; the long, silent hours Artemis spent in the armory, the rhythmic scrape-scrape of her whetstone a constant baseline in the warehouse.
The pack did not include him in their briefings, nor did they invite him to sit at the main table during meals. But they used him. They used his clean linen, his bottomless refrigerator, and the quiet, untroubled peace he brought to the physical space of the loft.
Yet, beneath the surface of their domestic convenience, a deep, analytical observation was taking place. The three mature members of the pack were hunters, and they knew how to read signs. (Y/N) was a riddle that didn't fit into any known A/B/O taxonomy.
The first major crack in their understanding occurred during a torrential downpour in the middle of November. Jason had returned from an exceptionally brutal raid against a human trafficking ring in the East End. His Omega biology was completely haywire—flooded with the residual terror of the victims and the jagged, green fury of his own Lazarus-tainted blood. When Jason’s Omega reached a breaking point, he didn't weep; he built.
He had dragged every mattress, every heavy wool blanket, every leather jacket, and even Roy’s old flannel shirts into the center of the common room, constructing a massive, high-walled pack nest. He was curled in the center of it, his breathing ragged, his pheromones heavy and oppressive, warning the world to stay away.
(Y/N) came down the iron stairs carrying a heavy basket of fresh laundry. He needed to reach the medical cabinets on the far side of the room to restock the antibiotics. The direct path required him to walk within three feet of the nest's outer perimeter.
The moment his foot hit the edge of the rug where the blankets began, (Y/N) stopped dead.
Roy was sitting at the kitchen island, pretending to clean his bow but actually watching through the corner of his eye. Artemis was leaning against the steel pillar, her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze fixed on the nurse. And Bizzaro was happily situated in Jason’s arms, being codled like the giant pup he is.
If (Y/N) were a true Beta, he would have walked right past the nest, completely oblivious to its spiritual and biological significance. If he were a traditional Alpha, he would have growled, scent-marked the air, or attempted to climb inside to assert his dominance over the distressed Omega. If he were an Omega, he would have let out a submissive whine, begging to be allowed into the warmth.
Instead, (Y/N) dropped the laundry basket silently to his side. He sank to his knees on the cold concrete, right at the absolute boundary where the first blanket met the floor. He lowered his head until his forehead was nearly touching his knees. His arms were tucked against his sides, his scent completely tucked away, reduced to the faintest, most respectful whisper of pear.
He did not move. He did not speak. He simply waited.
Ten minutes passed in absolute silence, save for the sound of the rain against the skylights. Jason’s head snapped up from the center of the nest, his green eyes burning through the shadows of the room. He stared at the kneeling male, his chest heaving.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jason rasped, his voice full of defensive venom. "Why are you sitting there like a dog?"
"I need to reach the cabinet." (Y/N) said, his voice incredibly low, steady, and entirely devoid of any challenge. "But this is your nest. Your pack space. I do not have your permission to violate the perimeter. I will wait until you allow me to pass, or I will go back upstairs."
Jason blinked, his throat moving as he swallowed. An Alpha would never acknowledge an Omega’s absolute sovereignty over a nest perimeter like this. It was an act of profound, almost religious reverence for an Omega’s authority. Yet, (Y/N) wasn't crying or shaking like a submissivly looking for shelter; he was perfectly stable, holding himself with a strange, broken dignity.
"Just... walk through," Jason muttered, turning his back and burying his face back into Roy's old flannel shirt. "Just don't touch the gray blanket."
"Thank you," (Y/N) murmured. He stood up smoothly, picking up his basket and walking a wide, careful circle around the perimeter, ensuring not even the hem of his sweater brushed the nest.
Artemis exchanged a long, heavy look with Roy. "Did you see that?" she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "He didn't look for shelter. He looked for permission. He treated Jason like a warlord."
"It’s not Omega behavior," Roy agreed, his fingers tightening around his wrench. "But it’s sure as hell not Alpha behavior either. It’s like... he’s been trained to ignore his own size."
The second scene that fractured their understanding came a week later, when Roy brought Lian to the safehouse. The little girl had tripped on the iron grating outside the docks, scraping both of her knees until they were raw and bleeding. She was crying, her small pup pheromones flaring with childish distress as Roy carried her into the main room.
The moment the sound of her crying reached the kitchen, (Y/N) dropped the knife he was using to prep vegetables. He didn't ask for permission this time. His domestic caretaker instincts—those ancient, hardwired traits—simply took over.
He rushed into the living room, dropping to his knees before Roy could even set her down. The sterile, muted pear scent around him suddenly underwent a massive, violent expansion. It didn't turn aggressive, but it became incredibly thick, heavy, and sweet, filling the room with an intoxicating, warm humidity that smelled of ripe summer orchards and sun-warmed sandalwood.
"Hey, hey, little pup," (Y/N) cooed. His voice did not pitch high like an Omega trying to distract a child; instead, it dropped into a deep, heavy, resonant rumble—a ancient, patriarchal frequency that made Roy’s own Alpha biology sit up and take notice. It was the tone a prime pack protector used to ground a frightened cub. "Look at me. Look right here."
Lian stopped sobbing, her big eyes locking onto (Y/N)’s soft lavender sweater. (Y/N) pulled a small, clear glass marble from his pocket—something he’d found on his walks—and let the light catch it, rolling it between his fingers.
"That looks like a nasty scrape," (Y/N) whispered, his hands hovering just an inch over her raw knees. His palms began to glow with that warm, golden meta-light. The raw skin began to itch and knit back together, the blood drying into clean, unmarred flesh within seconds. "But you're a brave little girl, aren't you? See? All fixed."
Lian giggled, her tears instantly forgotten. She scrambled out of Roy's arms and threw her small body directly against (Y/N)’s chest, burying her face into his neck.
Instead of pulling away or looking toward Roy for approval, (Y/N) instinctively wrapped his large, powerful arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. He tucked his chin over her head, his eyes closing as he let out a long, shuddering breath of pure contentment. He began to nuzzle her hair, his scent gland on his wrist pressing gently against her shoulder, marking her with his pear scent to soothe her residual fear.
Roy stood frozen, his hand still extended where he had been holding his daughter. His own Alpha instincts were humming, not with aggression, but with a strange, profound sense of security. (Y/N) wasn't acting like a nanny; he was acting like a sire protecting his line.
"Look at his posture, Artie," Roy said later that night, as the two of them stood in the shadow of the armory, watching (Y/N) work in the kitchen.
Bizarro was sitting at the wooden table, his massive, gray-skinned arms flat on the surface. (Y/N) was standing beside him, using a heavy silver fork to cut a thick ribeye steak into perfect, uniform, bite-sized pieces. He was humming a low, wordless melody, his hand occasionally reaching up to wipe a stray drop of sauce from the clone’s chin with a clean cloth. Bizarro was leaning his giant head against (Y/N)’s hip, letting out long, happy grunts.
"He’s handling a creature that could crush a tank like he’s a toddler," Artemis murmured, her arms crossed, her eyes dark with analytical curiosity. "He doesn't show fear because his instinct to nurture is stronger than his survival instinct. He’s providing for the big guy, and he’s protecting Lian. That’s Alpha programming, Roy. The deep, ancient kind. The kind that comes before the modern classifications."
"But why the submission to Jason?" Roy asked, shaking his head. "Why the muted scent? Why the soft sweaters? An Alpha with meta-healing and that kind of size should be trying to run this town, not scrubbing our toilets."
"Someone broke him," Artemis said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, rocky register. "Someone took a king and turned him into a servant. And whoever did it... I think they used a hammer."
By the second month, the safehouse had achieved an equilibrium it had never known before. The air was no longer sharp with the constant, jagged edge of paranoia. (Y/N) had become the invisible spine of the Outlaws. He was always there—waiting with a warm towel when Artemis came back from a grueling five-mile run in the sleet; leaving a plate of cold cuts and a freshly wrapped spool of bowstring next to Roy’s keyboard at three in the morning; standing silently by the door to receive Jason’s cracked helmet, his hands already glowing to treat the bruises beneath the leather.
Because of this newfound stability, (Y/N)’s body began to do something it hadn't done since he was twelve years old: it began to relax. The constant, high-alert muscle tension in his shoulders started to fray. The terrified, watchful look in his eyes dissolved into a soft, quiet calm.
He felt safe. And that safety triggered a biological disaster.
It happened on a Tuesday evening. The safehouse was quiet. A rare, heavy snowfall had blanketed Gotham, cutting off the usual street chatter and locking the pack indoors. The large industrial space was warm, heated by the massive wood-burning stove (Y/N) had spent the afternoon feeding with split oak blocks.
Bizarro was curled up on the massive rug in front of the fire, his giant frame tucked into a loose ball, his head resting against a pile of plush cushions. Roy was stretched out on the far end of the couch, his boots off, lazily plucking at the strings of an acoustic guitar, the low, acoustic notes drifting through the warm air. Artemis sat on the floor nearby, her long legs crossed, lazily polishing the leather straps of her greaves.
Jason was sitting on the other end of the couch, his head back against the cushions, his eyes closed. His Omega scent was remarkably peaceful—just the soft, mellow smell of old leather and clean linen, the Lazarus entirely dormant in his veins.
(Y/N) was sitting on a low wooden stool near the fire, a heavy wool blanket draped over his knees, his fingers busy knitting a thick, dark green scarf for Roy. The warmth of the fire, the rhythmic sound of the guitar, and the peaceful, content scents of the four people around him created a sudden, overwhelming pressure in his chest.
It was a feeling of absolute belonging. A feeling of a pack at peace.
Involuntarily, deep within the dark, scarred recesses of his throat, something clicked. His chest expanded, his diaphragm twitching as his biology tried to find a way to express the immense, overwhelming security he felt. He wanted to comfort them. He wanted to tell them, through the language of the pack, that they were safe, that he was there, that the territory was secure.
A sound began to rise from his throat.
It started as a low rumble, but the moment it hit his vocal cords, it went horribly wrong. (Y/N) did not possess the soft, flexible, multi-chambered vocal anatomy of a biological Omega. He did not have the delicate, fluid structures required to produce the smooth, rolling, rhythmic purr that traditional caretakers used to lull a pack to sleep.
What came out of his chest was a strange, wet, contorted sound. It was a deep, mechanical rattling—like a heavy iron chain being dragged over concrete, mixed with a broken, high-pitched click that sounded like an animal choking on its own breath. It was deep, guttural, and violently arrhythmic, vibrating through his sternum with such force that his entire collarbone shook.
Rrraaacckkk... clll-clck... rrraaacckkk...
The guitar strings went dead instantly. Roy’s hand froze over the soundhole.
Artemis’s head snapped up, her hand instantly dropping to the hilt of the dagger at her waist, her eyes wide as she scanned the shadows for an intruder or a mechanical failure.
Bizarro’s ears twitched, his giant blue eyes opening as he looked around in confusion, his pup-instincts startled by the bizarre, harsh noise.
Jason opened his eyes, his pupils shrinking as his Omega biology reacted to the sound. It wasn't an attack cry, but it wasn't anything human either. It sounded like an engine tearing itself apart from the inside.
"What the hell is that?" Jason muttered, his voice sharp as he sat upright, his eyes locking onto (Y/N).
(Y/N) didn't realize the sound was coming from him at first. He looked around, his knitting needles freezing mid-stitch, his face pale. "Is... is the ventilation system breaking?" he asked softly, his voice trembling.
But the moment he spoke, the rattling sound in his chest stopped. The silence that followed was heavy, thick with immediate suspicion.
"It wasn't the vents," Roy said slowly, setting his guitar down on the couch. He leaned forward, his sharp Alpha eyes fixed directly on (Y/N)’s throat. "It came from you, nurse. Right from your throat."
(Y/N) went entirely still, the blood draining from his face until his skin looked like parchment. His fingers tightened around the wool yarn until his knuckles turned white. "I... I don't know what you mean. I didn't say anything."
"It wasn't speech," Artemis said, standing up smoothly, her massive form casting a long shadow over his low stool. She stepped closer, her nose twitching as she took a deep inhale. His scent had spiked—not with the clean, acidic smell of a Beta’s fear, but with a sudden, suffocating burst of heavy, rich sandalwood that smelled ancient, terrified, and violently suppressed. "You were making a noise. Like a broken clockwork toy."
"I'm sorry," (Y/N) whispered, his chin instantly dropping toward his chest, his shoulders shrinking back into that small, defensive curve. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make a disturbance. I'll... I'll go to my corner."
He stood up quickly, balling his knitting into his chest, and hurried into the dark recesses behind the server racks before anyone could stop him.
Jason didn't follow him. Instead, he pulled a small, sleek black Wayne Enterprises communicator from his pocket. He hit a button on the side, his fingers steady but his mind racing.
"Roy," Jason said quietly, his eyes fixed on the dark corner where (Y/N) had vanished. "Did you get that on the safehouse audio monitors?"
"Yeah," Roy said, pulling up his tablet and tapping the screen with a frown. "Every single decibel. It’s an incredibly weird frequency, Jay. It’s got the sub-bass of an Alpha’s growl, but the repetitive rhythm of an Omega’s comfort call. It doesn't make sense."
"Isolate the file," Jason ordered, his voice flat and dangerous. "Send it to the Cave. I need to talk to the old man."
The holographic screen in the Batcave glowed with a cold, electric blue, casting long shadows across the cowl of the Batman. Bruce Wayne sat motionless in his massive leather chair, his gauntlets resting on the edge of the console, his dark eyes fixed on the audio wave analysis displaying before him.
Jason stood behind him, his leather jacket open, his arms crossed over his chest. He had ridden his motorcycle through a blizzard just to get this answer, and his Omega biology was irritated by the cold, but his mind was consumed by the image of the nurse kneeling at the edge of his nest.
"Play it again," Jason said, his voice tight.
Bruce hit a key. The audio file completed its third loop. The harsh, mechanical rattling—the sound of an iron chain dragging over concrete, mixed with that broken, choking click—echoed through the massive, cavernous space of the Cave.
Rrraaacckkk... clll-clck... rrraaacckkk...
"It’s a purr," Bruce said plainly, his deep voice carrying no emotion, though his fingers tightened slightly against his desk.
"Don't give me that bullshit, Bruce," Jason snapped, his green eyes flaring. "I'm an Omega. I know what a purr sounds like. It sounds like a cat. It’s soft. It lowers your heart rate. That sound... that sound makes my skin crawl. It sounds like a machine dying."
"It sounds like a machine dying because the vocal structures attempting to produce it were never designed for it," Bruce explained, tapping the console to bring up a medical schematic of a human larynx. "Look at the vocal fold density. This is an audio profile of a male who underwent severe, long-term chemical and hormonal re-presentation during his early formative years. In the darker syndicates of the Underground—specifically within the Jersey and Blüdhaven sex trafik rings—it’s called 'bitching.'"
Jason froze, his breath catching in his throat. The green in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow shock. "Bitching," he repeated, the word tasting like ash.
"Yes," Bruce said, his voice dropping into a lower, darker register. "It’s a highly illegal, black-market chemical process. They take a young male who shows the genetic markers of a Alpha—someone who would grow too large, too independent, too aggressive to control—and they destroy his biology from the inside out for there own sick plesure. They flood the system with synthetic Omega-mimicking hormones, growth inhibitors, and nerve blockers. It dampens the natural cedar or musk scent into something domestic, recedes the biological knot into a permanent dormant state, and forces the body to develop secondary caretaker traits."
Bruce pointed to a section of the audio graph. "The sound you're hearing is his body’s ancient, hardwired Alpha 'sire-call' trying to adapt to an Omega's comfort rhythm. He was feeling safe, Jason. His instincts wanted to tell his pack that the territory was secure and that the young were protected. But because his vocal cords were scarred and re-shaped by hormones, the sound is contorted. He’s trying to purr with an Alpha’s chest."
Jason leaned against the console, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. His mind flashed through every interaction he’d had with (Y/N) over the past two months. The way he kept his head down. The way he wore soft, oversized sweaters to hide his muscle mass. The way he had knelt at the edge of the nest, perfectly still, waiting for permission from an Omega because he had been trained to believe he had no right to exist in a pack space.
"The nursing instinct," Jason whispered, his voice cracking. "The folder said he had a high production of prolactin during his clinic physicals. He’s... he can lactate, can't he?"
"It’s a common side effect of the re-presentation," Bruce confirmed, closing the file. "The body retains the 'Pack Caretaker' trait, but without the internal reproductive system of an Omega. It’s designed to make them the ultimate utility slaves for dominant Alphas—strong enough to nurse and care for the young, but too biologically submissive to ever mount a rebellion."
Bruce turned his chair around, looking up at his former protege. "Whoever did this to him did it thoroughly. He survived on meta-human healing alone. If he’s relaxing around your team, Jason... it means he genuinely believes you are his pack. But his mind is still operating under the rules of his abuse."
Jason didn't say another word. He turned on his heel, his leather jacket snapping behind him as he stormed toward his bike, his heart hammering against his ribs with a furious, protective rage.
The safehouse was silent when Jason returned. The snow outside had stopped, leaving the Bowery in a deathly, white quiet.
Roy and Artemis were sitting at the kitchen table, a single lamp illuminating their grim faces. They had seen the data dump Jason had sent from his bike on the way back. They knew.
"Where is he?" Jason asked, slamming his helmet onto the counter. His Omega scent was no longer peaceful—it was a roaring, terrifying wildfire of protective fury and protective territorial dominance.
"In his corner," Artemis said softly, her hand resting on the table, her fingernails digging into the wood. Her sand-and-iron scent was incredibly thick, vibrating with a cold, Amazonian anger directed at the ghosts of (Y/N)’s past. "He hasn't come out since he ran. He thinks he’s in trouble, Jay. He’s been in there for six hours without a sound."
Jason didn't hesitate. He walked past the kitchen, past the armory, and stepped into the dark, narrow corridor behind the massive server racks.
The space was cold. (Y/N) hadn't even turned on the small desk lamp. He was sitting on the edge of his narrow cot, his knees pulled into his chest, his face buried in his arms. He had changed out of his lavender sweater, wearing a thin, threadbare t-shirt that clearly revealed the long, faint surgical scars along his spine—the entry points for the hormone pumps his stepfather had installed when he was a boy.
As Jason approached, (Y/N) flinched, his entire body stiffening. He didn't look up, but his voice came out as a small, choked whimper. "I'm sorry, Red Hood. I'm looking for a new apartment. I'll have my bags packed by sunrise. I won't make that noise again. I promise. I can... I can leave the food I prepped."
Jason didn't speak. He walked right up to the edge of the cot, reached down, and grabbed (Y/N)’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face.
"Look at me," Jason commanded. It wasn't an Alpha's order, but the fierce, absolute demand of an Omega who was claiming what was his.
(Y/N) slowly raised his head, his eyes red and swollen, his face wet with silent tears. His beautiful, ruined sweet-pear scent was completely frantic, souring with the smell of an animal that expected to be beaten. "Please," he whispered. "Don't throw me back into the Narrows. I'll do whatever you want. I'll clean the armory twice a day. Just don't... don't make me go back."
"Shut up," Jason rasped, that promted Roy and Artemis to follow Jason to (Y/N)’s dark corner, but Jason didn’t bark an order of anger—it was a choked, heartbroken sound. He ignoring Roy’s warning shout, and dropped to his knees right in front of the trembling nurse. He grabbed (Y/N)’s wrists, not hard, but with an iron-clad grip that prevented him from hiding his face. "Look at me, (Y/N). Look at me right now."
(Y/N) pulled back, a soft, pathetic whimper escaping his throat—the broken rattle vibrating against his ribs. "Please don't hit me. Please don't send me back to Jersey. I’ll go. I’ll take my bags and leave right now—"
"Nobody is hitting you, and nobody is sending you anywhere, you idiot," Jason roared, his own Omega pheromones suddenly bursting out of his skin—not aggressive, but fiercely, violently protective, a thick wall of old leather, gunpowder, and raw, maternal territory that slammed into the kitchen, drowning out the fear. "I found out what that sound was. I know. We know."
The silence that followed was absolute.
(Y/N) went entirely rigid. The sour pear scent became so thin it was almost undetectable, replaced by the sterile, cold musk of an Alpha who had been thoroughly, biologically hollowed out. A single tear slipped down his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. "You... you know."
Roy slid off the counter, his human hand coming up to rub his face as the gravity of the situation hit him. His clove and cinnamon scent turned heavy, dark, and comforting, drifting over the kitchen like a thick blanket. "Yeah, buddy. We know. All of it. Why you move the way you do, why you wouldn't touch Jason's nest without begging for permission... why your voice sounds like that when you try to comfort us."
Artemis stepped forward, her heavy combat boots making a slow, steady thud until she stood right behind Jason. She didn't draw a weapon. Instead, she reached down with her massive, calloused hand and placed it firmly on the back of (Y/N)’s neck, her thumb gently wiping over his scent gland. She didn't press down to force him into submission; she just held him there, anchoring him to the floor.
"A biological Alpha," Artemis murmured, her deep warrior's voice surprisingly gentle, though it carried the weight of an unshakeable oath. "They tried to turn a king into a hound. They thought they could rewrite a protector into a slave."
"They did," (Y/N) sobbed, finally breaking down. He collapsed forward, burying his face directly into the front of Jason’s tactical vest, his fingers gripping the Kevlar plates like a drowning man holding onto a piece of driftwood. "They did break me. I don't have a knot. I can't protect anyone or have a rut. I can't even growl right to scare off the gangs in the alley. My body... my body makes milk like a broken bitch whenever Bizarro cries. I’m a monster. I’m an abomination to every dynamic in this city."
Jason wrapped his massive, muscular arms around (Y/N)’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest. He began to rock him back and forth on the kitchen floor, his face buried deep in the nurse's soft sandalwood hair.
"You're not a monster," Jason snarled, his voice thick with tears he refused to let fall. "You're our healer, our caretaker. You're my caretaker. You think I give a damn about a traditional Alpha? Look at me! I’m a six-foot, two-hundred-pound pure muscle Omega who beats criminals to a pulp with my bare hands! We’re all broken pieces here, (Y/N). Bizarro is a clone with no presentation. Roy is an addict with a metal arm. Artemis is an exiled Amazon. We don't do traditional."
"He's right, kid," Roy said, walking over and sitting cross-legged on the floor next to them, his hand coming out to rest firmly on (Y/N)’s trembling shoulder. "You filled our fridge. You healed our leader. You protected my little girl without a second thought. You’re pack. If anyone from Jersey ever comes looking for you, they aren't dealing with a runaway Beta nurse. They’re dealing with the Outlaws."
Artemis squeezed the back of (Y/N)’s neck, her scent of iron and sand turning fiercely possessive. "Let the tears out, little wolf. They cannot reach you here. You are under the protection of the Bana-Mighdall. You are safe."
For nearly an hour, the kitchen remained a tangle of four broken people sitting on the floor. (Y/N) wept until his chest ached, the broken, rattling purr tearing out of his throat repeatedly as his body tried, for the first time in 10 years, to express a sense of profound, relieved safety. And this time, nobody laughed. Nobody forced a blue pill down his throat. They just held him tighter until the storm passed.
In the weeks following the confrontation, the dynamic within the safehouse shifted from an uneasy truce to a deeply entrenched, untraditional partnership. Now that the truth was out, (Y/N) no longer had to hide behind his domestic sweaters or fake his scent metrics. He was allowed to just be.
And as his mind finally accepted that he was safe, his relationship with Jason evolved into something intense and consuming.
They became an inversion of everything the A/B/O world deemed normal. Jason was the provider, the dominant protector, the one who went out into the grime of Gotham to secure their territory and hunt down their enemies. When Jason came back from patrol, covered in soot and blood, he didn't look for a traditional, soft Omega nest to hide in. He looked for (Y/N).
They spent their nights in the massive central nest they had built together. But inside those blankets, the roles were beautifully clear. Jason was the dominant force in the bedroom—proud, aggressive, and fiercely possessive. He loved to spoil (Y/N), loved to use his massive, battle-scarred frame to pin the softer, lean body of the nurse beneath him, marking him with his heavy Omega scent of leather and gunpowder until (Y/N) was entirely covered in it. (Y/N) thrived in the submission, finding a profound, healing freedom in giving up all control to a mate who cherished him rather than abused him.
One evening, a two months later, the inevitable biological toll of his newfound safety finally came due.
(Y/N) had spent the afternoon trying to organize the safehouse library, but by four in the afternoon, his hands were trembling so badly he dropped three books in a row. His skin felt like it was on fire, a deep, radiating heat blooming from the center of his chest and spreading down to his thighs. His vision was hazy, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"Hey, easy there," Roy said, catching (Y/N) as the nurse stumbled against a bookshelf. Roy’s hand brushed (Y/N)’s forehead and immediately pulled back. "Whoa. You're burning up, buddy. Like, seriously cooking."
"It's... it's just a cold," (Y/N) mumbled, his eyelids heavy, a desperate, agonizing need for touch making him instinctively lean his cheek against Roy’s cool, mechanical shoulder. The moment he did, a thick, overwhelming scent of overripe, heavy pears and sweet sandalwood poured from his skin—so potent it practically choked the room.
Artemis walked into the library, her sharp eyes widening as she caught the scent. "It’s not a cold, Roy. It’s a Heat. His body finally feels safe enough to drop its chemical defenses, but because his anatomy was altered, his system doesn't know how to release the pressure."
"Jason!" Roy shouted across the warehouse. "Get in here! Your boy is going down!"
The bedroom door flew open, and Jason emerged, his protective Omega instincts flaring to life the absolute microsecond the distressed, sweet pear scent hit his nose. He didn't even speak; he crossed the floor in three massive strides, scooped (Y/N)’s limp, feverish body entirely into his arms, and hauled him toward the central pack nest.
"Get the blankets! All of them!" Jason commanded, his voice deep and rumbling with a raw, territorial authority. "Bizarro, get over here!"
The giant clone shuffled into the room, his pale face full of worry as he smelled his caretaker’s distress. "Friend (Y/N) boo-boo? Friend (Y/N) hot?"
"He's okay, big guy," Roy said gently, guiding Bizarro toward the edge of the massive nest. "He just needs his pack right now. Come on."
The central nest was a mountain of velvet, heavy wool, and some of everyones old cloths. (Y/N) was stripped down to nothing but a pair of soft boxers, his skin flushed a deep, feverish red, his chest heaving as he writhed against the pillows. The "Stalled Heat" was an agonizing biological limbo; his body wanted to cycle through a standard Alpha rut, but the synthetic damage caused his temperature to skyrocket into a stagnant, exhausting fever, leaving him weeping for touch and scent-marking to ground his shattered nervous system.
"Shh, look at me, sweetheart. I’ve got you," Jason murmured, climbing over him. Jason’s massive frame completely covered (Y/N), his heavy, leather-and-gunpowder scent pouring out in thick, intentional waves to soothe the nurse's panic.
Jason leaned down, pressing his lips firmly against (Y/N)’s burning forehead, then down to his jaw, kissing away the hot tears that leaked from his eyes. "You're doing so good. Just breathe it in."
"Jason... it hurts... it's too hot," (Y/N) whimpered, his hands reaching up to weakly grip Jason’s broad shoulders. His chest vibrated violently as that broken, rattling, distorted purr tore from his throat—a desperate biological cry for help that sounded like a cracked engine.
"I know, baby. I know it sounds rough, but keep making that sound for me," Jason whispered, his voice incredibly soft, full of an uncharacteristic, fierce tenderness. He slammed his mouth down onto (Y/N)’s, pouring his own saliva and Omega pheromones into the kiss, claiming him, grounding him. Jason’s large, rough hands slid down (Y/N)’s sides, gripping his hips with a dominant, unyielding pressure that made (Y/N) let out a soft, submissive sigh against his lips.
Around the perimeter of the nest, the pack moved into perfect, synchronized formation to protect their anchor.
Artemis slid into the blankets directly behind (Y/N)’s head. She pulled his upper body up slightly, resting his feverish shoulders against her muscular thighs. She wrapped her long, powerful arms around his chest, her large hands spreading over his ribs, holding him secure. She lowered her head, her sharp nose burying directly into his hair, releasing a massive, continuous wave of her dominant Beta scent—hot sand, desert wind, and heavy, protective iron.
"You are anchored, little wolf," Artemis rumbled against his ear, her voice a steady, unshakeable vibration that cut through his fever-induced delirium. "The desert does not break under the sun, and you will not break under this heat. Hold onto us. We have you."
On (Y/N)’s other side, Roy slid into the nest, his human hand reaching over to firmly grasp (Y/N)’s trembling hand, intertwining their fingers. Roy pulled (Y/N)’s arm close to his chest, steepled in his own grounding scent of clove, machine oil, and spicy cinnamon. "We're right here, buddy. Every single one of us. Just let the fever break. Don't fight it."
Bizarro crawled into the space on (Y/N)’s other side, his massive, invulnerable frame curling up like a giant, protective wall against him. He pressed his chalk-white cheek against (Y/N)’s chest while starting to lick and suck at his nipple, letting out a deep, rhythmic, bass-heavy rumble—a pup’s pure, unconditional love that vibrated through the mattress, acting like a physical massage to (Y/N)’s aching muscles while feeding in the Caretakers otherflowing milk.
Tucked into the absolute center of his family, surrounded by the iron-clad protection of Artemis, the grounding presence of Roy, and the innocent warmth of Bizarro, (Y/N) finally stopped fighting the biological storm. His posture went completely slack under Jason’s weight.
"That's it," Jason growled approvingly, his green eyes dark with a fierce, possessive lust and protective fury. He leaned down, his teeth grazing over the scent gland on (Y/N)’s neck, not biting hard enough to break the skin permanently, but leaving a deep, dark purple bruise—a dominant mate’s mark that would scream to the rest of Gotham who this nurse belonged to. "You're mine. You're our caretaker, and you're my submissive boy. Let me take care of you now."
Jason shifted his weight, his large hands sliding under (Y/N)’s thighs, lifting his legs and draping them over his own broad hips. (Y/N) let out a choked, needy gasp, his head snapping back against Artemis’s chest as Jason’s fingers slicked the heat between his thighs. The vulnerability was absolute. (Y/N) had no knot, no traditional biological armor to protect himself, but as Jason guided his length against him, kissing him deeply to swallow his cries, (Y/N) knew he didn't need it.
Jason mounted him with a slow, heavy, deliberate dominance, burying himself completely inside the submissive nurse. (Y/N)’s eyes rolled back in pure, unadulterated ecstasy, his fingers digging into Roy’s hand so hard the archer's knuckles went white. The distorted, rattling purr tore from (Y/N)’s chest in a continuous, frantic rhythm—no longer a sound of shame, but a song of complete, unburdened surrender.
"I’ve got you, sweetheart," Jason groaned, his hips driving into (Y/N) with a steady, slow, rhythmic, protective power, pampering him with soft words, heavy kisses, and an all-consuming affection that rebuilt every broken piece of the nurse’s soul. "You're safe. You're home. Your pack has you."
For hours, the safehouse was filled with the thick, unified scent of a complete family—sweet pears, sandalwood, leather, clove, chalk and iron—completely locked together in the dark, untouchable by the cruel world outside.
The storm that rolled over the eastern seaboard of New Jersey and Delaware didn't merely dump snow; it dropped a thick, localized front of freezing rain that left the heavy industry corridors between Blüdhaven and Gotham City coated in a two-inch shell of jagged, translucent ice.
Inside the Bowery safehouse, the atmosphere had undergone a permanent shift. The air no longer smelled of old ammunition grease and cold takeout. It smelled of heavy, warm sandalwood oil, caramelized parsnips, and the unique, dense, overripe sweetness of (Y/N)’s stabilized pear pheromones. His "Stalled Heat" had finally broken two weeks prior, leaving his system deeply drained but biologically anchored. His skin, once tightly pale with the synthetic strain of his stepfather’s reconditioning drugs, had taken on a softer, healthier texture. He wore a dark charcoal wool sweater that belonged to Jason—the sleeves rolled up past his forearms to reveal the lean, functional muscle that his biology had never quite managed to shed despite the forced "bitching" procedure.
The temporary peace was shattered at 3:14 AM by a multi-frequency alert that bypassed the bunker’s main security matrix.
A three-car freight transport belonging to Stagg Enterprises had jackknifed on the slick metal grading of the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, crushing an unmarked transport vehicle and spilling seven hundred gallons of an unstable, industrial-grade polymer precursor into the low-income housing blocks below the northern embankment. The chemical—a volatile combination of organophosphates and experimental neuro-toxins designed for deep-sea insulation—was highly reactive when exposed to open freezing air, releasing a dense, heavy gray vapor that clung to the street level like sulfuric mist.
"We’ve got sixty families trapped in the lower tenements before the GCPD can even get their gas masks out of the trunks," Jason growled, his heavy combat boots slamming against the concrete floor as he hauled his customized red helmet from the workbench. His Omega scent—usually settled into a protective, comfortable warmth around the kitchen—spiked into a sharp, lethal ozone-and-gunpowder fury. "Roy, grab the thermite lines. If that vapor hits the gas mains under the bridge, the whole district goes up like a kerosene lamp."
"Already moving, Jaybird," Roy muttered, his mechanical arm clicking as he loaded a specialized payload of pressurized foam canisters into his tactical harness.
Artemis was already at the heavy steel doors, her massive broadsword strapped across her back, her dominant Beta pheromones of iron and sand forming a solid, immovable wall behind the two men. "Bizarro, you stay here. Protect the perimeter. If the sky-monsters try to cross the docks, you hit them."
The giant clone sat on the floor near the kitchen island, his massive, chalk-white fingers wrapped around a half-empty mug of warm milk (Y/N) had prepared for him earlier. He let out a low, unhappy whimper, his baby-blue eyes wide with pup-like distress. "Bizarro stay. Bizarro watch the windows."
(Y/N) didn't grab a weapon. He grabbed his heavy, field-grade medical pack—the one with the reinforced military straps he’d modified himself—and began shoving three extra canisters of atropine and standard neutralizer into the side pouches.
"You're staying behind," Jason ordered, his hand coming out to flatly press against (Y/N)’s chest. The touch wasn't cruel; it was the heavy, protective instinct of an Omega who refused to allow his mate near a hot zone. "The air down there is toxic, (Y/N). If you inhale that Stagg chemical, your altered endocrine system won't clear it. Your liver can't handle the toxin load."
"I am a registered trauma nurse, Jason," (Y/N) replied, his voice soft but entirely steady, the deep, guttural tone he had used to comfort Lian now turning into something cold and professional. He didn't drop his head. He didn't offer the submissive neck tilt. For the first time, the core of the Alpha he was meant to be looked straight through Jason’s green-tinted glare. "Your people are going to be dragging children out of those basements with acute respiratory failure. You can fight the gangs, and you can block the gas lines, but you cannot intubate a six-year-old with a collapsed larynx while wearing tactical gloves. I’m coming."
Jason’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together until the sound echoed in the small space between them. For three seconds, his dominant, protective nature fought against the hard, practical reality of the Narrows. Finally, he slammed his hand down on the counter. "If your respirator cracks, you pull back to the perimeter. No arguments."
"No arguments," (Y/N) agreed.
The northern embankment of the Kane Bridge was an apocalyptic landscape of yellow emergency flares and freezing fog. The Stagg chemical had pooled in the gutters, bubbling with a sickly, iridescent green sheen that gave off a smell like burnt sugar and battery acid.
By the time the Outlaws arrived, Nightwing—Dick Grayson—was already on the scene. As the Prime Alpha of the Teen Titans network and the oldest of the Wayne pack, his presence was normally an overwhelming, commanding weight that could force lesser dynamics to their knees by sheer proximity. He was working the lower fire escapes of the tenement blocks, his blue-striped uniform covered in gray soot, his chest heaving as he carried two unconscious elderly residents down a frozen iron ladder.
"Hood!" Dick shouted through his comm-link, his voice cutting through the roar of the emergency sirens. "The gas is filling the basement apartments through the coal chutes! We don't have enough oxygen rigs to get into the third block!"
"We brought a medic," Jason barked back, firing a grapple line into the structural beams above the bridge to intercept the leaking freight trailer. "Keep your hair on, Dickhead."
(Y/N) didn't wait for instructions. He set up his field station in the cold, drafty garage of an abandoned auto-repair shop less than fifty yards from the primary spill site. The concrete floor was freezing, but he pulled three high-powered space heaters from his pack, kicking them on until the air was warm enough to prevent the blood samples from clotting in their vials.
Within twenty minutes, the triage center was a chaotic, bloody mess of blue-lipped children and vomiting adults. The Stagg toxin was an acetylcholinesterase inhibitor; the victims were seizing, their mouths foaming as their respiratory systems locked down under the chemical attack.
Dick Grayson slammed through the side door of the garage, carrying a young woman whose face was already turning a deep, dangerous shade of purple. His Alpha pheromones were completely out of control—sharp, aggressive, and wild with the panic of a leader who was losing his people. "She’s not breathing! Her throat is completely swollen shut! I tried the standard auto-injector, but it isn't taking!"
"Lay her down on the long table," (Y/N) commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a strange, flat authority that made Dick’s instinctual Alpha dominance stumble for a fraction of a second.
(Y/N) didn't flinch as the toxic, sweet-burnt-sugar scent of the woman’s clothes hit his nose. He ripped open a surgical tray, his fingers moving with a terrifying, mechanical precision that had been honed through three years of treating the forgotten dead of the Narrows. "She’s having an atypical anaphylactoid response to the polymer catalyst. The auto-injector didn't work because her peripheral circulation has already collapsed."
"We need to move her to the hospital—" Dick started, his hand reaching out to grab (Y/N)’s shoulder to pull him back.
"She’ll be dead before you get her to the end of the block," (Y/N) snapped, his elbow swinging back to cleanly knock Dick’s hand away. He didn't look up. He didn't apologize. He took a long, hollow needle, dipped it straight into a vial of concentrated meta-infused blocker he’d synthesized from his own blood weeks prior, and plunged it directly into the woman's jugular vein.
Dick went entirely still, his Alpha scent turning dark and dangerous at the physical rebuff. He looked ready to throw the nurse across the room—until he heard the long, whistling gasp of air clear the woman's throat. The purple hue in her cheeks began to recede, replaced by a pale, healthy pink.
For the next four hours, (Y/N) didn't stop. His respirator sat skewed on his face, his forehead covered in sweat that froze at his hairline whenever the garage doors flew open. He handled thirty-two critical poisonings by himself, his hands occasionally glowing with that soft, warm, golden healing light whenever a child’s heart began to falter under the chemical stress. He didn't show fear; he didn't show submission. He worked until his own lungs began to rattle with a dry, painful cough from the residual vapor in the room.
When the last ambulance finally cleared the perimeter at 7:00 AM, the first pale rays of the Gotham winter sun were hitting the icy river. Dick Grayson stood by the grease-stained workbench, his dark hair messy with sweat. He was watching (Y/N) meticulously clean the surgical steel instruments, his hands shaking slightly from pure physical exhaustion.
Dick walked over, his heavy Alpha scent slowly dropping its defensive edge, shifting instead into something solid, respectful, and profoundly quiet—the smell of a seasoned commander acknowledging a soldier who had held the line.
"Jason told me what happened to you," Dick said softly, his blue eyes fixed on the nurse’s profile. "When I first heard about a 'Beta' squatter living in the Bowery safehouse, I thought my brother was just being stubborn. I thought he was keeping a pet because he didn't want to deal with the reality of a real pack dynamic."
(Y/N) kept his eyes down, his fingers wiping a spec of dried blood from a hemostat. "I know what I am, Nightwing. You don't have to remind me that my presentation is broken."
"That's not what I'm saying," Dick interrupted, stepping closer until his shadow fell over the table. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he let it rest flatly on (Y/N)’s shoulder. This time, he didn't push or pull. He just left it there, letting his Prime Alpha scent—the deep, oceanic oak-moss of the Grayson line—mingle with (Y/N)’s pear and sandalwood. It was a formal scent-sharing gesture, the kind used between pack leaders to ratify an alliance. "You stayed behind when the gas was thickest. You didn't run, and you didn't look for someone else to protect you. My brother doesn't have a pet, (Y/N). He has an anchor. If anyone in this family tells you that you don't belong in the Wayne pack, you tell them they have to talk to me first."
(Y/N) let out a long, shuddering breath, the broken, rattling purr clicking in his throat for a brief second before he managed to catch it. Dick didn't flinch at the sound. He just smiled, squeezed the nurse’s shoulder once, and walked out into the cold morning air.
The first peace treaty was signed.
The second meeting happened three days later under much more clinical circumstances. Tim Drake—Red Robin—had arrived at the Bowery loft without his cape or his mask, wearing nothing but a faded Gotham Knights hoodie, a pair of grease-stained cargo pants, and a massive silver Pelican case that looked heavy enough to crack the floor tiles.
Tim didn't say hello to Jason or Artemis. He walked straight past the living area, dropped the silver case onto the small desk near (Y/N)’s medical cabinet, and looked at the nurse with an expression that could only be described as intense, diagnostic obsession. His scent—the sharp, cold, analytical Beta aroma of dried ink, mint, and lithium batteries—filled the alcove.
"The standard LexCorp hormone panel from 2021 used a lipid-based delivery vehicle that was designed to bind permanently to the hypothalamic receptors," Tim said, not even pausing to breathe as he popped the heavy latches on the case. Inside were thirty separate vials of a clear, synthetic enzyme and a high-grade portable blood analyzer that looked like it belonged in a Star Labs facility. "Your stepfather’s thought the neural gland cauterization was irreversible because they were using standard radioactive isotopes. But they didn't account for your meta-human healing factor."
(Y/N) stood by the bookcase, holding a stack of clean sheets, blinking in complete bewilderment. "I... I'm sorry?"
"Don't apologize, it’s a waste of data," Tim muttered, pulling a sterile syringe from his pocket and tapping the needle. "Sit down. Give me your left arm. I’ve been running simulations on the Batcomputer for seventy-two hours. Your meta-gene didn't stop the process because the hormone blockers were being introduced during your primary developmental spike between twelve and eighteen. Your body treated the synthetic Omega hormones as its natural baseline. It didn't fight them because it thought they belonged there."
Jason leaned against the doorway of the alcove, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed into a protective sliver. "Tim. If you stick that needle in him without explaining what you're doing, I'm going to throw you through that window."
Tim didn't even look back at his older brother. "I'm not curing him, Jason. You can't 'cure' a structural biological rewrite after the epiphyses have fused. His knot is gone. His vocal cords have permanent scar tissue. But what I can do is manage the Stalled Heats. The reason his fever went to 104 degrees last week is because his adrenal glands are still trying to produce Alpha-level cortisol while his liver is trying to process Omega-level estrogen mimicry. They’re fighting for the same receptor sites."
(Y/N) slowly walked over and sat in the metal chair, rolling up his sleeve without a word. He looked at Tim’s face—there was no pity there. No tragedy. No look of soft, sickening sorrow like the doctors at Gotham General gave him when they looked at his forged medical clearance forms. To Tim Drake, (Y/N) wasn't a victim of a horrific underground crime; he was a highly complex, beautifully fascinating technical problem that required a specific, elegant solution.
"It will be difficult," (Y/N) warned softly as Tim tied the rubber tourniquet around his bicep. "My blood... it resists standard analysis. It destroys the standard reactive strips."
"That's why I brought the mass spectrometer with the diamond-tipped needle," Tim said, a small, genuine smirk appearing on his pale face. He slid the needle into the vein with the effortless precision of someone who spent half his life patching up his own wounds. "Look at the screen. See those spikes? Those aren't standard Omega markers. That's your original Alpha scent trying to express itself through the woodsy catalyst. It’s like a hidden partition on a hard drive that someone tried to delete but forgot to clear from the master boot record."
For three hours, the two of them sat in the small corner of the loft, completely insulated from the rest of the pack. Tim didn't treat (Y/N) like a submissive omega to be coddled or an Alpha rival to be feared. They talked about cellular repair rates, the chemical synthesis of hormone binders, and the specific way (Y/N)’s meta-healing touch could be used to stabilize his own internal temperature during his next cycle.
By the time Tim began packing his gear back into the silver case, the room smelled faintly of cool mint and fresh wood —a calm, intellectual neutrality that (Y/N) hadn't realized he’d been starving for.
"I’ve set up an automated delivery script through a dummy corporation in Delaware," Tim said, snapping the case shut and finally looking (Y/N) in the eyes. "Every month, you’ll get a shipment of a stabilized enzyme blocker. It’ll stop the fevers before they start. It won't give you your original dynamic back, but it'll keep you from feeling like your own body is trying to incinerate you from the inside out."
(Y/N) smiled, a soft, small movement of his lips that felt completely real. "Thank you, Tim."
"Don't mention it," Tim said, turning to leave. He paused at the edge of the alcove, looking back at Jason, then at (Y/N). "And for the record... I like the pear scent. It’s better than Jason’s usual smell of burnt gunpowder and self-pity. See you around, brother." Tim fled before the shoe Jason through could hit him.
The second treaty was signed.
The third peace treaty came in the form of a fourteen-year-old Alpha-pup whose natural scent was so sharp and ancient it smelled like rich spices, raw stone, and old linen. Damian Wayne didn't enter the Bowery loft through the doors or the vents. He appeared on the balcony during a heavy sleet storm on a Tuesday evening, a large, heavy leather sack clutched under his dark green Robin cape.
Jason didn't even look up from his gun-cleaning mat on the coffee table. "If you brought mud into my living room, brat, you're cleaning it with a toothbrush."
Damian ignored his brother entirely. His eyes, cold and analytical as his father’s, swept the room until they landed on (Y/N), who was sitting on the floor near the nest, helping Bizarro build a massive tower out of old wooden cargo blocks.
"You," Damian barked, his voice carrying the sharp, arrogant edge of the Al Ghul bloodline. "The one they call the caretaker."
(Y/N) slowly stood up, his instincts instantly flaring with that old, familiar tension. Damian was a true Alpha—a biological aristocrat who had been raised in a culture where dynamics were absolute and rigid. (Y/N) expected a sneer. He expected the same words his stepfather’s friends had used—broken, useless, a waste of good skin.
Instead, Damian stepped forward, unclasped his cape, and carefully laid the heavy leather sack on the dining table. He unlaced the top with serious, deliberate movements. Inside was a large, grey-furred Gotham alley cat, its flank torn open by what looked like the serrated teeth of a sewer rat, its breath coming in short, wet gasps.
"The local veterinarians in this sector are incompetent," Damian stated, his chest puffed out slightly, his Alpha pheromones projecting a clear, protective demand for the animal’s life even with the still present undertone of his pup-scent. "They suggested euthanasia. I told them their lack of skill was pathetic. My brother says you possess the meta-human gift of biological restoration. Fix her."
(Y/N) didn't hesitate. He approached the table, his eyes soft as he looked down at the battered animal. He reached out with two fingers, gently pressing them against the cat’s uninjured shoulder to check its pulse. The moment he did, his chest let out that soft, mechanical, rattling purr—the broken sound he still couldn't control when his instincts were deeply moved.
Damian didn't laugh. He didn't look disgusted. His head tilted slightly, his sharp eyes tracking the way (Y/N)’s hands began to glow with that warm, golden light as he placed them over the cat’s torn flank. The muscle fibers began to knit back together under the nurse’s palms, the bleeding stopping instantly as the animal’s small, frantic breathing slowed into a deep, peaceful rhythm.
"An interesting vocalization," Damian noted, his voice dropping its arrogant edge, shifting into something formal, almost respectful. "In the old libraries of the Levant, the text of the League of Assassins speaks of the Anis-Al-Kul—the 'Pack Omega' or 'Caretaker King.' They were biological Alphas who were chosen by the old gods to bear the mark of the nursery. They did not hunt on the front lines, nor did they lead the ruts. They stayed in the high citadels to ensure that the bloodline survived the winter. Their voices were said to sound like the grinding of millstones because they carried the weight of the entire pack's life in their throats."
(Y/N) looked up, his fingers still resting on the sleeping cat’s fur. "My stepfather told me my voice was a sign of my failure. He said it was the sound of a broken dog."
"Your stepfather was an uncultured peasant from a colony of thieves," Damian said coldly, his small hand coming down to rest on the cat’s head. "He did not understand the tradition of the high pack. You have healed an animal under my protection. You have shown the proper respect for life that separates a true caretaker from a common butcher."
Damian pulled a small, silver-handled dagger from his belt and laid it on the table next to the cat. "This belongs to the House of Wayne. It is a marking blade. If any of the lesser gangs in this territory ever question your right to claim this safehouse as your nest, you show them this. It means you are under my personal protection."
Jason let out a low, amused snort from the couch. "Look at that, (Y/N). The kid just gave you a knight’s charter. Don't let it go to his head."
Damian glared at Jason, his scent flaring back into mounten stone and iron. "Todd is an ungraceful barbarian. Do not let his poor manners corrupt your instincts. I will return next week to check on the feline's progress."
With a swirl of his green cape, the young Alpha-pup vanished back into the sleet, leaving the silver dagger shining under the kitchen lights.
The third treaty was signed.
The final peace treaty did not happen in the safehouse, nor did it happen on a battlefield. It happened on the top floor of the Wayne Enterprises building in downtown Gotham, in an office that smelled of expensive leather, cold rain, and the ancient, heavy, absolute Alpha dominance of Bruce Wayne.
(Y/N) sat in a large, leather armchair opposite the mahogany desk, wearing his best grey wool coat, his hands folded neatly in his lap to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. Jason stood right behind his chair, his hands resting heavily on (Y/N)’s shoulders, his thumbs rubbing small, protective circles into the wool of the coat. His scent was defensive—a thick wall of gunpowder and leather that told the older man in the room exactly where his loyalties lay.
Bruce Wayne didn't look like Batman right now. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal three-piece suit, his silver-streaked hair brushed back, his face unreadable as he looked over a thick set of legal documents. His scent—the absolute Prime Alpha weight of cedar wood, old money, and deep, dark wet cave stone —was entirely under control, compressed into a tight, professional sphere that didn't threaten but made the room feel incredibly small.
"The permits for the clinic in the northern sector of the Narrows have been approved by the city council," Bruce said, his deep voice carrying the flat, heavy cadence of a man who owned the city’s ledger. "The facility will operate under the name 'The Bowery Community Healing Center.' It will be officially listed as a non-profit subsidiary of the Wayne Foundation."
He slid a heavy silver fountain pen across the desk.
(Y/N) looked at the paper. His name was listed as the chief medical administrator, with a full, unredacted, legally binding state nursing license that didn't mention his "Beta" forgery or his underground medical history. It was clean. It was real.
"Why are you doing this, Mr. Wayne?" (Y/N) asked softly, his voice a small, melodic tilt in the massive office. "I’m a runaway from new Jersay. My biology is a violation of city registration laws. I’m an underground meta-human."
"You're Jason's choice," Bruce said simply. He leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes shifting from (Y/N) to the heavy, scarred hands Jason kept on the nurse’s shoulders. The absolute, unyielding protectiveness radiating from his second son was something Bruce hadn't seen since before the crowbar in Ethiopia. "For five years, my son has lived in this city like a ghost. He lived on rage, Lazarus-pit toxins, and the belief that he was too broken to ever have a home. He didn't build a pack, (Y/N). He built a fortress."
Bruce stood up, walking over to the large glass window that looked out over the foggy harbor. "When I look at him now, his scent isn't wild anymore. His heats aren't destructive. He has an anchor. You gave him a sanctuary within his own mind. That is something my money and my resources could never buy him."
He turned back around, his large frame silhouetted against the gray Gotham light. "The funding for the clinic is permanent. The building is yours. The staff will be paid through my foundation. But more importantly... you are officially listed in the Wayne family trust as a primary dependent of Jason Todd. In the language of the pack, (Y/N)... welcome to the family. If anyone ever tries to use your past or your presentation against you, they aren't just dealing with the Red Hood. They are dealing with everything this house represents."
(Y/N) looked down at the silver pen. He picked it up, his fingers steady now, and signed his name at the bottom of the parchment. The ink dried quickly in the warm office.
The final treaty was ratified.
The blizzard that hit Gotham City on the twenty-fourth of December was the worst the region had seen in forty years. By noon, the sky had gone entirely black, replaced by a screaming white wall of wind and snow that buried the long, winding driveway of Wayne Manor under four feet of heavy drift. The old stone gargoyles on the roof of the estate looked like frozen sentinels, their wings coated in thick, white frost that rattled in the gale.
But inside the great hall of the manor, the world was entirely, beautifully warm.
The massive limestone fireplace was packed with six-foot oak logs that hissed and popped, casting a deep, amber glow across the ancient oriental rugs and the towering, fourteen-foot pine tree that sat in the corner, covered in thousands of small, warm yellow fairy lights and old silver tinsel.
The air in the manor was a chaotic, beautiful symphony of scents—a true communal pack gathering that had completely overridden the estate's usual cold, quiet atmosphere. There was the heavy cedar and ozone of Bruce; the deep oak-moss of Dick; the fresh mint of Tim; a mix of ozone and lether from Conner; a sweet orange from Lois omega scent ; and the spicy cinnamon and clove of Roy, who was currently sitting on the long leather sofa, his legs stretched out toward the hearth, a glass of dark eggnog balanced on his knee.
But the heart of the room—the space where the warmth was thickest—belonged to the Outlaws' corner near the grand piano.
(Y/N) sat on a massive, oversized plush velvet ottoman he had dragged from the library, wearing a soft, cream cable-knit sweater that Jason had bought him for the occasion. His skin was warm, his cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of the fire, the rich, deep scent of sweet pears and sandalwood oil radiating from his skin like a physical blanket that kept the entire corner cozy.
"This is nice" a rough, deep voice rumbled right against his ear.
Jason Todd sat next to him on the ottoman, leaning his massive, broad chest firmly against (Y/N)’s shoulders. He wore a simple black henley, his sleeves pushed up to show the thick white scars from his resurrection, his white-streaked hair messy from the wind outside. His heavy, possessive Omega scent—old leather, gunpowder, and deep, content tobacco-sweetness—washed over the nurse, completely marking him in front of everyone in the room.
"It really is, Jason," (Y/N) said, letting out a soft, amused laugh that didn't carry any of his old, submissive fear. He reached up, his fingers tracking through Jason’s dark hair, gently tugging his head down until Jason’s rough lips could press firmly against the crook of his neck, right over the dark purple mating mark that remained high on his skin. (Y/N) shivered from the contact with the sensitive mark.
On the grand rug in front of the fire, the pack pups were currently locked in a state of absolute, wholesome chaos.
On one side was Damian and Jon, the two Alpha presented pup‘s still growing into adults and fully developed Alpha‘s were reading thier latest mangas.
On the other side were the Outlaws pup‘s.
Lian Harper, wearing a pair of bright red reindeer antlers that kept slipping over her eyes, was currently using a large wooden spoon to "feed" Bizarro a plate of gingerbread men. The giant clone sat cross-legged on the floor, his massive, pale frame completely swallowed by an oversized red-and-white Christmas sweater that Dick had found in the attic. His sterile, chalk-and-ozone scent was completely gone, replaced by a warm, sleepy aura of sugar and vanilla.
"Friend (Y/N) make cookies have tiny hats," Bizarro rumbled, his deep, backwards vocalization vibrating through the floorboards like a friendly purr. He carefully picked up a cookie with two massive, invulnerable fingers, his eyes wide with the soft, innocent delight of a pup. "Bizarro love tiny hats."
"Eat it nicely, Bizarro!" Lian scolded, her small Alpha scent of fresh apple and clove trying very hard to sound authoritative. "You have to chew sixty times or your tummy will hurt."
From the doorway of the grand kitchen, a tall, imposing figure stepped into the hall, carrying a large silver platter of roasted turkey and winter vegetables. Clark Kent—Superman—wore a thick, checkered flannel shirt and a pair of old jeans, his blue eyes crinkling behind his glasses as he looked over the room. His scent—the vast, solar warmth of a sun-drenched wheat field—spread over the room like an umbrella, adding an extra layer of absolute safety to the blizzard outside.
"The roast is ready, Bruce," Clark said, his deep, gentle voice carrying the natural authority of the Justice League’s center. He looked over at the floor, his eyes softening as he watched Bizarro carefully lean his massive head against (Y/N)’s knee, letting out a long, snoring sigh as the nurse’s hand came down to gently stroke his white hair. "Looks like you’ve got a full house this year."
Bruce Wayne sat in the large wingback chair near the window, a small glass of scotch in his hand, his eyes fixed on the fire. He didn't look like the dark knight who broke bones in the Narrows; he looked like a patriarch whose pack was finally, completely safe from the storm. "It’s exactly the right size, Clark."
The dinner that followed was a loud, chaotic, and entirely untraditional affair. They didn't sit in the formal dining room with the long mahogany table and the silver candelabras. Instead, (Y/N) and Alfred had arranged a massive, communal buffet on the long sideboard in the great hall, allowing everyone to pile their plates high with chicken paprikash, browning-butter shortbread, and roasted winter squash and much more before scattering across the rugs and sofas near the fire.
Artemis sat cross-legged on the floor next to (Y/N)’s ottoman, her massive frame taking up nearly half the rug. She had her long, muscular arm draped over the nurse’s shins, her dominant Beta scent of iron and hot sand sealing the perimeter of their small corner, blocking out the chill from the large windows. She was casually tearing a piece of turkey with her teeth, a small, proud smirk on her face as she watched Jason pile three extra scoops of stuffing onto (Y/N)’s plate.
"Eat," Jason ordered, his voice a low, possessive rumble as he slid onto the ottoman next to his mate, his large thigh pressing flush against (Y/N)’s. "You’re still too thin from that heat last month. If you don't finish that plate, I'm going to force-feed you myself."
"I can eat on my own, Jason," (Y/N) murmured, but there was no bite in his words. He leaned his shoulder back against Jason’s chest, his fingers reaching down under the wool blanket to find Jason’s large, scarred hand. Their fingers intertwined instantly, Jason’s thumb rubbing the soft skin of (Y/N)’s wrist where his pulse was steady, warm, and entirely alive.
As the clock struck midnight, the wind outside let out a massive, final scream against the heavy stone walls of the manor, but inside, the sound was completely swallowed by the warmth of the hearth.
(Y/N) leaned his head back against Jason’s collarbone, his eyes closing as the thick, unified scent of his pack wrapped around his senses. He didn't have a traditional Alpha’s dominance. He couldn't throw his voice into a command frequency. His throat still carried that broken, rattling click when he tried to express his love.
But as he felt the steady, powerful thrum of Jason’s heart against his spine, and saw Bizarro sleeping peacefully at his feet with Lian curled up against his side, (Y/N) knew the truth.
The Cage in New Jersey was gone. The blue pills were dust. The "bitch" who had run away with stolen pistols and a duffel bag of shame had vanished into the Gotham snow—replaced by the absolute, unyielding Heart of the Outlaws.
He was home. He was pack. And the winter could never touch him again.
By 3:00 AM, the great hall had settled into that deep, heavy quiet that only comes after a massive family storm. Clark and Bruce had disappeared down into the lower levels to monitor the city’s electrical grid under the snow load; Dick was passed out on the long sectional sofa with Damian and Jon on the other side, burried under a mountain of wool blankets; and Roy had carried a sleeping Lian up to one of the guest rooms hours ago.
Tim and Conner being peacfully tucked away in Tim‘s bed by Lois befor she went to bed in a guest room herself.
The fire had burned down to a deep, dark bed of glowing crimson coals, casting long, soft shadows across the high stone rafters.
In the corner near the piano, the massive pack paile remained. Bizarro was still sleeping on the rug, his giant frame snoring in a low, rhythmic bass that sounded like the engine of a distant train, with Artemis draped over him.
But inside the blankets on the ottoman, (Y/N) and Jason were tangled together in a way that left no room for the rest of the world.
Jason lay flat on his back, his massive chest bare to the warm air of the room, his long legs draped over the edge of the cushions. (Y/N) was curled completely on top of him, his face buried deep in the crook of Jason’s neck, his small, lean frame swallowed by the sheer mass of the Omega vigilante. Jason’s large, rough hands were locked around (Y/N)’s lower back, pulling him down, pinning him so close their skin felt like a single surface.
"Still awake?" Jason whispered, his voice a gravelly, sleepy rumble that vibrated straight through (Y/N)’s ribs.
"Yeah," (Y/N) murmured, his breath warm against Jason’s collarbone. His chest let out a soft, long, mechanical click-rattle-click—the broken purr that had once been his greatest shame. He tried to stop it, his throat tightening to choke the sound back.
"Don't," Jason growled softly, his hands pressing firmer into (Y/N)’s back, preventing him from moving away. "I told you, sweetheart. I like the sound. It means you're happy. It means you're mine."
(Y/N) let out a long sigh, his muscles going completely slack as he allowed the broken vibration to fill the small space between their chests. He nuzzled his nose deeper into the scent gland at Jason's jaw, inhaling the thick, beautiful leather and sweet tobacco that defined his mate.
"I am happy, Jason," (Y/N) whispered, his voice melting into the dark, cozy warmth of the great hall. "I'm entirely happy."
Jason didn't say anything else. He just leaned up, pressed a deep, slow, possessive kiss into the center of (Y/N)’s forehead, and pulled the heavy green wool blanket all the way up over their shoulders, sealing them into their own private world while the Gotham blizzard spent itself against the frozen glass outside.
