WIP excerpt behind the cut; got some more "draft stud" for y'all. No real reason, haha, just because I actually wrote a pretty decent chunk more of this than I ended up having space to post for the mystery slots last week and like, it SEEMS like so far this WIP is up a few of your ( crime ) alleys. Like juuuuust maybe, hahaha. So I took a lil' writing break and got it all Tumblr-able for all of your tire-thieving, crime-lording needs! ❤️
content notes/warnings: omegaverse, family-planning via attempting to recruit a crime lord who is legally your dead-brother-by-adoption to knock up your best (boy)friend, and Tim Drake's total lack of respect for both personal boundaries and Jason's impending migraine.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
“Jesus Christ,” Jason groans, burying his face in one hand. He doesn’t even bother asking when or where the little creep got ahold of any of his DNA to test that. Fucking–probably off the damn memorial, for all he knows. Or, well–admittedly "at a crime scene" is an equally likely option. “You know if I were legally alive, we’d be legally siblings, right? Technically we are legally siblings.”
“I actually think it’s pretty common to ask siblings for favors like this?” Tim says. “Or cousins, maybe.”
“Yeah, the actually related ones!” Jason says in exasperation. “Or at least the ones who aren’t trying to drop-kick each other into either early retirement or a life sentence in goddamn Blackgate!”
“I mean I really don’t think we have that kind of relationship anyway, considering, but also I’m not the one who you would ideally be knocking up,” Tim says with a shrug. “Also full disclosure, I don’t actually think Blackgate could handle you so there’s not much point in trying to send you there. Maybe if I just needed a free weekend or something, I guess.”
“Why did Batgirl turn you down on this, Dream Warrior?” Jason asks, half-eyeing him.
“I’m going to blame either David Cain or Lady Shiva for that,” Tim says. “Probably Shiva, considering we were effectively asking her to sire a pup and then not actually be their parent. I didn’t think there was a high chance of her saying yes, honestly, but she was both our immediate first picks so it seemed kinda . . . I dunno, disingenuous not to ask her?”
“Yeah, obviously she would've been,” Jason snorts as he unwraps his sandwich to tear a bite off. It's goddamn delicious, which MM's always is, but he's still vaguely annoyed because it's goddamn Tim Drake who brought it. “So what pick in the stud draft am I, eleven? Twelve? Lucky number thirteen?”
He cannot actually imagine how many people must've turned Tim down for him to be here, so–
“No, you're second,” Tim replies, shaking his head. Jason stares blankly at him past his mouthful of wafflewich. “If you say no, I’ll be calling Super-Man, and if he says no then–”
“Superman?!” Jason sputters.
“No, Super-Man,” Tim “corrects” like he somehow thinks he’s actually saying a different name. “Kong Kenan. How was that not self-evident?”
“Because it sounds exactly the fucking same, that’s how!” Jason says in exasperation, though that does make more sense. Definitely more sense than Clark, anyway, because that was definitely a what the actual fuck EVEN moment.
“It really doesn’t, but this is getting off-topic,” Tim says, then gestures meaningfully with a hand and asks, “Which is: what are your thoughts on sperm donation?
“Sounds boring,” Jason replies frankly before taking a swig of coffee.
“Oh, that was a metaphor, Kon said he’s fine either way but I’d really prefer you actually fuck him,” Tim clarifies with a much more meaningful gesture.
Jason stares blankly at him again. Tim continues to look unfazed.
“. . . is this a kink thing, Beyond Thunderdome?” Jason asks finally, for lack of any other reasonable explanation.
“This is a ‘I don’t want my omega to feel like a lab experiment for his first breeding heat because he’s worried about making me feel emasculated’ thing,” Tim says.
“. . . yeah, fair enough,” Jason allows, taking another sip of his coffee. Still goddamn delicious; still Tim Drake-related annoying. “Jesus, though, you could’ve led with that. You know I’m a fucking beta, though, my chances of successfully knocking up your boy in one cycle are not that impressive.”
“Well, that’s the useful thing about cycles,” Tim says with another little shrug. “They, you know, cycle.”
“You want me to fuck your omega through probably multiple heats?” Jason asks, still more than a little incredulous about the idea. Again, he was not even aware that those two were dating. He was not even aware that Tim was into invulnerable and insatiable touch-based telekinetic omegas built like sexy industrial farm equipment with a very public history of “let me prove I’m good enough” issues, though actually when he thinks through that full sentence in his head it’s admittedly difficult to make an argument for why he would not be.
Maybe if he was very, very gay or very, very asexual, Jason guesses.
“Well, if it goes well this time, we’d probably ask you to do it again in a couple years anyway, so why not?” Tim says. “Kon wants to have more than one.”
“Oh, so twice as many multiple-heat fucks?” Jason says. Jesus, this little freak of human nature.
“Maybe three times, depending?” Tim says, tilting his head to one side with a considering expression. “Kon was designed to be hyper-fertile but given I have heard of exactly one Kryptonian ever that had a littermate it seems like Kryptonians might have a lower chance of conceiving litters than humans do, so we don’t really know how that might go yet.”
Jason pauses for a long moment, because all general incredulity and disbelief aside, that sentence contained a red flag the size of a damn bedsheet. Several bedsheets sewn together, in fact.
Maybe just an entire Bed Bath & Beyond’s worth of bedsheets, actually.
“‘Designed to be’,” he repeats, and Tim’s expression briefly sours.
“We’re not going to get into what Paul Westfield’s backup ‘make myself a custom Superman’ plan entailed,” he says. “Especially because he didn’t immediately scrap the thing when Kon came out sixteen and unpresented.”
“Fucking hell,” Jason says. Well, that definitely explains Tim wanting to make sure Superboy doesn’t feel like a lab experiment while he’s getting bred.
“Mmmhm,” Tim says.
Jason eyes him for a long moment as he takes another swallow of very good coffee, debating on how stupid this idea is and also if he wants to deal with Bruce’s opinion on him getting involved in it. A counterargument, admittedly, is Superboy’s very pretty smirk and ass you could bounce a giant penny off.
Though . . .
“Do you actually factually know if Kryptonians have a lower chance of conceiving litters, or is the prevalence of them having singles potentially just a birthing matrix thing?” he asks. “Because another solid reason I can think of to use one of those besides not risking the dam’s health or life and doing whatever weird ‘genetic optimization’ thing they had going on with 'em is Kryptonians being a lot more likely to conceive litters. Like big litters.”
“. . . that is a question that I should have thought to investigate sooner,” Tim admits with a slight wince.
“Y’think, Season of the Witch?” Jason asks dubiously. Tim frowns, tilting his head again and clearly confused, and Jason rolls his eyes. “Third Halloween movie, genius.”
“Oh,” Tim says. “I was wondering what the names were about.”
“Terminator, Nightmare on Elm Street, and Mad Max,” Jason says with another roll of his eyes. He did not think calling the guy a bunch of threequel titles was that subtle a dig. “Jesus, kid, watch a movie that didn’t originate on either Netflix or PornHub."
“I don’t watch either of those?” Tim says, wrinkling his nose.
“You watch porn somewhere, otherwise you wouldn’t be asking me to knock up your bitch for you,” Jason snorts dubiously, tearing another bite off his sandwich. Who even has that thought process?
“I’d really prefer you not call him that,” Tim says.
“Who cares, he’s not even here,” Jason retorts dismissively, waving him off as he chews.
“Well yeah, I wouldn’t be telling you not to call him a bitch if he was here, because that would actually be helpful,” Tim says reasonably. Jason . . . pauses, and stares at the corner of the wall past Tim’s head. It’s a wall.
It . . . sure is a wall, yeah. And also the corner of a wall, yup.
Wall.
Jason chews the rest of his bite very slowly and does not allow himself to process the implication that Superboy might like being called a bitch in bed.
“I’ve never actually heat-partnered anyone before,” he says. “Like I’ve rut-partnered a few people, but I feel like that is likely a significantly different experience. And probably also easier, frankly, given getting most alphas off takes about a fifth of the time and effort as getting most omegas off.”
“That’s not really a concern,” Tim tells him with another one of those little shrugs. Jason stares at the corner of the wall past his head some more. It is . . . still a wall, yeah. Yup. Definitely still a wall.
What the fuck does that even mean? There is literally no way Tim meant “you wouldn't need to bother getting my omega off while you were breeding him as non-lab-experiment-ly as possible”, because in what fucking world would he have meant that, so like–what? Just . . . what?
Jason’s brain is unfortunately supplying some very goddamn creative and very goddamn dirty theoretical answers to that question.
WIP excerpt for whoareyouidonteven; “draft stud”.
content notes: omegaverse, mating cycles/in heat, family-planning via attempting to recruit a crime lord who is legally your dead-brother-by-adoption to knock up your best (boy)friend, and Tim Drake’s total lack of respect for both personal boundaries and Jason’s impending migraine, which lbr, at this point probably deserves its own character tag.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
"Kon has a tendency to tune out the presence of people he trusts," Tim replies with a shrug. "So that, essentially."
"Okay, but that doesn't explain him missing me," Jason retorts in exasperation, rolling his eyes. This fucking kid, Christ. Why does he say such deliberately obtuse shit all the time?
"You think we asked someone we don't trust to be our baby daddy?" Tim asks wryly.
"Absolutely I think you're that kind of person, yes," Jason says.
". . . okay, you think Kon asked someone he doesn't trust to be our baby daddy?" Tim amends. Jason grimaces. Ugh. Supers.
"You have shit taste, Kent," he says. "But then again I've met your boyfriend, so I guess I'm not surprised."
Superboy turns red again at the word "boyfriend", half-covering the stupid smitten smile on his face with a hand as his pheromones blossom up sweeter and warmer, blooming brighter notes of cloves and anise and sugary cinnamon and caramel and something just shy of chocolatey. Tim just quietly but unsubtly simmers in contentment, his own pheromones mercifully contained by his suit's scent blockers.
So apparently they're still in their honeymoon phase, unfortunately.
Again: ugh. And additionally: gross, because seeing Tim Drake looking all smitten is just objectively gross, as an experience. Though "smitten" is admittedly a much better look on Superboy, and Jason's not going to complain about getting a free pass to play voyeur on that. At least as long as he can just ignore that it's Tim on the other end of that smitten look and not, he doesn't know, Cass or Wonder Girl or literally anybody else.
WIP excerpt for Rabbit behind the cut, who asked for omegaverse and is getting “draft stud”.
content notes/warnings: omegaverse, family-planning via attempting to recruit a crime lord who is legally your dead-brother-by-adoption to knock up your best (boy)friend, and Tim Drake’s total lack of respect for both personal boundaries and Jason’s impending migraine.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
“I still have absolutely zero experience at taking care of a heated-up omega, whether he’s one who appreciates getting called a bitch or not,” he says.
“I mean, I wasn’t planning on leaving, so I’d be available if you had any questions or concerns,” Tim replies, and then just loosely shrugs. “We’d just be . . . swapping traditional roles, I suppose?”
“The fact you want a beta to breed your omega is definitely not traditional, yeah,” Jason snorts around another bite of his sandwich.
“I'm really not the traditional type. We did discuss you having seven inches and sixty-five pounds on me, yes?” Tim reminds him. “Honestly your dick’s probably bigger too.”
“Tell that to your knot, kid,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. Fucking brat. Fucking migraine-inducing brat. “Like I even give a fuck about whose dick is bigger.”
“I actually don’t have a particularly big knot,” Tim says like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say to someone who is–legally, at least, little a fuck as Jason gives about what is or isn’t “legal”–your dead older brother. “Usually I use my fist when I’m heat-partnering someone, it’s less distracting for me and more effective anyway. But it’s more Superboy’s personal ‘giving a fuck’ about whose dick is bigger that I’m concerned with either way.”
Jason isn’t sure if his eyes are glazing over at the thought of Superboy’s cunt getting fisted and Superboy’s apparent personal preferences regarding the size of the dick he’s taking or if he’s just grossed the fuck out at the thought of Tim Drake having sex with someone.
Ugh. Yeah, he definitely does not want to think about Tim Drake having sex.
“Too much information, Goldmember,” he says flatly.
“Well, if you agree to doing this there’s going to be a lot more ‘information’ exchange happening, so I don’t really know if TMI is going to be relevant,” Tim says reasonably.
“If, you fucking brat,” Jason retorts in exasperation.
“Please explain to me what does not appeal to you about getting Superboy on your dick for three to four business days while he is being extremely grateful to you for doing him the favor,” Tim replies dryly.
“. . . you know I might either not want to ever reproduce or just not want to reproduce for someone else,” Jason says, just eyeing him. “I might have an opinion about that.”
“Do you have an opinion about how my heat-drunk size queen omega might react to you fisting him?” Tim asks as he raises an eyebrow at him in response. Jason instinctively glances down at the other’s hand like he’s a goddamn idiot who’s goddamn new here or something. Though there is, obviously, a very significant size difference there. “Or about being the person to introduce him to the experience of getting creampied?”
“How have you not fucked him raw at least outside of heat?” Jason demands incredulously.
“Oh, we haven’t actually had sex before,” Tim clarifies. Jason stares blankly at him. Tim apparently assumes he needs to clarify further, and adds, “I was talking about previous partners, with the heat-partnering. And I just know what I know about Superboy’s preferences because we’ve previously discussed them.”
Jason continues with the blank staring. He is very familiar with a very wide range of mental illnesses and neuroses and obsessions and related information, given the fucking revolving door nature of Arkham as a psychiatric institution and just his entire life experience of existing in a city like Gotham. Absolutely none of that information or those experiences explain Tim Drake as a person. Literally not a single word of any of it.
What in every actual hell.
“I swung by your Pearl Street safehouse to pack you a go-bag,” Tim continues, because he apparently has about as many boundaries as Bruce and Babs do. Also, Jason might need to burn down his Pearl Street safehouse now, because he’s going to have to redo all his security systems from scratch anyway and hell if he’s ever going to trust he found all the bugs the other definitely left. Tim clearly just does not think rationally enough for Jason to feel confident in his own ability to figure out where the fucking hell ever the little freak would decide to set his bugs. “I included your favorite pajamas and the book you’re in the middle of, and also the next book on your reading list, just in case. This is technically time-sensitive, so . . .”
“. . . I don’t wear pajamas, and I’m not in the middle of a book,” Jason says, eyeing him suspiciously. “I don’t even have a reading list, I–”
Tim pulls a carefully-written but beat-to-shit piece of notebook paper out of his utility belt and holds it up. Jason’s own handwriting is all over it in bright blue ink and excruciatingly careful writing.
“Goddammit, Drake, that was from ninth grade!” he sputters disbelievingly. Why the fuck did Bruce even still have that?!
“So you don’t want it, or . . .?” Tim tilts his head.
“Fuck you, gimme,” Jason retorts, shoving himself up to his feet and leaning over the desk to snatch it. He never did actually get around to finishing Agnes Grey or get around to The Importance of Being Earnest. Which is a damn play, not a book, but he can critique Tim’s shitty lit knowledge later. Priorities, dammit.
Though–wait.
Why did Tim pack him a go-bag before–
“. . . Drake,” he says, staring incredulously at the other while still holding his ninth-grade reading list. “Are you fucking propositioning stud candidates while your Super-boytoy is off alone somewhere in pre-heat?”
“It seemed more efficient,” Tim replies with another shrug. “He gets self-conscious about people hanging around in his space when he’s pre-cycle anyway, so it was a convenient way to get myself out of said space while he’s anxious without him feeling guilty about kicking me out. Also means I won’t need to be worrying about anything like scheduling your next gang war around his cycle.”
“You thought you were going to be ‘scheduling’ my next gang war?” Jason asks dubiously.
“Yes,” Tim replies with absolutely zero shame, absolute little freak that he is.
WIP excerpt for Waywren Truesong, who asked for "get loved, idiot" and Timjaykon and is getting “draft stud”. Which is actually Timkon and Jaykon, but I expect I will be forgiven for that technical transgression, lol.
content notes: omegaverse, family-planning via attempting to recruit a crime lord who is legally your dead-brother-by-adoption to knock up your best (boy)friend, and Tim Drake’s total lack of respect for both personal boundaries and Jason’s impending migraine, which lbr, at this point probably deserves its own character tag.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
Jason very briefly considers the possibility of his birthing matrix theory about Kryptonians having big litters being correct, imagines exactly how big a litter a six foot three omega built like a professional linebacker could carry and exactly what that would look like, and then wishes he had more coffee.
And also a ten-gallon bucket of freezing-cold ice water to pour in his fucking lap right the fuck now, because Jesus fucking goddamn CHRIST.
"Is that alleged five pounds all in your fists, or . . . ?" Tim asks, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Fuck you, 33 and ⅓," Jason retorts reflexively.
"I would still really prefer you do that for Kon, actually," Tim replies, and definitely fucking says "for" instead of "to" on purpose, the creepy little shit.
Jason is never forgiving his dick for this.
"Christ alive, give me the fucking go-bag already," he gripes sourly, shoving his trash off the desk and into the cheap-ass mesh trash can to the side of it. "You're goddamn unbearable, you know that?"
"That reminds me, actually, do you know how Kryptonians can enhance their hearing and vision and senses in general when they concentrate?" Tim says. "Or lose concentration, depending."
". . . yes," Jason answers warily.
"Superboy's not very good at controlling how 'super' his sense of touch is when he's in heat," Tim says.
"Jesus Christ, Army of Darkness, I already said yes," Jason groans, shoving himself up out of his chair and to his feet.
Well, that explains the "not really a concern" comment, so far as getting an omega off being harder to manage.
"I mean, you really only implied it," Tim says. Jason shoots him a dirty look.
"Are you a fucking Bat or not?" he says. By Bat standards he might as well've turned on the porno version of the Batsignal, for fuck's sake.
"I just think it's best to be thorough in these situations," Tim says with a little shrug, then holds out the go-bag to him. Jason snatches it from him with a glower, then slings it over his shoulder.
"You're a fucking problem, kid," he says.
"So are your math skills, but those aren't actually relevant right now either," Tim replies with another shrug. "Do you mind if I drive or would you rather take your bike?"
"I would legitimately rather swallow a martini shaker full of glass than get in a car with you in it," Jason informs him. "And I mean the broken, dirty, scraped-off-the-pavement kind of glass, not any of those pussy-ass decorative fish tank pebbles or anything."
"That's fine, you just need to be alright with fucking my omega with me in the room," Tim says, and says like he genuinely thinks he's saying something there. Like this is actually, what, a normal conversation topic or something? Like he thinks he sounds normal and sane and reasonable here? Like that was just a normal thing to fucking say by fucking any metric whatsoever?
Fucking Jesus. Most alphas that Jason's known would try to put their teeth in someone's throat sooner than they'd invite them to fuck their omega, much less invite them to fuck their omega in front of them. Actually, pretty much every alpha Jason's known would do that. Like, probably not Kori, she'd think it was a fun bonding activity or whatever, but also, ew, he does not need to think about Dick's sex life that much, much less the horrifying concept of Kori making that suggestion to him as casually as Tim Drake just walked in the door and asked him to knock up fucking Superboy for him.
Jason really would've preferred some actual prep time for this, goddammit. If nothing else, at least enough time to emotionally process the concept of Superboy being a fucking size queen who has trouble controlling his super-sense of specifically touch when he's horny, Jesus Christ. That shit? That shit is emotionally damaging. That shit is just straight-up fucking cheating. Superboy already looks like goddamn Superboy, for fuck's sake; what the fuck else does the bitch fucking need?!
Oh, and he likes being called a bitch, apparently.
"Cheating" is not a strong enough word for this bullshit situation, actually.
"What the fuck is your damage?" Jason says.
"We really don't have that kind of time, especially if you're not riding with me," Tim says, making a little show of checking the clock on the wall that literally doesn't even have any fucking batteries in it, because Jason does not give a fuck about his office clock having batteries in it, and Jason fucking suffers. "Honestly we'd probably need a extra-chrono pocket dimension to get through the full list either way. But Kon would literally fucking die for me so I'm not really concerned about him deciding he likes you better if you're better at sex than I am."
"Literally any Super would die for a goddamn stray kitten and you know it," Jason retorts in exasperation. Tim tilts his head, then shrugs.
"He'd also change the entire course of his life in complement to what I did with mine, one way or the other, and whether I asked him to or not," he says. "But that's a long story or two, and like I said, we really don't have that kind of time."
Jason stares blankly at him, reevaluates all his life choices, then just snatches up his helmet and stalks over to the window to yank it open.
"Do you not need to tell your henchmen that you're leaving, or . . . ?" Tim trails off, and Jason rolls his eyes as he tosses the go-bag outside.
"If I needed to tell my employees every time I was fucking the fuck off for extremely obvious reasons, they wouldn't be competent enough to be running half of Crime Alley for me, Search for Spock," he retorts dubiously, then swings a leg over the windowsill and slides out onto the fire escape after the go-bag. Christ alive, does Tim Drake think he recruits useless-ass idiots or something? He goddamn knows how to cultivate goddamn talent, for fuck's sake; the amount of wildly different teachers he's had, he damn well knows how to cultivate talent.
And if there's one damn thing that Bruce taught him that was almost, almost worth all the rest of it, it was the value of that.
Superboy immediately looks exasperated, the fixated expression he was wearing disappearing all at once as he makes a face at Tim. On some level Jason understands the sentiment. Half the sentiment, anyway. Definitely he doesn't understand the part of the sentiment that involved Superboy staring at the little freak like he wanted to eat him alive.
Jason has never seen anyone look so attractive while doing anything that gross. It's a genuinely bizarre experience.
"You do not—wait, you actually got someb—oh!" Superboy clearly notices him for the first time, which Jason might consider more of an insult if the other didn't immediately turn red. "Uh. Hey, man."
You've tricked me into writing XD im very curious tho
"Kiss." She demands.
He gives it dutifully, as sweet as she is coming to expect of him.
- @mladyliz
"Uh," Superboy says as he turns even redder, looking flustered. He dusts his hands off on his jeans, which just reminds Jason of the handprint on his ass, because of fucking course it does.
Jesus.
"So what were you saying about those security concerns, Once Upon a Time in Mexico?" he asks Tim dryly, mostly to distract himself. It is a concern, anyway.
"Huh?" Superboy says. Jason (anti)heroically does not look at his jeans again.
WIP excerpt for Crim; “draft stud”.
content notes: omegaverse, mating cycles/in heat, family-planning via attempting to recruit a crime lord who is legally your dead-brother-by-adoption to knock up your best (boy)friend, and Tim Drake’s total lack of respect for both personal boundaries and Jason’s impending migraine, which lbr, at this point probably deserves its own character tag.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
Tim is right, they do not have the time to cover whatever the fucking fuck is wrong with the little freak, right now or ever. Ra's al Ghul and Vandal Savage don't have that kind of time. Fucking Doctor Fate doesn't have that kind of time!
"I fucking hate your feathered ass," Jason says instead of all that, because that's further bullshit that he doesn't have time for right now, given the unfortunate next step in this objectively-insane plan of his objectively-insane ripoff of a replacement/fake-but-technically-it's-legal shitty little brother's. Said next step being, extremely unfortunately: "Lead the way, Voyage of the Dawn Treader."
"You're going to run out of third installments to movie series eventually, you know," Tim says. "At least over the course of a full heat, if nothing else." Jason just bares his teeth in a smirk at him before slipping his helmet back on.
"Fucking try me, Mockingjay," he says, immediately resolved to exhaust the entire film industry just to be a pill about it.
Anyway, it's a thought exercise, and Jason's gonna need a few dozen of those to fall back on so he can not think about the invulnerable and insatiable touch-based telekinetic omega that looks like goddamn Superboy looks, can't control his super-sense of touch in heat, and likes being called a bitch being grateful to him for fucking him raw. Because if he does not have any thought exercises to fall back on, he is not going to have any chance of putting in a respectable performance for said invulnerable and insatiable touch-based telekinetic omega.
"If you wanted me to bring your omega a courting gift before I pupped his Super-ass, you should've given me more than five fucking minutes' warning, Ocean’s Thirteen," Jason replies dubiously. He sure as shit isn't the type to pick up courting gifts at the fucking drugstore, for one thing.
"Oh, no, nothing like that," Tim clarifies, looking up from the phone to wave the statement off. "I'm already bringing you as a courting gift; that'd just be excessive."
Flash-subjective microseconds, maybe? What's smaller than a microsecond, Jason wonders? There's gotta be something. He really doesn't spend literally any time whatsoever around any speedsters whatsoever, though, so fuck if he knows.
