Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time he noticed something was wrong was the way the air tasted. It was nothing, it was everything—electric and wet, a tang of iron in the back of his throat, the prickle of static along his skin. The city, usually a dull thrum under his feet, felt alive, every current buzzing with a frantic energy he hadn't known it possessed. His own blood thrummed in response, a low, guttural beat against his eardrums.

Suppressants had always been part of him. Not willingly. Just the constant pressure of them, like water over stone, eroding anything sharp or dangerous in his nature. Bruce had called it protection, had said it kept Dick balanced, kept him from tipping over into the rage and hunger that had stalked his childhood. It had made him slower, quieter, made him fit into the mold Bruce needed him to fill—Beta mask, Beta scent, Beta presence.

But the leash had rotted. The last dose burned away without him realizing, and what was underneath was raw and old and fast. He felt a coil of muscle tightening in his gut, a low hum vibrating in his bones, demanding release. The city's scent, usually a cacophony, was sharpening, each individual note blossoming with a terrifying clarity.

He could feel the city’s pulse, heavy and slow, every heartbeat reverberating through steel and stone. But there—there was one faster, one in perfect sync with his own. It was sharp enough to sting his nose: gun oil, cordite smoke, leather cured with something harsh. And woven deep under all that, almost hidden, was flowery sweetness and petrichor.

The sweetness that reached past every wall in his head and gripped something primitive and unshakable. Rain on hot pavement. Petals crushed into damp earth. The breath before lightning cracks the sky. It was the scent of a storm brewing, of fertile earth, of everything good and right that he hadn't known he craved.

It went straight to his gut. Straight to his cock. Straight to that wordless part of him that didn’t know “target” or “mission” or “enemy”—only prey. Only mine. Every nerve in his body screamed, find it, claim it, take it. This was not a thought; it was a pure, unadulterated instinct, older than Gotham itself. His teeth ached, his jaw tightening with a need to bite, to tear, to possess.

He moved before thought, before choice. Roof ledge to roof ledge, grapnel biting into the night, the line singing with tension before reeling him in. The wind whipped past him, tasting of ozone and that intoxicating scent, urging him faster.

The figure ahead was built for speed and power—black leather, heavy jacket, red helmet glinting faintly in the sodium streetlight glare. He ran like someone who’d been running all his life, like someone who’d kill if cornered but wanted to be chased.

Every time he vaulted something—vent, satellite dish, rusting AC unit—his scent swirled harder in the air, little bursts that were almost teasing, almost inviting. A challenge. A promise.

Good mate. Run for me. Make me work for you. The thought was a growl in his own mind, a low, satisfied rumble in his chest. I'll catch you. 

The rooftops were an obstacle course, the gaps daring him to fall. He didn’t. He couldn’t. His muscles were coiled steel, a spring pulled taut, every fiber screaming with adrenaline and a predatory focus.

His lungs drank the night and that scent until he could barely separate them, the air thick with anticipation. Each pounding footstep thudded through his bones like drumbeats, a primal rhythm building towards a climax.

And the Omega kept looking back. Just for a flicker, just enough to catch his eye through the visor—calculating, testing. A spark of defiance, a hint of something feral that met his own. Dick’s mouth stretched into a grin that felt more like baring his teeth. 

Oh, you want this, don't you? You want to be caught.

Two hours of this. Two hours of Gotham rushing by in a blur of shadow and yellowed light, of grapnels and pounding boots and the steady swell of heat pooling in his hips. His hands twitched for something to hold, something to grip and pull closer. His jaw ached with the need to bite, to sink his teeth into yielding flesh and mark it.

Every moment the Omega kept running was proof he was strong enough to be worth the chase, smart enough to know what was coming, reckless enough to flee anyway.

They hit the narrow alley between two old apartment buildings almost in the same heartbeat. Dick dropped down from the opposite ledge, momentum slamming them together and down onto the rooftop’s gravel skin.

The sound—oofhh—was hot in his ears, almost as good as the first flare of that scent up close, a suffocating, intoxicating cloud. He landed on top, his weight pinning the thrashing figure, every inch of their bodies in searing contact.

The Omega thrashed hard, leather creaking, helmet clanging against the tar. His strength was solid, dangerous, a furious energy that threatened to buck Dick off, but Dick’s thighs locked around his hips, grinding them together so every shove only rubbed more of that raw, delicious heat into his bones.

His hands shoved at buckles, at the seam between armor and skin, driven by a singular, overwhelming need to strip away anything that separated them. The helmet was in his way. The patches were in his way. They were obstacles.

He needed his scent. Needed it in his lungs, in his mouth, in the back of his throat where it could curl into every nerve and seep into his very essence. He needed to taste the air his Omega breathed, feel it fill his own lungs.

A buckle snapped under his frantic fingers, the sound sharp in the night. The helmet came away with a metallic scrape, rolling to the side. He still didn’t look at the face—eyes didn’t matter. Not yet. His focus was the strip of skin at the neck where the patch clung, a small, insidious barrier between him and everything he craved. The adhesive ripped away under his fingers, a tearing sound that was music to his ears.

The breath he took after that overwhelmed his senses. It was a physical blow, a tsunami of pure, unadulterated pheromone. Sweet. Heavy. Sharp enough to make his eyes sting, thick enough to choke him, and every molecule of it screamed, mine. MINE. Finally, MINE.  

It was an ache in his teeth, a throb in his cock, a crushing pressure behind his ribs that made him hunch over his prize like something truly wild and territorial. The scent was a tangible thing, coating his tongue, flooding his sinuses, a dizzying, narcotic haze that drowned out every last vestige of reason.

The Omega bucked, cursed—voice muffled, raw with fear and a burgeoning heat—but Dick’s mouth was already at his neck. His teeth sank into the swollen gland, not gently, but with a primal urgency, a low growl vibrating up from his chest as he sealed his lips over it and sucked. 

The first taste overtook him in a blinding rush—salt, skin, the rush of rainwater, but most of all that musky, delicious oil that pulsed from the Omega’s exposed gland. It flooded his mouth and coated his tongue, thick and intoxicating, so saturated with pheromones that for a moment he forgot how to breathe.

Dick bit harder, not out of cruelty, but because his entire being demanded it, wanted the wound open, wanted to lap up every drop. There was a tremor in his muscles, a spasm born from some wordless, basic drive that overpowered discipline and memory and even pride.

He ground his hips forward, unable to stop himself. The friction was exquisite—hot, desperate. The Omega struggled still, but now it was different: the movements didn’t have direction, didn’t have purpose, just a wild, flailing panic that made Dick want to wrap his body around him tighter, to pin him down so hard the world would forget they were ever two separate people.

The words pounded in his head with a steady, primal cadence—breed, mark, mate, breed, mark, mate—so loud they rang in his teeth. He’d never known it could be like this, that hunger could become pain and pain could turn into so much pleasure.

The Omega cursed again, voice hoarse and desperate, but Dick could hear the shift in it. The edge of anger was gone, replaced by something softer, looser, something that trembled along the line between terror and surrender. He licked the edge of the bite, tongue probing, feeling his Omega’s skin give under his mouth, blood and slick and scent all mixing together into something that made his cock throb so hard it hurt.

He fumbled one hand down, yanking at his Omega’s belt, popping open the buckle, dragging zipper and buttons apart with frantic violence. His fingers were numb and clumsy, but that didn’t matter; the Omega was arching up now, hips rising to meet every rough shove, thighs tensing and trembling. The leather pants came down just enough to bare skin, and Dick let his hand slide inside, palm hot against bare flesh, squeezing possessively, grinding their bodies together.

The Omega’s own cock was hard, slick already leaking from the tip, the smell of it almost dizzying. Dick pumped him once, twice, slow and deliberate, then let go to grab at his own suit, fast and graceless, just enough to free his own aching hardness. The cold air hit him for half a second before he pressed back down, rubbing against the cleft of the Omega’s ass, smearing precome and sweat and scent everywhere. The Omega moaned, a broken, needy sound, and Dick grinned into the wound on his neck. He was winning. He had won.

Dick leaned back on his haunches, taking in the view with hungry eyes. The exposed folds, already slick and glistening, parted just enough to show how drenched they were. 

The sight of that pretty cunt made a low growl roll up from his chest, a sound vibrating against his teeth as his eyes drank it in—perfect, swollen, dripping, open for him.

He ground the blunt head against that heat, dragging it slowly over the slippery entrance just to feel how soaked it was, the wet smearing over him, the body under him twitching with every pass. Then he drove in all at once, a hard, unyielding shove that buried him to the root, stretching tight walls around every inch. The Omega’s gasp tore out sharp, breaking into a long, high keening moan that shuddered right through him.

Tight, hot, milking at him with every twitch. His grip on their hips turned bruising, fingers biting in as he slammed deep, hips snapping in a brutal, hungry rhythm. Every stroke punched another wet cry out of them and had slick dripping down his length, coating his balls. He bent low, mouth locking over the gland again, teeth scraping before sucking hard, tongue lapping at the oil until it smeared his lips, until the taste was thick on his tongue and he was drinking it down in greedy swallows.

The more they squirmed under him, the harder he rutted, chasing the sound of their breath breaking, chasing the flood of heat around him, fucking until the wet slap of their bodies echoed and the only thing he could think about was filling his Omega so deep they’d feel it for days.

In his head the words beat like a drum, each one timed to the brutal snap of his hips—mine, mine, mine—an unyielding litany that drowned out everything but the wet clutch of the Omega around him. 

He could feel them taking him so deep it was like he was carving his shape into their body, making space for himself where there had been none before. He imagined them days from now, his seed still heavy inside, their scent rich with him, belly swelling with the proof of his claim.

I’ll stuff you so full it leaks down your thighs every time you move. I’ll push it so deep you’ll feel it in your bones. The thought of them stretched, marked from the inside out, made a low snarl curl from his chest. 

He wanted his mate swollen with him, skin pulled taut over the life he’d put there, every step, every breath a reminder that they were carrying what only he could give.

The Omega bucked, tried to twist away, but Dick’s arms were steel bands, pinning him in place. He held the other’s wrists above their head, grinding their bodies together until the frantic heartbeat beneath his palm matched the hard, unforgiving rhythm of his own. The scent was fireworks now, impossibly intense—a punch of sweetness and ozone that fogged his brain and left him gasping for breath. Beneath it, the Omega’s own slick was running, coating his cock and thighs, a heat so intense it felt like a fever.

He buried himself to the hilt again, the Omega’s cunt milking him with every pulse, every helpless clutch, as if the body itself had given up on resistance and was dragging him in deeper, demanding more. There was a moment of stillness—a single, perfect second where Dick’s world narrowed to nothing but the pressure and the heat and the wild, staccato breathing in his ear. Then the Omega gasped—sharp at first, then broken into something between a groan and a moan, a high, keening whine that sent shocks of pure pleasure through every nerve in Dick’s body.

He leaned down, bearing his full weight onto the Omega, so even the smallest movement became friction, contact, proof of the claim he was making. His teeth scraped along the line of the Omega’s jaw, finding sweat-soaked skin, and he licked it, tasted it, bit down hard enough to leave a mark. The thrill of power, of dominance, was heady and electric—it was more than just a physical victory, it was a chemical one, a rewriting of both their bodies at the most fundamental level.

The Omega shuddered beneath him, a wild, involuntary spasm that jerked their hips up to meet his, and for an instant Dick felt the barrier between them shatter. There was nothing but him and his mate, locked together in a spiral of violence and need.

He started to move—slow, savoring the friction, the sensation of being squeezed so tight it bordered on agony. But the slowness didn’t last. The heat, the scent, the ragged noise of surrender and defiance tangled together—it was too much, and he was thrusting harder, faster, each motion a brutal, relentless drive to own and be owned.

He could feel the Omega’s hands claw at his shoulders, blunt nails digging through fabric and into skin, and it just spurred him on. He wanted to be marked, to leave and receive every bruise, every bite, every raw stripe of pain and pleasure.

The Omega twisted their head away, baring the side of their throat. Dick couldn’t help himself. He struck, mouth sealing over the exposed gland, biting again—harder this time, desperate to push the claim deeper, to break through every defense the other had. The taste that flooded his mouth was copper and musk and pheromone, so thick and intoxicating that for a moment he was dizzy, lost in the storm of it.

The Omega arched, whole body straining against him, the sound that tore loose from their chest raw and half-feral.

Beneath it, Dick could hear the words, battered and broken by the force of the release: “Fuck—fuck, stop, you’re—I can’t—” but it was meaningless, just another part of the ritual, another thread in the web binding them together. He only drove harder, hips pistonning, cock swelling with every pulse of his Omega’s heat.

He felt the tightness grow, a clamp of muscle and desperation, and his Omega started to shake. Tears streaked the sweat on their face, but the look in their eyes through the mess of hair and salt was pure, naked need.

Every motion was fire, every breath a furnace, every thrust a demand that the world acknowledge what had happened here: that the Omega belonged to him now, and he belonged right here, locked together, never letting go.

So tight. So hot. Every thrust made his eyes roll back, his fingers dig harder into the Omega’s hips, leaving bruises that would be his mark. He rutted deep and fast, a furious, relentless rhythm, his mouth returning to the gland to bite again, to suck until the taste of the oil was slicking his lips and tongue, until he was drowning in the Omega's essence. 

The Omega’s noises were unguarded now, spilling out in helpless little sounds, gasps and whimpers that made his hips snap harder, faster. Each thrust was a hammer blow, driving his claim deeper, planting the seed of his dominance, his future. 

You will be glowing, your belly round and full, carrying our pups. I will fill you with our future, and you will nurture them, content and serene.

The knot was swelling thick at the base now, a heavy, throbbing mass that caught on the way out, dragging over clenching walls until the Omega’s voice pitched high, hips rocking back in desperate, shameless invitation. 

They wanted it—wanted the stretch, the lock, the total sealing of him inside. He snarled, slammed forward with one brutal thrust, grinding in until the knot forced its way past that tight ring with a wet, straining pop.

The stretch made them both break—his roar tearing out low and rough, full of feral victory, theirs a ragged, breathless cry that hitched on the edges of a sob, body twitching around him as if surrender itself had taken root deep inside.

Release hit him like a detonation—hips locking, cock jerking in hard, twitching spurts as thick heat pumped deep, each pulse forced in by short, grinding shoves that mashed his knot snug against the slick, swollen entrance. 

The spill was relentless, a molten flood seeping into every tight fold, the walls clutching and rippling as if to wring him dry, milking greedily around the swell at his base.

Wet heat sloshed with every faint rock of his hips, the Omega’s breath hitching in soft, broken moans while their body trembled under the weight of it, scent sweet and heavy in the air, saturating his lungs. 

The space between them reeked of satisfaction, of possession, of his claim buried so deep it would linger in every breath they took. Their joined bodies stayed locked, knot sealing the load inside, the quiet, instinctive spasms around him drawing out the last thick ropes until there was no more to give.

They stayed like that, locked, the night air cooling sweat-slick skin, but the heat between their bodies was a furnace. Dick’s forehead rested against the Omega’s cheek, breath slowing. The feral haze thinned enough for his vision to sharpen.

That’s when he saw his Omega’s face.

It hit him like a punch—cold and hot, relief and horror colliding until his stomach churned. Jason was alive. Jason was his mate. Jason, who should never have been beneath him like this. But the bond-scent was already in his skin, in his blood, and the selfish, terrible part of him was glad. Glad it was Jason. Glad Jason was his. And that was worse than anything else.

"Little Wing?"

The knot kept them fused together, bodies pressed in the dark. Gotham’s noise was distant now, muffled under the drum of Dick’s own heartbeat, still hammering from the run and the rut. 

The air between them was humid with sweat and scent—his own sharp with alpha claim, Jason’s soft and sweet and utterly saturated with his. Every inhale was a drag of that new reality, a reaffirmation of the connection that had violently, irrevocably bound them.

He couldn’t stop breathing him in. Every inhale dragged that bond-deep perfume through his head, kept the haze clinging, a dizzying fog of possessiveness. But the clarity crept in around the edges anyway, cold and sharp, and the longer he stared at that face, the more the pieces slammed into place.

Jason.

Jason Todd, who was supposed to be in the ground. Jason, who had been a kid under his wing once, mouthy and brave and stubborn enough to make Bruce grind his teeth. Jason, who was now Red Hood, enemy and rival and stranger in so many ways—and his mate. His mate because Dick had chased him down and bitten him and knotted him without knowing, without asking.

His stomach turned. The satisfaction thrumming low in his gut twisted into something uglier, heavier, a sickening weight. He could still feel Jason’s pulse under his mouth where the bites were, could still taste the pheromone oil on his tongue, and all of it made bile threaten to rise. He’d taken what wasn’t his to take, even if every part of his biology screamed otherwise, screamed that this was right, this was destiny. As second chance.

Jason made a low, muzzy sound under him, head shifting. The aftereffects of the bond were obvious—his eyes half-lidded, pupils blown, body loose like all the fight had been pulled out. His scent was drunk, delirious, that mix of rain and flowers softened until it was almost cloying, a soft, sweet purr of submission.

“Nhhn—” Jason’s voice was ragged, the modulator gone with the helmet, deeper and warmer than it had any right to be in this moment, a low, intimate rasp. “The fuck…?”

Dick’s chest constricted. The guilt spiked, sharp as glass, a cold counterpoint to the heat still radiating from the bond. His hands twitched like he should pull back, get off, hide—but the knot held, an unbreakable lock, and some darker part of him, the newly awakened alpha, didn’t want to move. He wanted to burrow deeper, to hold on tighter, to never let go.

He swallowed hard. “Jason?”

That got his eyes open a little more. Confusion and recognition tangled there, a spark of the old fire trying to rekindle in the hazy depths.

“…You—” He broke off with a groan when the knot shifted inside him, the thick fullness of it, his body clenching reflexively around Dick’s cock.

Dick’s mind screamed at him to apologize, to explain, to offer some semblance of human decency, but the bond pulled him in the other direction, urging him to nuzzle, to soothe, to mark him again so no other alpha could even think about touching him. 

His face dropped to Jason’s cheek before he could stop it, nose pressing into the sweat-damp skin, drinking in that scent again like it was oxygen, a desperate, instinctual inhale. He needed more. He needed to lose himself in it, to forget the horrible reality of the situation.

Jason tensed faintly under him. “You… you fucking chased me.” His tone was slurred, but the bite of accusation was there, buried under the haze, a ghost of the sharp wit Dick remembered.

“I didn’t know it was you,” Dick said, the words rough, almost broken, tasting like ashes in his mouth. “Suppressants wore off and I—” He stopped. What could he even say? That he’d smelled him and everything human in him had shut off? That by the time he’d realized, it was already too late? That his body had taken over, fulfilling a mindless, brutal imperative?

Jason gave a short, humorless huff, eyes sliding shut again. 

“Should’ve… figured. Alpha.” The last word came out more like an exhale than a curse, and it hit Dick low, right in that selfish part of him still purring at the fact Jason was his now, irrevocably claimed.

The knot throbbed once, a deep, physical pulse, and Jason’s breath hitched, slick heat pulsing around him in answer, tightening, accepting. Dick’s hands clenched on his hips, not to pull him closer—he couldn’t—but just to feel that he was still there, still solid, still warm beneath him.

“I shouldn’t have—” The words came out strangled, cut off by his own mouth pressing to Jason’s temple like the apology could be absorbed through skin, like he could kiss away the violation, the shock, the irreversible change. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Jay. I'm so sorry.”

Jason didn’t answer. His breathing was evening out, his body sagging into the rooftop under them, heavy and pliant. Whether he was slipping toward sleep or just away from the conversation, Dick couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. He was here. He was his.

The city kept moving around them—sirens in the distance, a hum of traffic far below—but it felt like they were in a bubble of heat and regret and a bond Dick could already feel settling into place like iron shackles, binding them with an invisible, unbreakable chain.

He was terrified of what would happen when Jason sobered up from the rush of mating hormones.

But under all the terror was that ugly, relentless truth: some part of him was glad. Glad it was Jason. Glad Jason was his, alive. And that part of him wasn’t going anywhere. It was purring deep in his chest, a satisfied, greedy rumble that vibrated through Jason’s lax body.

The first slivers of dawn, pale grey and unforgiving, began to paint the eastern sky, washing the grimy cityscape in a sickly, revealing light. Dick’s eyes, still dilated from the surge of pheromones, adjusted slowly. He could see the faint stubble on Jason’s jaw, the slight scar above his eyebrow, the almost imperceptible flutter of his eyelids. He looked impossibly young, vulnerable, sprawled beneath Dick like a broken bird, yet radiating the fierce, vibrant life that Dick had thought lost forever.

A low groan, a sound of awakening protest, rumbled in Jason’s throat. His body twitched, a jolt passing through him as consciousness began to filter through the haze of scent and spent rut. Dick’s knot, still firmly lodged, throbbed in response, a blunt reminder of their connection. 

Jason’s eyes blinked open, pupils still blown wide, but with a dawning awareness creeping in. They scanned the grimy rooftop, the familiar outlines of Gotham’s buildings, before flickering down to the heavy weight pressing him into the gravel.

Then, they landed on Dick’s face.

The recognition was instantaneous, followed by a flash of something Dick couldn’t quite decipher—disbelief, dawning horror, then a spark of pure, unadulterated rage that cut through the lingering pheromone fog like a knife. It was a familiar look, one Dick had seen many times in the chaos of a street fight, but never directed at him with such cold, violated fury.

“You,” Jason rasped, his voice still hoarse from the bond-induced haze, but sharpening with every syllable. “You fucking knothead.”

The slur felt like a slap, yet it still made something in Dick’s chest swell with a perverse sense of ownership. He was an Alpha. And Jason, his Jason, was his Omega. The world suddenly felt simple, brutally defined by instinctual roles.

Jason tried to buck, a frantic, desperate surge of strength, but the knot held him captive. Dick grunted, pressing down, not to hurt him, but to keep him still, to maintain the physical connection that now defined them. Stay. You are mine.

“Jason, wait—” Dick started, his voice a rough whisper.

“Don’t you fucking ‘Jason, wait’ me!” Jason snarled, trying to shove at Dick’s chest, his hands finding the slick, sweaty fabric of Dick’s suit. The movement was weak, uncoordinated, still hampered by the lingering effects of the bond, but the anger was potent, raw. “What… what did you do?” His voice cracked on the last word, and Dick felt a fresh wave of guilt, sharp and acidic, claw at his gut.

He wanted to explain. He wanted to apologize. But the words felt thin, inadequate, against the overwhelming, biological truth of their situation. What had he done? He had given in to instinct, to a hunger he hadn’t known he possessed, and now Jason was irrevocably marked, bonded, his.

“The suppressants… they were gone,” Dick finally managed, the words tasting like ash. “I didn’t… I didn’t know it was you until just now. I just… I smelled you. And then…” He gestured vaguely, helplessly, at their entangled bodies.

Jason’s eyes, though still wide, were beginning to clear. The fog in them was receding, replaced by a terrible, lucid understanding. He stared at Dick’s face, then down at their joined bodies, at the thick, unyielding knot that held them fast. His focus drifted to his own neck, to the raw, slightly bruised skin where Dick had bitten him. His hand instinctively went to it, his fingers brushing the tender mark.

Then, he went still. Utterly, terrifyingly still. The rage, though still simmering, receded, replaced by a cold, frightening calm. Dick felt a shiver of unease. He knew that calm. It was the calm before a hurricane.

“You… you bit me,” Jason said, his voice flat, emotionless. “You mated me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation, a statement of fact that hung heavy and irreparable in the pre-dawn air.

Dick could only nod, his throat tight. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, a wave of shame washing over him. This was Jason. His little brother. The kid he’d taught to throw a punch, to drive a car, to survive in Gotham’s brutal shadows. And now… now he’d forced a bond on him, stripped him of agency, violated him in the most primal, unforgivable way.

But then, the purr in his chest returned, stronger, demanding to be heard. The primitive part of him didn’t care about consent, about morality, about Jason’s feelings. 

It cared only about the undeniable fact of the bond, the delicious scent of his Omega, the certainty that Jason was now his, completely and utterly.

Jason made another attempt to move, a slow, deliberate twist of his hips. Dick’s cock stirred inside him, thick and heavy, and he felt Jason’s internal muscles clench around the knot, a wet, involuntary response that sent a jolt of possessive heat through Dick.

A harsh, short laugh tore from Jason’s throat, devoid of humor. 

“Fucking perfect. Just goddamn perfect.” He closed his eyes, and Dick could see the pulse throbbing frantically in his neck. “Get. Off.”

The command was weak, hoarse, but laced with an icy fury that sliced through Dick’s primal satisfaction. He wanted to obey, wanted to pull out, to sever the physical connection, to somehow undo the irreversible damage he’d done. But the knot held them locked, a cruel, mocking reminder of the bond. And even if it didn’t, the animalistic part of Dick rebelled. No. He stays. 

“I can’t, Jay,” Dick whispered, his forehead pressing against Jason’s sweat-slicked cheek again, trying to bury his face in that intoxicating scent, trying to soothe the beast in him even as it wrestled with his conscience. “The knot… it has to go down.”

Jason inhaled sharply, a painful gasp. His hand, still at his neck, clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. 

“The knot,” he repeated, his voice laced with venom. 

He didn’t try to struggle again, seemingly accepting the physical impossibility of escape due to the forced submission of the mating pheromones. But the air around him, once thick with the cloying sweetness of submission, was now sharp with suppressed rage, with a scent that spoke of deep, festering betrayal.

Dick felt a new wave of fear, cold and real. The bond was there, undeniable, a pulsing, living thing between them. But a bond without willingness, without trust, was a fragile, dangerous thing. He had claimed Jason, yes. But at what cost? He had him, but he might have broken him beyond repair in the process.

The full weight of his actions crashed down on him, momentarily eclipsing the triumphant roar of his inner Alpha. He had acted on instinct, on biology, and in doing so, he had taken everything from the one person he’d tried to protect, the one person he had already failed once before.

Jason shifted subtly again, a shiver running through his frame. Dick felt the deep, slow pulse of the knot begin to recede, a dull ache replacing the previous fullness. The physical release was starting, but the true burden had only just begun.

When the knot finally loosened enough, with a soft, wet pop, Dick pulled back, slowly, reluctantly. The separation felt like tearing apart something that had fused, leaving a raw, aching void in its wake. He still felt Jason’s warmth, the residual heat of their coupling, clinging to him like a second skin.

He pulled his pants up, fumbling with the buckle, his gaze fixed on Jason. The Omega pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the gravel digging into his skin, his eyes fixed on Dick with a gaze that held no warmth, no recognition, only a burning, violated fury. His scent, though still marked by Dick’s musk, was beginning to reclaim its sharp, independent edges.

Jason scrambled backward, away from Dick, until his back hit the low parapet wall of the rooftop. He clutched his arms around himself, not just for modesty, but as if to physically shield himself from Dick’s presence, from the pervasive scent of his Alpha.

“Don’t touch me,” Jason hissed, his voice trembling, raw. “Don’t you ever fucking touch me again.”

The words were a direct blow, a rejection so absolute it left Dick reeling. His Alpha howled in protest, a wounded, possessive sound, wanting to soothe, to claim, to force submission. But the human part of him, the part that loved Jason, understood the irreparable chasm he had just created.

The sun was fully up now, harsh and uncompromising, illuminating every detail of their shattered reality. Dick could see the tear tracks on Jason’s dust-smudged cheeks, the bruised curve of his neck where Dick had bitten him, the slight trembling of his lower lip. And in his eyes, reflected in their cold, furious depths, Dick saw himself: a monster.

He wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap, to beg for forgiveness. But something held him back. The sheer enormity of what he’d done. The unyielding force of the bond that still hummed between them, an invisible, inescapable tether, pulling him forward even as shame nailed his feet to the tar-stained roof.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and dry. “Jason,” he started, his voice a desperate rasp, "I... I am so sorry. God, Jay, I didn't—"

Jason flinched, pulling back further against the parapet wall, his head snapping up. His scent, still Dick’s, still sweet, but now shot through with bitter fear and a raw, metallic tang of defiance, spiked sharply in the cool morning air. 

“Don’t,” he hissed, his voice trembling, raw, but laced with a new edge—not just fear, but a nascent, furious resolve. “Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t know.” His eyes, bloodshot and wide, raked over Dick’s face, searching, dissecting. “You chased me. You hunted me. You knew exactly what you were doing, Alpha.” The word was spat like an obscenity, not a title.

Every syllable was a fresh cut, but what truly stung was the truth in his words. Dick had known. Not that it was Jason, no, but he had known the hunt, the chase, the primal urge to claim. He had reveled in it. The beast in him still coiled, a deep, satisfied thrum that he fought to suppress, to bury under layers of human remorse.

“No, I… I didn’t know it was you,” Dick reiterated, stepping forward, slowly, as if approaching a skittish, wounded animal. His hands were open, palms out, in a gesture of surrender that felt alien to his Alpha-wired body. “I swear it, Jay. The suppressants… they faded. I smelled you, and it was just… instinct. I couldn't… I couldn’t think. There was nothing but the chase, and that scent. God.” 

He gestured wildly towards Jason, then immediately dropped his hand, realizing how that might sound, how it might confirm Jason’s worst fears.

Jason scoffed, a raw, humorless sound that tore at Dick’s gut. 

“Instinct. Right. So your ‘instinct’ is to rape people, Dick?” His voice was low, shaking, filled with a controlled venom that was far more chilling than any scream. 

He hugged himself tighter, his gaze fixed on some point beyond Dick’s shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes. The light caught the sheen of unshed tears in them, and Dick’s chest clenched.

“No!” Dick denied, his own voice cracking. The accusation was like a branding iron. “No, Jason, never. Not like that. I would never… I would never hurt you.” 

The words rang hollow even to his own ears. He had hurt him. Profoundly. Physically, emotionally, existentially.

“You already did,” Jason whispered, so soft Dick almost missed it, drowned out by the distant city hum. His voice was laced with a pain so deep it made Dick’s own throat ache. “You took… everything. You took my choice.”

The Alpha in Dick roared, a silent, internal protest. Choice? There is no choice where the bond is concerned! This is how it’s meant to be! He wanted to advance, to pull Jason into his arms, to scent him again, to soothe him with the undeniable proof of their connection. 

But the human part of him, the older brother, the partner, the friend, knew that would be the worst thing he could do. He had to give Jason space, even if every fiber of his being screamed to close the distance.

“I know,” Dick said, his voice raw, hoarse. He dropped to his knees, not quite begging, but humbling himself, trying to bridge the vast chasm between them. “I know I did. And I’m so, so sorry. There’s nothing I can say, nothing I can do to make this right, but I have to try.” He looked up at Jason, meeting his gaze for the first time since the knot had receded. “I didn’t want this for us. Not like this. I wanted… I wanted you.” He stumbled on the words, realizing how loaded they sounded now, how they twisted in the context of their forced intimacy.

Jason’s expression flickered, a momentary confusion warring with the anger. His scent softened, just for a breath, before the acrid tang of betrayal returned. 

“You wanted me?” he repeated, his voice laced with bitter disbelief. “Is that what this is? Some fucked up way to ‘want’ someone? To corner them, and… and just take?” His eyes narrowed, suspicion hardening his features. “Or is this just the Alpha talking? The one that just… decided I was his property?”

The word ‘property’ struck Dick's heart, worse than ‘rape.’ It was the most dehumanizing thing Jason could have said, a direct attack on Dick’s humanity, on their shared history. 

His Alpha bristled, a low, offended growl building in his chest, wanting to assert dominance, to remind this defiant Omega of his place. But Dick clamped down on it, hard. This wasn’t about dominance. This was about Jason.

“No!” Dick’s voice was sharp, cutting through the internal battle. “No, Jay, never property. You’re… you’re my brother. My partner. You’re Jason. You’re everything. This was… a mistake. A horrible, goddamn, biological accident that I can’t undo.” He spread his hands, palms up, in a gesture of utter helplessness. “But I swear, I will find a way to make this right. I don’t know how. But I will.”

Jason watched him, his expression unreadable, a wall of cold fury and deep-seated hurt. The tremble in his hand was still there, a barely perceptible tremor as he clutched his own arm. He didn’t scream, didn’t lash out further. He just stared, assessing, processing. 

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant sounds of Gotham waking up. The air was still heavy with the mingled scents of their forced mating, a sickening reminder of the night’s violence.

Finally, Jason spoke, his voice quiet, almost devoid of emotion. 

“‘Right.’” He looked away, his gaze sweeping over the grimy, trash-strewn rooftop, as if seeing it for the first time. “You can’t make this ‘right,’ Dick. This isn’t a broken arm. This is… this is my life. And you just…” He trailed off, shaking his head slowly, a deep, shuddering breath escaping him. “You just took it. All of it.”

He slid down the wall, settling onto the cold gravel, pulling his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, effectively shutting Dick out. His scent, still Dick’s, still marked, but now fading, growing thinner, as if Jason was trying to retract it, to pull it back inside himself. 

It was a subtle, almost imperceptible shift, but Dick’s Alpha noticed, and it felt like a cold dread settling in his stomach. Jason was closing himself off, pulling away, and Dick, despite the bond, was powerless to stop it.

“Jay, please,” Dick pleaded, his voice a desperate whisper. “Just… tell me what you need. I'm so, so sorry. What I can do. Please, I don't even know how you're back and I don't—”

Jason lifted his head, finally looking at Dick again, and in his eyes, Dick saw not just anger, but a profound weariness, a deep, aching fatigue. 

“Just… leave me alone,” Jason said, his voice flat, exhausted. “Just go. Give me some space. I can’t… I can’t even look at you right now.”

The words were a brutal dismissal, a direct challenge to the Alpha’s possessive instincts. Dick’s inner beast snarled, resisting, wanting to stay, to dominate, to force Jason to acknowledge him. 

But the human part, the part that truly loved Jason, knew that this was the only path forward. To push now would be to shatter any remaining sliver of trust, to ensure the bond was one of chains, not connection.

He hesitated, agonizing over it, his body screaming at him to defy the order. But the look in Jason’s eyes was clear: Go, or lose me forever.

With a strangled sound that was half a groan, half a whimper, Dick slowly pushed himself to his feet. He wanted to say more, to explain, to apologize a thousand times over, but the words felt trapped in his throat. 

He just stood there for a moment, helpless, watching the figure of his bonded Omega, huddled and broken, pulling away from him, scent by scent, centimeter by centimeter.

Finally, with a heavy heart that felt like a lead weight dragging him down, Dick turned and walked away, leaving Jason alone on the grimy rooftop, the early morning sun casting long, lonely shadows around him. He didn’t look back. He couldn't. The phantom ache of the bond, the sickening taste of victory, and the bitter taste of his own failure were all he could focus on.

Dick walked, the city blurring around him, a meaningless cacophony against the screaming silence inside his head. Every step away from Jason was a wrench, a tearing sensation that echoed the primal protest of his Alpha. 

Go back. Claim him. He is ours.  

The voice was a guttural growl in his skull, fighting against the rational, guilt-ridden part of him. He clenched his fists, knuckles white, fighting the urge to turn, to run back, to press himself against Jason until the resentment faded and the bond solidified into comfort.

The taste of Jason’s skin, sweet and musky with the oil of the bite, still coated his tongue. The phantom pressure of the knot pulsed low in his gut, a constant, aching reminder of the forced intimacy. 

He could still smell the aftermath of their coupling on himself—a heady mix of sweat, his own sharp alpha scent, and the pervasive, cloying sweetness of his Omega. It clung to his suit, his skin, his very essence, and it was a torment. It was proof of what he’d done, and it was a reminder of what he now possessed.

The dawn, once a symbol of new beginnings, felt like a brutal, revealing spotlight. Every shadow seemed to mock him, every passing below civilian a silent judge. He felt exposed, stripped bare, his monstrous actions laid out for the world to see, even if only he carried the full weight of them. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving behind a profound emptiness, a hollow ache where savage satisfaction had once resided. He’d won, but he’d lost everything.

He moved through the city on autopilot, a ghost among the living, seeking the familiar solace of the shadows, the anonymity of his suit. His apartment, when he finally reached it, felt cold, sterile, devoid of the overwhelming scent that had just filled his world. 

He stripped, letting the tainted suit fall to the floor, then stood under the scalding spray of the shower, scrubbing at his skin as if he could wash away the scent of Jason, the memory of the taste, the indelible stain of his actions. But it was useless. The scent was in his pores, in his blood, in his very soul. The bond throbbed, deep and insistent, a constant hum beneath his skin, a connection to the Omega he’d left abandoned.

Dick spent the next hours in a haze of self-loathing and raw Alpha instinct. He paced his apartment, the silence mocking him. He’d tried to clean, to train, to do anything that would clear his head, but Jason’s scent clung to him, and the hum of the bond was a constant, low thrum beneath his skin, an unbearable reminder of his transgression.

He felt Jason's distant pain, a dull ache in his own chest, and it twisted the knife of guilt deeper. He wanted to go back, to kneel, to beg forgiveness, to just see him. But Jason’s last words, the cold dismissal, kept him rooted. He’d earned that distance.

He felt the bond pull, a subtle tug in his gut, like a string being plucked. It wasn’t a summons, not yet, but a persistent awareness of Jason's emotional state—a turbulent mix of despair, fury, and a strange, deep emptiness. His Alpha screamed to comfort, to possess, to soothe his Omega, but his human mind knew better. This was not a wound he could simply kiss better.

The day dragged on. Dick couldn’t focus. He picked up his comm unit a dozen times, fingers hovering over the dial for Jason’s old encrypted line from his Robin days, then dropped it. What would he even say? "Sorry I mated you"? The words were grotesque. He knew Jason needed space, but the Alpha in him was frantic, a caged beast. He felt a deep, instinctive unease at the distance, an urge to physically close the gap between them.

Late afternoon, the comm unit finally vibrated in his hand. Not Jason, but Bruce.

"Nightwing. Status report." Bruce's voice was clipped, efficient.

"Everything's… fine, Bruce." Dick hated the lie, hated how thin his voice sounded.

"Don't lie to me. Your biometrics are off. And Red Hood's signature went dark hours ago. He hasn't resurfaced."

Dick’s stomach dropped. Bruce knew. Not what he knew, but enough. The bond. It must be radiating off him, screaming his actions to any electronics sensitive enough to pick up on it. Bruce was an Alpha too, even if he masked it with stoicism and technology.

"He's… fine," Dick repeated, a little stronger this time, the Alpha's possessive instinct kicking in to protect his Omega’s privacy. "He just… needed some space."

There was a beat of silence on Bruce's end. "Space, or has he gone into a stress heat?" The question was quiet, but sharp, cutting through Dick's fragile composure. "You wouldn't be the first Alpha to force a bond. It happens in the field."

The accusation, blunt and direct, stripped Dick of all pretense. He couldn’t deny it, not to Bruce. "I didn't… I didn't mean to. The suppressants—"

"I understand the biological imperative, Dick. What I need to know is the extent of the damage. Is he safe? Is he compliant? Or is he a threat to himself or others?" Bruce's voice was cold, professional, but Dick heard the underlying tremor.

"He's safe," Dick managed. "He's not compliant. He’s… furious. And I don’t blame him."

"Where is he?" Bruce demanded, his voice hardening.

"I don't know exactly," Dick lied, or half-lied. He could feel Jason’s presence, a faint, metallic tang of his anger mixed with that sweet, overwhelming claim, a few miles away. But he wouldn’t give up Jason’s exact location. Not to Bruce. Not yet.

"Find him. Bring him in. We need to assess the situation, mitigate any potential… fallout." Bruce’s words were carefully chosen, but the meaning was clear: fix this. Or I will.

Dick hung up, his jaw clenched. He had to find Jason. Not just because Bruce ordered it, but because the Alpha in him was twisting, pulling him towards his Omega. The bond was demanding proximity, demanding resolution, demanding possession.

He pulled on a fresh, Nightwing suit, grabbed his grappling gun. He bypassed the trackers, relying instead on the insistent tug of the bond, the almost imperceptible scent trail his Alpha could now follow even through Gotham’s polluted air.

Dick felt the bond thrum the moment his boots touched concrete, a surge of tension tightening his chest. Jason’s outline moved sharp in the dim light—snatching up his helmet, sliding it into place, visor glowing red, then wrenching a crowbar into his grip. 

Every motion was defensive, bristling, but the bond betrayed what the posture tried to hide, spilling into Dick the jagged rush of turmoil, anger tangled with something softer that pulled instead of pushed.

Dick stepped into the pale, dusty light filtering through a high window. His face was etched with exhaustion, his eyes wide and haunted. He stopped a dozen feet away, hands open, slowly raising them in a placating gesture.

"Jason," he said, his voice soft, almost pleading. "Please. We need to talk."

Jason didn't answer. He just tightened his grip on the crowbar, the metallic tang of rage growing stronger. The bond pulsed, a strange, painful counterpoint to his fury. His body was screaming defiance, but his Omega, deep down, felt a treacherous flutter of anticipation.

"Bruce knows something's wrong," Dick continued, stepping forward slowly, closing the distance despite the clear warning in Jason's posture. "He wants you back at the Cave. We need to figure this out, Jay. Together."

"Figure what out?" Jason’s voice was distorted by the modulator, flat and devoid of emotion. "That you’re a monster? That I'm… what? Your breeding stock now?"

Dick flinched, the words striking him harder than any blow. "No! Never that. Jason, please. Just let me help you."

"Help me?" Jason gave a harsh, short laugh. "You want to help me? You already did, didn't you? You helped me straight into a goddamn biological prison. You want to help? Then leave me alone. Let me figure out how to live with… this." He gestured vaguely at his own body, at the pervasive sandalwood and citrus scent of Dick that still clung to him.

The Alpha in Dick howled. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t abandon his Omega. Not now. Not ever. The pull of the bond was overwhelming, an irresistible force. He had to bridge this chasm. He had to.

He took another step, then another. "I can't, Jason. I can’t leave you."

Jason’s stance hardened.

"Try me." His voice was low, dangerous. The crowbar came up, slowly, deliberately, pointing directly at Dick’s chest. "One more step, Dick, and I swear to God, bond or no bond, I will put this through your goddamn skull."

The threat was real. Dick could see it in the rigid set of Jason’s shoulders, in the way his knuckles whitened around the crowbar. The Alpha in him recoiled, but the brother in him, the part that loved Jason, understood the desperate rage that fueled his threat. He was cornered, hurt, and lashing out.

He stopped, holding Jason’s gaze. The air crackled with tension, thick with unspoken accusations and the raw, conflicting emotions of their bond. The warehouse seemed to hold its breath. This was not a fight he could win with force. This was a battle for trust, for forgiveness, and the stakes were higher than ever.

"I’m not stepping closer, Jay," Dick said, his voice low, raw with a desperate sincerity. "But you have to hear me out. Just hear me." He shifted his weight, trying to project openness, non-aggression, while every instinct screamed at him to close the distance, to assert, to take . "The initial act… the mating… that was an accident of circumstance. My suppressants failing. Your scent hitting me the way it did. It sent me into rut. I barely knew what I was doing, who I was chasing, until I saw your face."

Jason scoffed, a short, sharp burst of air from behind the helmet. "Convenient. So I’m supposed to believe you just... accidentally violated me?"

"No!" Dick shook his head, frustration and pain warring on his face. "No, that's not what I'm saying. What I am saying is that if my suppressants hadn’t failed, if I’d known it was you… I would have sought you out differently. But once I smelled you, once I felt that pull, that was pure instinct. I couldn't stop it." He paused, taking a shaky breath. "But what I found on the other side of that instinct? Jason, I'm not sorry it was you . I’m not sorry about the bond itself."

Jason froze, the crowbar dipping infinitesimally. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His voice, still angry, held a dangerous tremor.

"It means I want it," Dick confessed, the words tearing from him, vulnerable and exposed. "I want the bond. I want you. Not just the primal connection, not just the biological imperative. I want you, Jason. As my mate."

The air in the warehouse crackled, suddenly charged with a different kind of tension. Jason stood utterly still, his head cocked, as if trying to discern the truth behind Dick’s words. Then, a harsh, humorless laugh burst from him.

"You're out of your mind. You think after this—after you literally forced yourself on me—that I’m just going to accept it? Accept you as my fucking mate?"

"No," Dick rushed to say, stepping forward instinctively, then immediately stopping himself as Jason’s grip tightened on the crowbar. "No, I don't expect you to. I know I took your choice. I know I violated you. And I hate myself for it, more than you could possibly know. But the bond… it's real. I can feel you, you can feel me. It's not going away." His voice dropped, thick with desperation. "And I don't want it to. Not now. Not when I know it's you."

He spread his hands again, a gesture of absolute surrender. "I know this is backwards. I know it’s messed up. But if there’s any chance… any chance at all to make this right… I want to try. I want to try and build something from this. Something that involves your choice, that respects you. Even though… even though we’re already mated."

Jason’s head tilted further, considering, his posture still rigid. "Build something?" he repeated, his voice laced with venomous skepticism. "Like what? A marriage based on assault?"

"Like… a courtship," Dick blurted out, the word feeling utterly inadequate and absurd given their situation. "I know it sounds insane. We’re already… but I want to court you, Jason. I want to earn your trust back. I want to earn your acceptance, not just biologically, but truly. I want you to choose me. Even if it's after the fact. I want to show you that I see you, not just my Omega. That I value your mind, your strength, your defiance. All of it."

He took another shallow breath, his eyes pleading through the dusty air. "I'm not asking you to forget what I did. I'm not asking you to forgive me, not yet. I'm just asking for a chance to prove that this bond, that us, doesn't have to be a prison. It could be… something else. Something we build together. If you'll let me."

Jason was silent, unmoving, the crowbar still held ready. Dick could feel the turbulent storm of emotions warring within him through the bond—fury, betrayal, revulsion, but beneath it, a faint tremor of something else. Curiosity? Confusion? Maybe even a flicker of longing that the Omega couldn't quite suppress.

"A courtship," Jason finally repeated, his voice flat, but the edge of absolute certainty had softened, replaced by a profound weariness. "You want to court the guy you just pinned and fucked against his will."

Dick swallowed hard. 

"Yes," he affirmed, his voice unwavering. "Because I don't know any other way to make this right. And because I genuinely want you, Jay. All of you. Not just the Omega."

The warehouse hung heavy with the weight of Dick’s desperation and Jason’s disbelief. The crowbar lowered, almost imperceptibly, but it lowered. Jason didn't say yes. He didn't say no. He just stood there, and for the first time since their violent mating, Dick felt a sliver of fragile hope. It wasn’t acceptance, not by a long shot. But it wasn’t an immediate, outright rejection either.

"Did Bruce send you?" Jason’s voice cut through the silence.

Dick winced, a flicker of pain crossing his face. The question was a raw nerve. 

"No," he said, meeting Jason’s gaze squarely. "Not directly. He called. He knew something was off. He asked about you. I told him you were fine, that you just needed space. I didn't tell him where you were, or who you were as Red Hood. I lied to protect that."

Jason went utterly still. His head tilted, then slowly, a sound began to escape him. A dry, rattling chuckle that quickly escalated into a series of harsh, barking laughs. The sound echoed in the empty warehouse, devoid of humor, laced instead with a chilling, desperate hysteria. His voice went wet with tears. Jason let the laughter tear through him, his body shaking.

Dick stared, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. This wasn't relief, or anger, or even despair. This was a broken, awful sound. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, the Alpha’s instinct overriding his earlier promise. The crowbar lay forgotten at Jason’s side as the laughter consumed him.

"Jason?" Dick’s voice was laced with worry, his brow furrowed. He reached out, gently, his hands closing around Jason’s forearms, careful not to grab too tightly, but enough to ground him. "Jay, what is it? What's wrong?"

Jason finally managed to choke down the laughter, though his chest still heaved with suppressed sobs. He looked at Dick, tears streaming freely down his face under the Red Hood, the helmet's expression blank. 

"Bruce," he rasped, but a new note of bitter amusement clear in it. "You lied to Bruce to protect my secret identity?"

He barked out another laugh, a short, sharp sound.

"You idiot." He leaned into Dick’s grip, his body shaking, but not with fear. "Bruce already knew, Dick. He's known I was back for months. He probably suspected the moment I stepped foot back in Gotham. He sure as hell knew that I was Red Hood before you did."

Chapter Text

The Batcave's artificial lighting cast harsh shadows across Dick's face as he stared at the monitor, his fingers trembling against the keyboard. The encryption had fallen easily; Bruce had taught him too well. Now the truth spilled across the screen in cold, clinical language—file after file, report after report, all neatly catalogued with timestamps and locations. Jason Todd. Red Hood. Surveillance photos. DNA analysis. Behavioral patterns. The dates mocked him—Bruce had known for months.

"Son of a bitch," Dick whispered, his throat tight as he scrolled through the evidence.

A surveillance photo showed Jason, helmet off, face clearly visible as he perched on a rooftop. The timestamp read eight months ago. Another file contained DNA analysis from a blood sample—99.8% match to Jason Peter Todd, confirmed six months ago. Motion analysis of Red Hood's fighting style, comparing it to Robin training footage—conclusion: "Subject demonstrates identical kinesthetic patterns to Jason Todd, with modifications consistent with League of Assassins training. Other possible trainers unknown but observed in his available repertoire. Master marksman among other possibilities. Further study needed."

Dick's breathing quickened, becoming shallow as a pressure built in his chest. The bat computer hummed, a low, steady drone that seemed to mock his growing rage. Distant water dripped somewhere in the cave's depths, each drop falling with metronomic cadence, counting off the seconds of his mounting fury.

His fingers moved automatically, searching deeper, looking for more. How much else had Bruce hidden? He found another secure folder, this one requiring additional layers of encryption. The password came to him instinctively—Martha, Thomas, 0626—Bruce's parents' names and the date of their death. The folder opened, and what he saw made his blood freeze.

"Subject: Richard John Grayson," the file header read. "Alpha Suppression Protocol."

Dick's eyes widened as he scanned the contents. Medical reports. Chemical formulas. Brain scans. Blood work dating back to his early teens. A long-term pharmaceutical regimen designed to suppress Alpha hormones and pheromone production, administered through regular "vitamin supplements" and "preventative suppressants" that Bruce had insisted were for his "hormonal imbalance."

"No," Dick breathed, pushing back from the console. "No, no, no."

White noise shrieked through Dick's skull like radio static cranked to maximum volume, punctuated by the memory of Jason's laughter—that raw, broken sound that had scraped against his eardrums like shattered glass, each bitter note burning into his brain like acid.

The files were meticulous. Bruce had documented everything—Dick's natural early Alpha presentation at thirteen, the decision to implement suppression, the careful monitoring of hormone levels to ensure the facade of Beta biology. There were psychological profiles, noting behavioral changes, even predictions of what might happen if the suppressants ever failed.

One line stood out: "Subject unaware of true designation. Believes Beta status to be natural. Continued deception necessary for optimal mental health and team dynamics."

Dick's hands balled into fists, his nails digging crescents into his palms. The pain was distant, overwhelmed by the roaring in his ears. Every memory of Bruce handing him pills, vitamins, shakes—every casual lie about his "health needs"—now twisted into something sinister.

He tore the domino mask from his face, the adhesive pulling at his skin. His eyes burned, vision blurring with tears. The cave suddenly felt smaller, the air thinner, as if the very rock was pressing down on him.

"You knew," he said into the emptiness, voice cracking. "All this time, you knew he was alive."

"I did."

The voice came from behind him, calm and steady. Bruce emerged from the shadows near the staircase, cowl pulled back, face partially obscured by the cave's stark lighting. His expression was carefully neutral, but his body was tense, coiled, ready for the storm he must have known was coming.

"How long were you going to keep it from me?" Dick demanded, rising from the chair, his body vibrating with barely contained fury. "Were you ever going to tell me? About Jason? About me?"

Bruce's jaw tightened slightly, the only visible reaction to Dick's words. "Jason's return was... complicated. He wasn't the same person. He was killing people, Dick. I needed to understand what we were dealing with before involving anyone else."

"Involving anyone else?" Dick repeated, incredulous. "He's my brother! He was my—" The words caught in his throat. What was Jason to him now? Brother? Friend? Victim? Mate? The tangle of roles made him dizzy with confusion and nausea.

"And what about me?" Dick gestured violently at the screen, at the evidence of Bruce's manipulation. "You've been drugging me since I was a kid! You stripped away my identity without my knowledge or consent."

Bruce stepped forward, his movements measured and deliberate. "I made a decision based on what I thought would protect you. Alpha designation at your age, with your visibility, would have put you at risk. The rogues would have targeted you differently. Your teammates would have treated you differently."

"That wasn't your choice to make!" Dick's voice echoed off the stone walls, startling a cluster of bats that fluttered anxiously above. "You took everything from me—my biology, my choices, my brother!"

Bruce's expression remained maddeningly composed, though his eyes flickered briefly with something that might have been regret. "I did what I thought was necessary. For both of you. Alpha aggression is difficult to control, especially during adolescence. The cases of young Alphas harming others, harming themselves—"

"Stop," Dick cut him off, hands trembling now with the effort of restraining himself. "Just stop. You don't get to stand there and justify what you did. You lied to me for years. You let me believe Jason was dead while you tracked him across Gotham. And now..." He faltered, the weight of his recent actions pressing down on him.

"And now what?" Bruce prompted, his voice carefully neutral.

Dick looked up, his eyes burning with accusation. "And now I've hurt him in ways I can't take back, because I had no idea what was happening to me when those suppressants wore off. I had no training, no preparation, nothing to help me control instincts I didn't even know I had."

A slight flinch crossed Bruce's face, almost imperceptible. "What happened between you and Jason? Did the mating turn violent? Is he badly hurt?"

Dick laughed bitterly, wiping away the moisture on his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"I think you know exactly what happened. Your files probably predicted it, didn't they? Alpha meets Omega, instincts take over. Except you forgot one detail in your calculations—the Alpha had no idea what he was, and the Omega had no warning of what was coming!"

Bruce took another step forward, his hand half-raised as if to offer comfort, then dropping back to his side. "Dick, I—"

"Don't," Dick interrupted, his voice like ice. "Don't you dare pretend you're sorry. You did this. You created this situation with your secrets and your control. And now Jason and I are paying the price."

The cave fell silent except for the eternal dripping of water and the soft hum of electronics. Bruce stood unnaturally still, his face a mask of practiced control, but his eyes—his eyes held a storm of emotions that he couldn't quite conceal.

"I did what I thought was best," Bruce said finally, each word carefully chosen. "I always have."

"No," Dick said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You did what was easiest for you. What gave you the most control! Like you always do, Bruce!"

Something feral clawed its way up Dick's throat, a growl that felt foreign yet devastatingly natural. The sound vibrated through his chest, filling the cave with warning. His muscles coiled with a tension that demanded release—Alpha rage, unfiltered by suppressants for the first time in his adult life. His vision tunneled, the edges darkening until all he could see was Bruce, standing there with that infuriating control, that damnable calm that had masked years of manipulation.

Dick's fist slammed into the computer console before he even realized he'd moved. Sparks erupted from the impact, circuits shrieking in protest. The pain blooming across his knuckles felt distant, unimportant compared to the roaring in his blood.

"You—You lied to me about everything!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the vast chamber, bouncing back at him from a dozen different angles. "About Jason, about my suppressants—you told me it was a hormonal issue—!"

The console screen flickered, the evidence of Bruce's deception still displayed in broken fragments across the damaged panel. Dick struck it again, reveling in the destruction.

Bruce remained unnervingly still, only his eyes tracking Dick's movements. "I did what was necessary to protect both of you," he said, his voice maddeningly steady. "You weren't ready."

"Not ready?" Dick's laugh was harsh, brittle. "Who are you to decide when I'm ready to know my own biology? My own identity?" He stalked toward Bruce, fists clenched at his sides. "You drugged me for years. You changed who I was at the most fundamental level, and you never gave me a choice!"

Bruce's jaw tightened, a microscopic tell that most would miss. "The suppressants were temporary. They could be discontinued when you were mature enough to handle—"

"When I was mature enough?" Dick cut him off, his voice rising. "I'm twenty-five years old, Bruce! When exactly were you planning to tell me? After I'd spent my entire life thinking I was something I'm not?"

"It was for your protection," Bruce insisted, his own voice hardening slightly. "Alpha instincts are volatile, difficult to control. The suppressants allowed you to develop without those complications."

"Those 'complications' are part of who I am!" Dick was inches from Bruce now, close enough to smell his familiar scent—leather, kevlar, that faint hint of expensive cologne that never quite masked the Alpha pheromones Bruce himself carefully contained. "And because you took that away from me, I had no warning, no preparation when they wore off. Do you have any idea what I did to Jason?"

Something flickered across Bruce's face—concern, maybe even fear. "Dick—"

The rest of Bruce's words were lost as Dick lunged forward, the rage finally breaking free of its restraints. He slammed into Bruce with the full force of his body, driving them both backward until they crashed against the cave wall. The impact sent shock waves through Dick's shoulders, but he barely felt it through the haze of fury.

His hands found Bruce's throat, fingers digging into the vulnerable flesh exposed above the Batsuit's collar. Bruce reacted instantly, muscle memory and years of training kicking in. His arm came up between Dick's, breaking the choke hold with brutal movements, then pushing outward to create space between them.

But Dick wasn't fighting with his usual calculated thought process. This was raw, unfiltered rage, driven by newly awakened instincts that demanded dominance, demanded retribution. He ducked under Bruce's defensive posture and drove his fist into the older man's ribs, feeling a savage satisfaction at the grunt of pain he elicited.

Bruce pivoted, using Dick's momentum against him, and they stumbled across the platform. A workbench toppled as they crashed into it, tools and half-assembled gadgets scattering across the stone floor. Above them, the colony of bats that called the cave home erupted in panic, their leathery wings beating the air as they swooped and dived in agitated patterns.

"Stand down, Nightwing," Bruce commanded, his voice carrying that authoritative tone that had once been enough to make Dick obey without question.

But that was before. Before the lies. Before the betrayal. Before the mating.

"No more orders," Dick snarled, circling Bruce with predatory focus. "No more control. You don't get to tell me what to do anymore, Bruce."

He feinted left, then drove in from the right, a combination of strikes aimed at Bruce's head and torso. Bruce blocked most of them, his defensive techniques flawless as always, but he wasn't counterattacking—wasn't using the openings Dick knew he was leaving. The realization only stoked Dick's anger higher. Even now, Bruce was holding back, treating him like someone who needed protection.

They grappled across the main area of the cave, crashing into display cases, knocking over chairs, their bodies locked in a violent dance that spoke of years of shared training and unspoken tensions. A monitor shattered as Bruce was forced backward into it, glass tinkling like deadly rain across the floor.

"Fight back!" Dick demanded, landing a solid blow to Bruce's jaw that snapped his head back. "Stop treating me like a child!"

Bruce wiped blood from his split lip, his expression still infuriatingly controlled. "I'm not going to fight you, Dick. This isn't you. This is your Alpha taking over. You need to regain control."

"Don't tell me who I am!" Dick roared, the sound almost inhuman in its intensity. He charged again, driving his shoulder into Bruce's midsection, lifting him off his feet with the force of the impact.

They crashed into the rack of spare suits, the metal frame bending under their combined weight. Bruce finally moved more offensively, twisting to break Dick's hold and shoving him back with enough force to create distance. Dick stumbled, caught his balance, and came in again, his movements becoming wilder, less disciplined with each passing second.

The scent of blood—both his and Bruce's—filled his nostrils, triggering something deep and primitive in his brain. His hands itched to tear, to destroy, to dominate the other Alpha who had kept him subjugated for so long. Part of him was horrified at these thoughts, at this animalistic desire to hurt someone he loved. But that part was drowning under the flood of rage and betrayal and the echoes of misery though his mating bond.

Bruce caught his wrist in mid-strike, using Dick's momentum to spin him around, pulling his arm up behind his back in a restraint hold.

"Enough," he growled, his voice finally showing strain. "This solves nothing, Dick."

The hold was professional, designed to subdue without injuring. Bruce was still protecting him, still controlling him, even now. The thought sent a fresh wave of fury through Dick. He dropped his weight suddenly, twisting as he fell, breaking the hold with a technique Bruce himself had taught him. As he came back up, he caught Bruce with an uppercut that rocked the older man back on his heels.

"Nothing solves this!" Dick spat, blood and saliva speckling the air between them. "Nothing undoes what you did to me. What I did to Jason because of you—"

Bruce's eyes narrowed at the mention of Jason, a flicker of genuine concern breaking through his controlled facade. "What happened with Jason, Dick? Did you… hurt him needlessly?"

The question hit Dick like a bucket of ice water, momentarily cutting through the haze of rage. What had he done? He'd hunted Jason like an animal. He'd violated him in the most primal way possible. He'd bound them together irrevocably, without consent, without choice. And it was happening again. Here, now—his Alpha instincts were overriding his control, turning him into something he didn't recognize. The realization didn't extinguish his anger, but it tempered it, allowing a sliver of his usual self-awareness to return.

Bruce saw the shift in his eyes, the brief flicker of recognition. "Dick," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Let me help you through this. The initial Alpha emergence is always the most difficult to control—"

"Help me?" Dick laughed, the sound bitter and broken. "Like you helped Jason? Like you helped me by lying for years?" He shook his head, backing away a step. "No more help, Bruce. No more lies. No more."

The distance between them felt like miles now, though they stood just feet apart. The cave lay in ruins around them—broken equipment, scattered tools, the evidence of their violent confrontation mirroring the shattered trust between them. Bruce stood very still, blood trickling from his split lip, his usually immaculate suit torn at the shoulder. For the first time, Dick saw real regret in his eyes, not just the calculated empathy Bruce often displayed when managing others' emotions.

"I never wanted to hurt you," Bruce said quietly. "Either of you."

Dick's laugh was hollow. "That's the problem with you, Bruce. You never want to hurt anyone, but you do it anyway. And you never, ever face the consequences."

The rapid slap of running footsteps echoed from the staircase, cutting through the heavy silence that had fallen between them. Dick turned, his body still humming with adrenaline, to see Tim Drake burst into the main chamber. The boy skidded to a halt, his Robin uniform dusty from patrol, his domino mask doing little to hide the shock in his eyes as he took in the destruction—shattered monitors, overturned furniture, scattered equipment. His gaze darted from Bruce's bloodied face to Dick's heaving chest, understanding dawning with alarming speed.

"What the hell happened?" Tim demanded, his voice cracking slightly. He stepped forward, hands raised as if approaching a crime scene—cautious, evaluating. "Are you two trying to tear the Cave apart?"

Dick felt a flash of irritation at the interruption. This was between him and Bruce, a private reckoning that had been years in the making. Tim was an outsider to this particular betrayal, too new to understand its depth.

"Stay out of this, Tim," he warned, his voice rougher than he intended.

Tim ignored the warning, moving further into the space between them. His scent hit Dick suddenly—sharp, fresh, with an undercurrent of something that made Dick's hackles rise. Alpha. Tim was an Alpha too, newly presented, his pheromones still awkward and untrained. The realization sent a jolt through Dick's system, a territorial awareness he'd never experienced before.

"No, I won't stay out of it," Tim said, his chin lifting with the stubborn determination that had earned him the Robin mantle. "Whatever this is, it doesn't justify destroying the cave or each other." He turned to Bruce. "Are you okay? You're bleeding."

Bruce straightened, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm fine, Tim. This is a... misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" Dick spat the word like poison. "Is that what you call years of lies? Drugging me without my knowledge? Hiding Jason from me?"

Tim's head snapped back toward Dick, eyes widening behind his mask. "What are you talking about? What about Jason?"

"He's alive," Dick said flatly, watching Tim's expression shift from confusion to disbelief. "Bruce has known for months. Red Hood is Jason. And Bruce kept it from all of us."

Tim took a half-step back, his scent spiking with shock. "That's... that can't be right—" He looked to Bruce, seeking denial.

Bruce's silence was confirmation enough. Tim's shoulders slumped slightly, a new tension entering his frame as another piece of his trust in his mentor cracked.

"Stop it! Both of you!" Tim suddenly shouted, positioning himself directly between them, arms outstretched like a human barrier. "Fighting won't solve anything. We need to talk about this, figure out what it means, what we can do to help Jason—"

A sound tore from Dick's throat then—a deep, guttural snarl that seemed to bypass his consciousness entirely. It vibrated through the cave, primal and threatening, a warning to the younger Alpha who dared insert himself between Dick and his prey. Who dared name his mate without permission. The sound was so alien, so unlike anything he'd ever produced before, that for a moment Dick didn't recognize it as his own.

Tim froze, his eyes widening to perfect circles. He took an instinctive step backward, his body responding to the threat before his mind could process it, head tilted to the side. Bruce tensed, shifting his weight forward protectively, his own Alpha presence flaring in response.

The snarl died in Dick's throat, replaced by a wave of horror as he realized what he'd just done. He'd threatened Tim—Tim, his little brother, the kid he'd helped train, the boy who looked up to him. He'd responded to him not as family but as a rival Alpha, a threat to be warned off.

"Tim, I—" Dick's hand flew to his throat, feeling it tighten with another growl that he desperately swallowed back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," Tim said quickly, though his voice was higher than normal, his scent laced with adrenaline and confusion. "It's okay, Dick. I know you're not yourself right now."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? This was himself—his true self, the Alpha that had been chemically chained for years, now free and running wild without the discipline he'd never had a chance to develop. The realization sent a chill through him that cut through the lingering rage.

"This is what I was trying to prevent," Bruce said quietly, his eyes fixed on Dick with a mixture of concern and something that might have been regret. "The initial emergence of Alpha characteristics can be... overwhelming. Especially when it happens all at once instead of gradually during adolescence."

Dick wanted to snap back, to reject Bruce's explanation as just another justification for control, but the evidence of his own behavior was too stark to deny. He'd attacked Bruce. He'd threatened Tim. He was acting on pure instinct, his trained discipline submerged beneath the flood of Alpha hormones and rage.

"I need to get out of here," Dick muttered, taking a step toward the exit. "I need space to think—"

As he moved, something else rippled through him—not anger this time, but a different sensation entirely. A tug, deep in his gut, like an invisible thread pulling taut. It pulsed once, twice, carrying with it a ghost of a scent: rain on hot pavement, crushed flowers, that intoxicating sweetness that had driven him to hunt Jason across the rooftops.

Dick froze, his breath catching. The mating bond. He was feeling Jason through the bond.

The realization hit him strongly, making him stagger slightly. This wasn't just an abstract concept, a biological fact—it was a real, tangible connection, humming with life and intent. Jason was out there, and he was calling to Dick, consciously or not.

"Dick?" Tim's voice seemed to come from far away. "What's wrong?"

Dick couldn't answer. The pull was intensifying, becoming an insistent, rhythmic throb that matched his heartbeat. It felt like a compass needle swinging toward true north, orienting his entire being toward Jason. Toward his mate. Fear crawled up his spine, tangling with a possessive pleasure that disgusted him even as it thrilled him. This was the other side of what he'd done—not just the violation, but the permanent connection. The bond wasn't just binding Jason to him; it was binding him to Jason, creating a need that transcended choice or morality.

"I can feel him," Dick whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them. "Jason. The bond—it's pulling me toward him."

Bruce's expression darkened with a new concern. "Did you go overboard with him, Dick?"

Tim's eyes darted between them, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow, the slight parting of his lips.

"What kind of question—" Dick answered, his voice hollow. "This is what you set in motion when you hid the truth from both of us."

The pull tugged again, more insistent this time, like a hook set beneath his ribs. It wasn't painful, not exactly, but it carried an urgency that couldn't be ignored. Somewhere in the city, Jason was feeling something—distress, fear, anger, need—and the bond was transmitting it to Dick like a primal telegraph.

"I—I have to go to him," Dick said, the words feeling both like surrender and rebellion. He turned toward the cave exit, each step making the pull grow stronger, clearer. "We're connected now. Whether either of us wants it or not."

A memory flashed behind Dick's eyes: Jason's face after the laughter died, helmet tugged off with a snarl, lips curled back to reveal the sharp points of his omega canines—perfectly edged, dangerous and attractive. God, he could probably tear Dick’s neck out in seconds. "Get out," he'd hissed, each word carrying the weight of a threat.

"Dick, wait," Bruce called after him, a note of genuine alarm in his voice. "You're not thinking clearly. Let me help you manage this—"

Dick paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. The scene was frozen in his memory—Bruce with his torn suit and bloodied lip, Tim with his wide, confused eyes, the cave in ruins around them. The physical manifestation of secrets and lies finally exposed to the light.

"No. No more management," Dick said, his voice steady despite the chaos inside him. "No more control. Jason and I will figure this out ourselves."

As he turned away, the pull surged again, a siren song leading him back into the night, back to the rooftops where everything had changed. Back to Jason, who was both victim and mate, stranger and brother. The contradictions made Dick's head spin, but the bond's direction was clear.

“Don’t even think of approaching Jason, Bruce.” Dick murmured. “I don’t know what I’ll do to you if you do.”

His feet carried him forward, away from the cave, from Bruce, from the past that no longer matched the future sprawling uncertainly before him. Each step aligned more perfectly with the invisible tether connecting him to Jason, until walking toward him felt like the most natural thing in the world.

The most terrifying part wasn't the bond's strength. It was how right it felt, even knowing how wrong it was.