Chapter Text
If Gotham hosted a "Self-Loathing" competition, Jason Todd would undoubtedly trudge his way up to the first-place podium and slip that gold medal right around his neck.
He was going to therapy, yeah. Not that it didn't work, but those sessions in that dimly lit office were no different than running a third-degree burn under ice-cold water. As long as the water touched his skin, the searing pain would numb, a temporary, narcotic sense of relief relaxing his muscles. But the second you turned the tap off... You knew damn well that the ache would come clawing back, biting into the nerve endings under your skin even more fiercely, even more violently.
Making a list of the things Jason hated about his own body would literally be a full-time job.
He hated his back. The Lazarus Pit might have filled the gaps between those crushed bones and shredded tissues with its fucking bubbling green magic, but it couldn't erase the scars. Twisting just beneath his skin like grotesque, rotting tree roots, those crowbar marks stretched with his back muscles with every breath he took, screaming, I was here.
He hated his arms. Having been turned into a literal living target during Ra's al Ghul's endless, ruthless training sessions, he couldn't stand his own arms, ruined by asymmetrical cuts of all sizes. He didn't want to look at his legs, and he couldn't bear to touch the scar tissue on his chest.
But most of all... He hated his neck.
He would rather go blind than look at the sight over his scent gland, the most intimate, most vulnerable spot for an omega. He would gladly feed his own eyes to a raven with his bare hands rather than see the Joker's faded, dead, and sickly "claim"—those disgusting bite marks carved into his skin—in the bathroom mirror.
Just like Prometheus in Greek mythology...
Unlike the Titan who was punished for giving fire to humanity, Jason's punishment would be getting his eyes gouged out every day instead of his liver. And his greatest sin wasn't stealing fire from the gods or anything like that.
Jason's only crime was not staying dead in that fucking warehouse.
The exact second his heart stopped in that fucking warehouse, the Joker's forced, sick bond biologically snapped. Oh, what a merciful little consolation prize from the universe! While it was literally ruining his life, it was as if it paused for a second and went, "Yikes, guess that was a bit too much," and wiped away that invisible, toxic pheromone bond.
But the bite marks... Those jagged, asymmetrical, pale bite marks were still there.
The raised scar tissue on his skin made its presence known every time he swallowed or turned his head, and Red Hood just wanted to lose his fucking mind. To dig his fingers into that scar and claw his skin off, or... or just cry.
Not cry like the invincible Crime Lord striking terror into the streets; he wanted to cry as an omega with shattered pride, who didn't want this abomination over his scent gland. His neck was an omega's most vulnerable, most precious spot. It should have only belonged to people who truly loved Jason, who cared about him.
That intimate skin only deserved the marks of teeth that Hood could wear with pride, like a badge of honor; marks that made him say, "My family, my pack," when he brushed his fingertips over them. Only they had the right to touch it, to claim it.
Because omegas were sacred. They were perfect. They gave life. In this godforsaken, rotting world, what other creature besides a mother could create life from scratch? Jason loved his nature.
His mind involuntarily drifted back to those old, warm days. He remembered how he sprinted down the manor's hallways, chest puffed out, on the very first day he found out he'd presented as an omega. Footsteps echoing against the marble floor, he remembered bursting into Bruce's massive study with a giant grin on his face, practically singing as that joyful, sweet omega chirp spilled from his throat, shouting, "I did it, Dad!" Back then, he believed his nature was the ultimate blessing, not a weakness.
He shuddered as he exhaled the cold air from his lungs. A deep, ragged breath.
"Boss?"
At the hesitant, muffled voice coming from his immediate right, Jason jolted, crashing hard back into the present, back into the dim reality of the warehouse reeking of mildew and gunpowder. One of his guys, Liam, had lowered his shipping clipboard and was looking at him with a slight frown.
Fuck.
As the man involuntarily squared his broad shoulders and took a cautious step toward the omega, the sudden tension in his body was clear as day. But this tension wasn't because of Jason; it was for Jason. It was pure, protective concern. Because unlike the other gangs in Gotham's infamous, ruthless underground, Red Hood's men didn't tense up out of fear of their boss. This wasn't a cold, hierarchical crime syndicate; it was a makeshift, blood-soaked family, and Jason had fought tooth and nail from the very beginning to make it that way. He had brought his pack together under his own wings, by his own rules.
When Liam brought his hand up to Jason's face level and snapped his fingers loudly, that sharp crack echoed off the moldy walls of the warehouse.
Jason snapped out of that dark, suffocating mental spiral in an instant. Narrowing his eyes slightly and letting out a displeased scoff, he literally spat the words:
"You callin' a dog?"
His voice held that infamous, mocking Crime Alley drawl.
Liam's shoulders, which had been stiff as a board just a second ago, instantly slumped, and he let out the breath he was holding in a loud, relieved huff. "You scared me, boss. Thought you completely zoned out on me for a second."
Jason's lips curled. Shaking off that heavy, devastated omega melancholy in a matter of seconds, he donned his impenetrable Crime Lord mask and his mocking armor. Shifting his weight to one leg and crossing his arms over his chest, a dangerous smirk appeared on his lips.
"Scarin' you ain't exactly the hardest thing in the world, Liam," he teased, his voice dripping with amused sarcasm. "You almost pissed your pants the other day when Elena sneaked up on you from behind."
Liam's face fell, throwing his hands up while ignoring the snickers coming from a couple of guys in the far corner of the warehouse. "We were in the middle of a raid!"
"We'd already cleared the warehouse," Jason corrected, his smirk growing wider.
"I'm always on my toes until the job is completely done, boss. Street rules."
Jason arched a single eyebrow in a perfect, mocking curve. "Bein' on your toes means wettin' yourself?"
Flushing at the jab, Liam quickly went on the defensive. "That happened one time! Besides, I'd like to keep my bladder issues to myself, thanks. Believe me, it's way more common than you think!"
Jason tilted his head slightly at his guy's tragicomic defense. That punk, amused expression on his face had completely shattered the gloomy atmosphere of the warehouse.
"Give me a ratio, Li," Jason asked, putting on a real smartass tone. "What percentage of street mercs piss themselves when they see their own shadow?"
"You're still a complete asshole, there's your ratio."
Jason raised his eyebrows in amusement at the grumpy mutter. Bringing a hand up to his ear, he leaned forward dramatically. "Didn't quite catch that, Li?"
Liam cleared his throat and immediately backpedaled. "I said, thank God we have you, boss."
The smirk on Jason's lips widened. "Thought you were an atheist."
Liam shrugged. Right then, just like he did whenever he panicked or felt cornered, his hand drifted to his neck on pure, unconscious instinct. His fingertips gently traced over the flawless, healed pack bite he bore on his skin. That mark belonged to Liam's older sister, Melisa.
Seeing this, Jason's own hand twitched, wanting to fly up to his neck for a split second. Realizing what he was doing at the last moment, he clenched his fist and dropped his arm to his side. His eyes, however, couldn't help but get stuck on the mark on Liam's neck.
In modern society, contrary to what cheap movies or the media portrayed, not all bites had to be a sexual or romantic claim. Platonic pack bites were actually way more common. It meant belonging to a pack. It meant escaping that freezing void called loneliness, tying your soul to your family with an invisible but unbreakable rope. That way, a person's restless, ferocious inner wolf could cling tightly to that pack bond and finally let out a sigh of relief, curling up to sleep.
He knew damn well how that bond felt. A pack bond was like a warm, sweet spring breeze constantly blowing inside your ribcage. That immense sense of security that sweetly tickled your insides, flowing through your veins and silently singing a lullaby to your soul even in your darkest, most desperate moments...
Jason swallowed. Trying to suppress that dry, bitter feeling in his throat, he quickly shifted his gaze toward the clipboard and cleared his throat.
He should probably immediately stop staring at the bite mark on his guy's neck like a fucking creep.
But the only thought running through Jason’s mind right then—literally hijacking his brain—was one single thing: He wanted those bites. He wanted them to death, wanted them until he was breathless. He wanted them the way a fasting man desperately waits for the call to prayer.
He still didn't exactly have the most flawless relationship with the Bats. And they were probably never going to be one of those picture-perfect Hallmark holiday families—maybe once Jason stopped being a ghost of the past. It was a cold, hard fact that he wouldn’t be godfather to any of their kids anytime soon, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be anyone’s best man—or bridesmaid. They were far, far away from a cheerful, trauma-free family portrait, playfully tossing pancakes at each other over Sunday breakfast. I mean, trauma was practically the Bat-family’s middle name.
But right now... Things were the closest they’d ever been to the word "good." A cautious truce where no guns were drawn and no blood was spilled. At the very least, they could survive fifteen minutes in the same room without slitting each other’s throats. Basically, it was manageable. By Gotham standards, it was a literal fucking miracle.
And Jason’s... Jason’s feral inner omega was literally losing its mind behind his ribcage. It was screaming, scraping at every single nerve ending with its invisible claws, sharpening its talons to a war cry in the darkest corners of his mind. This wasn't some docile, submissive spirit; it was a savage beast demanding its own territory, its own pack.
And this creature inside Jason had firmly decided on what it wanted:
Pack bites. Those platonic bite marks that would wipe away the Joker’s disgusting, dead tissue, carving his own pack’s warmth into his skin.
What’s more, this beast had also made a very clear decision on exactly when it wanted this:
Now.
He wanted them right fucking now. Right on top of the Joker’s damn mark.
And he was going to get them.