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Clark doesn't know how long he spent floating aimlessly in the void. Space, time-space, the source; after stupidly ripping out the Monarch's armor and being exploded alongside him, he doesn't know where he had been nor how long he was unconscious, just that he woke up here, in this rotten Earth so unlike his own.
Even rage simmers down after a while, when nothing you did seemed to work. He loathes this place, loathes knowing his Laurie is not out there somewhere, her beautiful smile and attentive eyes. She always listened to him, even when she didn't agree. Oh how he misses her.
Waking in the middle of a crater, he leaves without looking for anyone, spends days, weeks, moping on Milky Way clad in what remained of his costume, until even his distaste couldn't push back the loneliness. But what good coming back to this Earth's orbit was? There's nothing here for him, no one who cared, no one who would thank him for saving them, for sacrificing his perfect world...
No one to listen to him.
So Clark watched, yellow sun-powered ears attuned to every sentient being's voice, eyes catching every moment in those lowly creatures' lives. He remained like that for a few months, until his eyes started wandering to the same face without his intention, until his ears started focusing on one particular voice, until he gained a hobby, an interest, an obsession.
It was like watching his favorite character, except much more immersive than any film he ever watched.
Jason is funny. Despite having no powers, Clark feels captivated by him. The boy's quick, cunning, ruthless, not in anyway the kind of character Clark would've particularly liked back in his world when he didn't even imagine he had powers, but after everything that's happened, Jason feels real. Realer than anything that's happened since he started floating on that beach and Superman from another Earth found him. Realer than this entire other Earth and the people in it.
Clark follows him, stalks him, observes him in his most private moments, sees the most private parts of him, mentally, emotionally, sexually. He knows its wrong, but who cares. No one knows. Jason doesn't know. And his hard-ons aren't no one's business. And so Clark indulges, until observing isn't enough. He wants to talk, to touch, to own. At some point, Jason became his.
He wants to take him away. Away from that infuriating bat and his flock of ass-kissers. Away from the insults and demeaning comments of those hypocritical "superheroes". Jason is his! No one should hurt him! No one should insult him! No one should disrespect him! Clark's eyes grows red with rage, but he looks at his Jason, cleaning his funny looking knife after cutting the throat of some scum, and devil red melts back to ice blue.
He'll take him. Day by day, Clark will wear him down, insert himself in the hole in Jason's life where those bat-cunts are too stupid to fill. Cark will fill it, will fill all of Jason's holes, mentally, emotionally, sexually. If he has to lock him away in some dark evil tower and keep those thighs locked around his waist forever so be it.
There's no world, no parents, no friends, no Laurie.
There's Jason.
Funny, cunning, ruthless. Hard to conquer but all the sweeter when the walls fall down.
It takes weeks and months, incessant talks, constant presence, invading safehouses and apartments, tending injuries, killing offenders, apologizing when he takes it too far. Clark swallows his anger, grudgingly holds back his impulses to just take and take and take. He almost loses it so many times, but Jason's warm meals he claims are just leftovers (it's not, he cooks almost every day, nowadays more than he usually eats, expecting Clark to show up), his pretending not to be listening to Clark and yet retaining every word he says and how he says it, the new set of pillows that showed up one random day in all his apartments and safehouses, his thigh holsters that make his long legs look just that more enticing, his amused expression when Clark is running his mouth like a dumbass...
Jason keeps him focused. Perhaps by example, perhaps because Clark is really down bad, doesn't matter. His plan works. One day, Jason greets him wearing shorts and a t-shirt, no underwear if Clark's x-ray vision is to be believed, fresh out of the bath, hair still drying. His heartbeat is quicker than normal, his temperature higher, breath slightly trembling. He wants it. He's waiting. And Clark gives. He watched so many people having sex in so many ways he may as well have done it himself, it doesn't scare him.
No, he's yearning. Grasping a little too tight, pulling a little too rough. Jason arches, gasps, but pulls closer. He's inexperienced like him but he seems to likes it hard, and Clark loves it, goes a little nuts, takes and takes and takes. Jason opens his legs nicely, lovely, the way he knew he would, moans and groans when Clark's on him, keens when he's a hair's breath away, scratches at his back and Clark mourns not feeling the pain, not keeping the marks. So he marks Jason up and down, thoroughly so not a single bastard doubts who owns him, briefly thinks of scarring his lower back with his name before coming hard inside, tightening Jason's body against his, wishing he could fill Jason with his essence, to possess him so thoroughly there was no possible way to disentangle him from Clark.
He's never letting go. Wonders if Jason knows he's sold his soul, his body, his mind. Clark owns all of it forever.
Alpha Dick's restless. Has been restless for some days now, since meeting Batman's new rogue. Lithe, quick, flexible, equally charming and infuriating. Red Hood fights like a Robin. Jason still fights like a Robin, whatever that means. Robin is Dick's, always been, his mother's loving nickname for him turned into a mantle, something hopeful; a new life, a new purpose, a choice.
Robin is his.
Jason wasn't like Tim or Damian, he took after Dick, no other parameter to use at the time. He was taught to be like Dick, fight like him, stand like him. The few exchanged blows between them showed him that clearly. Death could add new layers, but it couldn't erase the old ones.
He still smells like brewed black coffee with a hint of autumn rain. No smoke underneath, no metallic tang, no supernatural tint. Just fresh and warm, alive.
Dick doesn't reach out to Bruce, not ready to sink into the manβs swollen raw and pulsing hot lair of guilt, pain and self-destructive coping mechanisms.
No, he chooses to ruminate on the limited past memories of the boy, on the hallucinations of his voice during dark moments of his life, on the short fight with the eighteen year old ghost of the past coming back to haunt the most haunted man on Earth. Jason grew up from that short shrimp into a dark and dangerous siren.
He's gorgeous. And Dick growls at the thought.
Long legs, thick thighs, perky ass, large chest, grabbable waist... Only his face remains a mystery to him. He doesn't dare talk to Bruce in this state, this embarrassing, creepy state of wild desire, not even to ask for any footage of the boy.
His foot taps the floor repetitively where it rests as he's sat on his couch, the only part of his body he allowed movement in the last two and a half hour. He's not thinking clearly, he doesn't trust himself now.
His rut comes steady and unexpected. He felt it building for days, expecting to just be a false alarm, not the first time either, but it's pounding the door of his headquarters now, snarling and howling for control. He and the beast are two sides of the same coin, and he has yet to meet a bigger control freak than him β or the Bat.
His senses sharpen as the minutes go by, a tap somewhere in his apartment leaks loudly like the world's pettiest clock. The need to stretch his neck is insurmountable. He doesn't dare move. Yet, the pit-pat of rats tiny feet walking down the street sewer becomes noticeable to his ears even five stores up, the beast throwing a fit in his mind abruptly quiets down, and Dick knows. He should have known he would lose this battle, the beast is him after all, stronger and sharper, but him.
The scent stands out for his senses like a god's beam, leading his nose and body out of his place and towards the source of it, something otherwise impossible were he not suffering from the world's worst case of hormonal sex-drive yet to be recorded. Dick can't possibly say how, but Gotham is soon under his feet as he jumps and swings over the buildings, mind quiet and focused like that of a wild animal. It's all he is now.
Dick first sees the omega through the large window of a nice apartment. Taking over Wayne's Enterprise's R&D division has visible advantages, though apparently not enough for Jason to live too far from Crime Alley, it seems. Dedicated, smart, cunning. The beast praises and appreciates the prey anyway, the omega oblivious while watering a plant sitting on his kitchen's windowsill.
There's an animal finesse in how Dick leaps in the air, slipping through the suspiciously open living room window, but the remainder of his reason washes away by the scent saturating the place, and his cock aches inside his trousers.
Jason stands by the room's door that leads to the kitchen, as if he expected him, leaning with his shoulder on the doorway, arms casually crossed in front of his chest. Dick's mouth fills with saliva. The omega's eyes were the same teal color, his lips the same tantalizing soft pink, faint freckles still spread across his nose, his cheeks still holding onto the last of baby fat.
"Should I call the cops?" Jason jokes, smooth voice a lullaby to the ears.
"... Only if you want an audience."
Dick doesn't recognize his own voice, he never really spoke more than one or two words during his ruts, spending them either alone or too absorbed by his needs to voice anything out loud. The thing is rough, croaking, low, and Jason's body reacts to it with goosebumps and a compulsory heightening of his lovely scent.
"You shouldn't be here. Lost your way to your den?" The omega asks, and Dick smells the fake composure of his words.
"I'm exactly where I want to be."
This shuts Jason up for long, loud seconds. Teal eyes shifting as it seizes the unbonded alpha in his apartment. Dick recognizes skepticism in Jason's young face, the beast recognizes longing in the omega's scent.
"Are you?" he asks slowly, quiet. Crossed arms no longer a casual posture as much as a shield.
Verbalizing is tiring to the beast; few words, too much weight, too many voiceless meanings.
Stepping closer to the omega, body stretching to its full size, pheromones spreading around the living room, Dick asserts his intention in the most undeniable and primitive way.
Jason tries to steer away, only to be moved by a heavy hand around his elbow, pushing him against the wall, a knee fitting between gorgeous thighs clothed with a small comfortable shorts. Something sweet reaches the beast's nose: interest.
"You'll regret this next morning," Jason warns lowly, no threat in his voice, no defensiveness in his body.
He doesn't twist away when Dick puts a hand below his shirt, caressing his waist. He doesn't push him off when Dick grips his cock over the shorts, rubbing it up and down. Jason moans quietly, back arching slightly so, pushing his cock against the heavy hand. Something damp catches the tip of Dick's fingers, the sweetness in the air taking form in the slicky wetness flowing from between Jason's buttcheeks. He glues his body against him, nose finding the omega's mating gland and breathing it in.
"I'll eat you whole," the beast groans, hand going below the shorts, claws pressing behind shaved balls, earning a soft keening sound from plush, bitten lips.
"I'll let you," Jason whispers back, encouraging the worst in Dick.
Of course he'll let him. Robin was never Batman's. Robin was, is, and always will be Dick's. Tim inserted himself in it for Batman, Damian inherited it as part of Batman. But its true owner only gave it to Jason.
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