#tabetharasa

“The girl that I loved she was handsome, I tried all I knew her to please,” Robin sing-songs breathlessly, then lets out a delighted laugh as he runs straight off another roof and into a spinning, twirling freefall that keeps going and going and going, an' Jason bites down hard on his cape. “Buuuuut I could not please her one-quarter so well as the man on the flying trapeze!” 

Sure, Robin can’t jus’ run fer it when some asshole alphas are sniffin’ ‘round his stupid cape or have a normal conversation, but he can fuckin’ sing circus music while runnin’ extreme midnight parkour. Sure, yeah. Why not, Jason thinks, an’ then Robin lets go of him with one arm an’ something makes a snappin’ sound an’ Jason barely bites back a shriek, an’ they swing up from–wait, what? 

Jason cracks an eye open, immediately regrets it, an’ can’t even tell what’s going on or where they are past the blur of speed, except that apparently Robin can also use his grapple now. Not when Clancey was a problem, naw, but sure, yeah, now it’s fine. 

Jason wants t’smack this fuckin’ moron. 

An’ also maybe, like, puke his guts up, ‘cuz Robin’s idea of “flyin’” is givin’ ‘im goddamn vertigo. 

“He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease, that daring young man on the flying trapeze!” Robin sing-songs, an’ then his grapple unhooks or cuts or somethin’ an’ he spins into a somersault an’ jus’ keeps spinnin’, an’ Jason barely bites back a panicked screech about it, an’ Robin laughs, an’ then the spinnin’ stops an’ they’re jus’ fallin’, an’–

Robin lands in a crouch with Jason still wrapped up in his arms an’ clingin’ t’his neck, an’ Jason buries his face in as tight against his shoulder as he can an’ jus’ clings harder. His head’s swimmin’ an’ his heart’s beatin’ a mile a minute an’ feels like it’s ‘bout t’beat outta his chest, an’–

“Babypup!” Robin says excitedly. “Babypup, look! Look!” 

Jason regrets everythin’ he’s ever done in his whole stupid fuckin’ life, then cracks an eye open again. 

“Gnk,” he manages, feeling like he’s gonna maybe pass out. They’re perched on top of a high, spindly, rusted-out water tower an’ leanin’ forward over the edge of the rickety scaffoldin’, the neighborhood spread out below, an’ Jason’s never seen so much of Crime Alley all at once. He stares down at its narrow streets an’ twistin’ alleys in bewilderment, an’ can’t even–how’d Robin even get ‘em this high this fast? 

Okay, like–the grapplin’ gun thing, obviously, yeah. But like–how? 

“Baaabypup,” Robin croons, and nuzzles Jason’s hair as he wraps him up tighter in his arms, then points out at the streets and alleys below. “Look!” 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Jason says roughly, an’ just tightens his grip on his tire iron. Jus’–what the fuck even. 

“Home home,” Robin croons, an’ then wraps both arms ‘round him again an’ jus’–jus’ hugs him real tight an’ real close an’–an’ like he still ain’t remembered he ain’t got no pup. Which, like–okay, Robin’s presented, so maybe he does have a pup somewhere. But ain’t no way that pup’s more’n a few months old if he does, so it ain’t like it’s fuckin’ likely. An’ either way, it definitely ain’t Jason. “Baaabypup. Fly!” 

Jason has no fuckin’ clue what the fuck’s fuckin’ goin’ on in this fuckin’ weirdo’s head. 

Robin is fer sure a weirdo, though. 

“We gotta actually go home, dumbass,” he manages, an’ then feels like kinda an asshole for callin’ Robin a dumbass when he’s all heated-up an’ only heated-up at all ‘cuz of how stupid whoever the fuck wrote “Park Row” on that fuckin’ truckful of cycle pollen’s fuckin’ paperwork was, the stupid fuckin’ stupid fuck.

“. . . ‘go’?” Robin repeats, still staring out towards the skyline, an’ furrows his brow in . . . concern, maybe? Or . . . somethin’, anyway. 

Jesus fuck, Jason thinks, an’ then exhales in a rough huff an’ tightens his arm ‘round Robin’s neck an’ just–just makes himself make–

Jason makes a whiny lil’ pup-sound, an’ Robin immediately refocuses in on ‘im with his big huge eyes both lookin’ like lil’ moons in his mask. 

Weirdo, Jason thinks again, an’ buries his face in Robin’s shoulder so he don’t gotta look at nobody lookin’ at him like that. Most people don’t even look at him at all no more, an’ he don’t want ‘em to, ‘cuz it’s safer that way. 

Robin keeps lookin’, though, an’ keeps callin’ ‘im–

Even before Jason bit ‘im, Robin was callin’ ‘im “babypup” an’ actin’ like he thought he was a fuckin’ baby or what the fuck ever, like he’s even that much older’n him anyway, the fuckin’ weirdo, like that ain’t–jus’, whatever. Robin pro’ly ain’t even more’n five years older’n ‘im, if that, so obviously he got hit real fuckin’ hard with that fuckin’ cycle pollen, given he’s been lookin’ at fuckin’ Jason an’ callin’ ‘im that, but like–whatever. It ain’t–it don’t–

It ain’t important; it don’t matter. 

Robin’s just all drugged-up an’ heated-up an’ he didn’t pick gettin’ all drugged-up, he pro’ly only fuckin’ even came out t’night t’help people, so like–so it’s just–

S’stupid, but it ain’t Robin’s fault. 

“We gotta go home,” Jason repeats into Robin’s shoulder, an’ Robin croons worriedly at him an’ curls in tighter around ‘im an’ strokes his fingers through his hair like–like he really–like Jason ain’t all dirty an’ stray an’–

Like Robin wants t’be doin’ it. 

“Oh, hello there, Tucker!” Mrs. Fenton greets brightly, then looks briefly surprised by Superboy’s presence. “Who’s your friend, dear?” 

“Um,” Tucker says, then rips his hands off Superboy and himself back out of the other’s personal space and nearly falls off the stoop in the process. “Hi, Mrs. Fenton! Mrs. Danny’s Mom! Uh! This is–” oh god how did he not think to think of a fake name for Superboy, he thinks desperately, then just panics and goes with the first Street Fighter character that pops into his head–“Cam! Cam Lee! Friend of mine. My friend. Who is mine. We, uh, met on the internet? Cam really likes . . . cosplay. And . . . stuff.” 

Jesus, how was the first character he thought of Cammy? Cammy! The clone of the evil dude, even! The clone who wears a leotard with a thong in literally all her most iconic designs! 

Please, please let Superboy not ask where he got the name idea. Ever. 

Mrs. Fenton’s surprised look immediately melts into one of those weird sappy ones adults get when they’re being insane and thinking grown-ass teenagers are being “cute” or whatever, and she folds her hands together and coos. Tucker has one perfect, crystal-clear moment of oh no in his head before she says, “Oh, that’s so sweet, Tucker! Jack! Say hello to Tucker, he brought his boyfriend!” 

“Boyfriend?!” Superboy sputters the exact same way he said “pretty boy”. Tucker will never know peace again, he is now intimately aware. Also, apparently Danny’s mom is taking his apparent bisexuality better than he is, which is honestly just embarrassing. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear, is this a crossplay?” Mrs. Fenton asks with a concerned little frown, then calls back to Mr. Fenton again: “I mean girlfriend, sorry!” 

“Hello, Tucker! Hello, Tucker’s girlfriend!” Mr. Fenton yells cheerfully as Tucker catches a glimpse of him tackling their struggling refrigerator through the kitchen door before they both go rolling out of view with a series of obnoxiously loud crashing sounds. “Nice to meet youuuuu!” 

Tucker absolutely, absolutely should not have picked anything with any semblance whatsoever to a gender-neutral name. Sue him, okay, his best friends are named “Danny” and “Sam”, “Dani” and “Val” are also things, and “Tucker” is in fact only slightly an improvement on any of that. Frick, even “Jazz” isn’t technically that gendered! There’s definitely at least a dude Transformer named that, if nothing else! 

“So nice to meet you, dear,” Mrs. Fenton says, beaming brightly at Superboy. “Oh, aren’t you pretty! Love the hair, you kids are so creative!” 

“FUCK!” Red Hood howls, slamming his head back harder against the wall. His hole tightens up hard enough that he’d be locking her knot if it was in him, and she can see the glow of his eyes reflecting from under the cracked face of his helmet, all unceasingly bright luminous green, and the inside of his mouth looks like it’s glowing a little too. 

That’s new, some distant part of her notes, but the rest of her is much, much more concerned with fucking him blind. 

“Alpha,” he begs like it’s been punched out of him, his hands fisted in the back of her torn shirt, and she drags her tongue across his scent gland again, hard and heavy, and tastes nothing but lilac there. 

But she can still smell cedar and cardamom and old, long-loved books. 

And she can smell his slick, too. 

“Alpha, alpha, alphaaaaa–” he keeps begging as he kicks his booted heel into the small of her back again, and the impact is actually an impact. She takes it as an instruction and buries her clit completely inside him, and he comes just like that and somehow gets even tighter, and also–“More more MORE!”

And also he’s a little bit insatiable, maybe, and Jazz’s teeth itch in her mouth. 

“More,” she agrees breathlessly, and leans all her weight into him as she thrusts. Red Hood might not be done coming, maybe, or maybe he’s just coming again. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Red Hood snaps. Jazz frowns. That seems like a disproportionate amount of anger in his tone. Maybe he's sensitive about his pheromones. Well, if people have been telling him he smells like death . . . 

Though “death” doesn't necessarily smell bad, in Jazz's opinion. 

Admittedly, that's a liminal's opinion and besides the point anyway. But still. 

“Alright,” she says. “But can you get to your den safely? Or . . . somewhere you can den down, anyway, I don't know. I assume you have a headquarters or a safehouse or two, something like that. Or at least can afford a heat hotel or know a decent clinic.” 

Red Hood hisses at her. It crackles through his modulator, but the sound of it still makes her jeans a little . . . uncomfortable, she'll just say. Sue her, she likes omegas with a bite to them. Johnny 13 definitely didn't win her over by being the sweet and polite type; he won her over by being a blunt asshole in a leather jacket who'd convinced her that he was a sincere and straight-up person. 

She wonders how “sincere” the average Gotham crime boss really is, but it’s a little difficult to concentrate on that question with the scent of old books and burning cedar filling up her nose. And also that note of lilac. That note of lilac is a problem. 

A serious problem. 

“I realize heat drop is probably imminent and you must be uncomfortable, but it’s a valid concern on my part, given your condition,” she says, which normally she’d make sound politely disapproving but really can’t make sound any kind of disapproving right now. Again: the lilac. “So can you?” 

“Fuck makes you think I'd let you anywhere near my den?” Red Hood snarls. Jazz blinks; tilts her head. 

“Nothing,” she says. “What makes you think I was asking to go anywhere near it?” 

Red Hood–stalls, briefly. Jazz tries to be polite about how incredibly obvious a tell that statement was. 

Flattering, but incredibly obvious. 

“I mean, I'd be happy to escort you if you’d like,” she says. “Or lend you my scent, if you need it. But I'm not trying to presume anything.” 

“Fuck off,” Red Hood snarls. “Nobody escorts an omega like me.” 

“Do you think maybe you have some self-esteem issues?” Jazz asks. Heat is almost definitely making him a bit more volatile and emotional than normal, considering the kinds of things he’s been saying to her, but it still seems like a valid question. Being on their cycle doesn’t make people different people; just makes it a bit harder for them to censor and control themselves. 

Or a lot harder, sometimes. 

Judging by how strong Red Hood’s pheromones smell right now . . . 

Well, he might be having a harder time than he’s used to having, so far as “controlling himself” goes. 

Jazz certainly is, all inappropriate knotheaded puns aside. 

Do Poison Ivy’s pollens make cycles hit harder, actually? Or does the suddenness of the effect disorient or throw people off, maybe? 

Well, that’s a worrying thought, since Red Hood seems to be out here alone. 

“‘Self-esteem issues’?” Red Hood repeats incredulously, his pheromones briefly sparking with bewilderment. Jazz decides not to press it, since he might be feeling a little vulnerable right now. 

“Yes,” she says. “Is there someone you can call, if you don’t want an escort or to borrow my scent? I could wait with you until they show. No offense, just Park Row’s not a very nice neighborhood.” 

Red Hood laughs. 

“No fucking shit!” he says, spreading his arms. “It’s Crime Alley!” 

“I know, sorry, I just keep accidentally calling it ‘Park Row’ in my head. Still new in town,” Jazz apologizes. She assumes a crime lord would prefer his territory be correctly referred to, anyway. Seems like a thing. She knows standard humans don’t actually have haunts–even most liminal ones don’t, including her–but sometimes she does . . . well, not forget, exactly, but just . . . expect them to anyway, she supposes? 

She spent way too long in Amity, yes. 

Even without Crime Alley being Red Hood’s actual haunt, though, it’s still disrespectful to call it the wrong name. It’s still his territory either way, and she imagines someone on their cycle especially wouldn’t appreciate the mistake. 

“What is your damage?” Red Hood snarls, his voice modulator crackling threateningly as he visibly bristles, and Jazz catches notes of that electric and unexpected edge in his pheromones again. Still vaguely familiar, but still not quite what it seems like it should be. Just . . . 

Really, if she didn’t know better . . . well, she’d think he was liminal. But that seems like a very unlikely coincidence for her first week in Gotham, so . . . 

Then again, her life is her life. 

It’s not really the time to be asking Red Hood about his levels of ecto exposure, though, and she’s pretty sure they’ve both got more important priorities right now. 

“We don’t really have time to unpack all that, to be honest. You really do need to get home,” she says. “Or at least call someone to pick you up. If you go into heat drop alone in Crime Alley, I can’t imagine it’s going to end well.” 

Red Hood hisses. That might’ve sounded like a threat, Jazz realizes belatedly. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, apologetic again. “But it’s not safe, is it?” 

“If anyone I don’t want near my ass tries to touch me, I’ll put a bullet up theirs,” Red Hood growls, low and crackling. 

“That seems like a lot of trouble when you’re on your cycle, though,” Jazz says. He’d have a body to deal with, and maybe someone would call the cops–well, she supposes it is Crime Alley, so maybe not . . .? But it’d be self-defense anyway, and if he is a crime lord, maybe he has people for that. 

Hm. 

She really needs to get familiar with this area as soon as possible, yeah. And just Gotham in general, really. Every city has its own idiosyncrasies, but Gotham is its idiosyncrasies. 

Well, so is Amity Park, of course. 

“I think you belong in Arkham, lady,” Red Hood says. Jazz feels like a Gothamite should be more understanding of someone taking supervillain attack side effects and hostile heated-up crime lords in stride, but apparently not. 

“Technically, you’re not wrong,” she says with a wry smile. She’d offer him a handshake, but that’s not really appropriate for an alpha to offer to an omega in heat. Especially not an unmated alpha, which Jazz very definitely is. “I start Monday. Jazz Fenton, psychiatric intern. At your service.”

Red Hood manages to very clearly stare at her without actually taking off the helmet. It's actually an impressive amount of expressiveness to get across, under the circumstances. 

Or there could be a touch of liminal empathy happening, admittedly. That's possible too. Especially with another liminal involved. 

Jazz briefly considers what knotting a liminal omega might actually be like if an empathy loop got established somewhere in the process, which is a lie, because what she’s actually imagining is picking up this liminal omega and showing him exactly how delicious she thinks he smells. 

Definitely inappropriate. 

“They will literally eat you alive,” Red Hood says. 

“I mean, there’s a risk of it,” Jazz allows, because nothing is a perfect guarantee. It’s just not a very large risk. Comparatively, she means. 

“You applied to Arkham on purpose, lady?” Red Hood says disbelievingly. 

“Oh, no,” Jazz says, shaking her head. “They made me an offer. Somebody read my thesis and liked it, apparently.” 

Well . . . “thought we should interview you for either a position or to have your file established for whenever the convictions start rolling in”, whichever. The interviewing psychiatrists had a range of reactions during her interview, she supposes is the best way to put it. 

Jazz really doesn’t think it’s fair to classify her parents as actual supervillains, but an increasingly long list of professionals has, admittedly, not agreed with that assessment. 

She can’t imagine what they would’ve thought if she’d told them about Danny, considering. 

Well, it’s not her problem if someone else is going to be close-minded about things like that. 

“I’m sorry, I’m really not trying to be pushy here, but are you sure you don’t want to call anyone? Or want my scent. Or . . . literally anything,” she says, gesturing a little awkwardly with her shopping bags. “I do get told my pheromones are pretty discouraging to unwanted attention, if that helps?” 

“Sure they are,” Red Hood snorts. Jazz tries not to look disapproving, given his compromised state. That kind of thing can bother omegas in heat, she knows. 

“That’s what people tell me,” is all she says. Obviously it’s not just the default parts of her scent that make it a strong deterrent, but as for the force of the emotions and claim she can put into it . . . 

Well. She just hears it’s “discouraging” to other alphas pretty regularly, that’s all. And also some betas, depending on their sexuality. And, um . . . well, a little closer to “catnip”, for omegas, but . . . 

“I’ll believe it when I smell it, knothead,” Red Hood snorts again. “Prove it.” 

Jazz isn’t sure that’s a good idea, considering–again–his compromised state, but, well . . . he’s clearly a strong omega himself, and maybe she’s a little miffed by him just assuming she’s lying about something like that, that’s all. She knows plenty of alphas do lie about their pheromones or even lay on fake ones, but . . . well, it’s hard not to wonder if he just thinks she’s a lesser alpha because she’s female, or because of how she’s dressed or looks or speaks, or just because. 

Her inner alpha doesn’t love the experience of one of the most gorgeous-smelling omegas she’s ever scented sneering at her worth as an alpha without even giving her a shot to prove it, either way.