my love...

You frown slightly, still half-focused on whether you should adjust the projection model for Q3. "That's not scary," you mutter, stirring your drink. "That just means he has standards."

Jisoo gives you a look the kind that suggests you've missed something obvious. "No, it means he's not human. I mean think about it, no ring, we never hear of him being seen with a woman. Come on he's rich and has one of the highest positions at a top company."

A few people laugh. Someone from accounting adds, "I can't even picture him liking someone. Like what would that even look like? Him holding hands? Absolutely not."

You huff quietly, taking a sip. Director Nanamin doesn't strike you as the type to even notice people like that. He's efficient. Cold. Focused. The kind of boss who remembers every detail of every project but never asks about your weekend.

"Hey," Jisoo nudges you suddenly, and her voice drops even lower. "You work closest with him, right? One-on-one reports and all that?"

You nod. It's true you've been his direct report for almost eight months now. He's demanding, but fair. You've learned more under his supervision than you did in two years at your previous company.

"…Does he ever act weird around you?"

You pause mid-sip.

Weird?

You think about it really think about it for the first time. About the way he stands too close when reviewing your work, close enough that you can smell his cologne, something clean and expensive. The way his hand lingers just a second too long when passing documents, fingers brushing yours. The way he adjusts your collar sometimes, like it's part of his job description, like you're incapable of dressing yourself properly.

But that's just... him being particular, right? He's meticulous about everything.

"…No," you say slowly, genuinely puzzled by the question. "He's just strict."

Jisoo goes quiet in a way that feels loaded.

Someone behind you mutters, "That's worse."

You turn. "What?"

"Nothing," Jisoo says quickly, exchanging a glance with someone else. "Forget it."

You shrug it off. People are always reading into things that aren't there. Office gossip is just noise.

By the time you get back to your desk, his message is already waiting.

Director Nanami: Come to my office.

No greeting. No explanation. Typical.

You sigh, grab your tablet with the revised presentation loaded, and head down the hall. You're actually proud of this one, you caught an error in the vendor contract that would've cost the company a significant amount. You're hoping he'll acknowledge it, maybe even in that subtle way he has, where his expression doesn't change but his tone shifts just slightly.

The moment you step inside his office, the temperature drops.

You shiver automatically, goosebumps rising on your arms. "It's freezing in here."

Nanami doesn't look up immediately. He finishes signing something with that expensive fountain pen he always uses, movements calm, composed, perfect as always. Everything about him is controlled. Precise. You've never seen him flustered, never seen him make a mistake.

Then his eyes lift to you.

Sharp.

Observing.

Lingering in a way that makes you want to check if there's something on your face.

"…You didn't bring a jacket," he says.

It's not a question. It's a statement of fact, delivered with the same tone he uses when pointing out a miscalculation in a spreadsheet.

"I'm fine," you reply, shifting your weight. You are fine. It's just a little cold. You've worked through worse.

A beat of silence.

He stands.

Your eyes track the movement automatically, he's tall, taller than you remember sometimes, and there's something about the way he moves that's unnaturally fluid. Deliberate. Like every action is calculated three steps ahead.

He crosses the room.

Before you can react, his hand is at your shoulder firm, steady, warm as he shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over you.

The fabric is heavy. Expensive. It settles around your shoulders like something deliberate, something that carries weight beyond just warmth. It smells like him that same clean, expensive scent, but stronger now. Almost overwhelming.

"You'll get sick," he says.

You blink, surprised by the gesture. "Director, I really don't—"

"Wear it."

The tone isn't loud. It's not even particularly harsh.

But it ends the conversation with the finality of a door closing.

"…Okay."

You adjust it awkwardly, feeling ridiculous. The sleeves swallow your hands completely. You probably look like a child playing dress-up in adult clothes. Professional. Very professional.

Nanami watches you for a second too long.

There's something in his expression you can't quite read something that might be satisfaction, or possession, or both. His eyes track the way the fabric drapes over your frame, the way you're swimming in something that belongs to him.

Then he steps closer.

Too close.

Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.

"Hold still."

His fingers brush your neck.

You freeze.

He's adjusting your collar again but this time slower. More precise. His thumb presses lightly just below your ear, where your pulse is probably visible, where your skin is most sensitive. You can feel the warmth of his hand, the controlled strength in his fingers.

Your breath catches. "Is… something wrong?"

"…No."

His voice is quieter now. Closer. You can feel it more than hear it.

"Your presentation," he continues, like his hand isn't currently touching your throat, like this is completely normal, "needs revision."

You nod quickly, trying to focus on work, on the actual reason you're here. "Right. I'll fix it. I think the vendor analysis in section three could be stronger—"

His hand doesn't move right away.

When it finally does, it drags, just slightly, along your shoulder before he pulls back. The touch is deliberate. Possessive. Like he's marking something.

You don't notice.

You're already thinking about the presentation, about which sections need work, about how you can tighten the argument in the third quarter projections.

"Sit," he says.

You do, settling into the chair across from his desk, his blazer still wrapped around you. You pull out your tablet, ready to take notes on his feedback. This is what you're good at taking criticism, improving, and iterating. You've built your career on being coach-able.

You don't notice how the hallway outside has gone completely silent.

You don't notice the way two coworkers pass by the glass wall, the office has partial glass walls for "transparency," though right now the blinds are angled just enough to obscure most of the view, only to immediately look away, faces tight, uneasy. You don't see the way they hurry past, the way one of them grabs the other's arm and pulls them along faster.

You don't notice the way the air around you feels… heavier. Thicker. Like something has settled into the space between you and him, something that doesn't dissipate even when he returns to his seat.

Something that doesn't belong to you.

Something you can't name because you don't have the framework to recognize it.

Nanami returns to his seat with that same fluid grace, settling into his chair like a predator that's already caught its prey and is simply deciding when to bite down. His gaze fixes on you steady, unwavering, intense in a way that would make most people uncomfortable.

But you just open your tablet, stylus ready.

Steady.

Calculating.

He's thinking about how you walked into his office without hesitation, how you wear his jacket without understanding what it means, how you sit there completely oblivious to the fact that every alpha in a three-floor radius can now smell him on you. How you don't notice the way people have started giving you a wider berth in the hallways, the way conversations stop when you enter a room.

You're brilliant with numbers, with strategy, with analysis.

But you can't see what's right in front of you.

You can't smell the danger lurking around every corner, the territorial lines he's been drawing around you for months now, the way he's been slowly, methodically isolating you from anyone who might interfere.

And that's exactly why you need him.

Why you'll always need him.

"…Start," he says, his voice carrying that edge of command that makes something in your hindbrain want to obey, even as your conscious mind just registers it as his normal professional tone.

You begin walking through your presentation, pointing out the cost analysis, the risk assessment, the projected ROI. You're confident here. This is your domain. You've triple-checked every number, every source, every assumption.

You're so focused on the data that you don't notice the way his eyes never leave your face.

The way he's not looking at the screen at all.

The way he's watching you like you're the only thing in the room that matters.

Like you're something precious that needs to be protected.

Or possessed.

Or both.

The meeting ends forty-five minutes later with a list of revisions that aren't actually that extensive—mostly minor adjustments to the formatting, a few clarifications on the vendor terms. Reasonable feedback. Professional. You leave his office with his blazer still draped over your shoulders because he'd given you that look when you tried to return it, the one that meant the conversation was over before it started.

You'll give it back later. After lunch, maybe. When he's in a meeting.

The relief hits you the moment you're back at your desk.

It's not that the meeting was bad, Director Nanami's feedback was actually helpful, precise as always, but there's something about being in that office with him that makes your shoulders tense in ways you don't fully understand. The weight of his attention, maybe. The way he watches you like he's waiting for you to make a mistake, even when you don't.

You drape his blazer over the back of your chair and let yourself breathe.

The office feels lighter out here. Warmer. The afternoon sun streams through the windows, and there's the comfortable ambient noise of keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the coffee machine gurgling in the distance. Normal. Safe.

You're just pulling up the presentation file to start on those revisions when Hana appears at your desk.

"Hey," she says, leaning against the partition with that easy smile she always has. Hana's in operations, a beta like you, competent and friendly without being overbearing. You've worked together on a few cross-departmental projects. She's... easy to talk to. Uncomplicated.

"Hey," you reply, glancing up. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to see if you survived the director's office." She grins. "You were in there a while. Did he tear apart the presentation?"

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Not as badly as I expected, actually. Just some formatting stuff and clarifications."

"See? I told you it was solid." Hana pulls up a chair, sitting backward on it with her arms folded over the backrest. "You always overthink these things."

"Because he notices everything," you say, but there's no heat in it. Just fact. "If there's a typo on slide thirty-seven, he'll find it."

"That's because he's a robot," Hana says matter-of-factly. "I'm convinced. No one is that precise naturally."

You snort, an actual, genuine sound that surprises even you. "A robot?"

"Think about it. Have you ever seen him eat? Like, actually eat?"

You pause, considering. "...He has coffee."

"Coffee isn't food. That proves nothing." Hana leans forward conspiratorially. "I bet he plugs into an outlet at night. Charges up. That's why he's always here before everyone else."

The image is so absurd that you can't help it, you laugh.

Really laugh.

Not the polite, professional chuckle you use in meetings. Not the quiet huff you give when something is mildly amusing. An actual laugh that comes from your chest, that makes your shoulders shake slightly, that feels good in a way you haven't felt in weeks.

"That's—" you try to speak through it, "—that's ridiculous."

"Is it though?" Hana grins wider, clearly pleased with herself. "Explain the coffee thing. Explain how he never looks tired. Explain—"

"He's just disciplined," you manage, still smiling. Your cheeks almost hurt from it. When was the last time you smiled like this at work? "Very, very disciplined."

"Disciplined robots. That's what I'm saying."

You shake your head, trying to compose yourself, but the smile won't leave. It sits on your face, warm and comfortable, like something that belongs there. You feel... light. Unburdened. Like you've been holding your breath for months and finally remembered how to exhale.

This is nice.

This is easy.

Just talking. Just existing without the weight of expectation pressing down on your shoulders.

You don't notice the way the temperature drops.

Not at first.

Across the floor, behind glass walls and Venetian blinds angled just enough to provide the illusion of privacy—

Nanami hears it.

Not the words.

The tone.

Light.

Unrestrained.

Wrong.

His pen stills mid-signature, ink pooling slightly on the document beneath it. He doesn't notice. Doesn't care.

Slowly, deliberately, he looks up.

Through the gaps in the blinds, his gaze finds you instantly, like it always does, like some part of him is always aware of exactly where you are in any given space.

And there it is.

That expression.

That softness in your face he's only seen in glimpses, in moments before you notice him watching. That smile you never wear in front of him.

You're laughing.

With someone else.

At something someone else said.

Looking at someone else with that open, unguarded warmth that should be

His jaw tightens.

Something cold and sharp unfurls in his chest, spreading through his ribs like frost. It's not anger. Anger is too hot, too uncontrolled. This is colder. More precise.

Possessive.

Territorial.

Wrong.

The word echoes in his mind as he watches you duck your head slightly, still smiling, still so completely at ease in a way you never are with him. The beta he doesn't even bother learning their name—is leaning too close. Casual. Familiar.

Touching the back of your chair.

Making you laugh.

Taking something that isn't theirs.

Nanami stands.

The movement is fluid, controlled, but there's something deliberate about it. Predatory. He doesn't rush. Doesn't need to.

He simply moves.

You're still smiling when Hana suddenly stops mid-sentence.

Her expression shifts—subtle, but noticeable. The easy warmth drains from her face, replaced by something more cautious. Alert.

"...Did it just get colder?" she asks quietly.

You blink, confused. "What?"

But Hana isn't looking at you anymore.

She's looking past you.

Toward the office.

You feel it then that prickle of awareness at the back of your neck, the one that makes your spine straighten automatically. The one you've learned to recognize over eight months of working under Director Nanami.

You turn.

He's standing just outside his office door.

Watching.

The smile drops from your face immediately. Not completely, you're not sure you could erase it that fast even if you tried, but enough. Enough that your expression shifts back into something more appropriate. More professional.

More careful.

"Director Nanami," you say, standing automatically. Your voice comes out steady, but there's a question in it. "Did you need something?"

He doesn't answer right away.

His gaze flicks once, brief, dismissive, cold toward Hana.

The temperature drops another degree.

Around you, you notice peripherally that conversations have quieted. Someone's phone stops ringing. The coffee machine seems louder in the sudden silence.

Then—

"Leave."

It's quiet.

Flat.

But it isn't directed at you.

Hana stiffens. You see her throat work as she swallows. "I—right. I have that report to finish anyway."

She stands quickly, not quite meeting your eyes. Not looking at him either.

She just... leaves.

Faster than necessary.

You watch her go, confused. The report isn't due until next week. You know because you helped her with part of the data analysis last Thursday.

But before you can process that, Nanami is moving again.

Closer.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Measured.

Each step deliberate, like he's already calculated exactly how many it will take to reach you. He stops just inside your personal space, closer than professional, closer than necessary, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.

Close enough that you can smell his cologne again, that clean expensive scent that's been clinging to his blazer, the one still draped over your chair.

"You seem," he says slowly, each word precisely placed, "in a good mood."

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of your desk. "Just discussing work."

A beat of silence.

His eyes move over your face like he's cataloging something. Like he's trying to memorize exactly what you looked like thirty seconds ago so he can systematically erase it.

"You don't sound like that," he says, voice lower now, dropping into a register that makes something in your head sit up and pay attention, "when you speak to me."

Your breath catches—just slightly. "I—"

"You were smiling."

It's not an accusation.

Like he's pointing out an error in your work. A miscalculation. Something that needs correction.

You don't know how to respond to that. What are you supposed to say? Yes, I was smiling, is that not allowed? It sounds absurd even in your head. So you default to the safest thing, the most professional response you can manage:

"...I'm sorry?"

The words come out uncertain. Questioning.

Because you genuinely don't understand what you're apologizing for.

Silence stretches between you.

Then—

His hand lifts.

You already know what's coming. You've been through this enough times now that it's almost routine. He's going to adjust your collar. Again. Because apparently you're incapable of dressing yourself properly, or because he has standards about professional appearance that border on obsessive, or because

His fingers brush your collar.

Adjusting.

Straightening.

But this time, it's different.

Firmer.

More deliberate.

His thumb presses just enough against the side of your neck.

Right over your gland.

You flinch.

It's instinctive. Immediate. That spot is sensitive in ways you don't fully understand, in ways that make your hindbrain scream too close, too vulnerable, wrong wrong wrong—

"...Director?"

His eyes don't leave your face.

For a moment, something darker flickers there something sharper than his usual controlled calm, something that makes your pulse jump for reasons you can't name.

Then it's gone.

Smoothed over.

Professional.

His hand drops, but slowly. Deliberately. Like he's making a point.

"Prepare your things," he says.

You blink, trying to reorient yourself, trying to push past the lingering sensation of his thumb against your gland. "For...?"

"We're leaving tomorrow."

"...Leaving?"

"A business trip."

Your confusion must show on your face because you're not even trying to hide it anymore. "No one mentioned—"

"I'm mentioning it now."

The finality in his tone shuts down the rest of your question before it can form.

You swallow. "...Where?"

Nanami's hand drops completely from your collar, but his gaze stays.

Heavy.

Intent.

Possessive in a way you don't have the framework to recognize.

"Somewhere," he says, and his voice drops even lower, intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle, "you won't be... distracted."

A pause.

He turns and walks away like nothing happened. Like he didn't just decide something that changes everything for you. Like this is completely normal. You stand there for a moment.

Still.

Trying to piece it together.

A business trip? With him? Alone? You don't remember seeing anything about this on the calendar. Don't remember any emails about client meetings or site visits or conferences.

When did this get scheduled?

Why didn't anyone tell you?

"...What just happened?" you murmur to yourself.

Across the office, you catch sight of Jisoo. She's staring at you wide-eyed, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her mouth.

Minho is at the desk next to her. He looks like he's about to say something, mouth opening slightly. Then he closes it. Thinks better of it. Looks away.

The office is too quiet.

You notice it now the way conversations haven't quite resumed their normal volume. The way people are very carefully not looking in your direction.

The way the air feels heavier.

Thicker.

Wrong.

You shake your head slightly, trying to clear it. You're overthinking this. It's just a business trip. Probably something last-minute. Director Nanami is always getting pulled into unexpected meetings, urgent client situations. This is probably just one of those things.

Professional.

Normal.

You sit back down at your desk, pulling up your calendar to figure out what you'll need to reschedule.

You don't notice the way Jisoo and Minho exchange a look.

You don't notice the way Hana hasn't come back to her desk.

You don't notice the way Director Nanami is standing in his office again, watching you through the blinds.

Still.

Patient.

Satisfied.

Because whatever line existed before whatever boundary separated professional from personal, appropriate from possessive—

He just erased it.

And you have no idea.

Minho knew something was wrong the second you walked past him. After your meeting with him.

It hit him before he even looked up.

Warm.

Deep.

Rich—

Like freshly brewed coffee left too long on a burner, thickening into something darker, heavier.

And underneath it

Something sharp. Dominant. Cutting straight through.

Alpha.

His head snapped up.

You were already halfway down the hall, clutching your tablet, completely unaware of the way the air shifted around you. Like a pressure drop. Like a warning.

Minho’s stomach twisted.

“…No way,” he muttered.

Jisoo followed his gaze—and immediately stiffened.

“Oh my god.”

“Do you smell that?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

She nodded slowly. “That’s not just her scent anymore.”

It couldn’t be.

Not like that.

Not this strong.

Not this layered.

They both looked toward the office door just as it clicked shut behind you.

Silence stretched between them.

Then—

“Should we… do something?” Minho asked, though it sounded weak even to him.

Jisoo let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Do what? Walk in there and tell him to stop?”

Minho didn’t answer.

Because they both knew who him was.

Director Nanami didn’t just run their department—he controlled it. Every promotion, every evaluation, every transfer.

And right now?

He was marking someone in broad daylight.

A few before your meeting had rapped up. Minho couldn’t help it.

He passed by the office.

Just… to check.

That’s all.

The glass wall made everything visible.

Too visible.

You were sitting across from the desk, shoulders slightly hunched, clearly nervous but focused, flipping through your notes like this was just another meeting.

Like nothing was wrong.

Like you couldn’t feel it.

Nanami stood beside you.

Not behind his desk.

Not across from you.

Too close.

His hand rested on the back of your chair, fingers curled just enough to brush your shoulder.

Possessive.

Casual.

Intentional.

Minho’s throat went dry.

“…He’s not even hiding it,” he whispered.

Inside, Nanami leaned down slightly, saying something to you calm, composed.

His other hand lifted.

Adjusted your collar.

Again.

Slow.

Deliberate.

His fingers lingered at your neck.

Right over your glands.

Minho physically recoiled.

“Jesus—”

Jisoo grabbed his sleeve, yanking him back before he could stare any longer. “Stop looking. If he notices—”

“He wants people to notice,” Minho cut in under his breath. “That’s the problem.”

They both fell quiet.

Because that was the worst part.

This wasn’t sloppy.

It wasn’t accidental.

It was controlled.

Measured.

A message.

Across the room, someone else spoke up in a hushed voice:

“…Is she seriously not reacting?”

Jisoo shook her head slowly. “I told you her sense of smell is bad.”

Minho exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “So she has no idea she’s basically walking around covered in—”

“—him,” Jisoo finished.

Silence again.

Heavy this time.

Uneasy.

Because now it didn’t feel like gossip anymore.

It felt like watching something unfold that no one was supposed to interfere with.

Something territorial.

Something dangerous.

Minho glanced back at the office one last time.

Through the glass, Nanami had finally returned to his seat.

But his gaze hadn’t left you.

Not once.

It followed every movement.

Every shift.

Every breath.

Like you were something he’d already decided belonged to him

And was just waiting for the rest of the world to accept it.

Minho looked away first.

“…She’s in trouble,” he said quietly.

Jisoo didn’t disagree.

Two weeks later.

The hotel keycard feels too light in your hand.

“That’s… one room,” you say, staring at it like it might change if you look long enough.

Beside you, Nanami doesn’t even glance down.

“Yes.”

You blink. “…There has to be a mistake.”

“There isn’t.”

Simple.

Final.

You hesitate. “I can go back to the front desk—”

“No.”

The word cuts clean through your sentence.

You go quiet.

He finally looks at you then calm, composed, like always.

But there’s something under it.

Something that makes your chest tighten.

“It’s late,” he continues. “We have an early meeting. This is the most efficient arrangement.”

Efficient.

Right.

That makes sense.

It has to.

“…Okay,” you murmur.

The room is quiet when the door shuts behind you.

Too quiet.

You set your bag down quickly, moving toward the window, the desk anywhere that isn’t standing in the middle of the room with him.

There’s only one bed.

You try not to look at it.

“I can take the couch,” you say quickly, even though there isn’t really one just a small love seat by the window.

Nanami sets his things down with deliberate calm.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Your stomach tightens.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind—”

“I said,” he interrupts, voice low, “it won’t be necessary, I'll take the couch.”

Silence.

You nod.

Nanami watches you move around the room. Too aware. Too careful. Keeping distance.

Always keeping distance. It irritates him more than it should. More than it ever has.

Because not to long ago at work.

That laugh.

That smile.

It replays in his mind with perfect clarity.

Not for him.

Never for him.

His jaw tightens slightly.

Unacceptable.

You feel his presence before you see him.

Close again.

Always close.

“Turn around.”

You freeze for a second then obey.

“…Yes?”

His gaze drags over your face, slower than it should be.

Assessing.

Measuring.

Like he’s looking for something that’s no longer there.

“…You’re quieter now,” he says.

You frown slightly. “We’re not at the office.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

You don’t know how to answer that.

So you don’t.

His hand lifts.

Your breath catches automatically.

Fingers brush your collar adjusting, like always.

But this time, there’s no one watching.

No glass walls.

No coworkers.

Just you.

And him.

His thumb presses lightly against your neck.

Right over your gland.

You flinch.

“…You react,” he murmurs.

Confusion flickers across your face. “To being touched?”

A pause.

His eyes darken bjust slightly.

“You don’t react to me.”

Your brows pull together. “I do. I listen. I—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

His voice drops.

Quieter.

He steps closer. Close enough that your back nearly hits the edge of the desk.

“At work, before” he says, “you were… different.”

Your heart starts beating faster, though you’re not sure why.

“I was just talking—”

“You were smiling.”

There it is again. That same observation. That same weight behind it.

You swallow. “…I smile sometimes.”

“Not like that.”

The words come out softer.

More controlled.

But they land heavier.

Nanami’s thoughts narrow, sharpen. He can still feel it. That shift in you.That warmth you give so easily to others. while standing so carefully, so neutrally, with him. As if he’s something to endure. Not something to want. His fingers press more firmly against your neck.

Not enough to hurt.

Enough to remind.

To ground.

To claim.

You don’t even realize what you are.

How you affect him.

How long he’s allowed this distance to exist.

Too long.

Your breath stutters slightly. “Director… Nanami?”

A warning.

A question.

You’re not even sure which.

His name sounds different like this.

Softer.

Uncertain.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His grip loosens, but doesn’t disappear.

“…You don’t understand,” he says quietly.

“Understand what?”

A pause.

Then—

“You will.”

Something in your chest tightens at that.

“…This is just a work trip,” you say, like you’re trying to convince both of you.

Nanami’s gaze holds yours. Unblinking.

“No,” he says.

The word is calm.

Certain.

Terrifying in how simple it is.

“It isn’t.”

Silence stretches between you.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

You don’t know what he means.

But you feel it.

That something has shifted.

That the lines you thought were there

aren’t anymore.

Nanami finally steps back. Just enough to give you space.

Not enough to feel safe.

“We'll go over everything during dinner,” he says.

Like nothing happened.

Like everything is still under control.

But as he turns away

his thoughts settle into something firm.

Decided.

Measured.

It’s time.

No more distance.

No more misunderstandings.

No more watching you give pieces of yourself to people who don’t recognize what they’re being given. You don’t know it yet.

But you will.

Soon.

The knock comes at seven-thirty.

You've been staring at your laptop for the past twenty minutes, the same paragraph of the presentation blurring in and out of focus. The room is nice too nice, actually. The kind of hotel room that makes you acutely aware of the budget approval Nanami must have signed off on. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a king bed with crisp white linens, a sitting area with a couch and love seat that probably costs more than your monthly rent.

You're changed into something professional but comfortable,a soft sweater and slacks, because you'd showered and changed after the flight, trying to wash away the anxiety that's been clinging to your skin since this morning, after Nanami went out for some work related stuff, do he said.

It doesn't work.

When you open the door, Nanami is standing there in his shirtsleeves, jacket discarded, top button undone. It's the most casual you've ever seen him, and somehow that makes it worse.

More intimate.

More real.

"I ordered dinner," he says. "It should arrive shortly."

You blink. "Oh I was going to just order something light—"

"We need to discuss tomorrow's agenda, as I said before." His tone is matter-of-fact. Professional.

Of course it is.

Of course this is about work.

You step aside, letting him in, and try to ignore the way your heart rate picks up as he moves past you into your space. He's carrying a leather portfolio and his own laptop this really is just a working dinner. You're being ridiculous.

"I hope you don't mind," he continues, setting his things on the small dining table by the window. "I took the liberty of ordering wine as well. The hotel has an excellent selection."

"That's—that's fine," you manage.

You do mind, actually. Not the wine itself, but the thoughtfulness of it. The consideration. It feels too personal, too attentive, and you don't know what to do with that.

Room service arrives fifteen minutes later—two attendants wheeling in covered dishes, a bottle of red wine already opened to breathe, proper glassware that catches the light. Nanami tips them generously and waits until they leave before gesturing to the table.

"Sit."

You do.

The food is beautiful—some kind of fish with delicate sauce, roasted vegetables, a small salad. The kind of meal that requires you to think about which fork to use. Nanami serves the wine himself, pouring yours first.

The glass is fuller than you expected.

"Thank you," you murmur.

He pours his own barely two fingers and sets the bottle within easy reach.

Your reach, you'll realize later.

Not his.

The first sip of wine helps.

It's good smooth and rich, the kind of wine you'd never order for yourself because you wouldn't know what to look for. It warms your throat, settles in your chest, takes the edge off the nervous energy that's been humming under your skin all day.

Nanami opens his laptop, pulling up tomorrow's schedule. "The client meeting is at nine. I'll handle the initial presentation, but I want you to lead the technical breakdown."

You nod, taking another sip. Focusing on work helps too. This is familiar territory. Safe.

"I've prepared supplementary materials," you say, pulling up your own files. "The cost-benefit analysis and the implementation timeline—"

"Good." His eyes flick to you briefly before returning to his screen. "Walk me through your approach."

So you do.

And as you talk, you drink.

Not consciously at first. Just your glass is there, and your throat is dry from talking, and the wine makes everything feel slightly less intense. Slightly more manageable.

You don't notice when you finish the first glass.

But Nanami does.

He reaches for the bottle without breaking eye contact with his screen, refilling your glass with the same casual efficiency he does everything.

"Continue," he says.

By the time you're halfway through the main course, you've lost track of how much you've had.

Three glasses? Four?

The bottle is significantly lighter than it was.

But you feel better. Looser. The anxiety that's been coiled in your chest since this morning has finally started to unwind. You're talking more freely now, gesturing with your fork as you explain your reasoning for certain data points, even laughing softly when you catch a small error in your own notes.

"I can't believe I missed that," you say, shaking your head. "I checked this three times."

"You're thorough," Nanami says. "But not infallible."

There's something in his tone, something almost warm that makes you glance up.

He's watching you.

Not your screen. Not the documents.

You.

"I just—I want it to be perfect," you admit. The wine has made you honest in ways you wouldn't normally allow. "You have high standards. I don't want to disappoint you."

Something flickers in his expression.

"You haven't," he says quietly.

The weight of his gaze makes your skin feel warm. You take another sip of wine to cover the flush creeping up your neck.

Nanami's own glass sits mostly untouched beside his plate. He'd taken one sip early on you'd seen it peripherally, but it hasn't moved since.

You don't notice.

You're too focused on the way the room feels smaller now, warmer, the city lights beyond the window blurring into soft halos.

"Tell me something," Nanami says suddenly.

You blink, pulled from your thoughts. "What?"

"Earlier. In the office." He sets down his fork with deliberate precision. "You were laughing. With that beta from operations."

Your stomach tightens slightly. "Hana? We were just—"

"You seemed comfortable."

It's not a question.

You shift in your seat. "She's easy to talk to."

"And I'm not."

The words hang between you.

You open your mouth. Close it. The wine has made you too honest, but not honest enough to say what you're thinking: You terrify me. You make me second-guess everything. I can never tell if I'm doing well or failing, if you're pleased or disappointed, if I'm—

"You're my boss," you say instead. "It's different."

"Different how?"

You take another drink, buying time. The wine is making everything feel slightly unreal, like you're watching this conversation happen to someone else.

"I don't know," you admit. "It just is."

Nanami leans back in his chair, and the movement draws your attention to the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders, the way the lamplight catches the sharp line of his jaw.

You look away quickly.

Too quickly.

He notices.

Of course he does.

"You're nervous," he observes.

"I'm not—"

"You've had five glasses of wine."

Your hand freezes halfway to your glass. Five? That can't be right. You'd been keeping track—

Except you hadn't. You look at the bottle. It's nearly empty.

When did that happen?

"I'm sorry," you say automatically. "I didn't mean to—I'll pay for—"

"I don't care about the wine." His voice is quiet. Controlled. But there's something underneath it that makes your pulse jump. "I care that you feel you need it, but right now I'm not complaining it'll help with tonight."

The concern in his tone catches you off-guard.

He sounds... worried. Considerate. Like a boss who's noticed his employee is struggling and wants to help.

That's all this is, you tell yourself. Professional concern.

"I'm just—" You struggle to find the words. The wine has made your thoughts fuzzy, harder to organize. "This is new. Being here. Alone. With you. I mean—not alone, obviously we're working, but—"

You're rambling.

You never ramble.

"I understand," Nanami says.

And the way he says it low and certain makes something in your chest constrict.

He stands, and for a moment you think he's leaving, that you've made this too awkward, that you've crossed some line.

But he doesn't move toward the door.

He moves toward you.

Your breath catches as he stops beside your chair. Close enough that you can smell his cologne again, that clean expensive scent that's been haunting you all day.

"You don't need to be nervous," he says quietly.

His hand lifts—

And for a moment, you think he's going to touch you.

But he just reaches past you, picking up the wine bottle.

"You've had enough," he says.

It's not a suggestion.

You nod mutely, not trusting your voice.

Nanami sets the bottle on the far counter, out of reach, and when he turns back, his expression is unreadable.

He'd needed to see it.

Needed to watch you soften.

Needed to hear you talk without that careful professional filter you always maintain.

Needed to confirm what he already knew:

That underneath all that competence and control, you're vulnerable.

Uncertain.

His.

"You should stand," he says. "Sitting too long after drinking."

It sounds reasonable. Considerate, even.

You push yourself up from the chair, and the room tilts just slightly. Not enough to lose your balance, but enough that you have to steady yourself against the table.

Nanami's hand is there immediately.

On your elbow. Steadying you.

"Careful."

His voice is closer than it should be.

You turn your head, and he's right there, close enough that you can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the precise edge of his collar, the way his throat moves when he swallows.

"I'm fine," you manage. "Just—the wine—"

"I know."

Something in his tone makes your skin prickle.

He doesn't step back.

Instead, his hand slides from your elbow to your upper arm, and the touch is warm even through your sweater. Grounding. You should pull away this is too close, too familiar, but the wine has made everything feel slightly distant, like you're watching this happen through frosted glass.

"You're flushed," Nanami observes.

His other hand lifts, and you think he's going to touch your face, check for fever, something professional and appropriate.

But he doesn't.

His fingers brush against your collar instead.

The same gesture he's done a dozen times in his office, adjusting fabric that doesn't need adjusting.

Except this time, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.

Right over your scent gland.

Your breath catches.

"Director—"

"Nanami," he corrects quietly. "We're not in the office."

The intimacy of it, his first name, spoken in this low voice, in this hotel room with the city lights blurring beyond the window, makes something flutter in your chest.

His hand is still at your collar.

Still touching your neck.

And then he leans in.

Not quickly. Not suddenly.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Like he's giving you time to stop him.

But you don't.

You can't.

The wine has made you slow, made your thoughts thick and syrupy, and by the time you realize what's happening, his face is already near the curve of your neck.

Not touching.

Just—

Close.

You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin first.

Then the deliberate, measured inhale.

He's—

He's scenting you.

The realization cuts through the fog, sharp and sudden.

Alphas don't do this. Not casually. Not with colleagues. This is intimate. Possessive. This is—

"Director—" Your voice comes out breathless. Uncertain.

"Shh." The sound is barely a whisper against your throat. "You're trembling."

You are.

You didn't realize it until he said it, but your whole body is shaking, fine tremors that you can't control, can't stop.

"I'm just—" You try to form words, try to explain, but his nose brushes against the sensitive skin below your ear and all thought scatters.

Another inhale.

Deeper this time.

Like he's drawing your scent into himself. Memorizing it. Claiming it.

Your hands come up instinctively to push him away, to steady yourself, you're not sure but they just hover uselessly in the air between you.

"You smell different when you're relaxed," Nanami murmurs.

The words vibrate against your skin.

"Less guarded. More..." He pauses, and you feel rather than see the slight curve of his mouth. "...honest."

This isn't professional.

This isn't appropriate.

This is—

But the wine has made everything soft and hazy, and his hand is still on your arm, grounding you, and the warmth of him is seeping into your skin, and you can't quite make your body move away.

Can't quite make yourself.

"I don't—" You swallow hard. "I don't understand."

"I know."

His nose traces up the line of your throat, following your pulse.

Another inhale.

Your knees feel weak.

"This is—we shouldn't—"

"Why not?"

The question is so simple. So direct.

And you don't have an answer.

Or rather, you have a dozen answers because he's your boss, because this is inappropriate, because you're drunk and he's not, because this feels like something you can't take back, but none of them make it past the fog in your head.

"I'm just checking," Nanami says, his voice still that same low, reasonable tone. "You were nervous earlier. Anxious. I want to make sure you're alright."

That's—

That's all this is?

A wellness check?

It sounds absurd even as you think it, but the alternative is too overwhelming to process.

"I'm fine," you whisper.

"Are you?"

His hand slides from your arm to your waist, and the touch is so warm, so steady, that you find yourself leaning into it without meaning to.

"Your heart is racing," he observes.

It is.

You can feel it hammering against your ribs, can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"That's just—the wine—"

"Is it?"

Another inhale, this one right at the junction of your neck and shoulder. The most sensitive part of your scent gland. Your whole body shudders.

A soft sound escapes your throat, not quite a gasp, not quite a whimper and you feel Nanami's grip on your waist tighten fractionally.

Possessive.

Satisfied.

"You're so responsive," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice that makes heat pool low in your stomach. "Even when you don't understand why."

You should ask what he means.

Should demand an explanation.

Should move.

But you don't.

You just stand there, trembling, while he breathes you in like you're something ... Something he's been waiting for.

Something that's already his.

When he pulls back this time, something has changed.

You see it in his eyes first the careful control that's been there all evening, all these months, finally cracking at the edges.

Not breaking.

Shifting.

"The bed," he says.

Not a suggestion. A statement of fact.

His hands guide you backward, and your legs hit the mattress before you realize you've moved. The wine makes everything slow, makes your protests form too late, makes your body comply before your mind catches up.

"Wait—"

"No."

The word is quiet. Absolute.

He follows you down as you sink onto the sheets, his weight settling over you with deliberate precision. Not crushing. Commanding.

Your hands come up to push him away, to create space but he catches your wrists. Both of them. Pins them above your head with one hand.

The ease of it makes your breath catch.

"Director—"

"Nanami." His free hand traces down your side, slow and purposeful. "Say it."

You shake your head, and his grip on your wrists tightens fractionally.

"Say. It."

"Nanami—" It comes out breathless. Uncertain.

"Good."

His hand finds the hem of your sweater, and you feel the cool air against your skin as he pushes the fabric up. Not roughly. Methodically. Like he's unwrapping something he's been patient about for far too long.

"We can't—" You try to twist away, but his weight keeps you pinned. "This isn't—"

"It is."

Two words. Certain as gravity.

His mouth finds your throat again, and this time there's no pretense of checking on you, no professional distance. He's marking you. Claiming you. His teeth graze your scent gland and your whole body arches involuntarily.

The sound you make is mortifying.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Stop thinking."

His hand slides lower, and you feel his fingers hook into your waistband.

"No—wait—" The protest is weak even to your own ears.

"You're not saying no." His voice is dark. Knowing. "Your body is saying yes."

And he's right.

You hate that he's right.

Your hips have tilted toward his touch. Your breathing has gone shallow and quick. The wine has made everything feel distant and immediate at once, and you can't quite make your body obey your mind.

Can't quite make yourself want him to stop.

His fingers slip beneath the fabric, and the first touch against your slick heat makes you gasp.

"Already wet," he observes. Not surprised. Satisfied.

"That's not—I don't—"

"Shh."

His fingers move with the same deliberate precision he does everything. Circling. Pressing. Finding exactly where you're most sensitive with devastating accuracy.

Your back arches off the bed.

"Please—"

"Please what?" His thumb finds your clit, and the pressure is perfect, maddening. "Please stop? Or please don't?"

You can't answer.

Can't think.

"please don't"

The wine and his touch have turned your thoughts to static, and all you can do is feel, his weight, his heat, his fingers working you with methodical intent.

"I've been patient," Nanami says quietly. "So patient. Watching you. Waiting for you to understand."

His fingers slide inside you, and the stretch makes you whimper.

"But you never did." He curls them, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. "So I'll make you understand now."

"I can't—this is—"

"Mine." The word is final. Possessive. "You're mine. You've always been mine."

His thumb presses harder against your clit, his fingers moving faster, and you feel the pressure building low in your belly inevitable, overwhelming.

"Say it," he commands.

You shake your head, even as your body tightens around his fingers.

"cum, and be my Good girl."

The praise shouldn't affect you like it does.

Shouldn't make you clench around his fingers, shouldn't make heat flood through you, shouldn't make you want—

But it does.

His fingers drive deeper, his thumb circling with relentless precision, and you feel yourself coming apart under his touch. Not gently. Not slowly.

Completely.

The orgasm hits you like a wave, and you cry out—his name, a plea, you're not sure—as your body convulses around his fingers.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't slow.

Works you through it with the same methodical intensity, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, until you're shaking and oversensitive and completely undone.

Only then does he withdraw his hand.

You lie there, gasping, your mind foggy and your body boneless.

Nanami shifts above you, and you feel him removing his belt. The sound of the buckle is loud in the quiet room.

"Wait—" Your voice is weak. Slurred. "I can't—"

"You can." He positions himself between your thighs, and you feel the blunt pressure of him against your entrance. "And you will."

"Please—"

"I know." His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek with unexpected gentleness. "I know you're scared. I know you don't understand."

He pushes forward, slow and inexorable, and the stretch is overwhelming.

"But you will," he promises. "By morning, you'll understand exactly what you are to me."

He sinks deeper, and your body accepts him too easily, too perfectly like you were made for this.

Made for him.

In one world, despite all the precautions you had taken, your secondary gender was discovered by the Wayne pack six months after you shockingly presented as a beta.

In this world, however, you managed to keep the Wayne pack oblivious of your secondary gender. The Joker decided to attack earlier, with the side effect of preventing the Waynes from discussing you and consequently realizing the truth.

In this world, the Waynes-as-Bats defeated the Joker and his goons, but poor Damian-as-Robin still received the serum that turned him into an omega–and would have killed him, had Dick-as-Nightwing not screamed for Superman to take the downed Robin into a cryonics chamber until a cure could be synthesized for him. Eventually that was accomplished, and Robin truly became an omega, but new problems kept appearing for the pack.

There were struggles for the pack to readjust to a new dynamic, for Damian specifically to retrain his instinct and learn life as an omega, for the pack–again–to determine how to explain away Damian and Robin being turned into omegas at the same time. Between those and other matters the Bat-Waynes faced, from Arkham breakouts to PR disasters, you were accidentally forgotten.

Just like how it had always been, whenever you were thought of in the first place. Something you would've hated one time but which you blessed heaven for instead now.

Days passed into weeks and months, until finally you turned eighteen. You graduated from Park Row High and wasn't the least bit surprised that none of your so-called pack members was there in attendance.

(Dick had intended to actually fulfill his promise to attend, but Bludhaven needed him at the last minute.)

(Jason did reach your school, but couldn't bring himself to do more than stand outside the gates through the ceremony.)

(Tim fell into sleep that was borderline a coma after nearly a whole week staying up to handle different cases and WE matters, the reminder he'd set in his calendar to look up details about your graduation going unnoticed until he woke up two days after you'd graduated.)

(Damian, after waiting in vain for you to invite him to your graduation ceremony, deliberately stayed at the Manor in his indignation.)

(Alfred was equally insulted to not be invited by you, and resolved to 'kindly' remind you to be more mindful of the pack the moment you got back.)

(Bruce was high off pain killers in the med bay, unable to even recollect the name of the city he bled and fought each night for.)

Now legally an adult in the eyes of the law, you didn't bother stopping by the Manor. You had moved all your things out of the nursery wing, anyway. The moment the ceremony was over, you rode your bike to the bay then took a ferry bound Metropolis. Duke greeted you inside.

"Reader! Ready to go?"

You smirked.

"Hell yeah."

The ferry set sailed. Neither you nor Duke spared another look back at Gotham.

(You didn't know it, but the moment the Waynes realized your disappearance–two whole days after you left to join Duke and the Movement–they descended into chaos right away.)

(They hurled accusations of neglect and shifted responsibilities to each other, all while admitting inwardly that they had wronged you.)

(Dick couldn't cry. Damian couldn't stop himself from crying. Tim stared blankly at his computer. Jason snarled at Bruce. Bruce barely restrained himself from punching his own pup. Alfred kept still in the corner, blind and deaf to the vicinity.)

(You didn't know it, but the Bat-Wayne pack had already been on the verge of disbanding due to increasingly frequent friction–typical in any pack without a beta–by the time you presented. That they hadn't disbanded the past two years was at least partially because of the presence of your beta self; even with you living so far away in the nursery wing, having little to no ordinary contact moreover actual bonding with the pack, you had subconsciously helped them stay together while you also still lived with them.)

(Now that you were gone? The Bat-Wayne pack fell apart.)

(Unfortunately, their desire to find you remained strong as ever.)

One moment, you and Duke were strolling down a deserted country lane, appreciating the beauty of nature to celebrate your nineteenth birthday–something you much preferred to the alternative of going clubbing and drinking until you blacked out as–hopefully jokingly–proposed by Duke.

The next moment, Duke tackled you away from an ambush, only to end up the one unconscious. Biting back a curse, you instinctively shoved his limp body behind you with one hand and aimed a gun to your attacker with the other. Your heart sank seeing the helmet of Red Hood.

Shameful as it was to admit, you hadn't known about the Bats being the Waynes and vice versa until after you left the Manor. More shameful as you managed to learn the truth with ridiculous ease when you decided to research it on a whim. Needless to say, it came as a shock to you.

Originally, the Movement had marked down the Bat pack as potential allies, seeing as they never participated in beta trafficking and even busted down many of the rings. But shortly after you left the pack (not that you were ever truly in it) they disbanded, and word on the street was that they were individually looking for a beta.

One who could miraculously handle all of them, who would allow them to become a pack again, whom they would make into their pack beta with or without said beta's consent.

You could've mused on the Bat-Waynes' double standard–wanting to claim a beta by force when if necessary, while technically protecting betas as a populace? Selflessly devoting themselves to protecting Gotham yet neglecting you who was technically a pack member?–but the timing was unsuitable. Right now, before anything else, you had to face...

Motherfucker.

It wasn't just Red Hood.

With a sinking heart, you noted all the others appearing. Robin from the right, Red Robin from the left, Nightwing from above. The slightest shift in the air behind you caused you to whirl around, then immediately darted away–dragging the still unconscious Duke with you–when you ended up face-to-face with Batman.

Your father, biologically. Your pack alpha, technically.

You didn't have enough hands or guns to deal with all of them, damn it.

Worse still, it seemed they were all on the verge of stress-induced estrus. You mentally blessed the Movement's techies for making the rebreathers able to activate automatically when detecting an abnormal quantity of scents around you–you might have just keeled over and joined Duke being a sleeping beauty smelling the Bats' combined scents otherwise.

As per the one you had your gun trained on, Red Hood took the initiative to step forward. He lifted his hands not in surrender–not that you would've believed that–but to shakily unlatch and take off his helmet. His nostrils flared, and you dared bet his pupils were blown as he realized–confirmed–what your secondary gender was.

"Beta," he rasped, voice awed. "You really are a beta."

You almost scoffed in derision–obviously you were a beta, duh–but had to focus on moving your gun aimed towards a suddenly moving Nightwing. Absently, you noted down the faint trembling of his limbs, reminiscent of drug addicts and, more applicable in this instance, omegas deprived of their packs.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Nightwing asked, voice cracking. "Why didn't you tell us, puppy? We could've remained a pack!"

This time, you did scoff. Derisively enough to make Nightwing flinch and Robin bristle.

"You could've remained a pack, sure." You assented with a mocking tone. "But I'm not a member of your pack, so what does all of you staying a pack or not have to do with me?"

At that, all the Bats' scents flared up–in anger, pain, sorrow, horror; all negative emotions that made you cough like you'd just inhaled a whole bottle of chili powder in spite of the rebreather you had on.

"Sibling!" Robin snapped. "You might have been able to abscond and abandon your duties to your pack, but you have no right to disown yourself from the pack!"

What a ludicrous remark. You could've laughed if you weren't such a polite individual.

"What pack? Haven't you guys disbanded?" you retorted. Then, rolling your eyes, you continued, "I've never even been in your pack room back at the Manor. What kind of pack doesn't allow their members into the pack room?"

There was another wave of spicy scents from the Bats and another bout of coughing from you.

(Irked, you glanced at the sleeping beauty that was your work partner Duke, envying him being unconscious for all this.)

Red Robin had his shoulders drawn up to his ears. He weakly said, "I thought you just went to the room when I wasn't there..."

"Leaving no trace of my scent whatsoever? What was I supposed to do there, just clean up after you lot?"

You couldn't believe the audacity of these guys. The fearsome vigilantes of Gotham, the greatest detectives, and that was their best excuse? Your finger seriously itched to pull the trigger.

Fortunately, before you could succumb to the temptation and very likely risk both yourself and Duke the Sleeping Beauty, Batman began to speak. Unfortunately, Batman began to speak.

"Reader," he said, voice like the distant rumbling of thunder. Then gently, softly, most shamelessly he added, "Come home with us, pup."

By the time you finished blinking, you already had your gun aimed right between the eyes of Batman.

"Choose your next words carefully, Batman," you warned.

Batman didn't react perceptibly–to your eyes, anyway. However, Red Robin seemed to have noticed something and was sufficiently alarmed that he hurriedly stepped between you and his father, both hands raised to pacify.

You were not pacified. Even more so when Batman–heeding neither your warning nor Red Robin's frantic gesture–spoke again. Not as unsettlingly tenderly as before, yet still as shameless.

"You might have disowned me and our pack in your heart," he said, "but no matter what, Reader, you cannot change the fact that my blood runs through your veins."

This was said with no emphasis, but with such infuriating self-satisfaction you could easily hear it despite Batman's flat tone.

Motherfucker. You swore you'd never been so trigger-happy with the Movement. The Bats just brought out the worst in you.

"So what?" you snapped. "Blood relation doesn't bind betas to their natal pack forever. Otherwise, marrying off or giving away one's beta children to other packs won't be a custom entrenched in high society, will it?"

All the Bats frowned.

Robin snarled, "If you are planning to threaten us with our secret identities to sign you away to another pack–"

You sneered. "Pack, pack, pack. Is that all you lot can think about? Us betas can live perfectly happily on our own, I'll have you know."

"Alone?!" Nightwing yelled, evidently horrified. "No way! Do you know how dangerous that is?!"

"Nooo, really? Go on, it's not as if I've been going around the world without a pack for a whole year here."

"This isn't a joke, beta," Red Hood added, a growl under his breath making your hackles rise. "Lone betas are most prone to be harassed. Trafficked. Go home this instant!"

You let out a sigh, exasperated and exhausted.

"Until a year ago, I might still have to obey you legally," you admitted. According to US law, all children under age 18 were legally considered pups even after presenting. Thus still-a-minor beta you would have had to obey their order to 'go home', whether you wanted to or not.

But now?

"Now, I'm a beta, yes. But I'm a beta adult. And more importantly, not legally in your pack."

After all, packs took precedence over biological families. What with the aforementioned custom of giving away beta children to other packs, you no longer had to answer to the Waynes now that you were an adult. You were–unfortunately–the biological child of Bruce Wayne, but legally you weren't in his pack back when it existed.

The Bats looked dumbfounded.

"Did you... Did you tamper with your files? I didn't–" Red Robin paused, racking his brain to try recalling any hint of hacking on your part. Which was unnecessary, because–

"Father." Robin turned towards Batman, face hardened. "Did you not register our pack beta as ours?"

Nightwing and Red Hood quietly exchanged glances of disbelief, before turning towards the Bat as well.

Batman clenched his jaw, avoiding his children's eyes to stare straight at you instead. "You never told me about it."

"Aren't you supposed to be the world's greatest detective or something? You should've been able to figure it out on your own," you snarked. "And in case you forgot about this like how you always forgot about my existence before, let me remind you: Betas are not obligated to inform their pack members of their secondary gender, because in a good pack, at least one of the pack members would be there for the beta's presenting. If after that the beta refrains from informing the pack, the fault also doesn't lie with the beta, but with the pack for not having provided an environment that a beta feels safe in!"

You felt grim satisfaction seeing the Bats flinch. Honestly, you didn't hate these guys. You didn't even want revenge for their decade-long neglect. You aimed to only feel indifference as it was the opposite of love. But for goodness' sake were they really annoying, chasing you like this.

"Face it, Bats," you continued, "you've messed up with me. You did badly by me. You are not entitled to a do-over, I'm not interested in giving you another chance."

Their scents remained strong. Waves of guilt, pain and sorrow practically bulldozed through your rebreather. You deliberately took a step back, not wanting to inhale the scents longer than necessary.

In the end, however, you felt a shred of pity for their lonesome figures. Reminding you of your very own self in that Manor before you decided that being accepted only for the advantage you could bring in was worse than being rejected altogether. With a softer voice than before, you said, "Leave me alone, Bats. Keep doing good away from me. That way I can think kindly of you."

Not waiting for them to respond, you scooped up Duke's limp figure, intending to leave.

Belatedly, Nightwing called, "Hold on–!"

Then Duke, the bastard who'd been pretending to be unconscious this whole time, used his power. A blinding light flashed, temporarily stunning the Bats. He and you dashed away amidst their shouts, into a life free of alphas and omegas.

"You couldn't have done that like, ages ago?!"

"Give me a break! It was so awkward I couldn't cut in!"

A/N: WEEKS this story kept me writing and it's just 2,5k words smh... *wistfully* One time, I was able to write really quickly

In one world, your mother died when you were seven. A car accident, completely mundane with no surprising twists of it actually being a murder or anything of the sort. You, her orphaned pup, was then taken in by your biological father–the prime alpha prince of Gotham, Bruce Wayne–only to be neglected by him and his chosen pack members until you turned sixteen and presented as a beta.

In this world, however, your mother decided not to go driving that day. Thus she lived on to raise you as her sole pack member, both you and her unaware of the tragedy that could've struck you in another life.

In this world, you lived well. Your mother having invested her inheritance wisely, you never lacked money though you were 'only' millionaires. Your mother successfully balanced being gentle and firm, letting you do whatever you wanted as long as it didn't harm people including yourself. As a result, while you might've never been a prodigy, thanks to your mother you got to grow up to be a healthy, honorable, and most importantly happy child.

To be sure, there were flies in the ointment. You hated that your mother being still so beautiful at over forty–to the point she couldn't step out of your home undisguised without being swarmed by fans, paparazzi, et al immediately–meant you two could rarely go out together. You hated that people, strangers who had no right to interfere, would claim unasked that your mother should've married again, taken an alpha to help raise you, as if she hadn't been a perfect parent by herself!

You hated those things, but–as had been said–in overall you lived well. It might've continued being well too...

...had it not been for your father and his children.

Damian

Walking down the hallway of Gotham Academy, you grimly pressed your lips upon noticing an alpha. A racist, sexist, classist idiot of an alpha currently sporting a smarmy grin while cornering an omega student.

Hands on hips, you stepped in.

"So after three years of spouting racist bullshit at him whenever you could, now that he presented as an omega, you went to spout sexist bullshit as well? I'd ask where your brain went, but evidently you never had any."

The idiot alpha–whose name you frankly forgot–whipped his head towards you and gave what he presumably intended to be a menacing glare. It was badly off the mark, and not even the omega boy technically trapped between him and a wall bothered being discreet while rolling his eyes.

"What's it to you, huh, bitch?!" The idiot alpha snarled. "A pup like you dares to fucking challenge an alpha, do you think I'd hesitate putting you in your place?!"

"Well," you drawled, "I just know that I'm not the one barking after acting like a dog in heat here."

At that, the nearby students promptly burst out into laughter. Some hid it as coughs, others just snorted, more than one outright cackled.

Hearing everyone's clear derision, the idiot alpha predictably faltered. You knew he wouldn't dare try to hit you–everyone at Gotham Academy still remembered you at age thirteen singlehandedly beating up a pack of alpha and omega bullies, then about three more packs wanting to replace the first as the 'top dogs'. Being the coward he was, the idiot alpha could only ball his fists and throw another so-called menacing glare before stomping away, trying to not look like he had his tail tucked between the legs.

You saw him leave, but sensing another's stare, you turned and locked eyes with the omega boy. Your omega little half-brother Damian Wayne, to be precise.

With crossed arms and a pout, he grumbled, "I could've handled that by myself."

"I know." You grinned and meaningfully tapped a side of your blazer, the same spot in Damian's own blazer where you knew he concealed at least one of his daggers. As his eyes widened, you teasingly told him, "That guy couldn't have handled your retaliation by himself, though. Figures I'd save him."

Damian clicked his tongue. "He does not deserve saving."

You shrugged. "He might be a racist, sexist, classist idiot."

One beat, two beats. "But...?" Damian prompted, askance.

You shrugged again, smiling placidly. Damian gave you a look of disbelief before scoffing and turning away. You turned away too.

Unaware that Damian glanced back at you, the emotion in his eyes going from suspicious to contemplative and finally interested.

Tim

"Uhh, Drake? Tim? Timothy Drake? Hello, Mr Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne–"

Mr Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, alias Tim, shot up awake from his presumably impromptu nap at the library table. His eyes wildly scanned the room before landing on you, the borderline manic look in them causing you to instinctively step back.

Tim continued staring at you like that for a few more seconds. Eventually he blinked, took a less hasty look around the room again, then opened his mouth to speak. No words came out, though, and you winced in sympathy realizing his brain had to still be buffering right now.

Taking pity on him, you explained, "It's already five-forty." You pointed at a nearby clock. "The library should've already closed."

Tim's eyes sharpened instantly. "What are you doing here, then?"

If you hadn't known the guy had been kidnapped and held hostage multiple times, not to mention he was an alpha who just got roused from a nap and therefore a vulnerable position by a stranger, you would've taken offense at his wariness. You generously decided to feel flattered instead that Tim took you–a still-unpresented pup at fifteen, with an average build and a face that supposedly looked more and more like your most beautiful omega in Gotham mother's face–as a potential threat.

"The library committee member on duty was an omega. He didn't dare approach you so I offered to do it. He's still outside now since he needs to lock up, so if you could please gather your stuff and leave...?"

Tim shot you a skeptical look, then looked down at all the books, papers, and other items littering his desk with a grimace. You stayed silent while he shut his laptop and put it in his bag, shoved the papers and pens after it much less carefully, piled the books, then tried to figure out how to carry said books alongside his trash in one go.

"Not going to offer your help?" he sarcastically asked. You pretended to cough to hide your silent snicker before answering with a guileless smile.

"I'm sure you can figure it out yourself, Mr Drake." Then, because you couldn't resist, you added, "You know, like I'm sure you would be able to figure out what's wrong with the code."

"The co– You saw?!"

"Just what was on display," you soothed.

Tim looked skeptical again. "And how would you know what's wrong with it, huh?"

Keeping eye contact with him, you took out your phone and typed one line of codes.

He gaped. You smirked and walked away with a wave.

Not realizing Tim frantically digging out his laptop before looking at your back, his previous manic look returning then intensifying.

Jason

"And what's a pup like you wandering the Alley all alone for?"

Halting in your track, you incredulously looked up at the speaker–only to become even more incredulous when said speaker turned out to be no other than the freaking Red Hood.

For a moment, you just gaped at him. You then took a look around, making sure the crime lord and/or vigilante was seriously talking to you. As the lack of other people in the area confirmed that yes, the Red Hood was talking to you, you looked back up at the guy perching on a rooftop.

"It's daytime," you pointed out.

"Crimes aren't constricted to nighttime, kid."

"I'm fifteen."

"Still unpresented, aren't ya?"

You shot him a dirty look. There was no need to bring up your late presentation like that. Your mother said she presented at sixteen anyway, you'd likely be the same.

"Other pups also wander the Alley!" You opted to focus on Red Hood's first question instead.

"With their packmates or at least their fellow pups, and even that is only when they're Alley kids," Red Hood corrected you. He moved his head in a way that made you assume he was scanning your appearance. You were proven right when the man added, "And you definitely aren't one. Your dam or sire never told you to ditch the designer goods when walking, pup?"

This time your incredulous look was directed at your own jacket-turtleneck-jeans-boots combo. You swore not a single thing was branded.

In the end, you could only weakly defend, "It was fine when I wore this very outfit here last week."

You couldn't see Red Hood's face behind his helmet, obviously, but you bet the man's eyes sharpened at your statement.

"And what were you doing at the Alley last week?"

You deadpanned, "Checking my youth shelter."

Now it was Red Hood's turn to look incredulous–again, though you couldn't actually see it.

"Your youth shelter?" he parroted. After a moment's hesitation, he continued, "That converted warehouse?"

You nodded. Your mother gave you one of her assets every year on your birthday, for you to do with as you pleased. When the previous tenant stopped renting the particular warehouse last week, you decided to convert the place into a youth shelter.

Red Hood went silent, before suddenly jumping down next to you. He actually had the gall to nod in approval at you instinctively whipping out a stun gun towards him.

"I'll walk you there," he said.

You gave him an exasperated stare, but eventually decided not to fuss and nodded.

You paid no heed to the way he loomed over you, protective bordering possessive as a dragon over his hoard.

Dick

"Come on, Richie, just a sip should be all right, shouldn't it?"

"Oh, I really shouldn't..."

Before the female alpha could press again, you kicked her ankle while making it look like you just slid too fast down the polished marble floor. You further pretended not to see her nearly falling flat on her face nor her hissing profanities at you; instead, you faced Dick 'Richie' Grayson–looking like he was biting back an amused grin–and fake-huffed at him.

"You've promised to dance this song with me, Mr Grayson! You forgot me again, didn't you?"

"How could I forget!" As expected of the born-and-raised performer, Dick (you decided against calling him Richie) was able to play along right away. Dramatically pressing one hand over his heart, he used his other hand to fake-casually place the cocktail pressed by that female alpha on a passing waiter's tray, before offering the now-empty hand to you with an exaggerated flourish.

Pretending not to see him discreetly signing something at the waiter–highly likely to bring the cocktail to security for testing–you rolled your eyes and grabbed his hand with another huff.

Immediately, Dick swept you into an embrace, then took advantage of the position to whisper in your ear, "Thank you for that. You heroes keep getting younger, huh?"

"Pretty sure the first Robin started when his age was in the single digit," you snarked.

His eyes comically widened. "Your age's in the double digit?"

You were only a teensy-bit vexed and totally justified when you stepped on Dick's foot. Tried to, anyway–he dodged easily.

In the end, you deadpanned, "Do not forget this act of altruism. If I am ever in trouble I expect you and your brethren to come to my aid."

This time Dick bent down over your shoulder to stifle his cackle. Somehow he still managed to avoid your completely accidental foot-stepping without needing to look.

"You're just as adorable as my littlest brother, I swear!" Dick exclaimed, eyes sparkling with mirth as his embrace became a hug. Teasingly, he asked, "Are you this noble and funny to other people, or am I just special?"

"Special in the sense you just flirted with me, an unpresented pup? Yeah, sure," you snorted, purposefully misconstruing his question and leaving Dick to splutter frantically.

"Wait, wait, wait! Please, I didn't mean in like that!"

The song conveniently having ended, you just stuck your tongue out before taking your leave.

You had no idea that Dick's previously casual, cheerful facade then faded as he contemplated your figure, smile unsettlingly gentle and eyes glinting with something dark before returning to the original cheery grin when you looked at him again later.

Bruce

It was utter coincidence that you got out of your apartment for a midnight snack run at the same time as Batman choosing the neighbouring alley to com his colleagues.

You instinctively froze, more out of awkwardness than actual fear, and became more awkward as Batman continued calling his colleagues only to–as far as you could tell–receive no response.

"Nightwing..."

"Robin..."

"Red Robin..."

"Agent A..."

"...Red Hood?"

Fuck. Just stab you and twist the knife inside, it was too pitiful to watch. Your stomach churned, and before you knew it, you were already walking into the damn alley.

You instantly spotted Batman even amidst the darkness. At any other time, seeing him loom at your appearance would've struck fear in your heart, but as it were, you couldn't help equate his behaviour to a cat puffing its fur.

Firmly, you reminded yourself that this was the Batman and not a scared, injured stray kitty you were dealing with. You lifted both arms, palms open.

"Batman, are you hurt?"

When Batman remained silent and only radiated suspicion, you again reminded yourself he wasn't a scared stray cat before continuing,

"I've got my EMT certification. If you are hurt somewhere you can't reach, I can help you out. I swear I won't, like, take your blood samples to sell online."

For a moment Batman kept being silent, back against the wall and cape drawn over himself like a comfort blanket. Eventually, however, he let the cape go and gave you a curt nod–so curt you just stared stupidly for a second before realizing aw yes the cat bat has tentatively trusted you to help treat his wound then hurriedly oh crap the cat bat is really hurt.

You scrambled to take out the first aid kit from your backpack, then–once Batman unclasped his cape to reveal an incredibly nasty gash on his back–the suture, alcohol and everything else you needed from the kit. As you treated his wound, to divert his mind from it you started chattering.

"You know, Batman, I'm super grateful to you," you said. "Like, I know some people say that you should have killed the Joker and all the rogues that would've killed us, but I mean, as far as I can tell you didn't sign up for that, did you? You just–volunteered to protect Gotham. You have zero obligations to kill! And my mother told me back when you just debuted people didn't trust you, even though you never killed anyone, so wouldn't it have been worse if you do kill even the worst rogues? And stuff."

You just ran your mouth without a thought, so it was a testament to your amazing self-control that you didn't jump in shock and botch up the stitches when Batman unexpectedly asked,

"You really do not believe I should kill?"

"Uhh." You looked at the gash you were stitching, recalling the lack of responses he got from his colleagues, and forcibly held yourself back from linking the possible reason behind that and him asking you that question. Nope, not going there. "I mean, I would've been far more hesitant about offering to treat your wound if you do kill people? So. Yeah. At the end of it I think it's really up to you, but personally, I'm glad you focus to protect instead of destroy, you know? What's the phrase again, about fighting not because you hate the ones in front but because you love the ones behind?"

"You don't think I'm a failure?"

NOPE, NOT GOING THERE.

"Well, duh! You volunteered to protect Gotham, not kill its criminals, right? Which I'm glad for. You don't have to protect Gotham, but you do it anyway. Maybe I'm just too lucky to not have to deal with the rogues hurting me and my loved ones, but as far as I'm concerned, at least right now you do a great job and I'm grateful to you."

Frigging finally, you finished the stitches. You sighed in relief and stepped back, letting Batman dramatically whirl to face you.

"Thank you." With another curt nod, he grappled away. You watched his black cape fluttering in the wind before blending with the night sky, and absently wondered whether you should have told Batman to not let his stitches get wet.

Then you strolled away to the minimarket, your intended destination.

Never looking back up to see the Bat following you the whole way, eyes behind the mask full of rapture.

"Mom!"

For the third time this week, you slammed the door in your hurry to enter the safety of your home. The daily calendar on the wall confirmed it was Wednesday.

"Baby!"

Without fail, your mother rushed to pull you into her arms, hugging you so tightly that you could hear her own rapid heartbeat. The two of you kept hugging each other for nearly half a minute, then she gently pushed you to stand straight.

"Arms out."

With an efficiency you wished she didn't have to acquire through experience, your mother began patting you down, searching for trackers or bugs or anything else they might have planted on you.

"Bag?"

You gave her your bag and left her to check that while you changed clothes, throwing the soiled ones in the washer to fry any bug that might have been overlooked. Once you returned, your mother handed you your bag back with a smile.

"All clear." Lightly squeezing your shoulder, your mother quietly asked, "Anything about the ones following you today, baby?"

You hesitated. "I think they might have–noticed that I noticed? I detected one at school, then three different ones in relays." Looking at your mother's worried face, you asked her back, "How about you, Mom? Did they... escalate?"

If your mother ever got hurt by them, you would go crazier than Joker.

It was such a relief to see your mother smilingly shake her head. You slumped and obligingly let your mother steer you to her nest–well, the pack nest, technically, since it was just the two of you in the pack–and got in, while she turned on the fairy lights overhead and turned off the regular lighting before joining you there.

Perhaps an hour passed in peaceful silence before your mother suddenly broke it with a hesitant, "Say, baby?"

"Yes, mom?" You lifted your head facing her.

Your mother's beautiful face seemed pensive. She absently ran her fingers through your hair, detangling it so gently it could've put you to sleep had she not spoken.

"Would you like to move out of Gotham?"

You blinked, surprised. Really surprised, actually, because–

"Isn't Gotham your dream city, mom?"

Your mother, despite once being called the most beautiful omega in Gotham, was not born and raised here. Her natal pack's late pack beta, however, was. Your mother had been close with said pack beta, and absolutely crushed at their death, that she insisted on moving to Gotham on her own. Your mother had frankly told you, even, that she purposefully chose Bruce Wayne as your biological father because he was a prime alpha, and her child with him–you–would surely be a beta given that she was a prime omega, and she wanted her beta child to...

Oh, right.

As if having read your thought, your mother reminded you, "I dreamed of raising my beta child to be healthy, safe and happy here in Gotham, yes. But between the health, safety, and happiness of my child and living here in Gotham? The former's the most important, baby."

Your eyes stung. You blinked hard and nuzzled your pillow, pretending you weren't trying to wipe your tears on it.

With a hoarse voice, you replied, "I'd love to, mom."

Your mother kissed the top of your head.

You didn't see the cold, determined glint in her eyes. You didn't notice the possessive, covetous grip she had around your person. You paid no heed to the way she scented you, hard and thorough so that her scent would be wholly entrenched into you, so that not even nose-blind people could fail to realize you belonged only to her.

You didn't know it, but back with her natal pack, your mother had always been obsessed with the pack beta. She dubbed the pack beta her 'best friend' and ignored their obvious discomfort of her. When her sister got mated into an ally pack and the pack beta took advantage to be brought with said sister, your mother went ballistic.

The taunt of her sister, your aunt whom you never met, was what 'inspired' her to have you. If you don't want your pack beta taken from you, then birth them as your pup! Just a mindless taunt, but your mother adhered by it and got you in the end.

You were her beloved pup now. The moment you presented, you would be her beloved pack beta until the end.

And no Bats nor Waynes would get in her way.

A/N: *jazz hands* Surprise yandere mom? Yay~ *ducks projectiles*

I've totally lost my previous writing speed omg, I get that this is 3600 words but I'm still sad that I could no longer write as fast as before 😔💔

Then he saw your mother, so beautiful and captivating and unmistakably omega, and he instantly knew that he wanted to be like her someday. It was almost a crush, which was funny–Dick had always hated the 'high-class' omegas who fluttered around Bruce at galas, especially the ones who tried to act motherly towards him in order to lure Bruce. Yet when it came to your mother he wanted so badly to be pack with her, to learn how to be a strong and beautiful omega from her. When your mother herself finally approached Bruce, Dick did a quadruple flip from one chandelier to another.

When Bruce later pulled him aside and told him that it was just to be a contract relationship, to be dissolved within three years once Bruce could adopt Dick–apparently that was her offer of aid, to be exchanged for her share of her natal pack's inheritance that was in the form of a dowry–Dick was upset beyond belief. Not even knowing that Bruce would do his best to court your mother comforted him.

Good thing he didn't hope anyway. Bruce failed. Your mother sweetly, cruelly kissed Dick on the forehead and left without a backward glance the day after Dick's thirteenth birthday.

He hid in the nest for days.

That should've been the end of things. Dick did allow himself to dream from time to time of your mother returning, penitent for having left yet as captivating as always, but that was that. Then six years later he went home after a long mission and saw you.

He... Goodness, it was embarrassing how out of control his scent was upon learning about your existence. You, the actual biological child of your mother, who apparently had just died. And you didn't even take after your mother in appearance!

Dick didn't mean to be unkind to you, but it hurt so bad to know your mother had you with Bruce, his and your father, then walked away from him and Bruce to raise you herself. To claim you and you alone as her pack. For a fraction of a second, Dick could've cheerfully committed fratricide.

Thank goodness you were nothing like your mother. Just a normal kid, a good kid who didn't throw tantrums or cry or bother anyone for their attention. It literally took Dick years before he could think of you without overflowing bitter envy. But it was all good now!

Better yet, you had presented as an omega just like him! Dick could immediately tell from your scent patches and turtleneck and those hints of your omega mother's features he now spotted in you. He could help you build your first nest and teach you to use your innate omegan charm, as your mother had taught him.

Yes, yes, once he was done with this mission, he'd bond with you just like how he'd hoped to bond with your mother. It was so nice having another omega in the pack.

Though it'd be even nicer if Reader was a beta, Dick mused. Your mother might've been the most wonderful omega Dick had ever met and you might've been her biological omega child Dick would look after for her sake, but with the pack being... like this, it would've been much better for everyone if you were a beta.

For everyone but you. After all, in Dick's mind, it was never about you.

You ticked off one month with grim satisfaction.

It would've been so easy to feel complacent. To wave off everyone's neglect of you and not take care to hide, with the reason–excuse–that they wouldn't have noticed anything anyway. Had you done so, it would've been game over by literally the first day.

Luckily you had been careful, so you hadn't been caught–not by the Waynes or by any other pack.

You were still free and, fate willing or not, with luck or not, you were resolved to stay so till the end.

It had been a whole month since you presented, but to be honest it didn't feel like it. You were so busy looking up everything about betas, figuring out how to cover up the tracks of your research, actually covering up the tracks of your research, learning to control your beta scent and instinct, refining your acting, and improving your physical skills in (the hopefully not inevitable) case you would have to fight off or run away from a pack.

It was exhausting. It was draining. It was... surprisingly, exhilarating.

You felt the corner of your lips twitching.

No good, no good. This wasn't some game, you ought to take this seriously... But you did, didn't you? It didn't change the fact that you found it exhilarating to do what you were doing now.

You firmly told yourself to maintain self-control and vigilance. Only one month had passed, you still had twenty-three left to go through before you could leave.

Still the dangerous, hazardous little thought persisted–

That you could get used to this thrill.

A/N: I'm on a roll guys 🤟😎 Actually in my original outline the whole Batfam's pov was supposed to take one (1) chapter, but I didn't wanna write 3k+ words in one day again so I decided to keep it to Bruce. Then Dick just insisted to be written aaand guess we'll see everyone else's pov in the next chapters 💕 Btw I was so pissed at Dick's even though I was the one who wrote him here 😭😂

My package is still lost :x Who took my manga omg...

P.S. Guys, if you wanna be tagged pls request it on the latest update okay... I think I saw a notif of taglist request on older parts but it confused me so I refrained from adding it. Sorry about that! 😔🙏

You looked at your reflection in the mirror. You appeared... normal. A little messy and exhausted, but otherwise normal. No different than usual.

No one should be able to tell that you had a dozen of the best scent blockers plastered over all your newly developed glands. On either side of the neck, on the inside of both wrists, on the inner thighs, double patches over each part. Everything covered up with a turtleneck sweater, a denim jacket and slacks, all of them–as well as all your clothes and bedding–having been laundered twice with a special scent-removing detergent.

Moving towards the corridor door, you took one last glance and sniff into the nursery where you lived. All clear–nothing incriminating to see and, far more importantly, no newly presented beta scent to smell, thanks to the high-grade scent-removing spray you'd used a bottleful of.

Good. Not even Mr Pennyworth had stepped a foot into the nursery since you were thirteen and he was swamped with duties involving the then recent arrival of Damian, but you refused to take a risk. You walked across the corridor, down the stairs, through the side entry door, and straight into Damian.

Between enough mental curses to make a Crime Alley goon blush, you wondered if even alluding to Damian could summon him before you.

Fortunately you managed to keep an impassive face. You nodded casually to the boy and tried to walk around him.

Tried being a keyword. Little alpha boy Damian crossed his arms and deliberately stood in your way.

"Reader."

"Damian."

It took your all to maintain the nonchalant air as Damian swept an imperious eye over you. Shit, did he remember it was your sixteenth birthday and so you should have presented? Did he know what you presented as?

Your knees almost buckled in relief when Damian proceeded to click his tongue and say, "Sloppy. You are still a pup at your age and act in such a lowly manner? You ought to refrain from further disgracing the Wayne name."

A wry smile very nearly appeared on your face. Damian, when not treating you like air, always criticized you for being 'disgraceful' as though you weren't–by blood, on paper–his older sibling but his wayward child. Grandchild, even.

Reminiscent of how alphas and omegas tended to treat their pack betas.

The realization chilled you. You forced yourself to shrug, self-deprecatingly so not to anger the kid, and point your thumb at the side gates. "Well, if you'd let me pass so I could reach school in time and thus not disgrace myself...?"

Damian clicked his tongue once more, but did shift ever so slightly for you. You dashed past him, freedom almost within reach, only to notice Damian's nostrils flaring and his hand snatching your arm.

"What scent is that?" He demanded.

CALM DOWN, you screamed at yourself. You pretended to be confused before 'realizing' what Damian meant. "Oh, you mean my perfume? I'm surprised you noticed it."

"My olfactory sense is superior to the presented, moreover to a pup as yours." Damian scoffed. "What brand is that and where did you procure it?"

You shrugged again, this time apologetically. "It was one of those blind box stalls in Chinatown. The bottle didn't have any mark or label. Do you really like that scent?"

"I am above such juvenile impulses," Damian scoffed, then entered the manor without another word to you. You observed his figure through the windows until it vanished at the turn that would lead him to the main building, then ran out into the street.

Damian – Clear.

You went to school by bus, as you'd been doing since you were ten. You sat at the very back next to the door and clutched your backpack to your front, making a mental note to research military-grade scent removers.

That near-escape with Damian was alarming; you hadn't anticipated him or anyone having 'superior' olfactory sense. You doubted Damian was a prime alpha–that kid would've announced it without hesitation otherwise–but if even he could smell you after all those scent removers, wouldn't Bruce realize your secondary gender the second he saw you?

You were still thinking about how to research military-grade scent removers without arousing suspicion–would it arouse suspicion? If you bought them, would it put you on some kind of list of suspicious individuals, under scrutiny, at even higher risk of being found out...?–when someone took a seat next to you. You glanced and almost had a heart attack spotting Tim.

Tim also startled upon seeing you. He blinked, opened his mouth, looked at the bus route, then looked back to you. "You didn't go in the car with Alfred?" He asked before adding, "Hi. Uh. Long time no see, huh Reader?"

True enough. The last time you interacted with each other was maybe two years ago when he rambled half-incoherently to you before falling asleep at the dining table.

"Hi, Tim," you replied with the most even tone you could muster. "I've been going to school by myself for years actually."

"O, oh?" Discomfort flickered in Tim's eyes. "So... Uh. How's school?"

"Good, thanks. How's work?"

"Good, good, it's... good."

You wanted to jump off the bus. You wanted to throw Tim out of the bus. You wanted him to stop trying to find topics of conservation and especially to not ask–

"Say, have you presented? As what?"

–that. You really wanted him to not ask that.

You deliberately sighed in disappointment and gestured at your turtleneck sweater, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at Tim even though your heart was beating fast as a hummingbird's the whole time.

Tim flushed. "Oh yeah, it was–obvious huh? My bad."

"Don't mention it." The bus finally reached your stop. You practically dove down the steps with a muttered "Bye" Tim's way.

Daring to look back, you were relieved to see Tim was already shutting his eyes, probably for a nap. You walked the rest of the way to school with a lighter heart.

Tim – Clear.

You didn't go to Gotham Academy.

Oh, you did initially, but starting high school, you'd been a student of Park Row High, deep in Crime Alley.

Sometimes you wondered if anybody at the manor knew about it. You didn't wonder if they'd care–they wouldn't beyond the possibility of you, to quote Damian, 'disgracing the Wayne name'–but you were half-certain they had no idea. It could've been funny seeing as Mr Pennyworth was, according to Bruce and his chosen kids, basically omniscient.

It wasn't funny seeing as Mr Pennyworth didn't think you worthy of attention to begin with.

Your day at school went by peacefully, and you blessed every single second of it. Due to Crime Alley having plenty of... colorful personalities, it was mandatory for Park Row High students and staff alike to wear scent blockers and not flaunt their secondary genders. No one looked at you weirdly, the administration staff and the nurse didn't approach you about updating your file or getting a medical checkup. It was a breath of fresh air after so much stress.

So, naturally, things turned bad the moment you got out of school. Jason was at the gate, sitting on his parked bike.

You could strangle someone. Meeting any of the Waynes was a once in a blue moon event. Sure you knew Jason was from Crime Alley, that upon his miraculous resurrection he'd been living here again, but why here at your school, today of all days?

It didn't seem like he'd seen you. You blended in with some other kids streaming out of the gate, hoping to pass by unnoticed. Almost there, just one turn to the bus stop–

"Reader!"

You already knew you had an awful luck to be a beta, but guess it was worse than anticipated.

"Jason? Why are you calling me?"

Jason didn't answer you, but asked you back with a fierce glare, "What the fuck are you doing here? Did the old man send you to spy on me?"

He spat out the accusation. You couldn't help yourself reflecting how, once upon a time, you yearned so badly to have Bruce spare you the attention Jason now treated as garbage. That thought slid off like water off a duck's back as you remembered that now you also considered attention from Bruce and his pack as garbage.

Smiling wryly, you told Jason, "I sincerely doubt Bruce even knows I attend school here."

For a while Jason looked askance, then became doubtful, then what might be angry or upset or something you couldn't decipher, at last settling into impassivity as he jerked his head to the back seat of his bike.

"Get on," he ordered.

You stared blankly at him. A perfectly normal reaction to a perfectly abnormal act. Since when did Jason ever give you a ride?

Jason didn't seem to share your opinion. He let out a curt, bark-like noise that alphas made to wayward pups.

Their wayward pups.

Later on you would berate yourself for this. As of now, however, being treated as a pack member by Jason made your hackles rise. Without a second thought, you snarled and took a step–backward, not forward, because thankfully you still had a sense of self-preservation even when your basic common sense abandoned you.

Nevertheless it was so obviously a disobedient move, and dread filled you as you noticed how Jason's hand–draped over the front of his bike–curled lazily as though intending to scruff you.

An eternity passed during the couple of seconds Jason seemed to debate whether to actually scruff you here in public or not. You felt yourself having aged when he eventually decided to feel amused and warn you instead,

"Fine then, alpha pup. Just remember that your daddy isn't the ruler here, I am. Capiche?"

He didn't wait for your response, just revved his engine and left trailing exhaust smoke that made you cover your nose.

You would've been more irritated had you not been relieved he didn't linger on.

Jason – Clear.

Once an accident, twice a coincidence, thrice a pattern. Having encountered three of Bruce's children today, you were grimly unsurprised to see Dick right after entering the manor.

Dick on the other hand was surprised to see you.

"Reader?" He began, sounding... disbelieving? "You still live here?"

You levelled him a look. "I haven't moved out of the manor, yes."

"No, wait, that's not what I mean!" Dick hastily waves his hands. "I mean–you still live here, in the nursery wing?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," you said.

"I know, I know," Dick nodded soothingly before giving you a smile–the fake beaming smile he gave you whenever you interacted. "So, haven't presented yet, huh? I've been wondering about that!"

Sure he did. You believed him completely.

"Need to store some things in what should've been an abandoned wing?" You questioned, meaningfully glancing at the heap of boxes at Dick's feet.

He coughed, cheeks flushed. "I'll find another place to put them in."

You shrugged. "Just use the downstairs rooms, nobody uses those."

Dick perked up. "Thanks, pup!"

He went to put an arm around your shoulders, but you dodged. A frown marred his face before it smoothed back into the fake beaming smile.

"Say, Reader, if you present as an omega feel free to hit me up! I'd be happy to show you the ropes!"

You gave him an equally fake smile back. "Sure, thank you, Dick."

Sometimes you couldn't help but wonder why Dick kept making these empty promises. It was practically pathological lying at this point.

Dick – Clear.

The nursery wing really occupied an entire wing of Wayne Manor, next to the omega's side of the main building, opposite the elderly wing next to the alpha's side. It was huge, unnecessarily so for such a small pack without any mated members moreover pups of their own. Once upon a time, however, all those rooms were apparently really necessary:

The ward for home birth. The bedroom saved for the midwife or other medical staff. Another of said bedroom for medical staff dealing with pups suffering contagious disease. The isolation ward for said pups. The bedroom with enough cribs and changing tables to open a shop with. The nanny's bedroom. The dorm-style bedroom for pups aged 1 to 7. The series of individual rooms for older pups. The private tutor or governess' bedroom. The schoolroom. The playroom. The nursery dining room. The nursery kitchen and laundry. The dorm-style bedroom for the other domestic staff–housemaid, footman, cook and chauffeur detailed to attend to the nursery only. The spare bedrooms for visiting pack's pups and their attendants. The six bathrooms.

Having lived here for a year short of a decade, you feared you had developed agoraphobia. So much space with only you occupying it. Many times you thought you would've loved for there to be ghosts haunting this wing.

You had one of the bedrooms for older pups and the bathroom next to it. Over the years you had bought a small washer-and-dryer combo to put in the bathroom, a mini fridge, a microwave and an induction stove for a makeshift kitchenette in the bedroom. It was like your own little house, except you figured a real house would not make you fear that you'd be kicked out of it when the owner remembered your existence.

Or, now, that you'd be forbidden from leaving it if the owner knew what you were.

You showered with a scent-removing body wash and made sure to apply triple scent-blocking patches instead of just double like you did in the morning. You cooked your dinner, ate, brushed your teeth and washed the dishes. You were just sitting down to look up 'military-grade scent-removing spray' on your laptop when something unexpected happened:

Someone knocked on your door.

For a moment, you froze in place. Then a voice followed the knock and you hadn't known it was possible to feel more beyond freezing like that.

"Reader? May I enter?"

The voice belonged to Bruce.

Of fucking course. Nine years and you doubted you had conversed with him nine times–half of them happening before Jason's death when Mr Pennyworth still pushed you, gently yet firmly, into playing house with the pack and pretended not to notice them pushing you aside every time. And now of all times he actually came to you?

You didn't tell Bruce to come in. You closed your laptop, looked hard around your room and self for anything that would even whisper I recently presented as a beta and am still unclaimed, and it was only after double-checking there were no such hints that you opened the door.

Looking Bruce in the eye, you absently noted that he was shorter than you remembered. More like a real human being than a colored shadow lengthened by specific light arrangement.

But still a prime alpha. Still the most dangerous to you.

As subtly as possible, you shifted so that most of you was hidden by the door. "Can I help you?"

Bruce's expression was unreadable. The smile he put on afterwards was as fake as Dick's.

"Hey, chum. Dick mentioned to me you were still living here, so–"

He paused. You didn't prompt him to continue.

"So... Ah. Would you prefer staying here?"

"...I don't mind it."

"Well," Bruce visibly hesitated. "If you'd rather move to the main building–well, make sure to tell Alfred first, okay, chum? It's up to you, just–ah, I'm afraid you would have to take a room on the next floor. The ones not used by me and your brothers on the main floor were rather damaged by lack of use, I'm sorry to say."

That was a lie.

Not that you actually knew it; by your first year here you'd been discouraged from exploring. But Bruce's statement made no sense, all of those remaining rooms damaged? But the next floor ones weren't despite being equally unused?

Had it been before, hope might've soared within you. Maybe Bruce and his children shared a secret. A huge secret that you weren't privy to, that was the sole reason you were excluded by everyone all the time.

Your mind was clear now. Whether they really shared this huge secret that existed or not, it did not absolve them from their neglect. No family secret ought to justify you having to take a cab alone to the hospital for an appendectomy and pay the staff extra because you couldn't reach anyone to sign your medical forms.

Unclenching the fists you didn't remember clenching to begin with, you replied, "I prefer staying here, thank you."

Once, it would've hurt to see the palpable relief in Bruce's face.

"That's–good, that you stay here. I mean, that you prefer to stay here and get to stay here." He let out a forced laugh. "A growing alpha has to get to choose their own space, after all! I won't bother you anymore then, Reader. See you at dinner."

You didn't tell him you'd eaten. That you hadn't joined the pack for dinner since Damian came to live here. That you weren't an alpha or an omega or unpresented, because you weren't stupid.

Bruce – Clear.

Having encountered every member of the pack but Mr Pennyworth today, you refused to tempt fate. Bruce's prime alpha might've been unable to detect your beta scent under triple blockers and scent-removing body wash, but it very well could've meant that Mr Pennyworth's supposed omniscience would work on you.

You wrote Already ate. Busy studying. Please do not disturb on a post-it note, stuck it outside the door, and locked the room shut, shoving a chair under the door handle for good measure.

You didn't know it, busy as you were researching late into the night, but Mr Pennyworth did come to your door in order to fetch you for dinner. He frowned reading the post-it note, but wordlessly heeded it and turned back to the main building.

Mr Pennyworth – Clear.

A/N: I'm finally done ahhh!!! I won't say sorry for the late update bc knowing me it should've taken like weeks for me to update each new chapter but in my defense this time I really did mean to finish writing yesterday :/ Unfortunately my bestie abducted me to keep her company getting her phone repaired in the neighboring city and we finished so late I stayed overnight and was too exhausted to write anything until today 😔 I'd reminisce on the days I was young and not so easily downed but tbh those days seemed like a dream.

Edit: Made the story under read more, hopefully I didn't mess it up

Taglist: @randomlyappearingartist @bellethesleepypotato @nirvanaxx1942 @tenswife @galaxypurplerose @shycreatorreview @cupid73 @time-shardz @mikusamsan @simpingpandas @kore-of-the-underworld @elmichi0 @mirabilis-polaris @farsketch @altumsomnum @hai-there-how-are-you @vanessa-boo @ashjade19 @yandere-enthusiast @a-lurking-fae @hyperfixatedcatlover @leeiasure @luckynemi @lowkeyjarrr @lunoorbonoor @deathbynarcisstick

Yes, Alfred's life had been quite unconventional. The Wayne pack–both the one he initially joined and the one at present–were just as if not more unconventional. It might be ordinary now, but at the time Alfred began, it was highly unusual for two alphas to marry. For two high-class, wealthy alphas to marry for love, then remain in love and live harmoniously without a whisper of an affair, and have their child present as a prime alpha? It was highly unusual even without adding the fact that Alfred was the sole omega member of the pack, that the pack had no beta member at all.

And the latter fact continued to this day. Alfred could despair over that as he despaired over the failed marriage between your mother and Bruce.

Bruce had been better already then, thanks to spending the past two years with Dick. That had given Alfred reason to hope he would continue improving, to have a mate and perhaps a pup of his own blood–no offense to all Bruce's adopted children. And Bruce did take an interest in your mother! Dick–generally ready to present himself as an obstacle–actually supported Bruce in his choice of a mate as well! It was too good to be true... And, alas, the relationship Alfred expected indeed turned out to be false.

When your mother left with an unburdened smile and no backward glance, Alfred observed the shattered expression on Bruce's face changed to shuttered, and silently condemned your mother for bringing pain upon the pack.

When six years later news of her demise came accompanied by that of your existence? Alfred once more observed, and silently condemned you to an existence as an outsider to the pack.

All under the excuse, It is unseemly for a butler to be the first to welcome a new pack member. As if Alfred hadn't always done so with the pups Bruce brought to the manor while Bruce himself was preoccupied.

You were a good child, however, which was more the pity. Polite, respectful, considerate, sensible, everything that Alfred had more or less given up on his pack members exhibiting at all times. You never cried to him, and as the proverb went: The crying child gets the milk. You didn't cry, so with time Alfred no longer consciously withheld you the 'milk' you deserved; that was all relegated to the background alongside other less important matters.

Nevertheless, Alfred was scarcely unobservant. Indeed, he hadn't needed to cook, clean, or do the laundry for you for about the past three years at least, and after the first and only time Bruce's reputation as a good father got smeared due to being unavailable for you, your care at school had been entrusted to your late mother's lawyer. But Alfred's eyes and ears and brain still worked perfectly, and he knew some matters about you were becoming... suspicious.

There could be perfectly good reasons for them, Alfred knew. It had always been your habit to do everything alone, after all, and it was the custom for a recently presented alpha or omega to crave their own private space away from the pack. But.

But.

Alfred decided to keep quiet for some time still. If it turned out he was right about his suspicion, though...

Alfred acknowledged that he did leave you alone when you should have been properly cared for, as a form of punishment for your mother having broken Bruce's heart and dashed Alfred's hope for a more conventional pack life. Still, you were Bruce's first biological child, the only civilian one. The blood that ran through your veins was that of the Waynes, Alfred's pack.

If it turned out you were intending to leave the Waynes as your mother had done, he would not hesitate applying all he'd learnt from his highly unconventional life to retain you in the Wayne pack.

On this day that marked five months since your terrible sixteenth birthday, you were engaged in high-stake tag with Damian.

Or, to put it in another, simpler way–you were being chased by him.

It... wasn't supposed to be like that, yeah.

You were just innocently minding your business, keeping your head down as usual. It had been a fairly pleasant morning–with Bruce supposedly sleeping off a hangover, Dick still barely keeping his head above water (thanks to you uncovering more information and leaking them one by one), Jason's whereabout unknown as per the custom after his miraculous resurrection, and Tim easily waved off with an excuse of prior engagement in Chinatown.

You had barely turned the corner, feeling vicious joy knowing he was drooping like a dog denied a walk like you used to whenever the Waynes went away without remembering you, before you gave up on them. Then like instant divine karma came Damian, practically ambushing and exacting you to drive him also to Chinatown.

"...not that I don't want to–" You really, really didn't, "–why aren't you asking Mr Pennyworth?"

Damian clicked his tongue. "Pennyworth is busy tending to Father. Are you going to drive me or not?"

"Sorry, Damian," you told him with the shameful, apologetic tone you'd long since perfected. "I can drive, yes, but I haven't gotten a license yet. I'll be taking the bus."

The way Damian looked at you, you might as well have said you would be taking the garbage truck. It would have been funny if it hadn't been vexing, knowing that someone who was technically your biological brother never felt unwelcomed to help himself to the manor's facilities. The fake slightly amused smile remained on your face from sheer effort alone.

Shockingly, despite his apparent disgust at the prospect, Damian insisted on going with you on the bus. He was displeased with the walk to the bus stop, the waiting time, the cleanliness (lack of it, really), the weather, the bus condition, the number of people inside, the smell, and worst of all he had no hesitation to make said displeasure known. You found it incredibly tempting to lose Damian on the way.

Somehow, you managed to stay strong. Nobody even spat your way or anything despite Damian's vitriol–though it very likely had something to do with his dark glares and the daggers he none too subtly carried on his person.

Once the two of you got off the bus, you turned towards Damian. "I'll see you later, I have to go–"

"Lies." Damian interrupted you mercilessly. "You merely told Drake that as you were too much of a milksop to tell him he was being a nuisance. You dared attempt the same thing to me?"

See, at this point, you knew that the sensible and safe decision was to assure Damian otherwise and obligingly keep him company–because for reasons unclear to you that seemed to be what he wanted at the moment. You were hiding being a beta. Consequently you needed to keep your head down until you could be free. Consequently you should make the sensible and safe decision.

Be sensible. Play it safe. Act like the good beta you are.

That kind of thought would be your undoing. Why? Because when it crossed your mind, by the time you realized it, you were already running.

While Damian, the little alpha, was chasing.

You could've hurled from the combined thrill and anxiety.

Subconsciously you tried convincing yourself: It would be good practice in case you'd have to run from a pursuing alpha. If you could stop yourself from running as fast and moving as nimbly as you actually could, it would misinform Damian of your real physical stats. Etcetera etcetera.

The truth remained that you were being really, really reckless right now.

Deliberately, though you could easily swing over the two-meter-high wall, you pretended to heft yourself with some difficulty before jumping off into the alleyway behind the wall. You smoothly landed, but kicked over the lid of a trash can you could have fallen on anyway, before taking off to the right. A not-so-distant growl prompted you to step into a bustling dim sum restaurant and thrust a handful of bills into the owner's hand with a murmured instruction in Cantonese. By the time Damian skidded in front of the eatery, his phone vibrated with a message you sent him: a selfie of yourself throwing a peace sign before boarding a bus, simply captioned lol bye.

Damian's almost literal howl of rage before he stomped away was like music to your ears. You shut your eyes and sighed in contentment, basking under the sunlight... on the rooftop of the eatery.

Yeah, back then you asked the owner to let you go up the rooftop. You took the selfie a few days ago just in case you needed it to throw off your pursuers. Even your engagement in Chinatown today wasn't entirely a lie, whatever Damian said. You were planning to take more selfies here and in surrounding neighborhoods.

An audible snort, followed by giggles that failed to be muffled, snapped you back to attention. It was, to quote Damian's most frequent criticism, sloppy of you. You leaped to your feet, scanning your surroundings, before slowly looking up.

Your eyes widened spotting the source of said giggles perched on a higher roof.

"Your Grace?"

A/N: The first part of this chapter was fueled by two (2) bad Alfred Pennyworth posts I accidentally saw yesterday, thank you whoever it was for inspiring me 🙏 As to the next part, well, nobody commented on beta reader feeling tempted to do smth risky sooo 😗

Forgot to tell you guys in the previous part (not that it's important lol) but my PACKAGE CAME BACK YEAH!!! 💃🕺 Turns out it was missent, my neighbor told me I should've used a different address bc the one I put down could be easily mistaken for another area under the same name 😔

Back at the League, Nanda Parbat, Damian had always wanted a sibling. Older or younger, alpha or omega didn't matter. Damian wanted, craved a sibling of his own–to train and study and fight with, to share inside jokes and break bread and play with. When he finally learned of Father and his chosen pack members, Damian was... upset. Disappointed and puzzled.

Why did Father claim so many alpha and omega children unrelated to him? Why did he not claim you, the pup he actually sired with an omega he had mated? Why did you not assert your rights?

Three years after his arrival, Damian had grown–so Richard had cooingly termed it, heedless of Damian's admittedly deliberately lazy stabbing. He had accepted Father's choice, acknowledged Father's chosen children as his pack members worthy of respect and trust and loyalty and love. Still he had not been able to understand matters involving you.

You were... a disappointment too. A far cry from the sort of sibling Damian had fantasized back in the League. Weak. Ignorant. Sloppy. Contented to muck around at the bottom. It was positively degrading to call you his sibling. Quite likely that was why Father refused to make you part of his pack.

But you were Damian's sibling. You were his. He might have little authority of his own though you had always, quite sensibly, respected it–but the moment he succeeded Father, both as Batman and the Wayne pack alpha, Damian was resolved to officially claim you.

Whatever you presented as. Whether you wanted to or not.

(There was a tiny little secret Damian never told any of the pack. Not even Richard. Damian dared wager Father had no idea about it either. Back at the League, it was customary for the alphas to be the ones fighting and going out on missions, while the omegas would stand guard and defend the bases. But, deep in the heart of the palace, there was also the harem of betas. About half of them having naturally presented as such, but the remaining half had been alphas and omegas who had failed in their duties to the League, surgically altered for their more fitting post of the League's betas.)

(You were Damian's undeniably inferior sibling. It didn't matter what you'd be; Damian would make you into a beta for himself and for the pack.)

Strolling down Fashion District, you quietly checked four months' mark.

At the moment, you were in disguise. You'd been brushing off your acting skill, but a neat disguise could help throw potential pursuers off the track. It took you some time to gain this particular skill, but–as you continually got surprised seeing your reflection in windows and mirrors that abounded Fashion District–you knew that you got it now.

This wasn't even a full-blown disguise–you did it the other day, donning a complete Gothic Lolita ensemble with thick makeup, snow-white ringlet pigtails and blood-red contact lenses. Today you merely styled your hair differently, swapped your usual glasses for ones with a different frame, and ditched the turtleneck-and-denim-jacket combo you'd been deliberately using while at the manor or school. But combined with a different 'default' expression, a different gait, a different character than you usually exhibited? Your own classmates couldn't recognize you.

Your classmates, not your pathetic excuse of a family. Honestly if you were to disappear now, you doubted any of them would be able to give a proper description of you.

Had it not been for the law, you would've left them immediately.

Oh well. You sighed to yourself, but instinctively–an instinct you'd purposefully drilled yourself to have–glanced at the closest mirror-like surface to check your appearance. Still unrecognizable. Good.

As you passed from Fashion District to Diamond District and spotted a city surveillance camera, it was by self-control alone that your expression didn't change into a frown. Surveillance cameras and photographic cameras were different things, sure, but the sight of the former still reminded you of the latter, and the latter in turn reminded you of Tim.

Annoyingly, while you had succeeded in keeping Dick in Bludhaven away from you, Tim suddenly took it into his head to replace him approaching you. Even Jason had remarked on it, saying how he wasn't expecting Tim to actually embody the 'Replacement' nickname.

Something niggled at the back of your mind at that. You were unsure when exactly Jason came back to life and to the manor, but you did recall him having already called Tim so from the start. What was it Tim replaced Jason as? Bruce's next chosen child? But somehow it didn't really fit.

Ugh, whatever. Just another thing for you to deal with, after Red Hood's goons keeping an eye on you when you were attending Park Row High and Tim talking at you like he used to do back during his pre-pack days. Your only silver lining was that the Red Hood's goons seemed to think you were an alpha pup inclined to mess around instead of a ~temptingly unclaimed~ beta. Oh, and because Tim kept trying to talk at you (at, mind, not with) on the stairs or in the corridor, so far you'd been able to ditch him pretty easily.

You wished two years could pass already. At this rate, you might succumb to the temptation to do something risky...

A/N: (me beginning this chapter) Hmm I'm not sure how to start... (my fingers typed the first sentence) WOAH CALM DOWN THERE DAMIAN, PLS DON'T POSSESS MY BODY 😭

Jason was thirteen then, scarcely a year off the street. Even to this day the past still haunted him–trying to ignore pangs of hunger as he dug through the dumpster, huddling by a fire in an oil drum with other street kids, stealing whatever valuables he could get his hands on. Then there were the Batmobile tires and suddenly he was removed from all that to the home of literally the richest pack in Gotham. Suddenly three meals a day, a comfortable bed, hot showers, brand-new clothes, medicine for sicknesses, even school were no longer a dream he'd had to give up on after his mother's death.

Then suddenly, you arrived.

You, Bruce's biological child with the omega he loved. Versus him, a street rat Bruce adopted on what he wouldn't have been surprised to be but the whim of an eccentric rich man–even if said man was also secretly the vigilante of Gotham, whom he'd been assisting as Robin. It should be obvious who was more important between you and him.

Jason would take the truth to his second grave, but the truth was he unintentionally acted like a two-faced omega antagonist in one of those cliche brainless novels. What was the Chinese term for it again, white lotus? Green tea bitch?

One might argue that him presenting without warning so close to your arrival was something beyond his control, as was his heat-addled self rambling of insecurity and inferiority to Bruce. Jason could not help wincing in secondhand embarrassment whenever he remembered his own actions back then anyway.

His young omega self even acted so obviously scared of you then. Like he was at your mercy, like with one word from you Bruce would cast you off back into the street. Why the fuck did he act like that again? It wasn't deliberate; Jason would've sooner beat himself up than act like a victim and villify a pup to secure the love of said pup's father.

But he still did that. Deliberate or not, his going omega self did keep acting scared around you. He also did keep hanging out with Bruce, Dick, and Alfred without mentioning you–sometimes because he genuinely forgot to, but some other times because he actively decided not to say a word.

When Joker killed him in that warehouse, Jason thought it was divine retribution.

Then, inexplicably, he came back to life. He got taken by Talia to the League of Assassins and dipped in the Lazarus Pit, coming out even more inexplicably an alpha. Full of power and rage and craving for vengeance. Any thought of you was set aside after that.

By the time Jason realized it, you had grown up. An alpha pup, still newly presented. But already daring to bark and strut around Crime Alley like you owned it.

(You really didn't. You just walked there normally to and from school.)

Had Jason remained an omega... Well, who knew how he would've treated you. As things were, he merely instructed his lieutenants to keep an eye out. He had given you a warning, so if you dared mess around in his Crime Alley Jason wouldn't hesitate to scruff you all the way back to Daddy Bat.

Jason scoffed to himself. That would be his way to make amends for his omega self's actions, without losing his dignity as Red Hood–leaving your discipline to your pack alpha.

Another goddamn alpha in this goddamn pack, Jason thought, exasperated. If you were a beta...

He paused. Blinked. Imagined a world where you did present as a beta. Grinned to himself.

Hah, yeah. No way. If you were a beta and dared go about his territory like that... Jason wouldn't hesitate to claim you for himself and the pack.

Who told an unclaimed beta to wander by their self?

As you hit another bullseye, you marked down two months.

Currently, you were in one of your late mother's properties. Your mother had used most of her inheritance to purchase properties around the world and had them rented out–all but the ones in Gotham, like this one. You had known about it from the start, and for about nearly two months you'd been using the Gotham properties to train or research in under the guise of checking them out.

People who knew you were doing so would only assume you were scouting for a den or nest out of the Wayne pack. It was a common practice for the 'elites' to have their private place as soon as they presented, and even without the Waynes being connected to you, you still could pass as one thanks to your mother.

You reloaded the gun in your hand, used a hand mirror to check the corner, then darted down the path once you saw the path was clear. When two opponents suddenly stepped from either side of the intersections, you ducked and took down the one closest to you with a sweeping kick, dodging the other's bullet by the skin of your teeth. You aimed and hit the shooter between the eyes, then turned around and threw your whole weight into the first attacker that had quietly gotten up intending to ambush you.

You shot them as well. As the first attacker fell back with blood spraying from the forehead, a holographic notification appeared before you:

STAGE CLEARED.

Satisfied, you shut down the VR and took off your headset. That wasn't bad at all–you had improved steadily these two months. Hardly enough to take down a real pack yet, moreover to make you feel safe. Oh well, baby steps.

Your faint smile morphed into a frown when you recollected yesterday's event. For once in his life Dick seemed to have meant his latest promise–to help you as an omega. He still didn't fulfill the promise, citing an emergency in Bludhaven, but did thrust a pile of blankets and hoodies soaked with his scent into your arms before leaving.

That was... unexpected. You couldn't afford anything unexpected at this stage.

You slowly tapped a forefinger to your other arm. An 'emergency in Bludhaven' kept Dick away and inadvertently rescued you from being discovered by him. You remembered many more occasions where emergencies kept him in the neighboring city.

Could you maybe, probably, arrange for something to keep him there longer?

me the first time writing Jason's pov: Oh no he's too kind here gotta rewrite

me the second time: ...have I maligned your character, Jason?

Then he saw your mother, so beautiful and captivating and unmistakably omega, and he instantly knew that he wanted to be like her someday. It was almost a crush, which was funny–Dick had always hated the 'high-class' omegas who fluttered around Bruce at galas, especially the ones who tried to act motherly towards him in order to lure Bruce. Yet when it came to your mother he wanted so badly to be pack with her, to learn how to be a strong and beautiful omega from her. When your mother herself finally approached Bruce, Dick did a quadruple flip from one chandelier to another.

When Bruce later pulled him aside and told him that it was just to be a contract relationship, to be dissolved within three years once Bruce could adopt Dick–apparently that was her offer of aid, to be exchanged for her share of her natal pack's inheritance that was in the form of a dowry–Dick was upset beyond belief. Not even knowing that Bruce would do his best to court your mother comforted him.

Good thing he didn't hope anyway. Bruce failed. Your mother sweetly, cruelly kissed Dick on the forehead and left without a backward glance the day after Dick's thirteenth birthday.

He hid in the nest for days.

That should've been the end of things. Dick did allow himself to dream from time to time of your mother returning, penitent for having left yet as captivating as always, but that was that. Then six years later he went home after a long mission and saw you.

He... Goodness, it was embarrassing how out of control his scent was upon learning about your existence. You, the actual biological child of your mother, who apparently had just died. And you didn't even take after your mother in appearance!

Dick didn't mean to be unkind to you, but it hurt so bad to know your mother had you with Bruce, his and your father, then walked away from him and Bruce to raise you herself. To claim you and you alone as her pack. For a fraction of a second, Dick could've cheerfully committed fratricide.

Thank goodness you were nothing like your mother. Just a normal kid, a good kid who didn't throw tantrums or cry or bother anyone for their attention. It literally took Dick years before he could think of you without overflowing bitter envy. But it was all good now!

Better yet, you had presented as an omega just like him! Dick could immediately tell from your scent patches and turtleneck and those hints of your omega mother's features he now spotted in you. He could help you build your first nest and teach you to use your innate omegan charm, as your mother had taught him.

Yes, yes, once he was done with this mission, he'd bond with you just like how he'd hoped to bond with your mother. It was so nice having another omega in the pack.

Though it'd be even nicer if Reader was a beta, Dick mused. Your mother might've been the most wonderful omega Dick had ever met and you might've been her biological omega child Dick would look after for her sake, but with the pack being... like this, it would've been much better for everyone if you were a beta.

For everyone but you. After all, in Dick's mind, it was never about you.

You ticked off one month with grim satisfaction.

It would've been so easy to feel complacent. To wave off everyone's neglect of you and not take care to hide, with the reason–excuse–that they wouldn't have noticed anything anyway. Had you done so, it would've been game over by literally the first day.

Luckily you had been careful, so you hadn't been caught–not by the Waynes or by any other pack.

You were still free and, fate willing or not, with luck or not, you were resolved to stay so till the end.

It had been a whole month since you presented, but to be honest it didn't feel like it. You were so busy looking up everything about betas, figuring out how to cover up the tracks of your research, actually covering up the tracks of your research, learning to control your beta scent and instinct, refining your acting, and improving your physical skills in (the hopefully not inevitable) case you would have to fight off or run away from a pack.

It was exhausting. It was draining. It was... surprisingly, exhilarating.

You felt the corner of your lips twitching.

No good, no good. This wasn't some game, you ought to take this seriously... But you did, didn't you? It didn't change the fact that you found it exhilarating to do what you were doing now.

You firmly told yourself to maintain self-control and vigilance. Only one month had passed, you still had twenty-three left to go through before you could leave.

Still the dangerous, hazardous little thought persisted–

That you could get used to this thrill.

A/N: I'm on a roll guys 🤟😎 Actually in my original outline the whole Batfam's pov was supposed to take one (1) chapter, but I didn't wanna write 3k+ words in one day again so I decided to keep it to Bruce. Then Dick just insisted to be written aaand guess we'll see everyone else's pov in the next chapters 💕 Btw I was so pissed at Dick's even though I was the one who wrote him here 😭😂

My package is still lost :x Who took my manga omg...

P.S. Guys, if you wanna be tagged pls request it on the latest update okay... I think I saw a notif of taglist request on older parts but it confused me so I refrained from adding it. Sorry about that! 😔🙏

It was a huge, lofty room with windows going up to the second floor flanking a real wood-burning fireplace. The elaborate black mantelpiece was imported Italian marble. The mantel clock with its accompanying pair of vases and candelabra were genuine Rococo pieces in black slate and gilt bronze. The furniture was a combination of more gilt Rococo upholstered in black brocaded satin and chinoiserie black lacquer with gilding and mother-of-pearl inlay. Here and there were more touches of luxury–fresh flowers in vases, rare first editions on bookshelves, old master paintings hanging on the walls.

In spite of its luxurious appointments, however, the great room was also undoubtedly the pack room. A room the pack used on a regular basis, not one reserved for show. Piles of mismatched cushions and throws formed Dick's mini-nests, Damian's art supplies littered a table in front of a wall of paintings, Jason's stacks of to-read books threatened to engulf his armchair, a skateboard half-shoved under a sofa unmistakably belonged to Tim. And, most prominently featured over the fireplace: A life-sized portrait of the pack.

Naturally, said portrait did not include you. You weren't pack, after all. And fate willing, you'd remain out of the pack until you could get away.

Yes, it was a peaceful night in Gotham. So was the case in the great room... originally.

None of the pack members bothered tracing the origin of the squabble anymore. As had been happening with increasing frequency, out of the blue one of them would snap, and the others would follow like dominos.

A table made a screech as it was roughly shoved aside by Jason springing to his feet.

"Go say that again, Replacement, I dare you–"

Across of him, Tim sneered. "That's rich coming from you, Second Robin. I–"

"You two imbeciles better watch your words. I'm Robin now!" Damian interrupted, the paintbrush formerly in his hand already replaced for a knife.

Irritated by the combination of three angry alpha scents in full blast, Dick chucked a cushion right between his brothers. "Won't you knotheads give it a break already?!"

"Enough."

A hush fell as everyone else flinched or stiffened hearing the prime alpha's command, relaxing but a fraction when a tired sigh followed it.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. Alfred materialized from a corner and gave Bruce a light brush of the wrist to his nape–a soothing gesture generally done by a caretaker–before commenting mildly,

"It appears that the presence of a pack beta has become more necessary by the day, Master Bruce."

Another tired sigh. "I'm aware, Alfred." Bruce's eyes swept over the room, observing his beloved sons. They were settled now, if sulking terribly.

Dick, being the most attuned to Bruce, eyed him back sympathetically. "I'm afraid this is about our limit, B," he said. "Either we claim a beta for the whole pack, or..."

Disband the pack.

The sulky undertone to everyone's scent turned to distress. Regardless of their ever increasing number of fights and arguments, no one in the BatWayne pack wanted to leave it. It was family.

It was home.

For them, not you.

Bruce's already serious face became even graver at that. He knew he wasn't a perfect man, father, or alpha. But he was fiercely proud of his pack, fiercely fond of his pups even though they'd long since presented. He'd made this pack with all his children and the prospect of relinquishing it filled him with dread beyond any other thing he could think of.

Wait. All his children?

A pang of guilt and shame cut through Bruce as he very belatedly remembered you.

You, Reader Wayne... No, Reader S, his child with her.

God, what an omega! Her beauty was the sort that would look beautiful no matter what. Should she get a deep cut or burns, Bruce wasn't even being cynical thinking that many omegas would want to get the same scar. But it was hardly her beauty that captivated Bruce. Her competence, her character, her everything. Bruce never said it to his children, especially Damian, but the truth was that Bruce could've loved her, far more than he ever did Talia or anyone else.

It shamed Bruce how, upon learning of her death and your existence, his first thought was maybe they'd look alike, maybe it'd be like having her back in his life. It shamed him further to see you and feel disappointed.

You didn't deserve that, Bruce knew. More than once he had contemplated sending you away to your mother's relatives and friends, so to receive the love and attention he seldom gave you. Only more selfishness prevented him from doing so, as he didn't want to be separated from the last piece of her.

It was perhaps a blessing, that you weren't the least like your mother in looks and character. You were so good, so considerate, so self-reliant. Bruce could leave you to fend for yourself for years and you'd still turn out all right–

Another pang of guilt and shame cut through him. He did leave you to fend for yourself. Bruce swore he didn't mean to! Life just–kept going. He had meetings and patrols and trainings and more than a hundred other things to attend to, and in his downtime, well. You were never there. All Bruce's other children were. He... forgot you.

When Dick mentioned being surprised to see you in the nursery wing, Bruce actually went blank for a second. Who were you? Thankfully you didn't know it. Thankfully you didn't know how surprised he was to see you being so tall already.

Bruce didn't wonder what secondary gender you presented as. Alpha, of course. With him being a prime alpha and your mother an omega, it was a given what you'd turn out as. He refused to feel further disappointment at that, although a pack with five alphas and two omegas was a recipe for disaster.

Although with you being a civilian, there was no doubt that you'd be pushed around if not beaten up by the other alphas. You were so competent after all, surely you'd be able to figure out how to coexist with the rest of the pack.

Absently, as he joined his children watching a movie, Bruce had a last shameful thought.

It would've been wonderful had you presented as a beta.

A/N: (me, the whole time writing this) To hell with your shame and guilt, Bruce!!!

Btw my manga package got missent 😔 The mailman took a pic of presumably the fences of the house my package was dropped in but I have zero idea where it is, it's definitely not my house 😭 Luckily it wasn't my other manga package that contained the complete twenty volumes otherwise I would've disgraced myself in public

Taglist: @randomlyappearingartist @bellethesleepypotato @nirvanaxx1942 @tenswife @galaxypurplerose @shycreatorreview @cupid73 @time-shardz @mikusamsan @simpingpandas @kore-of-the-underworld @elmichi0 @mirabilis-polaris @farsketch @altumsomnum @hai-there-how-are-you @vanessa-boo @ashjade19 @yandere-enthusiast @a-lurking-fae @hyperfixatedcatlover @leeiasure @luckynemi @lowkeyjarrr @lunoorbonoor @deathbynarcisstick @tacendxx @staarflowerr @anonlikesfics @magical-panda2 @whognuthis @arwenyukiamoto

You looked at your reflection in the mirror. You appeared... normal. A little messy and exhausted, but otherwise normal. No different than usual.

No one should be able to tell that you had a dozen of the best scent blockers plastered over all your newly developed glands. On either side of the neck, on the inside of both wrists, on the inner thighs, double patches over each part. Everything covered up with a turtleneck sweater, a denim jacket and slacks, all of them–as well as all your clothes and bedding–having been laundered twice with a special scent-removing detergent.

Moving towards the corridor door, you took one last glance and sniff into the nursery where you lived. All clear–nothing incriminating to see and, far more importantly, no newly presented beta scent to smell, thanks to the high-grade scent-removing spray you'd used a bottleful of.

Good. Not even Mr Pennyworth had stepped a foot into the nursery since you were thirteen and he was swamped with duties involving the then recent arrival of Damian, but you refused to take a risk. You walked across the corridor, down the stairs, through the side entry door, and straight into Damian.

Between enough mental curses to make a Crime Alley goon blush, you wondered if even alluding to Damian could summon him before you.

Fortunately you managed to keep an impassive face. You nodded casually to the boy and tried to walk around him.

Tried being a keyword. Little alpha boy Damian crossed his arms and deliberately stood in your way.

"Reader."

"Damian."

It took your all to maintain the nonchalant air as Damian swept an imperious eye over you. Shit, did he remember it was your sixteenth birthday and so you should have presented? Did he know what you presented as?

Your knees almost buckled in relief when Damian proceeded to click his tongue and say, "Sloppy. You are still a pup at your age and act in such a lowly manner? You ought to refrain from further disgracing the Wayne name."

A wry smile very nearly appeared on your face. Damian, when not treating you like air, always criticized you for being 'disgraceful' as though you weren't–by blood, on paper–his older sibling but his wayward child. Grandchild, even.

Reminiscent of how alphas and omegas tended to treat their pack betas.

The realization chilled you. You forced yourself to shrug, self-deprecatingly so not to anger the kid, and point your thumb at the side gates. "Well, if you'd let me pass so I could reach school in time and thus not disgrace myself...?"

Damian clicked his tongue once more, but did shift ever so slightly for you. You dashed past him, freedom almost within reach, only to notice Damian's nostrils flaring and his hand snatching your arm.

"What scent is that?" He demanded.

CALM DOWN, you screamed at yourself. You pretended to be confused before 'realizing' what Damian meant. "Oh, you mean my perfume? I'm surprised you noticed it."

"My olfactory sense is superior to the presented, moreover to a pup as yours." Damian scoffed. "What brand is that and where did you procure it?"

You shrugged again, this time apologetically. "It was one of those blind box stalls in Chinatown. The bottle didn't have any mark or label. Do you really like that scent?"

"I am above such juvenile impulses," Damian scoffed, then entered the manor without another word to you. You observed his figure through the windows until it vanished at the turn that would lead him to the main building, then ran out into the street.

Damian – Clear.

You went to school by bus, as you'd been doing since you were ten. You sat at the very back next to the door and clutched your backpack to your front, making a mental note to research military-grade scent removers.

That near-escape with Damian was alarming; you hadn't anticipated him or anyone having 'superior' olfactory sense. You doubted Damian was a prime alpha–that kid would've announced it without hesitation otherwise–but if even he could smell you after all those scent removers, wouldn't Bruce realize your secondary gender the second he saw you?

You were still thinking about how to research military-grade scent removers without arousing suspicion–would it arouse suspicion? If you bought them, would it put you on some kind of list of suspicious individuals, under scrutiny, at even higher risk of being found out...?–when someone took a seat next to you. You glanced and almost had a heart attack spotting Tim.

Tim also startled upon seeing you. He blinked, opened his mouth, looked at the bus route, then looked back to you. "You didn't go in the car with Alfred?" He asked before adding, "Hi. Uh. Long time no see, huh Reader?"

True enough. The last time you interacted with each other was maybe two years ago when he rambled half-incoherently to you before falling asleep at the dining table.

"Hi, Tim," you replied with the most even tone you could muster. "I've been going to school by myself for years actually."

"O, oh?" Discomfort flickered in Tim's eyes. "So... Uh. How's school?"

"Good, thanks. How's work?"

"Good, good, it's... good."

You wanted to jump off the bus. You wanted to throw Tim out of the bus. You wanted him to stop trying to find topics of conservation and especially to not ask–

"Say, have you presented? As what?"

–that. You really wanted him to not ask that.

You deliberately sighed in disappointment and gestured at your turtleneck sweater, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at Tim even though your heart was beating fast as a hummingbird's the whole time.

Tim flushed. "Oh yeah, it was–obvious huh? My bad."

"Don't mention it." The bus finally reached your stop. You practically dove down the steps with a muttered "Bye" Tim's way.

Daring to look back, you were relieved to see Tim was already shutting his eyes, probably for a nap. You walked the rest of the way to school with a lighter heart.

Tim – Clear.

You didn't go to Gotham Academy.

Oh, you did initially, but starting high school, you'd been a student of Park Row High, deep in Crime Alley.

Sometimes you wondered if anybody at the manor knew about it. You didn't wonder if they'd care–they wouldn't beyond the possibility of you, to quote Damian, 'disgracing the Wayne name'–but you were half-certain they had no idea. It could've been funny seeing as Mr Pennyworth was, according to Bruce and his chosen kids, basically omniscient.

It wasn't funny seeing as Mr Pennyworth didn't think you worthy of attention to begin with.

Your day at school went by peacefully, and you blessed every single second of it. Due to Crime Alley having plenty of... colorful personalities, it was mandatory for Park Row High students and staff alike to wear scent blockers and not flaunt their secondary genders. No one looked at you weirdly, the administration staff and the nurse didn't approach you about updating your file or getting a medical checkup. It was a breath of fresh air after so much stress.

So, naturally, things turned bad the moment you got out of school. Jason was at the gate, sitting on his parked bike.

You could strangle someone. Meeting any of the Waynes was a once in a blue moon event. Sure you knew Jason was from Crime Alley, that upon his miraculous resurrection he'd been living here again, but why here at your school, today of all days?

It didn't seem like he'd seen you. You blended in with some other kids streaming out of the gate, hoping to pass by unnoticed. Almost there, just one turn to the bus stop–

"Reader!"

You already knew you had an awful luck to be a beta, but guess it was worse than anticipated.

"Jason? Why are you calling me?"

Jason didn't answer you, but asked you back with a fierce glare, "What the fuck are you doing here? Did the old man send you to spy on me?"

He spat out the accusation. You couldn't help yourself reflecting how, once upon a time, you yearned so badly to have Bruce spare you the attention Jason now treated as garbage. That thought slid off like water off a duck's back as you remembered that now you also considered attention from Bruce and his pack as garbage.

Smiling wryly, you told Jason, "I sincerely doubt Bruce even knows I attend school here."

For a while Jason looked askance, then became doubtful, then what might be angry or upset or something you couldn't decipher, at last settling into impassivity as he jerked his head to the back seat of his bike.

"Get on," he ordered.

You stared blankly at him. A perfectly normal reaction to a perfectly abnormal act. Since when did Jason ever give you a ride?

Jason didn't seem to share your opinion. He let out a curt, bark-like noise that alphas made to wayward pups.

Their wayward pups.

Later on you would berate yourself for this. As of now, however, being treated as a pack member by Jason made your hackles rise. Without a second thought, you snarled and took a step–backward, not forward, because thankfully you still had a sense of self-preservation even when your basic common sense abandoned you.

Nevertheless it was so obviously a disobedient move, and dread filled you as you noticed how Jason's hand–draped over the front of his bike–curled lazily as though intending to scruff you.

An eternity passed during the couple of seconds Jason seemed to debate whether to actually scruff you here in public or not. You felt yourself having aged when he eventually decided to feel amused and warn you instead,

"Fine then, alpha pup. Just remember that your daddy isn't the ruler here, I am. Capiche?"

He didn't wait for your response, just revved his engine and left trailing exhaust smoke that made you cover your nose.

You would've been more irritated had you not been relieved he didn't linger on.

Jason – Clear.

Once an accident, twice a coincidence, thrice a pattern. Having encountered three of Bruce's children today, you were grimly unsurprised to see Dick right after entering the manor.

Dick on the other hand was surprised to see you.

"Reader?" He began, sounding... disbelieving? "You still live here?"

You levelled him a look. "I haven't moved out of the manor, yes."

"No, wait, that's not what I mean!" Dick hastily waves his hands. "I mean–you still live here, in the nursery wing?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," you said.

"I know, I know," Dick nodded soothingly before giving you a smile–the fake beaming smile he gave you whenever you interacted. "So, haven't presented yet, huh? I've been wondering about that!"

Sure he did. You believed him completely.

"Need to store some things in what should've been an abandoned wing?" You questioned, meaningfully glancing at the heap of boxes at Dick's feet.

He coughed, cheeks flushed. "I'll find another place to put them in."

You shrugged. "Just use the downstairs rooms, nobody uses those."

Dick perked up. "Thanks, pup!"

He went to put an arm around your shoulders, but you dodged. A frown marred his face before it smoothed back into the fake beaming smile.

"Say, Reader, if you present as an omega feel free to hit me up! I'd be happy to show you the ropes!"

You gave him an equally fake smile back. "Sure, thank you, Dick."

Sometimes you couldn't help but wonder why Dick kept making these empty promises. It was practically pathological lying at this point.

Dick – Clear.

The nursery wing really occupied an entire wing of Wayne Manor, next to the omega's side of the main building, opposite the elderly wing next to the alpha's side. It was huge, unnecessarily so for such a small pack without any mated members moreover pups of their own. Once upon a time, however, all those rooms were apparently really necessary:

The ward for home birth. The bedroom saved for the midwife or other medical staff. Another of said bedroom for medical staff dealing with pups suffering contagious disease. The isolation ward for said pups. The bedroom with enough cribs and changing tables to open a shop with. The nanny's bedroom. The dorm-style bedroom for pups aged 1 to 7. The series of individual rooms for older pups. The private tutor or governess' bedroom. The schoolroom. The playroom. The nursery dining room. The nursery kitchen and laundry. The dorm-style bedroom for the other domestic staff–housemaid, footman, cook and chauffeur detailed to attend to the nursery only. The spare bedrooms for visiting pack's pups and their attendants. The six bathrooms.

Having lived here for a year short of a decade, you feared you had developed agoraphobia. So much space with only you occupying it. Many times you thought you would've loved for there to be ghosts haunting this wing.

You had one of the bedrooms for older pups and the bathroom next to it. Over the years you had bought a small washer-and-dryer combo to put in the bathroom, a mini fridge, a microwave and an induction stove for a makeshift kitchenette in the bedroom. It was like your own little house, except you figured a real house would not make you fear that you'd be kicked out of it when the owner remembered your existence.

Or, now, that you'd be forbidden from leaving it if the owner knew what you were.

You showered with a scent-removing body wash and made sure to apply triple scent-blocking patches instead of just double like you did in the morning. You cooked your dinner, ate, brushed your teeth and washed the dishes. You were just sitting down to look up 'military-grade scent-removing spray' on your laptop when something unexpected happened:

Someone knocked on your door.

For a moment, you froze in place. Then a voice followed the knock and you hadn't known it was possible to feel more beyond freezing like that.

"Reader? May I enter?"

The voice belonged to Bruce.

Of fucking course. Nine years and you doubted you had conversed with him nine times–half of them happening before Jason's death when Mr Pennyworth still pushed you, gently yet firmly, into playing house with the pack and pretended not to notice them pushing you aside every time. And now of all times he actually came to you?

You didn't tell Bruce to come in. You closed your laptop, looked hard around your room and self for anything that would even whisper I recently presented as a beta and am still unclaimed, and it was only after double-checking there were no such hints that you opened the door.

Looking Bruce in the eye, you absently noted that he was shorter than you remembered. More like a real human being than a colored shadow lengthened by specific light arrangement.

But still a prime alpha. Still the most dangerous to you.

As subtly as possible, you shifted so that most of you was hidden by the door. "Can I help you?"

Bruce's expression was unreadable. The smile he put on afterwards was as fake as Dick's.

"Hey, chum. Dick mentioned to me you were still living here, so–"

He paused. You didn't prompt him to continue.

"So... Ah. Would you prefer staying here?"

"...I don't mind it."

"Well," Bruce visibly hesitated. "If you'd rather move to the main building–well, make sure to tell Alfred first, okay, chum? It's up to you, just–ah, I'm afraid you would have to take a room on the next floor. The ones not used by me and your brothers on the main floor were rather damaged by lack of use, I'm sorry to say."

That was a lie.

Not that you actually knew it; by your first year here you'd been discouraged from exploring. But Bruce's statement made no sense, all of those remaining rooms damaged? But the next floor ones weren't despite being equally unused?

Had it been before, hope might've soared within you. Maybe Bruce and his children shared a secret. A huge secret that you weren't privy to, that was the sole reason you were excluded by everyone all the time.

Your mind was clear now. Whether they really shared this huge secret that existed or not, it did not absolve them from their neglect. No family secret ought to justify you having to take a cab alone to the hospital for an appendectomy and pay the staff extra because you couldn't reach anyone to sign your medical forms.

Unclenching the fists you didn't remember clenching to begin with, you replied, "I prefer staying here, thank you."

Once, it would've hurt to see the palpable relief in Bruce's face.

"That's–good, that you stay here. I mean, that you prefer to stay here and get to stay here." He let out a forced laugh. "A growing alpha has to get to choose their own space, after all! I won't bother you anymore then, Reader. See you at dinner."

You didn't tell him you'd eaten. That you hadn't joined the pack for dinner since Damian came to live here. That you weren't an alpha or an omega or unpresented, because you weren't stupid.

Bruce – Clear.

Having encountered every member of the pack but Mr Pennyworth today, you refused to tempt fate. Bruce's prime alpha might've been unable to detect your beta scent under triple blockers and scent-removing body wash, but it very well could've meant that Mr Pennyworth's supposed omniscience would work on you.

You wrote Already ate. Busy studying. Please do not disturb on a post-it note, stuck it outside the door, and locked the room shut, shoving a chair under the door handle for good measure.

You didn't know it, busy as you were researching late into the night, but Mr Pennyworth did come to your door in order to fetch you for dinner. He frowned reading the post-it note, but wordlessly heeded it and turned back to the main building.

Mr Pennyworth – Clear.

A/N: I'm finally done ahhh!!! I won't say sorry for the late update bc knowing me it should've taken like weeks for me to update each new chapter but in my defense this time I really did mean to finish writing yesterday :/ Unfortunately my bestie abducted me to keep her company getting her phone repaired in the neighboring city and we finished so late I stayed overnight and was too exhausted to write anything until today 😔 I'd reminisce on the days I was young and not so easily downed but tbh those days seemed like a dream.

Edit: Made the story under read more, hopefully I didn't mess it up

Taglist: @randomlyappearingartist @bellethesleepypotato @nirvanaxx1942 @tenswife @galaxypurplerose @shycreatorreview @cupid73 @time-shardz @mikusamsan @simpingpandas @kore-of-the-underworld @elmichi0 @mirabilis-polaris @farsketch @altumsomnum @hai-there-how-are-you @vanessa-boo @ashjade19 @yandere-enthusiast @a-lurking-fae @hyperfixatedcatlover @leeiasure @luckynemi @lowkeyjarrr @lunoorbonoor @deathbynarcisstick

For a time that was that. Many even predicted betas would eventually die out, and none of them were concerned. Then problems began to arise: Alphas constantly bristling with anger, omegas brimming with sensitivity, so-called fated mates snarling at one another over their respective differences and unwillingness to yield, pups left vulnerable when their alpha-omega parents' cycles synced in and caused them to forget the world outside their dens and nests.

On the brink of implosion, the truth was finally discovered: Betas, despite being inferior, were nevertheless integral to the pack. A community would either ruin itself through infighting or be ruined by the enemies while distracted, should there be no betas to smooth ruffled feathers and keep watch over the alphas and omegas. A pack had to be miniscule and its members had to be constantly considering and communicating with each other if it wanted to stand without a beta's soothing neutrality.

That truth doomed betas even further. Betas were inferior beings, regardless of their also being integral to the pack. Thus a beta's life in the pack became not unlike that of a pet.

A treasured, beloved pet–but a pet nonetheless. Collared and caged in the pack beta's suite that was open to all members of the pack, brought to whatever activities the pack members decided on, touched and scented and bitten regardless of the beta's own wishes.

And you just had to present as a beta.

When you woke up, your first thought was I have to escape.

Your second thought was no, there must be a mistake.

It wasn't really a denial. It was true that there were exceptions to the norm, but as a rule, one's secondary gender would follow one's parents. An alpha-beta or an omega-beta couple could have their child present as a beta. A beta-beta couple would have a beta child, no doubt. But you? It was just a 'professional arrangement'–you could perfectly recall your mother laughingly explain it to you back when she was alive, when it was the two of you as a pack away from this manor that had no place for you but physically. Still you were the child borne of Bruce Wayne, alpha and your mother, omega. How could you have presented as a beta? It made no sense!

Then you remembered your mother wasn't only an omega but a prime omega. In this world where alphas and omegas were the standard, primes were the new superior beings. Your mother had never boasted about it, seldom alluded to it even, that you forgot until now. With a chill running down your spine, you thought of Bruce, of the bulging muscles and sharp mind he for some reason hid under the vapid smiling mask of Brucie, and wondered–

Could Bruce be a prime alpha?

Think prime alphas as AA, prime omegas as OO, and betas as AO. Cross the primes and the result would invariably be betas.

The chill in your spine turned to numbness of your whole body. You kept sitting on your bed, on the morning of your sixteenth birthday, not plagued by heat or rut or the ache from being ignored by those who should have been your pack mates. You didn't know how long you just sat there stupidly staring at nothing, but at last your mind cleared.

Running away was out of question. Sure, there was a not slim chance of your escape being undetected for some time, but you were still only sixteen. If you were caught by authority, if they found out and registered you as the beta you were, whether the Waynes found you or not your life as you knew it would still come to an end.

Joining the Wayne pack was even more out of the question. Perhaps you would've thought differently had you presented as an alpha or an omega, but you hadn't, had you? Being a beta, the thought of being a glorified pet of the family filled you with nothing but disgust.

You had to hide in plain sight, keep your head down, wait until you were of age then flee. You could do it. You would do it.

You had to do it or die trying.

It's a beta life, not a better life–so you better give it your all and make it better with your own two hands.

A/N: Thank you very much for your kind support!! I really appreciate it 💕 I'm afraid this story will go slow, here's hoping I'll get to write reader's interaction with the Batfam on the next part 🙏

Forgot to add on the first part, I actually had this betaverse originally sent as an ask to the lovely and talented @fallen-angel2470. I didn't want to bother her with more ideas that are overflowing in my brain so I just made my own 😗

Taglist: @randomlyappearingartist @bellethesleepypotato @nirvanaxx1942 @tenswife @galaxypurplerose @shycreatorreview @cupid73 @time-shardz @mikusamsan @simpingpandas

You were born the sole child of Bruce Wayne, the prime alpha billionaire and Prince of Gotham, with your mother, at a time known as the most beautiful omega in Gotham. The public knew nothing about your birth, however–in fact, not even your father knew of your existence until you turned seven and your mother suddenly passed away and he was approached concerning your guardianship.

For what it was worth, you acknowledged that it was decent of Bruce to take you in. Oh, sure, it would've damaged his reputation a little should it be known that Bruce Wayne–a rich alpha with two adopted pups he clearly doted on–refused to take responsibility of his biological child. And all he did was detail his butler to pick you up and put you in the nursery wing of his manor, away from him and his actual children. Still, it could've been worse. Even at age seven, you didn't need the omega CPS worker's cautiously murmured platitude and badly-concealed disappointed look to know that.

So when the butler Mr Pennyworth left you at the nursery after saying "Master Bruce will see you tomorrow at breakfast, Young Mx", though your pack bond ached without your mother's presence to the point tears sprang on your eyes, you quietly went to bed and buried your sobs and whimpers into your pillow.

You had no reason to think so yet, nevertheless you had the premonition there would be no use asking anyone here for their company.

When morning came and you saw Bru–your fa–Bruce Wayne cheerfully told Mr Pennyworth he would be driving Jason to school and get their breakfast on the way, only to freeze upon seeing you, you didn't cry or pitch a fit about having been obviously forgotten. You ate your breakfast alone at a table that could easily seat twenty-two, politely thanked Mr Pennyworth for the food, just as politely listened to his halting explanation "Young Master Jason has only presented recently and is still uncertain about his position within the pack, Young Mx. Pray don't take offense to Master Bruce", and even more politely refrained from pointing out how you were just as uncertain of your position here.

It wasn't true, after all. You knew already where your position here was: Down at the bottom.

When Dick came across you at the manor and immediately began asking who you were and what you were doing here, you answered him as succinctly as possible, concealed how you felt choked by his scent spiking when you told him your parentage, then–as soon as Dick gave you a lovely, charming, fake smile and an equally fake excuse to leave–dashed to the nursery, where you proceeded to crumple and cough until you teared up. The anger and pain were so clear in his scent it hurt you too. Somehow, however, it hurt even more the next time you saw Dick and he gave you the same charming fake smile and a promise to hang out with you next time.

You could tell it was a lie. No one here would willingly hang out with you.

When several years later Jason–your second omega big brother, in theory–unexpectedly died due to terrorist attack in Ethiopia, you spared a moment remembering him. Him burying his nose into a book, coming from and going to various school activities, cuddling with the pack, stiffening then anxiously smiling at six-years-younger you whenever you two met. The way Bruce stared at you when Mr Pennyworth all but pushed you to stand next him at the funeral made you look down at the closed casket and not lift your head until the funeral ended.

Had you been the one who died, Bruce wouldn't have stared at his children like that. Had you been the one who died, would Bruce even be there?

When Tim appeared seemingly out of nowhere and started fussing over Bruce, you said nothing. When he wildly gesticulated and rambled about how he had no intention of intruding in the pack, that it was all professional relationship, etcetera etcetera–you nodded and joined him pretending that Bruce's hurt-sad-angry scent didn't mellow down drastically around him, that Dick scenting his wrists and playfully stealing his hoodie for his nest was a joke, that the room Mr Pennyworth set up for him in the family wing was purely for convenience's sake, that during his rut he didn't make a den in said room and the whole pack (not including you. You weren't pack) didn't happily join him there.

Pretending with Tim was the only time you ever did something together. It was pathetic how you enjoyed it while it lasted.

When more years passed and Jason came back to life–having been, apparently, abducted by a secret organization that turned him to an alpha for reasons unknown–bringing Damian with him, both of them so obviously strange alphas who should have triggered the pack but were instead accepted with open arms, you returned to the nursery and firmly didn't wonder whether they would've accepted you into the pack once you presented. Later on, when Damian entered the nursery and decreed "You are my only sibling by blood, even though you are clearly inferior by birth I shall still accept you in my pack once you present", you smiled as though indulging a pup, thanked him and saw him to the nursery door.

See, here you go, after six years intruding upon this pack one of them actually said he'd accept you! Wasn't this what you wanted? What did you want to scream and hurt someone for, it would be so ungrateful of you, you know?

When it was the eve of your sixteenth birthday–the last time it was considered normal to present a secondary gender–and everybody was out of the manor, you didn't fuss. You made sure to stock up on water and electrolyte drinks in non-spill bottles, easy-to-eat food on a platter and in the mini fridge, standard medical supplies and wet wipes within reach, clothes both unwashed and freshly laundered, bedding ditto, everything necessary to den or nest. You had the email notifying the school for your absence drafted and ready to post when the rut or heat began, and the nearest good clinic specializing on secondary gender presentation ready to dial should anything out of ordinary occur. You went to sleep, then woke up to a living nightmare that was presenting as a beta.

In the future you might just wonder, was your being a would-be beta the reason you weren't accepted into the pack? Was it a respite from whatever higher beings were up there, from the future you were to face? Was it just your fate to be neglected when you needed help the most, then suddenly coveted and hunted when you wanted nothing more than to live quietly by yourself?

In the present, you just cursed that you had to deal with being a beta.

It's a beta life, not a better life.