#⁎ || when everything’s made to be broken. i just want you to know who i am. ( visage. )

[cafeartemesia]

I loved this so much I reblogged it to all my side blogs too. Just because oh my actual goodness this is IT. First of all there is a TRAGIC lack of Omegaverse writing in the Enha fandom and I am genuinely thrilled that it was a writer of your caliber who stepped up to fill the gap. I have long been a fan of yours—ever since your Jay band fic—and I am genuinely blown away by this. The concept itself is so well done and a creative way to use the omegaverse parameters. Truly exceptional.

I just want to take a minute and talk about how excellent your character work is. Full disclosure I am NOTHING like this yn—this is not a criticism—it is literally a testament to your ability to really make the reader empathize and care about your characters even if they are not someone with whom they readily identify. My heart broke for her again and again even though I kid you not I am a lot like your version of Jay in most of these scenarios. I worked hard. I loathed people who didn’t take collective work seriously. I would have struggled to be patient with the reader’s erratic emotions and make-up rants. But you wrote her so well and framed the good and the annoying together so beautifully that I can’t help but want to give her the most loving hug. My heart broke when she talked about how other Omegas would only ever be jealous of her nails because she was alone. That was some gorgeous character work and it really explains WHY the reader is so focused on her appearance and visual presentation. She feels like her scent is broken so she has tunneled into her looks and found value in what she can control. It’s a stubborn sort of resilience that I cannot help but admire. I have a feeling that both she and Jay will really help each other grow going forward.

It is clear she is in preheat. I am dying to know if her logical half is stronger than a feral omega. Something tells me it isn’t… but things could still be quite complicated even if she gives in.

Honestly I know that people are all on YN’s side and sharpening their pitchforks for Jay and I’m not here to say that how he acted was ok but like… I dunno. I am not gonna go into it too much because I know there is a lot more coming but I will say that in my opinion Jay is not as bad as what people are making him out to be. I admit I see too much of myself and too many mistakes I personally have made not to feel like there may be more going on here. I don’t think he’s just a cold jerk. I could actually ramble about this for 10 paragraphs but I’m not gonna because that would be nuts. Again. Well written characters will have you in your THOUGHTS about everything.

I read this three times already. It’s beautiful. It flows so well. It’s clear and witty and the prose is sparkling and sharp. Truly a masterpiece. I cannot wait for more. Thank you so much for sharing this with us!

MAKE YOU MINE — PJS

1: MAKE ME YOURS — You’re an Omega with rare, selective instincts, untouched by every Alpha you've ever met. That is, until you catch a scent that stops you cold and ignites a hunger you’ve never known. It leads you straight to Park Jongseong—the quiet Alpha who barely acknowledges your existence.

Now, every encounter becomes a quiet war with your own body. You try to ignore the pull, and yet, you can’t shake the fear that he might be the only Alpha your instincts will ever respond to… and the only one your heart will ever want.

content tags: a/b/o dynamics: alpha!jay, omega!reader, (ft. beta ningning, beta yeonjun) reader is kind of desparate for jay lol, spoiled bratty! reader, jay don't give a fuck, typical y/n behavior, pursuer female trope!!!, angst w/ little bit of fluff, second hand embarassment, half of the chapter is reader throwing tantrums, or talking about flower knows and nails, non-chalant jay, she yaps & he never (i guess) listen, kinda delusional reader in the first half chapter. no smut. WC:24.4K . next chapter.

⋮ ⌗ act one

     OMEGAS are known for their heightened sense of smell, particularly when it comes to Alphas. Alphas naturally emit strong pheromones, which can influence and attract Omegas, triggering instinctive reactions such as comfort, submission, or arousal, depending on the situation. For most Omegas, an Alpha's scent is a sign of protection or a potential mate, something their instincts naturally respond to.

However, ever since you came out as an Omega, things haven't been that simple.

One major complication is your extreme sensitivity to an Alpha's scent, not in the way that compels submission or attraction, but in a way that it overwhelms you, making you uncomfortable. Instead of feeling reassured or drawn in, the intensity of their presence unsettles you, leaving you tense and overstimulated.

Being in a crowded space full of Alphas feels almost suffocating. While other Omegas might naturally respond by releasing their own pheromones like showing interest or submission, your body doesn't react the way it's supposed to.

You stay still, tense, untouched by the pull that seems to affect everyone else. Their scents hit you in waves that is too strong and too overwhelming, like they're pressing in from every side. But the response everyone expects from you never comes, making it clear that you're different from the rest.

"Her Omega instincts are being selective," the psychologist says, watching you for a moment before setting their clipboard aside. "It's not unusual. Some Omegas are naturally more particular when it comes to choosing a mate. Her body is reacting to Alpha pheromones, but it's filtering them out—rejecting the ones that don't match what it subconsciously sees as a good fit."

Your mother shifts in her seat, clearly uneasy. "But she's not marked or bonded. Shouldn't she be reacting to at least one of them?"

You curl in on yourself, pulling your arms close and wishing you could disappear. It's not like you asked for this!

The psychologist gives a gentle nod. "It could be a natural defense. Some Omegas are less responsive to general Alpha presence, especially when their instincts are focused on long-term compatibility rather than instant attraction. Her body might not have found a match yet. It's rare, but it happens."

Your mother grips the edge of her purse a little tighter. Her lips press into a thin line before she speaks again. "Even during her heat, nothing happens. No response to any Alpha." There's a heavier worry in her voice. "At first, I thought maybe it was nerves, but it's every time. Shouldn't she be drawn to someone? Shouldn't she... want relief?"

You shift in your seat, heat creeping up your neck. The last thing you want is to talk about your heat cycles—not here, not like this. You stare down at the floor, hands clenched tightly in your lap.

The psychologist keeps their tone calm. "Typically, yes. During heat, but in her case, that system isn't responding like it should. Or maybe it's just locked. Her instincts seem to be holding back unless a very specific set of conditions is met." They glance at you, "her biology may only allow a response when it senses something—or someone—exactly right."

You don't need an Alpha. Fuck the way society acts like every Omega should rely on one. Yeah, heat is a bitch. Your body still wants something, the pressure builds, the ache, and that craving for a knot never really goes away. But even with all of that, no Alpha's scent has ever been strong enough to push you over the edge. Not once, and that's fucking okay, you can manage anyway.

Until now.

Your nose twitches as a new scent cuts through the heavy mix of pheromones in the crowded seminar hall. It's sharp, but smooth clean citrus with a warm, woody edge. Fresh, crisp, and nothing like the thick, cloying musk that usually fills spaces like this.

You frown, sniffing the air again. "What's that smell?" Beside you, Ningning scrunches her face, giving a quick sniff before shrugging. "What smell?"

"That smell," you repeat, already stepping forward without realizing it. Your body moves on its own, drawn by the trail curling through the room.

Ningning sighs and follows, heels clicking against the polished floor. "Is it bothering you? We can leave, you know. This seminar's pointless anyway." But you barely hear her. The scent is subtle, yet it grabs hold of something inside you and refuses to let go. It doesn't choke you or press in too close. It lingers inside your brain and calling you.

"Hey! Where are you going?!" Ningning yells, trying to keep up as you slip through the crowd. Inside you, the Omega stirs. There's a quiet hum under your skin, a soft purr in your chest that builds with every step.

Alpha. The word rings in your mind, and the moment you reach a clearer space in the crowd, the scent hits you full force, and it wraps around you so gently it nearly takes your breath away. Your knees almost buckle under the weight of it.

He stands just a few feet away. His raven-black hair is neatly pushed back, sharp jawline accentuated by the clean-cut angles of his face. The thin frames of his glasses rest perfectly on his nose, and the designer Prada bag slung over his shoulder adds to his air of quiet sophistication. Everything about him exudes elegance.

An unmated Alpha. Exactly what you're looking for.

You move before you can think, feet carrying you toward him. Ningning stares at you, mouth open in shock. "What the hell are you doing?!"

You don't answer, because the moment you reach him, you stop—right beside him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to let the scent wash over you fully. He turns his head slightly, finally noticing you. His sharp eyes flicker with curiosity behind the lenses of his glasses.

You just stand there, inhaling his scent, letting it fill your lungs, your body. It's ridiculous how good he smells, It was the smell that something your Omega has been starved for.

Make him yours. The voice inside you, your Omega, purrs again.

Ningning definitely notices. Her jaw nearly hits the floor as your eyes follow the Alpha when he quietly slips out of the room. You're practically floating in his scent trail, still dazed. "What the hell was that?" She hisses, grabbing your arm as soon as he disappears through the door. "Don't ever approach someone like that again. He's going to think you're weird!"

You blink, only half-hearing her. The moment plays over in your mind again and again.

You find out his name sooner than expected—Park Jongseong, a Media Communication major. As fate would have it, the universe seems to be working in your favor. He's in several of your classes. Every time he enters the room, your Omega perks up. A soft purr thrums in your chest before you can stop it.

Ningning always throws you a look and mutters under her breath, "Seriously? Again?"

Your eyes always follow him automatically—across the room, down the hallway, when he leans over his desk or pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Every move he makes, no matter how small, draws you in.

He doesn't talk much. He always sits near the windows, notebook open, pen in hand, brows slightly furrowed as he listens.

Make him yours.

"Help me get his attention," you whisper, leaning into Ningning as Jay starts packing up after the lecture. He's calm and quiet as always, sliding his notebook into his bag, adjusting the sleeves of his black knit sweater.

Ningning's eyebrows shoot up. Her lip gloss wand freezes midair. "What?"

"Come on, quick!" you hiss, already digging through your bag for your perfume. She groans but moves fast. You tilt your head forward as she fixes your hair, brushing a few flyaways and smoothing it down. Meanwhile, you spritz a little perfume on your neck and wrists, just enough to mix with your natural scent. Ningning grabs her lip gloss and dabs a bit on your lips, then hands you your compact mirror.

"Go," she whispers, giving your clothes a quick once-over and adjusting your collar. You nod, your heart racing as you stand and gather your things, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Ningning follows close behind, fixing your shirt and muttering encouragement under her breath.

You spot him just ahead, stepping through the lecture hall door. This is it. You cough a few times, trying to steady your breath, then pick up your pace, weaving through the crowd. Your eyes are locked on him, he's almost at the stairs when you catch up and accidentally bump right into him.

"S-sorry," you stammer, your things slipping from your arms and scattering across the floor.

He pauses, then crouches down, picking up your notebook without a word. His expression doesn't change, but the moment he moves closer, his scent washes over you again. That warm, clean blend of citrus and wood that makes your body melt. Your Omega reacts instantly, purring loud and eager beneath your skin. You feel your own pheromones release in response, filling the space around you with a subtle sweetness.

Jay's hand freezes as he reaches for your lip gloss, his shoulders stiffen. The flicker of awareness in his eyes as the scent hits him.

But just like that, he composes himself. He stands slowly, and hands you your things. "Here," he says politely. Then, without another glance, he turns and walks away. Leaving you standing there in the middle of the hallway, dazed and breathless, your Omega still humming with need.

"Bitch?!" Ningning hisses, snapping you out of your trance as she rushes to your side. "You should've said something! Asked his name, complimented his glasses, anything!" You blink, still watching Jay's back as he disappears around the corner. "I couldn't," you murmur. "My brain just... stopped working."

Ningning groans, dragging a hand down her face. "And why—why—did you release pheromones? At least try to be subtle!" Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Ningning was already pulling you aside so no one else overhears. "Some Alphas hate that kind of attention, especially if it's not from someone they've claimed. You have to ease into it, be patient. Make him curious."

You nod slowly, maybe she's right. Maybe pouncing on him with scent and nerves wasn't the best move. Not everyone responds well to sudden heat, especially not when it's from a stranger. You need a new plan. Something that keeps you close enough to be noticed without pushing too hard.

The second time you try is days later, at the vending machine. You spot him across the hallway, standing in front of the glowing machine, casually scanning the snack options. His hair is slightly tousled today, glasses still perched perfectly on his nose, and his black hoodie is unzipped just enough to show the white shirt underneath.

You breathe in slowly and check yourself in the glass reflection nearby—hair smooth, lips glossed, scent neutral but fresh. Ningning had prepped you, hand landing firmly on your shoulder.

"Act casual. Go for something at the vending machine next to him. Drop something, but not your lip gloss again. That's obvious. And for god's sake, don't purr. Just smile. Like a normal person."

And you are walking over at a steady pace, fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You stop beside him, not too close, pretending to examine the chocolate-covered almonds . He doesn't glance your way, but you can feel his quiet presence because it carries a weight of calmness that makes the air around you feel thick.

You reach out to make a selection but "accidentally" drop your coins. They roll, clinking softly before stopping near his shoe. He looks down, then turns his head toward you. You offer a small, sheepish smile. "Sorry... I'm not usually that clumsy."

He bends down, picks up the coins, and holds them out. "Here." And with just one word, but his voice settles deep in your chest.

"Thanks," you reply quietly, reaching out. Your fingers brush against his, and the lightest spark tingles across your skin. You exhale a little too softly, trying not to seem too obvious. Your foot taps once against the floor as the silence stretches, your Omega waiting beneath your skin.

Say something. Anything! Your eyes flick to the snack in his hand, and you grasp for words. "Uh... the almonds are kind of hard to bite," you say, gesturing vaguely to the machine. "Like, weirdly crunchy."

He glances at the pack, then back at you. "That's how I like it," he says simply.

You nod, a little too fast, tapping your foot as the silence stretches. Your mind races for a way to keep it going. "Well, you should try the cookies," you say, voice a little shaky as you slip a coin into the machine. "They're actually pretty good."

"Thanks, but I'm not really into that," Jay replies, his tone flat but not unkind.

You glance at him, searching for interest, or a flicker of attention but there's nothing. His expression stays unreadable, his eyes already drifting elsewhere. No spark, no tension, no sign that he feels even a hint of what you do. And just like that, something inside you stirs. A bitter, involuntary scent slips out, sharp enough that you feel it hit the air.

"U-Uh..." you murmur, fumbling to grab the cookie pack from the tray. Jay pauses for the briefest second, but he doesn't look back. He just turns and walks away, completely untouched by the moment you thought might lead to something.

You're left standing there, snack in hand, heart sinking fast. Your Omega retreats into silence, humiliated, like even it knows the moment was a failure.

Ningning appears beside you in an instant, throwing her arms around your shoulder. "I messed it up again," you mumble, voice caught in your throat, the sting rising faster.

"No," she says firmly, refusing to let you spiral. "Some Alphas take time. We just need more interaction, that's all." She waves her hands as if drawing a map in the air. "We'll plan it out better."

You nod quickly, already thinking through new ideas, anything to close the distance between you and him.

PARK JONGSEONG is the kind of Alpha people whisper about, composed, intelligent, clearly ahead of the curve in every class. You've seen how professors look at him when he speaks. You've watched how other students move aside when he passes. His scent, for you, is everything, It wraps around your Omega. So steady, clean, so grounding.

Except when he's ignoring you. Which is all the time.

And still, you try. Pathetically. Persistently. Every damn time.

You drop your student ID at the table he always takes in the library—a corner seat by the window, second floor, right after lunch. Ningning thought it was genius. You even positioned it just barely under the leg of the chair, so he'd have to notice.

You linger nearby, pretending to flip through a book on media ethics, waiting.

"Oh no—this yours?" The Student Council President, of all people, walks up, holding your ID. "You shouldn't be so careless. Do you know how much of a hassle it is to replace one of these?"

Your mouth opens and closes, cheeks heating up. "I—I just dropped it..."

"Well, don't just drop important things off in public spaces, lady. Be more mindful next time." He hands it to you with a huff and walks off.

You glance at Jay's table. He's still reading, pen tapping slowly against the side of his notebook. No reaction. Not even a glance in your direction.

Not. Even. A glance!

You think you're being fucking ridiculous at this point. Every carefully planned attempt, every "natural" interaction, every dumb little coincidence you set up—none of it works.

"Maybe he has a girlfriend?" Ningning says carefully, watching your expression. Your jaw tightens, fists clenching at the thought. But you shake it off fast, refusing to let that idea root.

"He doesn't smell like another Omega," you mutter, voice sharp. "You would know that. I would know that. And he's unmated."

"Woah, calm down," Ningning replies, holding up her hands. "I'm just saying... it's weird. We're on, what, attempt number five? And he's still not reacting."

You sigh, slumping against the hallway wall. "I know."

The thing is, most Alphas aren't that hard to read. They're biologically wired to notice an Omega when they're near especially one who's showing interest. A glance, a tension in the shoulders, a change in breathing. Anything.

Some Alphas are aggressive, territorial. They're the ones who scent-mark and cling too fast, too soon. Others are more careful, observant, waiting for signs of compatibility before making a move. Jay, apparently, is the third kind, the kind that doesn't react at all.

But you know he's not immune.

That first time, when you accidentally released your scent in front of him, he stiffened. You've replayed it so many times, dissected every second. He didn't look at you, didn't speak beyond handing back your things, but his body gave him away. That fleeting shift, that pause in his movement, it was something. It had to be. You've been clinging to that moment, letting it carry you through every failed attempt since. Because if you stop believing it meant something, even the smallest thing, then there's no point in trying at all.

The truth is, from the moment you caught his scent, everything inside you shifted. You knew he was the one. Your Omega didn't just react to him—it chose him. And the more time you spend near him, the more your choice solidifies. Not out of desperation or fantasy, but because of how right it feels when he's close, even if he never looks at you.

Make him yours. And you're starting to understand something you didn't at first. Subtlety had its chance. Casual conversations, timed glances, convenient run-ins—they all failed. He didn't bite.

If normal interaction isn't enough to break through that calm wall of his, then you'll have to try something else. Something bolder. Something that matches the pull your Omega feels every time he walks into a room. You're done waiting for him to notice. The plan now is to make sure he can't ignore you.

Because quiet doesn't work on someone like Jay, you need to make a little noise.

⋮ ⌗ act two

     AS SOMEONE with an unusually selective sensitivity to Alpha pheromones, you grew up wrapped in a carefully constructed kind of comfort. Your parents made sure that everything you needed—emotionally, physically, and materially—was always within reach. They knew you weren't like the other Omegas your age, who seemed to handle their instincts and hormonal shifts with far less complication.

They filled in the gaps with attention and luxury, convincing themselves and maybe even you that it wasn't a weakness, just a different kind of path. You were well taken care of, and nothing you wanted ever stayed out of reach for long. Whether it was comfort during your off days, distractions from your unresponsive instincts, or a quiet place to fall apart, it was all handed to you. Soft pillows. Favorite meals. New clothes. Extra time. Anything to soothe the ache that no one could see.

But no matter how much they gave, a part of you always knew something was missing. You didn't know how to name it then, not when everything looked so perfect on the surface. You didn't lack affection, didn't go without care. Still, the emptiness sat somewhere low in your stomach, coiling tighter every time you watched another Omega respond naturally to the presence of an Alpha, while you stayed untouched.

Your heat cycles were more like drawn-out fevers than instinct-driven events. You'd lock yourself away, curled in sweat-dampened sheets with a pounding head and aching limbs, convincing everyone that it was just another sick day. You never told them that the worst part wasn't the physical discomfort but the fact that your body was asking for something it never responded to. Nothing ever triggered the right release.

Still, you didn't mind skipping classes. You used those days as excuses to disconnect from the world, as if sleep and silence could somehow fill the void. Even if your body felt broken, the rest of your life was wrapped in ease. You learned to live with the quiet, with the stillness that followed every unanswered pull.

But the moment that Alpha stepped into your world, you knew, without needing time to process it, that he was the missing piece. The emptiness you'd been taught to manage, the dullness you had accepted as normal, suddenly felt glaring and intolerable.

For so long, you had lived a life where nothing was ever denied to you. From material comfort to emotional reassurance, everything you desired had been placed easily into your hands. It created a world where you never had to fight for anything, never had to question your worth or chase after something that resisted you. But now, you wanted something—or rather, someone—who didn't come running. Someone who didn't fall at your feet or bend to your need. And that was Jay.

"Hi," you say with a soft smile, setting your things down on the table beside him. The contents of your preppy, overstuffed bag clatter slightly—pens, lip gloss, and a pack of color-coded sticky notes shifting with the weight as you place it aside. Jay looks up, raising an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance at his table.

"There's no seat available," you explain smoothly before he can ask. When his eyes start to flick past you, probably to check if that's actually true, you casually shift your body to block his view. He hesitates for a second, then, without a word, he leans back and reaches for the empty chair beside him, pulling it out for you before returning to the book in his hand.

Your heart gives an excited flutter, the tiniest rush of victory surging through you as you slide into the chair he offered. You sit a little straighter, pretending not to be giddy while your lips curl into a quiet, triumphant smile. You glance back over your shoulder and spot Ningning at the back row. She catches your eye, hands cupped in front of her as she silently claps and flashes you a double thumbs-up. You almost laugh.

You adjust the sleeves of your cardigan with a light tug, smooth the fabric of your skirt across your lap, and begin pulling out your things—your textbook, a rainbow of highlighters, and your favorite fine-tip pens, all laid out in perfect order. As the professor enters and begins to arrange their notes, the murmurs in the lecture hall die down. You straighten your back, fingers folding neatly on your notebook, but your eyes drift to the side.

Jay sits perfectly still, his focus already back on the textbook in front of him. He hasn't said anything more, hasn't looked at you again, but the tension in your chest remains. You breathe in slowly, catching a trace of his scent in the air. It's just as sharp and grounded as you remember, a mix of something clean and deep that makes your Omega stir with quiet satisfaction.

The professor started to discuss lessons and you are practically listening and somehow taking notes to maybe impress him, and that was working because he took a glance of your side, seeing you highlighting the whole textbook words. Trying to show him that you're serious, intelligent, worthy of more than a glance.

Jay shifts slightly in his seat, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a brief flick of his gaze in your direction.

You keep your face neutral, pretending to be deep in concentration as your highlighter glides over the page. Line after line glows in soft pastel, the entire passage bathed in yellow. A tiny Hello Kitty doodle in the corner of the page, next to a heavily annotated paragraph on communication theory.

You wonder what he's thinking. If he's amused, confused, maybe even slightly entertained. A quiet giggle escapes your lips, and you bite down gently, trying to hide the smile forming there. Your foot taps lightly against the floor, energy buzzing low in your body.

You wait a moment longer, gauging the air between you. He hasn't looked again, hasn't shifted or spoken. So you take a breath and lean a little closer, turning slightly toward him. "Uh... I don't actually get this," you say, voice soft but clear as you point to a section in the textbook—an overly technical explanation on media framing you've probably already read twice. "Can you explain it to me?"

For a second, he doesn't respond. His eyes remain on his book, and you start to wonder if you've crossed a line too soon. But then he exhales quietly, closes his textbook partway, and glances at the page you're showing him. His gaze lingers there for a moment, then shifts to you. "You highlighted the whole paragraph," he says.

Your cheeks flush, but you don't back down. "I like the... vibe of it." Jay looks at you for a second longer, then he leans in slightly, his finger tapping just under a specific line on the page. "It's saying the media doesn't just tell people what to think but what to think about. Focus, not opinion."

"Oh," you murmur, nodding slowly, eyes flicking to where his hand rests just a few inches from yours. "You make it sound easier than it reads."

"I read it twice," he replies, already pulling his book back in front of him.

And though he doesn't say anything more, his voice is still in your ears. You turn your eyes back to your book, pretending to focus, even though your brain has stopped retaining anything. You don't try anything else after that one moment. That single conversation is enough to carry you through the rest of the day. It's the first time Jay acknowledged you, and it left your Omega humming.

Now, walking through the hallway with Ningning by your side, you can't stop smiling. The two of you are giggling, replaying every second of that encounter.

"He definitely wants you," Ningning says with dramatic flair, nudging your shoulder.

You laugh, blushing as you swat her playfully. "Shut up, it was just one line."

"Please. That line had chemistry." You roll your eyes, but you can't deny the heat in your cheeks or the way your heart flips at the memory.

Reaching the vending machine, you step forward, scanning the options. "Huh? No cookies?" you frown, staring at the empty slot. "Ugh, I was craving those."

Ningning leans in, also inspecting the machine. "Tragic," she says with a mock-sigh, then brightens. "What if we cut our next class and check out that new café that just opened near the plaza?"

You blink. "Tempting." Ningning pulls out her phone, scrolling before shoving it toward your face. You lean in, squinting at the tiny text, then pinch the screen to zoom. "Sixty dollars for a matcha latte?" you ask, arching a brow. "Not bad."

Ningning squeals in approval. "Okay, so we do the café and get our nails redone. We need to change the designs anyway—mine are chipped, and yours are too soft for this week's vibe."

"I was just thinking that," you nod. "I need a silver set. Like sharp silver."

"You'll slay," she says, flipping her hair. You're mid-laugh when a voice cuts through the moment.

"Excuse me." 

You and Ningning turn simultaneously, startled. Jay stands just behind you, hand gesturing toward the vending machine.

Your mouth opens. "H-Huh?" He doesn't repeat himself, just nods slightly at the machine again. You immediately step aside, your heart leaping into your throat.

"Sorry," you mutter, voice small. You grab Ningning's wrist and drag her away, heels clicking way too loudly in the suddenly echoing hallway.

You don't speak until you're halfway around the corner. Then, a panicked whisper: "Oh my god. Did he just hear us talking about skipping class?"

Ningning stares at you, wide-eyed. "I think he did."

You gasp, covering your mouth. "What if he thinks I'm irresponsible?! What if he's, like, into punctuality?"

"Oh, calm down," Ningning says, rolling her eyes and giving your shoulder a light slap. "You're hot. He'll understand."

The next day, you're back in class, you move toward the seat beside him. He doesn't look up when you settle in, but he doesn't move away either. That alone feels like a small victory.

Your bag makes its usual soft thump as you place it down, and you take a slow breath, gathering the courage to try again. Your fingers flip open your notebook, the page already prepared with today's topic scribbled in soft pencil at the top. You glance at him once, then look down at your page, pretending to be curious then turn slightly toward him.

"Sooo..." you start, "how do you think politicians build and maintain public personas? Do you think it's all strategy, or is there actual personality behind it?"

Jay's pen pauses mid-sentence. He doesn't look at you right away, but he tilts his head slightly, as if considering the question. "It's both," he says, voice even. "Strategy shapes the narrative, but personality sells it. If the public doesn't believe it's genuine, the image falls apart."

You blink, caught off guard by the depth of his response and the fact that he answered you at all. "That's... actually a good point," you say, surprised by how easily the conversation opens. "So image is controlled, but it needs to feel natural?"

He nods once, eyes still on his notes. "Authenticity matters. Or at least the illusion of it." You nod along, genuinely impressed by how he speaks. There's no flourish, no need to impress. He just says what he means. You turn slightly toward him again, emboldened by the way he hasn't shut you out.

Truth be told, you're not all that invested in the lecture or the textbook you've been pretending to highlight. You didn't choose Media Communication because you had a burning passion for media theory or policy analysis. You chose it because it was flexible, creative, and practical enough to satisfy your parents while still giving you room to breathe. You're more interested in the industry side—branding, entertainment, fashion, maybe even PR.

Your gaze drifts back to him, and without thinking too hard about it, you speak again. "You know, you're like... really serious," you say, laced with genuine curiosity. "I admire that in an Alpha. So quiet, but it's like you always know exactly what you're talking about."

That earns you a glance. "Why did you choose this major?" you ask, trying not to sound too eager. "Was it something you always wanted?"

Jay closes his book, slips a paper between the pages to mark his place, "I chose it because communication controls perception," he says. "And perception shapes power. If you want to understand influence, you have to understand how people see the world and who's deciding what they're allowed to see."

You blink, a little caught off guard by how sharp his answer is, how layered. God, he's so hot. You rest your chin on your hand, pretending to scan your notes while stealing another glance at him. His jaw is sharp from this angle, and the way he absentmindedly taps his pen against the edge of the table feels unintentionally deliberate.

"You make it sound so... intense," you say with a soft laugh, trying to sound casual.

"It's just media," he replies, eyes still on his notes. "But most people don't realize how much it controls them until it's already shaped their beliefs."

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling too hard. He's serious, and he probably doesn't even realize how attractive that is. "I just chose it because I didn't want to take calculus," you admit, shrugging. "I'm aiming more for industry—creative side. Branding. Fashion. That sort of thing."

He glances at you again. "So not here for the theory."

You laugh lightly. "Guilty."

ONE THING about Jay that you've repeated—out loud to Ningning, in your head at night, and even in your journal when you're feeling particularly lovesick—is that he's just so serious. It's not just his expression, which rarely shifts from that calm, focused look, or the way he speaks in clean, measured sentences. It's everything about him. The way he listens before speaking, the way he never fidgets or rambles, how he always seems a little detached from the chaos around him.

Conversations with him are awkward more often than not, mostly because you're doing most of the heavy lifting. You ask, he answers. You joke, he blinks. You try to steer things toward common ground, usually something from the subjects you share, but even then, getting more than a few sentences out of him is like trying to pull sunlight out of storm clouds. Still, there's something about his stillness, the way he never brushes you off, never acts annoyed or dismissive, that keeps you coming back. He may not give much, but he doesn't shut you out either. And for someone like Jay, that's saying something.

You've been trying for weeks now to catch him smile. A real one. Not just a twitch of the lips or a polite curve. You've watched his face like a hawk in lectures, in group discussions, even when someone in class said something truly ridiculous. Nothing, he's a stone wall. A beautiful stone wall.

You're walking beside him after class, textbook tucked against your chest, and your eyes flick up toward him. "Wow," you say, almost without thinking, blend with something a little more flirtatious. "You're like... so tall."

He makes a low sound in response—"Hmmm"—flat, sooo uninterested. His eyes stay forward, no change in his expression, and for a second you want to groan. Why is he like this?

You bite your lip, forcing a small laugh as you quicken your steps to stay beside him. "It's normal for an Alpha to be tall, right?" you continue, "Is that, like, a biological thing or just unfair genetics?"

A beat of silence that almost makes you think he's going to ignore you again—but then, finally, he speaks. "I guess height's common," he says. "It's just bone structure. Has nothing to do with whether or not someone can protect or lead."

And just like that, the conversation slips right back into that oddly philosophical tone he always seems to carry. You blink, unsure whether to be impressed again or just plain exhausted. You hug your textbook tighter to your chest and glance at him, lips parting, but nothing comes out. Because really, what do you even say to that? You were joking. Kind of. Or at least trying to keep things playful. Flirty, maybe. And here he is, treating the topic of Alpha height like it's part of some dissertation.

Why is he like this? Why does every conversation with him end up sounding like it belongs in a debate or a textbook? You let out a soft sigh, almost defeated. Does he not have a sense of humor? At all? Has he ever laughed? Like, genuinely?

He's not cold, and he's not mean—he just seems like he's wired to take everything seriously, to filter everything through logic and restraint. Like the idea of saying something stupid just for fun physically pains him.

"I know there's something under that ice," you mutter as you find yourself collapsing into a seat beside Ningning. "I just haven't figured out how to melt it yet."

Ningning leans in, suddenly serious. "Okay. Then stop letting him steer the tone. Flip it."

You blink. "Flip it?"

"You keep asking him about himself—his thoughts, his perfectly structured, emotionally stunted worldview," she says, waving her hand dramatically. "Ask him something about you. Throw him off. Put him in unfamiliar territory."

You frown, considering. "Like what? My childhood trauma?"

"No!" She glares. "Keep it cute, dumbass. Ask him what nail color suits you. Or what your color palette is. Something visual. Something he wouldn't expect. Make him look at you as you. Not a classmate, not a discussion partner—you."

You blink at her, then slowly sit up, a grin creeping across your face. "That's actually kind of genius."

Ningning preens. "Of course it is. I should start charging for advice."

The next time you see Jay after class, while walking beside him down the stone path lined with early autumn leaves—you wait until the conversation dips into its usual silence. You look down at your nails, freshly done with a soft nude polish and silver accents, then glance at him.

"Hey," you say casually, turning toward him slightly, "be honest. What color do you think would look good on my nails?"

"I—what?" He says. You lift your hand, fingers fanned slightly. He looks at your hand, and for the first time in weeks of trying, he actually hesitates.

"Why are you asking me?"

You raise a brow, keeping your voice light. "Because you have eyes, and I figured you might know what looks good. You're observant. Aren't Alphas supposed to be visually sharp or something?"

Jay's expression doesn't shift much, just that same slow, processing look he gives to everything. As if he's trying to figure out if this is a trick question. "I'm not really an expert on nail colors," he replies.

"Exactly why your answer would be interesting," you say, not letting up. "No overthinking. Just—what do you think would look good?"

He stares at your hand a moment longer, his brows narrowing slightly in thought. "Dark red. Or emerald. Something that contrasts."

You blink, surprised not just by the answer, but by how confidently he says it once he decides. "Really?" you ask, grinning. "Why?"

"Because it would stand out. You wear a lot of soft tones. That would break it."

You pause, smile lingering. Your Omega purrs beneath the surface, pleased by his answer. You didn't even realize you were releasing pheromones until you caught his glance again, he felt it but chose not to say anything. You quickly pulled back, muttering your goodbye before walking away, your steps light, body buzzing with something that made you feel like you could float. Or run. Or scream.

Ningning fans herself dramatically as you finish the story, eyes wide and lips parted like she's about to faint.

"I need to breathe. I actually need to lie down. This is too much. He wants you that bad."

Over the next few days, you find yourself leaning in more, talking more, weaving pieces of yourself into the quiet spaces he allows you to fill. You know you're chasing him. Carefully. Waiting for him to slip just enough to let you in.

You tell him about your shopping trip with your parents, narrating it like a story you hope he'll secretly enjoy. You pull out your phone and show him your new emerald nail set, his suggestion—and even though he only glances and gives a barely-there nod, your heart races.

Today, you're back beside him again, phone already in hand before class starts. He's reading—he's always reading—but you angle the screen toward him anyway.

"Look," you say softly, tilting your phone so he can see. "This is the new design for the Flower Knows. Isn't it cute?"

He barely lifts his gaze. "Hmm."

"I'm planning to buy the whole set," you continue, your tone light with just enough excitement to keep the conversation moving. "The design is so cute—it's like, magical fairy princess energy."

You start digging through your bag, rummaging past highlighters and hand cream, determined to show him more proof of your obsession. "And look—this clip? Also from Flower Knows. And my mirror, too."

You finally pull it out and hold it up between you. It's pastel pink with gold accents, the mirror rimmed with delicate little flowers and a tiny pearl charm dangling from the corner. You tilt it toward him with a proud smile. "Cute, right?"

Jay glances up, gaze flicking to the mirror in your hand. He studies it for a beat longer than usual, eyes moving across the details before they shift back to your face. Yes, attention!

Your Omega stirs instantly, thrilled by the flicker of focus. "You really like this brand," he says.

Your eyes sparkle at the sound, and you nod, heart fluttering. "I do," you say, tone bright. "They make everything so pretty—romantic, even. It's like they design everything with soft people in mind."

Without missing a beat, you shuffle through your bag again, fingers brushing past pens and notebooks until they close around the familiar small tube. You pull it out and hold it in front of him, the packaging all shimmering red and pink. "This is my favorite," you say, showing him the lip glaze. "It came from the set called Strawberry Cupid. Even the name's adorable."

You twist off the cap and hold the wand up, careful not to get it too close. "It smells like candy, and it's got this tiny gold shimmer in it. I'd let you try it, but I don't think that's your vibe."

Jay doesn't respond, just silence as he calmly turns back to his textbook. The brief moment of attention is gone again, and you're left staring at the side of his face. But you don't stop. You refuse to stop. You lower the gloss, cap it again, and rest your elbow on the table, head tilting slightly as your eyes drop to his hand—broad, still, resting lightly over the open page of his book. His fingers are long, neat, relaxed.

"Stop it, Jay," you say, a teasing lilt in your voice. "Your hand is like sooo big." He doesn't move, but his pen pauses in place. You slide your hand next to his on the table, palms flat, fingers stretching to match his. The size difference is comically obvious.

"Look at this," you say, eyes flicking between your hand and his. "This is ridiculous. I look like a baby." Still no verbal reply, but his eyes shift to the sight of your hand beside his. "You could literally hold my entire face with one hand," you add, smirking.

Jay exhales, finally speaking, tone flat. "Why would I do that?"

"Dramatic emphasis," you reply without hesitation, grinning.

You expect him to ignore you again. Instead, he flips the page in his textbook, slowly, and mutters under his breath, "You're so fucking loud."

It should sting. Maybe from someone else, it would. But from him? The words are dipped different—dry annoyance with no real bite. There's no edge, no tension, just the sound of someone resigned to your presence. Your smile creeps in. You lean in, shoulder gently nudging his with the kind of softness that borders on familiarity, even if he hasn't quite given it to you yet. "Sorry," you whisper, all fake innocence and playful sweetness, like you didn't just take another step into his space on purpose.

His shoulder stays pressed lightly against yours, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. And for someone like Jay, who seems to guard every inch of his presence, that quiet stillness feels louder than anything he could say.

⋮ ⌗ act three

     "ARE YOU seriously telling me," Giselle says, crossing her arms with a look of pure judgment, "that after three months, all you've done is compare hand sizes with him?" She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her tone teetering between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.

Before you can even open your mouth, Ningning jumps in ready to defend your honor. "He's an unmated Alpha, Giselle! That means it's a big deal. He doesn't even look at people—he looked at her! That's progress."

Giselle snorts. "Bitch, at this rate, she could be asking him if he can help her with her heat. You've got permission to flirt, not write a slow-burn tragedy."

You gasp, swatting her playfully. "Stop it! I am not ready for the R-18 version of my life yet." You wave your finger in front of her face, trying not to laugh as Ningning snickers beside you. "I'm building a connection," you say, mock-offended but fully grinning. "You don't rush art."

You're not in a rush because you enjoy it—every small, awkward, quiet moment with Jay. Even when he gives you nothing. Even when he sighs like he's this close to telling you to leave him alone. You still slip into the seat next to him, still nudge his shoulder with yours, still talk about nail polish and dessert-shaped blush compacts.

The bond might not be spoken or returned yet, but it's there, and in every moment he lets you stay.

"Ayoo? What's with the two of you lately?" Yeonjun calls out, grinning. A chorus of teasing follows from a few classmates, the usual ooohs and wolf whistles echoing louder than necessary. You instinctively push a strand of hair behind your ear, face warming as you try to brush off the attention.

"Stop it, guys," you mutter, rolling your eyes and waving them off. Jay, of course, doesn't respond. He just walks to his usual seat, unfazed, calm as ever. But you catch the slight tightening of his jaw. The way he adjusts his bag a little more roughly than usual before sitting down.

You follow, naturally, and as you pass Yeonjun, you give him a light kick to the side of his foot, just enough to make your point. "Asshole," you hiss under your breath. "Lover girl," he sings back, winking. You ignore him and slide into the seat beside Jay, acting like your heart isn't pounding.

Jay doesn't say anything when you sit beside him. You try not to let it bother you. You tell yourself he's probably tired, or focused on the lecture, or maybe in one of his quiet moods again. Still, halfway through class, you lean in a little, whispering something light—maybe a comment about the ridiculous diagram on the slide. Something harmless, something that usually gets you a sigh, a glance, something.

Instead, all you get is a sharp click of his tongue, like you're a fly buzzing too close to his ear. You freeze, pouting slightly as you pull back. The sting isn't sharp, but it's enough to make your Omega shrink a little, unsettled by the rejection. He's never been warm, never welcoming, but he's never snapped either—not like this.

You spend the rest of the lecture trying to focus, eyes flicking to him now and then, hoping he'll say something that'll make it feel less harsh. He just stays silent, attention locked on the lecture like you don't even exist beside him.

When the class finally ends and students begin packing up, you gather your things slowly, debating if you should say something at all. "Do you want to have lunch together?" you ask, voice trying to sound casual, hopeful. "KFC's maybe? Or Wendy's? I'm, like, really craving fast food right now—"

Jay stops mid-motion, his hand frozen over his bag. Then, without even looking at you, he speaks. "Would you please leave me alone?"

You flinch. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. A soft, involuntary whine escapes your throat, your Omega reacting before your brain does. You stare at him, stunned, lips parted in disbelief.

"I don't know what you want from me," he says, finally turning to look at you. His face isn't just unreadable now—it's annoyed. "But I'm fucking sick of tolerating your presence."

Your stomach drops. The air feels colder, every word sinks deep into your chest, past the teasing, the efforts, the months of hope. "Leave me alone. It's annoying. We're not even friends," Jay says, and then he turns away.

Your eyes begin to blur, the weight of humiliation building too fast to swallow down. You inhale sharply, trying to hold it in, trying not to let it show but your Omega doesn't listen. It reacts, a wave of distressed pheromones leaks from your skin. You step back instinctively, shoulders curling inward as you twist away, walking fast in the opposite direction.

You missed the way Jay stop his steps and looked back at your retreating figure.

You focus on your steps, your breathing, anything to distract yourself from the way your chest feels like it's caving in. The hallway seems longer than usual, you feel the subtle shift in the atmosphere as you pass other students, their gazes following you, some of them turning their heads slightly, noses lifting as they catch the scent of your distress.

You duck into an empty hallway, one rarely used between classes, and slip into the corner near a closed-off faculty room. There, out of sight, you finally let yourself breathe as your hands tremble against the cool wall.

Your Omega coils in your chest, quiet but wounded. It doesn't understand. Alphas aren't supposed to reject so harshly. Not when there's been a connection. Not when you've tried this hard. Not when every instinct told you he was the one. But you remind yourself—Jay is different. He always has been. Cold, closed-off, serious to a fault. And today... maybe today he's just having a bad day. Maybe something pushed him too far, and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You should've backed off sooner. You should've noticed the signs.

You had gotten comfortable, too comfortable, that's right. You let yourself believe that his tolerance meant quiet acceptance. You convinced yourself he was letting you in, little by little. But maybe you crossed a line he never gave you permission to approach.

You press your palms to your face, grounding yourself with the contact. You can't cry here. Not now. You have to calm down. Hide the scent. Regain control. You're not his Omega. He never claimed you. Never promised you attention, affection, or anything beyond silence. If he wants space, if your presence has started to feel more like pressure than connection, then you'll give him that.

But that doesn't mean you're giving up. You let your forehead rest against the cool wall, inhaling deeply, trying to draw your scent back under control. Your Omega, though bruised, isn't broken. It whimpers, but it doesn't turn away. You can give him time. You can give him distance. You can even pretend not to care when you pass him in the hallway or when he walks into class like you don't exist but you're not walking away. Not now.

"It's not rejection," you say, trying to keep your voice steady as you explain yourself to your friends later that afternoon. "It's resistance."

The three of you are sprawled across Ningning's bed, surrounded by takeout containers, open makeup palettes, and the unmistakable comfort of long, unfiltered conversations. The topic has shifted—again—to Jay.

Giselle scoffs from the foot of the bed, tossing her phone onto the blanket. "Isn't it unhealthy for an Omega to keep chasing someone who keeps bruising your bond like this? You need to find a new Alpha. Preferably one who actually talks."

You sigh, pressing your palm to your forehead. "You don't get it. He is my Alpha. I can feel it."

"No, you're just being delusional," she mutters.

"No, seriously—" you sit up a little straighter, voice more defensive than you'd like—"I've been pushing too hard. I know that. He's not the type who responds to pressure. I should've paced myself."

Ningning, who's been quiet until now, hums as she applies cuticle oil. "His walls are so high. You're gonna throw out your shoulder knocking like that."

"I'm not stopping," you say, shaking your head. "I just need to knock quieter. That's all."

There's a beat of silence before Giselle shoots you the most deadpan look imaginable. "You literally sound insane." You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say a word, Ningning chimes in without even looking up from her phone. "Let her be," she says, popping a gummy into her mouth. "She's a walking 22-year-old virgin who hasn't spent a single heat with an Alpha since her first one. She's overdue for a little delusion." She pauses, then adds with a knowing smirk, "Besides—Jay is hot. If I were feeling the bond with someone like him, I'd be annoying 24/7 too.

You shove a pillow at her with a groan. "I am not annoying!"

Still, the next day, you choose not to sit beside him.

You walk into the lecture hall early, find a spot a few rows behind his usual seat, and keep your head down as students filter in. When Jay walks in and takes his usual seat, you stay still behind your book, peeking just slightly over the top to watch him placing his things down. Then he reaches for something on the desk.

There, resting against his notebook, is a small box of almond chocolates—his favorite—and a pale pink sticky note with your handwriting:

I'm sorry :<

He stares at it for a moment, no visible change in his expression. Just the smallest pause as he reads the note. Then, slowly, his eyes lift and lock onto yours. You freeze behind your book, immediately ducking your head lower, pretending to read, cheeks burning.

The next day, and the one after that, and the one after that still—you keep leaving small things for him. Almond chocolates, the occasional matcha drink, and those tiny, handwritten notes folded carefully on top. Hope you're not too tired today. Good luck on your quiz. This one has extra almonds. Thought you'd like that.

You don't speak to him. You don't sit beside him again. You don't even make eye contact. You just leave them, quietly, and watch from a distance—sometimes through the gap between your fingers, sometimes from behind your open book, pretending to be invested in your notes. And every time he takes them, your Omega flutters with soft satisfaction. He never says thank you, never even glances your way, but he takes them. That's enough. That means something... doesn't it?

Until it doesn't.

That afternoon, after a particularly long lecture, the room empties slowly. Jay rises from his seat, slips his bag over his shoulder, and walks out like usual. You follow—at a distance, your steps soft and measured, like you're just heading in the same direction. But as you round the corner into the hallway, you see him stop by one of the large trash bins outside the exit. You pause instinctively, half-hidden behind the corner, confused.

Then you watch. He takes the small snack bag you'd given him that morning—still unopened—and the note still clinging to the wrapper with your careful handwriting. You expect him to tuck it into his bag like he always does.

Instead, he drops it straight into the trash. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him toss it in casually. He walks away without a backward glance. You stay frozen in place, unable to move. Your arms hang limp at your sides, your fingers trembling.

Your steps are slow as you walk toward the bin, you kneel beside it, reaching in carefully, pulling out the small snack bag you'd wrapped with quiet hope that morning. The note is still stuck to the front, your handwriting slightly crinkled now, and there's a smear of dust on the plastic.

You brush it off gently with your fingers, your vision blurs again, and this time, you don't try to stop it. One tear slips past your lashes, then another, rolling down your cheek as your lips press together in a tight pout. You blink down at the chocolate, hugging it to your chest.

"Sighs..." you whisper to yourself, trying to breathe through the heaviness in your chest, the sting in your throat. "I think... the things I've been giving him just aren't his taste."

You wipe your cheek, trying to laugh at yourself but failing. "Maybe I just went overboard," you murmur, looking down at the crumpled note. "Maybe it's my fault for pushing too hard."

You press your lips together, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to stand a little straighter, to feel a little less small. "I think I'm gonna need... a little break."

⋮ ⌗ act four

     "HEY, Omega, can you get that book over there?"

You don't look up. Your eyes remain fixed on your nails, turning your hand slightly under the light, examining the way the gloss catches at the curve of your cuticles. You're mentally circling between two shades—pearl lavender or muted coral—and trying to picture which would match better with the new outfit you've had saved in your cart for weeks. Your thoughts drift again, this time to the Girlcult makeup set Ningning brought back from her trip to China. The packaging was ethereal, like it came from another world. You want it badly. The blush alone looks like a soft dream.

"Hey, Omega, I said get that book."

The same voice, sharper this time. You still don't look up. Instead, you straighten your fingers and flex them once more, admiring the length you've managed to grow out. Not bad. Not too long either. You make a mental note to book a silver chrome set next week, something reflective. You're already planning your errands after this group meeting, maybe squeeze in some bubble tea, maybe check the thrift shop two blocks down.

You're not even sure if being in the same group as Jay is luck or a cosmic joke. You've stopped chasing him—paused, really—told yourself you'd shift your focus back to yourself. You haven't talked to him since that day in the hallway. Haven't even looked at him directly. You've been pretending, performing the role of the girl who's moved on, who's reclaiming her time and redirecting her energy.

And maybe... maybe it's not all a lie.

You're starting to remember what your life was like before he stepped into it. You used to think he was the missing puzzle piece, the final shape to make you feel whole. But lately, you've started wondering—what if that puzzle piece was never meant for your life? What if it was too sharp, too heavy, too incompatible, no matter how perfect it looked from the outside?

You snort quietly to yourself, the thought making your lips curl. What a ridiculous metaphor. But then again, you've been living inside one long, drawn-out metaphor for months now.

"I think he's talking to you," your classmate beside you whispers, nudging your arm.

You finally glance up, slowly, turning your head toward the group. The guy across the table—one of your assigned groupmates, name forgotten—stares at you with thinly veiled irritation, clearly waiting.

Your eyes shift lazily to the book he's pointing at on the next table, then just as quickly, return your focus to your nails. You study the shimmer of the topcoat, the slight chip on your thumb, the way the light catches at the curve of your cuticle like it deserves more attention than the boy sitting across from you.

"No," you say, voice flat, disinterested, unapologetically dismissive. "Get it yourself."

You don't even look at him when he tenses. "Bitch," he mutters under his breath, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to pretend it was an accident. He stands up with more aggression than necessary, his chair scraping the floor as he strides toward the book and snatches it up from beside you. The motion sends a wave of his scent into the air, unrefined, bitter, and arrogant. The kind of pheromones that announce a need for dominance rather than any actual strength.

You sniff, subtly, wrinkling your nose at the pungent trail left in his wake. You press your lips together in annoyance, roll your eyes, and lean further back into your seat. Across the table, the other Omegas in your group shift in their seats, instinctively straightening their spines, adjusting their posture, some avoiding eye contact altogether.

You sigh through your nose, blowing lightly on your nails to dry them, annoyed by the way his pheromones cling to the air like spoiled cologne. 

Geez. Alphas and their fucking pheromones. Always so loud, so desperate to remind everyone who and what they are. Like the rest of you couldn't already tell the second they entered a room—the posturing, the tone, the overconfident glances, and worst of all, the way their scent fills up the space without permission.

The air still feels saturated when the guy flops back into his seat, smug, clearly thinking he's made a point, display of Alpha irritation.

"Contain your pheromones," a voice says, "or leave."

Heads turn. Your own heart skips in a way you hate to admit, and when you look up, Jay is already staring—his eyes hard, fixed on the Alpha who had just returned to his seat.

The boy shifts, clearly startled by the sudden command, shoulders stiffening as he mutters a quiet "Sorry," and adjusts his seat, shrinking ever so slightly, signal that he knows his place in this moment. He won't challenge it.

You don't know the mechanics of how Alphas seem to instinctively understand where they fall in the unspoken hierarchy of power, how one look or tone can be enough to force silence from someone who just seconds ago thought they were the loudest voice in the room. And Jay didn't raise his voice. He didn't bare teeth. He didn't do anything except exist in that moment with enough intensity to silence another Alpha without breaking a sweat.

Your Omega, which has been stubbornly quiet ever since you promised yourself to stop chasing him, curls subtly inside you. As if it remembered something you've spent days trying to forget. As if it's reminding you that no matter how cold his words were last time, no matter how many days you spent replaying them in your head until they broke you down—he still has that effect on you.

You mentally curse yourself for letting it happen, for giving him that piece of your attention again over something so minimal. He didn't even do it for you. You sit through the rest of the group meeting in silence, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes on the clock instead of the people around you. You just want to finish this, get out, and focus on the rest of your day—the things that don't involve Jay or his infuriating gravity.

At the end of the meeting, Jay stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder, his tone cool and clipped as always. "I'll be sending a link to our group chat. Check it regularly. I'll monitor your progress there. Meeting dismissed. I hope you all play your parts well."

You're already halfway out of your seat, eager to breathe air that doesn't smell like Alpha ego or quiet tension. You gather your things, mentally going over your to-do list. But then, just as you're zipping your bag shut, you feel a presence behind you. A very specific one.

Your shoulders freeze. "Huh?" The sound escapes you as you turn—and there he is. Jay. Standing directly in front of you. Towering, and composed. And despite everything, your stupid heart does that ridiculous flutter. Worse, your Omega purrs at the nearness of him, curling up.

Shut up, you scream at yourself internally.

"Your number," he says flatly.

You blink. "My what?"

"Your number," he repeats, irritation edging into his voice. "Everyone else wrote theirs down. You didn't. You were too busy with your nails."

Ouch. Wordless, you take the phone he's holding out to you. Your nails click sharply against the screen as you type the digits in without looking at him, hit save, and hand the phone back in one clean motion.

And then you're gone. You grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and walk. Stupid. Stupid feelings. Stupid Omega being submissive at a single glance like a lovesick fool.

You manage to avoid Jay at least as much as someone can when stuck in the same group project. As long as you submit your parts on time, follow whatever standards he insists on, and keep your head down, you figure you can survive the rest of the semester with your pride mostly intact.

Still, that doesn't mean you don't notice him. It's impossible not to. Jay is effortlessly composed when he works, all clean lines and focus, voice low but commanding in the way that makes people listen without question. It makes you roll your eyes every time one of the other Omegas in your group drifts closer than necessary, pretending they need him to review something just for a whiff of his scent.

You watch it all unfold from your seat—one girl biting her lip, leaning over the table, another brushing her fingers too close to his. You can see what they're doing from a mile away. 

Pathetic, you think, scoffing silently. Why isn't he cold to them? Why does he let them stay close, speak freely, like he's not made of ice and silence? When you tried—when you pushed just a little closer—he burned you for it.

It's not fair. But fine. Whatever. You keep walking like it doesn't bother you, like you've got better things to think about than Jay and the unfair softness he shows to people who aren't you.

You're halfway down the hall between classes when Yeonjun spots you. He slings an arm across your shoulder like you're best friends. "What happened between you and Jay?" he asks, almost sing-song. "It's kind of sudden, you know? You two went from talking all the time to... nothing."

You roll your eyes and shrug his arm off, but he only cackles and throws it right back around you, dragging you a little closer as you walk. "Come on," he prods. "Tell me. Did you break up or something?"

"First of all, fuck off," you mutter, elbowing him in the side. "We weren't a thing to begin with. I just figured out that maybe he doesn't like company, so... friendship over." The words sting especially when you remember exactly what Jay said that day. "We're not even friends."

Yeonjun winces dramatically. "Yooo, that's brutal. And here I thought you had someone lined up for your next heat."

You whirl on him, scandalized. "Stop talking about my heat!"

He laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world. "I know I get moody during pre-heat, okay?" you continue, huffing as your steps grow heavier. "I know I get annoying. Sorry if that's inconvenient for everyone." And just for emphasis, you stomp down hard on his foot.

He yelps. "Ow! Is that how you apologize?!"

You glare at him. "Bitch, these are Louboutins. Don't test me."

He gasps, stepping right back on your foot in retaliation. "Designer or not, that was uncalled for!"

You've managed to keep your mind light, your mood even lighter. You spent the afternoon giggling over new makeup releases and trying on three different outfits before settling on the one that made you feel just a little too confident. You even let one of your classmates borrow your Chanel perfume, the limited edition one that cost more than most people's weekly groceries. That alone says a lot about your good mood.

"This scent is so good! It's so long-lasting!" the girl gushes, practically bouncing in her seat as she sprays another generous mist onto her wrists and neck.

You wave your hand in front of your face, before turning back to your conversation with Ningning. She's already pulling up swatches of a new lipstick line, and you're halfway through deciding whether Burnt Rose or Peach Silk suits your skin tone more.

Until the moment Jay walks straight toward your table.

"Hey."

Your smile falters, but you hold your composure. Ningning immediately straightens, and you feel her pinch your leg under the table. You don't react. Instead, you retaliate with a subtle kick to her foot, keeping your expression as neutral as possible while turning your head slowly toward him. Jay stands there with one hand gripping the strap of his bag, his eyes fixed on you with that same expression he always wears, cool but unmistakably annoyed.

"W-What's up?" you ask, hoping your tone sounds casual even though your Omega is already squirming, stupidly alert under his gaze.

He narrows his eyes. "Where the hell did you get the source for your part of the group output?"

You blink. "Huh?"

Jay pulls out a folded printout and slaps it onto the table in front of you. You recognize your paragraph immediately—highlighted, annotated, and very, very questioned.

"That," he says, tapping the page, "reads like it was pulled from a blog post written in 2007."

You squint at it, leaning forward. "I mean... it's informative."

"Where did you get it?" he repeats, more firm this time.

You glance at Ningning, who looks like she's holding in a laugh, and then shrug a little, hoping the smile you offer is at least semi-charming.

"U-uh... Wikipedia?" Jay's expression goes flat. Like truly, utterly done-with-your-shit flat. You watch his jaw shift slightly before he inhales and exhales. "Are you kidding me?"

"I added bullet points?"

"I told everyone to use peer-reviewed journals."

"I thought Wikipedia was, like... collaborative academia?"

He gives you a look, the kind that doesn't even require words to communicate just how unimpressed he is. Then he scoffs. "Meet me at the library. 4:30," he says, already turning away. "You're going to repeat this shit."

Shit? What a mean guy! Jay is so mean!

When the time comes, you're at the library exactly at 4:27. You've changed into something a little more presentable. You even brought real sources this time: three articles you barely skimmed and one you printed just because it looked like it had graphs in it.

You walk toward the group study section, scanning the long tables until you see him—Jay, already seated, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, laptop open in front of him. One hand rests on the keyboard, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. You approach cautiously, pulling out the chair across from him. "Hi," you say, quietly. You sit down, trying to slide your printouts toward him.

He barely glances up. "Do you even know what the research topic is?"

You pause. "Media manipulation in digital spaces."

"What's your angle?"

You blink. "Angle?"

Jay leans back in his chair and exhales, clearly restraining himself from saying something cruel. He rubs his temple for a second, then looks at you fully. "I need you to actually try today," he says.

You nod, more serious now. "Okay. I'll try. I am trying."

He watches you for a moment longer, then gestures to your stack of papers. "Start by telling me why you picked those."

You look down at your papers and clear your throat, suddenly aware of how quiet the library is and how loud your pulse feels in your ears. "I thought the one with the graphs would impress you..."

Jay closes his eyes for a moment, not even sighing anymore, just exhaling through his nose like he's trying to summon patience from a part of himself that's already empty.

From there, the next hour becomes a slow kind of hell. Jay doesn't just skim your work or toss it aside. He makes you repeat it—all of it. Line by line, paragraph by paragraph. He makes you read it aloud, then explain what each section means in your own words. You try to follow, but his questions come fast and firm, drilling into the parts you only half-understood, peeling away the fluff you thought might pass.

And it becomes painfully clear, to both of you, that you don't know what the hell you're talking about.

You stammer your way through vague definitions, hope a few filler words will distract him, even throw in a shrug and a weak laugh at one point, but it's useless. His expression never changes. He just stares, waiting for a real answer that never comes.

It's not like you wanted to be useless. It's just—why does this topic have to be so soul-crushingly dull? Media manipulation in digital spaces? Who even cares? You'd rather re-organize your lipstick drawer alphabetically and by tone than sit through another journal article about algorithmic bias and digital literacy. And yeah, maybe you chose the wrong major. But still, it's not like you're trying to drag the group down on purpose.

Jay finally leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes still locked on you with that same, merciless calm. "I'm going to monitor your progress from now on," he says, "If you want to fail, that's your business. But don't take the group down with you."

You blink, stunned, not sure if you're more embarrassed or pissed. "Other people are working hard to get what they want. Be mindful of your attitude," he continues. "If I see you half-assing this again, I'll pull you out of the group myself."

You just sit there, mouth slightly open, because—what the actual fuck? There's a long pause as he packs his things neatly, methodically. And all you can think is: That was so hot.

God, you hate yourself. Because that shouldn't have been attractive. The tone, the authority, the focus, the absolute lack of patience for your bullshit—none of it should've made your heart flutter. And yet, there it is. That annoying, heavy thump in your chest, that quiet curl of heat in your stomach that says yes Alpha, scold me more, and you genuinely want to scream into your tote bag.

What the hell is wrong with you?! You glare at him as he pushes his chair back and stands up, towering over you.You used to like him? You wanted to bond with that?

He grabs his bag and walks off without another word, and you're left staring at his retreating back, jaw tight, fists clenched in your lap. What about what you want to have? What about your dreams? What about the fact that you're trying your best to live, breathe, and survive your academic burnout in peace?

     AND YOU'RE starting to think Jay's entire academic mission in life is to personally destroy any shred of peace you have left. Maybe he's taken it upon himself to make sure you never get the luxury of coasting through college with eyeliner perfectly winged and notes scribbled in pink ink. Because every single time—every single fucking time—you submit something for the group work, he reads it, glances at you like you just personally offended the concept of intelligence, and hands it back with that cold expression that somehow hurts more than yelling ever could.

Jay leans back in his seat, flipping through the stapled pages you handed him five minutes ago. His jaw is tight, brows drawn as his eyes scan the words. You've already started chewing on the inside of your cheek, fingers tapping nervously against your notebook as you wait for the inevitable.

He exhales, and you already know what's coming. "Repeat this," he says, placing the papers in front of you. "Out loud. Paragraph one. Let's go."

You blink, confused. "You want me to read it?"

"No. I want you to explain it," he replies. "Read it out loud, then tell me what it means. If you can't even do that, what are we doing here?"

Your mouth opens, you lower your gaze and start reading, voice wobbling slightly as you stumble through your opening paragraph. It's not even bad writing—at least, not in your opinion—but when Jay stops you halfway through and points out a vague phrase, you already know you're in for another hour of this.

"What do you mean by 'societal shifts influence perception'?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

You blink. "Like... when society changes, people... think differently?"

Jay just stares, filled with judgment, as if he's holding back a lecture you probably deserve.

"Okay," you add quickly, trying to fix it. "I meant that media narratives change based on what society is focused on. Like trends. Or politics. Or cultural stuff—"

"You wrote that it influences perception subtly, not directly," he interrupts, "what evidence do you have for that claim?"

Your mouth opens again. Nothing. "If you're going to write like that, you need to know what you're saying. You don't write just to sound smart. You write to prove a point. Understand the difference."

Your face burns as the words hit. You look at him, then back at your paper, your throat tightening with a quiet mix of shame and frustration.  Maybe you are the weakest link in the group. Maybe he's right to be this intense.

Still, your pride kicks in, even if it's bruised. "Fine," you mutter. "I'll fix it."

Jay doesn't say anything. He just nods once, and starts typing again on his laptop like he didn't just deliver a verbal slap to your ego. You stare at your paper, the corners slightly bent, the ink smudged near the margin where your hand had rested too long. You don't even know what you're doing anymore. You thought you were doing it right. You thought your revisions were enough. But every time you hand him a draft, he finds something else wrong with it. Too vague. Too shallow. Too casual. Then when you finally overcompensate and make it dense, academic, he tells you it's too overexplained. Redundant. Forced.

You're caught in a loop of not-good-enough, and no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to get it right.

But the worst part is you still want to impress him. You still want him to look at something you've done and actually pause. To read your words and see you through them. Not just tolerate your work, not just skim it and correct it like it's another chore—see you. And maybe that's pathetic. Maybe that's your Omega talking again, that deep, aching need to be acknowledged, to be worthy.

So you double down. You study harder. You stay up late rereading articles, highlighting passages you barely understand but force yourself to analyze. You start drafting, rewriting, reformatting, again and again, until your vision blurs. You give up your free time, your peace, and slowly, without noticing, everything else begins to fall away.

You don't realize how long it's been since your last self-care day. How your perfectly manicured nails have started to chip around the edges, the gloss dulled and peeling. You can't remember the last time you joined Giselle and Ningning for a boba run, or went out shopping just to feel cute, or even indulged in a quiet, overpriced matcha latte while scrolling through lip gloss swatches and pretending your life was still soft and simple.

You've skipped parties. Canceled lunch dates with your girlfriends. You haven't even opened that package of new lashes you ordered two weeks ago.

You're too busy chasing a moving target. One that wears black sweaters and critiques your grammar. Your planner is full of deadlines and corrections now. Your lipstick is worn off by mid-afternoon. Your back aches from sitting in stiff library chairs too long, trying to fix a sentence for the fifth time because Jay didn't like the way it sounded.

"Girl, I'm going to set a schedule later for my lashes and nails," Ningning announces cheerfully, flipping through her phone as you sit beside her in the campus café. "Want to join? Or are you too busy trying to impress Mr. Alpha again?"

She wiggles her eyebrows dramatically, and you let out a long, heavy sigh as you slump forward, resting your forehead against the edge of the table. The paper you've spent the past two nights slaving over lies flat in front of you—neatly printed, annotated with references. You've read it three times already and rechecked your citations. You even color-coded the margins for clarity, just in case Jay needs yet another excuse to nitpick.

"I'm satisfied with this," you murmur, voice muffled against the table. "This time, it's solid. No room for criticism. I met every single one of his standards. I even used academic journals and added a transitional thesis. If he questions me again, I'm ready to defend it like my life depends on it."

Ningning raises an impressed brow. "Well, goodluck, babe." You lift your head slowly, exhaling as if you've run a marathon. "Thanks."

She grins and reaches across the table to squeeze your hand. "Okay, good. Because once this is over, you're coming with me. Nail care, hand massage, and I'm thinking a soft almond-shaped acrylic set for both of us. I'll send my inspo to your messages, and we can hit the spa together. Maybe swing by Dior? Just a quick peek."

The moment she says it, something in you lifts. "Count me in," you say, finally smiling. "Full hand care, nails, the works. I'm thinking soft chrome this time. I'll send you the mood board later."

Ningning lets out a delighted squeal, clapping her hands in excitement. "Thank you, God! She's back! You finally have time for yourself again!"

You laugh, the kind of laugh that feels real after so many tense days. "So... does that mean I'm allowed to come to the party tomorrow night?"

Her eyes widen. "Wait, what?! You're actually going?" You nod, biting your lip like the idea excites you more.

     YOU CLUTCH your final draft in both hands as you make your way toward the library. Your mood is still high, the conversation with Ningning echoing in your mind. You can already feel the scent of the spa oils in your imagination, hear the bubbling jets of the foot bath, see the pale pink Dior bag swinging from your wrist.

You're ready for peace again. You enter the library and spot Jay at the usual table, eyes glued to his laptop as always. You walk over, straighten your shoulders, and place the paper gently in front of him. He glances at it, says nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, he picks it up and starts reading.

You sit across from him, waiting. Trying not to fidget. Trying not to let your nails dig into your palm when he pauses at paragraph three. He flips a page. Eyes narrow. Brows twitch. Then comes the inevitable—he looks up.

"This part here," he says, pointing to the section you rewrote three separate times, "it's too vague again. You're brushing over your argument. What do you actually mean here?"

You blink. "What?" you whisper.

He turns the page again. "And here, this is fine, but it's padded. Cut the filler. Focus on your point."

Your heart sinks. "You're kidding, right?"

Jay looks up, calm as ever. "This isn't clear enough to include in the final draft. You'll need to revise it again."

Something in you cracks. You don't say anything. You think about all the nights you stayed up rewriting that same paragraph. You think about how you skipped lunch three times this week to finish this stupid draft, how you canceled plans, missed parties, ignored calls, stopped living—just for this. Just to hear him say it was good enough.

You're just... tired. The kind of tired that isn't about sleep or stress, but about the feeling that you're endlessly reaching for something that keeps stepping back, just out of reach. You think about the spa day you promised yourself, the almond-shaped nails and soft chrome polish you were so excited to get. You think about that moment of stillness with Ningning, sipping boba and laughing like you didn't have the weight of someone's judgment pressed onto your shoulders. You think about Dior. About the party. And you feel it all slipping right through your fingers.

You exhale, and swallow the tightness building in your throat. "When do you need it?" you ask, your voice so small.

Jay doesn't look up from your paper, fingers flipping back to that same third paragraph. "Your part is the only one that still needs fixing," he says bluntly. "Everyone else is moving ahead with physical presentation prep. So fix this tonight and send it back by tomorrow."

That's it. No thank you. No acknowledgment of the effort you've already poured into it. Just another deadline, another reminder that nothing you do will ever be enough.

Fuck him. You sit up a little straighter, lips parting. "But I think I already did my part perfectly," you say, pointing to paragraph three.

"This?" he asks, tapping the paragraph with the back of his pen. "You think this is perfect?"

You don't answer. Because there's something in his voice that already tells you he disagrees, and he's not going to soften it for your sake.

"This isn't perfect," he continues. "This is surface-level observation dressed up with vague language and soft transitions. It sounds nice, sure, but it doesn't say anything."

Your lips press into a tight line, and your stomach knots. "You keep writing like you're trying to be liked instead of trying to prove a point," he goes on, relentless. "Academic work isn't about sounding pretty. It's about clarity, direction, precision. You can write circles around a subject and still say nothing."

You swallow hard, your hands tightening in your lap. "I spent hours on this," you murmur, eyes fixed on the paper. "I canceled everything today."

Jay doesn't blink. "Then you should've spent those hours understanding the material, not decorating it."

You flinch like he hit you. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. At the face you used to admire. The eyes you used to chase. The person you once thought you could belong to. Now all you see is a wall. Impenetrable. And your reflection on the other side, small and shrinking.

You glance down without thinking, your gaze drawn to your hands resting tensely on the edge of the table. Your fingertips are trembling, knuckles pale from how tightly you've been pressing them together. Your leg is bouncing under the table, nervous energy you didn't notice until now. And then—you feel it. A sharp snap. You blink.

Your pointer finger.

One of your nails has cracked. A clean break down the middle, right through the glossy polish you barely had time to care for in the last two weeks. It shouldn't matter. It's a nail. But it feels like the last thing keeping you together just gave out. The smallest fracture, and suddenly the whole image starts to crumble.

"I—" you start, voice rough in your throat. You lift your hand slowly, staring at the cracked nail.

Jay looks up. "I'm leaving the group," you say, the words escaping, not with anger, not even with emotion. Just exhaustion. He doesn't speak right away. Maybe he's surprised, or maybe he simply doesn't care. You wouldn't know. You're not looking at his face anymore.

"I'll tell the professor," you add, folding your papers neatly with hands that feel numb. "You can find someone better to work with. Someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Jay's lips part slightly, you tuck your papers into your folder with care, as if this small act of order will keep you from unraveling completely. And then you push your chair back, rising to your feet.

You sniffle softly, and the sound makes your chest burn with embarrassment. The worst part isn't the tears welling in your eyes or the sting of your pride cracking—it's the scent. The way your distress pheromones are seeping out of you, so bitter, practically painting the air with your emotions. You hate it. You hate how it betrays you, how it clings to your skin and floats around you, a silent broadcast to any Alpha nearby that something is wrong, that you are fragile.

You quicken your steps, head down, trying not to let anyone see your face. You need to get out of here. Away from Jay. Away from everyone. You press your folder to your chest and move faster, your shoes echoing against the tile floors of the hallway. You're hyperaware of your scent, how sharp it is, and how it must be overwhelming for anyone in a ten-foot radius. It's humiliating. You feel exposed, like every nerve is on fire and there's nowhere safe to hide.

Fuck being an Omega. You clench your jaw, pushing the thought down, but it bubbles up again. Fuck this life. You didn't ask for this. You didn't ask to be the one who spirals whenever something doesn't go right, whose emotions get turned into a scent that others can detect before you even process how you feel. You didn't ask to be born into a dynamic where every misstep is amplified by your biology. You didn't ask to be someone whose sadness inconveniences people, whose mere presence becomes a disruption the moment her emotions are too loud.

You wipe your cheeks aggressively with the back of your hand, smearing whatever's left of your concealer, your eyes stinging as the tears you've been holding in finally break free. You keep walking, cutting through unfamiliar halls, your mind racing, heart hammering. You don't care where you're going, you just need to not be seen.

It hits you again—most Omegas your age are already bonded. Already paired off with their perfect, compatible Alpha. They have someone who wants them. Someone who protects them, grounds them, holds them without flinching when their scent turns sour. And you? You're here. Unbonded. Unwanted.

You reach a quiet corner of campus, a dim side hallway near the back of the gym where no one usually lingers. Your eyes fall on the row of lockers near the old changing room, and without thinking, you grab one. It creaks open under your hand, the inside barely wide enough for a person. But you don't care, you step inside, shoulders hunching as you pull the door halfway shut behind you. It's cramped and it smells faintly like dust and old sweat, and it's hidden.

You press your forehead against the cool wall, you bite down on your lower lip, hard, trying to silence the sound rising in your throat, trying to muffle the sob you know is coming. You have to control it. You have to stop the pheromones from leaking further into the air, because no Alpha wants to smell this.

No Alpha would ever come to comfort this. Not yours, not anyone's. What Alpha wants an Omega who breaks down like this? Who can't even hold herself together over something as stupid as a paper? Who spirals at a cold tone and a red mark on the margin? Who loses control of her scent like a teenager going through her first heat?

You sob quietly at first, trembling fingers rising to your face to hide it even though there's no one around. Then your gaze drops, landing on your hands—your once-manicured, carefully polished hands. And there it is.

The crack in your nail. The one you tried to ignore. The chip in the gloss. The way it's uneven now. Ugly.  You stare at it, and your bottom lip begins to tremble. "My nails," you choke out, the words wet and shaky. "My nails..."

Your breath stutters, chest rising and falling with jagged movements as another sob claws its way up and escapes. You curl your body tighter inside the narrow locker, arms wrapped around your legs now, your head resting against your knees as your chest heaves and your sobs grow louder. The scent of your distress is suffocating, shameful, but still safer than being seen. You let it pour out of you because at least here, you thought you could fall apart alone.

Then suddenly, you feel it—the shift of air, the creak of the locker door being pulled open. Light spills in, and you squeeze your eyes shut tighter, your sobs not stopping even when your safe space is breached.

"Stop it," comes a voice, low, gritted and breathless.

You flinch at the sound, your face still buried against your knees.  "Go away!" you cry out, voice high and strangled. "Just leave me alone!" Your hands grip tighter around your legs, nails digging into your skin, but it's not enough to ground you. This was your only escape, the one place you could cry without shame, without someone telling you to quiet down or keep your scent in check. And of all the people who could've found you, it had to be him. Of course it had to be him.

"I hate you!" you scream through a sob, full of weeks of silence, stress, disappointment, and aching humiliation. "I hate you, I hate you—"

"Stop it," Jay says again, but this time, his voice sounds different. It is strained. You still don't look up. You shake harder, body trembling with every breath that fights to escape, until—

"Stop crying," he says again. His voice is breaking, it is desperate. "P-Please. Stop. Just—stop."

You feel him kneel in front of you, his shadow cutting into the narrow locker space, and that's when you finally glance up through tear-blurred eyes. Jay is there, crouched low, his breathing uneven. His forehead is damp with sweat, his jaw clenched tight like he's in pain. There's a rawness in his eyes you've never seen before, and behind the sharp lines of his face, there's some physical strain. He presses a hand to his chest as if it aches. The muscles in his neck twitch, his skin looks pale beneath the lights, and there's a faint tremble in his hand as it rests on the locker door.

"You're—" he stops, swallowing hard, brows furrowing like the pain just spiked. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, okay?" he repeats. He inches forward, his hand reaching out slowly, fingers tentative as they move toward yours.

You flinch. Before his skin can touch yours, you tug your hand away, clutching it tight to your chest as if his apology might burn you. You're still crying, your soft eyes red-rimmed, lashes clumped together with tears, and yet somehow still full of that hurt that makes you look even smaller. Cracked open, and trying so hard to hold yourself together in front of the person who shattered you. Jay's hand lingers in the space between you, suspended there, unsure of where to land. "Stop crying," he says quietly. "Please."

Your shoulders still tremble, your sobs haven't stopped, and when you sniff hard, trying to pull yourself together, it only makes the moment more pitiful. You lift the back of your hand to your face and wipe at your running nose, eyes still wet and red, cheeks stained with salt.

You hiccup slightly before whispering, "M-My nails."

Jay blinks, startled, his eyes flickering down as you lift your fingers toward him. Your hand is shaking as you hold it in the air, palm open, fingers spread, showing him the chipped polish and cracked tips, the ruined manicure you once wore so proudly.

"Do you know," you begin, voice catching, "that a lot of Omegas cut their nails short? On purpose? Because they don't want to hurt their Alpha during bonding? Or during... during anything."

You trail off, your throat tightening as you look down at your nails again. "I've never done that. I've never had to. I've never had someone to protect or to protect me. I don't have an Alpha. That's why I love doing my nails." You swallow hard, bottom lip trembling. "I design them because it makes me feel special. It makes me feel pretty. It's the only thing that makes other Omegas jealous when they look at me. Not because I'm bonded, or claimed, or loved... but because at least I had this. At least I had something."

Your voice breaks again, and you curl your fingers into your palm, slowly lowering your hand as your gaze drops to the floor.

"But now even that is broken." The words fall from your lips and it all comes rushing back. You're back to sobbing, your scent blooms again.

Jay flinches. He physically recoils for half a second as the weight of your distress crashes over him. His jaw clenches hard, his hand bracing against the wall as he sucks in a breath through his nose.  The pressure in his head spikes, a dull, piercing throb that radiates behind his eyes. His chest aches—not emotionally, but physically. A deep, pulsing pain that makes it hard to breathe. His Alpha is reacting, rising to the surface.

Jay's never been overwhelmed like this, not by scent, not by an Omega's emotions. But your cries; they're hurting him. Not in the way he can brush off or rationalize. His Alpha instincts roar, screaming at him to do something. To calm you. To fix it. To soothe. And he doesn't understand why. Why you? Why now. Why does your sorrow feel like it's shattering something inside him?

He presses a hand to his chest, wincing at the tightness blooming there. "I'm sorry," he says again, more firmly now, trying to reach you. "I'm sorry."

He moves toward you without thinking this time, and when he reaches out, you don't pull away. You don't flinch or snap at him like before. You let your weight fall against him, and he catches you with arms that are hesitant but firm.

He wraps them around you carefully. One hand at your back, the other gently settling at your shoulder. You press your face into the curve of his neck, sobs still shaking through you, but not with the same violence. You're exhausted now, and it spills out in softer, helpless trembles.

"You're so mean," you whisper between gasps, your small fists thumping once, twice against his chest. The hits are weak. You don't push him away, you just cry harder, your fingers curling into his shirt as the last of your composure crumbles.

Jay closes his eyes tightly, his throat working around the lump that's formed there. His arms draw in more, and his scent changes with soft, warm and calming.  He doesn't even realize he's doing it at first, the slow flood of pheromones wrapping around you as his Alpha tries to soothe you the only way it knows how.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs again, as his hand moves slowly up and down your back, matching the rhythm of your shuddering breaths.

You melt. There's no other word for it. The moment his scent hits you fully, your crying doesn't just slow, it stops. Your eyes are closed and your breathing has steadied.  His scent is laced with a deeper musk only present when an Alpha's instinct is fully engaged presses through your senses.  It's warm, subtly spiced, and just faintly sweet underneath. A scent that speaks of strength without force, safety.

Your Omega responds instantly. A soft, involuntary purr builds from deep within your chest. It's loud. Embarrassingly so. You freeze for a moment, cheeks flushed with the sudden realization but you don't pull away, because your Omega won't let you.

Jay doesn't say anything, doesn't even pull back. If anything, his arms around you tighten just slightly. He tilts his head down, his cheek brushing lightly against your hair as if to acknowledge the sound and accept it all the same.

⋮ ⌗ act five

     YOU WERE officially presented as an Omega when you were ten years old. The ceremony was brief, celebrated with quiet tradition, and you remember thinking it didn't feel like the life-altering moment everyone made it out to be. It was just a title, a biological box that people were eager to check off. You didn't feel different. You didn't feel powerful or delicate or particularly wanted.

Your first heat came at sixteen, a little late, but still within the accepted margins of development. Everyone waited for the shift—the moment you'd become undeniably, instinctively desirable. The moment Alphas would take notice, the moment you'd feel the pull, the need, the overwhelming ache they all whispered about.

But when it happened... nothing did. There were Alphas, of course—ones who noticed the shift in your scent, who approached you cautiously, trying to offer comfort, trying to scent you. But nothing clicked. Their pheromones did nothing to you. You didn't feel warm or safe or bonded. You didn't even flinch.

Eventually, they stopped trying. Word spread quickly, as it always does. The strange Omega who doesn't respond. The one who doesn't purr, doesn't submit, doesn't bat their lashes when an Alpha walks by. "Difficult," they called you. "Hard to please." The kind of Omega Alphas would rather avoid than attempt to figure out.

You started to wonder if you'd been misclassified. Maybe you were a Beta. Maybe they'd gotten it wrong. After all, you didn't feel the way other Omegas did.

On some nights, when you were alone in bed staring up at the ceiling with your sheets pulled up to your chin, your mind would wander. You'd catch yourself imagining what kind of Alpha you would want if you were normal, if you were soft in the ways everyone expected you to be.

"What kind of Alpha do you want?" someone had asked you once, during a sleepover.

You remember blinking at the ceiling and whispering, "I don't know," but you did.

Maybe you'd want someone soft. Not weak, just gentle. An Alpha who didn't have to snarl to be heard, who didn't need to dominate a room to feel secure in his own presence. Someone with a good sense of humor, the kind of person who could laugh at himself without losing dignity. Someone charming, not in a sleazy way, but a smile that made you forget how tired you were of pretending.

You imagined he'd be kind. Someone who could calm you with words instead of scent, who didn't see your guarded heart as a problem to fix but a treasure to earn. An Alpha who wouldn't expect you to kneel just because biology said you should, but one who would offer his hand and wait patiently until you wanted to take it.

In your mind, his face was always beautiful. Sharp cheekbones softened by expression, a strong jaw. Preferably someone with a dimple that appeared only when he laughed, and cat-like eyes that could read yours too well.

That was the Alpha you wanted.

But Jay is not soft, not sweet, not patient, and certainly not kind.

And yet, here you are—sitting in a plush pink chair at your favorite nail salon, eyes still swollen from crying, hands resting in warm water as your nail designer hums a gentle tune while prepping your cuticles. Jay is standing outside the glass wall of the shop, leaning against the brick exterior with his phone in one hand, glancing at you every few minutes like he's checking if you've calmed down enough to run again.

The nail designer glances up at you with a teasing smile, she tilts her head toward the window. "Is that your Alpha outside?"

You follow her gaze, eyes landing on Jay. His brows are slightly furrowed as he scrolls through his phone.

You let out a sound that's part laugh, part exhausted exhale, and shake your head slowly. "No," you murmur, voice rough from all the crying. "Just the one paying."

"Ohhhh," she says with a gasp, eyes twinkling with amusement as she resumes working on your fingers. "That's new."

You blink at her. "What is?"

She chuckles softly as she buffs the surface of your cracked nail, now softened and prepped for a fresh layer of polish. "It's rare for an Omega to come in for nails, you know. Especially without a bond. Most of them don't bother once they've settled, or their Alpha handles appointments for practicality. But when they do come in?" She leans in with a whispery grin. "The Alphas don't wait outside. They call. Bark orders. Or sit inside and stare at the clock. I barely get through the second coat before they're knocking on the door asking how much longer."

You glance toward the window again. Jay is still there. Same position, same scowl, waiting.

"And when that happens," the designer continues, blowing gently over your fingertips, "I get a heads-up from the customer to charge three hundred dollars instead of sixty."

You blink. "What?"

She giggles. "Because they don't ask. They just pay." She shrugs, placing a gentle fingertip under your wrist to turn your hand slightly. "But yours? He handed the card over and even said to 'fix it properly,' and then waited outside."

You glance at the window again. Jay is still there, standing beneath the soft golden hue of the salon's lights bleeding through the glass. There's no sign of impatience in his posture, no fidgeting, no checking the time on his phone.

"He's not my Alpha," you reply, eyes on him.

A sudden spark of lights behind your eyes, paired with a smile that starts curling at the corner of your mouth.

"I'd like to change the design of my nails, please," you say, turning back to the nail artist, eyes gleaming.

"Oh?" she blinks. "I though we're just going to fix your nails?"

You simply shake your head and pull up a new image on your phone. "Not anymore."

You show her a new set: longer tips, alternating pink and pale green, soft chrome underlay, two nails with tiny gold foil hearts, and the rest glazed with a delicate sparkle that catches the light like fairy dust.

It takes longer than it should. And you don't care one bit. You hum along to the salon music, giggle when the tech turns your hand to show you the finished look, and snap a picture to send to Ningning.

By the time you push the door open, the sky has started to shift into sunset. The second you step out, you flex your fingers in front of you with delight, admiring the glossy finish and gold flecks. You're practically glowing.

Jay looks up from his phone. "You said you were just going to get it fixed," he says, his voice low, but not hard, not annoyed.

You glance at him and catch the way his gaze lingers on your hands. His eyes move slowly, following the way your fingers fan in the air. And though his expression doesn't give much away, you feel it: the attention, the awareness.

"My natural nails were showing," you say with a casual shrug, the corners of your lips lifting. "So I decided to get a new design."

You twirl your wrist once for emphasis, watching the gold hearts flash under the salon lights now trailing out onto the pavement. "Aren't they cute?"

Jay doesn't respond immediately. His eyes are on your nails, then your face, then back to your nails again. His jaw shifts, like he's about to say something but it never comes.

Instead, he just says, after a beat, "Yeah."

You can't help it, your lips curve into a soft, delighted smile, and a giggle slips past your throat. The sound is light, genuine, your Omega responds instinctively, pleased by the subtle approval, the calm energy humming from him. A soft purr begins to rise in your chest.

Jay doesn't comment on it, but you notice the faint glance he casts your way, a quick flick of his eyes before he slides his phone into his pocket.

As the two of you walk down the sidewalk, when the pavement narrows, he moves slightly ahead of you, then subtly angles his body so you're walking on the inside, closer to the storefronts and farther from the road.

THE NEXT few days aren't as bad as you expected. It's just the relief of not having another academic interrogation session with Jay. You breathe easier. You don't flinch when your phone buzzes. You even start sleeping without checking the group chat at 4 A.M. for passive-aggressive updates.

But of course, that peace doesn't last.

Because right when you've settled into the comfort of thinking maybe you're out of this, Jay appears again dropping a printed sheet onto your desk without so much as a warning.

You stare down at the familiar format, your section highlighted in faded yellow, some of it annotated in his godawful sharp handwriting. Your brow twitches, your mouth falls slightly open.

"I said I left the group," you snap, glaring up at him with disbelief. "I told you. I'm not doing this."

Jay doesn't blink. "I'm the group leader. You don't get to decide that."

Your jaw clenches. "Are you serious right now?"

"The presentation's in less than a week," he says. "If you want to walk out after that, go ahead. But until then? You're still on the list."

You huff, slamming the paper onto the table with far more drama than necessary. Still, he's not being cruel. Not sarcastic. Just... irritatingly direct. Which, honestly, is worse in some ways. At least when he was mean, you could hate him without confusion.

You cancel another hangout, another meeting gets scheduled. You text your friends a dozen half-bitter emojis and a fake promise to reschedule, then you drag yourself back to that too-bright room with its flickering ceiling light and cold whiteboard.

And there he is.

Jay. Seated at the far end of the table, flipping through slides and adjusting his notes. But what makes it worse—so much worse—is what you see next.

Two Omegas from another department are seated nearby, whispering with smiles on their lips, occasionally leaning closer to Jay's side of the table. One of them flips her hair unnecessarily, another giggles at something he mutters. And the worst part? He lets them.

He talks back. Calm and patient, not once does he snap or look annoyed. When one of them asks for help adjusting her outline, he glances at it and actually helps her—politely.

You fold your arms tightly across your chest and glare holes into the edge of the desk. He's so relaxed. So damn calm. When he corrects them, his tone is gentle.

What about you? Where was that gentleness for you? Why didn't he speak like that when you were trying?

If you hadn't cried... would he have ever treated you differently?

"The meeting hasn't even started and you're already having another mood up," Jay says, sliding into the seat beside you.

You don't look at him. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip your hair over your shoulder, pretending to focus on your untouched notes while your fingers drum silently on the table.

"Maybe don't take it personally," you say coolly, keeping your gaze forward. "I have moods without your help, thanks."

He makes a sound—half a scoff, half a hum—and leans back in his chair, one leg stretched out a little too far beneath the table, invading your space.

You huff, snapping your gaze toward him. "Why are you even here, anyway?" Your voice is sharp with irritation, your hand rising instinctively to push against his arm in a shooing gesture. "Go sit somewhere else. Far from me."

Your fingers press lightly to his shoulder, trying to shove him away with far less force than your words imply but of course, he doesn't move an inch. Jay stays firmly planted in his seat, turning his head slowly toward you.

"This is my seat," he says, tone unbothered. "And I'm the group leader."

He gestures vaguely toward the front of the room, where a few other group members are still settling in, some half-glancing your way with interest, clearly sensing the tension as it builds, again, between the two of you.

"So?" you snap, turning to glare at him again. "I don't care. Go sit somewhere else."

Jay doesn't even flinch. He just lifts one shoulder in the barest shrug, as if your words were nothing more than background noise, and proceeds to adjust his laptop and flip open his folder.

You scoff loudly, dramatic on purpose, making sure it carries across the room. But of course, it gets you nowhere. Jay begins the meeting laying out the agenda.

You lean back in your seat, annoyed and done with pretending to care. You don't hear a word of what he's saying. Instead, you pop open your notebook and flip to a blank page, yanking a glittery pen from your pouch. You start doodling out of habit—little flowers, cartoon hearts, bunny ears, some sparkles near the corners.

Your pen drifts to the center of the page, and you write your name in big, curly letters. You add hearts around it. A tiny tiara on top. You smile softly to yourself.

Almost without thinking, your hand moves again.

You write his name. Park Jongseong

Small. Lower than yours. Your pen pauses.

Then you grin. You begin crossing out the common letters between your name and his, counting the ones that remain.

You mutter under your breath, "F... L... A... M... E... S..."

Your pulse quickens as you count through the acronym, matching the number of leftover letters.

And then you land on it.

L- Lovers.

Heat rushes into your cheeks, flooding your face, suddenly horrified at your own middle-school-level behavior.

You quickly scratch a line through the whole thing, snapping the notebook closed. Jay turns his head toward you, his eyes narrow faintly. You roll your eyes immediately, slouching down in your seat and pretending nothing happened, praying your scent doesn't betray the flush still prickling your skin.

He watches you for another second, eyes narrowing slightly like he's almost figured it out—then turns back to the group, resuming the discussion without a word.

Lovers. Well, you hate that idea.

⋮ ⌗ act six

     YOU DON'T even know how it got to this point. How your days used to be peaceful without his presence, and now every hour near him feels like a quiet war between your pride and your Omega instincts.

Yes, your Omega purrs when he's close. Yes, there's a pull you feel in your chest that doesn't seem to respond to reason. That strange heat low in your belly, the calm that settles around you every time his scent brushes past your skin—it's all real. And yes, part of you feels it might be bond. That terrifying, delicate whisper of compatibility.

But you will never forget how he treated you. How he made you feel small and stupid. How he picked apart your efforts like they were inconveniences. How he barely looked at you unless you were crying or crumbling. You try to remind yourself of all of that now, as you sit at the edge of the room, your leg bouncing, compact mirror in one hand, lip gloss in the other. But it's hard—so hard—when you look up and see him.

Jay. His hair is slicked back neatly, exposing that unfairly sculpted face, those sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. His glasses sit low on his nose, and he pushes them up with two fingers—the same fingers you just found yourself staring at for far too long. They're long, veined, strong. So sexy.

You glare at your mirror, annoyed with your reflection. Screw your Omega for having such high standards. Selective, sensitive, spoiled instincts—and it chooses him? Of course it does!

You twirl a strand of your hair around your finger, trying to look casual, pretending you're just focused on your appearance. But your Omega shifts restlessly beneath your skin, picking up on the subtle stress in the room. You're not the only one reacting—other Omegas are nervous, too. Their scent clouds the air, full of unease. It's enough to make your skin twitch.

That's why the professors decided to separate the rooms. Alphas in one, Omegas and Betas in another. It was supposed to make things more manageable. Less hormonal mess. But it doesn't stop the other Omegas from eyeing Jay as he passes through the door.

You watch as two of them flutter their lashes, practically sighing in his direction. Like they think he'll turn and offer them some comforting word. Maybe a calming touch. You snort under your breath and roll your eyes, brushing a fleck of highlighter from the corner of your cheek. Heh. Do they expect him to soothe them? Not a chance.

"Can you all calm your fuck-ass selves down? Geez, it smells so weird in here." You mutter under your breath, wrinkling your nose in full disgust as the wave of distress pheromones builds again around the room. It's a mix of nervousness and poorly concealed anxiety and it's ruining your makeup mood. With a sigh, you grab your perfume bottle from your bag and spritz it into the air.

You roll your eyes again when another Omega releases a second burst of distressed pheromones. It's always the same ones too—biting their nails, fanning themselves, looking around like an Alpha is going to walk in and magically tell them everything's fine. You pull your collar slightly up, shielding your nose, and shake your head.

You decide to tune out, popping your phone out to scroll through your gallery, pretending you're anywhere but here. You check your reflection in the black screen, turn the camera on just to make sure your eyeliner hasn't smudged, then swipe open your beauty folder to admire the selfie you took yesterday with your freshly done nails. That alone settles you better than any scent could.

Another minute ticks by. You sigh and fish out your compact mirror again, tapping a bit of powder under your eyes, then dabbing a blush-tinted balm across your cheeks. A slick of gloss on your lips finishes the look, and you smile at yourself.

But when you begin to organize your bag—tucking your phone into its pocket, snapping your powder closed—you pause.

Then freeze. Your fingers sift through the bag again, more urgently this time. Compact, wallet, charger, lip tint, another gloss, perfume bottle, travel brush...

Your heart starts to beat faster. No. Your hand dives deeper, digging through the small pocket, then the zipper compartment. You pull everything out and lay it on the table in front of you.

Gone. It's fucking gone. Your Swan Ballet Flower Knows hair clip!

The one Ningning gave you for your birthday. The one that matches your current nail design. The one you literally wore this morning.

"Fuck," you whisper, eyes wide, chest tightening. You pat your head, your pockets, your bag again, but it's not there.

The air shifts. Your scent, which had been calm and delicately sweet with your perfume, now spikes full of frustration and distress. 

"Hey, are you okay?" one of the Beta boys beside you asks cautiously, his brow furrowed as he catches the sudden change in your scent. "Are you nervous?"

"No," you snap, still rummaging through your bag, tossing a pen and your lip gloss back into it with force. "Fuck off."

The Beta holds his hands up, muttering, "Okay, damn," before sliding his chair just slightly away from you.

"Did someone see my baby blue ribbon hair clip?!" you call out, a little louder now, nearly breathless as you look around the room, eyes scanning every desk, every chair, every bag.

"H-Hey, calm down," one of the nearby Omegas says gently, reaching out with an awkward hand, trying to soothe. But the second her fingers brush your arm, you slap her hand away without thinking, eyes wild and furious.

"Shut up!" you snap, voice cracking. "Don't fucking tell me to do shit!"

A wave of your scent bursts out. It was acidic with panic and anger. It's enough to make the others shift uncomfortably, their own scents flaring in reaction. You're frantic now, pacing the space between the tables, swiping aside books, opening bags that aren't yours before realizing what you're doing. Your hands tremble as you search under a desk, and when you straighten back up, your eyes are glassy. Your lower lip quivers, forming a tight, desperate pout.

You blink fast, but it's no use. The tears are there, threatening to spill.

The door suddenly opens, and Jay walks in with a bothered and confused in his eyes. Immediately, the room straightens. People hush. Even the air seems to still.

"What is happening?" he asks, brows furrowed as he takes sight of the room, the overturned bags, the tension heavy in the air and then his eyes land on you.

You unraveling, being frantic, teetering.

He strides toward you, cutting through the space between tables. Without hesitation, his hands find your shoulders softly. You blink up at him, trying to bite down on your emotions, but your throat tightens further under the weight of his presence. His brows draw in closer when he sees your expression—your glossy eyes, your flushed cheeks, your trembling mouth.

"M-my clip is m-missing," you whisper, barely holding your voice together. "The Flower Knows one. The baby blue..."

You can't finish. Your chest heaves, a sob barely swallowed down. You try to inhale sharply through your nose, but it only floods you with more of your distress. Jay closes his eyes, jaw tight as he rubs a hand down his face in exasperation at the spiral you're falling into. His Alpha is reacting instantly, tension building in his shoulders, his posture coiled with the weight of your unfiltered panic.

He opens his eyes again and looks down at you. "You're this worked up over a clip?"

You nod, a tiny motion, but desperate. "It's not just a clip. It's mine. Ningning gave it to me. I wore it today. I—I need it."

Jay breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he processes the full weight of your panic. Without another word, he turns his head sharply to the room.

"Everyone," he says, commanding. "Stop what you're doing and check around your desks. Bags, floor, jackets—everything."

No one speaks. No one even thinks about arguing. The entire room shifts, heads ducking, hands moving, chairs scraping quietly as people begin to search exactly where he told them to. Jay's hands slide down from your shoulders, and he moves beside you, quietly steering you toward the hallway. His hand stays on the small of your back, anchoring you as he leads you out of the overwhelming scent-thick room.

Outside, the air is cooler. The moment you're free of the enclosed space, you feel your body tremble in a release of breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Jay steps in front of you, hands still light but steady on your arms, you feel his scent shift, soothing, that that makes your Omega instincts sigh from under the anxiety.

"God," he breathes out, more to himself than to you, pressing his palm briefly over his forehead before it drops to your back again. "I thought something actually happened to you."

Your forehead drop into his shoulder, your face burying in the soft cotton of his shirt, the scent of him wrapping around you. He sighs again, hand moving in slow, steady circles along your spine.

"You need to stop crying," he murmurs into your hair, trying to sound stern, but it comes out gentler than it should. He pauses, lets out another breath. "You're going to short-circuit every Alpha in the building with your pheromones."

"I need my hair clip," you say into his shoulder, voice muffled, watery, and heavy with emotion. "It was the only thing that made me feel pretty today."

Jay's hand stills on your back. He doesn't say anything at first, like he's trying to figure out what to do with that sentence.

Finally, he moves again. "We're going to find your hair clip," he says. "Just... stop throwing tantrums."

One thing's for sure, Jay is exhausted. You can see it in the tension in his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows, the sighs he thinks you don't hear. He's tired of your tantrums, your attitude, your dramatics, your endless emotions.

You don't have the energy to question it anymore—why he's the one calming you down, why his presence, of all people, is what your Omega keeps clinging to. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.

The rest of the day passes in a dull, gray blur. Your clip was never found. Your mood tanked. The presentation came and went, and you barely remember how you spoke or whether your words even made sense. You didn't shine. You didn't sparkle. You didn't even get a single compliment on your outfit, and by now, you're convinced your eyeliner is probably smudged beyond repair.

You expect it—Jay's frustration. You've seen it before. You're braced for the moment he corners you, arms crossed, brows furrowed, ready to lay into you with that cold, composed tone that always makes you feel twelve years old and three inches tall.

But it never comes.

You're sitting alone on the back stairs behind the building, eyes unfocused, arms draped over your knees, the wind ruffling your hair slightly as you stare into nothing. You've taken off your shoes, letting the cool stone press against your heels. Your bag is a mess. Your gloss is gone. Your scent, now flat and dulled by defeat, barely lingers in the air.

Jay appears beside you, quiet as ever, lowering himself onto the step next to you. He doesn't speak at first, doesn't sigh or scold or even look at you. Just sits.

You blink and glance sideways, lips parting to speak. "I know I messed up my part," you say quietly. "I already told you I'm sorry. No need to make me feel this bad—"

"I found your clip."

You blink. Jay pulls something out from his coat pocket. A small baby blue satin with gold trim and a little flower-shaped crystal that glitters in the soft light. "I went back to the hallway after the rooms were cleared," he says, tone casual, almost bored. He sets it in your hand.

You stare down at it, fingers curling slowly around the familiar shape. Your vision blurs instantly. "You—" your voice cracks, and you clear your throat, trying to hold it together. "You really went back for it?"

Jay leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed ahead. "I figured if I didn't, you'd tear down the whole school."

You burst into laughter and then, just as quickly, into tears. Before you can stop yourself, your body moves on its own, throwing itself into him with a weight that startles even you. Your arms wrap around his middle, face pressing into the side of his chest as another wave of laughter and tears shakes through you.

You can feel the tension ripple through him, every muscle going stiff like he wasn't built for this kind of contact. He lets out a long, quiet sigh, and then his arms slowly move. One drapes around your shoulders with hesitation, the other lifts awkwardly before landing a stiff, uncertain pat on your back.

It's the most awkward hug in the universe.

Your tears are light, your Omega purrs radiates through your skin. The air shifts, your scent changes into soft and sweet wrapping around the both of you.

Jay breathes it in and his body instantly relaxes, just a little. He just sits there, letting you sob against him while your Omega hums in contentment, pleased that—for once—it wasn't wrong about him.

He's still not the Alpha you dreamed of. He's cold, awkwad and complicated. But, you think... he's okay?

⋮ ⌗ act seven

     "HE definitely likes you."

You roll your eyes at Ningning's voice as you carefully curl your lashes in front of the mirror in the girls' comfort room. You keep your focus steady on your reflection, refusing to acknowledge the glint of mischief in your best friend's eyes.

"If I were still the delusional girl I used to be," you mutter, lashes releasing from the curler, "then maybe I'd let myself believe that."

Ningning lets out a dramatic huff from where she's leaning against the sink, arms crossed but clearly enjoying this more than she should. "Come on! Even Giselle agrees now—and you know she's allergic to optimism."

You don't answer. Instead, you reach for your mascara, unscrewing the tube with steady fingers, and begin sweeping it through your lashes. You focus on each slow stroke, using the rhythm to drown out the flutter in your chest.

"Seriously," Ningning says, She leans closer against the counter beside you, folding her arms with that all-knowing gleam in her eye. "What type of Alpha would go out of his way to calm you down over a missing clip? A hair clip, girl. It's not like it was a life-or-death situation."

"It was a Flower Knows clip," you say, still brushing your lashes without missing a beat.

"Exactly," she deadpans, then scoffs. "A Flower Knows clip is like eight bucks. And you—Miss Chanel, Miss Limited Edition Lip Oil, Miss I Only Drink Matcha If It's Imported—you could replace that clip five times over."

You pause, blinking at your reflection. "He didn't have to find it," she continues. "But he did. He went back. He picked it up. He brought it to you, and you know Jay's not the type to do stuff like that. He barely blinks at people."

You glance sideways at her, lips twitching. "Maybe he just felt bad," you mutter, setting the mascara wand down. "Like that other time I cried in the gym and practically soaked his shirt. Maybe he just has a guilty conscience."

"Girl," Ningning groans, throwing her head back. "That man does not do things out of guilt. He does things because he means to. Jay isn't the type to play pretend. If he didn't want to deal with you, he wouldn't."

You fidget with your gloss now, unscrewing the cap but not applying it yet. Ningning steps in closer, placing both hands on your shoulders and spinning you gently toward her.

"Just make a move again," she says. "This time, don't cry first. Just be bold. You are bold. You're all glitter and gloss and crazy perfume names. He's just... stuck in his own head. Maybe you have to shake him out of it."

You snap the cap back on your gloss and toss it into your bag with more force than necessary, jaw tight. "Shut up," you mutter, "I'm not going to be broken-hearted again."

And you mean it. You swear you mean it. You're done with chasing. No one, not even Ningning with her relentless optimism, can convince you otherwise.

But then the universe, in its favorite tradition, decides to humiliate you anyway.

You're late. Because of course you are. Your package—your limited edition, out-of-stock-everywhere Flower Knows powder compact—finally arrived, and there was no way you were missing the delivery. Not when you'd already cried once this semester. So yes, you're late. But you're late looking good.

You strut into the lecture hall, tote bag slung over your shoulder, heels clicking until your eyes fall on your seat. Your seat. The one next to Ningning, the only tolerable spot in the entire damn classroom.

And sitting in it was Yeonjun.

"What the fuck," you hiss, marching over, already reaching to swing your bag off your shoulder. "Get out of my seat, loser." You kick his foot under the table.

Yeonjun just laughs, dragging out a pout. "Relax, princess. It's just a chair." He tilts his chin, gesturing toward the only empty seat left in the room. "That one's free. Enjoy."

You follow the line of his smug finger. Your stomach sinks. Of course the only available seat is next to Jay—stone-faced, hyper-focused, glasses on, notebook already open, refusing to even glance up.

"Fuck you," you growl under your breath, kicking Yeonjun again—harder this time—before straightening up, your eyes narrowing in betrayal at Ningning, who's already failing to hide her grin behind her notebook.

"Miss," the professor calls from the front, already halfway into his introduction. "You're late. Care to sit down already?"

You grit your teeth, casting one last glare at the two traitors pretending to be your friends, then march down the row and plop down into the seat beside Jay, the sound of your bag dropping beside you far louder than necessary.

You're not here for him. You're here because Yeonjun's an ass, because the universe hates you, and because the professor called you out in front of the whole class.

But still, your Omega, ever the traitor, is practically curled up in delight beside him, soothed by the way he hasn't even acknowledged you, his scent like a steady anchor in a sea of your annoyance.

You grumble under your breath and shift in your seat, opening your notebook with a loud, irritated flick of your wrist. You pretend to read a line from the handout, then, without thinking, reach into your bag and pull out the one thing guaranteed to bring you joy: your brand-new compact powder.

The packaging is perfect. You run your finger lightly over the embossed strawberry on the front, admiring the pearlescent detail. You smile to yourself, the tension in your shoulders melting just a little.

If you were sitting next to Ningning right now, you'd be yapping. Nonstop. Yapping about how this compact was almost impossible to find, how you tracked it across two continents and seven different sold-out websites. And to be fair, you'd yap with anyone—about lip tints, palettes, perfume layering combinations, finish textures, and highlighter formulas. You live for the details.

So, of course, you can't help yourself now even with Jay sitting next to you. "I didn't get the whole set," you begin, voice charged with the thrill of finally talking about something you care about. "Because, like, sometimes Flower Knows won't ship directly here, and some bitches already hoarded the preorder."

Jay doesn't move.

"But guess what," you continue, tapping his arm lightly with your nail before holding up the compact in your palm. "I finally got the powder, and it is so cute. Like, look at this texture. It's shaped like whipped cream frosting. And—oh my God—smell this."

You pause, opening your pouch again, digging through until you find the matching tube. "Also, I bought their lipstick too. The one from the Swan Ballet line. It smells like candy clouds, but also slightly floral. Honestly, it's genius. I kind of want to buy another one just to keep it in the box—"

You stop mid-sentence with the lipstick tube held in front of you. Jay turned his head, his eyes are on you, listening.

And you realize you've been yapping. You blink, lips still parted, frozen with your product halfway. Then he blinks, turns his head back to his notes, and says quietly—

"Keep going."

The words are so simple, so softly said, that you almost think you imagined them. Your heart flips in your chest. Your Omega lets out a pleased little purr that almost makes your spine tingle.

"And then," you whisper, "I found a reseller who didn't charge triple the price, and I swear to you, Jay, it was like fate."

And then it becomes a thing.

Every damn time, without fail, Ningning and Yeonjun pull their little stunt. They laugh, wink, and somehow, through force, they make sure your seat ends up next to Jay. One of them will be "saving your seat" only to abandon it the moment you enter, or "accidentally" block it with a pile of books. And every time, you glare, you groan, you curse under your breath.

But you still sit next to him. You tell yourself you don't want to talk. That you'll just sit in silence, that this time you won't fall back into the same pattern. That your Omega will behave. That you will behave.

And then you open your mouth anyway.

You start rambling about the new things you bought, or how underpriced the campus café is, or how this semester's syllabus is personally trying to kill you. Sometimes you don't even know what you're saying—just that he's listening, and somehow that makes you talk more. And every time, Jay just sits there, occasionally replying, sometimes looking at you.

You don't even realize when it happens when the tension begins to fade, when your Omega starts curling softly in contentment. It's like your body is choosing to forget. Forget all the ways he made you feel ignored. Forget the moments he brushed you off, dismissed you, didn't care.

"Smell this," you say one day, voice light and sweet as you pull your sleeve up and offer him your wrist. "It's my new Jo Malone—Wild Bluebell with a hint of Peony and Blush Suede. I think it fits well with my natural scent, don't you think?"

Jay doesn't even flinch. He reaches out, gently holding your wrist between two fingers. His head lowers, slowly, and his nose brushes just above your pulse point.

It's subtle but his scent deepens, and grows warmer. Like his Alpha side responded before he could think it through.

You giggle. You fucking giggle, and your Omega purrs without shame, flooding the air with the soft, pleased lilt of someone finally receiving attention they've craved for too long.

He blinks slowly, releases your wrist, clears his throat. He turns back to his notebook like nothing happened.

Jay is not the Alpha your Omega deserves. No matter how many times your instincts try to paint over the truth, you remember. You remember the way he ignored your efforts, dismissed your excitement, and made you feel like you were just noise. Your Omega might conveniently purr every time he's near, lulled by the safety of his scent or the quiet steadiness of his presence, but your heart? Your mind? They haven't forgotten a single bruise.

It's infuriating how easily your instincts betray you. How they curl toward him, like he deserves you—like he's ever earned the softness your body keeps offering without your permission.

And Jay, for all his cool-headed composure and sharp intelligence, doesn't make it easier. He never explains himself. He just shows up beside you, around you, in all the quiet corners where you swore you'd stop caring and somehow keeps slipping beneath your guard again. Like he knows he doesn't need to try, because your Omega has already made the decision for you.

What's wrong with him, anyway?

Why is he always so composed, so perfectly infuriating? Why can't he just say what he wants? Be blunt, be cruel, be anything instead of this calm, silent wall you keep crashing into. And you—you're doing it again.

You're showing him the new earrings you ordered from a Korean boutique. Rambling about the shade match of a concealer that finally works for your undertones. Talking about the sale that's coming up and which perfumes you plan to layer next. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't mock, doesn't even look annoyed. Just lets you talk while he listens in that quiet way.

But the entire time, a weight builds in your chest. A creeping fear.

What if he gets annoyed again? What if this—all of this comfort, this strange new rhythm you've found ends the moment you say too much? What if he gets tired of you again, pulls away again, tells you you're too much?

What if he says it's time to leave him alone?

That fear clutches at your chest, and it hurts in a way you can't explain. Because the last time he rejected you—even indirectly—you swore you wouldn't give him another chance to do it again. You swore you'd protect yourself. That you'd stop offering pieces of your joy to someone who never asked for them.

But here you are. Sitting next to him. Talking like he hasn't shattered you before. Laughing like your Omega isn't already begging for something deeper.

Make him yours, your Omega whispers again, insistent and eager, like it hasn't learned a damn thing.

But you're exhausted. Emotionally wrung out. And today, you wake up already irritated.

The sunlight filters too harshly through your curtains, clinging to your skin. The room is warm, your sheets twisted, your silk pillowcase thrown somewhere on the floor, and your hair—your perfect blowout—looks nothing like what it was when you fell asleep. The ends are flat, the roots are puffy, and there's a weird dent on the side from sleeping too hard. You stand in front of your mirror for twenty minutes trying to fix it, but no amount of brushing or oil can save it.

Your closet stares back at you with the same smug silence it always has. You try on three outfits, one after the other, but nothing feels right. One's too stiff. The other clings wrong. The third is fine—but fine is not how you want to look when the world's already pulling at your nerves.

So you give up.

You toss your clothes onto your bed in frustration, pull on the safest thing you can find, and leave your room without bothering to match your lip gloss to your top. You're annoyed, tired, and in no mood to deal with your usual routine of being put-together. You skip your first class without a second thought—no one was taking attendance anyway—and instead sulk in your favorite café, sipping iced matcha that tastes too bitter and scrolling through your phone like it'll fix something.

By the time your second lecture rolls around, you're still not in the mood. You step into the room later than usual, ignoring the way some of your classmates glance up. You don't care. You don't scan the rows for him. You just go straight to the back, dropping your bag onto the seat beside you and pulling your phone out.

"Fuck off," you hissed when you hear footsteps approach and see Yeonjun and Ningning out of the corner of your eye.

Yeonjun raises both hands. "Damn, chill, princess. I was just gonna ask why you're back here."

You shoot him a glare. "I thought you and Jay were good again," he adds, eyebrows raised. "Did he breathe wrong or something?"

"Fuck. Off." you growl again. Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation sliding between your skin and the plastic.

"Okay, okay—calm down," he mutters, retreating with exaggerated caution. "God, I think I know what's coming with you."

You roll your eyes but don't respond. Because he's not wrong. You already know what's happening.

The ache behind your eyes, the restless way your Omega keeps curling and stretching like it's searching for something—or someone.  Your scent has started to shift subtly and the minute it hit the air, you knew it wouldn't be long. You can feel it coming in. Your pre-heat.

Your Omega can't even wait for it. It's already humming at the idea of being close to him again, already reacting to memories of his scent, his presence, his voice.  Your control is fraying at the edges, and you hate it. You hate how easily your body turns traitor.

You've skipped half the day now, letting yourself exist in the quieter part of campus, tucked on the familiar stairwell where the lectures can't reach you. Where your makeup-free face, your messy ponytail, and your emotional disarray don't need to perform for anyone. You sit with your legs folded close, your phone dimmed in your hand.

"You're skipping lecture again."

You already know it's Jay. No one else has a voice that smooth, that neutral, that sharp around the edges without trying to be. He settles beside you on the stairs.

"Fuck off," you mutter, eyes still focused on nothing, fingers idly picking at the hem of your sleeve. But your Omega stirs anyways.

"You're not wearing makeup today." It's not a compliment. Not an insult either. Just a flat observation.

"Fuck off," you repeat.

He doesn't move. "Is something wrong?" he asks.

"Fuck off."

Jay's mouth shuts without resistance. The silence between you grows. You keep your face buried in the crook of your arm, knees drawn to your chest like you can fold yourself out of existence if you just hold tight enough. You don't want to look at him. You don't want to see whatever look he's wearing.

You're done reading his silences like they owe you answers. So why the hell is he here? The lecture isn't over. There's no reason for him to be outside with you, sitting in this stairwell like it means something.

"Do you want to drink some matcha? I noticed it's your—"

You lift your head abruptly, eyes flashing with frustration, and he stops mid-sentence. "I don't know what you want from me," you cut in, "Or why you're suddenly acting like you care. Why you keep showing up every single time I go distress."

Jay doesn't move, but something in his expression flickers. You stand up before he can respond, grabbing your bag in a quick, jerky motion, stuffing your things back inside with clumsy hands. Your breath is uneven. You hate how tight your chest feels, how your Omega keeps curling in confusion, still wanting to stay close despite everything your brain knows.

"If this is about you feeling guilty," you say, your voice cracking against the emotion climbing in your throat, "then congratulations. You're forgiven. For everything."

You hoist your bag onto your shoulder, your back turned now as you take a step down the stairs. "Leave me alone," you add without looking at him. "It's annoying. We're not even friends."

And with that, you walk away.

[kimberly-spirits13]

Jason Todd SFW Alphabet (Redo)

Wonderful art by my usual- @ciricearts

Here's the OG Alphabet

Affection-

He truly, truly craves affection of any kind

This poor baby is so touched starved and he only got a morsel of the taste of affection from Alfred before he died

Once he comes back, he feels like there's a hole in his soul, and at the first hug or first kind sentiment he gets after coming back, he realizes that he needs to be loved

He seeks someone that openly loves him and isn't uncomfortable loving him back fully

Jason wants you to hug him tight, wants you to run your fingers through his hair, wants you to hold his hand

When it comes to showing affection, he isn't really stunted, he's like a dam bursting open

The stunting comes when he realizes that this level of wanting someone around and showing it so full throttle may not be normal. may be making you uncomfortable

He withdrawls a bit and is consumed by insecurity and worry that he has made you uncomfortable and crossed a boundary

Jason's heart can't take it when you seek him out from his thoughts and drag him away from the gnawing feeling that he's doing something wrong

Once he knows that it's okay and that he's not too much, he lets go of all inhabitions and needs you

He wants to hug you tightly and drop his head into the crook of your neck, hold your hand tightly, run his fingers through your hair, tracing shapes on your back and stomach, have you sit in his lap, have you lay in his lap while he holds your hand, wants you to cradle him on the couch and play with his hair, wants you to love him

He feels like he'll explode because he cannot find a way to completely express how much he cares

Bond-

He doesn't need you to be fully in everything that he does, think, likes, or whatever

Jason wants someone who accepts him for the broken pieces that he has to offer

He brings these pieces to you like a kid bringing a vase that they accidentally broke

Jason is best off with someone who takes a deep look into the things around them, someone careful, someone analytical, someone who doesn't just try to find the surface meaning of things

He prefers someone who does like reading/ history since he wants to be able to have conversations about his hobbies and interests with

I honestly and truly think that the Batboys do best with a vigulantee and the two of you probably meet each other either on patrol or on a seperate mission

A romantic relationship level bond with someone gets to the level of something like twin telepathy

The two of you know what the other is thinking at all times; likes, dislikes, what they're thinking, what they want, anything like that

He feels a void when you're gone and genuinely cannot see his life being complete or happy without you

Cuddle-

A monster.

pulls you into his grip at any point of the day and cages you there with his body

Obviously if you're doing something important, he knows not to take you away from it or be a nuisance, but he's got to be touching you like a hand on your thigh, holding your hand, playing with your hair, having you sit between his legs while he wraps his arms around you and holds you firmly to his chest

It doesn't let up when you're at the manor either

Damain walks by often and scoffs, but over time gets used to it and reverts to rolling his eyes or pretending that he doesn't see anything (Dick says he'll understand one day- Tim does not agree)

He's happy to have you laying on his lap and using him as a pillow or basically a bed since he's so big

NEEDS to have you close while sleeping

If you run hot, he at least needs to be holding your hand and have an arm over you

Otherwise, he is either laying ontop of you with his head buried into your neck with limbs wrapping around you, OR he has you in a bear grip, head buried into your neck or hair while you are squished into his chest

cannot sleep otherwise

Domestic-

HE COOKS SO WELL, LEAVE HIM ALONE

Michelin star chef in here I DON'T CARE THAT HE DIDN'T HAVE A TON OF TIME WITH ALFRED, THAT MAN TAUGHT HIM TO COOK AND JASON IS A QUICK LEARNER SO YOU KNOW HE PICKED IT UP

Has a binder of his favorite recipes stashed somewhere that he busts out every how and then, but he has them mostly memorized

Jason took the "quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach" and applied it to anyone he loves

He's also not messy, he needs and clean and cozy space to feel comfortable

This man was not raised in any semblance of comfort and feels like he's back on the streets if there's chaos and sterile decor

Alfred noticed that Jason would take blankets and pillows (especially the homemade ones) from around the manor and put them in his room when Jason was living at the manor, so Alfred made him a few quilts and pillows to have in his apartment

He's organized and has systems for everything that are easy to use and he's known for little DIY home improvements just to make something easier

Jason has doubles of your favorite things in his place and has designated spots that he's carved out of his things for your clothes, shoes, skincare/ shower stuff, favorite foods, jewelry, blanekts, books, etc.

You have the same thing for him and he prefers sleeping with you since he doesn't sleep well on his own

I think he probably has a night light in all of his rooms so that when he wakes up, it's easier to acclimate to where he is

Sleeps with the AC running cool but piles on blankets and pillows

Ego-

He's stubborn, but if he thinks he's doing anything that could damage the relationship, it sends him spiraling

He'd die for you, he'd kill for you, but most importantly- he lives for you

you're his best friend and he's so worried that he could break whatever you two have

With this, he has firm boundaries

He may not be very good at expressing them sometimes, depending on how niche they are

He can be blunt about laying them down since the things that he has established are extremely important and hard to talk about sometimes

Which- as he should, but sometimes he realizes that he's being a bit harsh and has to soften up before explaining

He thinks about you all the time though- he's so thoughtful

tries everything he can to make your life easier and is always looking out for you

If you're a vigulantee, sometimes he is paying so much attention to you that he can get hurt and takes an earful from you later

Just wants to make sure that you're okay 🥺

Fights-

He hates fighting and thinks it's not helpful

does not allow miscommunication- THIS MAN HAS SEEN THE TROUPE IN LITERATURE TOO MUCH AND IT PISSES HIM OFF

to him, if you really cared about your partner, you'd make an effort to make sure that all sides are taken care of and everyone is understood before going off and doing something

If he's mad, he tries his hardest to regulate breathing, remember that it's not a fight against you but the problem, and handle things like an adult

He's worried that you'd leave him otherwise- he knows that he's a giant to most and intimidating, so he puts a higher standard on himself and a pressure to be good so that you don't reject him

Sometimes, he has to blow off steam and leave for a minute so that he can collect his thoughts, but he comes back relatively quickly since he doesn't like being away for too long and wants to make sure that issues are solved

Often reaches out to Alfred for advice if he feels like he needs a second opinion

Gentle-

I think everyone agrees that he's a gentle giant

Not sure that he forgets how big he is since he can be a bit self conscious about it- he doesn't want to hurt you or break anything

After some time though, once he figures out that you really like how big he is, he stops worrying so much

Most everything else in his life is intense and rough, so there is a distinct difference in the way that he treats you by nature

Softly touches you unless it's ungulfing you in a bear hug

Tries to make sure that you're always comfortable

Holds your hand at all times and leans down to whisper in your ear about something if you're in public or surrounded by others

There are plenty of photos online of Jason holding you by your waist at some gala and casually leaned down to softly say something to you just for the two of you to know

Sometimes there's a small smirk on his face, sometimes he's got a look of judgement, sometimes the two of you are staring at someone or something, but either way, he has you close to him and treats you like a beam of the sun that willingly came down to shine a light in his life

Hugs-

All encompassing hugs- smothers you with his love

Hugs from ANY position are what he's into

He really loves just wrapping you in his arms and holding you to his chest, hiding you from the outside world

Jason will keel over if you come and hug him

EVERY TIME IT HAPPENS, HIS BREATH HITCHES AND HIS CHEEKS FLUSH AND HE IS VERY HAPPY

Hugs coming back from missions are long and drawn out

He wants to melt into you and never come out- he hates being away and yearns for your touch

He runs his fingers through your hair and runs his fingers through your hair into your scalp (idk that that makes sense but basically holding head under hair idk I SEE IT IN MY BRAIN)

probably cries a little if it's been a long mission

When he comes back from patrol, he's exhausted and plops his weight onto you, leaning into your embrace for support

His knees may buckle a little if you kiss his cheek and run your fingers through his hair

Hugs are a way to communicate with you and it's one of his favorite languages

I Love You-

He's pretty whipped relatively quickly

When he came back from the dead, he may have had like two, three hookups AT MOST, but he realized that the casual life isn't for him

he loves- MIND, BODY, AND SOUL

Jason probably says "I love you" after patrol when he's bone tired and leaning his full weight against you as you patch him up

It's a whisper and breathy, but you hear it and when you see his eyes searching yours for any sort of disagreement or discomfort, you just have to respond with the same three words

His heart stops and blood rushes to his head where he can feel the flow in his ears

May pass out, it's a possibility

cries gently into your shoulder and holds you tightly into him with his uninjured arm

he says it with full confidence, like it's the only thing he's ever been sure of

will not sleep if he doesn't hear you say it before he goes to bed

cannot leave for patrol if he can't tell you that he loves you

Sometimes he'll call randomly, explaining that there's nothing wrong but that he wanted to tell you that he loves you and it's taking everything in him to not ditch and come home

If you're on patrol, he'll track your position just to drop in behind you, pull you into a hug, and tell you that he loves you

Is willing to get dropped on accident if he accidentally scares you just so that he can look up at you with a goofy grin and see you realize that it's him

Jealousy-

He's not jealous out of insecurity

I wouldn't even say that he's really that jealous, he's just concerned that you're uncomfortable or unsafe

He'd never be in a relationship that he wasn't sure you were 100% commited to him

He knows that you can handle rejecting a man, and has a habit of walking over to sling his arm over your shoulders and casting a shadow over whoever is bothering you

You teasingly ask if he's jealous and he'll reply "No, just thought it was funny, Doll"

If you want him to step in, all you need to do is breathe wrong and he's ready to kill

Will pay visits as Red Hood to those who need the extra reminder

Will knock a hoe out for you, no questions asked

Tries to be as close as possible to you so that nothing weird happens with anyone else, but he notices the lingering glances and longing looks from others

Makes eye contact with the person before leaning down and stealing a kiss from you

Kisses-

Kisses you with his entire soul and being

The first time he kisses you, it's chaste and just a brush

Quickly after that, once he realizes that it's okay, he kisses you like a starving man who just walked into an all you can eat buffet

Every time he kisses you, he leaves you breathless

Like fr he's there for a long time- LUNG CAPACITY INCREASES

Wants so many kisses

Before bed, when you wake up, before he leaves, before you leave, randomly throughout the day, before patrol, during patrol, after patrol, once he's done doing whatever task is occuping you or him at the moment

will tilt head up with once hand under your chin so that he can lean down and kiss you

He'll grab your face in passionate moments and only let go after the longest time

He'll let his hands fall to your waist and hold you closer to him by the small of your back

Love Language-

Touch, words of affirmation, quality time

He is always touching you in some way but never really anyone else

He'll fist bump or side hug Roy or Dick, but he's not a super touchy person with anyone other than you

It's his way of distinguishing you from everyone else

Needs to be touching in some way so that he knows you're right there

He always NEEDS you to WANT HIM

Come over and grab his hand and he melts

Give him a hug from behind or grab his collar and pull him down for a kiss

He internally squeals

Jason needs to be told that he's a good person, that he's smart, that it's a good thing he was resurrected, that he is worth something

It's something that he didn't get enough of growing up since he was always pushed to the side or yelled at for something that the adults were doing wrong

Internalized whatever was being said to him like it was the truth

he need you to tell him that he's doing a good job and that you think he's pretty

Easiest way to get him out of a bad mood is pulling him in for a kiss and telling him that he's pretty

He wants to spend all his time with you, and wants you to want to spend time with him

This is def not a new and unique thing to say, but he does really love just being in your presence

Doesn't have to be specific and could just be being in the same room while you do seperate things, but he LOVES IT

If you ask to hang out, his heart stops and he immediately follows you to wherever and whatever you want

Mornings-

He hates mornings- HATES waking up and having to get out of bed

It only gets worse when you two start sleeping together

He's so warm, you're asleep in his arms, the bed and covers smell like you, he's already so tired, he might as well snooze for a bit longer

It's a terrible thing if you're also not a morning person

Takes so much effort to get out of bed on time

He always manages to be on time to things and makes sure that you're always on time, but it is a struggle

makes breakfast for the two of you and knows exactly what you like and what morning drink you like

Makes sure that you're taking your vitamins if you have any

is attatched at the hip as if it was more possible

brushes teeth together, showers together (to save time, duh), eats together, gets dressed together, makes sure that you get to where you're going safely

Nights-

Loves nights with you- it's his favorite times

It's quiet when he (or the two of you) are home from patrol

Might turn in some trash TV and camp out in the living room with snacks or late night food runs

Holds you tightly and gives you a shirt and sweatpants or a pair of shorts for you to wear

Leans over you as you do your skincare before bed and lets you rub whatever you want on his face

notices that whatever you're using is working well for his skin, and buys some for himself

You get him a nice toothbrush and he actually enjoys using it every night since it reminds him that you really care

Likes to lay in bed and read a book before going to sleep

It shuts his brain off and helps him get his mind off patrol or whatever may be haunting him at the moment

Once the light's out, you either mummer a few goodnights, or spend the night in quiet conversation

Either way, you're squished together and wrapped into the covers

On Patrol-

If you're a civilian or off patrol, he's swining by a few times a night if he can

stoops into your window and knocks for you to let him in

Once he's inside, he takes his helmet off and pulls you into a giant hug and kiss

Does this every time he drops in even if it's been 10 times a night

If you're on patrol with him, he wants to make sure that you're in his sight

Hates being split up since he knows that Gotham can spit out the worst of the worst in a matter of seconds

If you're anywhere near Crime Alley, he's basically on you the entire time

Holding your hand to make sure that you don't get seperated

Gets you your favorite snacks if you get hungry and you two have a favorite 24 hour shop to drop by

Likes getting food after patrol from somewhere like Batburger and inhaling a milkshake at the end

If it's raining, too cold, foggy, or any bad weather, he is monitoring how you're doing at all times

PDA-

He's super big on PDA

Wants everyone to know that you're his and he's yours

he's always got an arm slung over your shoulder, am arm around your waist, holding your hand, anything that gets you close

Leans in for a kiss behind some sort of structure so that the pap aren't snooping around

Gala photos are the best

He's looking down at you like you hung the stars and laid the flowers in the ground

Loves pulling you into the center of the room and dancing around

There are plenty of photos of him trying not to burst into a fit of laughter after you have said something about whatever is going on or recalling an inside joke

Sometimes, there aren't even photos of the two of you together, it'll be a photo of him walking out of a coffee shop with his and your favorite drinks and a snack

Everyone knows that he's bringing it to you

Doesn't change as Red Hood

Superman himself can be there and Jason is still the same ole Jason as he always is

Man has no chill when it comes to you

There's no "I'm being cool leave me alone"

instead it's "I don't care that we're talking about crime families in Gotham with Gordon, I want to hold your hand"

Quirks-

Random lore dropper

He'll just randomly be like "yeah, that's where I stole B's tire before he basically kidnapped me to be Robin"

You'll just stare at him like 👀

He likes Legos

I STAND BY IT IDK WHY I JUST THINK HE DOES

He's picky with the sets that he's getting, but he likes putting them together and not having to worry about anything but what he's doing in the moment

Prefers the old Disney movies over new ones

One of his favorite comfort movies is The Sword in the Stone since it kind of reminds him of B and Alfred taking him in

idk if y'all have anymore, tell me and I'll insert them

Remember-

Remembers everything

basically hyperthymesia when it comes to you (super ultra mega memory)

Has a section in his notes app dedicated to little things that you bring up or things that he notices you like more than others

always knows when you're running low on things and picks them up for you

He knows that if he starts spilling all the information that he knows about you, it would be weird so instead he uses presents as a way to let you know that he's listening

If someone suggests some sort of resturant to go to and he knows that you don't really like that kind of food, he'll interject and suggest something that he knows you like

Show him that you remember the little details about him like he does for you

He thinks it's one of the greatest signs that you really care

Doesn't even have to be some sort of big, grand gesture, but something small

"Got this lipbalm for you since you always complain that your lips are chapped during patrol. This one's my favorite"

He dies and comes back to life all over again but in the best way possible

Memorize how he takes his food orders and drinks and he's giddy

even if you just have it written down somewhere and refer to it, he still freaks out that you took the time

Security-

He does not date casually

He wants to know that you're in it for the long haul

Jason will seek someone out that is on the same level of commitment as him

Don't get things twisted, he's not in this for a one night stand or friends with benefits

He lives everything to the fullest and throws his entire being and soul into relationships

Taste-

Wants someone who is intelligent, interested in a bit of everything, someone who is kind, someone who takes interest and initiative in the things that he likes

Jason doesn't date a weak person, he needs someone that can be stable and a calm in his life

If he thinks that you're going to dip out at any moment, he breaks it off since he's not willing to put himself through that

Likes someone who is tough and not afriad to dropkick someone if needed

The confidence and capability is extremely attractive to him

doesn't mean that you have to be 100% all the time, but he can't handle someone that is always whining or brooding about something

Does well with someone that is clean and takes care of the things around them

Again, he cannot live in a mess and gets the ick if someone is constantly living in a mess

Likes someone who can throw around sarcasm and takes well to his dark humor

"I'm gonna jump" "At least strap a Go-Pro to yourself when you do it so that we can get a show out of it"

Jason swoons

"I'm gonna drown myself" *Y/N begins obnoxiously singing Under the Sea*

*wheezing ensues*

Understanding-

He wants someone that can accept that he's done some dark things and doesn't resent him for it

Jason needs someone that he can confide in and talk to about the things that he's going through or thinking about

You don't have to validate everything, but he wants to be seen and like he matters in some way

If you share his opinions on taking care of crime or whatever it may be, he's more secure

He just wants to be loved and to safely love in return

Value-

This is the most important thing in his life

of course Red Hood takes up a lot of his time and energy, but do enough convincing and he's done with it

You're worth more than the rarest gemstone in the world to him

He'd happily die for you with no questions

There is no place he'd rather be than with you and he wants to make sure you know that

He's got no problem dropping whatever he's doing to come to your aid

There's no help for anyone who may hurt you, no mercy, no saving them

Whole-

You fill a gap in him that he was always aware that he had but just didn't know how to fill it

For him, you're like filling a cavern with water and watching as it fills every available space

You become the air in his lungs consume the thoughts in his head

he bleeds for you, he lives for you

On the days where he feels that there is no hope in the world, he looks for you and knows that even if the world is falling apart, you'd be there to hold it together for him

Xtra-

Wants you to like riding on his bike and fixing it up with him

If you're ever scared of the notion of motorcycles, he tries to ease you into it

When you're comfortable (especially if you always were), he loves picking you up for dates on it

Revs it outside your place so that you know he's there

GET HIM A GREMLIN BELLLL

they're a great gift yall, my favorite 😭

Doesn't matter what he rides, GET HIM A GREMLIN BELLLLL

He will not let you ride until the two of you both have helmets

Does not want you on his bike in only shorts and a tank top or something that doesn't cover skin on the off chance that something happens

Yearning-

THIS IS NOT NEW

THIS MAN IS A YEARNER

HE IS DEVOTED

His entire being longs for you

There is nothing that he wouldn't do for you and he LOVES you entirely

Again, he just wants love and to be able to love

Zeal-

Lives for this

You're his best friend

He'd do anything for you to know that he cares about you

He's got an internal flame for you and loves you like no other

The most important thing in his life

[sugxto]

the meeting of electrons - volt x eddie

⋆syn: A year after Volt sparked into existence, he and Eddie are still trying to name exactly what they are to each other. e/v masterlist.

⋆wc: 3.7k

⋆cw: m/m explicit sex, bottom eddie and top volt

⋆notes: This takes place pre-canon to the game, about a year after Volt first appeared. Within Power Dynamics, I have a sort of timeline in mind for Eddie and Volt, with the main thing that I think Volt is very young, still, when we meet him in game, not more than a few years of existence, as opposed to Eddie, who's been there since the house got wiring. With PD E/V, I believe that they spent the first year of that shared existence where Volt basically just learned who he was, what he liked to do, who he like to fuck, and then, after one drunken night of convenience, they boys hooked up. This takes place a few months after that hook up. I also think that, when Eddie split himself, that some of his powers went to Volt, and that's referenced here.

Inspired by @pogtiste's artwork of the boys dancing

⋆snippet:

“I,” he starts, his lips moving on their own. “I don’t want you to worry about me. I… I don’t need that.”

“You do. You do, my darling, and you know it,” Volt says, faster, nearly pleading.

“But how can I ask that of you?” Eddie’s voice is rushed too, desperate, out of breath. “I, I fucking made you, I don’t even know how, and I can’t ask you to… to…”

“Love you?”

No.

No, this couldn’t be happening.

the meeting of electrons

It looks exhausting, Eddie thinks, how much Volt has to talk as he mills about the club.

He had certainly never been one for small talk, when it had been just him, but he had to admit that business had never been better. Volt had a knack for showmanship, for knowing exactly what a crowd needed, and Open Spotlight had rejuvenated the club more than anything Eddie could have hoped for.

It helped, too, that Volt had spent the first year of his life fucking everything in the house, and one by one, they all came back in, hoping for another chance, and buying a few rounds of drinks when they realized it wouldn’t happen. He’s currently unavailable, he’d tell them, but he appreciated the interest.

Neither of them told another soul that it’s Eddie’s bed he’s occupying. That would open up far, far too many questions that neither of them wanted to answer.

It’s nothing like that - it’s not serious, though. It’s convenient, it’s fun, both of them being able to take what they need from the comfort of the rooms behind the bar. I mean, they hardly even kissed - it was purely, easily, co-workers/roommates turned fuck buddies.

Nothing more.

Which is why Eddie’s rather confused as to why, as he watches Volt tuck one of Betty’s pink curls behind her ear, he feels sparks at the tips of his fingers, hot enough to shatter the glass of the tumbler he’s cleaning.

Volt and Betty turn at the sound, and he shuffles her out the Breaker Box door, locks it behind her, and he runs over to the bar where Eddie has already wiped the shards away.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, before Volt can even ask. “Fingers just got hot, is all.” He tosses the rag and the glass inside it into the trash can, before promptly picking up another of each and starting to clean.

“What’s got you all charged up then?” Volt asks, a curious smile on his lips.

“Nothing,” he says, because that’s exactly it. Nothing.

Volt cocks his head, tsks his tongue. “I don’t think shattering a glass is nothing, Eddie.”

“We run a bar, Volt. Glasses get broken.”

“Not while cleaning them with a rag.” He watches Eddie’s hands run across the glass, over and over, steel eyes staring intently at the rag. “You really ought to relax a bit.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “And when would I have time to do that, exactly?”

Volt looks around at the empty bar, turns back to Eddie, and shrugs his shoulders, a spark in his eyes. “Why not right now?” He stretches out his hand, offers it palm up in front of Eddie. “Dance with me.”

Eddie pauses. He dares a glance at Volt’s hand, follows his arm up, up to his face, and finds exactly the smirk he knew would already be there. Volt’s white eyes are sparkling in the low light of the bar, and Eddie recognizes the look of his face, has seen it when he greets every single patron of the bar, night after night.

Flirting. Volt's flirting. Great.

And yes, maybe that was his default setting. Always switched “on,” always powering, charging something. It was helpful peddling cocktails, sure, and the Breaker Box’s audience had steadily increased night after night since Volt had sparked into existence, so Eddie couldn’t complain.

But, despite the fact that they’d been… together (Eddie still wasn’t sure how to classify it) for a few months now, Eddie certainly isn’t used to that sparkle being used on him.

He scoffs, tries to make it sound amused. “No thanks,” he grumbles, turning his eyes back to the rag and tumbler in his hand.

“Eddie,” Volt coos, and it takes everything in Eddie’s power not to look up at the sound, “that glass is as clean as it was when you first picked it up.” He steps closer to the stool Eddie sits on, their legs now nearly touching. “As I said, you really ought to relax.” He draws out the “a”, almost in a sing-song tone. “And dance with me.”

Eddie sighs, puts the glass back on the bar and, against his better judgement, brings his gaze to meet Volt’s again. That sparkle is still there, but it’s warmer, kinder. Genuine, maybe, Eddie thinks. It surprises him - Volt wasn’t one to lie, but he wasn’t one to be totally transparent, either. This warmth… is curious.

And beautiful.

And Eddie, though he tries to hide it, is weak.

“Fine.” He puts his hand in Volt’s, and something surges when their skin touches. They both realize it, both feel it in their currents, but they say nothing, and Volt is leading him onto the dancefloor in a flash, to the point where Eddie nearly loses his footing trying to keep up with him.

When Volt’s hand finds the small of his back, pulls him closer to his chest, Eddie swallows a gasp, not wanting to reveal just how the proximity was pulling at the wires in his mind. Which was ridiculous, he tries to tell himself - they’d literally been fucking for months, been spending more nights than not sleeping in the same bed, to the point where the office they’d turned into Volt’s bedroom was truly reverting back to it’s original form. But despite all that, this softness, this tenderness, wasn’t something they really sought from each other. Didn’t show it when the club was open, didn’t peck kisses on each other’s cheeks when they passed each other in the hallway.

Didn’t dance hand in hand when the bar was closed.

Eddie tries to shake that thought away, tries instead to focus on the slight pressure of Volt’s hand on his back, the way his hand sits in Eddie’s own.

Volt is smiling, a thousand watts, his hair emitting the smallest glow of light that envelopes their faces. “Shall we?” he asks, and his voice feels like being two whiskeys sours deep.

Eddie pauses, and he cocks his head when he gets a thought. “The music’s off.”

“Ah.” In response, Volt stomps the floor twice, and the speakers kick on. A slow, sultry jazz beat starts to fill the room, and Volt chuckles when Eddie rolls his eyes. “Better?”

“Better.” Volt has such an innate grasp on the circulation of his power than Eddie ever did, knowing exactly where and how to send it, just the perfect amount. It was the little things that Eddie started struggling with first, when he was alone, and a small part of his brain wonders if it should feel jealous of the ease that Volt had over it so immediately. A larger part, though, is proud. “I do kinda miss being able to do that. But you’re much better at it than me.”

“Nonsense, I’m sure of it,” he muses. But before Eddie can open his mouth to retort, Volt pulls him in again, closer still, pressed solidly together. “Now, just follow my lead, alright?”

Volt’s feet start to move, and he sways to the side, pulling Eddie along with him, unsteady and unsure, his hands gripping Volt’s arms like a vice. They spin, and Eddie is sure he’s going to trip at every step.

Volt’s laugh is warm, like velvet on Eddie’s skin. “Eddie, you’ve got to relax.” He slows their feet, and his fingers slot between Eddie’s, holding him upright. “You’ll make us both trip with how stiff you are.”

Eddie grunts, his eyes focused on one of the buttons by Volt’s lapel, but sure how to meet his eyes. “Easy for you to stay. I never even entered the Hollyween dance thing.”

“Well don’t let my reigning championship deter you, darling. This isn’t a competition.”

Darling.

He’s never called him that before, Eddie thinks.

He glances up, white eyes already set on his face, and he feels sparks pop along his palm where Volt’s hand rests. He knows, somehow, that Volt feels them too.

They’re quiet now, their movements slowed, the music still filling the empty bar. Eddie wonders if he should call it now, just groan and head back to the bar, but something keeps him pressed to Volt’s chest. Something that feels almost like a wire, wrapped around his heart, buzzing and humming with a powerful current. One that Eddie doesn’t know if he can control.

Volt’s eyes flit over Eddie’s steel gaze, that sparkle, that warmth, still shining. “You’re doing beautifully, Eddie.”

The wire tightens.

“Yeah, well,” he scoffs, noticing his mouth is suddenly dry. “This is still another thing you’re better than me at.”

Volt’s expression flickers, a flash of something Eddie can’t place. He’s quiet a moment, taking his time to find the words he uses next. “Eddie,” he says again, almost a whisper, “I only wanted to dance with you.”

It’s like a shock to his circuits, this flash that hits Eddie at the tone of Volt’s voice. It’s no longer flirting, no more charm, it’s… raw. It’s true. It’s like a veil that was between them has fallen, and now, for perhaps the first time in their shared existence, they stand plainly before each other.

It takes Eddie a moment to stop studying Volt’s face, stop trying to analyze the fire in his eyes, before he realizes he should breathe. Should say something.

“I,” he starts, but he’s unsure. “I know.” He swallows, to buy himself a second more. “I’m sorry.”

One of Volt’s brows twitches, and his lips fall open, almost like he’s about to speak. It surprises Eddie when his hand leaves his back, ghosts along his arm, and comes to rest on Eddie’s cheek, his fingertips brushing his neck. That surge is there again, humming where they meet.

Volt’s voice is still quiet, still that raw tone that Eddie’s not sure he’s ever heard before. “I only want for you to be alright. You work so hard, for them, for… for me.” His other hand leaves Eddie’s, comes to his other cheek, and Eddie finds that his palm is now pressed against Volt’s chest. “Can’t you let me help you?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie says, a little quicker and a little gruffer than he intends it to, years of guardedness and loneliness making it his default. But he blinks, and he promptly tries again, softer, more thoughtful. “I’m alright, Volt. I don’t need to be helped.”

Volt’s thumb strokes his cheek, little sparks lighting under Eddie’s skin. His dark brows are furrowed now, his gaze disarming. “But isn’t that what I’m here for? To help you? Protect you?”

Eddie blinks, his own brows coming to meet. “Is it?”

Volt nods. “I think so. I… I feel it, inside me. Alongside my current. This, this need to keep you safe. It’s the strongest thing I’ve felt since…”

Since he sparked into existence, he doesn’t have to say. Volt’s existence was born out of anger, out of desperation to simply be rid of the pain that had threatened to rip Eddie apart. It wasn’t logical, it wasn’t intentional, and even now, a year later, Eddie still isn’t certain what Volt’s existence means - for the club, for the power in the house, for himself.

The wire in Eddie’s chest is tight, so tight he wonders if he’ll even be able to breathe soon.

The hands around Eddie’s face hold him tighter, and Volt’s breath tickles Eddie’s lips as he speaks. “And I only want for you to let me. Let me hold whatever I can if it means that maybe,” the corners of his mouth turn up, but the smile doesn’t meet his eyes, “you could at least enjoy a dance.”

Eddie’s breath is gone, only Volt’s remaining between them, and the thrum of his current pounds in his ears. He feels trapped, held by this man who is both everything that he is not, and everything he longed for in his lonely years. This man who, when he feels their skin touch, makes him feel complete.

But how could he be so selfish? To even allow himself to feel such a thing? To even hope, so deep inside himself he won’t even admit it’s there, that Volt could feel the same?

“I,” he starts, his lips moving on their own. “I don’t want you to worry about me. I… I don’t need that.”

“You do. You do, my darling, and you know it,” Volt says, faster, nearly pleading.

“But how can I ask that of you?” Eddie’s voice is rushed too, desperate, out of breath. “I, I fucking made you, I don’t even know how, and I can’t ask you to… to…”

“Love you?”

No.

No, this couldn’t be happening.

It couldn’t, because that meant that…

That something that Eddie desperately, hopelessly wants, is within reach. In his own fucking hands, right here, right now.

And he couldn’t be so lucky.

He tries to push himself away from Volt, to get out of this pull his current has on him, has to think. But Volt’s grip only tightens, his hands around his neck, stopping him before he can even take a step.

“Eddie, don’t -”

“Volt, no.” It’s harsher than he means it, but all of his circuits are fried. “You, you don’t know what that means -”

“Of course I do,” Volt’s voice is like silk, smooth and level and still everything Eddie is not. The shine in white eyes could blind Eddie, or could lure him out of some unknown depth like a beacon. Maybe they’re trying to do just that. “It means I’d do anything for you. Anything to protect you, give you anything you need. It means that my breath is yours, my current, yours.” One of the hands on Eddie’s neck slips down, down his chest, and stops over his heart. “You feel it too, I know you do.”

As he says it, Eddie feels that warmth flood his veins, emanating from Volt’s touch and flowing to the ends of his fingers and the top of his head. It’s so beautiful, it’s overpowering, and it’s like he can taste it, like he can taste the devotion in Volt’s voice, like he can feel Volt’s heart beating like it’s inside his own chest.

It’s beating in sync with his own, he realizes.

And Eddie, though he tries to hide it, is weak.

Without thinking, his hands fly to white hair, and he pulls, pulls Volt down to him, needing his lips on his own more than air. When they meet, the lightbulb above them bursts with a pop!, but it’s the furthest thing from either of their minds. Volt’s lips are soft, softer than he remembers them ever being, and they open for him, pliant, irresistible, perfect. This is not how they normally kiss - it’s usually all teeth and bite, hurried, like a means to an end. But this… this is warm.

“Eddie,” Volt gasps, their breath mixing, one inhaling when the other exhales, “My darling, I love you. I love you.”

Eddie's grip on Volt’s hair tightens, and he curses through grit teeth. “Fucks sake, Volt,” he hisses, knowing the words are right there on the tip of his tongue, but the effort to say them - he doesn’t know if he has the strength. “Fuck, I - I feel so selfish, I - you shouldn’t have to love me just because I made you.”

“Never. Never. I love you for myself. For us. What we share when we touch,” he says, his fingers carding through Eddie’s hair. “It’s been here all along, hasn’t it?”

It has, Eddie knows it has, has known since the moment he opened his eyes and found bright, white ones staring down at him.

And here it was, bare and open in front of them. Just waiting for Eddie to reach out and take it.

“Volt,” the name falls off Eddie’s tongue in total adoration, “I… I love you, too.”

In a haze, like he’s drunk, Eddie is being led, pushed across the room by strong, loving hands, and his back is pressed to something cool - the bar, it must be. It’s urgent, now, how Volt is kissing him, keeping his lips no more than a breath away, sparks shocking their lips each time they meet. Eddie’s hands move from Volt’s hair to the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer still. But it’s still not close enough.

“Volt,” he breathes, when Volt moves his lips to his jaw, “upstairs.”

They’re there in a flash, kissing clumsily up the stairs, vests and shirts and belts shed in their wake. When they fall to the bed, their bare chests and legs tangling together, Eddie thinks he must finally know what it feels like to be electrocuted, to have every cell in his body shocked to attention. Volt’s hand holds his waist, and he gasps as a shiver runs down his spine. It’s like he’s finally seeing, finally feeling Volt, with no pretenses, no masks, just their tandem heartbeats and shared breath.

Eddie’s lying back on the bed, Volt above him, the bolts of his hair falling like a veil around them, enlightening them. Volt kisses his jaw, his neck, and Eddie moans, arching into the touch. He is hungry, he is weak, and more than anything, he needs Volt.

“I, fuck” he moans, grunts at the feeling of Volt’s teeth scraping his skin, “I can’t wait, Volt, I - please.”

“My darling,” he purrs into the shell of his ear, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s so beautiful, Eddie thinks, as he watches him stand and retrieve the bottle of lube from the night stand. His shoulders are so wide, elegant, and he can’t help but follow the line of his muscles down his chest to the white coils that sits between the v of his hips. It’s intoxicating, better than any cocktail that Eddie could concoct, and the blood starts to rush from his head to his cock.

Volt hums as he settles back on the bed above him, peppers kisses across his face, feels the charge in his heart surge at the little sounds Eddie makes in response. “Will you let me love you, Eddie?”

For Eddie to finally have something he wants, something he needs, in his own hands -

He’d go through the pain that came before Volt a thousand times if it meant he’d still end up here.

“Yes.”

His hips are lifted, and he wraps his ankles around Volt’s waist as large, soft hands press open his thighs. He watches, the wire tightening around his heart, as Volt pumps his cock, coating its length with the lube, and Eddie gasps when he feels him at his hole. Volt leans forward, balances a hand on Eddie’s chest, and in turn, Eddie grasps his wrist, trying in vain to steady his breathing. It doesn’t matter, though, when Volt finally pushes inside, and all the air leaves Eddie’s lungs.

“Volt,” he whispers, losing more and more thoughts in his head other than that one name and he fills him, “Please -”

“Shhh,” Volt purrs, and they both gasp when he finally bottoms out, and Eddie clenches around him, “I’m here, Eddie.”

Tentatively, softly, he rocks his hips, and already Eddie is gone.

“Fuck,” he groans through his teeth, his nails digging into Volt’s arm as he thrusts. “Yes, I - fuck!”

“Eddie.” Volt’s white eyes are locked onto Eddie’s steel ones, unblinking, and everywhere is warm, something deep and electric pulsing in every electron in their shared touches. It’s like they’re charging together, their powers combining and building, and it makes the lamps in the room start to flicker.

As Volt’s pace quickens, Eddie is vaguely aware of tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes. “I l-love you,” he gasps, Volt’s cock burning inside him, his white eyes lighting a fire under his skin. “Fuck, Volt -”

“I love you,” Volt whispers, and he tears a small yell from Eddie’s throat as he wraps his hand around his cock.

How strange it is, some logical part of Eddie thinks, how complete he feels, despite the fact that he had to tear himself apart to get there.

Both of them know they weren’t meant to last long, as Volt hits a spot inside Eddie that finally spills the tears in his eyes. Volt kisses them away, whispers into his skin how good he’s being, how much he loves him, all the while working his hand over his cock and deepening the angle inside of him. Eddie’s hands claw at his back, his breath strangled in his throat from the stimulation, the sensations both physical and not. It’s too much, it’s not enough - it’s exactly what he needed.

“V-Volt,” Eddie stutters, and his hands shake as he feels himself climbing, knowing he’ll fall soon, clinging to the only solid thing he can. Volt doesn’t stop, thrusts into him faster, harder, and then -

White flashes across Eddie’s vision as he cums - the feeling in his body so raw and exposed, he wonders if he’s been burned. He can feel Volt’s lips on his cheek, the erratic pump of his hips, and then Volt joins him, falling, together, into a white haze.

They’re pressed together when they come round, their faces buried in each other’s necks. It’s painful, almost, Eddie thinks, having to separate, so he keeps hold of one of Volt’s hands even as they clean up, Volt kissing his fingers every so often.

When finally, they’re back beside each other, under the blankets - their blankets, now, they suppose - only then can Eddie take a deep breath. He rests in the nook of Volt’s shoulder, his fingers making circles on his collarbone, and Volt tracing circuit lines on his arm, their chests rising and falling with synced breath.

“What do we do now?” Eddie eventually says, in the quiet of the dark.

Volt hums in the back of his throat. “I move my things up here. We…” he lets out a small laugh. “I don’t know. Is there something we should do differently?”

Eddie huffs, a small smile on his lips. “I… dunno. I guess not.” He thinks for a moment. “I don’t want you fucking anyone else.”

“And I don’t want you fucking anyone else, darling.” Volt’s fingers find Eddie’s hair. “I’m a bit protective, if you haven’t noticed.”

“You? Protective?” Eddie chuckles. “No, I’ve never noticed.”

“You love me, don’t deny it.”

And Eddie, though he tries to hide it, is weak.

“Of course I do.”

[scrapyardboyfriends]

Do you think they could attempt to redeem John? Robert has done things just as bad and they managed to redeem him

Short answer: No

Longer answer, let's discuss:

Look I’m not even really going to argue with you that Robert has done bad things. He’s done a lot of shitty things over the years, particularly in 2015 and people have gotten hurt, physically and emotionally. I would argue that pushing someone to the floor to get to a phone to delete a picture that would wreck the life you’ve built and think you want is very different from intentionally injecting a mystery sedative into someone’s neck without their consent and without an active medical job so that you can come back later and play hero saving them. But I digress…

I think the more important things to look at are their motivations, their redeeming qualities and why they were or should be redeemed.

Robert’s main motivations in 2015 were keeping the affair a secret. He wanted to keep his life with Chrissie because of all it gave him: respect, money, status, power. But he also wanted to keep what he had with Aaron because he loved him, he was just terrified of coming out due to all of his previous family issues and his own repression and internalized homophobia. He could have had all he thought he wanted if he could have just given up Aaron but he couldn’t. He loved him too much and that destroyed everything he had worked for. And in the end, none of that mattered. He still just wanted Aaron. In the end, Robert’s motivations feel somewhat relatable even if it’s in a heightened soapy way.

John’s motivation is the high he gets from saving people, that feeling when people are calling him a hero and praising him. He needs people around him to need him and look up to him and think he’s a hero. Now we still don’t really know what has made him feel this inadequate but it doesn’t feel like he really cares about anyone, not truly.

Which brings me to their redeeming qualities.

Robert’s main redeeming quality is Aaron and his love for Aaron. Loving Aaron makes Robert more human, makes him a better man, makes him want to be better. Aaron completes Robert in a way he hasn’t really ever had. He loves him unconditionally, he can’t stop himself. He loves Robert for who he is. And Robert does the same for Aaron. He loves him like no one ever has before. They heal something in each other. Aaron is Robert’s redemption.

What are John’s redeeming qualities? That sometimes he does actually save people? It’s certainly not Aaron and his love for him. The sticking plaster metaphor applies both ways too. John is a plaster for Aaron, keeping him together enough so that he doesn’t go back to Robert and risk getting his heart broken again if he loses him again. He’s safe because Aaron doesn’t love him the same way. Aaron is a plaster for John because that’s how he gets his fix at home. He likes when Aaron is weak or upset or struggling because he can step in and play hero and keep Aaron needing him and looking up to him. But the moment Aaron stops being useful in that way, does he end up like Aiden?

And then we get to the why.

They redeemed Robert for Aaron, so that they could be together. That was the goal. That was what allowed Robert to really fit into the village and settle down and not just cause havoc that leaves him as the victim of a whodunnit. I mean Robert is also his own character too with a whole history that they wanted to keep around too but a big part of the method and reason for redemption was Aaron.

But what is the point and purpose in redeeming John? Where does he fit once this story is over? What’s the goal? To get him to be a functional medical professional that doesn’t need to save people to get off on it but just saves people because he actually cares about saving them? Would anyone even care about that? Is the point to build up the Sugdens? Because what role does he have in that family after all of this comes out? After Robert and Aaron get back together? Sure Andy killed Sarah but he was a kid and he didn’t know she was in that barn. Sure Robert killed Katie but it was an accident and a bullet helped them move on from that. But how does John stick around after everything he’s done to Aaron, to Robert, to Vic, to Harry?

Even if it were possible to redeem John, why would they even want to? And where does he fit after?

Why would you want him redeemed anon?

[beef-brisket]

Adam quickly ran over and collapsed next to Lucifer, pulling his hoodie off, Adam pushed it against his throat.

Adam: No- no- no- fuck. What the fuck is wrong with you?!

Sera growled and kicked Adam off Lucifer before stepping on his throat: You dare question me, question ALL of Heaven!

He pushed against her leg, but she wouldn't budge: S-Sera- please don't do this-.

Sera: Do you know how long we've waited for this, Adam? To finally bring him here, to end him once and for all, has taken far too long! You and your damn feelings will not ruin this for us!

As soon as Sera stepped off his neck, Adam started to rush towards Lucifer, but a sharp pain in his shoulder forced him to the ground. A silver blade went through the bone and into his floor, pinning him to the ground.

Sera: Fool. Even after everything he did to you, you still run after him like a dog.

Adam groaned when Sera grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back.

Sera: I'm done with your disobedience. We've let you run wild for far too long. You're nothing but a disgrace, an animal and if it wasn't for this bastard Devil, that's all you would have been! And finally, we have a way to control you, to return you to your natural state, and neither Lucifer or will stop that.

The Seraphim snapped her fingers, summoning three small angels: My apologies, but we have to move up our termination plan.

The little angels nodded and flew over to Lucifer, pulling out a knife each.

Adam: G-Get the fuck away from him! I'll fucking kill you!

Sera glared, before leaning down and pulling the blade out of his shoulder. When she felt Adam start moving towards Lucifer, she rolled her eyes.

Sera: You're putting your future on the line for a man who left you behind? Abandoned you? He sacrificed his place in paradise for Lilith, not you. He returned for EVE, not you. Tell me Adam, what did he say to you? Hm? Don't pretend you don't remember.

When Adam didn't answer, she stepped on his shoulder, making him scream and stop moving.

Sera: Tell me- actually. Lucifer. Before my assistants here take what I desire, remind Adam of those four little words you said to him.

Lucifer: N-N-Nev-er.

Sera: I can make this hurt a lot more than it already does, Lucifer. Don't force my hand. Tell. Him.

Lucifer glared: N-No.

Sighing, Sera leant down, grabbing the blade and pushing it into Adam's back, right where his heart would be.

Sera: Tell. Him. Now.

The king looked away, squeezing his eyes shut. Hopefully if he wasn't looking at Adam, the first man wouldn't believe his words.

Lucifer: ...Y-you're no-not worth i-it.

Sera: Exactly. He isn't. But don't worry, the lord knows how to make him worth it. To make him perfect. Begin.

Adam screamed when the angels started to stab into Lucifer's chest. The Devil tried to stop them but even with his shackles off, his power wasn't made for Heaven. And it didn't help that these little fuckers were damaging right where his power was centred.

Finally, Sera was handed a living star, it blazed and burned in her hand but she couldn't help but cringe at the Heavenly light long since tainted by Hell. Lucifer felt himself dying. It was agonisingly slow, letting him watch everything that was happening, including how it took Sera only seconds to purify his power. An action so simple it made his thousands of years suffering seem like nothing. A waste.

Sera: You are a creation of Heaven, tainted by a fruit of evil origins. It's about time we fix that.

Adam cried as he looked at Lucifer, the king's eyes were slowly becoming lifeless, but he still smiled at Adam trying to comfort him as much as possible which only made the first man cry harder.

Especially when Sera grabbed his hair and lifted him up.

Adam: Stop- Sera- p-please- I'll- I'll do whatever you want- just... let him go home- h-he has a kid.

Sera: Hm... whatever I want? I want... you to sit still while I carve away at the broken bits~.

Reaching around, Sera moved Adam onto his back and had the angels grab him before he went to grab Sera. He yelled at all of them, trying to summon his axe and every power he had, but they were all blocked.

With a cut of her knife, Sera started to force Lucifer's star into his chest.

Hell's Missing the Devil

@beef-brisket

Lucifer wasn't sure if he had heard Sera correctly but the serious tone and look on her face told him that yes she was in fact serious.

Lucifer: I'm sorry.... What?

Sera sighed, she sounded annoyed: We will put an end to the Exterminations and in exchange you will be up in Heaven as a prisoner.

That..... Didn't sound ideal.

But neither were the Exterminations.

He didn't understand, wasn't the whole point of him falling so that he would never see Heaven again? Didn't that defeat the purpose?

Unless...... There was more to it.

Sera: Think about it. Come back here tomorrow when you've made your choice. Make the right choice for once.

He scowled when she left. What a bitch.

Lucifer did think about it and that's when it dawned on him.

With Lilith gone and now Lucifer, Charlie would have to step up and rule Hell. Which meant that she wouldn't have time to run her hotel.

It was underhanded and sneaky..... It was so Heaven.

But by doing this....... He would be saving his daughter too. He didn't trust them not to go after her one day.

Charlie: Dad you can't.

Lucifer: Sweetie, I..... I know this isn't ideal but it's for a greater good.

Charlie teared up: What am I supposed to do without you!?

It was different when he was just holed up in the manor, at least she knew he was safe at home.

But in Heaven? Lucifer was considered a traitor. Who knows what they would do to him.

Lucifer hugged his baby girl tight: Y-you'll be okay...... I love you.

Charlie: ...... I love you too.

She didn't want to let him go. There had to be a way to bring him home.

The next day, Lucifer went to the embassy where Sera was waiting.

Sera: So?

Lucifer sighed, this felt like a mistake but he didn't know what else to do to keep Charlie and their people safe.

Lucifer: Alright.......

Sera: Good.

She snapped her fingers and a pair of silver bracelets appeared on his wrists and Lucifer suddenly felt very drained. They must be blocking his powers.

With another snap, handcuffs with a chain appeared as well, Lucifer walked with his head down through the portal with Sera.

He would have laughed when he heard Peter freaking out. But any amusement left him when Sera said who he would be staying with.

Sera: You'll be under Adam's watch.

It felt ironic in a way.

Lucifer felt like he had been handed a death sentence as Sera handed his chain over to the first man.

[confessionsandcreampies]

a/n: I wrote this mainly for myself - tw: mentioning of sa in the past

the blue lock boys reacting to finding out their girl got sexually assaulted in the past

itoshi rin - he freezes, stone still. his jaw clenches, his hands curl into fists so tight the knuckles go white. he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t speak right away. he listens. and when you’re done, his voice is low and trembling with restrained rage, “you didn’t deserve that. ever.” he looks like he’s about to shatter something, but he doesn’t. instead, he gets down to your level and whispers, “if i ever make you feel unsafe… if i ever do anything that feels wrong… tell me. i’ll stop. i’ll listen. i’ll change.” later, when you’re asleep, he stares at the ceiling all night. thinking about how the world failed you. thinking about how he never, ever will.

itoshi sae - he doesn’t react on the surface. not visibly. just a quiet exhale. but his eyes are darker, sharper. he pulls you into his arms, holds your head against his chest. “i want to kill him.” his voice is flat, but honest. but then he softens. he runs his fingers through your hair and adds, “but you’re safe now. with me. always.” he doesn’t ask for details. doesn’t demand more than you want to give. but if you do talk, he listens. dead silent. burning behind the eyes. later, he’ll learn what you need. what triggers you, what calms you. he becomes hyper-aware of your body language, pulling back the second you stiffen, staying close when you lean in.

isagi yoichi - his breath catches. his eyes immediately fill with tears. “i’m so sorry.” he holds your hands, kissing your knuckles like they’re made of glass. “you didn’t deserve that. not ever. you’re so good. you’re so fucking brave.” he blames the world. he blames himself for not being there, even if it happened before he met you. he asks what you need. space? comfort? silence? a long cry in his arms? “i’ll never push you. i’ll never rush you. i’ll wait forever if i have to.” isagi becomes your anchor, reminding you every day that your body is yours. that your yes means everything. that your silence never means consent. that you are loved.

karasu tabito - he doesn’t make jokes. not this time. not now. he goes still and serious. his usual swagger fades. “you… you don’t have to tell me anything more. but i believe you.” he takes your hand, his thumb brushing gently over the back of it. “i don’t even know how to say the right thing right now. but i want to say it all.” he feels a helpless kind of rage. the kind that makes his voice shake even when he’s whispering. karasu becomes protective, but not controlling. fierce, but gentle. he spends hours reading trauma support resources. he talks to a therapist for you. he’ll start saying things like, “you don’t owe me anything. not your body, not your story, not your time. i’m here ‘cause i want to be. always.”

oliver aiku - his whole expression hardens. he looks like someone just stabbed him in the heart. and then he hugs you, tight and long. “i wish i could go back in time. i’d fucking burn him to the ground.” his voice is hoarse, deep, and full of emotion. he’s seen some shit. he’s done some shit. but hearing what happened to you? it changes him. he slows down with you. never touches you without asking first. never assumes. “you wanna talk about it? or wanna forget it for a little while? either way, i got you.” when you cry, he rubs your back and says, “you’re not broken. you’re not ruined. you’re the strongest person i’ve ever met.”

michael kaiser - he doesn’t know what to do at first. he just stares. then he blurts out, “tell me who. i’ll destroy him. right now.” you tell him that’s not what you need. so he tries again. “i’m sorry. i—fuck. i just hate that someone touched you like that. i hate that it’s in your memory. i hate that i can’t erase it.” then he kneels in front of you, lays his forehead on your knees. “but i swear—when you’re with me, i’ll never take a single thing you don’t want to give. not a kiss. not a look. not a breath.” he becomes fiercely tender. stops teasing, stops pressing, starts learning. every act of affection becomes a question: “can i touch you here?” “do you want me close?” “you sure?” and every yes you give him feels like sacred trust.

barou shoei - he looks like he got punched. doesn’t say a word for a while. just breathes heavily. then, with trembling restraint, “i’m gonna go break something. but i’ll come back. i swear.” he returns ten minutes later with bloody knuckles and shame in his eyes. “sorry. i lost it. but not at you. never at you.” then he kneels beside you and cups your face gently in his calloused hands. “you’re not dirty. you’re not weak. you’re not anything he made you feel.” he’s awkward with comfort but brutal with loyalty. will guard your body like it’s holy ground. will never, ever touch without permission again. “you set the pace. always.”

shidou ryusei - at first, he laughs. that bitter, sharp, disbelieving kind of laugh. “you’re fuckin’ joking.” but then he sees your face and the light drains out of him. he goes dead quiet like a switch flipped. “no. you’re not.” he paces. claws at his own hair. hits the wall. then just drops to his knees in front of you. and when he finally speaks again, his voice is so low and hoarse it barely sounds like him, “i’d gut the bastard. bare hands. i’d do it smiling.” but then he stops himself and looks at you. “i’ve said a lot of crazy shit, haven’t i? bet you thought i was all bark. but this… this makes me feel like a fucking monster, ‘cause i wanna kill him. but i’d never hurt you. never.” from that moment on, he starts asking first. every touch. every kiss. he still has the fire, still has the chaos, but around you, it’s tamed. it’s channeled into protectiveness. he’ll growl at anyone who looks at you wrong, but he’ll whisper, “you wanna be held? or wanna be left alone? i’m yours either way, angel.”

don lorenzo - he doesn’t smile. not this time. the gold teeth stay hidden. he just stares at you. and then he stands up and walks away. for a second, it feels like he’s abandoning you. but when he comes back, he’s got blood on his hands and glass in his fist. “i needed to break something. ‘cause if i don’t, i’ll break him instead.” then he kneels in front of you, hands trembling, voice softer than you’ve ever heard. “he didn’t deserve to touch you. you’re a fucking treasure. you hear me? you’re mine. mine to guard. not to ruin.” don’s obsession turns inward. instead of controlling you, he becomes your shadow. your armor. the man who once licked your thigh just to watch you squirm now pauses before brushing your arm. “tell me what you want. just say it. you want silence? i’ll be quiet. you want me to leave? i’ll go. you want me to hold you? i’ll never let go.” and if anyone dares joke about your trauma he’ll be in jail before the words finish leaving their mouth.

noel noa - no outward reaction at first. he nods, listens, doesn’t interrupt once. but his hands are tight in his lap, and his breath is slow and controlled. when you finish, he closes his eyes for a long moment. “you’re notalone.” and then, quieter, “you never were. even back then. i just wish i could’ve been the one who protected you.” noa doesn’t rush to fix it. he’s calm, stable, present. the kind of presence you lean on. he wraps his arms around to ground you. “you’re safe now. you can say stop, and i’ll stop. you can say nothing, and i’ll understand. you never owe me anything. but i’m here. every day.” and when you worry you’re too broken for him he kisses your forehead and says, “you’re not broken. you’re surviving. and that makes you stronger than anyone on the field.”

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

You’re My Softness

Bob Reynolds / The Void x Reader

Warnings: Emotional instability, intense jealousy, Bob nearly loses control, brief violence (interrupted), possessive behavior, psychological intensity, soft yandere vibes, comfort after anger, change in void image (he comforts bob???)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

It was supposed to be a quiet day.

Just a routine check-in at the compound. You’d stopped to grab coffee in the break room. You’d smiled—awkwardly, politely —at someone’s dumb joke, and that had been enough.

You didn’t even notice Bob when he walked in.

But he noticed everything. The guy--new, cocky, stupid--who standing too close, leaning against the counter like he belonged in your space. Saying something low, something just shy of disgusting, and laughing when your polite rejection wasn’t loud enough to stop him.

And then suddenly—Crash.

The coffee mug shattered against the floor at your feet. You turned just quick enough to see Bob wrap his hand around the guy’s throat, pressing him flat against the wall.

Not choking... not yet. But damn close to it.

The glow was already rising behind his eyes like a sun about to burn everything down.

“Bob—”

He didn’t hear you at first. Couldn't hear the softness over how shallow his breathing was, his heart beating in his ears, fingers twitching, shadows starting to creep in from the corners of the room like they’d been summoned.

“I’m going to give you one chance,” he muttered, low and terrifyingly calm. “To walk out of here conscious.”

“Bob—baby stop,” you said more sharply now, stepping forward. His jaw flexed. The random Joe made a panicked noise. And that was enough. Bob dropped him. Just let him fall at his feet.

The guy scrambled and ran without looking back.

Silence fell again, heavy and hot.

Bob stood there staring at the wall, hands shaking. You touched his wrist. He didn’t pull away—but he didn’t look at you either. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, hoarse. “You shouldn’t have to see that side of me.”

“You stopped,” you whispered. He just shook his head, “I almost didn’t.” You slid your fingers between his, grounding him. “But you did.”

Bob finally turned his eyes to you—lit, golden, with something deeper beneath the surface, something broken and furious and yours.

And then, just under his breath, as if confessing something holy:

“No, it’s sweet, really… because it means you care. You care because you know I don’t.”

The way he said it-so tired, so bare-made your chest ache.“Bob--”

“I’m not soft,” he said. “Not for anyone. Not since every--” He cut himself off, voice cracking slightly. “But you…” His hand rose to your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with the same gentleness he refused the world. “You’re my softness.”

And that, he knew, was the most dangerous part of all.

Because if anyone ever took you from him?

He’d let the Void come through. And there’d be no one left to stop him.

But until then—until you told him to stop—he’d fight it. For you.

He always would.

♡♡♡♡♡♡

The world was still again.

You were asleep beside him—warm, breathing softly, curled into his chest like you’d never doubted him. Like you hadn’t watched him nearly rip someone apart hours ago. Like you weren’t afraid. He couldn't stop think about how you should’ve been.

Bob lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open. The glow behind his eyelids pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He could still feel the pressure of the Void… watching. Not rising. Just there, coiled around his ribs like smoke. Waiting.

He tried to focus on your breathing. Tried to memorize the soft weight of your arm across his stomach.

But the voice still came. Low. Velvet. Echoing from a place beneath thought.

> >"You didn’t kill him."

Bob didn’t respond.

> >"You wanted to.He looked at her like she was a thing he could have. Like she wasn’t already claimed." But you stopped yourself. For her."

A shiver crawled down Bob’s spine.

>>"I’m proud of you Robert."

That—that—made Bob’s throat tighten.

“You’re not real,” he whispered. “You’re just me. You’re what I become when I fall apart.”

>>"Then fall apart the right way. Let me through only when it counts. Let me protect what you love the way no one ever protected you."

Bob closed his eyes and focused on matching his breathing with yours before mumbling “She thinks I’m strong enough to hold you back.”

>>"She’s right...But she’s wrong. Because she doesn’t know yet that she doesn’t have to hold you back.She only has to stand there—and we will kneel gratefully."

Bob exhaled shakily.

“She’s the only good thing left in me.”

> "No, Bob. She’s the only good thing worth us keeping."

There was silence again.

Almost.

And then, so low he wasn’t sure he even heard it:

>"She’s your softness. She’s my sanctuary. Ours."

Bob finally turned his head, looked at you sleeping beside him, face pressed to his shirt, trusting him with every inch of herself. And for once… he didn’t feel like a monster. Not because Void was gone. But because Void wasn’t.

And still--you stayed.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

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[motherismotheringggg]

the first taste 🪽

summary - based on this late night horned up thought i had, i made it as a joke but then i couldn’t stop thinking about it so here we are; basically what its like for each character when they stick the t!p in

type - headcannons for reader (plus sized black girl) x smoke/stack/remmick/bo chow

tags/warnings - p in v

author’s note - i just love this movie so much 😭 im working on another remmick story but for now enjoy this, it’s kind of rushed but i still like it!!

Smoke 🚬

Hot. Solid. Controlled.

The first time he eases in, Smoke lets out a low, guttural grunt—deep in his chest, like the sound dragged up from somewhere primal. His jaw flexes, and his hand finds your hip, grip tightening just enough to ground himself. His body is all tension, sinew pulled tight, like he’s fighting the urge to move too fast, too hard.

But he doesn’t rush.

He takes his time with that first stroke—slow and steady, the kind that makes you arch beneath him without thinking. He watches your face the whole time, like he’s studying what it does to you. “That’s it,” he mutters, voice all gravel and admiration.

He controls the rhythm from there—not aggressive, but commanding. Purposeful.

————

Stack 🔪

Velvet danger. Pure seduction.

Stack doesn’t just fuck—he performs.

From the moment he lines himself up, he’s already smirking against your mouth, whispering things he knows will melt you. “You ready for me? ’Cause I been ready for you.”

He enters slow, agonizingly slow, just the tip and then back out—teasing, tempting, tormenting—until you’re begging. He wants to feel you clench around nothing before he gives you everything.

When he finally pushes in, it’s with a slow roll of his hips, his eyes locked on yours like he’s watching you fall apart in real time. “Mmm,” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw. “Goddamn, baby you feel so good.”

His hands roam—your waist, your thighs, your throat. Every inch of him is deliberate. Sensual. Fluid. Even when he speeds up, it’s still poetry. Still seduction.

He’s the kind who makes you feel ruined and worshipped at the same time.

————

Remmick 🩸

Hot-blooded. Pathetic. A little feral.

Remmick is the one you make wait. You teased him for days—kisses that stopped too soon, hands that wandered then retreated. He’s been dreaming about this, aching for it.

So when he finally slides in for the first time?

He shudders.

Like full-body, stomach-untangling, breath-catching shudder. He gasps like he’s just been dropped into ice and fire at the same time. His mouth parts around a moan he tries to swallow, but it escapes anyway—soft and needy.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, forehead pressed against your collarbone, hips stilled deep inside you. “I—I w-why’d—you make it wait so long…”

He’s overwhelmed.

He can’t decide whether to hold still and savor or start fucking like a man possessed. His hands clutch your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His hips twitch, his breath stutters, and he keeps muttering broken little things into your skin: “So tight—so warm—I missed you, I—I need you…”

It’s messy. And hot.

————

Bo 🩷

Soft. Intimate. Worship.

Bo just wants to make you feel good.

When he sinks into you for the first time, it’s like everything slows. He kisses you the whole way in—soft, open-mouthed kisses on your neck, your shoulder, your lips—like he’s trying to keep you grounded while the world tilts.

He groans, low and deep, when he bottoms out, and you see his brows pull together like he’s feeling it—not just physically, but in his heart. His fingers are splayed wide on your hips, then he lifts one hand to tuck your hair behind your ear, lips brushing your temple as he whispers, “Baby you’re so beautiful — so damn beautiful.”

His smile is soft and wrecked—dimples peeking, hair falling into his eyes as he rocks into you slow, like he’s savoring every second.

You moan, and he beams. “That’s my girl,” he croons. “God I love you”

And later? After? He never really stops, he kisses and touches you all through the night.

[phoenixblaze1412]

HI :3 can i request dottore & segments reaction to teenage!Reader who's struggling with their mental health (cvtting, su1cidal, ed) because of school?

You didn’t want to cry in front of them.

Not in front of Dottore. Not in front of the Segments. You thought they’d think you were weak. Or worse—disappointing.

But the pressure built and built. School assignments piling up. Teachers pointing out flaws. Classmates whispering when you walked past. A perfect storm of failure, isolation, and the aching thought that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t meant to be here.

And when you locked yourself in your room that night, everything came crashing down.

You had a knife in your hand and the horrible silence that followed.

When Dottore found the bathroom door locked, he didn’t ask questions. He broke it down.

You were huddled in the corner, shaking, sleeves bloody, and eyes wide like a terrified animal.

He didn’t say a word.

He dropped to his knees and pressed a gloved hand to your arm. You flinched.

“It’s alright,” he said quietly, uncharacteristically gentle. “I’m here.”

You sobbed then. Ugly, gasping sobs. You expected him to call you pathetic.

Instead, he called for Sigma, Beta, and Omega.

The lab was quiet. You were wrapped in a clean blanket, cuts bandaged, head resting against Omega’s shoulder. He didn’t say much—just rubbed your back in slow, steady circles.

Beta sat nearby with a hot drink he made just for you. Your favorite. He kept telling you, softly, “You’re not alone. We’re here, okay? No matter what.”

Zeta was pacing. He was angry—at the world, not at you.

“They push them to breaking over grades? Over being late on homework? What kind of cruel, broken system punishes someone this deeply for trying?”

You looked at Dottore.

He wasn’t speaking. He was just sitting at your bedside, fingers steepled, staring at you like you were an experiment he’d failed to protect.

“…Sorry,” you whispered, ashamed.

His head lifted. “Don’t apologize.”

“But I messed up.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You were hurt. You didn’t fail. You were failed.”

You blinked through tears.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” you croaked.

“I know,” Dottore murmured. “And I’ll do everything in my power to help you heal. But you must promise me this: the next time the dark thoughts come—call for me. I will come. We all will.”

You nodded slowly, lip trembling.

He reached forward and gently took your hand.

“I’ve made many things in this life. Most of them break or leave me. But you?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re not allowed to leave me. Understood?”

You gave a shaky laugh. “Even if I’m a mess?”

“You’re our mess,” Zeta called from the side.

“A wonderful, irreplaceable, absolute disaster of a human being,” Sigma added, cracking the faintest grin.

Beta hugged you from behind, murmuring, “We love you. No matter what state you’re in.”

Omega didn’t say it. He just pulled you into his arms tighter.

That night, they didn’t leave you alone.

They set up a warm blanket fort in Dottore’s private chambers, letting you rest in the middle like something precious. Zeta read to you in a low, sleepy voice. Sigma kept watch with eyes that promised no harm would come near.

Dottore didn’t sleep. But he stayed by your side, resting his hand over yours.

When your eyes fluttered shut, a tiny whisper passed your lips.

“…Thank you for saving me.”

Dottore blinked slowly.

Then, when he was sure you were asleep, he brushed your hair back and whispered into the quiet.

“You’re worth saving. Every time.”

[malsmind]

▸12 ⋅˚₊‧ Falling Down – Bonus Track ‧₊˚ ⋅

𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰

⚠︎ ∿ toxic relationship dynamics ∿ implied substance use ∿ mental health struggles ∿ unprotected sex ∿ dirty talk ∿ self destructive behavior ∿ manipulation ∿

၊၊||၊ Come Over When You're Sober, Pt. 2 ⌗ 12

𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 @delilahsturniolo

you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. not with chris. not with anything between you two.

he was beautiful and broken in the same breath—a flame that burned too hot, too fast, and left nothing but ash behind.

you’d met him when you were both falling apart, two halves that barely held together. and somehow, you clicked. the way he looked at you—hungry, desperate, dangerous—made your heart race and your skin crawl all at once.

but love wasn’t what you had.

it was pain, addiction, control, and need—all wrapped up in a tangled mess you didn’t want to untangle. one night, the air heavy with smoke and silence, he pulled you into an alley behind a bar you’d both been avoiding, and everything you’d been holding back came crashing down. his hands were rough, shaking as they found your waist, pulling you close, breath hot and uneven against your neck.

“why do you keep comin’ back?” he whispered, voice cracked like he was trying not to break.

you looked up, eyes searching his.

“because you’re the only one who sees me like this.”

he laughed—a bitter, broken sound.

“see you?” he scoffed.

“i don’t know if i’m saving you or destroying you.”

you didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. you knew it was both.

his lips crashed onto yours, desperate and bruised, tongue pushing, claiming, taking what you both needed but couldn’t say. you kissed him back, wild and unrestrained, fingers tangling in his hair, nails scratching down his back. he tasted like cigarettes and pain and something electric you couldn’t resist. the kiss broke just long enough for him to growl,

“i’m not good for you.”

you smiled, breathless,

“neither am i.”

he grabbed your wrist, dragging you toward his car nearby. doors slammed, bodies pressed together in the cramped space. his hands were everywhere—on your thighs, under your shirt, tracing the lines of your spine. you shivered, caught between pleasure and dread.

“you don’t have to do this,” you whispered.

he shook his head, eyes dark and raw.

“i need it.”

and so you gave yourself to him—to the chaos, the pain, the craving.

every touch was electric and dangerous, every kiss a battle between wanting and hurting…

he moved inside you with frantic urgency, as if holding onto this moment could save him from falling further. his head dropped to your shoulder, hips slamming into yours at a fast, shaky pace. small whimpers leaving his lips as he fucked you into the backseat.

“don’t leave me…please,” he gasped, voice breaking.

you whispered back,

“i’m right here.”

but you both knew that didn’t mean anything. afterward, tangled and trembling, he pulled you close but kept his distance, the silence heavy with unsaid apologies and promises he never planned to keep.

“i hate myself,” he murmured, voice barely audible.

you kissed his temple, tears burning in your eyes.

“then let me love you enough for the both of us.”

but even as you said it, you knew—love wasn’t enough.

not for you.

not for him.

and that’s the cruel truth of it all.

a/n: this writing marathon was so much fun. i love this album sm. might do more of these if i have more time to post consistently. i love yall, thank you to everyone who read these marathon fics. :) <3

[abarbaricyalp]

hiii for the drabble prompts: sambucky + 6 or 41? if you like!

41: "You did all of this for me?"

The trek up the front porch steps was slow and difficult. To finally reach the top and then decide to turn around and limp back down them was almost unthinkable, but Sam had a suspicion to confirm.

"Wait, hey, no!" Bucky floundered as Sam ducked out from under his arm and clattered down the steps. The crutch beneath his arm caught on every step and he almost pitched himself forward twice, but Bucky caught him the second time and helped him down to the ground again. "What are you doing?"

"Who fixed the creaking?" Sam asked, staring at the old steps. They weren't old. Someone had replaced all the boards with fresh wood and repainted them, and the porch railings.

"I did," Bucky scoffed. "It's my house too, y’know."

"Yeah, I know that," Sam scoffed back. "Just figured you'd be preoccupied."

"I'm not the one who got blown up a week ago. I had free time and an empty house."

Sam would've rolled his eyes, but his head still hurt too much to do that. Back up the steps they went. The crutches remained unruly beneath him. Bucky pulled Sam's keys from his own pockets and unlocked the door, swinging it wide. Sam cringed, waiting for it to batter the entryway's wall like it always did.

But it didn't. Inside, the entryway had been widened, exactly how they'd been talking about doing since they'd toured the house for the first time. The storage shelf had been moved to the left side so it wasn't in the way and all of the boots and jackets had been repacked into it. Two go-bags were tucked between it and the wall.

"You took out a wall?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Actually, Marco, down the street, took out the wall. Remind me to pay his dad later. He wouldn't take anything while he was here. Said it wasn't business, just being neighborly."

"For someone plenty neighborly yourself, you don't really get the concept, do you?"

Bucky shrugged and gently guided Sam away from the new entry and into the kitchen. "He brought two other guys with him and that truck with the scooper on it. It's business."

Sam went to grab an ice pack out of the fridge and found everything stocked and organized. Turning around revealed an immaculately cleaned living room with the couch they hadn't been building completed and decked out with Sam's favorite blankets, and the ugly pillow Bucky liked. The DVDs and records had been straightened and placed back on their shelves. The laundry machine was open and smelled like Sam's favorite soap.

"Buck, did you do all of this for me?" Sam asked in surprise.

Bucky, who had been fiddling with the tassle on his ugly pillow, did not look up. He just shrugged. Twice. Then said, "You were out for three days and I didn't sleep at all. So I made myself useful. You were gonna come home--you had to come home--and I wanted it to be nice. I got new sheets too. In that green color you like. I wanted...I wanted..." He seemed to get frustrated with the thought and switched gears. "You'd be hurt, so things should be soft." He shrugged again and still didn't look up.

"Why are you being shy?" Sam asked.

"Well, when I just wanted you to come home, I wasn't thinking about anything else. Now I'm worried you won't like it."

"What? It's all stuff we said we wanted to do. Why wouldn't I like it?"

"Because you like to do this stuff. Maybe I over stepped. Maybe you wanted to use your hands and get dirty."

"Buck." Sam leaned his crutches against the side of the couch and limped to Bucky's side to hold his hand against Bucky's cheek. Bucky finally looked up and rubbed Sam's other arm, keeping away from the broken parts. "If I'd wanted to build the couch, it would've been built. I can't believe you did all of this. It's great."

"Did I mention I didn't sleep the whole time you were unconscious?"

"Yeah. It's sweet. In your own way."

"The couch was as bad as we thought it'd be."

"You're the one who wanted the kind that turned into a bed."

"Well, you have so many friends, we'd definitely have people staying the night."

Sam laughed, warm with the thought of them making a home for their friends too. Bucky watched him for a few seconds, then his face crumbled.

"Sam..." he breathed, sounding wrecked for the first time since Sam had woken up. He'd been cool and aloof, steady where Sam kept slipping after waking up and realizing the extent of his injuries. Now he looked like he was breaking himself. "You had to come home. It had to be ready. It had to be perfect for you."

"It is," Sam assured. "Buck, you are. And I'm home. So take a breath and show me what else you've done."

"Oh, you need more?" Bucky scoffed, trying to slip the facade back in place.

"Nah, I just know there's more," Sam teased, leaning forward to get into Bucky's space. He'd almost brushed his lips against Bucky's when his leg went out from under him and he fell forward.

Bucky caught him like it was nothing and began to nag about the crutches instantly. Sam just leaned against him and let Bucky hold him up instead.

[kkayyerr]

hi omgg could u do rafe x little reader where reader is going through his stuff and has to sternly scold him and she ends up ignoring him until he babies her

Broken promises.

Warnings: Age regression, drug addiction, toxic dynamic.

Author’s note: Hope you’ll like it! It kinda reminds me of my old dark!Rafe fics.

„What is that?” You asked, throwing a small bag of cocaine onto the table, right in front of Rafe. You weren’t surprised with what you had found in the pocket of his jeans, but you weren’t satisfied with your findings either. He promised you that he would quit, and here he is, sitting right beside you, with not even one hint of surprise or guilt on his numb face.

„You promised me that you would quit! You promised me that a hundred times, Rafe!” You tried to keep your voice calm and stern, but it was pretty obvious that you were close to your breaking point right now.

Why would he do that to you?

Why would he promise you one thing and then do completely another behind your back?

Instead of responding to you, Rafe simply laughed, as he always does, with a harsh, amused laugh that made your skin crawl.

„Why would you keep believing me, though?”You felt as though his words were a cold shower. It felt like an awakening from a long, comforting dream.

The same question that you were asking yourself for months after every single one of Rafe’s relapses finally slipped from his own lips.

And he was right. You shouldn’t have believed him in the first place.

„That’s it.” You said after a long minute of complete silence between you two. Your tone was now stern, even though your voice was still shaking from all the emotions. You stood up from the chair and quickly picked up your bag, getting ready to leave Tannyhill as fast as you could so you won’t have time to change your decision once again. „I'm done.“

This time there was no Rafe begging for you to stay, no crocodile tears, and no other manipulations, and somehow it made you feel even worse. You had the acknowledgment that leaving him was the best choice for you, but it didn’t help you feel any less lonely. The thought of stepping outside the door and leaving everything you had behind terrified you.

It made you feel small, which was even worse.

However, just as you were finally ready to open the front door and leave, you heard quiet footsteps from down the hall. You turned around just to see Rafe standing there, with a soft, almost warm smile playing on his lips. „You don’t want to do that, do you, baby?”

You're frozen.

Something felt off. Maybe it was the sudden change in his demeanor. Or maybe it was the very specific word that he used. The word that Rafe would usually use when you were regressed or close to regressing. He would always immediately notice when you were close to slipping in, and he was most definitely able to understand that right now you were stressed enough for that to happen.

„I see that you are lost right now, baby, but there is no need to run away from me.” Rafe took a step closer to you, and instead of taking a step back, you did the same, leaving the idea of running away from him far behind. „You can always leave, but we both know that no one would be able to take better care of you, isn’t that right?”

You nodded, simply not being able to reply. The feel of guilt washed over you once again. You felt guilty for wanting to leave, even though you weren’t supposed to feel that way.

Rafe was the one who screwed up big time again, but somehow your brain felt too weak to acknowledge and accept that.

He saw it in your eyes.

Resentment that slowly changed into guilt and frustration was a pleasant sight to him. It was exactly where he wanted you.

Rafe wanted you small and numb for him to be able to fill your little head with his own thoughts and decisions.

„Daddy has a small problem, but he will deal with it, okay?” His words sounded reassuring, even though he was obviously lying. He had a lot of problems and wasn’t very good at dealing with them. „You believe me, baby?”

It wasn’t even a question.

Rafe already knew the answer, because your eyes and your poor trembling body were speaking louder than any of your words ever could’ve.

By now he knew that you once again made yourself believe in every word he said.

And you will keep believing him, because after all, you needed him too much to pay attention to such small matters.

Rafe cupped your cheeks, caressing your soft skin with his thumbs and adoring that numb look in your eyes.

„That’s my good girl.” He whispered, before moving his hands to your waist and pulling you into his embrace, that felt almost too tight and heavy. Your head was lying on his shoulders while the same thought rushed through your head over and over again.

It seemed that yet another attempt to leave ended up being exactly the opposite of what you wanted it to be.

Tags: @tinylilacbun @rafecameronsloverrrrr @aew-regression-cove

[reijisteacup]

TRIGGER WARNING

Diaboys reaction to an SO who is severely depressed and has tried to take their life before

Sakamaki's

Shu Sakamaki

At first, Shu is scarily quiet. No teasing, no lazy remarks—just silence. You might expect indifference, but when he sits beside you, there's a heaviness to his presence, like he’s carrying guilt he doesn’t understand. He's seen too much death, too many souls waste away, but the thought of you not existing anymore physically hurts him. “…You were going to leave me. Without saying anything?” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded but focused on nothing. He won't admit it out loud, but he's scared. After this, he becomes subtly clingy—sleeping next to you instead of apart, quietly checking if you're breathing at night, humming lullabies he once heard from his mother. He doesn't know how to save you… but he refuses to lose you. Not you.

Reiji Sakamaki

He handles the discovery like a crisis intervention: firm, structured, and visibly angry—but only because he's terrified. His way of coping is controlling everything around him. He demands to know when, how, why—and when you can't answer, he simply says, “That will never happen again.” At first, it feels cold. But behind his sharp tongue and too-tight grip is a man reeling at the thought of you slipping away. He’ll research every method of psychological aid, watch you like a hawk, and offer structured comfort: proper meals, medication reminders, time blocks for sunlight, journaling. He becomes your entire support system, not always gentle, but unshakable. He needs to fix this. Not because you’re a project—but because you’re his.

Laito Sakamaki

He laughs at first. Not because it's funny, but because he doesn’t know how else to react. “Bitch-chan, you’re really cruel, huh…? Leaving me behind like that…” Behind the mask, though, Laito breaks. He’s lived his entire life surrounded by death, sexual abuse, and emotional ruin, and now you—someone who gave him warmth—wanted to leave too? That activates something primal in him. He becomes suffocatingly protective, staying up all night, constantly touching you to feel your warmth. He uses flirtation and playful talk to distract you, but there are moments where you catch him sobbing quietly into your shoulder at 4 a.m., whispering, “Please don’t disappear. I can’t go through that again.”

Kanato Sakamaki

His reaction is violent. Not toward you—but toward the world. He screams, throws things, lashes out at anyone who gets in the way, including Teddy. “Why would you try to die and not tell me?! Do you hate me that much?!” But underneath his hysteria is fear. Abandonment. If you died, you’d be like his mother—forever silent, forever cold. And he couldn’t bring you back. He’d hold onto you tighter than ever before, sobbing into your lap, whispering unhinged apologies and blaming everyone else but you. He’d even beg to be hurt instead of you. He’ll never let you be alone again—even if it drives him insane. He’d rather have a broken you than no you.

Ayato Sakamaki

His first instinct is denial. “Tch, you’re lying. You wouldn’t do something that stupid…” But when he finds undeniable proof, the color drains from his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Ayato would internalize it as failure. In his mind, if you wanted to die, he must’ve not been enough. Not fun enough, not present enough—just like his mother made him feel. He overcompensates by trying to be around constantly, throwing himself into cheering you up, cracking jokes, dragging you on chaotic adventures just to make you laugh. But behind his bravado, he’s scared sh*tless. Sometimes he’ll blurt out, “You’re not gonna leave me, right?”—and when you promise, he clings to that like it’s his last breath.

Subaru Sakamaki

Subaru finds out and immediately punches a hole through the nearest wall. Not because he's mad at you—but because he doesn’t know how to protect you from this. “Why… didn’t you come to me?!” His voice cracks. He sees himself in you. The same self-hatred, the same dark thoughts. That terrifies him. But it also makes him understand you in a way the others might not. He won’t talk much, but he’ll be there. Every time. Every night you cry, every moment you can’t move, he’s just sitting next to you in silence, offering his hand. “You’re not going anywhere, got it?” he’ll say, voice low but trembling. And for once, you know he means it with everything he has.

Mukami's

Ruki Mukami

Ruki's reaction is similar to Reiji's—logical on the outside, burning with desperation inside. He views it as his failure as your dom and protector. “Livestock… no, dear one... you should have told me.” He takes full control of your environment. No more isolation. No skipped meals. He reads psychological literature, reaches out to professionals if necessary, and forces a daily check-in routine. But his real fear is buried in quiet moments—where he looks at you sleeping and wonders if he’d ever forgive himself if you didn’t wake up. He’s harsher with himself than with you. “I’ll keep you here. Even if it means chaining your heart to mine.”

Kou Mukami

Kou’s entire identity cracks the moment he hears about your attempt. “No no no—what did I do wrong? Was I not enough?!” He spirals fast. His fake smile is long gone. He becomes a mess of tears and self-blame, terrified he missed the signs. You’ll find him clinging to your waist, mumbling apologies and desperately promising to be better. Afterward, he never lets you out of his sight. He’ll even cancel events or music recordings just to be there. His brand, his fame—they mean nothing if you’re not alive to share them. He’ll try everything—jokes, cuddles, emotional oversharing—to keep you tethered to this world. Because you are the only real thing in his.

Yuma Mukami

Yuma is furious—but not at you. He’s mad at the world, at life, at whatever made you feel this way. “Oi… who the fuck made you think you ain’t worth bein’ here?” He grabs you—gently, but firmly—and hugs you so tightly you almost can’t breathe. “I lost my fam once. I ain’t losin’ you too.” From that point on, he keeps an even closer eye on you. He helps you eat, makes you garden with him in the sun, keeps your body moving even when your soul feels heavy. He’ll grunt and act tough, but every time you show even a flicker of sadness, he’s there. Protective. Steady. Unbreakable. He believes in you even when you can’t.

Azusa Mukami

Azusa doesn’t panic or yell. He just… breaks. Quietly. He kneels in front of you, teary-eyed, voice soft and trembling. “You… wanted to go away? Without me…?” Azusa knows pain like no other—but the idea of losing you hurts worse than anything he's ever felt. He’ll beg you to let him share your pain, to take some of it for himself. He becomes even gentler, hyperaware of your needs and emotional cues. He’ll praise you for the smallest acts: getting out of bed, eating, even breathing. “You’re here… and that’s all that matters.” You’ll see him cry more than once, hugging your legs tightly and whispering, “Please stay… please stay… please stay…”

Tsukinami's

Carla Tsukinami

Carla, proud and poised, is utterly shattered by the news. His entire demeanor becomes distant and restrained—but only because he’s overwhelmed by an emotion he can’t control: helplessness. He views himself as your protector, your superior, your king—and yet he failed to see your suffering. “I… cannot afford to lose you,” he says gravely. His usual commanding tone softens, and you begin to see how far he’s willing to go to keep you. He’ll break taboos, dig into forbidden rituals, or even try to reverse time itself if he could. His love is absolute, and it becomes a vow: “I will not allow your light to fade. Even if it means sacrificing my own.”

Shin Tsukinami

Shin is absolutely terrified—but he hides it behind anger. “Are you stupid?! What the hell were you thinking?!” But even as he yells, his hands are trembling. He doesn’t know how to deal with these emotions. He’s never loved someone this deeply, and now the thought of you vanishing from the world makes him feel like a helpless child. So he doubles down on being close—sleeping by your side, cracking bad jokes, dragging you outside, and sometimes awkwardly blurting out affirmations like, “You're not allowed to die, you idiot. You're mine.” It’s clumsy, it’s flawed, but it’s honest. Shin needs you as much as you need him. He just doesn’t know how to say it gently.

[the-effect-of-chaos]

Okay so, since you guys like the demisexual!Steve rambling I posted here, I figured I would keep the rambling going.

First of all, let's tap into Steve's not-so-sexuality-based-but-former-actions-based crisis. AGAIN this is 100% me projecting on my blorbo, but also feels very canon Steve to me, but the whole epiphany of "Oh hey I like dudes too" just doesn't really phase him. It's more like a hindsight, "so that's why" moment for him, then it is a crisis.

He had such a close relationship with Tommy that it really isn't such a stretch to think that if they fooled around any "as practice for girls no homo" he would have felt those tingly feelings he later only finds in Nanacy and then of course Eddie.

Scenario time!

Let's say they are in 8th grade wanting to test kissing, maybe they even get as far as handjobs by first year highschool. But imagine the HURT Steve would feel when Tommy and Carol finally got together and Tommy cut him off. (I know people enjoying them being a throuple and I have thoughts about how that could hurt even more when he breaks off with them but that is for a different post). Maybe he does end up having a threesome with them, and hey THE FEELINGS ARE BACK until he sleeps with a different girl hopeful that this time is gonna feel right ANNNND they're gone again.

He would be gutted, and wouldn't have a clue why. Not until five years later when he realises he is on his way to falling in love with a scrappy wet rat of a nerdy metal head. Looking back he has the "Oh" moment and rather than freak out about it, just slides on into a full blown crisis of "Oh my god I was SUCH a HYPOCRITE how can I ever show him or Jonathan my face again" etc.

Robin has soooo much fun talking him out of that one.

My reasoning for this is simple, Steve of s4 would not care about being considered queer. He is more settled into who he is and what he wants to be by then. He's broken free from the expectations of those that would have influenced him otherwise, plus his best friend is a lesbian. He knows! Knows! That being queer is not a world ending thing. So why should he worry about it? If anything it just made everything 'click' and settle something he didn't know was wrong.

So now we enter the Confident Biromantic Steve era.

Now to throw in something new, a Gay/Bisexual Eddie who is DEMIROMANTIC.

Eddie, who has a crush on Steve that never wavers. Even when he tries to redirect it. Eddie, who has had a few awkward fumbling sexual encounters with either sex and yet while the sex itself was fine, he never developed stronger feelings for. Eddie who asks he AroAce Uncle for guidance but doesn't really get exactly what he was looking for.

Eddie who when he finally gets with Steve is bowled over by how deeply he feels. Eddie who is so overcome with love, adoration and pure devotion for Steve he finally believes he has found his soulmate.

Seriously though I need y'all to @ me because I am just currently yelling all my Aspec headcanons into the void right now.

Like an BiAro Jonathan and of course AroAce Wayne my beloved.

If you want more send me asks! DM me to scream about them. Comments and screaming in the tags is so very welcome it is encouraged.

[breezeoow]

"please don't leave already."

you kept looking up at him, directly into his eyes like a forsaken child who was afraid of being left alone for the first time. and he was frozen. wonwoo couldn't move. because he knew how you often struggled to communicate while facing challenges, how you withdrew into yourself until you felt ready to face others again. he needed to leave early that night. on that very evening, he had to go. you knew yet still asked. and he didn't hesitate. he settled back down in the same spot where he had spent the last few hours with you, in the same position, and kept looking at you, amazed by your delay and courage. it was quite unusual for you to ask him to stay, since you never do that. regardless of how tough and exhausting your day was, you never did that. you never did, until today.

it was a day filled with rain. in fact, it's been a week since it has rained this much. the sky has been overcast and dreary for far too long for you to remain withdrawn and sit back as usual. how could you maintain that strength when you feel his warmth enveloping you, willingly. the warmth that courses through both of you, whenever you two are near. and whenever he simply sits alongside you.

"can you please go a bit later? would you please stay for dinner? i'm preparing what you like to eat on days like this. would you like some soup or maybe a bowl of piping hot stew?"

you could hardly utter anything beyond those questions with your almost broken voice. you couldn't think of voicing anything else on that moment.

and wonwoo? he knew. even when you don't speak, even when you never uttered, he has always known you. he knows even when you try to cover up with the most clever language. and he knew what to do, what to say, how to act, how to help, just like the back of his hand.

"what is it, my love?"

he asked as he puts his palm onto your cheeks to look at those eyes better and read them once again, leaves you wondering how easy it is for him. how easy it is for him to be gentle with you whereas no one ever could be like that. at least not so spontaneously.

you've always been a reserved girl. a quieter one who always takes a step back. not because you're an afraid being, but because that's how you learned to save yourself. you are like a writer, but only in her head, always screaming and shouting, but lets nothing out. you've always thought it'd be difficult for him to stick with you, and also you might be wasting his time. but goddamn he always proves you wrong. so this time, today, you chose to be nicer. you chose to hold him tighter for couple more hours to let him know you are open to be vulnerable, finally.

" i know you've important stuffs to attend tomorrow, but can you please leave a little later today? I can't believe i'm saying this and maybe i'm sounding so stupid too. but i guess i'm tired of making you feel alone too."

the furrow in his face disappeared in seconds. you could see how his eyes got warmed as if all the heavyweights just flew.

"i could easily spend the entire night here if you'd want me to. and no, it’s not stupid. in fact, i've been eager to hear this, and you know that very well too. don’t you? i also know that you feel guilty for acting this way, for distancing yourself when i ask you to be open with me, to be vulnerable with me. but you know what? that’s simply a part of who you are, and it makes complete sense. it's not your fault. you don’t make me feel isolated or lonely or left alone; instead, you push me to strive to understand you better. so whatever you need from me today, just say it. i'm here, for the entire night, or even the next day."

you could see how he kept brightening as he kept talking. and in that moment, for the first time, you felt no shame in keeping him close, and you embraced it.

" i could see your face being sore and pained. and i wished i could stay longer, and look now! you made it easier. you do bring comfort and make everything feel lighter. it's not always about me understanding you and giving you space. it's about you being considerate and keeping everything safe individually too."

he added.

a blink of a tear sparkled on your right eye, and then the left eye. you couldn't speak. and this time it was because how ensuring it was for you to make the first move of opening up, not because you're bottling things down.

the tears of joy started pouring down, and his thumbs kept taking care of them.

"i aspire to be like you to you. and i'm trying. no. actually, I will put in extra effort starting now. it torments me too. whether I deserve you or you deserve me; i don't wanna dwell on that. i wanna care about improving for you, with you. i might stumble sometimes, but not like i used to. not anymore! i know how it's difficult for you than for me, articulating my unspoken mind, trying to grasp the unknowns without any clues. but, i won’t let you do that any further. you will be aware of what's happening, and you'll know what's not. it won't just involve embraces and distances, but also hugs and pours. I won't burden you with unknowns anymore."

your grip got tighter and tighter on his wrists.

"you never burdened me. never. not in that way. instead you honoured me with a tenderness so rare, a part of your that no one could ever get or discover. so please tell me what do i need to do for you. tell me what'll make your aches dissolve."

you could've easily let him leave, just how you always did. but today, you did what he wanted for a long time, and you needed your whole life, becoming fervent and full. you wanted ease to settle inside you, alongside him. and without laminating your cries this time, you flowed in.

" i will. so please don't leave already, my heart isn't full yet."

[leriexoxo]

THE LOVE DIARY SERIES (STRAY KIDS)

“When the world feels too loud, I become quiet. But the ones who love me? They hear me anyway.” -🥝

<Prev entry Next entry>

Hyunjin’s POV

I know what they say when I get like this.

That I’m sensitive. Moody. That I should speak up. Ask for help. Stop isolating.

But what they don’t understand is: I don’t shut down because I don’t feel. I shut down because I feel everything all at once.

The laughter that sounded a little too forced.

The silence after someone said something tense.

The way I was smiling but no one really saw me.

The way I couldn’t explain what was wrong — even though I could feel it in every cell of my body.

So I went quiet. Stayed in my room. Didn’t answer messages.

Not because I didn’t care. But because I cared too much. And it hurt.

Still… they came. One by one.

In their own ways.

Maybe they’re learning how to love me, even in the dark.

Entry 1: 3rd October

Chan

Hyung didn’t ask me to talk.

He just knocked once, stepped into my room, and sat down with his laptop on the floor. Started working like I wasn’t there. Like I wasn’t broken.

But that was the point.

He didn’t try to fix me. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just stayed. Quiet. Steady. Warm.

After a while, I curled up on the edge of the bed, facing the wall. He didn’t say a word — just reached up and squeezed my ankle gently.

Like a pulse.

I’m here.

That’s all I needed.

Someone who doesn’t demand I explain my silence. Just someone who stays close until I can breathe again.

Entry 2: 25th October

Lee Know

Minho hyung is blunt. He doesn’t sugarcoat things.

So when he showed up at my door with food, I expected him to toss it on the desk and leave.

Instead, he walked in, set it down, and said, “I don’t know what’s eating you, but you haven’t eaten anything today. So shut up and chew.”

And somehow, that made me want to cry.

Because it meant he noticed.

He didn’t say, “Talk to me.” He said, “Eat something.” That’s how he loves — with action. With subtle mercy.

I sat at my desk, picking at the food.

He didn’t leave. Just scrolled on his phone beside me like it was normal.

And maybe that’s all I needed. Not understanding. Just presence.

Entry 3: 14th September

Han

Jisung’s one of the most emotional ones in the group.

So I think it rattles him when I’m the one who breaks.

He texted me a dozen times. Memes. Voice notes. Silly videos. No pressure. Just his way of knocking on the wall I’d built around myself.

Then he sent one final voice note. No jokes this time. Just:

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. But don’t disappear, okay? I get scared when you go quiet.”

That one broke through.

Because for all his chaos and volume, Jisung’s love is sensitive, gentle and loyal. And when I finally came out, he didn’t make it a big deal. He just hugged me for too long and called me “drama queen.”

That’s our way of saying I missed you.

Entry 4: 15th September

Felix

Lixie found me first.

I think he always feels it before anyone else. He says I breathe differently when I’m sad.

I didn’t even hear him come in.

He just sat on the edge of my bed, wrapped his arms around me from behind, and whispered, “You’re allowed to be quiet. But not alone.”

I clung to his hand like a lifeline.

And he didn’t let go. Not once.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t fill the room with noise. He just held me. Gave me that warmth he always gives so freely. The kind that makes me feel small and safe at the same time.

Sometimes, I think he was made for people like me. People who carry storms in silence.

Entry 5: 11th August

Changbin

Binnie hyung showed up the next day with a speaker.

Blasted my favorite sad playlist. Loud.

Said, “If you’re gonna mope, do it properly. Let’s cry dramatically together.”

I laughed. Actually laughed.

And that was his plan.

He makes it look like a joke, like a performance. But he knows. He always knows when I need a way out without having to say why I’m in the dark in the first place.

We laid there, staring at the ceiling, letting the music hurt us a little.

Then he said, “You’re not too much you know, you’re just enough”

That stuck with me. Because sometimes I think I am too much. Too sensitive. Too deep. Too quiet, then too emotional.

But he reminds me — it’s not a flaw. It’s just me.

Entry 6: 22nd September

Seungmin

Seungmin knocked but he didn’t come in.

Just left a note on my door. Folded. Simple.

“When you’re ready, I’m here. Not for questions. Just for being here.”

It made my chest ache.

Because Seungmin and I — we clash sometimes. I’m feelings. He’s logic. I overflow. He guards.

But maybe that’s why his quiet understanding hits the hardest.

When I finally opened the door, he was on the couch.

Didn’t say a word when I sat beside him.

Just handed me the remote. Let me exist beside him.

That kind of quiet love? It heals something deep.

Entry 7: 8th February

Jeongin

I think it scared Jeongin a little.

Seeing me shut down.

He used to rely on me to be the emotional one. The one who gave long hugs and stayed up late whispering dreams.

But this time, he came to my door and said, “Can I sit with you?”

He didn’t ask what was wrong. Just… sat. Cross-legged on the floor, playing with the hem of his sleeve, breathing with me in silence.

Then he said, “You always say I’ve grown up. So let me be here for you now.”

And I realized — he had grown. Into someone who could hold me, too.

I reached for his hand and he held it.

That was all.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A/N: Hyunjin’s the type to feel so deeply that he crashes. Not loudly. Not angrily. Just… disappears into his room. Into a blank sketchbook in silence. And when that happens, people think he’s distant or moody. This diary is written in the aftermath of one of those shut-downs — when the world got too heavy and Hyunjin retreated. But one by one, the members found him.

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