#literally cannot explain how much I want this

[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.

[kacievvbbbb]

Bill Seacaster is literally Gomez Addams and you cannot change my mind. There's this amazing quote I saw once about Gomez Adams (that haunts me everyday) that what makes him great isnt just how much he is in love with his life (which is a lot) but that he's in love with every aspect of his life he is in love with life (and death) and he loves it all unabashedly Bill Seacaster is that as well! He loves with everything he has and is so unabashedly unafraid to show it. He loves his wife, he calls his son my darling boy every time he interacts with him (when "manly" men like Bill Seacaster might have balked at Fabian just even calling them papa in that way of his) Bill Seacaster openly loves his son and he wants the world to know it and be sure of it. He loves his son's friends he would literally and has literally gone to war for them, stayed up all night making sure that if they were going out getting in fights they knew how to do it properly. He loves his son's friend's parents he answers Fig's call to help save Pok Gugack a man he doesnt even know simply because Fig and Riz asked. He cuts Fig in on her share of the pillaging. He always stops and makes sure to explain anything they might not know. Fig asks for help on her home work and he immediately rips of the skin of his crew's back. He offers them gold tattoos. He compliments Adaine's hat. He is proud of these kids and he wants the world to know it. He is proud of his kid and he would write it into the dna of the fucking universe if he could. Fabian could never amount to anything and he would still be Bill Seacaster's greatest pride and it wouldn't even be close. Bill Seacaster loves being a pirate he loves hell he wants to fight the devil himself he is maybe a bigger problem dead than he was alive and that is saying a whole fucking lot. He loves adventure, he loves choas he loves money even tho he never really does anything with it. He loves his ship he loves his crew (in his own way and definitely not as individuals) he loves the man that is currently fucking his wife simply because he makes her happy, he loves his maid, he loves his son's Motorcycle Bill seacaster loves and loves and loves and the well never runs dry. He loves like he breathes and how is than not the most gomez Addams shit you've ever seen.

[no-one-even-exists]

...guys i think I took it a bit too far...

context: I was roleplaying w/my brother (I was aiger, using infinite Achilles and he was rp phi and using dread phoenix)

do you know where this is going?

anyways, this was our... 16th (? lost count) battle, and, being me, I obviously wanted to win. So I was like "I AM ACHILLES!!! WE WILL BE THE STRONGEST BEY, AND NO ONE CAN DEFEAT US!!!" and I tried out a new launch by putting the settings in-between the two modes of stamina and attack (I'm using requiem's driver btw) and we battled and "phi" (my brother) was like "I WILL DESTROY YOUUUU"

so, because of the angle I launched Achilles at and the way the driver was set incorrectly, the stamina part flew off, Achilles burst, and flew out of the arena.

i cannot lie, I literally just stared at achilles for a few seconds, picked him up, and yelled into the freaking sky. (like "AAAAUUUUGHHHH") I HAVE A VIDEO OF IT AND HOLY CRAP I COMPARED IT TO THE ACTUAL ANIME (after faking tears and running away from the arena dramatically) AND IT SOUNDS SO MUCH LIKE AIGERS???? WHAT THE FUCK????

AND THE WORST THING IS, I ACTUALLY FEEL BAD ABOUT IT. (duh, I broke my partner, and like,, the only bey I've ever used for the past 2 years) Like, yeah normally I would feel bad about breaking any bey, but this is ACHILLES, my PARTNER... HOW THE HECK DO I EXPLAIN THIS???? WHY DO I HAVE AN EMOTIONAL BOND WITH A SPINNING TOP??? The worst thing is, it kind of mirrors aiger's possession dark arc! (fun fact, at around the 12th battle with "phi" (my brother), he broke character and said, "wow, its kind of like your actually going dark resonance) BECAUSE WHY AM I SURPRISED IT BROKE? I BROKE HIS LIMITS BY PURPOSEFULLY BLADING WRONG (twisting the driver the wrong way between settings) IN HOPES OF WINNING, EVEN KNOWING THAT ACHILLES MIGHT BREAK.

THIS IS COMPLETELY MY FAULT AND I BROKE THE DRIVER AND I FAILED MY PARTNER AND ITS RUINED FOREVER AND THE DRIVER IS BROKEN AND ACHILLES IS GONE AND ILL NEVER BE ABLE TO BLADE AGAIN

AAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHH

[chaaistained]

my tattoos — kpop dr .•°

in all honesty i’m not a huge tattoo person because the fear of permanence compels me to be flighty and indecisive

but for some reason, in my kpop dr, i just felt so confident in my decision to have tattoos? smth abt the vibe of this dr just makes it feel right? i can’t explain it but here we are !!

there are fourteen tattoos that i get, i haven’t exactly ordered them bcs imma just let them happen when they do, all i know is what tattoo i get first (which is a group one with my members) !! these are all pretty small and inconspicuous bcs i fear i wouldn’t be able to pull off big and noticeable ones but i love these because they do all actually mean smth !!

blue butterfly — inner right wrist

this is my first tattoo and it’s a group tattoo with my members, we all get it in the same location because when we do our group intro, the inner right wrist is facing outwards (like towards cameras) and we want the tattoo to be displayed !! it’s coloured blue (technically azure) bcs it’s the official group/fandom colour and butterflies are part of our group lore, from the very beginning — our debut track is titled butterfly (but in korean) we have another song called Butterflies, they’re a motif, a symbol that keeps recurring in our discography and content

444 + Pranayama symbol — down the back of my neck

444 is my angel number, i fear it’s just so personal to me, it’s literally my birthday, additionally the paranayama symbol aka the Om symbol also means to “breathe” and i legit cannot make this shit up when i say deep breathing is so. fucking. healing. my mum used to lecture me to just take a deep breath and i’d dismiss it bcs “it can’t be that easy” but istg it is !! my anxiety prone ass relies on that single deep breath that just calms the nerves

bow and arrow — behind my right shoulder

archery is another motif in our lore, specific to me bcs whenever we have scenes with weapons, mine is always the bow and arrow. the motion of shooting an arrow makes appearances in multiple choreographies and in addition to that, i obliterate the archery competition on isac every time we attend so

Vienna lyric + blue star — left outer forearm

vienna was my audition song, and ironically, at the time i only chose it bcs it was one of my dads favourite songs and he played it a lot when i was kid, so it sort of felt like second nature for me to sing it? it was a song that i would never overthink which helps bcs auditions are anxiety central T^T but later on, it became so much more important to me — through the experiences i had whilst growing up, i couldn’t help but see myself in the song — i was the crazy child that needed to slow down. so its not only a representation of how far i’ve come literally (from auditioning to becoming a 4th gen leading idol) but also i’m reminded of my emotional growth

the star is literally just pretty and another thing that reminds me of clarity — the group logo for our full name has four-point-stars and they’re another symbol that just recurs a lot so i got a small four or technically nine point star tattoo next to the vienna line in azure blue

224 + Lumino star — inner right ankle

this is another one of my fav angel numbers it means “today, tomorrow, and forever”

this star is part of our logo and it represents lumino’s aka our fandom !! i’ve got it tatted right next to the 224 sorta like it’s saying “today, tomorrow, and forever with lumino”

“muse” in my handwriting — left side on my ribs

this is one of my favourite words, i can’t explai. why but the word “inspiration” feels different to the word “muse” to me even tho they basically mean the same thing. as a creative person, i get inspo a lot but there are certain symbols/messages/stories i want to tell that reside in me forever, i want to keep telling them and adding to them and that’s what i’d call a muse. also it’s red bcs . why not

“apsarah” aka sanskrit for siren — right side above my pelvis

one of my nicknames, my most notable one too, is “siren of the south” and an “apsarah” is a celestial nymph/maiden in hindu mythology, usually residing in forests and rivers and lakes, it’s basically my culture’s equivalent of a siren so ofcs i had to get it, it’s like right above my hip bone too so you only see if it low rise jeans

koi fish — behind my left ear

the koi fish remind me of atla aka one of my favourite pieces of media of all time — i’m contemplating making one an outline while the other is filled in to really maintain the tui and la vibes iykyk — anyways they were just beautiful as a symbol, they represent harmony and the metaphor just stuck with me as a tiny eight year old watching the show for the first time so

red lotus — down my left shoulder

it’s a hand holding a lotus drawn in a very standard desi art style so ofcs i had to get it, it’s pretty, it reminds me of the books my mum reads that have these kinds of illustrations and lowkey this lotus also looks like a jasmine or a magnolia if you squint and turn your head slightly and they are two of my favourite flowers so [shrugs]

teddy bear + cherry heart — inner side of my right elbow

my designated emoji and animal are literally bears/teddy bears, my character plush toy figurine thing is a teddy bear wearing cherry headphones, my solo fandom name is cherries because i have this iconic photo of me remaking a predebut baby photo where i wear cherries as earrings (i have a photo in my cr like this too hahshshsh) — they’re just cute symbols that mean a little smth to me

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2025 © chaaistained

[pumpkingeist]

As we know from the start of creating a new character, Ambrose literally just isekais us into the spiral then basically tells us to start using magic and teaches us how to do so before letting us take that iconic quiz to determine what the game thinks will be the best "class" for you to play, which is what the schools are. Obviously you can ignore the results of the quiz and choose on your own or just skip the quiz completely. Because of this, we know that magic in the spiral is teachable. However, this does not elaborate if magic is an ability that you're born with or not.

However, while you're playing the game, you run into plenty of NPCs who will tell you plenty of what's going on. Let's look at the Drake family to make things simple to explain where my mind is. Cyrus and Malistaire's dad, Vladan, was a battle mage and the twins were expected to become battle mages as well. However, when they were enrolled in school, it's said that Cyrus didn't show too much interest in his studies and Malistaire is showing interest and promise in necromancy. Why is this important? Vladan was known for using pyromancy. If maagic is hereditary, then it would make sense that magic-users would use the same type of magic as their parents because that's what they'd have.

You could always argue that maybe their mom was a necromancer and alright, fine, maybe, but that doesn't explain what Cyrus ends up doing/being. He learns about conjuration and becomes a myth wizard and later the myth professor at Ravenwood.

Taking all this into consideration, we know that at least the type of magic you learn is up to what you personally want to learn, but in my opinion this implies that magic is something learned and not what you're born with. Valdan is rich from being a famous battle mage, so it makes sense that he'd send both of his sons to a magic school. But why would there be a need to do that considering his fame if magic is something you're born with? If you were born with the ability to use magic, wouldn't it make more sense to teach your kids magic then have schools more like the schools in our world?

Edit: I forgot to mention that everything you battle in the game uses magic, including creatures that cannot attend any sort of school due to not having the mental capacity. Taking this into consideration, we can see that some creatures can just naturally use magic while others cannot. I believe the difference comes from the fact that the creatures themselves are magical.

My final answer: If your existence itself is magical in the world of Wizard101, magic is just an ability you have, however, if your existence itself is not magical (seemingly anthropomorphic races that in our world would be regular animals and also humans), magic is a skill you need to learn

I'm thinking about a core element of (what is eventually going to be) my Wizzy rewrite, and it got me wondering what other people's headcanons are, so let me ask:

It's been my headcanon for a long time that some species (e.g., humans, Marleybonian cats/dogs/frogs/rats, etc.) are not typically born with magic and that it is instead something they must choose to learn; while some are naturally more talented at it than others, the way some are naturally more talented at algebra or cooking, magic is not a skill they are born knowing how to perform. Other species (e.g., elves, treants, trolls, all manner of fairies, etc.) are born with magic, usually a specific type of magic (e.g., Fire Elves naturally are born with Fire magic). HOWEVER, lately I have been debating this headcanon,,, I'm thinking I might want to change things up so that certain people are born with magic while others are not, kind of like the Force in Star Wars, with the key difference that magic (unlike the Force, at least as far as I'm aware (<- has only seen Episode IV)) can be learned by anyone regardless of whether they have an innate predisposition for it. ANYWHO, I'm just curious as to what others think!!

[kings-highway]

Hello, dear author! Just want to say, thanks for sharing your wonderful fics...Love them...!

Can I ask your top favorite fics that you've written (feel free how much that you want to list)? Why they're special to you? Is there a specific inspiration when you wrote them? Thanks if you want to answer....

Hmmmmmmm 🤔

I think there are a couple metrics I could use to make my favourites list, but I'll try to keep it relatively simple and actually answer the question. I think it can easily change, too, depending on whether you think like "what I like the best" versus "which ones make me happy" or "what was the most fun to write" but I'm gonna just go with gut instinct "favourite"

First of all, Honourable Mentions:

"This Is Not The End" - I can almost guarantee you that this will become my favourite story I've written. However, since it's still in progress, I can't say that yet. I still need to stick the landing before I can confirm it's gold star status, y'know?

the "Captain of Captains" series - while I no longer consider Bear Daichi and his exploits my best or favourite work, the support I received on those stories is so important to me and will keep it incredibly well ranked in my heart forever. That many people can't be wrong, right?

Now, ranking! Let's just do a top five...

5. Literally all my longer one shots are tied here... There's a certain "Class" of canon-compliantist one shots that I cannot decide between. Imperfect Facial Symmetry, the Magazine King, You Can't Play Volleyball in a Blizzard, Unforgivable Acts, Somebody Told Me, All for the Love of an Energetic Redhead, Doghouse, Daichi "Dearest", Suga Vs. The Sawamura Family Line, they all have a certain... Spice to them that I can't quite explain that sets them apart from some of my other stories, and some of the more tongue and cheek self referential humour ones, or the short form oneshots. I honestly wouldn't be able to pick. MAYBE let's go with Imperfect Facial Symmetry as my #5 just because I think it is the best written and handles its themes the best.

4. Astrophilia & Stardust - both count as one, as they really need to be read together. Astrophilia was 100% meant to be a stand alone No Comfort story, but the response I had from readers (several people threatening to write and give them the happy ending themselves) made me realize that their paramours back home would not have given up, ever. Stardust, then, to me, is filled with so much genuine heart of the boyfriends, who I so often force to sit and watch the captains suffer, finally taking control of the narrative and doing it themselves driven entirely by the people who demanded I get them home, and that means so much to me.

3. Paranormality - uhhhhhhh yeah Alien Daichi is cool as fuck, this is the QPR OiDai fic of my dreams, the dynamic between all the captains is incredible, Daichi's slow descent into an unhinged nervous wreck is delicious, the monsters, the mayhem, the Ushiten in this is some of my favourite, it has an assortment of OCs that were stupidly fun to write, Daichi's anarchist father being both a government sellout and deeply annoyed by his son's early desire to be a cop is probably one of my favourite headcanons and will probably come back. Rich Sawamura is awesome, Ryukyuan Daichi is actually one of my favourite things ever and I can guarantee you is true in all my other fics going forward unless stated otherwise. Lucky cat! It just has so many of my favourite headcanons and AU ideas all crammed into one and how could I not love it.

2. Danza Della Morte - not at all everyone elses, favourite, probably bc of the MCD tag, but oh my GOD do I love this story. Priest Daichi and his Musician Angel trying to survive 1349 in Venice, my Heart, my Heart. Asahi is a superb supporting cast member, the want between them is wonderful, and the historical subject matter is one of my absolute favourites so it was a joy to write. VASTLY underrated in my opinion.

1. Time Enough to Risk It All - this story has such a special place in my heart, namely because I adore how many people were baffled first by my choice to put Daichi in a Time Loop at all, and then mad at me for making them root for OiDai endgame 🤍 This story was directly inspired by a video essay by Jacob Geller entitled "Time Loop Nihilism," which I HIGHLY suggest you watch if you haven't already. I finished watching it, and essentially immediately opened a blank doc to get to work.

[meraki-yao]

RWRB Full-Cast Audiobook Imaginations

So with the sequel on the horizon, we’re not that far from a full-cast re-recording of the audiobook, right?

I listen to the audiobook more than I read the book, mostly because I can listen to it while doing other stuff, and no offence to the original narrator, but while it’s good, it’s not the best. I kind of cringe at his British accent for Henry.

So I have a lot of thoughts.

The thing is with an audiobook, we can get both the wonderful vocal performance of the movie cast, and the iconic book lines, the ones that didn’t, and frankly, could never have made it into the movie due to format restrictions:

Sexy explicit sex scenes

Sexy explicit sex lines “For fuck’s sake, man, you just had my dick in your mouth, you can kiss me good-night”, “I want you to fuck me”, “I’ve been thinking about your mouth on me all well”

Emails in their entirety

Email openings and endings “Huge Raging Heache Prince Henry of Who Cares”, “First Son of Shirking Responsibilities”, “Horrible Revolting Heir”, “First Son of Founding Father Sacrilege”, “Haplessly Romantic Heretic Prince Henry the Utterly Daft”

Email historical quotes “The whole is a mass of fools and knaves; I could almost except you”, “I meet you in every dream”

Swearing and explicit language “fucking shit” “I fucking love you, okay?”

Internal Struggle

Iconic lines that didn’t make it into the movie for adaptation and story purposes “I’m never gonna love anybody in the world like I love you” “I love him on purpose”, “America, he is my choice”

Like, imagine hearing all of this in Taylor, in Nick, in Sarah and Uma and Ellie and Rachel and Thomas and Aneesh and Cfiton etc etc 's voice. Just imagine it!!!

Another thing to add is that to put it in simple terms, the current version of the audiobook does the dialogue lines closer to theatre acting: more enunciated, more inflection, and slower. Which is fine in its own right (I’m a theatre kid). But with the cast audiobook, hopefully, we can get them to do something closer to film acting, i.e. closer to reality, reading the lines as they would if they were to shoot those scenes.

Which is gonna make big moments like sexy times and confrontations a lot of fun :D

And something really entertaining to think about is now that we also know the cast and their dynamic is thinking about how much fun they would have while recording the book, especially when they have scenes together. And it’s not necessarily just Taynick, it’s group scenes with the whole Super Six, like the karaoke scene in chapter seven, or the Texas Holiday Scenes with Firstprince and Junora.

Like, Imagine it, the actors in the same recording studio, maybe even on the same couch:

Taylor and Nick laughing while reading off the insults from the earlier frienemies days of their relationship

Taylor and Nick squirming and playfully hitting each other when recording lines for sexy scenes like the first night, or the tack room, or Wimbledon

The cast shouting and booing (playfully) whenever someone messes up a line in their group scenes

The chaotic fun that is the LA karaoke scene, everybody’s laughing, Ellie gets to be the singular sober person while everyone else acts drunk, Nick singing Don’t Stop Me Now shittier (Nick has the voice of an angel but book Henry can’t sing for shit),

Taylor and Nick giving each other hugs after screaming at each other for the Kensington confrontation

Nick grinning smugly at every book height difference mention (:<

More of Taylor speaking Spanish!!!

Thomas gets to be a proper asshole villain who later turns into awkward older brother who's trying

Ellie gets to do the pie metaphor grief monologue  

Taylor gets to do another speech (he’s really good at delivering speeches)

 I want to quickly reiterate that I am in no way unhappy with what we got in the end for the movie; I love it to pieces. However, as Matthew and Casey said, there are two “canonical” versions of the story now, and since audiobooks are an option, it would be really nice to connect this aspect of the movie verse with the book verse in some sort of middle ground.

So yeah Audible? Amazon? Get on with it!!!

@almightaylor this was the long post I mentioned, I literally started this in July lol

[rpfisfine]

whatever I don’t care abt my stupid grandma anymore we have kittens

[shittygaypornmagazine]

Listen. No shade to Jee boy! But I think we're talking about slightly different things here.

I’m Jewish. I do not care for Christianity or its view on how similar Jesus is to Moses. And I don't mean to say that you can't read certain Moses allegories as Jesus ones! I understand that there are certain similarities between them which yes, were probably intentional on the author’s part. But going off the (albeit limited) knowledge I have of Jesus' lore, I feel like these points are kind of... Surface level?

Again, no hate. I think you are totally correct in noting that Jesus metaphors cannot most of the time be read as Moses metaphors! But this is kind of exactly what I'm talking about.

Even if I leave my personal dislike for Christian-centered media analysis at the door, to me, these comparisons lack the details and necessary context to differentiate between whether a potential character would be more suited as a Jesus or Moses allegory, since they do not address the circumstances of either of the men, which were VASTLY different, even in the face of similar events.

And it bothers me.

What also bothers me is that people (due to fandoms and western society in general being so aggressively culturally Christian) when faced with a clear Moses allegory, still often misread it as being a Jesus one, even when it is written to be a fucking carbon copy of Moses, like Superman.

And what’s worse is that these notions are often seen as natural and logical, based on the somewhat lacking grounds, such as the ones you’ve presented (again no hate im sorry if this sounds rude im just trying to make a point), that they leave basically no room for other interpretations of said characters, and push any and all non-Christian readings of characters to the side.

So I'm going to try and fumble my way through explaining what I mean:

1) Yes, the child massacres during Jesus' and Moses’ time are both ordered by a king that does not want to see the Jewish population in his realm rise to power. However that is where the similarities end. Literally everything else about this story is different, which alters the entirety of the character cast in absolutely different ways.

Moses was born into fear. His parents and older siblings were haunted by the ordered killings of Jewish boys, which were issued before his birth – an incredibly important context. They were terrified at the thought of him being killed, even before he was born. They hid him and marvelled at the miracle that was Moses' lack of screaming and crying as a newborn. It was the reason he survived.

They had to give him up, a child they cared for and loved so much, out of a slim hope of him finding a home outside of the oppressive system that they, as Jewish people, as slaves, had to endure. Because they could not raise him. Because he would be killed if he stayed with them.

Jesus’s parents, on the other hand, were not forced to abandon their child to protect him. They went with him, and they came back with him. He never left their side.

Also, the massacre was ordered after Jesus’ birth. He was not born into the realization that this fragile, new life might be forced to end at birth. He was welcomed into the world as any other son would be, and only later on did his parents learn about the threat to his life.

2) Yes. Both Jesus’ and Moses’ ancestors journeyed to Egypt from Israel. However. It is important to talk about what said ancestors – and Moses and Jesus themselves – did while in Egypt.

Joseph and Mary hid in Egypt for a couple of years until the King ruling over Judea, who wanted their son killed, died, and then they returned home. Jesus was still a child when this happened – he had no meaningful connection to Egypt, and grew up in the land of Israel among other Jewish people. He was not separated from his people for any significant amount of time. This is absolutely not the case with Moses.

Moses was born in Egypt, yet more importantly was brought up in the Egyptian court. He was a prince. He knew everything there was to know about Egypt, he called Paroh’s wife his mother and Paroh’s son his brother. His adoptive family consisted of the very people who ordered his kind to be murdered. All out of their fear of no other than his very self – a baby they, ironically, took pity on. He was fully assimilated into Egyptian culture and did not grow up knowing he was a Jew.

His journey as a character was basically that of a man reuniting with his roots and heritage, which were taken from him. Of a prince with extensive privilege realizing said privilege, recognizing the existence of a class of people he did not take particular interest in beforehand, noticing the horrendous exploitation they were being subjected to, reconnecting to his roots as one of said people, and taking assertive action in response.

He undergoes a transformation which we do not see with Jesus. One of a prince turned shepherd turned liberator.

The second point in particular is precisely why I am so annoyed at goyim misreading Moses metaphors as Jesus ones due to their initial similarities. Jesus’ journey in regards to Egypt is minimal. It plays no role in constructing his character, motivations, etc. It is simply a small fact regarding his childhood. It is however crucial to that of Moses. When projecting that onto a different character in search of an allegory it should also then be one of substantial significance.

Anyway, that was my rant, I don't know if that made any sense.

if I see another moses-coded character being yapped about as a jesus allegory by goyim I will explode something

[thenonbinarydetective]

Gotham War is shit and all, but I'm starting to get tired of people complaining that Bruce was OOC that was like literally one of the main points

complain about literally anyone else being OOC because they don't have an excuse

[5hrignold]

awful. beyond redemption. i will stare at it for days

[riiviir]

hey guys so I just started reading Flatland by Edwin A. Abbott and OMG AHSBNSBSBSNSNBSHZHSHDBFHGGHFHGRJ2KSHSBSNSK AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I LOVE THINKING ABOUT THE RELATIVITY BETWEEN DIMENSIONS!!!!!!

[suddencolds]

~ /delete later/ ~

[sapphire-weapon]

lmao today

>wake up to a shitty anon asking if I'm a "sionist"

>leave early for work because there's an accident on the highway. a second accident happens during my drive, making me late anyway

>placed at the box office, which I've come to resent, when I just want to do the job I was actually hired for

>get hit with constant shitty passive aggression from one of the actual box office ladies

>drop and shatter vape tank, have to go out and spend money that I didn't want to in order to replace the part

>get a ticket for a rolling stop on the way home

I'm going to start screaming, and I don't know when or if I'm going to stop.

[imwritesometimes]

I just want a life where my mom isn't so much of an asshole that on like a bi-monthly basis my eyes hurt by the end of the day from crying so hard cause she's such a fuckin giant dick

[iliveinprocrasti-nationn]

one thing abt being disabled/chronically ill that some people don’t get is that sometimes body maintenance that ensures you have the absolute minimum amount of function can also be something that takes away a lot of control and autonomy. you can argue till the cows come home that making those decisions to try and help yourself (or realistically to try to make sure things aren’t worse than they already are) is something that exhibits control and autonomy and stuff, but they can be so limiting in practice because they’re things that take up so much time but have to be done to do anything else