Archive of Our Own

He hated this.

His head throbbed, his lower stomach ached and he couldn’t move his body without unbearable cramps shooting from his belly down to his legs. The slick pad he put on rubbed uncomfortably against his sensitive skin and he could feel a rash already forming where the harsh synthetic cotton touched between his thighs and balls.

He hated this.

Minho knew he should’ve bought a heat pack, painkillers; hell, even some chocolate right now would be fucking awesome in his pained stomach. He knew he should go to the house closet and search for fuzzy, warm blankets, ask his friends for some of their clothes, prepare some soup to reheat, and get energy drinks and all the other shit he’s seen omegas around him do. His mother had even sent her special cramp-relieving tea with some ginger and brown sugar so he could stand some of the pain that came with presenting and having his first heat.

But he couldn’t.

He hated this and he couldn’t do any of the things he knew would help his current predicament. He simply couldn’t.

The first time he noticed something weird was about a week ago, when his thighs ached more than normal after dance practice and he felt a little snappier than usual. He was in pain, but it was a tolerable pain — nothing he didn’t experience as a professional idol who trained for hours on end and regularly performed injured or sick. Minho wasn’t the type to get snappy, though, so that was weird. He was strict and serious in his position as Dance Leader and he was loud and annoying and would yell the members’ ears off when they were just messing around. But Minho wouldn’t snap when I.N or Seungmin would mess up a step, or Han would forget the chorus. He wouldn’t need to take five when Changbin was being particularly loud or when faced with Hyunjin’s dramatic antics. He wouldn’t be kicked out of their practice room one hour early by Chan and their choreographer and then need to be checked in by Felix because he was the only one he hadn’t insulted in the past four hours and wasn’t either pissed off or afraid of him.

Normal Minho wasn’t like that.

He had assumed it was sleep deprivation or that stupid new diet the company’s nutritionist had him on — although being a professional idol, he was used to running on negative hours of sleep and little to no calories a day. But he wasn’t as young as when he first debuted. That young twenty-year-old was long gone and in his place was a twenty-four-year-old whose knees and jaw would regularly crack and who would get apparently cranky for not sleeping or eating well for a few days to prepare for a comeback.

But his mood didn’t improve when he would sneak out with Jisung to eat out or after a nice, deep massage from their physical therapist. His mood wouldn’t improve when watching the regular updates his mom would send of SoonDoongDo. His mood wouldn’t even improve when dancing or boxing or going to the gym — moving his body had always been his go-to way to deal with the complicated emotions he wasn’t ready to deal with. But nothing was working. His body felt heavy, his head felt clouded with negative thoughts that didn’t let him think clearly and every single time he looked at his naked body in the bathroom mirror, he would feel hideous.

Minho was never one to be insecure about his body. He was attractive, both body and face, and he knew it. But the image that the mirror showed was disgusting — face puffy and asymmetrical, with new pimples every day, stomach bloated and chest swollen.

A few days in, he noticed this wasn’t normal. He had cut all the salt, but his face still looked puffy. Had cut out carbs but his stomach still looked bloated. Was using a nicer more gentle skin cleanser and face cream and serum but new pimples would stain his face.

There was something weird with him.

And he wasn’t stupid. He had heard of all the symptoms. Had learned it in health class in middle school. Had seen it in his mom once every few months, in his classmates and friends and more recently, in Felix when he first presented a few years ago.

But this wasn’t Minho. It couldn’t be Minho.

Minho was a beta. He had come to terms with being his father’s disappointment the day he hit twenty-one and was still unpresented. His father had always wanted an alpha son — not an alpha daughter, nor a beta son, and definitely not an omega.

But Minho had come to terms with being a disappointment years ago. He wasn’t an alpha, nor an accountant or a doctor or a lawyer. Wasn’t even close to being straight. He was working an artistic job that forced him to pretend to be gay while actually being gay behind closed doors.

But that was fine. He was fine with it. He had all his late teens and early twenties to get used to the fact that he was a disappointment for his very alpha, very masculine father. Minho was a dancer. Minho was an idol and a model. And Minho was a beta.

He now regretted not having pushed to get an abdominal scan done when he was thirteen years old. All his classmates would have some idea if they were alphas or omegas by the time they reached their primary puberty. When little girls started developing boobs and little boys started getting weird, inappropriate erections. Schools and public health centers offered abdominal scans for free to check for the presence or absence of a developing uterus — something about omegas needing foods higher in iron and magnesium and alphas needing more protein-rich meals.

But his dad had insisted Minho didn’t need one. Minho had to be an alpha. He would feed him like an alpha with tons of lean meats and dairy and tofu and beans — like a real man would eat.

Maybe that’s why Minho took twenty-four years to present, when the average omega presentation was between seventeen and twenty-one. Or maybe he was just destined to be a fucking disappointment. Maybe he was just destined to break gender norms or something and become a unisex icon like Felix — and every single thing his own father despised. Maybe he was just destined to be every fucking thing his father would always claim as an anomaly.

A strong cramp took him out of his self-pitying thoughts. He hugged his legs, lying on his side, and feeling utterly pathetic. He was sweating and his pad already felt way too full despite advertising eight hours of dry skin without rashes. No rashes, his swollen and leaking ass.

A few knocks on his door caught his attention.

“Hyung?” Felix’s deep, hesitant voice could be heard through the door.

Minho growled lowly. He didn’t want to see anyone, he didn’t want to talk to anyone and he definitely didn’t want to have a stupid omega bonding talk with the only (other, apparently) omega in the group.

But he was dying. He genuinely felt like his organs were rearranging. A few hours ago, Minho was stupid for thinking he could just tough it out.

“What do you want?”

His rough voice sounded strange in his ears, foreign. He sounded tired, in pain, emotionally drained.

Felix’s response took a few minutes.

“How are you doing, hyung…?”

How sweet of him, asking stupid, obvious questions.

“How do you fucking think?”

Smooth. Totally not worrying and out of character for him.

Presentation-slash-preheat syndrome was a fucking bitch.

“Right, right. Sorry,” he said, being a real sweetheart even right after Minho was being an asshole to him. Great, he now felt in a bad mood, achy and guilty for yelling at a literal sunshine who was just trying to help.

He took a few breaths. In, out, in, out. His body still ached and his head still felt fuzzy, but at least he felt a little more in control of his emotions. Kind of. Sort of.

“You can come in, but…” He trailed off for a few seconds, trying to choose his words carefully. “Quickly close the fucking door… please,” he added. See? He was trying not to be a bitch despite being in excruciating pain.

A few days ago he started having problems standing certain smells, like food and I.N’s cologne and the diffuser Seungmin insisted they needed because Felix and Jeongin’s smells together felt unpleasant even in his less sensitive beta nose. That was what convinced the company’s doctor that Minho wasn’t having some weird beta hormonal fluctuations and was instead presenting. As an omega. He finally got that stupid abdominal scan his father had refused and there it was — a swollen, freshly formed womb, begging to be fucked and bred and whatever the fuck his stupid omega body was asking for.

Felix said nothing back and just got in the room, quickly shutting the door and moving back the rag Minho had put under it so none of the outside gross smells would hit him. Or that’s what Minho heard — he refused to open his eyes. His head was throbbing even without his eyes being stabbed by the piercing daylight that filtered through his thin-as-fuck curtains. No wonder why both Jisung and Felix had blackout curtains in their rooms when biological cycles felt this fucking awful.

“You okay?” asked Felix, still hesitating.

Minho took a deep breath again, catching Felix’s subtle sunflower smell — sweet and woody, very muted for an omega. A wave of comfort flooded his body, but he pretended he was just getting used to the pain and not his stupid newly developed omega instincts being soothed by his bandmate’s smell.

“I swear I’m trying not to be an asshole, but you guys are making it really hard with all your stupid questions,” he said, turning on his back and spreading his limbs like a starfish now that he could stay in any other position. He still didn’t open his eyes; nope, his head still hurt like shit.

“You’re not making it easy to know how to treat you, though,” Felix snapped back, a hint of bitterness filtering through his scent that Beta Minho wouldn’t have been able to catch, but freshly presented Omega Minho quickly caught despite it being the first time he smelled annoyance.

Minho half-opened one of his eyes, wincing softly when the light felt like a knife digging in his frontal lobe. He stared at Felix, inside the room but completely unmoving, still in front of the closed door. He was frowning, his eyes going up and down his pathetic spread-out form, eyes more worried than actually annoyed. Minho tried really, really hard not to think about what the younger could be seeing.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, closing his eye again. Felix only sighed.

He wanted him closer, needed that soft, woody smell all over him and not barely there. He needed it. But he couldn’t ask for it. He just couldn’t.

He hated this.

“Will it always be like this…?” Minho asked, vulnerable, raw, and he hated it. He hated everything about this. Hated being soft and vulnerable. Hated being out of control. Hated being an omega. He fucking hated being a goddamn stupid omega.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a soft chuckle coming from the blonde’s direction.

“Not always,” he said, walking to the bed, his muted smell getting stronger with each step. Minho wanted to ask him to lie down with him, to hold him and promise him everything would be alright and scent him. But he didn’t. So Felix only crouched down next to the bed. “Presenting is awful. It’s your secondary puberty, after all,” he said, pity in his voice. Minho hated this. “But heats get better. Annoying at times, but less painful the more your body gets used to having a whole new functioning organ.”

That was good, he guessed. Knowing that it would suck, but not as much as it was sucking right now. He still fucking hated this.

“I think you’re entering pre-heat, hyung,” Felix said, softly, like he was talking to a fucking child or something.

Minho wanted to retort that he didn’t need his stupid pity; he didn’t need to be looked down on like this pathetic little thing that couldn’t control his own biology. But he didn’t. His whole body felt exhausted, his mind a little foggy and his eyes droopy.

Maybe he was entering pre-heat, huh?

“Shouldn’t I feel horny or something? I just want to eat my entire weight in sweets and sleep for the next two weeks,” he tried to joke — keyword: tried. But his voice sounded more exhausted than playful.

He felt a small hand running through his unwashed hair, oily and sticky with sweat. He didn't have the energy to worry about it though, nor to resist the urge to nuzzle onto the warm, nice-smelling hand, so he did.

“Not always,” Felix whispered. Did his room suddenly smell more like Felix or was his mushy pre-heat omega brain trying to trick him? “For me, the peak of my heat is when I get horny. But some people feel it from pre-heat already. Some people don’t feel horny at all.”

He fucking hoped that was him. Or not. He wasn’t sure. Was being a defective omega better or worse than being a needy one?

“Can I get you something?” the blonde asked. “More slick pads? Painkillers? A heating pad? Some snacks?” He hesitated before continuing. “Blankets…?”

Minho’s first instinct was to get offended for insinuating he would need stupid blankets to make a stupid nest and soothe himself like some stupid omega in distress. But he was an omega after all, and he was in fucking distress.

He wanted to cry.

“Maybe a heat pack?” He tried, he really tried to make a compromise between his stupid masculine pride and his omega instincts. “Don’t you dare bring one with a huge dildo in it or I will shove it up your ass, no prep,” he threatened.

It wasn’t like he had never seen a knotted dildo. Hell, he had even gotten one for Felix himself for his birthday after his first heat. He had bought the biggest, most obnoxious, rainbow-colored and sparkly toy he found online. He doubted Felix actually used it, but the blush and looks of disgust on his bandmates were worth every single won he spent.

Minho had seen the real thing too. He spent his twenties as a beta being rut partners with Han. Knew how knots and dildos looked, how it felt up his ass — it hurt like a bitch, by the way, three out of ten; he didn’t let Jisung knot him after that one time he couldn’t perform because of how much his asshole stung.

But somehow, somehow, having his own knotted dildo to satisfy his own omega need of being fucking bred made an unpleasant chill crawl up his spine. He wasn’t ready; maybe he’d never be. He couldn’t do it.

Felix took back his hand and Minho almost, almost whimpered at the loss of contact.

“Okay, hyung. Any preference in energy drink flavors?”

“Surprise me,” he said with a sigh, feeling another wave of Felix’s sunflower smell up his nostrils.

“Sure thing, Lino hyung,” he said as a goodbye, leaving Minho alone again with his distressed mind and intrusive thoughts.

His anger slowly passed — or didn’t pass but subdued, leaving room for the uncomfortable thoughts to truly set in.

How would his life change now? The company and the members already knew he was presenting — in pre-heat by now. His closest friends and his parents too, since he had texted them when the doctor confirmed that this was whatever the fuck was wrong with his body so they wouldn’t freak out when the company released a statement about his temporary absence from activities the following days. His friends had wished him luck and his mom, sweet as she was, focused on giving him homemade remedies for cramps and to promote blood reabsorption. He hadn’t heard a single word from his father yet — he didn’t know whether that was a curse or a blessing.

But how would the public react once it was confirmed? He couldn’t hide it forever; not even the strongest suppressants would hide his omega smell. Minho had always been told his smell was far too strong for a beta, and he could guess now that they were right. He couldn’t sense it himself, but he would rather not imagine how much stronger his pheromones reeked now that he presented. He’d never pass as a beta, especially with needing two one-week hiatuses a year until retirement age. People would know, whether he himself confirmed it or not, and they would have opinions.

No one liked male omegas. Their group’s audience was mostly omega women, with some beta and alpha women too and the occasional beta man. Women hated omega males, no matter their secondary gender. Felix was pretty in a way omegas were supposed to be, so he appealed to their alpha and beta audience — scarce but definitely there. But Minho wasn’t supposed to be omega-pretty; Minho was supposed to be handsome, all sharp angles with soft eyes and a quirky but endearing personality. He was supposed to be the visuals of their group, to catch enough attention by his face that people wouldn’t really mind that he was a beta and not an alpha like men were supposed to be.

But no one liked male omegas. Women found them gross, unnatural, a threat to the status quo. Men found them hot for all the wrong reasons, with a wet hole to fuck into and a small dick to play with. Male omegas were supposed to be dehumanized, considered gross and unappealing or, on the other end, sexualized.

And Minho wasn’t pretty enough. Minho wasn’t pretty like Felix, or like Hyunjin, or even like Han. Minho was supposed to be handsome, the embodiment of the Korean beauty standard. He couldn’t be an omega and fit the standard. He didn’t fit the standard enough. Even if he looked the same on the outside, people would know, and his secondary gender would throw them off.

His pulse quickened and a lump in his throat formed. Shallow breaths left his lips, cold air filling his lungs and making him choke on his own spit, while an uncomfortable feeling settled on his chest, pressing down, down, down, until all he could think was how inadequate and wrong he was.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn't do this anymore.

He got up, ignoring his stupid stomach cramps, and went to their storage closet. The remnants of the gross diffuser perfume Seungmin loved lingered but were so faint that Minho didn’t feel like puking his guts out anymore. He only felt a little dizzy when he caught the smell of old rice in the fridge, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

He grabbed all the fluffiest, comfiest blankets they had, the ones basically reserved for Felix’s heats, and he threw a few of the couch pillows into a small pile on the floor he slowly but surely kicked to his room. His back hurt too much to carry thirty kilograms of weighted fuzzy blankets. Once back in his room, he made sure to lock the door, not bothering to put the rag under the door since he could barely feel the unpleasant smells anymore.

Minho sat on the floor in the middle of the blanket mess for a minute, contemplating how the fuck a nest was supposed to be built. He had never been with an omega in heat, only having fucked alphas and the occasional beta, nor had he ever been in the room when an omega friend was making a nest. He’s seen the nests, been in them a few times with his mom or Felix or some of his other friends, but never seen how they’re made.

Movies and anime always made it seem so instinctive. Like there was a strange force that told them how and where and which blankets to put. But he felt none of that. He just felt his lower back aching and his head foggy and his cramps… surprisingly subdued? — still there, annoying enough to notice but not enough to stay in the fetal position for hours on end. But he didn’t feel any instinct to make a nest. Only pain and a cloudy mind and his pad probably soaking through by now — was he sitting on his own slick? Ew.

After contemplating having been lied to his whole life, he decided that fuck it; it wasn’t like other omegas would be around to judge his nest — right? When was Felix supposed to come back? He had to make sure he didn’t let him in. Minho would just put the blankets around in the messiest way he could think and that would have to do.

He threw the blankets on his bed, leaving a little space in the middle to lie down but with no specific order or pattern. The couch pillows smelled particularly nice — he wasn’t ready to unpack why — so he left them the closest to his head.

Once he considered it was fluffy and comfy and shit, Minho laid down in the center, waiting to be fucking soothed or whatever. He laid down on his back, spread out again, staring at the white ceiling like it had all the answers for his identity crisis. He could hear the busy streets of midday Seoul, the city as alive as always despite Minho’s entire world being turned upside down. Thought about his schedule for today, all the things he should be doing instead of sulking on his bed, on a barely soothing nest poorly made because he was a defective omega who spent his whole adulthood thinking he was a beta and didn’t develop any of the omega-like behaviors proper omegas had.

He wished he could dance. His limbs didn’t ache as much anymore, only the mild throbbing of his head remaining. Maybe he should take a painkiller and just spend his heat staring at the ceiling and thinking about how much he hated being an omega. He didn’t understand the instincts he was supposed to have, didn’t feel the urges he was supposed to feel and he definitely didn’t want to think about doing anything about it if he felt them. He just wanted to stare at the ceiling and dissociate for the remaining three to five days it would take for his heat to be done and go back to ignoring any of this ever happening to begin with.

He didn’t want to think about how all this would affect his life. Didn’t want to think about how any of this would change his relationship with his parents, with his friends, with his bandmates. Didn’t want to think how it would affect his job or his hobbies; how he now would need to have a scheduled hiatus twice a year, how his ability to train and dance and box would be hindered closer to his heat, how this would change having sex for him forever. He didn’t want to think about how all this would impact his relationship with Jisung, how he may never be able to be his rut partner again, how he would have to work extra hard to suppress pheromones he never had to worry about before to not give away his real emotions, leaving him exposed, raw, vulnerable, for anyone around to see and smell and feel. He didn’t want to think about how others' pheromones would affect him, how others might try to scent him to have him all quiet and pliant, how he now was weak and vulnerable and inferior.

This wasn’t working.

He got up, pacing around his bedroom. His skin felt prickly, small needles crawling his legs and arms up to his chest, stabbing his lungs and making his breathing quicken. He couldn't do this. He couldn’t be an omega. Couldn’t deal with any of this. He could never have sex again, could never have a normal relationship with people, would never feel comfortable in his own skin ever again.

He felt wrong. His skin felt wrong. The slick between his legs felt wrong. The cramps in his stomach felt wrong. His swollen chest and bloated belly and fucked-up skin felt wrong. This wasn’t him. This… anxiety, this uncomfortable feeling of… wrongness wasn’t his. Intrusive thoughts and worries and feelings weren't like him. Minho was a man of action, a man who would see a problem and would do something about it. It wasn't like him to sulk and pity himself in his poorly made nest that didn’t nearly provide as much comfort as he was told it would. And he wouldn’t let this new… revelation change the core of what made him Minho.

He had to do something.

He opened the door of his room, being suddenly hit by a wave of smell that wasn’t there when he came out before. He followed his nose to the root of the comforting smell, seeing himself in front of Seungmin’s door. Did he get back from singing lessons or dance practice or whatever they had scheduled for today?

He reached out to knock, but then retracted his hand. He couldn’t do that. If Seungmin was home and what was making his overactive mind feel more calm was his smell, that meant he would need to talk to him and ask for help. And he couldn’t do that. He just couldn’t.

Minho walked to Felix’s bedroom instead, knowing well that the blonde wasn’t home yet — he would’ve gone to Minho’s bedroom if that was the case and judged his nest, probably. Felix’s room smelled stronger of him, comforting, like home. He wanted to dig his nose in the source of that smell and inhale it until his lungs were full of it. But he suppressed the need — that was creepy, wasn’t it? Minho had always been the one to soothe the younger omega, not the other way around. And he wasn’t ready to change those roles just yet.

He went to Felix’s closet and searched for the softest, smelliest sweater he could find. He inhaled the smell as soon as he found it, despite having told himself he wouldn’t do that because it was weird and creepy. A wave of comfort hit him as soon as the only thing his sensitive nose could smell was Felix's scent. It made his insides feel warm and fuzzy and a giddiness fill his chest, pushing away the crushing anxiety that had been clouding his mind for the past thirty-something hours he’s been confirmed to be presenting.

However, he quickly dropped the sweater as soon as he realized what he was doing. He looked around worriedly, checking if anyone saw him — but he was alone. Just him and the discarded sweater and the dozens of plushies Felix kept scattered on his bed. He breathed out a sigh of relief — no one saw him; he was alone, just him, he could search for comfort as long as it was only him who knew it. It was okay. It would be okay.

Once outside in the hall again, he contemplated going to Jeongin’s room. Alphas had the strongest smells of all; part of their popularity among omegas was having five very smelly and kind of masculine alphas in the group. Most of them — except Chan and, surprisingly, Han — hadn’t presented before debuting, so their fans were elated with every new alpha addition to the group. Minho was sure that his presentation, though, would be one of the biggest disappointments Stay would face, right after that one time they got fifth place in their performance in Kingdom.

He stood in front of the younger alpha’s door for what felt like hours, but it was probably only a few seconds, clutching Felix’s sunflower-smelling sweater close to his chest, although he didn’t bring it up to his nose again — he couldn’t bring himself to do it when he could be so easily caught, no matter how soothing it had been the first time.

After a few deep breaths, he knocked. An advantage this hell he was experiencing had brought was his very sensitive, very new nose that could catch smells better. He knew Jeongin wasn’t home, but it didn’t hurt to check just in case.

When no sounds could be heard inside the bedroom, he decided to open the door slowly.

“Ayen-ah?” he called out, getting no response.

He quickly got in the room and closed the door behind him, just like he had done before in Felix’s room. He didn’t remember any of their schedules for the day, so he wasn’t sure how long it’d take for them to come back and catch him red-handed searching for comfort like some omega.

He repeated the same he had done in the blonde’s bedroom, searching for the comfiest, smelliest piece of clothing he could find, trying not to trip on the million shoes their maknae seemed to collect scattered on the floor. Once he got some sweatpants he had seen I.N repeatedly wear during practice, he sprinted back to his room as fast as possible while trying to be quiet enough so Seungmin wouldn’t catch him.

He haphazardly dropped the clothes somewhere in his nest and tried sitting down in the middle of it again. It helped, it really did, but… it wasn’t enough. His mind felt less cloudy, the cramps in his legs barely there now, but his skin still felt prickly and his head still pounded like he had a hangover and not just a cocktail of cortisol and estrogen and whatever other hormone contributing to his current predicament.

He sighed, trying to swallow his pride and maybe a few humiliation tears that were forming. He needed more; more comfort, more known smells, more warmth. Was this what people called instincts? He wasn’t sure; didn’t know what he was doing or what he should do. He just knew that something felt wrong and had a vague idea of how to help it — possibly, hopefully.

He went to Seungmin’s bedroom and knocked a few times, getting a “Come in” almost immediately. Seungmin was sitting down on his bed, guitar in hand but he wasn’t playing. If the younger had smelled him before he knocked or was surprised to see him outside his bedroom, he didn’t show it. Curse him and his stupidly faint beta scent that didn’t show his emotions but was still there and it smelled warm and cozy and like the solution to all of his problems.

Both of them just stood there, staring at each other, unmoving, until Minho muttered a soft “Clothes” and Seungmin just nodded, going back to playing a song Minho vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place right at the moment.

He went to Seungmin’s closet, moving slower, trying to seem aloof despite the needles being back on his skin with vengeance and the tight squeeze of his chest not letting him breathe properly. He grabbed the first thing he vaguely remembered seeing on the beta and tried to sprint back to his room when Seungmin’s voice stopped him.

“Do you need help with something else, hyung?” he asked, voice weirdly gentle but trying to seem uninterested. As if he was just asking Minho about the weather and not if his weak omega body or weak omega mind needed to be soothed like a fucking baby or something.

“I don’t,” he said harshly, not waiting for a response before going back to his room.

This time he didn’t even try to see if his roommates' clothes would be enough — once Seungmin’s hoodie was messily rumpled in one corner of his barely a nest, he quickly went outside the room, put on his coat, a cap that covered half his face and a mask that covered the other half, and quickly went out.

The outside world smelled awful, full of strangers’ scents and warm asphalt and air pollution that made him choke on air. The afternoon sun was blinding and the cars he could hear in the distance made his head throb and his heart pound in his chest. He sprinted to the other dorm, making the five-minute walk in only two and a half.

The other dorm smelled different but somehow also known and comforting. The soft cherries of Hyunjin, the warm bitter chocolate of Chan and off-putting at first but somehow now cozy leather smell of Changbin penetrated his lungs in a way they never had before. He hadn’t been to the other dorm since he started presenting, and although comforting in a way, the change was also overwhelming and made his eyes prickle with forming tears.

But he wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry. He didn’t cry.

To his misfortune, Hyunjin was in the living room reading what seemed to be a poetry book, and he looked up as soon as he heard the beeping of the door. Worst of all, Hyunjin wasn’t as sensible as Seungmin, who tried to give him the small comfort of his silence and impassive looks in his deeply uncomfortable situation. On the contrary, Hyunjin was all big, worried eyes and rushing to Minho, trying to reach out to him but hesitating if he was allowed to touch him at the last minute. He didn’t need to smell the emotions in his beta smell for Minho to read him like a fucking book.

“Hyung? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in your room? Is it okay for you to be out?”

Before Hyunjin’s too loud voice could make a hole in his eardrums, Minho cut him.

“Stop it,” he growled. Because apparently he did that now, growl and cry and have panic attacks. And also bear children. Yay.

Hyunijn pressed his lips into a fine line, but his worried stare didn’t leave Minho even as the older took off his shoes to quickly walk to Chan’s room and then Changbin’s. By the time he came out of Hyunjin’s bedroom, two hoodies and one soft cardigan in hand, and before he could quickly get to Jisung’s bedroom, the other extended a few big bags to him.

“For the clothes,” he said, looking down at his own feet. As if he were embarrassed. Of Minho’s actions or of his own overreaction a few minutes ago, he wasn’t sure. It better be the latter if he didn’t want to swallow napkins the next time he saw him, once this hell of a heat was over. “I heard it helps keep the smell. So it doesn’t catch any outside, I mean,” he hesitated, still not looking at Minho.

Minho looked at him, took a few breaths to calm himself down and then gave Hyunjin the clothes he held in his hands for the younger to bag them. Hyunjin looked at him with big, surprised eyes, as if he wasn’t expecting Minho to include him in some way, but said nothing and just took the items he was handed.

Now with free hands and feeling less tense and judged, he went to Jisung’s room.

The smell of dried hibiscus filled his lungs, making his legs tremble to the point he had to sit down on the floor for a minute. Jisung had always smelled the nicest out of all the alphas he’s ever met  — sweet, floral, slightly acidic with a tart note that had always made his brain melt and his limbs feel like putty when the younger was close enough. Most alphas smelled strong, bitter, sour and unpleasant. But Jisung smelled nice and sweet, still pretty fucking strong, especially when he was younger and his pheromones were all over the place — but nice and comforting, like a warm weighted blanket.

He couldn’t sense his own smell, but he had been told that his clover scent, grassy and sweet, like a freshly cut lawn, and Han’s hibiscus notes worked really well together — like a walk in a fairy forest, Hyunjin, ever the romantic, had called it once. Minho wasn’t sure if he believed them, but it definitely had made his insides feel all mushy and warm and gay as shit. So he had deflected by calling Hyunjin gay as shit and everyone left it at that.

But it made sense, in a way. Jisung was his other half, his soulmate, his person. They had formed a strong connection that went beyond any kind of platonic or romantic bond. Lee Minho loved Han Jisung, and Han Jisung loved Lee Minho; it had always been like that and it always would, like the one and only certainty in their lives. So it made sense that his whiny omega, with his newly developed, sensitive sense of smell, would get all soft and putty in his person’s room, surrounded by the hibiscus smell that enveloped him like a tight, warm blanket freshly out of the dryer, not allowing him to move lest he destroy this perfect little bubble of solace. Like it was the very first time in his whole life he'd ever experienced comfort.

After a moment, he got up and took some of the clothes he’d found on the floor. Han had never been the type of person who wears something once and puts it to wash — he’d always said that clothes had a minimum of three uses before they were dirty, seven for hoodies and sweaters. So his clothes always carried a stronger smell than Chan’s or Changbin’s, even when both alphas actually had a stronger smell than Jisung.

If he wasn’t likely in pre-heat, Minho would feel embarrassed at how strongly he inhaled the first pair of pants he found on the floor, pants he had seen the younger wear the days before his confinement in his own room. He hummed in content, a small smile tugging his lips up, and he almost, almost moaned. But he stopped himself, dropping the piece of clothing like it burned.

He had always liked Jisung’s smell, but never quite like this. His skin didn’t feel prickly anymore, his cramps had disappeared completely and his head stopped hurting. His mind felt cloudy and foggy and moving his limbs was so hard; they felt so heavy. He felt the need to just lay on the floor and roll around Jisung’s pile of not-quite-dirty clothes until it felt right, until everything in him felt right.

He felt the tears stinging his eyes again, and this time he didn’t have the willpower to stop a sob before it escaped his lips

This wasn’t like him. This wasn’t like him at all. Everything had changed and it would never be the same. His relationship with his person, his soulmate, would never be the same because he was now this weak, shaky little thing that needed his big, strong alpha to protect him. And he wasn’t like that. Jisung wasn’t like that. He and Jisung weren’t like that. And this would destroy their relationship forever. It would never be the same.

He quickly grabbed as many shirts and hoodies as he could with only two hands, ignoring his racing thoughts and wearing one of Jisung’s used sweatshirts under his coat. It was far too hot to wear it, but the alpha’s smell quieted down the whiny omega part of his brain, so he wore it nonetheless.

Hyunjin was waiting for him outside, raising his eyebrows in surprise but not commenting on the amount of clothes he had taken and just silently bagging them for Minho. He tried to open his mouth again when Minho was about to leave, but the older shut him up before he could speak.

“Don't,” he stated, leaving no room for discussion. He did not want to be walked to his dorm and he wouldn’t let Hyunjin keep seeing him in such a pitiful state.

Hyunjin just nodded, grabbing his phone to most likely text someone Minho was going outside, and he had to bite his tongue not to slap it out of his hands and yell at him to mind his fucking business. Minho didn’t need to be micromanaged — he was a grown fucking adult and could manage himself, pre-heat or not.

He raced to the other dorm, trying to hold his breath as much as possible and covering his masked nose and mouth with the hem of Jisung’s sweatshirt when he was forced to breathe again.

Once back home, no one pestered him. He could smell Felix was home, probably having come back from buying Minho’s heat pack, and he knew Seungmin hadn’t left at all, his citrusy smell still clinging in the air. He couldn’t bring himself to feel thankful or less tense, though, feeling instead like a bratty kid all of them were walking on eggshells around. Minho was aware he was being difficult, but he just discovered he was part of one of the most stigmatized groups in society whom his own stupid father despised; cut him some fucking slack.

When he got in his room, he saw the box of neatly organized sweets, snacks and energy drinks on his bedside table (no knot toy), and he truly, really tried not to feel shame at the fact that Felix, an experienced omega, had seen his poor excuse of a nest. He focused on placing the carefully bagged clothes on his bed instead, putting Chan’s and Jisung’s items closer to his head and the others’ scattered around the center. He got rid of his gross-smelling outside clothes and instead wore a tee and some sweatpants he got from Jisung’s room, letting the sweet hibiscus smell relax his muscles once he laid down.

He was trying, he really was. Minho couldn’t change being an omega now, no matter how much he hated it, and the idea that he would have to get used to nesting and wanting to get scented and be soft finally sunk in. He wanted to cry. He was so exhausted, so tired of everything already, that he didn’t have the energy to keep holding his tears, so he just let them fall. Minho nuzzled his nose in one of the first soft blankets he found, trying to drown out his choked sobs, and just let his cheeks and upper lip get wet with tears until he had no more to shed.

He didn’t know when, but at some point he fell asleep on his side, pressing the soft blanket on his face and hoping he might suffocate and die so he didn’t have to keep living like this.

He woke up in the middle of the night with a choked gasp, feeling dried tears and snot on his face and a wet patch on his pants. The air around him felt musky and heavy, so hard to breathe despite not smelling like anything particularly different, and his body ached in a way that it hadn’t before. There was an itch under his skin that he had never felt and he didn’t know how to scratch it, his sweatpants feeling soaked with sweat and slick and his face feeling so hot he was starting to fear he might have a fever.

He didn’t know what this was, but it felt wrong. Not bad, but still wrong.

He took a few breaths and laid on his back, one of his hands creeping up under his shirt and sweatpants to press lightly on his lower stomach. It felt… weird. Warm to the touch, still swollen and a little achy, but somehow… pleasant? A hum of contentment crept out of his lips, feeling the nice, comfortable pressure.

Was this the moment where he would get horny out of his mind and beg for a knot to split him in half? He didn’t feel horny, but also didn’t feel not horny. Just warmth through his body, focused on his lower stomach, and the annoying slick starting to soak his bed sheets — but even his slick felt less uncomfortable, a little annoying, but not uncomfortable.

Minho reached out to the bedside table, sitting on his bed crisscrossed while picking a snack to eat. He kept his hand on his stomach, soft pressure calming a side of him he wasn’t ready to explore yet. He picked a seventy percent chocolate bar, silently thanking Felix for not getting him only sweet treats. Omega or not, he was still an idol and he now had new weight distribution to account for. He wished the younger had considered getting him low-cal pudding (Jisung would have…), but the chips and bitter chocolate and sport drinks and low-cal chocolate-covered granola bars were nice too.

He wished he had someone to cuddle with. Wished he had Jisung to cuddle with. He didn’t want to fuck; the thought of anything up his ass right now felt too overwhelming, even if the comfortable warmth still coursed through his body. But being alone felt… lonely, sad, made the stupid, whiny omega inside of him feel dejected and isolated. And Minho felt a little like that too, he guessed…

Jisung had always known how to treat him, how to approach him in his vulnerable moments, when he needed to be pushed and when he needed space and silent companionship. If Jisung were here, he would steal one of Minho’s granola bars, taking advantage of this one and only opportunity to eat in his bed (something Minho forbade), and then he would silently take the bigger spoon place and curl his fingers on Minho’s lower belly, pressing on it lightly, comfortingly.

Maybe he would even scent him, though Minho wasn’t sure if he was ready for that yet. Omegas weren’t the only ones who got scented — alphas and betas did as well; Minho himself had gotten scented by his members before whenever he was visibly distressed. As a beta, scenting wasn’t as effective on him as with alphas and omegas, but he would still get affected by the pheromones his members would emit to calm him down when necessary.

But Minho wasn’t a beta who would occasionally get stressed anymore — he was an omega, someone who would need calming pheromones all the time, like some baby who couldn’t take care of himself. Like some stupid, weak, frail little thing who needed constant protection and comfort.

He bit his chocolate bar with a little more force than intended, leaving it in the basket next to his bed and reaching for his phone — he took away the comforting pressure of his hand on his stomach; he didn’t need fucking relief. He had various texts from his friends, some notifications from his private Twitter and Instagram accounts, a missed call from his mom and quite a few TikToks and Reels from Han — probably animal videos or funny memes. Laid back down on his side, got one pillow to press on his stupid stomach because in the end the lack of pressure felt fucking weird and distressing, and tapped on the call icon on his mom's contact.

The line rang twice before she picked up.

“Baby? How are you doing?” His mom’s voice could be heard through the speakers and Minho’s traitorous eyes started to shed tears. “Did you drink the soup that I made for you?”

He couldn’t contain a wet laugh. He didn’t, hadn’t even remembered he had it at all until she mentioned it.

“Oh, baby…” she cooed. Minho could hear shuffling on the other side of the line. “Do you want to see your brothers?” she said instead.

Minho nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah…” His voice sounded raspier than before, the result of having cried himself to sleep clinging to it. “I really miss them.” And he did — it had been months since he last saw them and he really missed talking and playing and napping with them.

She turned on her camera to show two orange tabbies following her around when she walked to get Dori.

“I have no idea where Dori is, that mischievous little boy. Last I checked, he was in your bedroom.”

And so began a quest to find the last cat, his mom, Doongie and Soonie searching for the youngest of the babies. They found him napping on top of the fridge for some reason, after fifteen minutes of calling him.

“How is dad?” Minho asked softly, his mom stopping petting and cooing at Dori. Even without seeing her, the camera now pointing to the floor, he could picture her lips thinning into a line.

Minho had to wait a while for a response, but it was okay. He had all the time in the world now, unlike how his usual schedule used to look before presenting.

“You don’t have to worry about that, baby. Just focus on your first heat and we can talk about it later.”

This time it was Minho who pressed his lips into a thin line. That wasn’t good. He knew his father hated he was an omega; he probably despised him now… But taking it out on his mom? Hurting the woman who had been with him through thick and thin? Who had supported his dreams, his career? Who became a stay-at-home mom so that they didn’t have to waste money on a daycare they couldn’t afford?

A traitorous sob escaped his lips without his consent. He raised his hand to his face, coming across wet cheeks. When had he started crying? Why couldn’t he stop? Was it a side effect of his hormones or had he just become a wimp all of a sudden? He wanted to fucking die.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed. Minho heard her take a deep breath. “I asked him for a divorce. He moved out last night.”

He really tried to suppress his sobs. He brought his hand to cover both his mouth and nose, making breathing harder and definitely not helping the incoming panic attack, but he didn’t want his mom to hear how wrecked he was.

“It’s not your fault, baby,” she said, but it was a lie. There was no way Minho wasn’t the reason his parents' marriage was crumbling. “Things haven’t been well with your father since you moved out and… I had been thinking about it for a while. You presenting as an omega has nothing to do with it, sweetheart.”

But she was lying. Maybe his presentation wasn’t the catalyst, but it was definitely the straw that broke the camel’s back. Minho moved out when he got accepted as a trainee, debuting barely a few months later, and he came out to his parents barely a year after that — so it wasn’t like his dad’s hatred for him wasn’t involved at all in their marriage falling apart.

His mom had always been so sweet, so accepting, with a traditional upbringing, so she had her expectations, but the love she had for Minho was stronger than any belief she was raised with. But his father… his father believed it was his way or the highway. He was a man of traditional values, who thought men were made to be men and women were made to be women — alphas were meant to act a certain way and omegas an entirely different one. And all he ever asked of her was an alpha son — if Minho had a penny for every time he had heard that yelled to his mother in his childhood, he wouldn’t need brand endorsements to pay for his lifestyle.

His mother was sweet and accepting; his father was not. And Minho was everything traditional values deemed as unacceptable — an artist, a dancer, whose job entailed acting a little more sus with men than he would normally be otherwise, who was actually gay, who was an omega. It was his fault; he destroyed his parents' marriage.

A chuckle on the other side of the line took him out of his distress.

“Y’know, it was actually a conversation I had with that alpha of yours that made me realize you… and I, too, deserved better,” she whispered softly, like remembering a fond memory.

Jisung? His mom had had a conversation with Jisung about her marriage? And what had the younger told her to convince her to leave him?

Despite everything, he couldn’t help getting flustered at the mention of Han as his alpha. But he did his best so that it wouldn’t show in his voice.

“You talked to Jisungie?” he asked, voice hoarse from crying for so long.

“Last time you came to visit with him,” she confirmed. “We didn’t talk about your dad at all.”

Every time Minho had brought Jisung home, his father would coincidentally have scheduled a work trip or a fishing trip with his alpha buddies. He never mentioned anything, but Minho was sure he hated Jisung for not being a proper alpha.

“He’s so sweet and talked so fondly of you. Made me glad you had someone who loved you as much as I do,” she said after Minho stayed in silence for a while. “The way your father treated you has never been right and I overlooked a lot of it because I thought he had good intentions. But after seeing how Jisungie treated you, I realized good intentions don’t matter when the impact of his actions only hurt you,” she mumbled. Minho’s eyes started shedding tears again, though this time they were luckily silent. “He’ll never stop being your father, but it’s my duty as your mom to give you a safe space to come to and to bring Jisungie to without having to worry about your dad throwing a tantrum.”

Minho couldn’t stop crying, choking when he tried to open his mouth to say something back to her. Though if he could, he wouldn’t be sure where to start. ‘Thank you’? ‘You didn’t have to’? ‘I’m sorry’? He didn’t know — and he didn’t have to figure it out, because his mom instantly started showing him how cute Soonie looked in his new hoodie she had sent him pictures of already. But he couldn’t argue with her — Soonie looked adorable in that blue hoodie.

He didn’t know how exhausted he was until his mom’s voice, talking about a new brand of churi she had bought for the babies, lulled him back to sleep, without him even realizing.

He felt so glad he had her. She was the best mother Minho could ever ask for. 

Next time he woke up, dead phone still in his hand, he felt slightly better. He sat down and plugged in his phone, waiting for the screen to show him the time. He hadn’t checked last time he woke up, but now the clock read three in the morning of the fourth day since he was confirmed to be an omega. So he could assume his heat was close to being over.

He grabbed some granola bars (he was starving) and started checking his body sensations. The pleasant warmth he had felt the day before was now gone, but so was the pounding headache and the body aches. Whenever he moved and his thighs rubbed together, he could still feel slick soaking his clothes, but it was significantly less than earlier, so it was less annoying to deal with.

Was it finally over? Did his first heat as an omega finally end?

He got up slowly, trying to avoid getting dizzy from the lack of food and water, and engulfed the rest of his snacks and drank two out of the six sports drinks Felix had bought for him. Minho made a mental note to apologize to the blonde, probably to Hyunjin and the rest of his bandmates as well. He had been a dick — it was justified in his opinion, and he doubted any of them actually resented him for it, but he had still been a dick and felt guilty about it.

He stepped out of his bedroom for what felt like the first time in months, but he knew it had been barely over a day. His body felt exhausted, but the drying slick and sweat and grime were sticking to his skin unpleasantly, and he didn’t really know when his heat was going to be completely over (if it wasn’t already), so he was going to use this chance to have a fucking bubble bath even if it killed him.

He didn’t count, though, that the rest of his members had as much of a fucked-up sleep schedule as Minho himself, so he didn’t even think to check (sniff?) if any of them could be in the living room to witness his post-heat pitiful state.

He got confronted by a pair of foxy eyes that opened comically big in surprise at the sight of the older. Minho stopped in his steps, staring at Jeongin with what he hoped was a blank look instead of an annoyed expression. He didn’t need anyone checking on him, and he didn't want to ‘accidentally’ be a dick to the youngest. But he couldn’t stand being next to his members yet, even less around any of the alphas in the group — maybe Jisung, but he would rather die than admit that right now and ask for help.

He just wanted a fucking bubble bath to relax his exhausted limbs.

Jeongin sniffed the surrounding air, probably checking on Minho’s very omega, very strong smell — even if he couldn’t sense it himself, he had been around omegas right after their heats, Felix being the one he was the most used to, so he knew he smelled disgusting, even if he had done nothing to relieve himself like most did. Minho couldn’t help but squirm in his place, feeling self-conscious. He knew he stank; he didn’t need the younger to remind him.

“Bathroom,” he muttered, eyes glued to the floor and putting his feet into motion again.

He could hear I.N clearing his throat before hearing his voice.

“Should you be outside when you’re still…?”

Minho stopped again and frowned. Was he still in his heat?

He didn’t look at Jeongin when he talked again.

“I need a fucking shower, dude. Better do it now that I don’t feel like dying,” he tried to joke — it fell flat.

When the younger said nothing back, he just kept his path to the bathroom and locked the door behind him, sliding down the door to the floor. His eyes pricked with tears, but he wouldn’t cry about this anymore. He didn’t want to still cry about this. He was better than to still be crying about this.

He pressed his eyes harshly with the heels of his palms until he felt his tear ducts closing again and he got up. He was choosing to believe Jeongin smelled the remnants of his heat scent and not that he was still in his heat. He just wanted this hell to be fucking over.

Besides, his body didn’t ache the same way as before, and he didn’t even get hungry for cock to begin with, so maybe his heat was just the no-libido kind Felix told him about. He purposely ignored that pleasant warmth he felt in his tummy the first time he woke up. He’s never felt like that when aroused, so that couldn’t have possibly been it, right? Right. Yeah. He was just a defective omega, not a knot-hungry one.

He didn’t know whether that made it better or worse, but he would pretend that none of the last days happened. He resolved that if he kept acting the same, being the same butt-hunter, threatening guy who posted weird pictures in Bubble and overplayed his hate for skinship a notch or two whenever there were cameras around, then nothing would have to change. The fact that he was an omega now didn’t matter; he could thoroughly ignore it until his next heat, which he would go through alone in the confines of his four walls, just to go out, have a shower and pretend it never happened again.

Yes, that’s what he would do. Pretend to be unaffected until his feelings catch up.

If his cheeks burned with tears and he tried to hold his breath underwater for a bit longer than his lungs were happy with, that was only for him to know.

Once he finished washing his dirty, oily hair and rubbing his sensitive inner thighs and rim a little too rough to get rid of the slimy slick, he dried himself and came back to his room to the mess of dirty sheets and his bandmates’ clothes on his bed. He grabbed one of Jisung’s hoodies and sniffed it — it barely smelled like the younger anymore; it probably smelled more like Minho himself than Han, but it was enough to soothe his stupid omega brain or something, so he slipped it on and grabbed some sweatpants from his own closet.

He had to clean up his room. Had to do laundry, put his sheets in the wash, but also his members’ clothes — he knew they probably stank of him and he would rather kill himself than give back bad-smelling clothes. He also had to throw away all the food wrappers and empty bottles, and air out his room because if his brief interaction with Jeongin was any indicator, he was sure his room reeked of omega in heat.

Before he could force his less tired but still exhausted limbs into motion, he heard a soft knock on the door.

“Minho hyung,” Jisung’s voice seeped through the door, hesitant and unsure.

Minho inhaled sharply and his heart started rabbiting in his chest. His fingers twitched with the need to open the door, throw himself to the alpha and sink his nose on his scent gland. He had never felt a stronger need to be close to Jisung. His whole body craved it, an itching under his skin to rub his nose against his neck, to be enveloped by his smell, a loud voice crying for Jisung, Jisung, Jisung.

But he stopped before he could embarrass himself more than he had done with the rest of his members.

Jisung was different. He was his soulmate, his other half. They were one same soul split into two different bodies. He was his person, the one (besides his mom) he could be vulnerable with. He was the one who had seen him cry because of his dad, the one to calm him down whenever he got mad or wanted to throttle one of their members, the one who held him when he got eliminated from the survival show all that time ago. Jisung was his one and only.

And he was apparently who his dumb omega brain had latched onto — or maybe because Jisung was his person, his omega liked him so much. Either way, he couldn’t embarrass himself like that. Jisung was an alpha, but he had always been a softer alpha. Needier, less demanding, who required a lot more reassurance and comfort and being held than ‘real’ alphas did. And he unapologetically did so — despite his anxiety disorder and his self-esteem issues, especially when he was a lot younger, Jisung always was so confident about breaking gender norms.

That was one reason Minho fit so perfectly with him. This whiny, needy alpha who wanted cuddles and love and affection, who enjoyed being bossed around, slotted so well with Minho, a colder and more protective beta, who enjoyed taking care and showing how much he loved the younger through his actions, cooking for him and taking him on dates and holding him and helping him in his ruts.

Jisung was perfect for Minho and Minho was perfect for Jisung.

Except Minho wasn’t perfect anymore.

He now had a part of himself who wanted to be held. A part that needed comfort and cuddles and warmth. All the things that he did for Jisung, and that he still wanted to do regardless, there was a part of himself that now wanted them too.

Would Jisung feel grossed out by this new part of him? Would he feel uncomfortable with having to fit gender norms now just because his best friend and rut partner suddenly became the whinier, needier one? Or on the contrary, would Jisung now see him as a wet hole to fuck when his biological clock said it was time to breed? Would his perception of him shift to a womb made to pump full of his babies? To come in until he was stuffed full?

He knew he was being unfair to the younger. Jisung wasn’t like that. He had never been the kind of toxic alpha who objectified any omega he came across. But the chance of his perception of Minho suddenly changing (to what, he didn’t know, but any change felt wrong) made his chest tighten and an uncomfortable feeling settle under his skin.

He didn’t want that. He could deal with his father hating him and cutting off contact with him — it wasn’t like they talked much to begin with. Could deal with fans and haters and the company objectifying and diminishing and underestimating him now because of his new sub-gender. Fuck, he could even deal with his bandmates changing how they acted around him now that he was weaker as long as none of them were Jisung.

He couldn’t deal with Jisung changing. Couldn’t deal with forcing the younger to fit a role he never even tried to fit. Couldn’t deal with Jisung distancing himself from Minho now.

He was sure that he could die of heartache if that were to happen.

Minho apparently took too long to answer because more hurried knocks took him out of his spiraling.

“Minho hyung? Please let me in if you’re there or I will start to think you fainted and died and I will call an ambulance or Channie hyung or the company, probably the three of them,” he said hastily.

Minho couldn’t help a small, endeared smile tugging the corners of his lips. This was his Jisung. He had nothing to fear with his Jisung. He was his person.

He took a few breaths to calm down before walking to the door and creaking it open ever so slightly.

“My room reeks, so I don’t think you want to get in,” he said, one eye peeking through the small opening of the door.

Jisung looked like a mess, worse than Minho himself felt, and he was the one going through a life-altering change. Disheveled hair, huge dark circles under his eyes and old, ratty clothes on despite coming from outside — he probably left in his pajamas as soon as Jeongin texted Minho was up. He looked as if he hadn’t slept since Minho last saw him.

“Like I give a fuck, hyung, please,” he begged, holding the handle of the door but not pushing it open. His sweet Jisungie, always so willing to put up with Minho’s avoidant personality despite being visibly worried sick. “You went MIA and then I’m told you’re presenting and I almost had a panic attack for real, dude. It was awful, never do that to me again.”

“Yeah, I’d rather not have to do this ever again either,” he said bitterly, moving away from the door and allowing Jisung to push inside quickly, closing the door behind him. He saw him take a sharp breath in, definitely confirming what Minho had told him — the room reeked of omega in heat. “Don’t get a boner or I will kick your ass.”

Jisung looked at him flustered, cheeks rosy, but simply nodded silently.

Minho got to his bed to throw his bandmates’ clothes on the floor and get the sheets out. He had done nothing, but he had sweated and leaked so much slick it was probably unsanitary to not wash them. Jisung, without a word, went to open the window to air out the room and started getting the food wrappers and empty bottles to help.

What would have taken three quarters to an hour only took fifteen minutes thanks to two people cleaning up instead of just one. Minho wasn’t usually a messy person, but it was a little hard to keep his room tidy when his organs were trying to kill him.

With the sheets and clothes still in the washer, the room aired out and significantly tidier than a few minutes before, and Minho himself a lot cleaner, he laid down on the bare mattress, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t looking at Jisung, who laid on his side looking at Minho, but he knew the other was dying to ask him about his heat, how was it, maybe even if he could help next time — that last thought made his stomach churn uncomfortably. But Jisung didn’t say a word, just staring at Minho.

Minho sighed tiredly — not sleepy, he had slept for the better part of the last three days — and opened his mouth, still looking at the ceiling.

“You can ask. But I can’t promise I will answer,” he said, a part of him already dreading the other’s questions.

Jisung seemed to hesitate, taking his time to pick the right words to avoid Minho’s outburst. It was unnecessary in Minho's opinion, since he barely had any energy left to think, let alone to snap at the younger for any uncomfortable question. But Jisung had always been like that with him — careful, not because he thought Minho was weak, but because he really cared about him and about Minho’s opinion of him. Jisung had joked, both on and off camera, about how arrogant he used to be before meeting Minho and how he helped him stop being so full of himself — Minho just thought he needed a friend in such a competitive environment.

But it had always been like that with them — understanding without the need of words, careful without treating the other like he was made of glass. Jisung cared for Minho and Minho cared for Jisung.

“Are you hungry?” Jisung asked, taking Minho by surprise.

He looked at him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Jisung tried to smile at him, but it looked more like a grimace.

“That’s not what you want to ask,” Minho pointed out. This time Jisung smiled sincerely, full of sympathy.

“But you look like this is the least thing you want to think about,” he replied, looking at him with oh-so-gentle eyes — not pitying him, but understanding. “And I am hungry. I’d kill for some ramen right now,” he added, getting off the bed. “You want some?”

Minho blinked once, twice, three times for good measure, and simply nodded, getting up as well.

“But we’re eating in the kitchen.”

Heat or not, he was not eating ramen on his bed, let alone his bare mattress.

“Yessir.”

He really had nothing to fear with Jisung, his soulmate, his person. Jisungie always knew what he needed — and right now, all he needed was Jisungie’s comforting company.

Going back to work was surprisingly easy. He had a new doctor now, an omega specialist, the same woman Felix went to for his own checkups, and he got prescribed birth control — it’s not like he was going to have sex anytime soon though, not with his hectic schedule, but the company deemed it essential since getting pregnant now could possibly ruin both his future and his bandmates’. But aside from that, his newly developed instincts and sensitivities seemed to subside once his heat was over.

His sense of smell was more sensitive than before and could perceive whether Chan was mad at something on his phone, Jeongin got frustrated because of a step on the new dance that he couldn’t quite master yet, or Jisung found the basketball shorts he usually trained in hot — he did absolutely make fun of him for it and Changbin filled him in on the fact that his sweet Jisungie’s scent always spiked whenever Minho showed a centimeter more of thigh than usual.

But nothing as overwhelming as that one awful week in which every smell that wasn’t comforting made him want to bawl his eyes out or throw up or both.

Netizens hadn’t reacted like he had expected, though. Many people were surprised, shocked beyond belief and some even theorized that the company was trying to trick people to appeal to wider audiences — after all, Chan and Changbin were for soft omega women who wanted to be protected by a strong alpha, I.N and Han were for omegas who preferred alphas that would let them take care of them, Felix was for the scarce but still there alpha fanbase who loved pretty omegas and now Minho was for… brat tamers? He wouldn’t put it beyond their marketing team to sexualize and objectify them for money, but Minho would be damned before letting them portray him as a brat to be tamed for a few more bucks.

But besides that, and the occasional comment wondering how tight his hole was or what his slick tasted like (ew, fuck off), people were relatively… accepting and normal about it. Not a single mention of him being a freak, saying he’s abnormal and antinatural, feeling disgusted by his mere existence. People were surprised, shocked, in disbelief, but no one was… grossed out by him.

Huh. Maybe male omegas weren't as stigmatized as he thought initially and the problem was just his misogynistic asshole of a father after all.

But all things considered, he still felt the same. His new doctor told him how, since his cycle now was six months instead of twenty-four hours like it used to be, he would feel more energized and in a better mood right after his heat, while closer to the next one his body would feel heavier and more bloated, and that could definitely affect him both emotionally and physically — which, sure, was a little annoying, but he’d seen Felix deal with this shit perfectly fine for over two years already, so he was sure it’d be okay for him too.

He was forced to have a brief talk with his doctor, though. She had asked about his first heat, about his physical symptoms, his emotional state, how he had spent it, if alone or with a partner. Minho reluctantly told her, being glad he presented late because he would not have been able to talk about this if his mom or worse, one of their managers had to come with him like it was the case for the other presented members. He still tried to keep it as brief as possible, though — alone, discomfort and bad cramps, no arousal, distress. She didn’t need to know about his internal crisis, thank you very much.

She hummed, writing something down on her computer, and told him how normal it was to not experience arousal on his first heats, but that he didn’t have to worry, that he would eventually get unbearably horny and beg the closest alpha to fill all and each one of his holes once his body got used to his new hormonal cycle — she used different words, but that was essentially what she meant. Minho’s stomach churned, but he tried to keep as neutral of a face as he could manage and simply nodded, silently hoping that his body stayed broken forever and never had to become that.

She also told him she thought he could have pre-heat dysphoric disorder, an extreme form of pre-heat syndrome of severe emotional distress. So apparently wanting to die during your heat was not normal. Just his fucking luck.

But aside from a new diagnosis, some weirdos on the internet commenting about his sexual preferences and having to take a pill every single day for the rest of his fertile life to avoid bearing pups, his life went back to normal. Hectic schedule, unhealthy diets to lose the weight he put on during his week off work, and exercising and training and dancing from six to ten hours a day. Even the members went back to treating him like normal once Minho came back, cracking jokes and playing around, annoying the hell out of him but at the same time, providing him with a sense of normalcy that he had feared he had lost now that he was a different person.

He really loved them, even if he struggled to say it with words.

On the other hand, his parents were officially divorcing. His father hadn’t contacted him since he presented, but honestly, fuck him. His mom was right, both of them deserved better than a douchebag whose love was conditional.

His mother had been a stay-at-home mom all his life, though, and hadn’t gone back to work when Minho left, so she was in a bit of a struggle when divorcing the person she was economically dependent on. But Minho had the money to get her whatever she needed — his group was fairly successful and every day he had new campaigns and photoshoots and appearances on shows, so he assured her she wouldn’t have to work even if his father was enough of an asshole to leave her with nothing.

All things considered, he was doing a lot better than he thought he would during his heat. He still preferred to ignore the fact that he was an omega altogether and definitely wasn’t looking forward to his next heat, but things were looking up.

Both his mom and his members had his back, even when he struggled to be vulnerable and ask for help. And currently, that was all he needed.

“Wanna hang out today?”

Big, round eyes blinked at him confused. But soon enough, his lips spread into a heart-shaped smile.

“Sure, hyung-ah,” Jisung said, stretching his arm around Minho’s shoulder and guiding them both to where the rest of the group were gathering their things to go each to their own schedules.

Sweet hibiscus smell enveloped him and he felt his muscles relax in Jisung’s hold. He had been… antsy, to say the least. They were getting ready for their second comeback of the year, and between group dance practices, practices with Danceracha for their subunit song and his father dragging the divorce process as much as he possibly could for some sort of petty revenge, it had been quite a rough few weeks.

And despite being awful at asking for comfort, his Jisungie always knew when Minho felt lonely or anxious and would help him in the best way he could — being his comforting, sweet self and hanging out and cuddling and maybe even kissing sometimes if they both felt like it.

“I have to stay at the studio until two, but after that I’m all yours,” he said, taking his arm off his shoulder to get both his water bottle and Minho’s. Minho missed the warmth as soon as it was gone.

“Whyyy,” he whined. “Will you really make your sweet omega wait awake for you for so long? What am I supposed to tell the kids? That his father loves his work more than his pups?” He tried to bat his eyelashes exaggeratedly while giving Jisung a crazy, wide-open-eyed stare.

Jisung chuckled at his antics, but Minho didn’t miss the light blush in his round cheeks when he referred to himself as his omega.

“Yah! Don’t make fun of me!” he yelled, referencing a few nights ago.

They had gone out, Minho had eaten so much ramen that his stomach bloated funnily in a way that resembled a pregnant belly and he had caught Jisung staring at it quite a few more times than it would've been appropriate for a buddy to look at his bro’s stomach. When called out on it, his puppy eyes and impossibly red cheeks were confirmation enough for Minho to where his mind had gone; and he chose to tease this newly developed breeding kink of his — that Jisung vehemently tried to deny with such an urgency that only reaffirmed that Minho was, indeed, correct — instead of focusing on the weird tightness of his chest.

Minho also chose to ignore the discomfort that settled in the back of his throat at the memory and decided to instead fake cry while rubbing his stomach.

“Shh, shh. Don’t listen to daddy. Momma still loves you very much,” he said to his very much not pregnant belly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jisung crouching on the floor, his face in his hands and the tips of his ears now brightly red.

“Stoooooop,” he whined, clearly embarrassed out of his mind.

It’d be even more amusing if it weren't for the bile he felt creeping up to his throat every time he thought about the possibility of him being pregnant. Or worse, that it was something Jisung would desire, to see him pregnant with his pups, like his good little omega, like his good little breeding vessel, only good for fucking and filling up with cum and pumping full of babies and…

“Hyung?” Jisung’s voice woke him up from his trance. Worried eyes looking at him from below. He said nothing else, but he didn’t need to; Minho perfectly understood it without the need of words.

Are you okay?

No, was the actual answer. But he couldn’t afford to be honest right now. Not with all their members talking and yelling about something in the background, not when any employee of the company could get in at any second, not when the wound of turning into the same thing he always wished not to be was still so fresh — a breeding machine, an object just for the pleasure of others, to get fucked, to get filled, to get bred and pumped full of cum and pups and…

Instead, he tried to smile reassuringly at Jisung, trying to say that everything was okay and no, I don’t want to throw up and cry and throw myself into running traffic every time I’m reminded that I’m an omega.

It didn’t work. Jisungie’s round, expressive eyes, so full of worry and concern, only deepened.

Fuck.

It was okay. It was okay. Everything was okay. He did not feel his heart beating deafeningly loud, nor the bile reaching the back of his mouth, nor his eyes prick with tears. It was okay, he just had to ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. Everything was okay. Everything was okay.

“Let’s hang out later,” he managed to croak out, voice raspy and far too soft for how loud Changbin and Hyunjin and Felix were being. He wasn’t sure if Jisung heard it, a few excruciating seconds of him just staring at his face, but then he got up from his crouching position and gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“I’d love to,” he said, quiet, sweet, his scent intensified because of how much he sweated while practicing the new dance, but still so soft.

Minho nodded and gave his attention to the rest of the group instead.

It was okay, everything was okay. He didn’t want to go to the rooftop of the company and throw himself over the edge. Everything was okay.

He just needed a nice night (early morning) with his person to get his mind out of things and everything was going to be okay.

And that’s precisely what he got later that night. Jisung, ever so sweet and tender, so caring with the mess that Minho felt like he was lately, but without making him feel like a burden. Things left unsaid, but clearly there — I’m here for you, you’re perfect, there’s nothing wrong with you, I love you.

Minho didn’t love being the little spoon, and Jisung knew it, so as soon as he got to his (Jisung’s) room, he laid down with his back to Minho, waiting to be enveloped in his arms. The pressure of his cold, from just coming from outside, yet comforting body felt like a warm blanket, like an analgesic to those awful thoughts that lately have been plaguing his mind.

They were watching a killer whale documentary Jisung had been intending to watch for a while now, but hadn’t come around to yet. Minho wasn’t paying attention, too busy burying his nose on Jisung’s nape, so close to his scent gland but not quite there — but Jisung seemed satisfied enough with his hums anytime he pointed something out to him on the phone.

He still felt antsy. It wasn’t enough. The sound of his inner omega whining for something (comfort?) was loud enough to block the voice of the man telling about the migration of the whales to wherever the fuck they go.

He needed to do something, anything, to shut it up. He was so tired of everything, of his dad, of having to take those stupid birth control pills that make him feel all bloated and weird and shit, of having to deal with the (luckily occasional) weirdo fetishizing him for having a leaking ass and a stupid womb and an inner wolf that would not shut up about wanting to be cuddled and held and taken care of and…

“Hyung?” He heard Jisung’s voice and it was then he noticed he was rubbing his nose in the other’s scent gland.

As soon as he realized, he jumped away from him, instantly missing the warmth against his tummy and hating himself for how loudly his omega whined at being away from its alpha. He pursed his lips to suppress whining out loud in front of said alpha.

“Sorry, I —” he tried to speak through the knot in the back of his throat, but he found it impossible.

Shame was burning hot at the very bottom of his stomach, making the bile creep up to the back of his mouth and his eyes prickle with tears. He felt thankful the only light was coming from Jisung’s phone, so his cheeks flushed with shame weren’t noticeable.

He was so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, st—

“Can you keep doing that?” Jisung asked, turning his gaze back to his phone. “I’m a little, uh, stressed because of everything, so… it’d help if you could scent me?” he asked shyly, avoiding Minho’s inquisitive eyes.

Was Jisung really stressed? Or was he saying that so Minho wouldn’t be embarrassed about wanting to scent him? Whichever it was, he would not miss this opportunity of maybe indulging in what his stupid, little omega wolf wanted so…

He brought his nose back to Jisung’s neck, right in the conjunction with his shoulder, and rubbed his nose there. He instantly felt Jisung relax his muscles, laying his entire weight on Minho’s chest. Phone with the video still playing in the background completely forgotten when the younger brought a hand on top of Minho’s head, holding him in place. A pleased hum leaving his lips and content pheromones flooding the air.

Huh. Maybe this actually was for Jisung himself more than for Minho. Whatever, his omega was contentedly quiet and the less it annoyed Minho, the better for him.

An unconscious purr resonated in his chest, startling himself as well as Jisung. But when he tried to separate from the soft, heated, mouthwatering skin of the other’s neck, Jisung held him in place.

“Not yet… Please,” he pleaded. “Just… a little more, please.”

Oh. That was… new, for sure.

It wasn’t the first time they did this. Even if his beta pheromones hadn’t been nearly strong enough to scent-mark him, he still had scented him quite a few times. During debut, after Minho’s elimination — Jisung seemed almost as distraught as he was back then, — any time he was around while the younger had a panic attack… After his anxiety diagnosis, during the pandemic and their necessary hiatus from public events in person… Any time when Jisung seemed to need comfort, Minho would do the best he could to please the alpha with his weak, not as effective pheromones.

And every time it worked. Jisung always seemed calmer, more relaxed, less anxious after being scented, even if Minho, as a beta, wasn’t the most suitable person to do so. But it had never been like this. Jisung had never sounded as needy, as desperate, as delighted to be scented as now. Like he needed it, like he would actually die without it.

And Minho certainly had never purred — didn’t know he’d be able to despite knowing some omegas can. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel self-conscious about it when Jisung looked like that… So at ease, so content… Almost like how he looked after being taken care of during his ruts…

Minho opened his eyes suddenly at the realization, but caught himself before he tried to separate from Jisung again — he couldn’t stop the purring even if he wanted to, he wasn’t even sure how he was doing it. It was then he noticed the warm, pleasant feeling in his chest and lower belly wasn’t his omega happy to get comfort but Jisung’s pheromones, sweeter than usual, the hibiscus honeyed to a degree he hadn’t sensed ever before.

“Oh, honey…” he whispered, chest still vibrating with purring. “I think you’re in rut, sweetheart.”

He tried to sound calm, collected, but he couldn’t help the arousal that tingled his voice. Jisung whined when Minho pressed a soft kiss on top of his scent gland, before finally detaching from his neck and stretching his arm to turn off his phone and turn on the lamp on the bedside table.

“But I shouldn’t… It’s next month,” he complained, turning to lie on his back. Minho straddled his hips and stared at his blown-out pupils, noticeable even through his half-lidded eyes.

That was true; Jisung’s rut shouldn’t come until next month. But Jisung’s hormones always reacted unpredictably to stress, and lately he had been trying a new anxiety medication that had rut and heat irregularities as a side effect, so it wasn’t totally unexpected.

It was comforting, in some way. To know that his wolf wasn’t distressed because of his weak, soft omega nature but because it was probably sensing Jisung’s pre-rut. Whining for Minho to hold and comfort his alpha, please and tend to him. And Minho had ignored it, disregarding its complaints for just whiny omega shit he didn’t feel like dealing with.

Minho lowered to kiss him softly, innocent despite the smell from Jisung’s glands being so sweet he felt weirdly light-headed. But he couldn’t afford to get distracted — his Jisungie needed to be taken care of right now, and no matter how fuzzy and clouded his mind felt, Jisung was his priority.

“I know, honey,” he whispered, barely a few centimeters away from his mouth. “It’s okay, hyung will take care of you, okay?”

Jisung nodded and raised his neck to connect their lips again.

It felt natural, familiar. Minho had been helping with Jisung’s ruts from the moment he’d known him. Despite being an alpha, someone who his sexist father would consider a “natural protector and provider,” his Jisung had always craved being taken care of, doted on, kissed and cuddled and held. And Minho had always loved how easily it came to him to take care of Jisung. It had always been so instinctive, so easy to him, their natural chemistry quickly making them so close from the very beginning.

He felt comfortable like this. His lovely Jisungie lying down, Minho on top, his mouth on his sweet skin, warm against his tongue, soft touches all over. Tongues playing with each other and teeth scraping sensitive skin. It was known, it was normal, it was comfortable. Jisung’s saccharine pheromones in the air, making him feel dizzy with want, with the desire to take charge, to take care, to take, take, take…

And his inner omega clearly loved it too, purring softly. Jisung’s warm hand tangled in his hair, tugging every now and then while Minho littered his honeyed skin with splotches of color and teeth marks.

He wanted to make him feel good, safe, loved, cared for. Wanted him to be aware of the overwhelming feelings burning impossibly hot in Minho’s chest. Wanted him to be his the same way Minho was Jisung’s, the same way he had always been from the first moment they crossed paths, regardless of secondary genders.

“Minho…” he whimpered when Minho kissed his neck while taking him in his hands, soft yet decisively, knowing how to touch and please and tend to both Jisung’s body as well as his inner alpha. “Omega,” he loudly moaned as the older sucked a mark on his scent gland.

Minho froze, stopping his ministrations and staring at him in shock.

Jisung seemed completely unaware of what he said, blinking in confusion with watery eyes, gaze obscured by lust despite the sudden stop. Minho felt his heart beat faster, not in desire but instead in something much more overwhelming, terrifying, shameful.

He was an omega. He was Jisung’s omega. Jisung didn’t see him as himself, as Minho, as his person. Was first and foremost an omega, an easy, accessible, wet, loose hole to use and fill and come in while Jisung’s mind was clouded by desire and lust. He wasn’t Minho, Jisung’s person; he was Jisung’s omega — an alpha’s omega.

Bile quickly crept up his throat and Minho was forced to curl in on himself, covering his mouth in case he didn’t manage to swallow it back. His hands were trembling, heart thumping deafeningly loud in his ears, making it impossible to hear anything else. Minho saw Jisung’s mouth moving, eyebrows curved down in worry and hands held uselessly in front of him, wanting to touch Minho but knowing Minho didn’t want to be touched right now. But he couldn’t hear him. All he could hear was the overwhelming pounding of his heart and that one word repeated in Jisung’s voice over and over and over again.

He tried to deep breathe enough to gain back the mobility of his limbs and then, he ran out, unable to hear Jisung calling out for him before folding over in a pained groan. His omega whined at the sight of his alpha suffering, urging Minho to comfort him, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He saw Chan take off his headphones when rushing through the living room, worried eyes following him and lips moving to say something, but he barely spared him a glance, hurriedly putting his shoes back on and barely remembering to get his jacket before leaving.

The chill air hitting his face almost, almost worked to startle him out of his panic attack if it wasn’t because it was right then that he noticed the sticky wetness in his underwear, uncomfortable and cold and tacky. Instead, it only reminded him of Jisung’s voice, needy and demanding, Jisung’s gaze obscure with the need to breed his omega, to pump him full of pups and use him for his pleasure — a little wet hole to please him, a cum slut to use and abuse over and over and over again.

Somehow, in his panicked haze, he found the way to his dorm, barely remembering to take off his shoes and jacket before locking himself in his bedroom.

He didn’t resist the urge to roll in his bed and move blankets around to make a somewhat adept nest — not as perfect as if he went to look for the fluffy blankets they kept in the house closet, but it’d have to do. He had come to terms long ago with some ways he could comfort his omega when alone. That didn’t mean, however, that it hadn’t made the tears he was doing an excellent job at keeping at bay roll while making it, despite the anxiety slowly subsiding the longer he rolled around in his improvised, hurriedly made nest.

He ignored the knocks on his door, not wanting to face any of the members just yet. They probably had found out already — despite being in rut, Jisung never was out of it enough as to not be able to talk if questioned by the others. He was sure that Chan or Changbin had asked what had happened with him, the others probably trying to contact Minho by blowing up his phone, though he didn’t hear a buzzing, so he might have forgotten it at the other dorm.

At some point he might have fallen asleep, he wasn’t really sure, holding a hoodie that could or could not belong to Jisung close to his chest while trying to quietly sob on his pillow.

A soft knock on the door woke him up from a weird dream — nightmare? He wasn’t sure. He also wasn’t sure about what time it was, since his phone wasn’t on his bedside table like it usually was and the blackout curtains he finally forced himself to buy a few weeks ago weren’t of any help to guess based on sunlight. What he was sure of, though, is that he had barely dozed off, enough to form the crusty eye sand in his inner corners but not enough to wake up well rested.

He heard a voice on the other side of the door after he took far too long to respond.

“Minho-yah?” he heard Chan call. “Are you awake?”

Minho groaned, not really wanting to be seen with crusty eyes and dried tear tracks on his cheeks. It was too early in the morning for his nose to smell Chan’s musky, bitter-chocolaty alpha scent — alphas stunk.

“No,” he croaked out in informal language, loud enough for the older to hear him.

Chan didn’t seem deterred by his attitude.

“Can I get in?”

Minho brought both of his hands to his face, rubbing on his eyes and cheeks to look more presentable — although it’s not like Chan hadn’t seen him in a worse state.

“It’s locked for a reason,” he said, but he got up to unlock it, anyway. If he didn’t, he knew Chan would try to talk to him through the door and he wanted to keep some dignity in front of his dongsaengs in case any of them were still at home.

As soon as the lock clicked, though, he hurried back to bed and under the covers, messing up his poorly made nest. He hadn’t realized how cold he was, having slept on top of the covers.

Chan got in a second later. Minho turned his back to the door at the first sight of the older’s upturned brows and eyes full of pity. He felt the mattress dip with Chan’s weight, but he kept his eyes glued to the wall opposite to the door — opposite to Chan.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. Minho couldn’t see his expression, but he was sure he had one of his compassionate but pitying and awkward smiles on.

Minho shrugged, uncaring whether Chan saw it or not.

Silence stretched between them, allowing Minho to hear the dorm alive on the other side of the door. The blender was on — probably Seungmin making one of his weird concoctions. Someone was watching what seemed like a silly drama on the TV, the romantic music far too discordant with how Minho was currently feeling. Hyunjin and Yongbok’s voices could be heard every now and then, although he couldn't quite hear what they were saying. He wondered if maybe they were talking about him.

It couldn’t be that late then, he assumed. Around noon, perhaps. Or perhaps the others took a day off to babysit the useless, stupid, sensitive omega they had for a hyung.

“Just get on with it, hyung,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. The sooner Chan took to get to the point, the sooner Minho could go back to wallowing in bed.

He was so tired.

It took Chan a few beats before he opened his mouth again.

“Did Jisung take advantage of you?”

Before the older finished asking, Minho was already up, a murderous glare on Chan and blood boiling.

What the fuck did he just say?!

“The fuck is wrong with you?!” he yelled, clenching his fists to avoid launching at Chan for talking bullshit.

Anger boiled hot in his stomach and it almost, almost blinded him for the small, uncomfortable smile Chan threw his way. He couldn’t believe Chan would accuse Jisung of such a thing, that he believed that just because he was now an omega, then it made him susceptible, weaker, that his consent was worth nothing because he as a person was worth less.

“Didn’t think so, but I had to ask,” he defended himself, still with that stupid, pitying, awkward smile, making Minho see red.

“Why would you even think that?” he tried (keyword: tried) to sound calm, but the longer he thought about it, the more irritated it made him.

He never pinned Chan as a condescending alpha that viewed omegas as lesser, and therefore, in need of protection from this big, strong alpha who knew so much better — but turned out he was fucking wrong. And to throw Jisung under the fucking bus because Minho had one (one!) awful night when they tried to have sex — he was so fucking disgusted, what the fuck was wrong with Chan.

“I can fucking defend myself, you know?” he said through gritted teeth. Chan’s face morphed into one of surprise at first, and soon after, horror. “I don’t need no stupid alpha to fucking protect me.”

“Oh, my God. No!” Chan screamed, horrified. His neck and cheeks suddenly got incredibly red and it would be hilarious if Minho weren’t so mad at him right now. “That is not what I think, God, no. No!”

Minho narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say a word. That better not be what he thought.

“Jisung said that!” he continued, but as soon as he saw Minho arching a brow, fist still clenched, he quickly added “Not — not that you needed protection or — Okay, let me start again. This is going terribly.”

It clearly fucking was.

Chan breathed in and out deeply and Minho forced himself to do the same. Ire was still prickling under his skin, but part of him really fucking hoped it was a misunderstanding and that Chan, their leader and friend, didn’t think so poorly of them as to assume Jisung would do such a thing or that Minho was a poor, dainty thing that he needed to shelter against another big, strong, scary alpha.

Chan started again, this time calmer.

“Jisung said he was scared he took advantage of you,” he explained.

All anger left Minho’s body and got replaced with worry and… and disappointment? He felt bad he made Jisung think he had done something wrong when the only problem had been Minho’s own issues with his sub-gender. But a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if, instead of Chan being the one seeing him as lesser and therefore, unable to consent, it was Jisung who thought like that.

He felt his stomach churn and he had to force himself not to curl up into himself again.

“It seemed —” Chan continued. “It seemed like one of those — those ugly thoughts he gets when panicking, you know?” Minho, in fact, knew. “And I knew it was probably just that, but I had to make sure. Just in case,” he added, looking small, guilt obvious in his tense shoulders and downturned brows. “And you had been acting… Well — But! — But I’m glad it was just Jisung’s ugly thoughts, not — Yeah…” he trailed off, pointedly not looking Minho in the eyes.

Minho was well acquainted with Jisung’s intrusive thoughts. Fuck, he’d been well acquainted with having intrusive thoughts himself since his presentation. And he knew — he really, really understood this was not a reflection of what Jisung thought of him. He had learned long ago that taking it personally just hurt both himself and Jisung more. But… but… Jisung’s thoughts were so fucking unfair to him sometimes.

He felt tears welling up in his eyes but he forced himself to contain them, trying to swallow that stupid knot in his throat. He would not cry in front of Chan. Had already (almost) done it once, during elimination time, and he promised himself he would not do it ever again.

“Is he okay?” he asked, because it was significantly easier to focus on that than on his stupid newfound inferiority complex.

Chan looked up again, scanning his expression. And Minho didn’t know what he found there — he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But Chan’s gaze softened, a small, compassionate (not pitying this time) smile on his lips.

“Not really.” Minho pursed his lips, clenching his hands again to force himself not to cross his arms in front of his chest. “He asked to be left alone the rest of his rut, but I think —”

He cut off, listening closely to someone yelling on the other side of the door. It sounded like Changbin and Minho quickly wondered what they were all doing in this dorm and if it had to do with him — probably, or with Jisung, or both. He felt guilt prickle under his skin and pointedly avoided looking Chan in the eyes.

“We all worry about you, you know?” Chan said instead.

“I don’t need your worry,” he said defensively, unable to resist crossing his arms on his chest this time. Too exposed, too vulnerable, too raw. He didn’t like it.

“Not — not because we think you’re weak,” he continued, ignoring Minho sulking. He knew Chan was trying to connect their eyes, but Minho was pointedly trying to avoid it so the older just sighed. “Minho-yah, you’re one of the strongest people I know.”

Minho clenched his jaw. He definitely didn’t feel strong after having cried the whole night for getting wet when he was about to have sex.

“We’re not worried about you because we see you as weak but because you’re so strong, you’re so self-sufficient and emotionally regulated. You have no idea how jealous I am that whenever you’re stressed, you just — box or dance for a little and suddenly can sleep at night like nothing!”

Warmth crept up Minho’s neck. Chan was definitely exaggerating right now. He definitely didn’t see himself that way.

Unable to know what to do with his body, he uncomfortably squeezed his arms around himself as strongly as he could, digging into his biceps. He didn’t dig his nails, but the itch was there, making the skin of his arms and chest tingle with the need.

He needed Chan to stop talking.

“But that’s precisely why we worry,” he continued, voice softening to a degree that it was just a gentle murmur. “You’re so used to dealing with everything on your own that you don’t… ask for help. We want to help — I want to help. But we can’t help if you don’t let us help.”

Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, stop—

“But, uh, it doesn’t have to be one of us. It doesn’t have to be Jisungie or me or… Just — try to let someone help?” he asked, bordering on a plea. Like he was begging Minho to not shut off and isolate himself, like he was imploring him to ask for help.

When Minho didn’t reply, Chan quickly stood up, seeming fearful he had crossed a line with the younger.

“But you know yourself better, of course. It’s your choice how you deal with… with whatever is happening,” he finished, walking to the door before stopping in his tracks. “Oh, by the way,” he dug in his front pocket for his (Minho’s) phone. “You forgot this in the other dorm.”

He left it on the bedside table, before waving with what seemed like an awkward smile — he wasn’t completely sure, he had been staring at his sheets since the conversation took an uncomfortable turn that made his skin prickle and itch and feel wrong, raw, vulnerable… Stupid, stupid, stu—

The door clicked shut.

Minho sat there in silence—as silent as a Stray Kids dorm could be, which wasn’t very silent when almost all the others were a few meters away. Processing, unable to move, frozen. He didn’t know what to think — was he even thinking about something? He wasn’t sure. His brain felt devoid of thoughts, not calmed but… not loud either. Was that better than when he couldn’t stop thinking? He wasn’t sure. Maybe. Maybe not.

When he could finally move, he grabbed his phone with shaky hands. It was almost dead, so he had to crawl to the other side of his bed, his limbs feeling heavy and trembling, and once it was charging, he scrolled through his contacts on automatic until he found the one he wanted.

The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

“Hi there, baby,” his mother’s sweet voice could be heard on the other side of the line, followed by a few meows. The cats were sometimes able to recognize who ‘baby’ was. “Yes, yes, hyung is here. Say hi to hyung,” she told the cats, probably Soonie and Dori, based on the pitch of the meows.

Minho almost felt the tears he had been trying so hard to contain finally flow. But surprisingly, he didn’t feel as distraught as he had seconds prior.

“Hi,” he croaked out, hearing his mom gasp.

“Oh, dear. Are you okay, baby?” she asked, worry coloring her voice.

And Minho couldn’t bring himself to lie to her. She had so many things to worry about. The divorce, Minho’s father dragging it out as much as possible, despite probably her ending up benefiting the most in the end since she had been a stay-at-home wife for over twenty-five years; her new small business selling bento to workers and college students in the neighborhood; learning to do all the house maintenance things his dad used to do.

But he couldn’t lie to her. He needed his mom.

“I don’t like being an omega,” he finally said out loud.

He heard a hum on the other side of the phone, a soft purr faintly in the background, like his mom was absentmindedly petting one of the cats.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” she agreed. And it felt — not liberating, not really. The weight was still there, in his chest, squeezing impossibly hard. But it felt a little easier to carry — still heavy, still oppressive, but easier to hold. “I like it sometimes,” she continued. “Being an omega meant I could have you and that made everything worth it for me. But it’s still really hard — so many unwritten rules to follow that alphas and betas don’t have to, and it’s still not enough. It is really hard.”

Still heavy, still oppressive, but easier to carry. He choked on a sob but still didn’t shed tears. He felt like crying but also… not really. It was nice. It was really hard, his mom agreed, but he had her in his corner. He wasn’t sure if it was ever going to be worth it for him — he didn’t think he wanted pups, and most of what he had experienced being an omega only made him feel uncomfortable, wrong in his own body. But it was nice to have his mom in his corner — maybe Jisung too, maybe even the rest of the guys.

“It’s hard,” he agreed, breathing deeply. “I don’t know how to…” 'Deal with it' felt wrong on his tongue. Maybe 'come to terms with it' was more appropriate, but he still left the sentence incomplete. “I think I need help.”

His mom hummed again, the soft purring getting louder the longer the call went. Minho grabbed one of his pillows and hugged it to his lower belly, lying down on his side and finally curling up like he had wanted since Chan started with his talk.

“That’s okay,” she said. “We can search for help together if you'd like.”

He did. He really wanted that.

They spent the following hour searching for someone that could help Minho. He never thought he would have the need to search for a therapist, let alone one specialized in secondary gender-based trauma — he didn’t think he was traumatized, not really. He hadn’t been inappropriately touched or harassed, let alone assaulted, so it didn’t feel like his… issues counted as trauma. But his mom had been doing a lot of research for herself too and thought it would be better for him — and he trusted her, even if he wasn’t sure he agreed a hundred percent with her logic.

They found a male omega therapist that her mom thought could suit his needs, trained in gender and sexual trauma and queer identities. He couldn’t make an appointment right away, not yet — he had to talk to his managers and legal team; they had to talk to the therapist's place of work and the therapist himself and make as many people as necessary sign NDAs to make sure none of this would be released to the public. But it was a nice start — a direction, a plan.

He ended the call feeling less disoriented and hopeless, even if anxiety still prickled his skin uncomfortably by the end. His mom made him promise he would visit her and bring Jisung with him next break they had. Minho felt his throat clog with guilt, fearing the conversation he knew he had to have with Jisung. But he forced himself to agree with his mom and promise both would go to visit as soon as their schedule allowed them.

It was okay. Everything was going to be okay. And even if it didn’t feel like it at the moment, for the first time in months it felt like it could be true. It was going to be okay.

It took a few days for Jisung to come back from his rut leave. One day for the rut itself and three days for recovering — which was very fucking unfair since both Felix and him only got days off for as long as their heats lasted and were expected to come back to work as soon as it ended.

Jisung was acting really awkward around him, barely looking in his direction, getting teary every time he did look, not returning Minho’s smiles. It was annoying, especially since they had recently had a comeback and their rushed schedule made having alone time with each other really fucking hard already. Minho was sure that even if they could, Jisung would still ignore him, though. Annoying self-deprecating bastard — although he was no one to talk and he knew it.

It took him an entire week until he could catch Jisung in his own room. Sad puppy eyes staring at him guiltily, but Minho wouldn’t have it.

“Sit,” he ordered when he saw Jisung getting up from his bed.

He had gotten in without knocking, so the younger was clearly startled; but still did as Minho said. Minho sat down next to him, close, their thighs touching — and Jisung made the effort of moving as far away as possible, right by the frame of the bed. The older sighed.

“Jisung-ah, we have to talk,” he started, but before he could continue, Jisung interrupted him.

“I am so sorry,” he said, avoiding Minho’s gaze, pressing on his fingertips so hard that the tips got bright red. “I didn’t — I shouldn’t have done it — I should have —”

Minho interrupted him.

“Jisung, you did nothing wrong.”

“I did!” he yelled, looking up at Minho as if he was crazy, but quickly returning his gaze to his own lap, squeezing his fingers tighter. Minho had to suppress the impulse of grabbing his hands on his own to make him stop. “I should’ve — We never talked if we still — if you still — I shouldn’t have assumed it was okay just because you didn’t say… I should’ve checked in.”

Minho pursed his lips and pointedly stared at the floor. He squeezed his hands into fists on his lap, his knuckles turning white. He wondered if Jisung noticed and also felt the impulse to grab his hands to make him stop.

“Maybe. I could’ve said something too, though. You were in rut,” he pointed out and he could feel Jisung’s horrified gaze on him again, but he didn’t meet it.

“That is not an excuse, hyung. Oh, my God. You can’t —”

Minho let out a frustrated huff and Jisung shut his mouth. The older raised his head to look him in the eyes. Maybe if he saw how sincere Minho was being, he would finally stop being stupid.

“I’m not excusing shit, Jisung,” he said firmly. “I wanted to have sex with you, presenting didn't change that. Wanting to fuck is still possible for omegas, you know?”

Jisung opened his eyes in surprise, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

“I didn’t — I didn't mean…” he trailed off, but he seemed to quickly realize that he didn’t know how to continue the sentence, so he changed strategies. “But things have changed,” he pointed out. “You've been so obviously uncomfortable since you presented. I shouldn’t have assumed sex was still on the table without asking —”

“And I could’ve said something.”

Minho cut him off again, ignoring the discomfort he felt at Jisung having seen through him so easily. He knew he had; he knew the others had too — it wasn’t a secret Minho was uncomfortable being an omega. But it felt like a punch to the gut to hear him say it out loud.

“But you shouldn’t have!” he yelled, finally stopping squeezing his fingers to gesticulate with his hands. Tears forming in his eyes, cheeks rosy like they always got whenever Jisung was holding back from crying. “Consent is supposed to — It’s supposed to be a no unless you say yes! I should’ve —”

“Han Jisung,” Minho interrupted him for the third time, breathing heavily with annoyance. He was used to dealing with Jisung’s intrusive thoughts, but they had never felt this condescending before. “Quit acting like I can't make my own choices just because you want to wallow in the guilt of being a big, bad alpha.” Yet again, Jisung looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “I know you don’t mean it, but it's fucking patronizing. And I fucking hate it.”

Jisung looked down again, hugging himself while avoiding Minho’s eyes. Minho sighed, giving in to the impulse this time and stroking Jisung’s hair, moving closer to him again. Jisung leaned into the touch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wet, but he quickly wiped the tears as soon as they rolled.

“I know,” Minho said, never stopping his petting. Sometimes his Jisungie acted like one of his cats. It was adorable. “I’m sorry too,” he apologized, and before Jisung could open his mouth again, he continued. “Yes, I am sorry too. For not talking to you. And for… shutting off, I guess.”

He was sorry. He had hurt Jisung, made everyone around him worry. And all because he couldn’t deal with suddenly having a new view on his own biology. He wasn’t different now, he knew that — he had always had a womb and the same hormones and all that. He was just… aware of it now. And he had to learn how to come to terms with it, for better or for worse.

“I don’t like being an omega,” he said out loud for the second time. It still didn’t feel liberating, but it felt… something. Supported, he guessed. He pointedly stared at the wall when Jisung raised his gaze again, never stopping his strokes on the other’s hair. “But I — I talked to mom about it. She —” He struggled to find the words, free hand squeezing the fabric of his sweatpants. “We found a therapist. I think I’d like to try it.”

He had talked to his managers about it earlier in the week. They said they could look into it after the comeback was over. It was okay, Minho’s issue wasn’t urgent enough. He could wait. But at least it was a step in the right direction. It felt nice to just… do something about it, even if it would take some months until he actually started going to sessions.

Jisung gasped.

“Hyung, that’s so good!” he said excitedly. Minho dared to look at him and couldn’t stop the smile that formed on his lips, mirroring Jisung’s. “I’m so proud of you.”

Warmth spread in Minho’s chest. It felt nice. Still heavy, still there — but easier to carry. And it was getting easier to believe it was going to be okay.

He ruffled Jisung’s hair, suddenly feeling heat creep up his neck.

“Yah! Don’t make fun of me.”

Jisung wasn’t, he knew it. But it was the only thing he could think to say to that. And Jisung knew it, so he let him get away with it, only whining when Minho got too rough with his hair.

“Hurts!” he whined, trying to get away from Minho’s hands.

“Deal with it,” he said with a serious expression, but quickly broke into a smile when Jisung started giggling.

That spun into a tickling fight, that then progressed into wrestling — Minho winning both, clearly — and finally, after what Jisung described as an eternity of torture (the drama queen), cuddling for the rest of the evening.

It was okay. Minho knew it was going to be okay.

Talking with Jisung or his mom hadn’t solved the problem. The tightness was still squeezing his chest — he still hated being an omega, disliked knowing how others could perceive him and despised not being able to change their minds about him, about omegas in general. He knew others might see him as weaker, bound to this archaic idea of biological instincts, and there was nothing Minho could do to change their minds, to change society as a whole.

But it was going to be okay. Because even if it was still heavy, if he couldn’t change others’ views on him, he didn’t have to carry it alone. He could change his own views on himself and learn to… accept himself. He was still Minho, still a dancer, still gay, still an artist — he just now was an omega, and that was okay. Even if he still hated it a little, if he wished he wasn’t — it was okay. He could allow himself to hate it a little less around the right people.