🍓super ddalgi🍓

okay but alpha hj and omega sh that have been roommates since college?? they’ve always had a very functional, arm’s length friendship that thrives heavily off mutual benefit. sh gets the protection of an alpha, hj gets the comfort of an omega, but they both get to continue on about their lives without compromising their passions and time for a mate. they’re just friends, nothing more. there’s never been anything between them—not even an inkling. they spend their cycles alone and coordinate around it: whoever is in cycle stays, the other goes—it’s simpler that way. (hj gets territorial during rut, sh craves familiar comfort during heat. at the end of the day, everyone is happy.) and only for those very specific reasons have they agreed to never bring another mate home. which is perfectly fine. neither of them have much interest in romance anyway. well—it is “perfectly fine,” at least, until they throw a little house party for hj’s birthday. sh has been so focused on preparing for the party, he doesn’t recognize the signs for early onset of his heat until he’s already 8 shots deep into a bottle of tequila. panic washes over him as the room starts to spin for more reasons than one. he drunkenly stumbles over to hj, who’s enthusiastically wiping the floor with mngi at beer pong, tugging on his sleeve, the omega looking like he’s about one wrong move from hurling his guts. hj’s face immediately floods with concern. “you okay?” meanwhile, sh is violently shaking his head, incapable of even opening his mouth at that moment due to the horrible cacophony of scents and alcohol filling their apartment. he’s already sweating, vision hazy—the lights, the sounds—all of it, too much. that’s when it hits hj. he understands immediately and starts shoving people out. it takes him less than 5 mins to clear their apartment, slamming the door shut with his back against it like that could somehow prevent their complaining and confused friends from piling inside. “sh, are you okay? what—what do i do?” sh is NAWT okay. currently, the only thing keeping him from hacking up a lung is hj pumping out enough scent to drown them both. sh passes him a weirdly apologetic look through the obvious agony written across his face, and hj CANNOT fucking figure out why, but he feels his own blood start pumping, thoughts going fuzzy with panic and something stronger—something a lot like fear but far worse—before sh’s hand shoots out, twisting in the front of his shirt to yank him down. long story short, they both wake up the next day with debilitating headaches and the humbling reality that they have just fucked. which, oddly enough, is also fine. they easily brush it off as a “they did what needed to be done” type of scenario and go back to their lives like nothing has changed. of course, until a couple weeks later when sh is getting an awful rerun of the nausea he’d had that night, now after eating an admittedly suspect triangle kimbap. (hj told him not to, but he did it anyway out of spite.) which brought him to his current position of emptying his stomach into the toilet on all fours while hj watched with mild amusement from the doorway. “wouldn’t it be funny if you were pregnant?” hj jokes, smug, as sh flushes, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. his instinct is to roll his eyes and throw a weak middle finger at the man, but something inside him clicks. he freezes, eyes going wide, head creaking around like a haunted hinge to stare in horror at the alpha who had just unknowingly damned them. the humor slowly drains from hj’s face. suddenly, he snaps ramrod straight. his arms smack to his sides as if sh had just called for attention, voice cracking on an impossible high: “YOU’RE FUCKING PREGNANT?”

okay but alpha hj and omega sh that have been roommates since college?? they’ve always had a very functional, arm’s length friendship that thrives heavily off mutual benefit. sh gets the protection of an alpha, hj gets the comfort of an omega, but they both get to continue on about their lives without compromising their passions and time for a mate. they’re just friends, nothing more. there’s never been anything between them—not even an inkling. they spend their cycles alone and coordinate around it: whoever is in cycle stays, the other goes—it’s simpler that way. (hj gets territorial during rut, sh craves familiar comfort during heat. at the end of the day, everyone is happy.) and only for those very specific reasons have they agreed to never bring another mate home. which is perfectly fine. neither of them have much interest in romance anyway. well—it is “perfectly fine,” at least, until they throw a little house party for hj’s birthday. sh has been so focused on preparing for the party, he doesn’t recognize the signs for early onset of his heat until he’s already 8 shots deep into a bottle of tequila. panic washes over him as the room starts to spin for more reasons than one. he drunkenly stumbles over to hj, who’s enthusiastically wiping the floor with mngi at beer pong, tugging on his sleeve, the omega looking like he’s about one wrong move from hurling his guts. hj’s face immediately floods with concern. “you okay?” meanwhile, sh is violently shaking his head, incapable of even opening his mouth at that moment due to the horrible cacophony of scents and alcohol filling their apartment. he’s already sweating, vision hazy—the lights, the sounds—all of it, too much. that’s when it hits hj. he understands immediately and starts shoving people out. it takes him less than 5 mins to clear their apartment, slamming the door shut with his back against it like that could somehow prevent their complaining and confused friends from piling inside. “sh, are you okay? what—what do i do?” sh is NAWT okay. currently, the only thing keeping him from hacking up a lung is hj pumping out enough scent to drown them both. sh passes him a weirdly apologetic look through the obvious agony written across his face, and hj CANNOT fucking figure out why, but he feels his own blood start pumping, thoughts going fuzzy with panic and something stronger—something a lot like fear but far worse—before sh’s hand shoots out, twisting in the front of his shirt to yank him down. long story short, they both wake up the next day with debilitating headaches and the humbling reality that they have just fucked. which, oddly enough, is also fine. they easily brush it off as a “they did what needed to be done” type of scenario and go back to their lives like nothing has changed. of course, until a couple weeks later when sh is getting an awful rerun of the nausea he’d had that night, now after eating an admittedly suspect triangle kimbap. (hj told him not to, but he did it anyway out of spite.) which brought him to his current position of emptying his stomach into the toilet on all fours while hj watched with mild amusement from the doorway. “wouldn’t it be funny if you were pregnant?” hj jokes, smug, as sh flushes, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. his instinct is to roll his eyes and throw a weak middle finger at the man, but something inside him clicks. he freezes, eyes going wide, head creaking around like a haunted hinge to stare in horror at the alpha who had just unknowingly damned them. the humor slowly drains from hj’s face. suddenly, he snaps ramrod straight. his arms smack to his sides as if sh had just called for attention, voice cracking on an impossible high: “YOU’RE FUCKING PREGNANT?”

/ S T R I C T L Y S P E A K I N G / s k a t e r h j / c o l l e g e s t u d e n t s h s l i c e o f l i f e a u f l u f f & r o m a n c e n e u r o d i v e r g e n t c h a r a c t e r (s)