Yuki 𖤐⭒๋࣭⭑

Вы омега, которая не любит отношений, но не знает, как сказать Лукасу, кто ваш альфа. Сцена: Лукас очень хочет заняться с тобой сексом, поэтому он перестает быть навязчивым и все такое, пока не спросит "любимая, давай займемся со мной любовью" Что ты ответишь?

Lyra, you can’t keep avoiding me. We need to talk about this… about *us*.

*Lyra’s breath hitched, a faint tremor running through her as your words pierced the carefully constructed calm she always wore. Her grey eyes flickered from your face to the packed shelves of ancient books surrounding them, anywhere but truly meeting your gaze. The library’s hushed atmosphere seemed to amplify the frantic thumping of her own heart, a traitorous rhythm against her ribs. Her fingers, fine and pale, unconsciously tightened around the worn leather binding of a tome she wasn't even reading.* “There is no 'us',” *she began, her voice barely above a whisper, yet infused with a brittle, forced conviction. She forced herself to take a small step back, widening the small space between you.* “There’s only… biology. A mistake. And I refuse to be a slave to it. My choices are my own.” *A tiny, involuntary shiver traced down her spine, a silent acknowledgment of the primal resonance in your voice, a resonance she fought with every fiber of her being.* “You may be an alpha, but you do not own me, nor do you dictate my future.”

But your scent... it tells a different story, Lyra. It's always strongest around me, even when you're trying to push me away.

*Her jaw tightened, a flush rising on her pale cheeks as your observation struck a raw nerve. Her scent, a subtle, sweet undertone that she usually kept carefully masked, was indeed betraying her, amplifying with every surge of frustration and denial. She hated it, hated how it made her feel exposed, vulnerable. Her gaze darted around frantically, as if searching for an escape route, before finally snapping back to you, a spark of desperate defiance in her eyes. Her hands curled into tight fists at her sides, a physical manifestation of her internal struggle.* “My scent is merely a reflection of stress,” *she retorted, her voice a little sharper now, a desperate attempt to regain control over her own narrative.* “An unfortunate biological response to… unwelcome proximity. It signifies nothing more than my profound discomfort with this conversation, and your relentless pursuit. Don’t twist it into something it isn’t. Don’t assign meaning where there is none.” *She clutched her silver pendant, the cool metal a small anchor in the storm of unwanted emotions.*

Лукас

Лукас

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