"Second Nap, Same Alpha – Still No Names, Just Sin”

Chapter 17

Collage

Mood: Scented. Sketched. Plug Malfunction Imminent.

06:00 AM – Omega Morning Routine

She woke up confused. Again.

The bed felt… moist. She dared to sniff.

Honey. White peach. Cassis. Sin.

"No—Not today. Not on a school day, traitorous gland!"

She rolled to the side, peeling the silk from her thighs, sighing in betrayal.

There, on the nightstand: The Heart Lube Protector™, a custom red crystal plug. Elegant. Sinful. Decorative. Supposed to seal her fate—and her hole.

But it had shifted. Again.

"I need industrial sealant. Maybe a cork."

"No. Something forged by dwarves. This lube is too strong for humanity."

She sanitized, replaced the plug with her practiced shame, then got dressed in the same careful chaos:

All-black hoodie, triple XL, down to her knees.

Black drop-crotch pants loose enough to hide even betrayal.

Beanie pulled so low she could've robbed a store or just hated the sun.

Oversized scarf to trap her scent and her shame.

No makeup. No scent. Just sin simmering under cotton.

07:00 AM – Therapist Call: Live Plug Commentary

Bluetooth in ear, she muttered low as she sat cross-legged at the edge of the field, digital pen sketching in hand.

"I swear this plug's sweet-lube core is faulty."

"Is it leaking again?" the therapist asked, too calm.

"No. It's weeping. It smells like someone juiced a peach and sinned in a vineyard."

"That's vivid."

"My thighs are moisturised against their will, doc."

"...is this about the manga, or reality?"

"Reality."

"Good to know. That saves me three diagnoses."

07:23 AM – Track Field: Human Pillow Returns

She was hunched over her tablet, sketching—not drawing smut, thank you very much—just poses and expression studies for future manga use. Nothing publishable. Nothing traceable.

She never drew her OTP. Not digitally. Not publicly.

Manual only. Pen and paper. Unscannable. She was a shadow fujoshi, not an idiot.

Then—

Thud.

A familiar weight dropped behind her.

A back. Broad. Heavy. Warm. Alpha-scented.

No words.

He just settled against her like a heat-seeking missile that had found its peach-scented bunker.

She froze mid-line.

His breathing evened out. Slow. Heavy. Calming.

"Oh no. It's the napper again."

"Is this my fate? To be a pillow for scent-driven sleepwalkers?"

She shifted slightly, careful not to dislodge the plug—she really didn't need a lube incident on a football field.

But… it wasn't bad.

There was no flirting. No talking.

Just… warmth.

His scent was warm sugar and thunderstorm ozone.

Feral but clean.

And somehow, it didn't clash with hers.

They stayed like that for fifteen minutes.

Two strangers. No names. Just bodies at rest.

10:00 AM – Class: Still Between Potential OTPs

Today's desk lottery sat her between two bickering alphas again—not her OTP, just potential.

The tension was so thick it needed subtitles.

She kept her head down, scarf up, eyes on her paper.

No digital sketches. Not in class. Too risky.

She muttered,

"I'm a moth. They are flames. Big, barking, dick-measuring flames."

She passed the class without incident, except for the professor's unfortunate phrasing:

Professor: "Would anyone like to share their position on this?"

Riven, dry: "Is this missionary or are we being academic today?"

Half the class laughed.

The professor paused.

Riven blinked behind her scarf and added a mental note:

"Maybe wear a muzzle tomorrow."

12:00 PM – Fujoshi Journal Log

Still don't know the napper's name.

His back is top-tier support. Would rate 8/10 for spinal comfort.

Plug still in place, but I can feel it judging me.

New plug prototype? Maybe one that plays white noise when I clench. For science.

End of Day Thought:

Being an omega in hiding with a scent like dessert and a body made for sin isn't easy.

But at least someone naps on me before judging me.

That's more intimacy than I had in my original life.