Chapter Text
EXHIBIT A: OBSERVATIONS ON ALPHA-OMEGA AESTHETIC BIAS FROM A BETA PERSPECTIVE
To: Yoon Hyewon
CC: Repro Health Faculty, Graduate Student Council (GSC) Chair, Academic Affairs Committee Admin
BCC: Repro Cohort - All
From: Choi Han
Subject: Formal Objection to Breeding Demonstration Pairing
Dear Dean Yoon,
I write to express serious concern regarding the upcoming Clinical Breeding Demonstration. Specifically, the deeply suspect pairing process that has resulted in Park Jimin and Jeon Jungkook being selected as the presenting omega and alpha, respectively.
While I understand the importance of peer-based education in our field, the events of this past month suggest egregious procedural favoritism. Though the department claims they used volunteer pools and that some alphas and omegas withdrew from the application process of their own volition, several of us have reason to believe these withdrawals were not made freely.
Instead, many appear to be the result of peer pressure, intimidation, and a 140-slide presentation authored by beta Jung Hoseok, using quantitative analysis to argue that pairing Park Jimin and Jeon Jungkook was not only inevitable, but also statistically optimal. He concluded that “any omega with a fatigue onset window under eight minutes should be considered a dropout risk,” and that “alphas with a dominance index below 1.4 should yield to the demonstrably superior candidate.”
Please refer to the attached file “KnotScience_Bitch_v4.5_FINALREAL.pptx” for Hoseok’s full predictive model.
Further evidence includes coordinated alpha coalitions to ensure that Park Jimin would appear as the omega demonstrator. These efforts, transparent as they were pathetic, ranged from manipulating application deadlines to launching smear campaigns against any omega who dared apply. Perhaps the most egregious example comes from alpha Kim Taehyung, circulated on the student messaging board, which I believe speaks for itself:
“you think the faculty is clearing their calendars to watch you fuckass omegas take a sympathy knot when we could be watching Jimin throw it back irl? like be so fucking fr”
Omegas were no less savage in their scramble to, quote, “ride Jungkook like tuition’s due tomorrow,” as Kim Seokjin so eloquently put it.
Three weeks ago, I personally witnessed omega Min Yoongi threaten alpha Kim Namjoon to “back off unless you want to look like a malnourished bean sprout next to Jungkook’s triceps,” followed by: “Why would I risk my pelvic floor on a mediocre alpha when Jungkook exists?” Namjoon has not been seen since.
Needless to say, such behavior undermines any pretense of an ethical selection process. I strongly urge the department to launch a thorough investigation into the application and withdrawal timelines.
Additionally, while I respect my peers, I must object to the laughably predictable optics of pairing the most aesthetically celebrated omega with the most physically exalted alpha in a live, filmed, faculty-attended breeding demonstration. It privileges painfully narrow stereotypes: an omega whose popularity is rivaled only by his medically anomalous posterior, and an alpha whose muscularity has, somehow, become more academically relevant than my 4.3 GPA.
I’m not accusing the committee of impropriety. I’m merely suggesting this pairing appears to be an anatomically indulgent casting decision.
Lastly, I would like to clarify that my objections have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I will be required to spectate as my academic colleague, Park Jimin (whom I happen to admire professionally), copulates with an alpha of statistically rare endowment, while tenured faculty offer commentary and praise.
This is strictly about fairness.
Respectfully,
Choi Han (he/him)
M.D. Candidate, Reproductive Health Track
Hwangje University College of Medicine
Sent from my iPhone. Please excuse formatting. Please do not excuse injustice.
⋯
EXHIBIT B: THE MYTH OF THE SANCTIFIED OMEGA
Omegas in medicine are expected to transcend their bodies, to be floating cortexes in white coats, not people with sex drives and dirty thoughts.
“Desire makes you stupid; sensuality is antithetical to serious scholarship.” Funny how that rule never applies to alphas or betas. When an alpha gets hard during a genital exam, it’s “biological inevitability;” when an omega’s scent spikes in response, it’s “gross misconduct.”
Of course, the medical field likes to pretend omegas have evolved past wanting anything, but Jimin knows the truth. The experienced ones hold surreptitious “study groups” in abandoned seminar rooms, conducting what could generously be called peer review on which alphas in their cohort are worth the post-coital attachment. It’s an invisible sorority of heat and hearsay, operating right under the university’s nose. Officially, they’re revising research methods. In practice, they’re comparing knots.
Each department has its reputation. Psychiatry omegas run underground orgy parties. Physiology attracts chronic masturbators. And the Reproductive Health omegas quietly hoard breeding-kink paperbacks starring billionaire masons, billionaire lumberjacks, and billionaire ranchers. There’s something about vascular forearms, calloused hands, and fiscal dependability that pairs beautifully with alphas trained to deliver babies—and reach deep into an omega for a manual examination.
The few omegas who’ve dared to talk openly about desire are chastised into abstinence, so the rest have learned to bury their confessions in private spaces—cloaked in euphemism, posted in anonymous forum threads, or disguised as qualitative data.
Married omegas speak of their relationships with the same tone used for announcing a plague outbreak, using palatable terms like “spouse” instead of “mate,” “dependents” instead of “pups,” “medical leave” instead of “heat.” No omega ever publicly admits to being a sexual creature. Not even when fucking is literally on the syllabus.
Anyway, Jimin would like the record to show that he didn’t sign up to get railed. He signed up for funding. A clinical fellowship. Top residency placement. Honors credits. A feature in Repro Today. A résumé line that reads: Live Omega Response Subject, Dept. of Reproductive Health Sciences.
That’s what omegas like him do: work twice as hard to be taken half as seriously. Because nothing makes an omega’s career decline faster than looking like he actually enjoys being one.
⋯
EXHIBIT C: THE OMEGA PREPARES HIMSELF FOR EXPERIMENTAL PENETRATION
Jimin doesn’t trust OB/GYNs who are alphas.
It’s not personal. It’s just anatomical. If someone’s going to slide gloved fingers into your ass and call it routine screening, you want that person to know what it’s like to have their own prostate milked like a slot machine.
Not that he’s into that.
Granted, Jimin knows some alphas have better bedside manners than others. The ones who go into obstetrics might be walking hard-ons with god complexes and far too many opinions about omega anatomy, but unlike your average Neanderthal, they do know where to find the prostate. You never have to guide. Which, he supposes, is medically efficient.
He takes a deep breath.
It’s not like this is the Rut Olympics—that shit gets televised. This is university-internal, academically sanctioned, and purely professional.
“Please proceed with pre-session preparation,” the ceiling monitor chimes in its detached, automated cadence. “Kindly remove outside garments and complete the outstanding consent prompts.”
There’s a thin divider between the waiting rooms, just tall enough to give the illusion of privacy. Jimin’s already wrapped in a robe, seated on a padded bench with a clipboard in his lap. On the other side, he hears faint movement: a zipper, a sigh, and a rustle of someone folding their clothes neatly instead of chucking them in the corner like a normal person.
“Jimin?”
It’s Jungkook. His voice is low, quiet. It makes Jimin’s skin crawl.
“You good over there?”
Jimin adjusts his robe. “Yeah,” he says timorously. “Just finishing the forms.”
“Cool. Want me to check your vitals? I brought my stethoscope.”
“What?”
“I’m joking,” Jungkook says. “Kind of.”
Jimin makes a face at the wall.
Jungkook’s voice is preternaturally calm, even soothing, like he’s already slipped into his clinical tone. It doesn’t help.
“You know we always work well together,” Jungkook goes on. “I don’t see why this would be different.”
“You say that like we’re doing a CPR demo,” Jimin deadpans.
“We’ve had worse assignments.”
“Oh, definitely. Like the time you got your hand stuck in the birthing simulator?”
“That wasn’t my fault. He clamped down.”
“Yeah, and now the lab has a sign that says, ‘Do not aggravate the pelvic module.’”
“Hey, he was stubborn. I respect that.”
Jimin rolls his eyes, but an unwilling grin betrays him. The demo won’t even be that awkward, he tells himself. Sure, there’ll be an auditorium full of faculty and peers waiting for the knotting portion, but Jungkook isn’t a caveman. He’s polite. He also has the kind of hands Jimin doesn’t want to imagine inside him but does anyway as part of his bedtime routine.
The overhead speaker crackles to life.
“This is the final compliance check. Omega participant, please confirm consent and proceed with pharmaceutical calibration by ingesting one Sim-Estrus capsule.”
Jimin eyes the tiny blue pill in its plastic cup, sitting beside a lukewarm bottle of water. After a pause that feels longer than it is, he tips it back. It tastes like the roof of his mouth in the morning—stale and faintly regretful.
“You’re gonna do great,” comes Jungkook’s voice again, kind and unreasonably sincere.
Jimin shouldn’t be this flustered. They’ve survived countless anatomy labs together. They’ve presented case studies without homicide. Jungkook will probably ask for consent twice just to be safe.
But the thing about Jungkook is…he’s easy. Not in the slutty way, though that thought absolutely occurred to Jimin during a late-night study session when Jungkook stretched too hard and his hoodie rode up. But in the grounded, alpha-who-actually-listens kind of way.
Like during their M2 pharmacology lab. When Jimin was sleep-deprived and three seconds from an emotional breakdown because he had mixed up two compounds and ruined their results, Jungkook didn’t laugh or gloat. He just looked at him, blinked once, and said, “Do you want me to tell you how to fix it, or do you want a hug first?”
Jimin nearly burst into tears on the spot. He didn’t take the hug, but he still thinks about it.
What he felt toward Jungkook wasn’t attraction, he insisted. It was just the shock of encountering a genuinely decent alpha in the wild. But now that buried crush is stirring again, like a lab culture glutted with too much glucose. He tells himself he’s not about to fall in love with Jungkook just because he’s scheduled to receive his dick.
Across the divider, he hears the alpha humming to himself. Probably organizing the lube packets by viscosity, because he’s meticulous like that.
Jungkook has never once made a big deal about his rank. He apologizes after winning debates. He once brought extra pens for the entire cohort “just in case.”
He’s sweet. He’s definitely not going to ruin my insides.
The monitor turns on, and bright white text scrolls across a black background:
PARTICIPANT PROFILE - JEON JUNGKOOK
Status: Male | Alpha | Unmated
Age: 25
Height: 6 ft 3 in / 190.5 cm
Weight: 210 lbs / 95 kg
Scent Profile: Teakwood, Leather
PHYSICAL SPECIFICATIONS (ERECT):
Penile Length: 9.5 in / 24.13 cm
Shaft Circumference: 5.8 in / 14.7 cm
Glans Circumference (Flared): 6.2 in / 15.7 cm
Knot Diameter: 3.5 in / 8.9 cm
Thrust PSI: Withheld for viewer comfort
Jimin skims it absently, until his gaze snags on one bullet point:
Knot Diameter: 3.5 in / 8.9 cm
He reads it once.
Blinks. Reads it again, slowly.
Knot diameter…three-point-five…inches?
Inches.
Inches?!
That’s a puck of brie cheese. A wide-mouth Mason jar. A ramekin from the dining hall, except relocated to his rectum.
He stops breathing.
“You’re leaking,” Jungkook calls softly.
Jimin startles. “What?”
“Your scent’s leaking,” Jungkook clarifies. “Just checking in case you need help calming down.”
Jimin forces a lightness into his voice. “I’m fine.”
He can smell it too, his signature sweetness gone sour, and wonders if Jungkook’s silently enduring the mop-bucket bouquet. Jimin flaps his clipboard wildly; the edge of the board smacks him in the chin.
Jungkook chuckles. “Nervous?”
“A little.”
“Don’t be. Remember the lung dissection? You handled the rib spreader like a pro.”
Jimin gapes at the screen.
You’re about to launch a Polaris missile inside me, and you’re bringing up the rib spreader?!
“Y-you?” Jimin stammers. “You’re not nervous?”
“Nah. With anyone else, maybe. But it’s you.”
It’s delivered without embellishment—just you—as if mounting Jimin in front of 112 live viewers feels natural because it’s him.
Jimin can’t decide if this makes him feel superior or vaguely aroused.
From above, the automated voice instructs him like a sadistic flight attendant: “The participating omega may proceed to the auditorium and assume the standard presentation position: torso lowered to the mattress, hips elevated at a forty-five degree incline, and lumbar spine arched to expose the presenting region.”
Standard presentation position.
In other words: Point asshole to ancestors.
It’s fine. I’m fine. This is just a very long and maximally invasive résumé builder.
He rises on shaking legs. A chime plays and the doors whoosh open.
Then Jungkook speaks, and Jimin can hear the smile in the alpha’s voice when he says, “See you in the nest.”
Jimin presses his palms to his burning cheeks.
He stares at the divider, behind which the stats are true and Jungkook is real and three-point-five inches of evolutionary hubris is listed as “lab equipment” on a call sheet.
Jimin steps toward the open doors, his feet shuffling like they’ve made the decision without him.
Breathe. This is professional. This is for science.
And science tells him to spread his legs.