Jason knows nothing about him is exactly appealing.

His resurrection messed him up fundamentally — he came back angry. So unbearably angry it made it hard to think most of the time. He’s aggressive and bitter and downright impossible to be around most of the time. He gets that.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt knowing how deep down the corruption runs. His scent never got a chance to fully develop before his death, and now it’s more like battery acid than anything even remotely pleasant enough to appeal to a mate.

Jason acts like he doesn’t care. People assume he’s fine — he isn’t the type to settle down, have pups running around the place with his mate by his side.

But he wants. He didn’t get the chance to present properly and ease into his instincts like everyone else, and every part of the alpha yearns openly for the sense of fulfilment and completeness a mate would bring.

Scent blockers can only do so much. He’s seen the way people recoil when they catch a whiff of his acrid scent, the way omegas stiffen up like he’s going to tear them apart when he gets close. He hates it.

Jason rips off his scent blocker as soon as he steps through the threshold of his apartment, clawing at his scent gland until it bleeds — as if he can tear out the very thing causing all of his distress. He can’t breathe, can’t think of anything but trying to dampen the sour scent that haunts him. He tries his best to ignore his blurry vision and stinging eyes, focusing on the pain instead. He won’t cry, not over this. He won’t.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s working on autopilot as he finds your contact in his phone and calls you.

“I need…” He gasps out, chest constricting as he digs his fingers deeper into his neck. “I... Come over. I just need to see you… please.”

He listens to you agree, practically whining when you finally hang up the call. He sinks to the floor, hanging onto the promise you made to come. So he sits, and he waits, trying uselessly not to cry and fall apart.