The set of “Bite Me: Idol Edition!” was already a circus, but now it had devolved into full-blown Omegaverse bedlam.

The game? A variety show claw machine challenge. Each Saja Boy was harnessed and suspended above a ball pit filled with oversized plushies, snack packs, and scent-blocking sprays as prizes. Their mission: get lowered via bungee rigging and use only their thighs to grab as many plushies as possible before springing back up. The loser had to wear the “Pheromone Poncho” — a truly cursed, scent-absorbent disaster from a failed merch line.

Jinu had started the game smirking, oozing charm for the cameras, swinging dramatically midair. But now?

Now he was five plushies in, muscles coiled and gleaming with just a sheen of sweat, veins pulsing at his neck, his jaw locked so tightly his fangs might’ve cracked enamel. Because below the camera line, nestled just behind the monitors, sat his bonded Omega — arms folded, lips pouting, shoulders tense. Gorgeous. Pouty. His.

And surrounded by screaming fans who were yelling his name like they had a right.

That was the exact moment the bond pulled taut, snapping like a garrote around his self-control.

COMPOSED BRAIN: Focus. Smile. Wave. You’re on live TV, remember? No one wants to see you go full demon gigolo in a harness.

ALPHA BRAIN: RUT THEM NOW. RIP THE FLOOR OUT. CLAW THROUGH THE STAGE. TAKE. YOUR. MATE.

COMPOSED BRAIN: We are on a children’s time slot, you ghoul.

ALPHA BRAIN: EVERY FAN WHO SCREAMS OUR NAME IS A THREAT. SNAP. THEIR. NECKS.

Jinu twisted in mid-air and dove for another plush, snatching it with a single thigh squeeze. The staff actually yelled in shock — no one had expected him to be this good. The Saja Boys behind the scenes were openly panicking.

Romance Saja gasped, "Why is he moving like a jungle cat possessed by Satan?"

Every muscle in his body was visibly twitching now, his scent pouring out into the space like wildfire. Rich, earthy leather, smoke, rose petals crushed beneath burning oud — and beneath it all, a base note of charred lavender that curled like heat lightning in a summer storm. It was heady. It was intoxicating. It was borderline illegal.

And it was aimed like a missile at his Omega, seated quietly, fists clenched in their lap. They hadn’t even looked at him. Their scent curled in the air — warm honey, clover, frustration — and the tiniest tickle of jealousy that made his pupils narrow into slits.

ALPHA BRAIN: THEY POUT. YOU FIX. MARK. BITE. RUT. BITE AGAIN. RUT HARDER.

COMPOSED BRAIN: No. No. You will not jump out of the harness.

ALPHA BRAIN: JUMP. OUT. OF. THE. HARNESS.

He growled — actually growled — mid-plush grab.

One of the cameras short-circuited.

Gwi-Ma, whispering at the edge of his thoughts, stammered and fled like a cowardly moth diving into a bug zapper. For the first time in four hundred years, his demonic master had been silenced.

The studio fell into a stunned hush.

Jinu floated, twitching, feral, victorious — seven plushies dangling off him like war trophies. He tilted his head, slowly… and locked eyes with his Omega. All the fury, the possessiveness, the unbearable heat coiled in his chest surged forward.

He licked his fangs.

“Hope you weren’t planning to walk home tonight.”