You’d be surprised at just how whiny an alpha could be. Stereotype (and biological definition) would deign the omega to be the one rendered all boneless and needy, crying out for their big, strong alpha to come save them. Except—

“M'hurting. Got no idea.” Cate groans, head dropping onto your shoulder like she wants to melt into you. Her pheromones are leaking out of her like a faucet, thickening the air with something dominating as if she’s not blinking at you with these starry, wet eyes and nosing into the crook of your neck. Gnawing all useless. Hands scrabbling.

You don't need pseudo-telepathic abilities to take a peek inside Cate's head. You know, by her barely decipherable slurs and the sheer ferocity of her scent (or the other indicators, being; fly-unzipped-unbuckled-twitching-against-the-plane-of-your-goddamn-stomach), that the only thoughts spinning through her head are my omega mine my my mine and maybe a few barely-coherent phrases strung together. Like, need to please my baby need omega need.

"They kicked me outta class—" Cate husks, and its rare her voice ever drops to that register; or ever gets so raspy. It's hot, even without the instinctive, Pavlovian response of her scent seeping into every cranny of the room. "Couldn't take it—said I smelled like need." She grunts, and you can only imagine. Cate hasn't taken her blockers. Clearly.