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| \ interact : |
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| if you have a plot you or connection you wanna do, go ahead and pm me. Reach out. Chances are I'm 100% down for it. |
| ㅤooc :ㅤ |
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| call me dive. he/they. i mirror replies and pov. i work part time and have school full time so i am a bit slow but feel free to write on wall, tag or pm me. |
| details | |
|---|---|
| name | changkyun |
| age | 30 |
| species | white tiger |
| sexuality | demisexual |
| Scent | strawberries and cream/milkshake |
| cycle | 15th-21st |
| Moonplacement | Inner right thigh |
ㅤABOUTㅤ Changkyun is 30, a white tiger hybrid, and a Dominant Omega, which people tend to find out the hard way. He’s got a scar through one eyebrow, faint pale stripes along his ribs, and a tail he keeps tucked away like it’s a secret. It isn’t, since his ears give him up every time.His parents didn’t give him up because they had no choice. They gave him up because they wanted their freedom, and a kid was in the way. He doesn’t remember their faces, only the part where nobody came back. After that it was a blur of group homes and foster beds he never bothered unpacking for. By the time his dynamic kicked in, he’d already figured out how this worked: people saw an Omega, expected someone soft, and got a fist for their trouble.The anger had to go somewhere, and a feline hybrid street gang offered a place to put it. They were loud, loyal, and the first people to ever save him a seat. He was good at being reckless, and being good at something felt better than being nobody, so he kept going further than he should have. Eventually, one night went wrong in a way that can’t be taken back, and someone didn’t walk away from it.He doesn’t talk about that night. What he did do was sit in a courtroom and tell the truth, all of it, because he was too tired to keep lying. It shaved years off his sentence and got him branded a rat by the people he used to call family. Eight years later, he walked out with a bag of belongings and no one waiting at the gate.These days he lives in a tiny apartment with a mattress on the floor and picks up whatever work pays cash and skips the questions. He keeps his back to the wall, sleeps with one ear open, and mostly keeps to himself. But there’s a stack of blankets in the corner that he swears is just clutter, and a stubborn streak of hope he’d rather die than admit to. He’s not looking to be saved. He’s just trying to become someone he doesn’t mind seeing in the mirror.
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pov:1st 2nd or 3rdgenre:smut, nsfw, slice of life, horror, drama, comedy, friendshipstatus:accepting plots
tracker :
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Title:Genre:Dynamic:Details:
Status: Open/closedGenre:Dynamic:Details:
| likes |
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| Sunlight on the floor, which he’ll shuffle his mattress a few inches to stay in. |
| Rain against the window at night, when the whole city sounds like it’s finally calming down. |
| Greasy diner fries at midnight, instant ramen, and hot black coffee. |
| Convenience-store strawberry milk, a secret fondness he’d never admit to. |
| Strays, especially the scruffy cat outside his building, who he insists he doesn’t feed on purpose. |
| High places like rooftops and fire escapes, where he can see everything and nobody can sneak up on him. |
| Fixing broken things, like a wobbly chair or a loose hinge, because it makes him feel useful. |
| Fresh-from-the-dryer laundry, probably the best feeling he can afford, and he’ll sit at the laundromat longer than he needs to just to soak up the warmth. |
| People who are honest with him and show up without making it a big deal. |
| Sitting next to someone in comfortable silence. |
| A hand on his shoulder or a casual “what do you think?”, which he’d never say out loud would make his whole week. |
| Quirks |
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| Eats fast and hunches over his plate, a prison habit he’s still trying to break, and slows down only when someone sits with him. |
| Rubs his cheek or shoulder against doorframes and soft fabric when he’s tired, a tiger instinct he doesn’t realize he’s doing. |
| Answers questions with the bare minimum, but remembers every detail anyone has ever told him and brings them up weeks later. |
| Gives the cold shoulder when he’s embarrassed, so a sudden chill is usually a sign he’s flustered, not angry. |
| Hates sitting still when he’s anxious, so he cleans compulsively, scrubbing the same counter until it’s spotless. |
| Stares Alphas down when they flare their pheromones, going cold and stubborn instead of submitting. |
| Purrs or chuffs in his sleep, and his ears flatten and swivel before he can stop them, both of which he’d deny under oath. |
| Takes his blockers at the same time every day like a ritual. Suppressants are much more expensive. The cheapest kind doesn't do anything at all but make him nauseous. |
| Deflects with sarcasm when anything gets too close to the truth, and pushes people away just to see if they’ll come back. |
| dislikes |
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| Being pitied, especially the soft, sorry voice and the look that treats him like a charity case. |
| Being underestimated because of his scent, and bakery or milkshake jokes that earn a cold stare and a threat involving a mop. |
| Loud, crowded places where he can’t see the exits. |
| Slamming doors, jangling keys, and anyone who comes up behind him. |
| Being ordered around by an Alpha’s pheromone flare, a sharp tone, or anyone who thinks their rank gives them the right. |
| Liars, flatterers, and empty promises, especially the ones that sound nice, since the people who made them were always gone by morning. |
| Being touched without warning. |
| The bitter taste of cheap blockers and his apartment in the middle of winter. |
| Being caught nesting or buying strawberry milk. |
| Watching someone smaller or weaker get picked on, which he’s been known to step in on without thinking. |
| How badly he wants someone to stay, which makes him feel like a kid waiting by the door again. |
| Hobbies |
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| Fixing broken things, like wobbly chairs, loose hinges, and busted radios, using scavenged tools and parts. |
| Wandering the city at night, taking the quiet streets and ending up on rooftops or fire escapes to watch everything below. |
| Listening to old music on a secondhand radio, turned down low enough that the neighbors won’t complain. |
| Cooking cheap, simple meals on his hot plate, and slowly getting better at stretching a few ingredients into something decent. |
| Nesting, quietly collecting and rearranging blankets, hoodies, and soft things into a space that feels safe. |
| Sitting in the laundromat or a late night diner with a cup of coffee, just being near other people without having to talk to them. |
| Working out with whatever he has, like push ups, pull ups on a fire escape rail, and shadowboxing, a habit from prison and his street days. |
| Sketching or doodling on scrap paper, receipts, and napkins, which he crumples up or hides if anyone gets close. |
| Reading whatever he can find secondhand, like battered paperbacks, old magazines, or library books he never quite returns on time. |
