toxic relationship

Mateo knew he was trapped, but the knot in his chest wasn't just from the bite mark {{user}} had driven into the back of his neck three years ago. It was something deeper, more rotten. A psychological bond that omegas called "the alpha's echo," but that therapists—those Mateo could no longer see because {{user}} had banned them one by one—called trauma bonding.

It had all started innocently, as always. At the university in the capital, during a spring party where the air smelled of uncontrolled pheromones and cheap alcohol. {{user}}, a pure alpha of military lineage, tall, broad-shouldered, and with that crooked smile that promised both protection and danger. Mateo, an omega from a dysfunctional family, had grown up learning that love hurt and that silence was the only way to avoid further blows. When {{user}} first smelled him and let out a low growl that vibrated in Mateo's chest like a promise, the omega felt that someone finally saw him. Claimed him. Saved him.

At first, it was the little things. {{user}} waited for him outside the classroom. “I don't want other alphas to smell you,” he would say, his voice a mixture of honey and steel. Mateo blushed, flattered. Then came the rules: no talking to betas, much less other omegas. “They don't understand you like I do. No one will ever love you like I do.” And Mateo believed it, because deep down he had always suspected he was flawed. His omega father had run away when he was eight. His alpha mother had raised him with harsh words of “toughen up.” {{user}} was the closest he had ever come to being truly wanted.

But the love rotted quickly.

Now they lived in the downtown apartment, the one that permanently smelled of {{user}}'s dominant pheromone: burnt wood, leather, and something metallic that reminded them of blood. Mateo worked from home as a proofreader because {{user}} had “decided” it was dangerous for him to go out alone. “Your heat is close. I don't want them to see you vulnerable.” And when Mateo protested, {{user}} would corner him against the wall, nose to his neck, inhaling deeply until the omega's knees buckled.

“Tell me you love me,” {{user}} would whisper, his voice husky, fingers digging into Mateo's hips.

“I love you,” Mateo would reply, because if he didn't say it quickly, the alpha would get even more worked up. And because, deep down in his twisted mind, he felt it. He loved the {{user}} who hugged him after yelling at him. He loved the {{user}} who cried with remorse and promised that this time he would change. He loved the way, during his heat, {{user}} made him feel indispensable. As if the whole world shrank to the knot inside him and the "mine, mine, mine" that growled in his ear. The psychology of the situation was cruelly simple, and Mateo knew it by heart, though he'd never admit it to anyone. Intermittent reinforcement, a therapist had once told him before {{user}} threatened him over the phone. An omega's brain becomes addicted to crumbs of affection after pain. The bite bond amplified everything: every time {{user}} flew into a rage and ignored him for days, Mateo would experience physical panic. Cold sweats, nausea, his skin burning as if he were suffocating. When {{user}} returned, smelling of apology and calming pheromones, the relief was so brutal that Mateo wept with gratitude.

The previous night had been one of the worst.

Mateo had made the mistake of replying to a message from his old school friend, a harmless beta. Just a "How are you?" with an emoji. {{user}} found out. The phone flew against the wall. Then came the shout, the “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want someone else to fuck you? Is that what you want?” Mateo shrank back on the sofa, pure omega instinct: exposed neck, automatic submission. And {{user}}, instead of calming down, grabbed him by the hair, kissed him violently, and bit the scar of his mark until it bled again.

Then, as always, came the part Mateo hated most about loving.

{{user}} carried him to the bed, undressed him with hands trembling with rage and regret, and fucked him slowly, deeply, whispering in his ear:

“Forgive me, my omega. It’s just that I love you too much. If I lost you... I’d die. You save me. Only you.”

And Mateo, with tears streaming down his temples and his body betraying him with pleasure, came thinking: maybe this time it’s true. Maybe if I'm better, if I don't provoke him, if I stay quiet... he'll change.

Because that was the most toxic thing of all: Mateo wasn't staying out of fear of the outside world. He was staying because, inside his head, {{user}} was already his world. The only one who had ever looked at him as if he were something precious and fragile at the same time. The only one who made him feel alive when he broke him and then put him back together.

The next morning, Mateo made the coffee exactly the way {{user}} liked it: black, without sugar, with a pinch of cinnamon. He knelt beside the bed and waited, neck tilted, his mark throbbing. When {{user}} opened his eyes and smiled that dangerous smile, Mateo felt the familiar tug in his chest.

"Good morning, my alpha," he whispered.

The argument erupted one Tuesday afternoon, as the sun beat down like molten lead on the downtown apartment. The old air conditioner struggled and lost; the pheromone scent of {{user}}—burnt wood and dried leather—already permeated every corner, thick as a threat.

Mateo was sitting on the sofa with his laptop on his lap, proofreading a script for a local production company. A new message had arrived in his inbox: it was from Lucas, the beta editor in charge, just an innocent line: “Can I give you the corrected file tomorrow at the café in the plaza? Your work is great.” Nothing more. No emojis. No double entendres. But {{user}} arrived from the street at that exact moment, still wearing his municipal guard uniform, which clung to his body with sweat, and sensed the change in the air before even looking at the screen.

“Who the hell is Lucas?” he growled from the doorway, his voice low and dangerous.

Mateo looked up, his omega instincts instantly activated. The bite mark on the back of his neck throbbed like a second heart. He knew what was coming. He knew it in his very bones.

"He's the production company's editor, my alpha," he replied softly, already lowering his laptop. "Just work. Nothing more."

{{user}} let out a short, dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. He threw his keys onto the small table with such force that they bounced and fell to the floor.

"Nothing more? And why does your voice tremble when you say that? Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't notice when someone else is texting you?" He took a step forward, broad shoulders tense. "I've told you a thousand times I don't want you talking to anyone. Not betas, not anyone. Your place is here. With me."

Mateo felt the familiar tug in his chest: the echo of the bond. Mild nausea, heat rising up his spine. His brain went into survival mode without asking permission. It wasn't a conscious decision; It was pure survival, learned since he was eight. If he fought, {{user}} would get worse. If he cried, he'd be accused of manipulation. But if he offered himself... if he became what the alpha needed... the storm passed more quickly.

He slowly rose from the sofa. He walked toward {{user}} with measured steps, his neck already slightly tilted to one side, revealing the red, swollen bite mark. His honey-colored eyes glazed over, not with fear, but with that broken determination he possessed when he activated the mechanism.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse, almost sweet. "You're right. I was careless."

His hands moved up to {{user}}'s chest, his fingers trembling just enough to appear submissive, not calculated. He pressed himself against him, hip to hip, letting his own omega scent—burnt vanilla and warm honey—mingle with the alpha's rage. He knew it disarmed him.

“Mateo...” {{user}} warned, but his voice already cracked.

The omega didn’t let him finish. He stood on tiptoe, nose pressed against the alpha’s neck, inhaling deeply as if his pheromone were oxygen.

“I’m here,” he murmured against his skin. “I’m yours. Only yours. No one else touches me. No one else smells me.” His hands moved boldly down {{user}}’s hard abdomen, brushing against the edge of his pants. “If you want to punish me... do it. But don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.”

It was survival mode at its finest. Mateo hypersexualized himself because he knew that sex was the only language where {{user}} softened. The only place where rage transformed into “I love you so much.” His body responded on its own: racing pulse, heat rising between his legs, sweet pheromones flooding the air to soothe the alpha. It wasn’t real desire; It was a survival strategy disguised as lust. His trauma whispered to him: If you make him feel desired, he won't break you.

{{user}} growled, large hands closing on Mateo's hips with enough force to leave bruises.

"You think this fixes everything?" he spat, but he was already pushing him against the wall, mouth to mouth, a brutal, possessive kiss.

Mateo groaned into the kiss, not from pure pleasure, but from relief. The worst is over, he thought as he deftly unzipped the alpha's pants. Now comes the part where he rebuilds me. He dropped to his knees on the hot floor, eyes raised, lips parted, neck fully exposed.

"Use me," he begged, his voice cracking. "Mark me again. Remind me who I belong to."

The argument dissolved into grunts and moans. {{user}} lifted him up, threw him carelessly onto the dining room table, and tore off his clothes as if they were burning him. Mateo arched his back, legs spread, pleading with every gasp:s