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izzyhandsdeservedbetter · 30 days ago

Text

TREMORS

Title: Tremors

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ME AND THE EXTREMELY LOVELY @ghost-inthemirror HAVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR AGES, I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY!!

SUMMARY: Aaron has been stuck in the hospital for hours, even days when an earthquake hits. he ends up on the news.

---

Aaron Minyard had been in the operating room for twenty-four straight hours. His hands ached, his back screamed in protest, and his vision blurred at the edges from exhaustion. The bright surgical lights overhead burned into his retinas, but he didn’t dare look away. Not now. Not when the patient on the table was still fighting.

The woman—early forties, no prior medical history—had come in with a catastrophic brain bleed. A ruptured aneurysm, the scans had shown, massive and treacherous. The kind of case that made even seasoned neurosurgeons hesitate. The kind most people didn’t walk away from.

But Aaron wasn’t most people.

He had taken the case without hesitation, barking orders at his team, prepping for surgery within minutes of her arrival. The first six hours had been a grueling battle—clipping the aneurysm, controlling the bleed, stabilizing her vitals. Then came the swelling. Then the secondary complications. Then the moments where her heart rate plummeted, where her oxygen levels dipped dangerously low, where Aaron had to make split-second decisions that meant the difference between life and death.

And now, twenty-four hours later, he was still standing there, his gloves slick with sweat and saline, his body running on sheer stubbornness and caffeine.

“Pressure’s stabilizing,” the anesthesiologist murmured, voice hoarse from the long hours.

Aaron didn’t respond. His entire world had narrowed to the delicate vessels under his microscope, to the steady rhythm of the monitors, to the faint but persistent pulse beneath his fingertips.

One more suture. One more check.

His scrub nurse, Emily, handed him the final clip without a word. She’d been with him the entire time, anticipating his needs before he even voiced them. The rest of the team had rotated out in shifts, but she and Aaron had stayed.

He placed the last clip. Held his breath.

The monitors continued their steady beeping. No spikes. No crashes.

She was stable.

Aaron exhaled, long and slow, his shoulders finally sagging under the weight of exhaustion. He stepped back from the table, rolling his stiff neck, and blinked hard against the dryness in his eyes.

“Time?” he rasped.

“7:48 AM,” Emily said. She sounded as drained as he felt.

A full day. A full day of fighting, of refusing to let death win.

And somehow, against all odds, they had.

Aaron peeled off his gloves, his hands trembling slightly from fatigue. He glanced at the patient—alive, stable, her brain no longer under siege. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. There would be ICU monitoring, possible complications, a long recovery ahead.

But she had made it through the surgery.

That was enough.

“Good job, everyone,” Aaron said, his voice rough. The team murmured their acknowledgments, too tired for anything more.

As he pushed through the OR doors, the bright lights of the hallway nearly blinded him. He leaned against the wall for a moment, just breathing, just existing.

Twenty-four hours.

And she was alive.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet voice whispered that it was worth it.

Aaron closed his eyes, just for a second, and let himself believe it.

Then he straightened, rolled his shoulders back, and walked toward the waiting room to deliver the news.

Then the earthquake hit.

The ER was chaos incarnate. Patients flooded in on stretchers, bleeding, screaming, some already half-gone. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and iron, the sounds of monitors beeping erratically, nurses shouting stats, and the ever-present hum of desperation.

Aaron Minyard moved like a ghost between the wounded—quick, precise, untouchable. He didn’t stop, not even when his scrub shirt stuck to his back with sweat, not when his hands began to ache from the strain of sutures and compressions. He barked orders, adjusted IVs, reset bones, and intubated patients with the same detached efficiency that made him one of the best trauma surgeons in the state.

Hours blurred. His feet burned. His vision tunneled.

And then the critical cases started rolling in—the ones that needed the OR now.

Ten hours. Twelve. Fifteen.

One surgery bled into the next. His hands never faltered.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered exhaustion, but it didn’t matter. The scalpel was an extension of his will, the sutures a reflex. He worked until his body threatened mutiny, until the edges of his vision darkened with more than fatigue.

But there was no stopping.

Not yet.

---

The patient was crashing.

The monitor screamed its flatline alarm, and the younger doctor at Aaron’s side—Dr. Chen, fresh out of residency—immediately reached for the crash cart, hands already moving to start compressions.

Aaron’s arm shot out, fingers locking around Chen’s wrist like a vice.

"Don’t."

Chen blinked, startled. "But—"

Aaron’s free hand pointed to the chart clipped to the bed.

DNR.

Do Not Resuscitate.

Chen’s face twisted—conflict, guilt, the instinct to fight death warring with the reality of the patient’s choice. Aaron didn’t let go until he was sure Chen wouldn’t move.

Silence settled over them, heavy and suffocating. The monitor’s unbroken tone filled the space where a heartbeat should have been.

Aaron exhaled.

And then he moved on to the next patient.

---

The first earthquake had been bad enough.

The hospital had barely stabilized when the second warning came—another quake, bigger, imminent. The order went out: Evacuate. Now.

Aaron’s shift had ended twelve hours ago.

He was still there.

He helped wheel patients out, barking directions to nurses and orderlies, prioritizing who needed to move first. The ICU patients were the hardest—ventilators, monitors, lines that couldn’t be disconnected without risk.

"Dr. Minyard, you need to go," a nurse said, voice strained.

Aaron didn’t even look up as he adjusted an oxygen tank. "I’ll go when they’re all out."

The ground trembled beneath them—a warning.

He kept working.

Because that’s what he did.

That’s what he was.

And he wouldn’t stop until the job was done.

---

The news had been playing in the background, white noise to fill the silence of the car as Andrew drove, Neil half-asleep in the passenger seat beside him. They were on their way back to Palmetto, another exhausting away game behind them, another stretch of highway ahead. The Foxes had won—barely—and all Andrew wanted was to get back, shower, and maybe sleep for a week.

Then the broadcast cut to breaking news.

Earthquake in California. Magnitude 6.3. Widespread damage reported in Los Angeles.

Neil sat up, blinking at the screen. Andrew didn’t react, not visibly, but his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the steering wheel.

Aaron was supposed to be in Boston.

That was the only thought that registered. Aaron was supposed to be in Boston, at a medical conference, far from the West Coast. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this.

But then the camera feed shifted, shaky and chaotic, the reporter’s voice barely audible over the sirens and shouting. The screen showed a hospital—no, what was left of one. Part of the building had collapsed, ambulances lining the streets, people covered in dust and blood stumbling through the wreckage.

And then—

A blur of movement, a sharp yell.

“MOVE!”

The camera jerked, refocusing just in time to catch a familiar figure shoving past the reporter, his blond hair streaked with blood, his scrubs torn and dirty.

Aaron.

Andrew’s breath stopped.

Aaron wasn’t supposed to be there.

But he was.

---

The camera didn’t stop following him.

Aaron moved like a man possessed, darting between patients, barking orders at nurses, his hands steady even as his voice cracked with exhaustion. He didn’t seem to notice the camera at first, too focused on the woman bleeding out in front of him, on the child screaming for her mother, on the old man struggling to breathe.

But after twenty minutes—twenty relentless, brutal minutes—Aaron finally turned, his eyes sharp despite the dark circles beneath them.

“If you’re going to film, then stay there.” He pointed to a corner of the ER, where the reporters wouldn’t be in the way. “Don’t get in the way. Don’t touch anything. And if you see someone who needs help, yell for a nurse.”

And then he was gone again, vanishing into the sea of patients.

The camera didn’t leave him after that.

---

Inside the hospital was chaos.

The benches where the reporters had been directed were the only stable ground in a world of movement—nurses sprinting between beds, doctors shouting over the din, patients crying, praying, dying. The camera panned across the room, catching glimpses of Aaron in the fray—stitching a wound here, stabilizing a fracture there, his hands never still.

And then the ground shook.

A minor tremor, but enough to send panic rippling through the room. The nurses moved instantly, ducking beside beds, dragging patients to the floor. Aaron was in the middle of wrapping a teenage girl’s leg when it hit—without hesitation, he threw himself over her, shielding her with his body as debris rained from the ceiling.

The camera shook, the reporter’s voice rising in alarm, but Aaron didn’t flinch. The second the tremor passed, he was moving again, checking the girl over before shoving her gently beneath a nearby table. ��

“Stay there.”

His hands flew over her leg, wrapping the bandage in a tight heel lock—fast, efficient, perfect. The girl stared up at him, wide-eyed, but Aaron was already turning, already scanning the room for the next crisis.

Another tremor hit.

This one was stronger.

Aaron was halfway across the room, helping a nurse push a bed carrying a critical patient, when the ground lurched. The bed jerked sideways, Aaron’s feet slipping out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the nurse beside him tumbling as well.

For one terrifying second, the camera lost him in the chaos.

Then—

Aaron was back on his knees, one hand braced against the bed, the other pressing hard against the patient’s bleeding wound. The nurse scrambled up, resuming CPR, oxygen mask pressed tight over the patient’s mouth. Aaron didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, even as the hospital groaned around them.

“Doorframe—now!”

Together, they shoved the bed against the nearest sturdy structure, bracing for impact. The ceiling held. Barely.

Aaron didn’t pause to breathe.

---

Andrew’s phone was in his hand before he realized he’d grabbed it.

He dialed.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

No answer.

Aaron’s phone rang and rang and rang, the sound grating against Andrew’s nerves like a physical thing. He hung up. Dialed again.

Nothing.

Neil was watching him, silent, but Andrew didn’t care. He dialed again.

Still nothing.

Fifteen hours.

That was how far they were from California. Fifteen fucking hours, and Andrew couldn’t do anything but sit here, useless, while Aaron—

The camera caught him again, blood smeared across his cheek, his hands steady as he stitched a wound. Alive. Working.

Not answering his goddamn phone.

Andrew exhaled, slow, controlled.

He hated this.

He hated waiting.

He hated feeling powerless.

But there was nothing he could do.

Nothing except watch.

And hope.

The evacuation order came without warning.

One moment, the hospital was chaos—doctors shouting, nurses scrambling, patients being stabilized—and the next, a voice crackled over the intercom, calm but urgent.

“Attention all staff. Immediate evacuation of the building is required. Repeat: immediate evacuation.”

The camera, still fixed on the corner Aaron had directed them to, caught the split-second pause—the way every head in the ER snapped up, the way the air seemed to freeze.

And then—

Movement.

Not toward the exits.

Up the halls.

Aaron was the first to move, sprinting past the camera without hesitation, a group of nurses and doctors right behind him. The reporter gasped, the camera jerking as they tried to follow, but the medical staff was already disappearing into the stairwell.

They weren’t running out.

They were running deeper in.

---

The next time the camera caught them, they were rolling out beds—IV poles still attached, monitors beeping, elderly patients clutched in the arms of nurses who moved with practiced urgency.

But Aaron wasn’t with them.

Not yet.

When he finally reappeared, he was at the back of another group, his arms full—not with equipment, not with charts, but with babies. Tiny, fragile newborns swaddled in blankets, their tiny faces scrunched in protest against the noise and movement. The nurses beside him carried more, some in incubators, some cradled against their chests.

The ICU had been cleared.

And then—

Before anyone could process it—

Aaron was handing off the last infant to a waiting nurse, turning on his heel, and running back inside.

The reporter’s voice cracked over the feed.

“They’re going back in—folks, the doctors and nurses are still evacuating patients, but they’re not leaving anyone behind—”

Then—

A new alarm.

A code red.

Fire.

---

The elevators weren’t working.

The camera caught the exact moment the news reached Aaron—his head snapping up, his jaw tightening. Someone shouted something about floor three, about a woman in labor, about no way to get her down.

Aaron didn’t hesitate.

He was moving before the words fully registered, barking orders at security—block the lower staircases, use the physical therapy mats, make a barrier—and then he was gone again, taking the stairs two at a time.

Neil, watching from the car, remembered suddenly, vividly—Aaron had always been fast. Faster than him, back then, when it came to protecting Andrew.

And now—

Now he was running toward fire.

---

The next time Aaron appeared, he looked worse.

His coat was streaked with soot, the edges singed, his shoes blackened with scorch marks. A nurse shoved a fresh coat into his hands, and he changed without breaking stride, already moving toward the next crisis—a code blue somewhere in the sea of patients.

Andrew’s fingers twitched against his phone.

Still no answer.

Still nothing.

---

By the time the hospital was mostly cleared, Aaron looked like hell.

His hair was matted with sweat and dust, his scrubs stained with blood and ash, but his voice was steady as he approached the reporters.

“You need to move. It’s not safe here anymore.”

The reporter stammered something about documenting the evacuation, but Aaron cut her off.

“Is there anyone left inside?”

A pause. Then—

“Floor three. The head nurse is still up there with a woman in labor—they can’t get her down.”

Aaron was already turning.

---

The woman was in a wheelchair when they finally got her out, her face pale with pain, the head nurse supporting her as they navigated the makeshift ramp—physical therapy mats stacked and secured into a slope, just stable enough to roll her down.

Aaron was at the front, guiding them, his grip firm on the handles.

And then—

The long, grueling process of loading patients into ambulances began.

Critical patients first.

Then the ICU babies, the newborns, their tiny cries muffled against the chests of nurses who refused to let them go.

Then the surgical cases.

Then the elderly.

Then the injured.

Aaron was everywhere—checking IV lines, adjusting oxygen masks, barking orders when needed, his voice hoarse but unwavering.

And then—

When the worst was over—

He was passing out water bottles, energy bars, anything he could grab, handing them first to patients, then to the reporters, then to the nurses and doctors who had been working just as long as he had.

Andrew noticed, with a sharp twist in his chest, that Aaron didn’t eat.

He drank water—gulped it down like a man dying of thirst—but the protein bar meant for him ended up in the hands of a trembling elderly man who hadn’t eaten in hours.

---

The Foxes were watching.

All of them.

Some in silence, some with muttered curses, some with hands pressed over their mouths.

Kevin’s knuckles were white around his phone.

Nicky had cried three times already.

Renee hadn’t looked away from the screen once.

And Andrew—

Andrew didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Because Aaron still wasn’t answering his fucking phone.

And there was nothing Andrew could do but watch.

---

The aftershock hit just as the last ambulance pulled away.

The ground trembled, the hospital groaning ominously, but the patients were safe.

Aaron, standing in the middle of the wreckage, finally stopped moving.

For the first time since the camera had caught him—since the world had fallen apart around him—he looked tired.

Exhausted.

Hollow.

But alive.

Alive.

Andrew exhaled.

And dialed again.

The last ambulance pulled away, sirens wailing into the distance, carrying the final critical patient to safety.

And then—

Like marionettes with their strings cut—

The doctors and nurses collapsed.

Some sat heavily on the hospital steps, legs giving out beneath them. Others simply dropped where they stood, sprawling onto the pavement, chests heaving. A few leaned against each other, arms slung over shoulders, foreheads pressed together in silent relief.

Aaron was one of them.

One second, he was standing, directing the last of the transport vans. The next, his knees buckled—so fast that Andrew, watching from the car, flinched, thinking he’d collapsed.

But no.

Aaron just—

Sat down.

Hard.

His legs shook violently beneath him, muscles finally giving out after hours of relentless motion. He didn’t even try to catch himself, just let gravity take him, landing heavily on the steps with a ragged exhale. His hands, usually so steady, trembled where they braced against the concrete.

Around him, the others were celebrating—laughing, crying, hugging each other in sheer exhaustion and relief. Someone let out a whoop, half-hysterical, and a few nurses clapped weakly, grinning through tears.

But Aaron didn’t join in.

He just—

Bowed his head.

Breathing.

Just breathing.

---

Andrew didn’t look away.

Not when another doctor—a woman with dark hair pulled into a messy bun—dropped down beside Aaron, nudging him with her shoulder. Not when Aaron finally lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed, lashes damp.

Not when he wiped his face with the back of his hand, quick and rough, like he was angry at himself for the tears.

The woman said something, too low for the camera to catch. Aaron huffed—not quite a laugh, but something close—and shook his head.

Then he reached for the water bottle she offered and drank like he’d been dying of thirst.

---

The reporter, after a moment of hesitation, approached the group.

“Is it—alright if we ask a few questions now?”

One of the nurses, mouth full of sandwich, waved a hand in permission. The reporter didn’t ask them to stand, didn’t ask them to stop eating—just crouched nearby, voice gentle.

“You all just evacuated an entire hospital under impossible conditions. How does it feel?”

The nurse swallowed hard, then grinned, exhausted but triumphant.

“Like we fucking won.”

A weak cheer went up from the others.

The reporter smiled, then glanced toward Aaron, who was now on his feet again, already coordinating the next wave of transport for the remaining staff.

“Who was the doctor leading the evacuation earlier? The one who directed everyone—patients, nurses, even security?”

The nurse followed her gaze, then snorted.

“Oh, that’s Doctor Aaron Minyard. Best trauma surgeon in the state. Maybe the country.”

Andrew’s chest tightened.

“He must be exhausted,” the reporter murmured.

Another doctor—this one older, with salt-and-pepper hair—joined the conversation, shaking his head.

“Exhausted? Try dead on his feet. I’m glad as hell he was here—we’d have lost way more people without him—but god, I feel guilty.”

The reporter blinked. “Guilty?”

“Kid hasn’t sat down in three days,” the older doctor said, rubbing his face. “He was off this weekend. Came in the second the earthquake warning hit. Been here ever since. Flitting from one crisis to the next like a man possessed.”

A younger nurse nodded, adding, “He kept rotating the rest of us out to rest, made sure no one was stuck without relief for too long. But he never stopped.”

The reporter’s expression shifted—something like awe creeping in.

“That’s… incredible.”

The first nurse smirked. “Oh, this isn’t even the first time. Six months ago, there was that flood upstate? He drove two hours through the storm to get there and help. Showed up soaked to the bone and immediately started triaging patients.”

Another doctor chimed in. “And last year, when that multi-car pileup happened on the freeway? He worked for eighteen hours straight before anyone realized he hadn’t taken a single break.”

The reporter spoke “Why was he even here? he is officially employed in Boston and it’s not the closest ride..” A nurse smiled “Well you see, we had a patient with a brain bleed, she wasn’t able to be moved, and he’s the best neurosurgeon we have, so he was called down, and well he stayed for the earthquake too. He’s a great one, that boy. We called him on one of the few days he has off once, and he came down without issue.”

The stories kept coming—each one layering over the last, painting a picture of a man who did not stop, who did not quit, no matter how impossible the situation.

Andrew listened.

Oh. Oh

Aaron was different from Andrew, he had always known this, but he hadn’t realized just how much of Aaron was purely good. He gave pieces of himself away every day. He knew Aaron was a good doctor but to be a doctor of this scale? Andrew- Andrew felt, he felt it burn through him.

And—

For the first time in years—

He let himself feel it.

Pride.

Raw and fierce and aching.

---

The camera panned back to Aaron, now standing near a transport van, scarfing down a protein bar between orders. He looked wrecked—hair sticking up in every direction, scrubs wrinkled and stained, dark circles bruising his eyes.

But he was moving.

Still.

Always.

The Foxes were silent in their various corners of the world, all eyes glued to the screen.

Kevin’s jaw was clenched tight.

Nicky had tears streaming down his face.

Renee’s fingers were laced together in prayer.

Neil—

Neil glanced at Andrew, just once, and said “He hasn’t slept in three days. We should have known, he was never one for taking care of himself.”

Andrew didn’t look back.

His phone was still in his hand.

Still silent.

Still unanswered.

But—

Aaron was alive.

Aaron was fighting.

And for now, that was enough.

---

The reporter, emboldened by the stories, finally called out to Aaron directly.

“Doctor Minyard! A word?”

Aaron turned, blinking like he’d forgotten the cameras were even there. Then he shook his head, gesturing to the van.

“No time. We’ve got three more hospitals to reinforce. EVERYONE, STAND UP. GET MOVING, THERE ARE STILL INJURED IN OTHER HOSPITALS. WE HAVE WORK TO DO, THANK YOU ALL FOR STANDING BY ME, DO IT ONCE MORE PLEASE.”

And just like that—

He was gone again. The rest of the hospital staff standing up, laughing off the adrenaline and following.

The Foxes kept watching.

Andrew kept waiting.

And somewhere, in the heart of the chaos, Aaron kept running.

Andrew didn’t sleep.

Not when the news finally cut away from the hospital, shifting to broader coverage of the earthquake’s aftermath.

Not when Neil, exhausted from the game and the hours of tense silence, finally dozed off in the passenger seat. Not when they pulled into Palmetto’s parking lot in the dead of night, the campus quiet and still around them.

He didn’t sleep because his phone never rang.

Aaron hadn’t called.

Hadn’t texted.

Hadn’t so much as glanced at his phone since the moment the earthquake hit.

Andrew knew, logically, that Aaron had been busy. That he had been elbows-deep in blood and broken bones and screaming patients for three straight days. That he hadn’t had the luxury of checking his messages, let alone responding to them.

But logic didn’t stop the tightness in Andrew’s chest.

Didn’t stop the way his fingers twitched around the steering wheel, itching for a cigarette he wouldn’t let himself smoke.

Didn’t stop the quiet, gnawing fear that had settled in his ribs like a second heartbeat.

---

He left Neil in the dorm with a muttered “Don’t wait up” and took the car again.

Aaron’s apartment was a four-hour drive from Palmetto.

Andrew made it in three.

---

The apartment was dark when he arrived, the windows unlit, the door locked.

Andrew didn’t knock.

He didn’t announce himself.

He just pulled out the spare key Aaron had given him years ago—“In case I get drunk and lock myself out”—and let himself in.

The silence inside was thick, suffocating.

No TV. No music. No sound of movement.

Just—

Breathing.

Slow. Steady.

Andrew followed it down the hall, past the kitchen (dishes piled in the sink, an empty protein bar wrapper on the counter), past the living room (a discarded hospital badge on the coffee table, scrubs thrown haphazardly over the couch), to the living room.

The door was slightly ajar.

Andrew pushed it open.

---

Aaron was asleep.

Not passed out. Not unconscious.

Just—

Asleep.

Deeply, violently asleep.

He was still half-dressed in the same scrubs from the hospital, though someone (probably a nurse) had at least gotten him out of the ruined coat. His shoes were kicked off near the foot of the couch, one sock missing. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in every direction, still faintly streaked with dust and soot.

One arm was flung over his face, blocking out the dim light from the hallway. The other was curled loosely against his chest, fingers twitching occasionally, as if even in sleep, his body was remembering the motions of sutures and compressions.

Andrew stood there for a long moment.

Just—

Looking.

Taking in the rise and fall of Aaron’s chest. The way his brow furrowed slightly, even in sleep. The way his lips were chapped, cracked from dehydration.

Alive.

Here.

Safe.

Andrew exhaled.

Then he turned and walked back to the living room.

---

He didn’t leave.

He didn’t sleep, either.

He just—

Stayed.

Sat on Aaron’s couch, flipping through channels on mute, keeping one ear tuned to the living room.

Waiting.

---

Aaron didn’t wake up.

Not after six hours.

Not after twelve.

Not after twenty.

Andrew checked on him periodically—pushing the door open just enough to see the steady rhythm of his breathing, the occasional shift of his limbs.

But Aaron didn’t stir.

Didn’t so much as groan.

Just slept like the dead, his body finally, finally giving in to the exhaustion it had been fighting for days.

---

By the third day, Andrew was starting to get annoyed.

Not worried.

Annoyed.

Because surely, surely, no one needed that much sleep.

Surely, at some point, Aaron’s stomach would wake him up, or his bladder, or something.

But no.

Aaron slept like a man who had forgotten what a couch or bed was.

Andrew scowled.

Then he got up and went to the kitchen.

---

He didn’t cook.

Not really.

But he could make coffee.

Could order food.

So he did.

Then he waited.

---

The food arrived.

The coffee brewed.

Aaron still didn’t wake up.

Andrew stared at the living room door.

Then—

Fine.

He’d wake him up.

---

Aaron didn’t react when Andrew flicked on the light.

Didn’t react when Andrew nudged the couch with his knee.

Didn’t react when Andrew said, flat and unimpressed, “You’ve been asleep for seventy-two hours.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes.

Then he reached out and flicked Aaron’s forehead.

Hard.

---

Aaron’s face scrunched up.

He made a noise—something between a groan and a whine—and swatted weakly at Andrew’s hand.

“F’ck off,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Andrew flicked him again.

Aaron groaned louder, dragging his arm away from his face to squint up at Andrew. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils blown wide with exhaustion, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and irritation.

“The hell—?”

“You’re alive,” Andrew said.

Aaron blinked.

Then—

“No shit,” he grumbled, rolling onto his side like he was going back to sleep.

Andrew grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

“Up.”

Aaron groaned again, batting at him halfheartedly. “Andrew, I swear to god—”

“You haven’t eaten in three days.”

“I don’t care—”

“You will when you pass out in the shower.”

Aaron glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. Just exhaustion, bone-deep and all-consuming.

Andrew held his gaze.

Then—

Aaron sighed.

“Fine.”

---

He didn’t so much get up as he did flop upright, moving like every muscle in his body was protesting. His hair was even worse now, sticking up in every direction, and there was a crease from the pillowcase pressed into his cheek.

Andrew tossed him a bottle of water.

Aaron caught it on reflex, then stared at it like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

Andrew raised an eyebrow.

Aaron scowled.

Then he cracked it open and drank like he’d been stranded in a desert.

---

The food was cold by the time Aaron shuffled out of the living room, but he didn’t seem to care. He just collapsed onto the couch, grabbed the nearest container, and started shoveling fried rice into his mouth like he was afraid it would disappear if he didn’t eat fast enough.

Andrew watched him, unimpressed.

“You look like shit.”

Aaron flipped him off without looking up.

Andrew smirked.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out Aaron’s phone—left on the kitchen counter, dead for who-knows-how-long—and tossed it at him.

Aaron caught it, blinking.

“You charged it?”

Andrew shrugged.

Aaron stared at him for a second, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

Then he turned the phone on.

---

The screen lit up with notifications.

Missed calls (27)

Text messages (48)

Voicemails (12)

Aaron’s brow furrowed as he scrolled through them—Nicky’s frantic “CALL ME” texts, Kevin’s “Are you alive?”, Neil’s “Andrew’s pacing.”

Then—

Andrew’s calls.

One after another after another.

No messages.

Just calls.

Aaron’s throat worked.

He didn’t say anything.

Andrew didn’t either.

---

Eventually, Aaron set the phone aside and went back to eating.

Andrew leaned back against the couch, watching the muted TV.

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable.

But it wasn’t uncomfortable, either.

It just was.

And for now—

That was enough.

The Foxes won their next Exy game by a landslide.

Andrew, as usual, was the immovable force in goal—unstoppable, unshakable, a wall of pure defiance that the other team couldn’t crack no matter how hard they tried. The stands roared his name, cameras flashed, and reporters swarmed the second the final buzzer sounded.

Andrew hated interviews.

But today, for once, he didn’t immediately vanish into the locker room.

Instead, he stood there, sweat-damp and indifferent, as a perky sports journalist shoved a microphone in his face.

“Andrew Minyard! Another incredible performance tonight! What’s it like being one of the most feared goalkeepers in collegiate Exy? How does it feel to know so many young people look up to you?”

Andrew stared at her.

Then—

“No idea.”

The reporter blinked. “I—sorry?”

Andrew tilted his head, just slightly, his expression as blank as ever.

“You’re asking the wrong Minyard.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I’m just Doctor Aaron Minyard’s brother. You want a role model? Look up my baby twin.”

The reporter’s mouth dropped open.

The crowd erupted.

And somewhere in California, Aaron’s phone exploded with notifications.

---

Aaron’s Phone:

Nicky: ANDREW JUST CALLED YOU HIS “BABY TWIN” ON LIVE TV

Kevin: I’m going to vomit.

Neil: He’s been planning that for days.

Aaron: what the FUCK

Aaron: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

Aaron: ANDREW.

Aaron: ANSWER ME YOU LITTLE SHIT

Andrew: No.

Aaron: I HATE YOU

Aaron: I’M DISOWNING YOU

Aaron: THIS IS THE WORST THING YOU’VE EVER DONE

Andrew: You’re welcome.

---

Meanwhile, at the hospital—

Aaron’s coworkers were losing it.

The clip had gone viral within minutes—Andrew’s deadpan delivery, the way he’d so casually dropped Aaron’s name like it was common knowledge, the sheer audacity of it all.

And Aaron—

Aaron was mortified.

Or at least, he tried to be.

But the second he walked into the break room and saw half the staff watching the clip on repeat, someone squealed, and—

“ANDREW MINYARD'S BABY TWIN!”

Aaron flipped them off.

But—

But he was smiling.

Not just a smirk, not just a half-assed twitch of his lips.

A real, full, ear-to-ear grin.

One of the nurses gasped.

“Oh my god—someone take a picture, he’s happy—”

Aaron tried to scowl.

It didn’t work.

---

The photo hit social media within the hour.

Aaron, in his scrubs, caught mid-laugh, his cheeks pink with embarrassment, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

The caption?

“Doctor Aaron Minyard, national treasure and apparently someone’s ‘baby twin’ (@andrewminyard we owe you our lives).”

The internet lost its mind.

Comments flooded in by the thousands—

“I would let this man perform open-heart surgery on me with a plastic spoon.”

“Why is he so hot while also looking like a disgruntled kitten?”

“Andrew Minyard is a menace and I love him.”

“Someone check on Aaron, I think he’s short-circuiting.”

Aaron, meanwhile, had given up on dignity entirely and was hiding in the on-call room, texting Andrew with the fury of a man betrayed.

Aaron: I CAN’T SHOW MY FACE IN PUBLIC AGAIN

Andrew: Good. Stay inside where it’s safe.

Aaron: I HOPE YOU CHOKE

Andrew: Love you too, baby twin.

Aaron threw his phone across the room.

(Then immediately picked it back up when it buzzed again.)

---

By the end of the week, “Doctor Aaron Minyard” was trending in three countries.

The hospital’s PR department was delighted.

Andrew’s smugness was unbearable.

And Aaron—

Well.

Aaron was never going to live this down.

But if he secretly saved every article, every tweet, every stupid meme that called him a hero—

No one had to know.

Least of all Andrew.

The internet had officially crowned Aaron Minyard as its newest unsung hero, and the Foxes—scattered across the country but forever connected—had thoughts. Lots of them. And, of course, they had to document every single one.

The first video to surface was Dan’s.

The clip opened with her sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, recording lazily as the news played in the background. Matt wandered into frame holding a bowl of popcorn, nodding at the screen where footage of the earthquake’s aftermath was rolling.

“Damn, that shit looks tough as hell on them doctors,” Matt muttered, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Thank fuck ours ain’t there—”

Then—Aaron appeared on screen again.

Matt froze.

The bowl of popcorn hit the floor with a crash, kernels scattering everywhere as he lunged forward, planting himself directly in front of the TV.

“IS THAT AARON FUCKING MINYARD?!”

Dan, behind the camera, was shaking with silent laughter, her shoulders trembling as Matt’s voice climbed several octaves.

“MY MAN! MY TINY ROOMIE! HOMIE, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THERE?! WASN’T YOU IN BOSTON?!” He whirled toward Dan, eyes wide.

“WOMAN, TELL ME THIS MAN DID NOT DRIVE TO CALIFORNIA AFTER HEARING ABOUT THE EARTHQUAKE. HE DONE THAT SHIT FOR THE FLOOD TOO—GOOD GOD! SOMEONE PLEASE GET HIM OUT! HE SAVING LIVES—WHO GON’ SAVE MY ROOMIE?! IM FUCKING CALLING KEVIN—”

The video cut off as Dan dissolved into full-bodied laughter, Matt already yanking his phone out of his pocket with the urgency of a man on a mission.

---

Next came Nicky’s reaction—filmed by Erik, because Nicky was incapable of coherent thought the second he realized what was happening.

The scene was peaceful at first—Nicky and Erik sitting on a balcony, golden sunset spilling over them, drinks in hand. The news played softly in the background, ignored in favor of Nicky sighing contentedly.

“This is the life,” Nicky mused, stretching his arms behind his head. “I just wonder what my babies are up—”

Then—Aaron’s voice crackled through the TV.

Nicky whipped around so fast Erik nearly dropped the camera.

“What the fuck??”

The screen showed Aaron, covered in dust, barking orders at a group of nurses. The headline beneath him read: DOCTORS WORKING AROUND THE CLOCK IN EARTHQUAKE AFTERMATH.

Nicky’s face went through approximately twelve emotions in three seconds before landing on horrified realization.

“WHAT THE FUCK?! WHY IS MY CHILD—”

Erik, ever the calm one, tried to interject. “Cousin—”

Nicky was already on his feet, rushing inside like the TV might bite him. “ERIK! WHY IS MY SECOND CHILD—”

Erik tried again. “Cousin.”

Nicky screeched. “—TELL ME HE DID NOT FUCKING DRIVE THERE—”

The camera shook as Erik followed him inside, Nicky already ranting in rapid-fire German, hands flailing wildly.

---

Allison’s contribution was, predictably, the most dramatic.

The video opened with her flipping the camera to her own face, flawless even under a face mask, one eyebrow arched.

“No, because tell me why I’m having a girls’ night, and then I’ll see—”

She turned the camera toward the TV, where the news was playing. On the floor in front of it, Renee and Katelyn sat frozen, face masks on, mouths hanging open in perfect unison.

The screen showed Aaron—again—this time carrying a newborn out of the hospital, his expression focused, his movements steady despite the chaos around him.

Allison’s voice went sharp.

“AARON FUCKING MINYARD IN AN AREA THAT’S HAVING EARTHQUAKES. WHEN HE’S SUPPOSED TO BE IN FUCKING BOSTON—”

Katelyn dropped her Dorito.

Renee, ever the voice of reason, murmured, “He’s going to be okay.”

Allison scoffed. “Oh, he’ll be okay—but I won’t be, because I’m about to have an aneurysm—”

Katelyn, still staring at the screen, whispered, “He’s so cool.”

Allison groaned and threw a pillow at her.

---

The final video was Neil’s.

No yelling. No dramatics. Just—quiet.

The clip opened with Neil smiling softly at the camera, his expression warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then, without a word, he flipped the camera around—to Andrew.

Andrew, who never showed emotion in public.

Andrew, who was watching the news with an expression so openly proud it was almost startling.

The screen showed Aaron again—this time coordinating the transport of doctors, listening as his colleagues praised him to the reporters.

And Andrew—

Andrew smiled.

Not the tiny, barely-there smirk he usually allowed. Not the sharp, mocking grin he used as a weapon.

A real smile. Small, but there. His eyes lit up, his shoulders relaxed, and for once, he looked—

Happy.

Neil didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

---

The compilation went viral within hours.

Comments flooded in:

“The way Matt YEETED that popcorn—”

“Nicky’s German panic is my favorite genre of content.”

“Allison’s ‘I’m about to have an aneurysm’ is a MOOD.”

“Andrew Minyard smiling??? I’m sobbing.”

And, of course—

“Aaron Minyard, accidentally famous, definitely exhausted, and absolutely never living this down.”

Aaron, when he finally saw the videos, sent one text to the group chat:

“I hate all of you.”

Andrew’s response was immediate:

“No, you don’t.”

Aaron didn’t argue.

The final viral video in the Foxes' reaction saga wasn’t even filmed by one of them—it was captured by some poor soul from an opposing Exy team, clearly unaware they were about to document a moment of pure, unadulterated Kevin Day intensity. The clip opened in a locker room or some pre-game waiting area, the space quiet despite the handful of players milling around.

The camera panned to the TV mounted on the wall, where the news was playing—specifically, the now-iconic footage of Aaron shielding that teenage girl during the aftershock, or later, him and that nurse bracing the critical patient’s bed under a doorframe after falling.

The camera then flipped to show Kevin standing rigidly in front of the screen, his expression sharp, his posture coiled tight like a spring. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Just watched. Someone off-screen whispered, "Training is going to be hell for the next three hours." Another voice, hushed and resigned, answered, "Kevin’s gonna kick our asses." A third player groaned, "I’m gonna have to trust-fall onto the toilet after this."

The video ended there, but the implication was clear—Kevin had been inspired, and his team was about to suffer for it.

The internet, of course, lost its collective mind over this. Who was Aaron Minyard? Sure, he was Andrew’s twin, but the way the Foxes talked about him, the way they reacted to him—this wasn’t just some random doctor. This was family. And so, the Foxes, never ones to miss an opportunity to embarrass each other, started digging through their old videos.

Dan was the first to post—a clip from their college days, Aaron sitting on the floor of the girls’ dorm, face mask slathered on, looking utterly unimpressed as Allison and Katelyn painted his nails a glittery gold. The camera shook with Dan’s laughter as Aaron deadpanned, "I was invited but not told it’s a girls’ night." Allison, without looking up from his nails, retorted, "You’re pretty enough to qualify." Aaron flipped her off, but he didn’t move.

Next came Neil’s contribution—a short, chaotic video of Aaron and Andrew side by side on a couch, controllers in hand, completely absorbed in some fighting game. Andrew’s expression was as blank as ever, but Aaron’s brow was furrowed in concentration, his fingers moving lightning-fast. The moment Andrew’s character landed the final hit, Aaron threw his controller onto the couch and shoved him. Andrew didn’t even flinch. The caption read: "Best of three. (They played seven.)"

Nicky, ever the sentimentalist, posted a gem—Kevin and Aaron sprawled on Aaron’s bed, a laptop between them, paused on some historically inaccurate medical drama. Kevin was mid-rant, "That’s not how you treat a compound fracture—" and Aaron, grinning, interrupted in a terrible British accent, "Ah, yes, Doctor, let me just leech the infection away—" They both burst into laughter, Kevin shoving at him halfheartedly.

Then there was the infamous argument clip—Neil and Aaron in the middle of some heated debate about Exy stats, Aaron gesturing emphatically at his laptop screen while Neil scowled. The moment Aaron pointed at something definitively, Neil’s face twisted in reluctant acceptance. Aaron, without missing a beat, turned to the camera (probably held by Andrew), made direct eye contact, and rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. The caption simply read: "He was right. It was awful."

But the pièce de résistance was the dancing video. Filmed at some Foxes’ party, the footage was shaky, the music loud, the lighting terrible—but there, in the middle of the chaos, was Aaron, drink in hand, completely lost in the music. He wasn’t a good dancer. At all. But he was committed, and the Foxes around him were losing it. Nicky was howling with laughter, Matt was clapping, and even Andrew, lurking in the background, looked amused. The caption, courtesy of Nicky, read: "The man who would one day save lives once attempted to murder rhythm. We love him anyway."

The internet collectively lost it. This was the same man who had carried babies out of a collapsing hospital? The same guy who had stitched up wounds mid-earthquake? The same unshakable doctor who had become a national symbol of resilience?

Yes.

Yes, he was.

And the Foxes wouldn’t have it any other way.

Aaron, when he finally saw the influx of old videos resurfacing, sent a single text to the group chat: "I’m deleting all of your numbers."

Andrew’s reply was instant: "Liar."

Aaron felt his cheeks flush.

It started with one picture.

Then two.

Then suddenly, the Foxes’ social media feeds were flooded with a very specific, very incriminating collection of images—Aaron Minyard, fast asleep in the most random places, and almost always using another Fox as a pillow.

The first one was posted by Nicky—a throwback from their college days, Aaron slumped over the common room couch, dead to the world, with Kevin half-trapped under him. Kevin, clearly awake, had the resigned expression of a man who had accepted his fate. Nicky’s caption read: "When your study buddy falls asleep mid-lecture and you’re too nice to shove him off (also he drools)."

Then came Allison’s contribution—a photo of Aaron passed out on the floor of the girls’ dorm, head pillowed on Renee’s lap, while Katelyn painted a tiny flower on his cheek with eyeliner. The caption was simple: "Beauty sleep and beauty makeover. Win-win."

Matt posted one from a team party—Aaron curled into a corner of the booth, head lolling onto Dan’s shoulder, while she grinned at the camera and gave a thumbs-up. "He claimed he ‘wasn’t tired.’ Lasted ten minutes."

But the real kicker?

The picture of Aaron awake—and letting Neil cuddle him.

---

Neil wasn’t the type to post much, but when he did, it was devastating.

The photo was recent—taken during one of the Foxes’ rare reunions, when they’d all crammed into someone’s living room, too many bodies and not enough space. Aaron was sitting on the couch, clearly mid-conversation with someone off-camera, when Neil—exhausted from travel or just feeling bold—had flopped sideways onto him, tucking his head against Aaron’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Aaron—

Aaron had let him.

He wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t even pretending to be. He was just… sitting there. Letting Neil use him as a human pillow, his expression caught somewhere between resigned and fond.

The caption was a single, smug emoji: 😌

The internet exploded.

Because this was the same Aaron Minyard who had once glared at Neil like he was contemplating murder every time he walked into a room. The same Aaron who had grumbled about Neil dating Andrew, who had side-eyed him for years, who had taken so damn long to warm up to him.

And now?

Now he was letting Neil cuddle him.

Voluntarily.

Without complaint.

The Foxes’ group chat lit up.

Nicky: HOLY SHIT

Dan: IS THIS REAL LIFE

Allison: I need a fucking frame for this

Matt: Aaron. Aaron. Explain yourself.

Aaron’s response was immediate: "Fuck off."

Andrew’s was even faster: "Told you he liked you."

Neil, ever the little shit, replied: "He snuggled back."

Aaron left the chat.

(He came back five minutes later to send a single middle-finger emoji.)

---

The pictures kept coming.

Kevin posted one from their med school days—Aaron asleep at a library table, face smushed into an open textbook, Kevin sitting beside him with the most done expression imaginable. "He insisted he could pull an all-nighter."

Renee shared a sweet one—Aaron dozing on the bus after an away game, head resting against the window, Neil also asleep on his other side, Andrew watching them both with an unreadable look.

But the best one—the one that really broke the internet—was the Andrew and Aaron pic.

It was old. Really old. From before the Foxes, before Exy, back when they were still figuring out how to be brothers. Aaron was maybe sixteen, sprawled across a bed, dead asleep, with Andrew curled into his side, his face tucked against Aaron’s shoulder. Andrew was asleep too, his expression softer than anyone had ever seen it.

No one knew who took it. No one knew how it got leaked.

But the second it surfaced, the Foxes lost it.

Nicky: I’M SOBBING

Dan: THEY WERE BABIES

Allison: Andrew MINYARD??? CUDDLING???

Neil: [sent a single heart emoji]

Andrew didn’t comment.

Aaron didn’t either.

But someone—someone—edited the photo to put a tiny crown on Aaron’s head and the caption "Pillow King," and that was the version that went viral.

---

Aaron, when confronted with the sheer volume of evidence against him, sent one final text to the group:

"I’m burning all of your houses down."

Andrew’s reply was instant: "You’d miss us."

Aaron wanted to argue (he didn’t)

—

The internet had long since accepted that Aaron Minyard was a man of many contradictions—stoic doctor by day, unwilling cuddle victim by night, and, as it turned out, an extremely entertaining disaster when caught off guard. The Foxes, being the menaces they were, made sure the world knew it.

The first video was posted by Andrew, and it was gold.

The scene was simple—Kevin and Aaron standing in the living room of what looked like Nicky’s apartment, a karaoke machine set up in the background. Aaron was holding the microphone, clearing his throat like he was preparing for some serious performance, while Kevin stood beside him, scrolling through the song list with the focus of a man about to deliver a masterpiece. The second Aaron opened his mouth to sing the first note, Kevin blasted in with full, unshakable confidence—on a completely different song.

Aaron’s voice died instantly. His face went blank for half a second. Then—

He folded.

Not just a laugh, not just a snort—a full-body collapse, knees buckling as he crouched down, one hand braced on the floor, the other clutching his stomach, howling with laughter. Kevin, oblivious, kept singing like he was performing at the goddamn Grammys, not even noticing Aaron had completely malfunctioned beside him.

The camera shook slightly—Andrew’s silent laughter evident in the way the frame trembled. The video ended with Aaron still wheezing on the floor, Kevin hitting the high note with zero shame.

The caption?

"They’re professionals."

---

Andrew’s second video was even better.

Filmed from a hidden corner of the couch, the camera was angled toward the kitchen, where Aaron was cooking, humming softly under his breath. It was a rare, peaceful moment—Aaron’s voice was quiet but steady, his movements relaxed as he stirred whatever was in the pan.

Then Kevin walked in.

Aaron, too focused on his cooking, didn’t notice. Kevin, ever the menace, didn’t announce himself—just appeared directly behind Aaron, leaning in like he was about to inspect the food.

Aaron turned.

Saw Kevin.

Yelped.

And whacked him over the head with the empty pan.

The metallic clang echoed through the room. Kevin staggered back, clutching his forehead, looking betrayed. Aaron, pan still raised, looked equally horrified.

The camera shook violently—Andrew’s silent laughter turning the footage into a blurry mess.

The caption this time?

"He just wanted to help."

---

Neil’s first contribution was devastating in its softness.

The video was clearly taken on the Foxes’ team bus, the steady hum of the engine in the background. Aaron, exhausted from whatever hell Kevin had put them through that day, was slumped in his seat, fighting a losing battle against sleep. His head kept dipping forward, only for him to jerk awake, blink blearily, and repeat the process.

Andrew, by some miracle (or, more likely, by design), was sitting next to him.

The moment Aaron’s head dropped for the fifth time, Andrew reached over, gently guiding his brother’s head onto his shoulder. Aaron, too tired to protest, just melted into the contact, his breathing evening out almost instantly.

Andrew didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just sat there, letting Aaron use him as a pillow, his expression as blank as ever—but the careful way he held still spoke volumes.

Nicky, sitting across from them, was visibly emotional, his hands clasped over his mouth like he was about to burst into tears.

The caption?

"No comment."

---

Neil’s second video was worse.

It was a quiet scene—Kevin and Aaron sitting at a library table, books and notes spread out between them. Kevin was talking, his voice low but animated, hands gesturing emphatically as he clearly went on some passionate tangent about history or medicine or whatever hyperfixation had grabbed him that day.

But Aaron wasn’t even pretending to listen.

No, he was just—staring.

At Kevin.

With complete adoration.

His chin was propped on his hand, his eyes soft, his mouth curled into a tiny, fond smile as Kevin yapped away, completely oblivious to the way Aaron was looking at him like he’d hung the damn stars.

The caption?

"He’s so smart."

---

The internet, predictably, lost it.

Comments flooded in:

"KEVIN SINGING OVER AARON HAS ME SCREAMING."

"Andrew’s silent laughter is the best kind of laughter."

"Aaron hitting Kevin with a pan is the most sibling thing I’ve ever seen."

"Andrew letting Aaron sleep on him??? I’m sobbing."

"THE WAY AARON LOOKS AT KEVIN??? THEY’RE IN LOVE."

—

The video started with the hospital staff gathered in the break room, lights dimmed, a cake on the table with "THANK YOU, DR. MINYARD" written in bold letters. The camera shook slightly as someone whispered, "He's coming, he's coming—"

The door swung open.

Aaron stepped inside, looking exhausted but alert, his usual neutral expression in place as he scanned the room. Then—

"SURPRIIIIISE!! THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING YOU DID FOR US!!!"

The room erupted in cheers, applause, a few whistles. The camera caught the exact moment Aaron froze—just for a second—before his shoulders relaxed, his sharp gaze softening around the edges.

He didn’t smile. Not outright. But his voice, when he spoke, was quiet, almost disbelieving.

"...You didn’t have to do this."

A nurse near the front laughed. "Yeah, we did."

The camera zoomed in as Aaron exhaled, running a hand through his hair—still slightly messy from another long shift. His eyes flickered over the crowd, lingering on faces he’d worked beside for days without rest, people who had followed his lead without question when the world was falling apart.

"I just did my job," he muttered.

"Bullshit," someone called out, and the room laughed.

Aaron’s lips twitched—almost a smile. Then he shook his head, voice dropping to something warm, something grateful.

"...Thank you. For this. For everything."

The camera caught it all—the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the table like he was steadying himself, the way his eyes shined just a little too much under the fluorescent lights, the way the staff beamed at him like he’d hung the moon.

And when someone shoved a slice of cake into his hands, Aaron didn’t protest.

He just took it.

And for once—

He stayed.

---

The video went viral within hours.

Comments flooded in:

"THE WAY HIS VOICE WENT— I’M NOT OKAY."

"He’s so humble it hurts."

"The staff adoring him??? The respect??? I’m emotional."

The Foxes, of course, had thoughts.

Nicky’s Instagram Story: The video, zoomed in on Aaron’s face, captioned "MY BABY DESERVES THE WORLD."

Neil’s Tweet: "Aaron Minyard: ‘I just did my job.’ Also Aaron Minyard: literally carried babies out of a collapsing hospital."

Andrew’s Contribution: A screenshot of Aaron holding the cake, his expression almost soft. No caption.

(But he liked every single post about it.)

---

Aaron, when asked about it later, just shrugged.

"It was... nice."

-----

It started with Andrew’s post—a simple, devastating photo of Aaron passed out in bed, still in his scrubs, one arm flung over his face like even in sleep, he was trying to block out the world. His hair was a disaster, his socks were mismatched, and the blankets were barely pulled over him, like he’d face-planted the second he got home. The caption read: "He slept for 3 days. Would’ve slept more if I didn’t wake him up to check if he was actually dead."

The internet cooed.

—

Then came the second post—a short video of Aaron curled up in a dining chair, finally showered and in soft clothes, his hair still damp, his knees pulled to his chest as he shoveled food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in years. His cheeks were stuffed like a squirrel’s, and when Andrew huffed from behind the camera—clearly laughing at him—Aaron’s head snapped up, his glare lethal. The caption? "Finally having his first real meal in almost a week."

Comments flooded in: "HE’S SO SMALL." "The way Andrew laughs at him?? I’m emotional." "This man survived an earthquake and then hibernated like a bear. Legend."

Then the hospital staff confirmed that Aaron was the only doctor who got two full weeks off after the disaster—no protests, no pages, just unanimous "he deserves it" from every nurse, intern, and fellow surgeon. The internet lost it over that, too—partly because it highlighted how brutal first responders had it, and partly because no one could argue Aaron hadn’t earned every second of that break.

---

Then Matt dropped the real bombshell—a video of Neil and Aaron sitting on the benches by the court, still in full gear but their rackets abandoned on the ground, deep in what was clearly some serious gossip. Their expressions were identical—raised eyebrows, sharp smirks, the kind of silent judgment that could wither souls. Then Jack walked into frame, said something the camera didn’t catch, and—

Neil and Aaron turned in unison, looked him up and down with identical disgust, and went back to their conversation without a word.

Matt’s caption? "If these two ever actually got along, it’d be over for us all. God is fair."

The internet exploded.

"WAIT. AARON PLAYED EXY??"

"HOLD ON. HE WAS A FOX??"

"THAT’S WHY HE AND NEIL HAVE THE SAME RESTING BITCH FACE."

Old team photos resurfaced—Aaron in Fox gear, 5 on his back, his expression as unimpressed as ever. Game footage followed, clips of him as starting backliner, fast and ruthless, shutting down strikers with the same precision he now used in surgery.

Then came the academic bombshell: Aaron had balanced Exy on a sports scholarship with premed, volunteering, and shadowing Abby—all at the same time.

The internet short-circuited.

"HE WAS BUILT DIFFERENT."

"HOW IS HE REAL."

"ANDREW MINYARD’S TWIN WAS A FOX THIS WHOLE TIME??"

---

The Foxes, of course, had proof of Aaron’s chaos.

Nicky posted a throwback of Aaron asleep on a textbook in the library, a highlighter still clutched in his hand.

Dan shared a video of him arguing with Kevin over anatomy diagrams mid-practice, still in gear, sweat dripping down his face.

Allison’s contribution? A photo of Aaron mid-yawn, slumped over a cafeteria table, a "Congrats, Future Dr. Minyard!" balloon tied to his chair.

But the best was Matt’s dorm photo—their tiny, messy room, Aaron on his bed with headphones on, laptop balanced on his knees, typing furiously. The wall behind him was covered in Post-its, the desk buried under textbooks and scattered papers. The caption? "Tiny roomie. Big brain."

The internet wept.

"HE WAS LIVING LIKE THIS??"

"BRO HOW."

"ANDREW MINYARD SHARED A DORM WITH HIM?? NO WONDER THEY’RE LIKE THAT."

---

Aaron, when asked for comment, just sighed.

"I hate all of you."

Andrew’s reply? "Liar."

(And if Aaron may have saved every single post to his phone—well. That was between him and his dignity.)

—

The video started with Katelyn propping her phone up on a stack of textbooks in Abby’s office, the camera capturing her and Aaron slumped over their respective laptops, surrounded by papers, highlighters, and half-empty coffee cups. Both of them looked like they hadn’t slept in days, dark circles under their eyes, hair messy from running hands through it too many times. Katelyn rubbed her temples before turning to the camera with a dead smile.

"Hey, so. What time did practice end for us today?"

Aaron didn’t even look up, just sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "1 to 5 PM."

Katelyn nodded, her smile cracking. "Did we have lab after that?"

Aaron finally lifted his head, his expression flat. "Till 7 fucking PM."

Katelyn inhaled deeply. "And where are we right now?"

Aaron deadpanned at the camera. "Abby’s office after shadowing her for the past two hours. It’s 9 PM."

Katelyn’s face twisted in mock devastation, her voice barely above a whisper. "And what else do we have to do?"

Aaron groaned, dropping his forehead onto the desk with a loud thunk. "Volunteer shift at the uni hospital till 1 AM."

Katelyn set the camera down, elbows on the desk, fingers tugging at her hair as Aaron continued gently banging his head against the wood. Her voice cracked, hysterical but hushed. "Does that mean we got an extension for the neuro and biochem papers due tomorrow?"

Aaron shot upright, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. "NO. WE DIDN’T. WE HAVE TWO PAPERS AND A LAB REPORT." He let go, spinning his chair out of frame, but his voice carried back, rising in despair. "IT’S NOT EVEN A MAJOR PART OF OUR GRADE. I’M GOING CRAZY."

Katelyn pulled the camera close, her expression pure exhaustion and rage. "I will forever despise Neil 'math major' Josten, Kevin 'history major' Day, and Dan 'English literature major' Wilds for making us practice THREE. TIMES. A. DAY." Each word was punctuated by her slamming her palm on the desk. "WHY. DO WE HAVE PRACTICE AT 6 AM, 12 PM—DURING LUNCH—AND THEN 4 PM IMMEDIATELY AFTER CLASSES."

Aaron’s voice floated back into frame, darkly amused. "If I hear anything about me slacking off one more time, I’m going to burst a vein."

Katelyn let out a tiny, muffled scream—just as the Foxes group chat notification went off. She grabbed her phone, eyes widening in horror. "Oh my fucking god, they want to extend practice by an hour tomorrow." She turned to the camera, pleading. "Wymack. COACH. PLEASE stop this madness. PLEASE—"

Aaron reappeared, leaning into frame, his expression murderous. "Kevin Day, Dan Wilds, and Neil Josten—one day, I’m going to assassinate you. I fucking swear—"

The door swung open. Abby stood there, eyebrows raised. The video cut off on Katelyn and Aaron’s startled faces, caught mid-rant.

---

The Foxes, upon seeing the video, had thoughts.

Neil’s reply: "You chose premed."

Kevin’s reply: "Discipline is necessary for excellence."

Dan’s reply: "You literally signed up for this."

Aaron and Katelyn’s responses were immediate and identical: "FUCK. YOU."

But the video was just the beginning. Over the years, Katelyn and Aaron had documented their shared suffering in a series of increasingly unhinged posts.

There was the break room video, where they sat with their lunch in front of the camera after six brutal hours of rounds, looking like zombies. The second they took their first bites, both their pagers went off simultaneously. The way their faces dropped was almost comical, and yet, they dropped their plates onto the table and rushed out the room without hesitation,k leaving the phone to drop screen-first onto the table.

Then there was Aaron’s post of Katelyn in scrubs, laughing as she tried (and failed) to properly scrub out by pinching and folding her gloves. Instead, she somehow got her hands stuck in them, flailing helplessly while Aaron wheezed in the background.

Another hallway video, shot late at night when the hospital was quiet. They passed by a nook where a patient watcher sat, monitoring high-risk cases. Katelyn sighed dreamily. "God, the things I’d do to be a watcher." Aaron nodded solemnly. "Best job in the hospital. Wasted my time in med school."

And then there was the escape footage—Katelyn and Aaron sprinting through the halls after being told they could leave early, their laughter echoing as they practically ripped off their scrubs. "I have never scrubbed out so fast in my life," Katelyn gasped. They burst out of the building, squinting in the sudden sunlight, their dark circles glaringly obvious. Aaron threw his arms up. "Oh my god, we’re gone. We’re free." Katelyn grinned. "I’m going to eat a fucking salad and sleep."

---

Despite not dating, Katelyn and Aaron had an entire album of photos and videos labeled "That’s my uni wife." (Yes, even Aaron was wife.)

There was Aaron asleep on a textbook, Katelyn doodling glasses on his face.

Katelyn mid-mental breakdown, Aaron handing her a coffee with a sticky note that read "Don’t cry. We’re almost dead."

The two of them passed out in the library, using each other as pillows, a "Do Not Disturb: Future Doctors At Work" sign taped to the table.

The Foxes, upon realizing just how much hell they’d put their premed teammates through, had the decency to feel a little bad.

(Nicky: "I told you they were suffering!")

(Andrew: "They chose this.")

(Neil: "…Okay, maybe we could’ve eased up on the 6 AM practices.")

Aaron and Katelyn’s response?

"TOO LATE. WE’RE TRAUMATIZED."

---

Years later, long after they’d hung up their Exy gear, the videos still resurfaced regularly—usually whenever a new batch of Foxes complained about their schedules.

Wymack, gruff as ever, would just point at the screen where Aaron and Katelyn’s sleep-deprived faces stared back.

"You think you have it bad? These two survived Exy, premed, and each other. Suck it up."

And if Aaron and Katelyn, now full-fledged doctors, still sent each other memes about those days with captions like "Remember when we almost died?"—

Well.

That was between them and their shared trauma.

Another video opened with Aaron standing in front of his bed, bleach spray in one hand, disinfectant wipes in the other, his expression caught somewhere between deeply disturbed and profoundly annoyed. The camera panned over the bed—clearly well-used, with visible indentations where he’d collapsed onto it for three days straight in his filthy, post-earthquake scrubs.

A heavy sigh.

Then—action.

Aaron went to war with that mattress. Spraying, scrubbing, flipping pillows like they’d personally betrayed him. The camera cut to him stepping back, arms crossed, staring at his handiwork with narrowed eyes.

Cut.

The next shot was just—No bed, the mattress and bed-frame missing.

Gone. Vanished.

The frame lingered on the empty space for a dramatic second before cutting to Aaron hauling in a brand-new bed-frame and mattress, one after the other, looking both triumphant and exhausted as he wrestled them into place.

The caption?

"He said there wasn’t any other option since he slept on it for 3 days in his scrubs."

---

Foxes Group Chat:

Nicky: "AARON. BRO. JUST STEAM CLEAN IT."

Aaron: "NO."

Andrew: "He’s right. Burn it all."

Neil: "…I’ve seen him sleep in worse."

Aaron: "NEIL. NEIL. DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE."

Twitter Comments:

"The way he LOOKED at that bed like it offended him—"

"Aaron Minyard: trauma surgeon, disaster bisexual, bed executioner."

"Andrew’s ‘burn it all’ energy is infectious."

---

The internet had seen a lot of Aaron Minyard—hero doctor, reluctant cuddle victim, accidental karaoke star, and professional Kevin Day admirer. But nothing could have prepared the world for the photo.

The one Aaron posted.

No warning. No caption. Just a single, devastating image:

Aaron and Kevin, mid-kiss.

Not some staged, posed, Instagram-perfect moment. No, this was real—Kevin caught mid-laugh, his hands tangled in Aaron’s shirt, Aaron’s fingers curled around the back of Kevin’s neck, pulling him in like he’d been waiting forever to do it. The kind of kiss that looked like it had been building for years, messy and perfect and theirs.

The internet broke.

---

The Foxes’ Group Chat:

Nicky: HOLY SHIT

Dan: I JUST SCREAMED SO LOUD MY NEIGHBORS CALLED THE COPS

Allison: ABOUT DAMN TIME

Matt: AARON MINYARD??? POSTING THAT WITH NO WARNING???

Neil: [sent a single heart-eyes emoji]

Andrew: Finally.

Aaron didn’t reply.

He didn’t have to.

The photo said everything.

---

Kevin’s reaction was even better.

He didn’t repost it.

He didn’t comment.

He just liked it.

And then changed his profile picture to the same photo.

---

The Foxes, of course, had thoughts.

Nicky’s Instagram Story: A zoomed-in screenshot of the photo, captioned "MY BABIES FINALLY."

Allison’s Tweet: "Aaron Minyard, certified disaster bisexual, just ended homophobia with a single photo. Congrats to the happy idiots."

Dan’s Reply to a Fan Asking If She Saw It Coming: "Oh, absolutely. The way they looked at each other? Painfully obvious."

Neil’s Contribution: A throwback video of Kevin and Aaron bickering over Exy stats, Aaron rolling his eyes before smiling at Kevin like he was the sun. The caption? "Told you."

---

The internet, naturally, lost its collective mind.

Comments flooded in:

"THE WAY AARON HOLDS HIM??? I’M DECEASED."

"Kevin’s smile in this photo is illegal."

"This is the best way they could’ve come out. No speech. No drama. Just this."

"Andrew’s ‘Finally.’ SENT ME."

---

Aaron, when asked why he posted it, just shrugged.

"Seemed like the right time."

Kevin, when asked the same question, smirked, "He finally stopped overthinking it."

Andrew, when Neil asked if he’d known they were going to do it, just said:

"They’ve been dating for two years."

The Foxes exploded.

---

Aaron didn’t post much after that.

But he didn’t have to.

That one photo said everything.

(And if he may have set it as his lock screen—well. That was between him and Kevin.)

—

Nicky had promised he wouldn’t cry.

He’d said it with absolute confidence—“I’m not gonna be that guy, okay? I’m gonna hold it together. I’m gonna be cool.”

He was, in fact, not cool.

The second Aaron and Kevin stepped into view under the flower arch, Nicky’s phone was already recording, his hands shaking, his breath hitching in his chest. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting golden streaks over the two of them—Kevin in his sharp navy suit, Aaron in crisp white, both of them looking at each other like they couldn’t believe this was real.

And then—

They kissed.

Not the quick, polite kiss some couples did at weddings. No, this was the kind of kiss that made the entire audience melt—Kevin’s hands cradling Aaron’s face like he was something precious, Aaron’s fingers tangled in Kevin’s lapels, pulling him in like he never wanted to let go. It was soft and sweet and so full of love that Nicky audibly sobbed behind the camera.

The video shook as he tried to steady it, but the moment was perfect anyway.

Then—

The camera panned.

To Andrew.

Andrew, who never showed emotion in public.

Andrew, who was standing stiffly beside Neil, his jaw clenched, his eyes suspiciously bright.

Andrew, who was very subtly trying to wipe his face without anyone noticing.

Neil, the little shit, leaned over and dabbed at Andrew’s cheek with a tissue, which earned him an elbow to the ribs—but Andrew didn’t actually shove him away.

The camera shook again—Nicky was laughing through his tears now.

Then it swung to Wymack and Abby.

And oh.

Oh no.

Wymack, gruff, no-nonsense Wymack, was full-on weeping, his arm around Abby, who was also crying, her face buried in a handkerchief.

Nicky’s voice, wobbly with tears, whispered off-camera:

“They raised them. Oh my god.”

The camera swung back to Aaron and Kevin, who were now grinning at each other, foreheads pressed together, looking so stupidly happy it made Nicky’s chest ache.

The video ended with Nicky full-on ugly-crying, the audio cutting off with a choked “I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.”

---

The second Nicky posted the video, the internet collapsed.

Comments poured in:

“ANDREW MINYARD CRYING??? I’M NOT OKAY.”

“Oh, Andrew meant it when he said Aaron was his baby twin fr…I’m not okay-”

“WYMACK AND ABBY SOBBING IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING I’VE EVER SEEN.”

“Nicky filming through his own tears is peak older cousin energy.”

“THE WAY KEVIN HOLDS AARON’S FACE??? I’M DECEASED.”

The Foxes, of course, immediately made it worse.

Dan’s Instagram Story: A screenshot of Andrew wiping his eyes, captioned “PROOF OF FEELINGS.”

Allison’s Tweet: “Aaron Minyard, in white? Kevin Day, looking at him like he’s the sun? I’m furious this is so perfect.”

Neil’s Contribution: A photo of Wymack and Abby hugging Aaron and Kevin after the ceremony, all four of them teary-eyed. The caption? “Parents.”

Matt’s Reply: “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

---

When Aaron finally saw the video, he groaned.

“Nicky.”

Kevin, leaning over his shoulder, smirked.

“I like it.”

Aaron elbowed him.

“Of course you do.”

But he didn’t tell Nicky to take it down.

(And if he may have saved it to his phone and watched it more than once—well. That was between him and Kevin.)

---

When asked (by Neil) if he actually cried, Andrew just said:

“No.”

Neil, grinning, held up the video as proof.

Andrew shoved him off the couch.

(But he didn’t deny it.)

---

And so, the internet officially declared Kevaaron’s wedding the softest, most emotional Foxes content to ever exist.

Nicky, still emotionally compromised, posted one final message:

“I told you they were soulmates.”

No one argued.

#all for the game #aaron minyard #andrew minyard #neil josten #kevin day #twinyards #andriel #kevaaron #nicky hemmick #matt boyd #dan wilds #allison reynolds #renee walker #david wymack #abby #katelyn mackenzie

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stickdoodlefriend · 19 days ago

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What I think each Batfamily member eats in a day:

Bruce: anything Alfred prepares. Something super dense in protein and fats that follows his detailed nutrition plan to support his vigilante activities. Taste is secondary. He burnt off his tastebuds years ago during a training exercise.

Jason: Diners or takeout. Balances it with a fruit. He knows the best places in Gotham where it's cheap and filling where he can eat his weight's worth of food and no one is glancing at his laptop where he is definitely NOT orchestrating any illegal activities. He does know how to cook a few basic things like eggs but he's got things to do and he'll cook when he has peace. Except. It's him so he doesn't do peace. Now if you throw him in the tundra or a difficult terrain? He'll be able to find something and grill it to cook it properly but otherwise, he's not going to bother.

Tim: he lives in a houseboat. He never considered the kitchen in his renovation and now the stove got replaced with a Bunsen burner to test samples he found on a crime site so he has no place to cook anymore. The cupboards are just makeshift armory and have like first aid kits, menus for takeout even though the delivery driver has sworn not to waddle in the middle of the marina with Tim's noisy neighbors and Tim's sketchy house that just looks slightly off to a civilian but Tim tips well so what can the poor lad do. There's only one cupboard dedicated to food and it's Zesti cans, Dick's nutrition drinks because Dick swears by them, and dog treats for strays and to bribe Titus. I don't think he ever learnt how to cook but he will figure it out if ever ends up in that situation where he needs to.

Stephanie: ramen with veggies and eggs thrown in for nutrition, Mac and cheese, anything basic with a skillet. She had to take care of herself when Crystal couldn't and her father didn't. She is highly self sufficient so she learns by watching Barbara or any YouTube tutorials for nutrition packed foods that taste good and are easy to make.

Cass: a pan to her is better as weapon to take down a mob. Food though is a rare indulgence she gets to keep so she goes to different places to try out different dishes. She doesn't cook but she likes to watch Steph hum while she's cooking and her body sways-dances contentedly to 90s punk rock.

Dick: whenever he gets time, he meal preps the quickest meals ever. Stuffs everything he made in the freezer for like three-six months if not longer because he'll forget. Is it probably expired? Maybe, but his stomach has withstood much worse. He'll have a bunch of nutrition bars and those meal replacement nutrition drinks stocked. He's used to cooking in bulk and the lesson in cooking is: if it tastes bad, you aren't adding enough herbs and spices. Luckily for him, he can store dried herbs and spices in airtight containers and use them for months.

Duke: home cooked meals with food that ISN'T seasoned by a former MI6 British butler. These are family meals made with love and care. He is living his life.

Damian: when he first came to Gotham, he ate whatever Alfred made though he did complain like a fussy kid. He still eats everything and values the high nutrition density but he will sneak in extra pepper and salt and make requests occasionally for halwa to sate his sweet tooth.

Barbara: no one taught her how to cook and she and her father ate takeout while he went through his case files and she listened on the police scanner and called in the tip lines to help solve cases pre-batgirl. She learnt how to cook during college because surviving on a diet of just pizza and ramen wasn't sustainable as Batgirl and she values being able to do things for herself. After becoming Oracle, she pushed harder to learn how to cook very well but even if she knows how to cook now, she is still bad at avoiding takeout (if she's not forgetting meals in favor of working that is).

#dc #batman #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #Stephanie brown #barbara gordon #duke thomas #cass cain #robin meta #these are silly little headcanons

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forsaken-headcanons · 12 hours ago

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Hii first time submitting please don't execute me :3 This game has rotted my brain I swear oops didn't mean to ramble sorry :(((

Tw// mentions hunger + mentions of skinning animals

The survivors/killers get food from winning matches (being bland pizza) and they used to ration it (007n7 would also duplicate it but the more he'd do that the less good to eat it'd become) but after a really bad streak and everyone starving they made a cycle which is Farm/hunt/prepare/cook

Farming - they were able to get a really small garden going, Builderman made a UV light as well. There's not much sunlight and a water filter (which is also how they get clean water to drink and clean) there's a sub task with this which is being a scarecrow. I think it explains itself (whoever does the least work or smth gets put up as it. It's often 7n7 due to public voting) TT is the one most common working for reasons

Hunting - Someone gets voted and gets kicked out of the campgrounds to hunt animals (or fish but that's 2X2) and (very rarely) cake monsters to bring back. Guest is the most commonly sent out for once more, obvious reasons while Chance is banned (they'd come back screaming and running) and Two time brought

Prep - Making the food actually safe to eat. Shedletsky is scarily good at skinning animals (Brighteyes taught him, she's a lot better tho she's not there thankfully) though he's rarely given this task and Chance also once had this but the second he was given a rabbit he ran (Noob didn't know :[ they apologised afterwards) though he does clean the vegetables often. Everyone does this task a lot since everyone can do it.

Cooking - Self explainatory. Elliot does this the most if not always while 007n7 is secondary and Desukkar and Shedletsky are tied at third. Everyone else rarely does and Two time is BANNED .

Meanwhile the killers eat raw meat as 1x (the only chef) rarely cooks because their cabin is a wreck and Jason keeps bringing animals (or sometimes an unlucky survivor somehow even if they're on the other side of the lake) to eat! Delicious (John does not care, the kids are crying, mafioso is going insane and Noli is very close to murder and everyone else also is mostly unhappy)

- 👑 Anon (That's available right?? Anyways hiiii)

Interesting. I love how the survivors worked out a system to farm and produce food that's better than bland and boring pizza, while the killers are struggling and fighting for their lives.

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markrosewater · 2 months ago

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Have you made a DTW about Cognitive Load and Offloading in the context of Magic? You've made a great Psychology episode but I'm wondering how much could be said about things that add to a player's decision-making and how they offload new information. What have you learned making mechanics like The Initiative or Max Speed that impose new game requirements on players? Why is Arcane Denial's secondary effect of drawing cards forgotten so often? How do you evaluate complexity during vision?

It's a good topic, just one that will probably require a lot of prep work. I'll add it to the "short list".

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twstfanblog · 7 days ago

Text

~Manhwa AU- A Fairytale Do-Over~ Pt 4

A/N: GUESS WHAT!? Manhwa AU is back! I've gotten a new writing process that I've been trying out and it's been working wonders for me so far. So, as a treat, I thought I should finally give you guys the AU you were actually waiting on Word Count: 3.8K Pairings: Azul & His Parents, Political Marriage Crewel x Crowley Warnings: Children bullying, Mild description of an injured child, Google translate Prev / Next

“Pull her harder!”

“Sir-”

“Harder I say!”

“No!”

Dire stood in the doorway of his daughter's room, dressed for the long journey ahead of them.

Going from one side of the empire to the other in one day was technically possible. Though technically, the Northern and Southern tips of the empire were much further than the general public thought about. To make it from the Crowley Duchy to the Mostro Beach Front was nearly a full day's journey. So, to get there in time for the Ashengrotto’s dinner party, leaving time for Divus to prim and prep himself and their daughter, the Crowley family left their estate before the sun came up.

Normally, the two would have everything packed and simply scoop their sleeping child into the carriage With them. But, today —tonight? — Yuu was already awake and seemingly waiting for them. Sitting up in her bed as she firmly stated she would not be going to the dinner party.

Which is how things have escalated to this moment. Bernadette and Annette trying to pull Yuu from the post of her bedframe under Divus's orders. The two maids being shoved to the side as Divus gripped Yuu by her ankles and tugged.

“Puppy, remove yourself from that post this INSTANT-”

“Noooooo! I'm not going!”

“Excuse you-”

“Divus. Enough.”

Sound stilled. Divus and Yuu both looking over their shoulders in wide-eyed surprised at the man’s serious tone.

Sputtering, Divus let go of one ankle to gesture to Yuu, “You can't simply cave to her tantrums! This dinner party was RSVPed MONTHS AGO!”

Walking closer, Dire easily removed Divus's hand from Yuu's leg, scoping their child in one arm as he placed her back onto the covers of her bed, “She's clearly unwilling to attend. Lord only knows what she'd be like in the carriage…This isn't a fight you will win, Divus.

“...BUT-”

“Divus.” Dire sends Yuu a concerned look, stepping closer to his husband and speaking in a hushed tone, “We both know she's been…unsociable since her nightmare. Maybe she simply feels safer being home for now. She only stopped bursting into tears a week ago…”

“...” Divus wanted to fight, to bite and bark as he normally did, but instead stomped toward Yuu's closet, “Fine! I'll set some outfits aside for her, since we'll be gone the next few days…” He had quickly pulled out nearly a dozen dresses, choices for the days in their absence. Turning back to Yuu, he pets her hair softly, almost sighing out, “Be good for Bernadette and Anette, puppy.”

“Yes, daddy…”

Dire walks close as Divus all but flies out of the room, angry that Yuu's dinner outfit will be going to waste, kneeling before her seat on her bed, “My darling, I have an assignment for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want you to get all of your homework done before we come back from the party.”

Yuu’s expression sours, nose matching Divus’s in how it scrunched, “But that's not due for another four days!”

Dire stands, shrugging his shoulders and pinching Yuu's cheek teasingly, “Well, if you make a fuss, you will have to pay the price. Have your homework done when we get back and I'll make sure your papa doesn’t get to punish you for a whole week.”

“...Promise?”

“...” He could only smile, seeing a bit of his mischievous daughter finally poking through the haze of confusion and sorrow she had become recently, “Promise, my darling.”

The Southern district was a secondary crown jewel of the empire behind the capital. Pristine white buildings with their cool-toned shingled tops mimicked the sea in both the day and night. Cafés, clothing stores, toy shops, and every type business gathered in its sand boarded location. The southern district was an area made for the populace not afraid to drop their coins.

The Ashengrotto family played a small but important part in its success. The family trade was that of lawyers, generations of nobility putting their minds to use for the greater good of the kingdom in building fair guidelines for trade with their nautical neighbors. And while the current head of house kept true to his empirical duties, he had recently taken interest in the culinary scene. A change brought on by his second wife, a lovely woman from the sea who had opened a restaurant when coming to land.

She was a merfolk, uncommon but not rare to their empire, who originally had her own underwater eatery not far from their coast. A chance meeting, as she had returned a lost crate to the Asim harbor and refused to allow anyone to touch it that was not Sir Ashengrotto himself. From there, it was simply love at first sight.

And while the move had seemed exciting, he and his mother were so happy in their new family, Azul had come to feel like land was a never ending nightmare. He wasn't popular in the sea as far as he could remember, though his mother was such a marvel at parties and her own restaurant, land wasn't much different. While one of his playmates was almost as antisocial as him, the other was a torture to be around.

Yuu Crowley was the meanest child Azul had ever known, he's sure of it. She'd pinch his cheeks and pat his stomach every time they had tea parties. He'd be dragged around at parties, forced away from the other noble children and kept to her own devices. He's sure at some point she'd give him a bald spot from how she'd tug on his hair at random times. His playdates with Yuu were mostly him trying to escape her, unable to understand why his parents thought the girl's attacks against him were ‘cute’.

Azul sat at the vanity in his bedroom, allowing the butlers to fuss over his hair and bowtie as he pondered. Maybe he could fake sick and hold up in his room for the night, Yuu had recently been ill as well if his memory serves. Surely her fathers wouldn't want to risk her being infected again so quickly after recovering.

He sighs as he thinks it over, ‘No…she'd surely insist that all was well and he needed to have company. That her own brush with sickness made her less likely to catch anything.’ The thought bounced around his head, a loud taunt to him as none of his plans to avoid the girl ever worked. Yuu was persistent, and frighteningly strong for a girl her age, even by merfolk standards. While Azuls talents were in evasion and his own quick mind, even he wasn't able to fight against someone strong enough to physically lift him over her head…

The butlers pulled back, allowing him to see his purple and pearl detailed outfit, the centerpiece of a seashell brooch over his bowtie.

“What say you, young master? Down right dapper if I do think myself!” The oldest butler speaks, his mouth hidden by the salt and peppered moustache.

Azul may have still found the land to be confusing and torturous, but it was never by anyone in the Ashengrotto household. He and his mother were welcomed and basically pampered since they had entered the manor. He gives the team around him his best smile, adjusting his glasses in mimicky of his step father, “I would have to agree with you, Barcel. Some of your finest work.”

Primed and dressed, looking out the windows to the seaside cradling the setting sun as he made his way to the kitchens. Gently opening the door, he poofed his cheeks at the sight before yelling, “Mama! The party starts in an hour!”

His mother pauses in her taste testing, eyes wide as they take him in only to turn toward the clock against the wall. Seeing the time she flings the spoon back to the chef and moves her way through the kitchen, “Dannatu! Grazzi, tesoro meu.” She takes a moment to wipe her hands on her apron, bending down to pinch his cheeks gently, “Ah! You look so handsome. I can’t wait for you to dazzle everyone at the party.”

“Please go get ready. It'd do no good for the hostess to be late for her own party, mama.”

She waves her hands at him playfully, standing up and sashaying down the hall to her no doubt furious team of maids, “It's as Divus calls it, me tesoro, fashionably late!”

Her laughter does nothing to ease the pit in his stomach at the reminder of what his night was to become.

His mother just barely made it to his stepfather's side to greet the guests with them. Each of them in seafoams and purples with different types of shells, his stepfather in helmets, his mother in westletraps, and his bowtie proudly holding its moonshell.

The greeting stage was always quick. Everyone normally hungry from travel, eager to try his mother's new menu items, or simply network. He bows in sync with his stepfather to each guest, the older man keeping a gentle hand to the back of his neck in silent parental claim. Azul does his best to smile and wave to the other noble children, feeling defeated and crushed each time they avert their eyes and give him tense bows and curtises in return.

Azul wasn't sure if he ever had other playmates; his first memories on land a haze to him now. But he does clearly remember the night Yuu Crowley punched another child so hard they spat blood as they wailed. No other noble child had dared to approach him since. He's sure she was punished, seeing how he didn't see her for the entire rest of the season outside of traveling to the Crowley estate for her birthday party. He wonders if life on land would really be so bad if he had someone to speak to other than the violent Crowley Heiress and the ever-withdrawn Shroud Dukeling.

He felt himself tense seeing the midnight in motion carriage of the Crowley family. He held his breath as the door was opened, Divus and Dire exiting it hand in hand. As the door was closed behind them, he could physically taste the confusion in himself and his parents.

The couple walked up the stairs, Divus instantly smiling and greeting his mother with two kisses above her cheeks. Though briefly startled, she kissed his cheeks in turn, hands gripping his gloved ones, “Where is the cucciola?”

Azul watches the second the smile turns strained on Divus's face, but before he could speak, Dire had but in while still shaking his father's hand.

“Ah! She is still a bit under the weather. Though the Southern District is warmer, we didn't feel comfortable making her travel.”

“I see…”

The conversation faded to the background for Azul, eyes widening at the news. Yuu was still sick, she wasn't there.

He tired to hide his smile, almost bouncing on his feet and waving his hands at his side before looking up to his mother, “May I be excused from greeting!?” He only realized he had yelled when the four adults turned to him stunned. Clearing his throat, he moved into a more calm stance, arms folded behind his back and chin held parallel to the ground, “Please?”

His parents share a brief look before his step father smiles, gesturing further inside, “Of course, son. Do well to not fill up on the hor'dourves.”

“Understood, I will see you both at the dining table.” Azul was barely out of the entryway before he broke out into a sprint.

The main dining hall was comfortably packed, noblemen and commoner business partners loitering around with glasses of champagne and small tea plates of food. He felt nervous, bubbles filling his chest at finally being able to network as all grand and true nobles do. He just had to…

There.

Tucked into a corner, hovering and sitting on multiple couches, where most of the children he had greeted at the door. He brushed off his coat, tightening his bowtie the way Barcel had shown him ages ago before making his way over to the children.

At his approach, they all looked briefly panicked, each physically turning away and whispering before going silent. He didn't let it deter him, walking with a quicker pace and chin held high. Standing in front of them, he could feel the smile on his cheeks hurting, “Hello. We haven't spoken often, but I am Azul Lee Ashengrotto. It's a pleasure to meet you all.”

The silence in response hurt, but he didn’t let it stop him. He stepped closer, bending at the waist to whisper, “It's ok. I know you all didn't talk to me because Yuu was here. She didn't come tonight.”

The news made the children all blink at him in surprise, tense postures relaxing as they looked toward him. A few whisper, though one girl openly starts to look around for the Crowley heiress.

Smiling, Azul gestures to the space around, “I know! Finally, we can all have civil conversations without-”

A boy laughs, sharp and nasal as he looks down his nose at Azul, “So the Crowley girl finally dropped the dead weight?”

…

Azul’s smile stopped hurting, his cheeks loosing tension as the pain started to grow in his chest, “Huh…?”

A girl snickers behind her fan, turning away from him as she speaks to another child beside her, “Is it dead weight? I think the better term is blubber.”

The group of them laugh, loud and cold as Azul slowly feels every bit of happiness recede into him, “I…W-what?”

“Ugh. Nothing going for you, huh? Fat, common blooded, and slow? Really, what does Sir Ashengrotto see in you?”

“He- My stepfather is nice to me!”

“Yes, just that.” The first boy steps closer to him, a hand poking him hard in his chest with each word he speaks, “Step. Father.” He pulls back, arms crossed over his chest, “Did you really think we'd bother with the son of some common woman? You're basically a pitied bastard.”

Another girl whispers loudly to the one with the fan, the two of them semi hidden behind the accessory, “Did you hear how proudly he said his middle name? As if carrying ‘Lee’ in one's name is something to be proud of.” The two snicker, the laughter only growing louder as Azul’s eyes snap toward them.

“T-this is my home and my mother's party. Show some respect!”

Another boy steps forward, nearly stomping on Azul’s shoe, “Huh!? Says the common blooded stray who was adopted because his mother wouldn't say yes unless he could come. You're a burden.”

“Stupid too. Poor thing really didn't notice the Crowley girl was the only one who wanted to play with him. Boohoo. Wah~.”

Each child took their turns, insulting him, his mother, his blood, his face, his body. Anything and everything about him deemed unworthy and pitiful, finally free to rip him apart in his very home. Azul looked down, eyes burning as he tucked his chin to his chest.

“Ah! Look he's gonna cry!”

The laughter that followed was the nail in his coffin. Azul turned on his heel, barely keeping his balance and ran from them with tears poking through his lashes. He run into more than a few dresses, scratchy lace and overly perfumed skirts clouding his senses before the thick scent of the sea brought him to his mother. He slammed into the back of her dress, hands clutching the fabric and pearls as he cried into it.

“Oh, me tesoro, what's wrong?”

He didn't want to say, he didn't want to make things hard for her again. His mother was happier on land, more successful, a man loved her here. He couldn't…he couldn't be a burden to her and the thought made him cry harder.

Above him he heard his parents speaking before smelling lemon and rosemary, two strong hands gripping him and pulling him upwards. He curls just as hard into his step father as he did his mother's skirts, letting the older man pat his back comfortingly.

“You don't need to tell us now. Let's get you upstairs and we'll have the staff bring you dinner there.”

“...” He sniffles, pulling his eyes away from his stepfather's suit in fear he'd cry ink into the light fabric, “Okay…”

“I love you, son.”

“Ti vogghiu beni, tesoro meu”

Azul loved them too, with everything his hearts could hold. But now he wasn't sure how to feel. Alone, bullied, furious, abandoned. He couldn't help but wonder if Yuu had thought he was useless and pitiful too, or did she only feel that way about him now? Was torment at her hands truly the only happiness he could find among his peers? A happiness that was seeming to slip through his fingers

Tightening the grip he held on his father's suit, Azul manages to give his mother a watery smile, one that doesn't ease the worry in her eyes, “I love you, too…”

Dire And Divus returned to their estate later than normal. Walking into the manor both exhausted late in the night two days later. While the dinner had proceeded normally, Dire taking note of the empty seat to the left of the Lady Ashengrotto, it was after the meal that had ruined Divus's carefully crafted timeline.

The Lady Ashengrotto was a pleasant woman, friendly, charismatic charm oozing like the ink she held in her true form. She was also big — in both body and emotion — a fact that made her a threat when her emotions went too far in one direction, becoming prone to manhandling. Dire had truly feared he would have been thrown from the office window more than once as the couple questioned them on Yuu's whereabouts.

They stayed true to their agreed lie, Yuu was sick. She was weak in body to the point she did not wish to travel in any capacity and what kind of monsters would they be to force her to?

While the Sir Ashengrotto was willing to take their words, his wife was in a fit for most of the night, rounding back from tantrums to questioning them again and again. It was only by pure luck of Sir Ashengrotto calming his wife enough to point out that Azul would love to be tucked into bed after the night he no doubt had. She was quick to flee the room, Dire and Divus not far behind after hasty spoken goodbyes.

Now standing in their entryway, Divus could barely mumble a good night toward Dire before making a path toward their bedroom, Bernadette and Anette each keeping him steady.

Dire turned to the maid who took his hat and coat, “Is our child in her room?”

She nods, the floor length coat tucked neatly in her coats as she cursties, “Yes, sir. She had her dinner and tried to stay up to greet you both. But when it got too late we made sure she was sent to bed.”

“Perfect. And her work?”

“Managed to finish the last of it just after lunch.”

“Hm….” He nods, dismissing the maid and walking toward his office. Though it was more common for nobles to hire private tutors for their children, Dire and Divus had elected to other methods. Yuu would self study, completing worksheets that were sent off to off seasoned and retired tutors to be graded. He would review her work himself before sending it off of course, learning from Yuu’s moments of vengeance against him as she wrote a message on her work to ‘Please send help’.

Opening the folder, he chuckles at seeing his daughter's angry scribbles acting as a cover page. The fountain pen she was gifted was beautiful, she just couldn't hold the damn thing without nearly emptying it out in one big ink blot at least once when using it. As normal her writing became more confident as she went further. And the longer he looked, the more he feared he had hit another dead end.

Then he pulled out her math homework. He loved his daughter, but math was not her strongest subject by far. Her work was normally long, the girl managing to work herself in circles before coming to the wrong answer. But before him — though still peppered with wrong answers— was neat lines of math work. Looking closer, he recognized the method, a shorthand used for its ease by merchants. A method that Yuu should have no knowledge of at this stage of her schooling. He places that sheet to the side, electing to rewrite the homework copying Yuu's script. It'd be easy to lie as to why it was a copy should the teacher ask. Yuu was unfortunately subject to more than a few extensions due to ink blotted papers.

He wasn't sure what lie he could think of if they saw she had seemingly learned an intermediate method all on her own.

He and Divus had spoken on the ride home, each with their own concerns about their child. It wasn't hard to see she was isolating herself, slowly but surely cutting off her friend group with little explanation than tears. And neither could bear to see her cry.

Divus worried for her studies. She and Azul meeting monthly in the capital library to overlook their homework and correct whatever the other got wrong acting as the scene of their playdates. Though from the sea, Azul was more than capable with math and Yuu was easing him through surface life by explaining its history to him in more understandable terms. Both sets of parents fearing for the effects breaking their bond could mean for the other.

With a sigh, Crowley picked up his quill and penned a letter. They could try in the morning to convince Yuu to not reject Azul as she had Malleus. But from how hard she had fought them before, Dire was sure she had already made up her mind. And while it was less than ideal, Crowley had to find a new study partner for his child.

Ortho's room was dark, a part of Idia liked it that way. Their hair gave off soft lighting, leaving them floating in the dark untouched by bad things. Sitting at his brother’s bedside, Idia tinkered away silently. Turning the final screw on his project, he smiled and moved to place his tools back into their box before returning to Ortho’s side. Setting the machine on his brother’s side table, Idia gently patted his brother’s small chest, “Ortho, it's ready. Wake up.”

Dark bagged eyes slowly blink open, raspy breathes behind an oxygen mask turning to a weak smile as his eyes focused on matching topaz.

He turns, hand hovering over the machine as he looked to his brother, “Ready?”

The grunt Ortho lets out almost sounds painful, but he nods with as much excitement as he can.

Idia presses a button on his creation, neon blue and yellow projected stars filling up every corner of the room. With each speck of light, it only felt more and more that they were floating above it, safe and untouched in the vacuum of space. He smiles, watching as Ortho's dull eyes brighten and scan around the room in awe. Reaching over, he holds his brother's hand in his, ignoring the way the cold limb twitches under his touch, reconnected nerves still tender and fighting their way to healing.

“When you're all better, we can go stargazing again…I promise.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst wonderland #yuu oc #azul ashengrotto #divus crewel #dire crowley #idia shroud #ortho shroud #manhwa au

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teaboot · 1 year ago

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I'm Singaporean, I just saw the posts about schools in Canada vs Korea and now I'm kinda curious how things vary within this half of Asia.

Looking at your questions for the Korean asker, dyeing your hair isn't allowed but how strict the teachers will be about it probably depends on school. My secondary school (age 13-16) had one teacher who made a classmate with (presumably naturally) lighter brown hair dye it black, which was hilarious. If necessary for explanation, it was a Christian school with pretty strict rules on grooming no one had the energy to follow leading up to graduation.

We have uniforms up until you finish secondary school, then it depends on where you go. You have to buy them yourself unless you're on financial assistance or getting some kind of government subsidy, in which case I'm not sure how it works exactly.

And now the actual asking part of this ask: do y'all split math up into different subjects and if so, why??

Kids had to dye their hair to match as a group? What the fuck???? What the hell does hair matter???? Then again... bra straps and shorts don't matter either, and those are restricted everywhere, so maybe school is just dumb everywhere.

And math!!! Not super sure what you mean, but until about grade 10 here in BC all math is taught in one math class that's just "math". In grade 10 you can take precalculus or... the other one? And the idea is that Precalculus is for students going into university and the other one was for students going into trades. You NEEDED precalculus to go on to higher learning, is what we were told.

"Math" was just all math. Multiplication, geometry, algebra, etc.

"Precalculus" was all the basic skills meant to prep for calculus used in STEM stuff- polynomials, trigonometry, more algebra, that junk.

I failed it hard two times but passed the government exam so they weren't allowed to fail me again.

Also I'm good at math so they can kiss my ass now 👍

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cyberapid · 8 months ago

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Loved your view on Carrier instincts from Ratchet's point of view. I would love to see a part 2, Sire instincts from Optimus' point of view if possible.

Thank you so much!! I hope this is ok! I love the idea and had like three different drafts before I settled with this lmao.

Wasn’t sure how I wanted to handle sire protocol but I’m kinda satisfied? I thought like overprotective and kinda clingy would be interesting.

Little hurt/comfort and a lot longer

Pt.1 Pt.2

•-•-•

This was a simple retrieval that really only required two bots if all went well, get past the miners undetected, retrieve as much energon as possible, sabotage what you can, and get out. Ratchet had emphasised, excessively, the undetected part much to the annoyance of the small bots given the task.

Once the two were gone Optimus had occupied himself in Ratchet's makeshift med bay, much to the older bots annoyance, by picking up some of the broken equipment littered about but a black servo had smacked his own away. Looking down he’d met Ratchet's fierce glare, “Optimus I can barely think with your racket. Also, stop touching my things. I may need them,” he abruptly turns with a dramatic vent, continuing to track the signal of the two bots within the mines; Audials alert in case a quick exit is necessary.

The prime settled to instead linger behind his bonded, arms wrapped around his middle and servos held firm on cold metal. They watched the monitor as the two blinking bots made their way slowly through twisted corridors, avoiding working Decipticons. There was no real need to continually watch with Ratchet, their very capable Medic, on the job but something within Optimus’ processor made even entertaining the idea painful so he settled with being Ratchet’s secondary optics.

“Are you ill? I swear you’ve been clingier than normal,” Ratchet’s tone is twisted with frustration as he attempts to escape the others grip and get a better look up at him but firm, larger servos keep him in place while attempting to stay focused despite the movement, “are your brain circuits. fried, Optimus? Let me go!” Annoyance bursts through their shared bond as the medic attempts to free himself, uselessly.

The bickering pulls all attention away from the computer as the bonded pair complain and soothe respectively, missing the sudden company that surrounded the two spies. They miss the visual but Acree’s voice pulls them away from each other and back towards the monitor. “We’ve been spotted. Bee’s on the sabotage part already so just keep the bridge ready,”

Ratchet is quickly turned back to his monitor answering the femme, “Groundbridge is locked onto your coordinates and ready when you are,” anxiety fills the shared bond from his mates side and parts of this leak into the connection with their youngling, disrupting the usual contentment that flows through. Optimus feels his spark twist and anger flow through his processor, he attempts to cut the feeling off before it reaches his connection to his family but the sudden stiffness under his servos tells him he didn’t block the connection quick enough

“Open the Bridge, I’ll assist.” His request is met with a fuzzy scoff as his mate turns to him,

“Absolutely not. They’ve almost completed the mission and your being there will only make it worse,” anger flares further and he feels the involuntary twitch of his digit; deep in the logical side of his processor he knows his dear friend is correct but any logic he might of had is squashed by the fear that overwhelms him, consumes him. Something will happen to his creation and he stood by doing nothing.

The sudden anguish that fills their bond with the young boy startles them both from the intense stare off they’d engaged in, “scrap, Bee got hit! Open the bridge now I’m grabbing him. Bee put th-“ her comm is cut short but the two bots are quick to jump to action, a silent understanding as ratchet pulls himself away from groundbridge controls and off to prep med bay while Optimus takes over and activates the bridge.

The familiar whirl of the groundbridge echoes through the base along with the clanging from the medbay, Bulkhead's heavy steps alert the Prime to his entrance.

The Wrecker stands at the edge of the groundbridge's opening, in a tense observation, “should I head in and help em?” Anything their leader had to say is interrupted by Ratchet loudly exclaiming,

“Primus, no! I’ve said this twice now, you two will only jeopardize their exit. We don’t know how close they are or if the mines are large enough to house either of you,” he continues to chastise Bulkhead as Optimus turns his attention back to the portal, awaiting the sound of fleeing pedes. It takes far too long and his plating crawls at the sound of scraping metal that comes from the bridge.

The pain is searing to have to stand and make sure they clear the bridge before powering down the machine, he fights every instinct telling himself to forget the bridge and rush to his injured creation; to sooth his fears. He’d failed, again to protect what is his, what relies on him.

Then he failed to be the first to offer comfort as the white and orange mech rushes towards Acree who’s struggling to hold Bee up, who’s unable to walk with one pede as the other is non operational, spilling far too much energon from busted cabling.

He relieves the smaller scout of his creations form and transfers him onto the awaiting medical berth with care not to irritate any wounds further. Optimus is quick to trail behind him once the bridge is secured, narrowly avoiding stepping Raf thanks to Bulkhead who, as gently as possible, grabs the boy out of the way.

A quiet buzz sounds from Bumblebees intake at the sight of his creators and he sends pulses of joy through their bond which Optimus returns in large quantities to make up for his bondeds neglect of it, who instead focuses on the care of the scouts leg. A sudden shrill sound pulls him from flooding the bond with comfort, “Ratchet! Careful!”

The offended mech looks up from his work and lets out a distorted guffaw, “excuse me? You really have shorted your circuits!” Anger explodes from both sides of their shared bond.

A sudden squeeze of his servo kills any further complaints he has, instead he looks down at his creation who whirls sadly. A steady rumble leaves his intake in an attempt to sooth him and it appears to work as his optics dim, a sated calm pulses through the three way bond, and his engine lulls to a calm rumble. The calm allows Ratchet to work quickly and without interruption.

Silence settles into the silo and Optimus finds himself sparing a glance at his bonded who’s taken to working silently; A sturdy wall between their connection, “Ratchet-“

“Not now” his answer is short and his helm doesn’t raise from the damaged leg of their sparkling, experienced hands working for an amount of time Prime isn’t sure of but he knows it drags on far too long— leaving him with stirring remorseful thoughts.

•-•

Every person or bot has retired for the night or left the silo leaving the bonded pair and an unconscious, but stable, Bee. They haven’t spoken since the short outburst between them with Ratchet busying himself cleaning the mess left in medbay and Optimus watching over the resting bot.

He’d had time to mull over his actions leaving a nasty churn in his tanks, “my dear friend?” Ratchets shoulders tense up and his vents stall out as the equipment he’d been gently pushing into size order clatter to the ground,

“What,”

“I owe you an apology,” he reaches his free servo out to the other mech, expectantly, “please.” There’s a loud sigh as Ratchet accepts his hand and walks closer, settling himself in front of Optimus and beside the Berth for just a moment before an clattering sounds throughout the silo and the medic finds himself uncomfortably sat on the primes lap,

“What was that!” His servo collided with the side of Optimus’ helm reflexively before panicking and checking the slight dent as the other laughs. “Why would you do that! It’s hardly an apology,”

“Yes, you’re correct. I do apologize though, I was out of line for reprimanding you. Especially when you are far more experienced than I am in that field,” there’s a faint hum that leads into a purr from the mech above him— the walls that had been built up come down and contentment eases through their bond. The medic turns to look at their creation, free servo running over scraped yellow plating,

“I need to run diagnostics on you, your demeanour change is strange,”

#transformers #transformers prime #transformers fanfiction #optiratch #optimus prime x ratchet #tfp optimus prime #tfp ratchet #tfp bumblebee #tfp arcee #tfp bulkhead #tfp raf

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meowzilla93 · 2 years ago

Text

Love Language with the Boys!!

I feel like its quite self explanatory in the games but I wanted to explore more into it so

Here is the primary and secondary Love Languages the Boys have!

Derek Suarez

Primary - Acts of Service!

This boy loves and needs someone to just make his life even a fraction easier

You need someone on your side boo? We got you!

Lets start the day

Are you a night owl and sleep in? Well, you made sure to make some snacks and prepare his workout drinks in the fridge the night before – gotta make sure muscle man is eating right and getting his protein

Early bird like he is? Sweet! If you both go to the gym you pack his bag for him as he is getting dressed, or maybe you’ll go ahead and make a quick breakfast for the two of you to get some energy before a work out

Not going to the gym? No issues! You give him a kiss on the cheek and hand him his protein shake as he leaves, then whilst he is gone you can start prepping a good after workout breakfast for him to come back to

Has he got work or meetings he needs to go to afterwards? You could make sure his clothes are ready to go, or maybe the papers he was reading through the night before are packed away into his bag

You’ve got the day off work? Maybe we plan a nice dinner surprise with his favourite meal

Or you order in cause it’s a Friday and its game night (GO TEAM SUAREZ) and you both aren’t getting much sleep that night

Oh you noticed his favourite protein powder is running out? Better put an order in and top it up before he notices (of course he notices, he is absolutely touched!)

Poor boy has gotten sick? You just know he doesn’t want to let that slow him down

Guess what you are doing?

You are one step away from strapping him down to that bed (kinky, but not really HE IS SICK) but he finally relents, so you get to nurse him now

Mama Suarez has told you his favourite go to home remedies to get better, and you make it all! Tea, soups, hot chocolate, you name it

He is going to know what it means to be taken care of

You have Dereks Day! But its not once a year, its once a month

He needs to have one day every 30 days where its just about him and letting him let loose

The Boardwalk is always a winner, but sometimes its just a picnic, or go to the water park, or go to the movies. Whatever he wants to do, its getting done

Secondary – Words of Affirmation!

I swear this man, LIKE ALL THE OTHERS, doesn’t understand when we compliment him or anything

So guess what guys

Daily Affirmation Texts

He really needs these ones

Just a reminder of how amazing he is, that he is kicking goals (pun intended)

That we are so happy to be with him

Just remind him that he matters, because baby, you really do!

Cove Holden

Primary – Quality Time!

So we know how much Cove loves just spending time with us

Its his favourite hobby, pastime, memory, you name it

Oh our favourite resident merman has a new fish?

You are sitting down and letting that man gush about it, telling you all about its species and what the care is going to be for it

You don’t even have to say anything, just sitting there and listening to him is all that matters

Hard day at work?

He just needs to vent to you, same thing. You could even provide tips (im talking like, hit them in the kneecaps advice) to him just to get him to smile and laugh about it

Some think that Quality Time means you need to give each other attention all the time, but not for you two

All he wants is to be in your presence, and you don’t even have to be doing the same thing

You guys have aced Parallel Play

The most important thing is making sure you are within each others vision and you Gucci

He is reading, you could be watching something on your phone

He is cleaning the fish tank, you could be there just listening to music and maybe doing a hobby of your own

He just wants your presence

BE IN HIS PRESENCE

Any time away is torture to him, every Step in the game literally explains that

Secondary – Gift Giving!

Remember how excited he gets over the orange shell? The poppy? The fudges? The windchime?

This man is so ecstatic that you thought of him WHEN HE WASN’T EVEN THERE

And you are giving him something that he would like, and you did it unprompted

Prepare for waterworks

Listen, sometimes you just need to leave it on his pillow to come back to

You got up earlier than him (shocker that one) cause of work, so as you are quietly bustling around getting ready, you leave him a little letter or a present on the pillow next to him

When he finally wakes up and sees it, there are tears, and then there is an urgent call coming your way

Because of course he needs to thank you for it!

Just be prepared that you will get gifts too. That’s his way of showing his love and care too

Baxter Ward

Primary – Physical Touch!

Look, I swear this one is so obvious, but in case it isn’t I will go into HEAVY DETAIL OF WHAT HE LIKES

See he loves being in your presence all the time, but it simply isn’t enough

He needs some part of him touching you, even in a minute way, he just needs it

Driving? You are holding hands, this is a rule

Walking? Holding hands or he has your arm draped on his all gentlemanly like

Sitting together at a function? Somehow you have contact

You could be holding each others hand on the table

Or simply linking fingers, even just the pinky finger (YOU MJST BE TOUCHING)

Linked ankles underneath the table

Pressed up next to each other so your thighs or shoulders are touching whilst talking to others

Home alone and you are sitting on the couch together?

Position A: he is laying his head in your lap, you will brush your fingers through his hair that is the LAW

You could always give him a small head massage, he would love you even more for it

Position B: leaning against each other, watching a movie, he will have his arm wrapped around you and holding you in close, you could hold his hand as well

Position C: You are lying on him. Oh he will be brushing you hair, but say you don’t like that, he is content holding you hand instead

Oh this man is a sucker for hand holding (have you read anything above)

But you know what would make him weak?

Giving him a hand massage. Or just caressing his hand, feeling his fingers, brushing them across his palm. The lot of it

Can say the same about his neck and head; you could just be caressing him, admiring him and his skin and softness and he would 100% be lulled to sleep by it

Or, if you do it the right way, something else entirely would be on the menu (play prawn-hu- gets shot)

He is making dinner for you? Gently hug him from behind

Come home from work? A hug and a kiss is required for this tired man

Is there music playing? Oh a dance is required. Doesn’t have to be fancy, just a chance to hold onto you and sway is enough for him

Kisses – lord this man would accept a kiss any where

Hands, cheeks, chin, nose, shoulders, legs (alright we need to get back on track)

But forehead touches are supreme

Sharing a hug, foreheads pressed together, just being in each other space?

His heart couldn’t be more full

Bedtimes? You would consider yourself lucky if you can untangle yourself from him

You are 100% wrapped up in a Baxter Burrito and you aren’t escaping

But if that’s not your thing, don’t worry he is respectful of that

At this point as long as he can feel your body heat and movement in the bed, he will be content

After all he gets all the touches during the waking hours

Secondary – I Feel like this is almost two, cause He does need Words of Affirmation even though he doesn’t believe in it half the time, but also Quality Time is a big hitter for him...

With Baxter, because he is emotionally stunted, there is only so far you can provide him in words of affirmation before he just doesn’t listen anymore

So these ones need to happen sporadically, and during very important moments

Like when he is really beating himself up, rather than tell him he is wrong, you just need to flip the conversation to be positive

Sometimes you do just need to give him time to process what has happened and let him come back to you to talk, and that’s when you can gently re-affirm the positives with him

Quality Time just links in with Physical Touch

He loves being with you, and just plain talking with you

If you are long distance, he just wants to make every moment count, over the phone or in person

And if you do that back to him, well then you are just the more remarkable person ever

Don’t need to be doing anything fancy, voice calling is just fine

Going for a walk and chatting

Trying a new restaurant when you are both together again

DANCING COME ON

Thank you for reading my TED talk.

A small part of me is sad that Coves is so little, but honestly mans gets so much screen time, the other boys deserve a chance to shine!

cough I do not have a favourite cough

#our life beginnings and always #olba #baxter ward #our life #olba baxter #our life headcannons #baxter x mc #olba cove #cove x mc #olba derek #derek x mc #love language #olba mc #headcannons

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hereticpriest · 1 year ago

Text

Alpha Mine

Relationship: Laszlo Kreizler x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Explicit, A/B/O Dynamics, Omega Laszlo Kreizler, Alpha Reader, Trauma, Childhood Trauma, Dynamic Discrimination, Period-Typical Views on Gender and Dynamics, Dynamic-Based PTSD, Healing, Not Actually Unrequited Lust and Love, Scent Kink, Praise Kink, Knotting, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Anal Fingering, Rimming, Breeding Kink, Mpreg.

Dr. Laszlo Kreizler was looking for a typist to work at the Kreizler Institute.

You knew it might be your only opportunity. Dr. Kreizler had a reputation for surrounding himself with queer cases, and having wildly unpopular ideas about what was and wasn’t appropriate socially. He was an Alienist, and thus a man immersed in the latest scientific inquiries. If anyone were to offer you a job, it would be him. If anyone were capable of looking past your… affliction, it would be him. Not solely because you were a woman, which was queer enough on its own. No, you are something far worse than a working woman.

You’re an Alpha.

Biologically, you knew it was completely normal for a small percentage of the population to be both female and Alpha. It was no more or less rare than male Omegas. Most of the population - about 60% - were Betas. The ideal, frankly, for many. Devoid of pesky extra hormones and impulses, a Beta can live a relatively normal life without the pressures of an Alpha or Omega. Betas have scent glands, but their scent is weaker, less obtrusive, and their nose is not as keen as the other designations. Betas have only their primary gender characteristics to worry about. Secondary gender has little to do with their lives.

Alpha males are less rare, and idealised by the wealthy elite who can afford to handle their more difficult impulses. They’re stronger than a normal man, with scents as aggressive as their impulses, and anger issues abound. Omega females are similarly idealised, though still held to the same standards, if not stricter, than a normal woman. Prim and proper and never lifting a finger to do more than birth babies for a strong Alpha. One can even raise their station considerably by virtue of being a strong Alpha male or a fertile Omega female from a lower class family that might entice a higher class mate.

Male Omegas and female Alphas are more rare than their counterparts, and often looked down upon in high society. Your parents had been certain you would be an Omega like your mother before you. So certain, in fact, that they had sent you to an Omega prep school - education provided to young Omega ladies to prepare them for their future life, and the submissiveness that would be required of them. Even unpresented, your parents had been able to enroll you based on your mother’s designation. When you presented at age fourteen, you were surrounded by Omegas, and completely shell-shocked. You were thrown into a rut completely out of your control, and had to be dragged bodily from the building by several Beta men who performed security for the school.

Locked in your bedroom, you ached, nearly tearing yourself apart with need and confusion and disgust. After a week of torment, you were finally released from your confinement to face the wrath of your parents. Your ‘little episode’ as they called it, had been reported upon in the society papers, and you were made a mockery of on multiple fronts. First, that you were female and an Alpha. Second, that you had been placed in an Omega school in the first place. Third, that you presented there, were thrown into a rut, and had to be dragged through the streets like a rabid animal.

You had not entered the light of society since, at your parent’s behest. They cared for you, to a point, however they were now tasked with finding a male Omega for you to mate with. They could have tried to find you a Beta, who likely wouldn’t care so much about your designation, however your parents were of a purist breed. Alphas and Omegas mated as far back as designations had existed. You almost thought they might break the streak just to get you pawned off on someone else. Your reputation had improved since your presentation, thankfully. No one stared, and mostly, no one gossiped.

You were, however, bored. Bored of being confined. Bored of taking rut blockers and bathing yourself in scent blockers just to never leave the house anyways. Bored of seeing nothing but the small neighbourhood around you. Bored of life. So, you decided to get a job. You hoped that having a purpose beyond ‘wait for someone to find you an Omega to rut into the ground until one of you gets pregnant’ would spark some joie de vivre in your bland, grey life. An unwise decision, according to your parents, but one they weren’t going to interfere with for now. You know that they assume you’re going to fail, and that’s likely the only reason they’ve allowed it.

On a cold Autumn morning at half past eight, you walked into the Kreizler Institute in your most demure but professional dress, high collar pulled up to cover your bare neck and contain some of your scent. Despite being bathed in scent blockers, you were paranoid about an incident. Your reputation couldn’t handle it. Nor could your sanity.

“Hello, I’m here for an appointment with Dr. Kreizler at quarter to nine?”

The receptionist looks up at you for a moment, studying you curiously, then sighs as he stands from his desk. His bland, calming Beta scent fills your nose as he approaches to lead you along, and you do your best to breathe and calm your racing heart. You’re led to Dr. Kreizler’s office, and the receptionist knocks twice, then leaves. His calming scent abandons you, and the nerves creep back in.

“Come in.” An accented voice calls from inside, and you tentatively open the door, doing your best to look as passive as possible. Signs of aggression in a male Alpha might be forgivable, but the same was certainly not to be said for a female Alpha. Even the slightest sign of confidence could be interpreted as aggression by many, and you were trying to make a good impression. You peek around the door to see a man sitting alone at a desk in one of the most beautiful offices you’ve ever seen. It’s quite grand, lined with countless bookshelves that you want to peruse though you’d never dare. The furniture is opulent but comfortable, and the room is far more spacious than you expected.

Dr. Kreizler himself is of average height, with a sturdy build. His facial hair is perfectly groomed, and you imagine he takes great care of himself in every way, for his appearance is immaculate. His clothes are obviously expensive and well-tailored, and he chooses his outfits to suit him quite impressively for a man of science. You’d always imagined they’d be more dowdy and less handsome. He looks at you with no real warmth to him, but he’s calm and collected, and not necessarily cold.

“Ms. L/N, I presume?” He breaks the silence, and you step into his office hesitantly, nodding.

“Yes, Dr. Kreizler. Lovely to meet you.” You reply, and he nods, gesturing towards the chair across from him. He doesn’t try to get up and pull it out for you, which you appreciate since there’s truly no need. He’s about to be your boss, hopefully. You don’t expect him to treat you like a delicate lady when you’re anything but. You sit in the offered seat, smoothing out your dress and offering him a polite smile. He smells medicinal in the way of scent blockers, but they must be quality like yours, for you can’t get even a whiff of his designation.

Somehow, you secure the job. Dr. Kreizler blinks when you tell him your designation, looking you over for longer than is necessarily comfortable, but otherwise has very little reaction. He surveys your typing skills, backhandedly praises your knowledge of medical terminology, then gives you a dubious but curious look when you admit to reading his works. When you prove it by quoting him, he softens, seemingly noticing how much you’ve bristled from having your knowledge discounted. He tells you you start tomorrow, and that a requirement of your job is that you take rut blockers and apply scent blockers, which isn’t a problem since you already do both of those things. You depart with nothing more than a handshake and a nod, heart nearly beating out of your chest with excitement for the job you’ve managed to land yourself.

Nearly eight months pass in the blink of an eye. You grow closer to Dr. Kreizler, who appears to be the only person willing to treat you normally despite your queer designation. He trusts you and your opinion, asking you endless questions about yourself. He treats you better than anyone else you’ve ever met despite his moods, and always apologises after a day when he’s been particularly snippy, which you appreciate. He notices sometime into your employment your fixation with biting yourself when you’re nervous. First, chewing the skin around your nails, which escalates into biting your thenar eminence when your parents put pressure on you to quit your job and stop making a fool of yourself.

One day, he dares to ask about the news in the society pages. He’d been thirty-one at the time, and expressed a certain sadness in regards to how you’d been treated. It isn’t easy to talk about, but he listens as if you’re riveting, and you’ve never had someone find you interesting in any way that wasn’t cruel. You tell him about how you’d been prepared to be an Omega your entire life. You knew what to expect - the hormone changes, the physical changes, the emotional volatility. You were ready for it. And then, one day, you became something wholly different than expected with zero preparation for how to be that thing. You felt something akin to a monster, only worsened by how you’d been confined with Omegas when you presented.

Dr. Kreizler listens with a certain sympathy on his face as you explain that you’d tried to leave the room when their scents got overwhelming. That you didn’t want any of them, nor did you want to attack or hurt anyone. The only reason you’d even fought the security guards back then was because one of the Omegas was crying, big fat tears rolling down her face, and you could fix it. You knew in your gut that you could, and that you were supposed to. Already, raspy, unused little chuffs were rolling in your throat, subvocals full of comforting tones. Alphas were meant to make Omegas feel better, to protect and nurture not just your mates but any vulnerable person who needed you. It was instinctual. They tried to stop you from doing what you were meant to do, and your body took over. You weren’t going to hurt her - you had no sexual feelings towards her whatsoever. Then, your rut set in, caused by the crying and the aggressive action against you by those security guards, and the scent of hundreds of unmated Omegas.

Your instincts had been made a mockery of in the papers. You were turned from a scared fourteen year old girl into a wild animal maddened by her impulses. It was framed as why women shouldn’t be Alphas - your emotions were too volatile to be mixed with the fire of aggression of an Alpha, or so they said. Dr. Kreizler reaches out at one point, touching your arm so gently you could barely feel him, and you realise that you’re crying. He apologises for the sensitive subject, but you can see in his eyes that he wouldn’t have stopped prying if he had more questions. He’s kind, but his curiosity sometimes makes him just a little bit cruel, prone to poking and prodding until he gets what he wants.

Only a day or two later, he finally tells you why he understands and empathises with you so much. He’s an Omega. Like you in reverse, he’d been believed to be an Alpha from birth, and was sent to an Alpha prep school. Your stories were mirrored, except that his presentation had been significantly more discreet. He’d presented young, while visiting home for a weekend, with only his family in the house. You envy him for a moment, swiftly followed by relief that he hadn’t had to endure what you had. Unlike you, his designation was able to be hidden, and very few knew the truth.

It bonds you. Both of you, oddities, controlling your designations as best you can in a world that finds you unusual and distasteful at the very best. You are a constant ball of tightly wired control, but you allow yourself small intimacies with Dr. Kreizler. You tell him more. He inquires as to the nature of your biting habit, and you admit to the level of control you need to have at all times, and that the biting was always a compulsion but has only grown more frequent and harmful as you got older. Thankfully, you haven’t bitten anyone else. Dr. Kreizler calls it self-harm, and you do not refute him, though you do tell him that you aren’t trying to hurt yourself. Dr. Kreizler makes attempts to curb your habit, but the gloves he gives you only dull the pain and keep you from biting the skin around your nails.

Not long into your employment at the Kreizler Institute, the doctor begins solving crimes with John Moore, an Alpha who struggles with his own warring physical and emotional needs. You like him, at least partially because he doesn’t try to posture at you and prove his dominance as the biggest Alpha in the room. You wouldn’t want to have to be involved in a fight like that, because you aren’t sure who would win, and you know it would be worse if you did. Then comes Sara Howard, the calmest and strongest Beta you’ve ever met in your life. You like her quite a bit, and you like her even more when she, when told your designation, simply shrugs and asks you if your female nature makes you less of an aggressive arse than a typical Alpha. The Twins come along shortly after, and to your surprise, the good doctor demands you join them as well. You take notes and type them up for the team, and copy ‘borrowed’ police documents without a hint of shame.

Suddenly, before you even realise it has been so long, spring is upon you. Your least favourite season, with rain clouds looming high in the sky every other goddamned day. You begin keeping a spare bottle of scent blockers on your desk at work just to reapply when you have to go out in the rain. Which is, regrettably, often. On one clear day, you head out with Dr. Kreizler to examine a crime scene not too terribly far from the Institute. You hold his arm politely, poised and elegant the way you’re meant to be as a well to do woman - Dr. Kreizler always gives you the confidence to play the role you’ve always been meant to play, despite your lack of surety. You needed to play your roles in public, and you especially needed to keep yourself buttoned up to avoid attention.

You meet John and Sara at the crime scene, and Sara sticks close to you while John draws the scene and Dr. Kreizler makes observations that he expects you to write down despite the speed at which he makes them. Thank goodness for Sara, filling in any blanks of words that you might’ve missed. By this point, John no longer tries to protest your involvement at crime scenes, though he always gives Dr. Kreizler a judgemental look when he shows up with you. You’re not bothered by the blood and gore, despite Mr. Moore’s concerns. The smell is a bit much on your sensitive nose, but blood doesn’t turn your stomach the way it does for others (him included). The nature of the crimes - the murder of young boys who were only children - was more disturbing to you than the gore itself. You were very curious about the crimes, in fact, though you did your best to keep that to yourself to avoid appearing odd.

Eventually, Dr. Kreizler determines he’s seen enough, and he offers you his arm as he turns to leave, the motion casual now after so long travelling the city together in the name of criminal inquiry. John does the same to Sara, but she pointedly ignores it, stepping out through the door behind you both. Only a few minutes into your walk, the skies turn, the clouds grow dark, and it begins to pour rain down upon you. Together, you all run towards the shelter of a covered overhang between two buildings, and you ring out your clothes as much as you can, panic sparking in your heart. You’re soaked through, and it's dangerous to catch a chill, however your concern is not for your health.

You can already smell yourself. The woodsy, spicy scent rolls off of you, made worse by your nervousness. John sniffs the air as subtly as he can, but you notice him, and your cheeks grow warm with embarrassment and nervousness. The scent of figs, geranium, vetiver, cedarwood and citrus fills your nose, sweet and tangy, with a hint of floral. Your tension eases, and you take a deep breath through your nose, instinctively soothed by the scent. And then, you seem to put two and two together.

Dr. Kreizler.

Sweet and floral like an Omega. The scent was your boss, and his scent soothed you in the way of compatible Alphas and Omegas. Shit.

Shit shit shit.

You step back from the Omega and press your wrist to your nose, huffing on your own scent gland just to try and drown out the smell of him. The good doctor gives you an odd look as he squeezes some of the rainwater out of his shirt, unaware of the dilemma you’ve found yourself in. Your good fortune doesn’t last. His pupils dilate quite suddenly, and he sniffs, then rubs his nose as if unsure what he’s experiencing. His brows furrow, and he takes a deep breath through his nose to try and process the scent. Finally, his gaze settles on you, and you don’t recognise the look in his eyes. It’s heavy, and you feel the weight of your designation settling around your shoulders as you finally connect his expression to one you’ve seen before.

Hunger.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble, and John raises an eyebrow at you. A myriad of emotions cross your boss’ face in a flash, but none of them seem particularly negative, always accompanied by that intense hunger. The doctor lifts a hand to delicately pluck open the top button on his shirt, and then the second, showing off his bare neck. You can see the soft bump of his scent glands, and your body burns with the knowledge that he’s exposing them to you. It’s a blatant invitation. Unbecoming of an Omega, typically, but not unheard of. John sucks air through his teeth, and your hackles raise instantly as you position yourself between John and Dr. Kreizler.

“What exactly is going on?” Sara asks, her voice tight with some amount of distaste at being out of the loop.

“It’s-” John begins, taking a half-step closer to you, then cuts himself off as you give a quick display of your teeth. He retreats back, his gaze slowly trailing over the doctor before he rips it away and turns his back on you to instead face Sara. You’re only distracted from him by the preternatural awareness of someone leaning over your shoulder, a deep inhale only an inch or two from your scent glands startling you. Dr. Kreizler’s eyes are nearly black when you look back over your shoulder at him, panic and hunger swirling together in your gut as you observe what you’ve done to your intelligent and calm boss. This is your fault. He’s fine around John, who wears only light scent blockers if any. You’ve done this to him - devolved him to his baser instincts.

“Dr. Kreizler…”

“Laszlo.” He corrects you, tipping his head back and to the side to expose his neck to you, and a high-pitched, awkward ‘Oh!’ slips from your lips. Your cheeks are on fire as you look away from him. He reaches out, skimming his thumb over the scent gland on your right wrist, an intimacy that was reserved for mates or family. The tangy scent of slick reaches your nose, and you panic, pointedly keeping your eyes away from the prominent hard line in his trousers. John pats you on the shoulder gently.

“We’ll leave you here, I suppose. I should get Ms. Howard home. I trust you’ll be able to get each other home safely, yes?” He asks, and you gap at him.

“Yes, thank you, John.” Laszlo replies for you, and you only nod when he gently nudges your ribs. You start to take Laszlo’s arm, but he takes yours instead, and you turn your gaze to the sky as his crafty fingertips stroke across the slight bulge of your bicep. Like male Alphas, you were gifted with a certain strength that went far beyond what any other woman your size would be capable of. You hid it well under clothes that were just a little bit bigger, which is only made clearer when Laszlo stares at your arm in surprise as you walk. His pupils are already blown, eyes half-lidded with blatant desire, but the scent of slick gets stronger and you get more and more protective. You reach up to your neck, unbuttoning the collar of your shirt and giving it a shake to disperse more of your scent, hoping to cover up the scent of his desire.

It earns you looks, but it’s worth it to avoid anyone else being able to smell the slick on your Omega. You wonder if it’s running down his thighs. You wonder if he’s hard as a rock in those perfectly tailored trousers of his. You wonder how sweetly tangy his slick would taste should you follow his silent requests and bend him over the first chance you get. There’s a couch within maybe twenty feet of the front door of his house - you could bend him over it, pull those expensive trousers down over his round little ass and spread him open. Lap up the slick pouring from him and stroke his pretty little cock until he falls apart. You could make your Omega cover his own couch in cum, then get him to lick it up while you make him fall apart on your knot where he belongs.

“Alpha.” Laszlo murmurs, and you blink, finding yourself just outside the door to Laszlo’s home. You look at him, surveying his somewhat disheveled appearance, his eyes wide with hopeful desire. The smell of slick and ripe Omega fills the air, and you shake your head to clear it. You were calling Laszlo your Omega in your head. Claiming him. You were being an overbearing Alpha, drowning this poor Omega in your scent and forcing him into this needy state. You bite down on your hand, sharp teeth sinking through your skin like butter and filling the air with the fresh iron scent of blood. The pain grounds you, cutting through the hormones and thirst, and satisfying the ache in your jaw to bite and claim and make Laszlo yours.

“Go inside, Omega.” You insist, mouth stained with blood, opening the door for him from behind his back so he can’t see what you’ve done, and he heads inside with the clear expectation that you will be following him, “Goodnight, Laszlo.”

“Wait-” He begins as he notices the scent of blood, turning to see you sinking your teeth back into your hand as you slam the door closed behind him and run. You get home in record time, and instead of going through the front door, you scale the wall through the backyard to your window then sneak into the bathroom to scrub yourself raw in the bathroom. You normally don’t sleep in scent blockers, but you do tonight, and you take an additional dose of rut blocker just for safety. Now that you know how good Laszlo smells - now that the scent of ripe, virgin, needy Omega is stuck in your nose - how are you supposed to go on without bending him over his desk?

You bite your hand until your brain goes fuzzy, then wash the blood away in a bit of a trance, bandaging yourself up. You crawl into bed in a daze, burying your face in your pillow and falling into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Walking into work the next morning is unnerving. You’ve bathed yourself in more scent blocker, and brought an additional dose of your rut blocker to take midday just in case. You’re wearing a dress with a high collar just for further coverage. A couple of people throughout the Institute take a second glance at your bandaged hand, but you ignore it, focused on getting to work. Without your left hand, typing will be slow going, but you can manage. You resolve to act as if yesterday didn’t even happen, and you hope that Laszlo won’t be too angry with you. You’ll apologise again if he seems angry.

You stand before the large door to his office, hesitating to take a steadying breath before you push it open. Laszlo stands by his desk, dressed elegantly in a white shirt, an ornate dark green vest with gold threading, and a pair of black trousers. His glasses sit at the end of his nose, and he’s reading through some of the papers you’ve typed up. He looks up as you enter the room, and you freeze as he smiles at you, warmer than you expected in the best case scenario. He puts the papers on the desk, circling the desk to sit his bottom on the edge of it.

“Good morning.” He greets you, and you blink, then nod your head quickly and head for your desk.

“Good morning, Dr. Kreizler.”

“I told you to call me Laszlo. I still desire that today.” He replies, with a weight to his voice that you know is meant to imply something more, but you’re too anxious to even acknowledge him. You hurry to your desk, and miss Laszlo frowning at your back in consternation.

“Of course, Laszlo, I apologise.”

“Is your hand-”

“I took care of it. Thank you.” You reply shortly, rubbing your good hand over your hot cheeks, then flipping open his journal and getting back to work. Laszlo tries to talk to you a couple of times throughout the day, but you keep it professional as much as you can. He sweeps past your desk at one point, and you feel the ghost of his fingers across the back of your neck. You shiver, glancing at him, and he makes and holds eye contact with you before demurely dropping his gaze to the floor. His submissiveness sparks something in you, and you have to swallow hard and take deep, soothing breaths to calm down. You turn back to your work, and Laszlo huffs an annoyed breath behind you.

Several days pass, and you fall into a steady rhythm with Laszlo. You’ve begun reapplying scent blocker throughout the day to avoid bothering your boss, and despite the way he looks at you, you think it might be working. He hasn’t made any kind of moves on you so far, but you can feel his gaze burning into you, and it always makes you nervous. One evening, you visit his home with John and Sara to discuss the case, and Laszlo makes a brief trip to the bathroom before returning, smelling so strongly of ripe and ready Omega that you find yourself biting your cheek to keep from growling at John.

The other Alpha seems as confused as you, and even remarks privately to Laszlo that his scent blockers have worn off, but Laszlo simply shrugs.

“Am I not allowed to take them off in my own home, John?”

Mr. Moore has nothing to say to that, but he keeps his eyes on you as Laszlo sits on the other side of the couch you’re perched upon. It takes every ounce of control in your body to avoid biting through your hand again, and when it very clearly becomes too much, John gives you a tidy excuse to go home by rounding up Sara and departing with you both. Much to Laszlo’s disappointment.

A knock upon your door is not what you expect two days later while your parents are attending a party and event outside of the city. You open it tentatively, almost afraid of what you’ll find, and John Moore stands upon your doorstep. In his arms is a beautiful bouquet that he appears to be trying not to sniff too much - given the slightly red state of his nose, you assume he might be allergic. The flowers are beautiful, but as a well-to-do lady, you know their meanings as keenly as you know your own soul.

“Mr. Moore, may I ask why you’re attempting to court a fellow Alpha? It isn’t unheard of, of course, but my parents would never allow-”

“No!”

“Beg your pardon?”

“No, sorry, sorry, they’re not from me.” John replies shortly, then hands the bouquet over, “Laszlo asked me to deliver these for him.”

“Laszlo. As in, Dr. Kreizler.” You state blankly, and he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Do you know any other?”

“Of course not. John, Dr. Kreizler has no real interest in me. This is surely a mistake.” You insist, trying to give the bouquet back, but he shakes his head firmly.

“No, you can discuss that with the good doctor yourself. I’ve done my part.” John insists, and you frown as he stalks away quickly, sneezing at the bottom of the steps. You close the door, carrying the flowers inside and looking them over.

Borage, to deliver a blunt or direct message. Pink camellia, to convey longing. Red carnations to convey heartache, and edelweiss for devotion. Nasturtium was a blunt choice, conveying conquest and a foreseen victory in battle. Savory to add spice and convey interest. Red roses for love and seduction, and red tulips to convey passion. Red hyacinth for intense passion and adoration, jasmine for sensuality, and orchids for seduction.

The message of the bouquet is shockingly blunt. A bouquet like this would be inappropriate, and should you tell anyone about it, you’re certain Laszlo’s reputation would be damaged. You stroke the petals, carrying the bouquet up to your bedroom and splitting it into smaller bouquets. One goes onto your vanity, another on your night table, and a third in a vase on your windowsill.

In return, you leave a bouquet of your own on his desk. Blue saliva, to convey that you think of him fondly. Chamomile to request patience in your lack of surety. Fennel for flattery. Apple blossom, to convey your preference for him over others, and clematis to show appreciation for his mental prowess and beauty. And then, to send a clear message, you attach tarragon for lasting interest to lavender for distrust and rue for clear vision. You want to make it clear that while you hold affection for him, you distrust his lasting interest and that his thoughts are clear. The following morning, you come in to a single flower on your desk.

Blue hyacinth for constancy.

Over the next couple of days, Laszlo is a bit gentler in his pursuits - for you can call them nothing less, with how keenly he observes you and tries to gentle your heart to him. He pries no less than he used to, but he does his best to stop before he goes too far. He asks you questions about yourself, talks to you about your interests, compliments the way you’ve styled your hair, and compliments your work. He wears a lighter scent blocker going forwards instead of the near-impenetrable one he wore before. It gets you more used to his scent instead of being completely overwhelmed every time he takes it off when you go to his home after working on a case. You’re beginning to wonder if perhaps he is serious about his intentions. You’ve never heard of an Omega pursuing an Alpha like this. Short term, certainly, but usually only while they’re in preheat and wanting a specific Alpha. It’s been just over two weeks now, and he has not relented.

You go into work a couple of days later to find a small box on your desk, and you open it slowly, hesitant, only to find a lover’s eye pendant inside the box. You recognise the colour in an instant. You also recognise the portraiture. John Moore painted this, and it is Dr. Laszlo Kreizler’s honey-brown eye. John has perfectly captured the very light crow’s feet at the corner of Laszlo’s eye, and his lovely long lashes that you’re somewhat envious of. The portrait is beautiful, and you stroke your fingertips across the gold frame, a small smile pulling at your lips. You put the pendant on, tucking it down into the bodice of your dress, holding it against your chest as if it might become a part of you with enough contact.

Laszlo watches from his desk, a smug smile on his face as he shuffles through his papers, pushing his glasses up his nose when they slip down. You’re so pleased that you don't even protest when he invites you to Delmonico’s with John and Sara, though you know you’ve trapped yourself.

“Your parents thought you were going to be an Omega?” Sara asks at one point through the evening, and you agree, awkward but not necessarily uncomfortable divulging in the present company.

“They did. I was… quite a surprise.”

“Did they have a nesting dowry for you?” Sara asks softly, as none of these matters pertain to her and you know she is endlessly curious about them. You smile fondly at her sincerity, and the lack of judgement she’s shown you.

“That might, perhaps, be the only benefit of them thinking I would be an Omega. I have a nesting trunk from when I was a child.” You reply, and you politely pretend that you don’t hear Laszlo’s sharp little intake of breath. Sara laughs, a wide smile on her face as her gaze darts over to Laszlo, then back to you.

“Oh, that’s very special.”

“Indeed. My father has also set aside a suitable nesting dowry to compensate for anything missing. I also…” You trail off, cheeks getting hot as you become a little embarrassed.

“What is it?” Sara presses, and you give the tiniest shrug of your shoulders.

“Well, I was taught to embroider, of course. But I also learned to knit, and sew. I made a baby blanket when I was younger, and little matching booties and a little hat.” You admit, and Sara gasps with delight, leaning closer to you over the table. You notice John also leaning in, a soft look in his eyes that you’re especially fond of - he’s so sensitive, he makes your heart melt, “I’ve been working on a blanket as well, for… well, most of my life since I presented. I’m almost finished, in fact.”

“That’s wonderful.” John comments, and you smile demurely, “What a lovely gift for your future Omega. I envy you the skill - I’m sure many Omegas would be thrilled with such an offering.”

“It must take you so much time.” Sara adds, and you nod your agreement.

“Oh, it does. I work on it every night after work. I had a lot of time after presenting - my parents didn’t let me go out much, for obvious reasons.”

John frowns a little, as does Sara, but she reaches across the table to cover your hand on your glass.

“You’re a welcome addition to our team. I’ve never met an Alpha with such strong control over their instincts.” Sara muses, and you bite your lip, guilt flooding you as you think of what you’ve done to Laszlo. Certainly, his behaviour is your fault, right? He wasn’t interested in you before you smothered him in your scent.

“It is a constant struggle.” You admit, turning your head as you hear a small clatter and smiling fondly at the sight of an Alpha with his arm protectively around his heavily pregnant Omega. She waddles, cheeks aglow with motherly mirth, her hand cupping her round belly as she squeezes between tables. Her Alpha pulls out her seat, tucking her in at their table, and you sigh happily at the clear love between them. You turn your gaze back to the table to see similar looks on John and Sara’s faces, though Laszlo instead looks surprisingly… sad.

“Laszlo?” You ask quietly, and he blinks, looking at you with a certain longing in his eyes that makes you squirm in your seat.

“I always wanted to be a father.” He admits, quiet enough that it’s nearly a whisper. You stare at him for a moment, shocked at his vulnerability, and slide your hand across the table to brush your fingertips across his knuckles.

“You will be, one day.” You promise him, and you only realise after saying it what that sounds like. You want to correct yourself, but Laszlo gives you a look so soft that you melt, your heart pounding in your chest. You pull your hand away, turning to look at the others, until a familiar scent reaches your nose. You freeze.

“John.” You murmur, and he nods to indicate he smells it as well.

“What is it?” Sara asks, and you swallow hard around the lump in your throat.

“Dr. Kreizler, I believe it’s about time that I escort you home.” You state instead of answering her, and his pupils blow before your very eyes. He stands swiftly, and the scent gets stronger, sweet and tangy slick begging to be bred. You crudely dip your fingers in the water glass in front of your plate, rubbing at your scent glands until the blocker begins to wear off. John watches with a certain knowing sadness in his eyes, while Sara frowns, out of the loop.

“I will handle the bill.” John states, and you nod your thanks to him. Your scent fills the air, and you slip an arm around Laszlo’s waist possessively, leading him towards the entrance to the restaurant. Once out of sight of the dining room, you tuck Laszlo into a dark corner, unsure how you’re going to make it home with him in this state.

“Laszlo, dear, I need to scent you in order to get you home safely. May I?” You ask, and Laszlo shivers visibly, tilting his head to the side for you.

“Please.” He whispers, and you cup the back of his neck, rubbing your chin against his scent gland delicately. Your other hand sweeps down Laszlo’s back, and you feel your cheeks burn as you touch a wet patch that you realise means you’re touching his ass. Your hand will smell like his slick until you wash thoroughly - the scent of slick lasts for ages. Laszlo is like a furnace against you, and you do your best not to be too obvious about your body’s reaction to him as you hold him like something precious in your arms. And he is. God forgive you, he is. You know you’ve done this to him, and it is a betrayal of his trust in you that you’ve manipulated him somehow into losing himself like this. And yet, it feels so right to have him so close to you. His scent combined with yours is heavenly. How could sin be this sweet?

“That should last you for a little while.” You whisper, pulling away reluctantly with every ounce of strength in your body, and Laszlo whimpers. You are gentle but firm as you lead him from the restaurant, his hand holding your bicep tightly.

“I meant it.” Laszlo murmurs, and you startle at the sound of his voice, so focused on walking towards his home.

“Pardon?”

“The flowers. I meant it.”

You let out a quiet sigh, petting his hand on your arm gently, soothingly, “I know, Laszlo. I know.”

This time, when you leave Laszlo at his home a short few minutes later, he makes an attempt at getting you to come inside instead of leaving him alone.

“This is what I want. And it is what you want, whether you will admit it or not.” He snaps when you begin to protest, and it takes everything in you to restrain from baring your teeth at him for taking that tone with you.

“What I want is not important. Go inside, Laszlo. You’ll think about what you truly want a bit more clearly in the morning, and appreciate my restraint.” You insist while backing away from him, turning to flee not a moment later. Thankfully, you’re faster than him even if he did try to chase you, and once again you enter your bedroom through the window. You bathe in silence, trying to figure out what to do with yourself. Shame fills you as you slide your hand between your legs, your other hand against your nose, breathing in the scent of Laszlo’s slick like the disgusting monster you know you are.

There are gloves on your desk. You’ve finally removed the bulk of the bandage on your hand, but you find it constantly irritated by everything you touch, and clearly Laszlo has noticed. Even last night while eating dinner, you’d struggled with holding your fork and knife without the bandage protecting the sensitive bitemarks. You lift the gloves, sighing at how soft they are, but the scent rolling off of them hits your nose and makes your face burn.

He’s scented them. Rubbed his pretty little chin on them until they smell so strongly of him that you want to bury your nose in them and huff for dear life. And yet, you can’t, because Laszlo is watching you keenly, and has been since you walked through the door to his office. You wonder if he regrets giving them to you. You wonder if he’s finally come to his senses, and realises you’re an overbearing Alpha knothead. Perhaps he’ll fire you.

You spiral until the door to the office opens, and John steps into the room with a lead. A prostitute he knew had indicated that her friend had heard something about the case and was willing to talk to you all. You stand with your notebook, following the men out of the office and down the street, your head buried in the clouds enough that you don’t even notice John and Laszlo whispering feverishly to each other. In fact, you don’t notice much until you’re brought into a rather high class brothel. Immediately, you smell the scent of ripe Omega and virile Alpha, and you instinctively posture in an almost mirror of John Moore. A young woman catches your eye, smiling with faux-shyness, though she straightens up as she notices obvious signs of your designation. You stand aside from the others, taking notes as you go, writing quick descriptions of anyone who looks at you three for too long.

“Here for business instead of pleasure, Alpha?” A young, redhead Omega woman asks, approaching you with a sultry smile on her face. You offer her a faint nod, lips quirked up into a smile as you try to look benign and uninteresting. She only seems to smile wider.

“I’m just taking notes for my coworkers.” You inform her, and she hums, sweeping a hand across your lower back as she circles you. You stiffen, but don’t remove her hand, painfully aware of appearances and how you may come off as aggressive even in these sorts of situations.

“You know, I almost didn’t even notice you. All these Alphas come in here, puffed up like peacocks, scent rolling off of them like they dumped a bottle of perfume over their heads. And then there’s you.” She smiles coyly, skimming her hand over your bicep where it bulges under your puffy sleeves, “I can’t smell you at all.”

You swallow, watching her intently, “Not at all?”

“Not even a little bit.” She pouts, leaning in far too close to your neck and breathing in deeply, and the only thing that stops you from yanking your wrist out of her delicate grip is the many eyes on you both, “not even up close. You must wear the really good scent blockers. You smell even less than a Beta.”

Your mind reels, and your growing panic begins to ease somewhat as you’re distracted by putting your thoughts together in a coherent order. You blink into awareness as Laszlo steps between you and the Omega woman, his hand pulling hers away from you, the slightest hint of a hiss slipping through as he breaks the contact.

“You’re making her uncomfortable.” He informs the Omega as if she didn’t realise, and she pouts.

“Aww, I’m sorry sugar, I can make it better for you if you like?”

Laszlo bares his teeth at her in a threat display that sends excited shivers racing down your spine, and you rub his arm gently to soothe him.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” You murmur to him, and he leans into your touch, “Did you get what you needed?”

“I did.”

“Then, let’s go. I’m sorry I couldn't help more.”

John joins you both and you all leave together, with the artist quickly filling you in on the conversation they’d had with his acquaintance’s friend. You listen, but your mind is warring with conflicting thoughts, until finally, you stop midstep.

“Are either of you able to smell me?”

“Pardon?” Laszlo asks, but John looks almost knowingly at you. There’s an understanding in his eyes, and it makes you uncomfortable, like when you find something out that everyone else appears to know.

“No, we can’t smell you. Aside from when the rain washed off your scent blocker, I’ve never got even a whiff of your actual scent.” The artist informs you with a gentleness to his tone, and you nod, the truth sinking in.

“Ah.”

“Quite.” John agrees, and you nod thoughtfully. Your worldview of the last couple of weeks tips on its head. How is it possible that you’ve been influencing Laszlo’s hormones and feelings with your scent if he isn’t even able to smell you? And if it isn’t possible, and thus you haven’t been influencing him, then what does that mean? What is going on? Does that mean that Laszlo actually does want you? Does that mean that all of the displays from Laszlo are real? What are you meant to do about that?

You’re the Alpha, but he’s the man. Suddenly, the rules become so much more complicated. Do you propose courtship, or does he?

You should, certainly, as the Alpha. But will he be offended if you do? He’s been pursuing you this entire time, surely that means he’s intending on proposing courtship to you, right?

What gift do you give him to propose courtship? It’s traditional to give something deeply personal and, preferably, luxurious. This gift represents what you want from the courtship, and can be largely symbolic instead of personal - expensive fabrics for comfort of home, jewellery for wealth of life, exotic foods for abundance of resources, children’s items for a large family. The options are endless. These gifts are not returned by the Omega if they should reject a courtship proposal either. Many Alphas nowadays only give an Omega something truly special if they know that their intended will accept them - otherwise, they go with something less personal and more symbolic. What if you give him something special and he doesn’t want it? What if he doesn’t want you?

Panic sparks, catching fire in your veins and boiling through your blood. You can feel your heartbeat pounding. You can feel it. The throbbing pulse of it in your ears drowns out all other sound. Your heart is a frightened bird in the cage of your ribs, frantically slamming against the walls of its enclosure and breaking its neck against the bars.

You’re spiraling. Based on the looks on Laszlo and John’s faces, you’re visibly spiraling. You feel yourself moving but have no control of your own limbs. John grabs you suddenly, wrestling your arms down to your sides as the fresh scent of blood fills the air, and a sharp pain breaks through the anxious fog swirling in your mind. You roar as you’re restrained, instinct and panic building upon each other as you are guided into an alley out of view. John chuffs soothingly against your ear, big chest practically vibrating against your back with the effort of calming you down as he gets your wrists into one hand. The other grabs the back of your neck to squeeze and scruff you like a family member might scruff a younger Alpha. It breaks through some of the panic, and you take a deep, ragged breath of cold, fresh(ish) air to try and calm yourself down. Laszlo’s warm hands cup your face, and you lean into his palms, his quiet purring finally breaking through that last instinctive fight or flight response that had sent your mind into overdrive.

“Las.” You whisper, and he rubs his thumbs under your eyes to wipe away the tears streaked upon your face. The scent of iron sticks in your nose, and you kick yourself when you notice you’ve bit down around the scent gland in your wrist the way you used to when you were younger and far more fearful. Or had you ever really grown out of the fear? Had you ever actually healed from the trauma of your presentation? Or had you simply learned to cope as best as you could while maintaining the appearance of sanity?

“Shh, Alpha, we’ve got you.” Laszlo promises, and you nuzzle your cheek into his palm. John chuffs softly, and you shiver something fierce as he rubs his chin against your scent gland in the way an older brother might - a little too rough, but affectionate and soothing.

“I… I think I’m okay.” You whisper, and John slowly releases your arms, rubbing your shoulders to help work out the inevitable pins and needles. You turn towards John, rubbing your chin over his scent gland gently, and the chuff you let out is a little choppy and disused. He’s blushing when you pull away, and his warm, woodsy scent sticks to you, blending with your own in an interesting way that feels very comforting. It wasn’t completely unheard of for two Alphas or two Omegas to get together, though it was certainly not the norm, and wasn’t a well-regarded decision. It was somewhat interesting to find how well your scent blended with John’s, in a way that to some might indicate you were sexually compatible, but to you felt far more like a familial relationship. You didn’t smell anything like your Alpha father, but your scents blended well, just as your scent blended well with your mother’s.

“You stink.” Laszlo informs you with an almost playful sneer, and you laugh at the disgruntled look on John’s face as you offer Laszlo your arm and let yourself by led from the alley, finally feeling like yourself again.

Just over a week later, you place a box upon Laszlo’s desk. For once, you’ve managed to make it to the Institute before him, and you adjust the phthalo green gift box a couple of times to make sure it looks perfect. You adjust the ribbon, fluffing the bow up, and nearly jump out of your skin when Laszlo clears his throat behind you. Your cheeks burn as you slowly turn to face him, clearing your throat before you start talking, hoping to cut in before he has a chance to speak and throw you off your plan.

“I know that I might not be the ideal partner, and that you might have reservations about both my societal standing with regards to my recent and past public embarrassments, and my capability as an Alpha. But… but, should you accept me as your Alpha, I would love you in whatever way you desire to be loved. Not in the way that someone, or many someones, determine is the best way for you to be loved. Not in the way that I want to love you, Laszlo, but however you wish to be desired, pleasured, revered, and adored. I will give you anything you ask for - no, anything you desire at all, for I will endeavour to meet your needs before you even have cause to ask. I will always respect your intelligence, and swear to never make you diminish yourself to improve my own image. I will worship you in place of the God so many pledge their soul to. I will protect you, and any family we may or may not have. I will share in this life with you, should you… should you simply want me to.”

Your breath comes shaky, your nose stinging as you bite back a more emotional response, and you finally lift your gaze from the box in your hands to look Laszlo in the eyes. He looks soft. You pray he isn’t upset with you. You pray you’ve read this right. You beg every deity you’ve ever heard of that perhaps, just this once, you’ve gotten it right. Just this once, you’ve managed to convey yourself in the way you wish to be perceived, free of any chance of misinterpretation.

“You’re asking to court me?” Laszlo asks, his voice so soft, it’s barely a whisper. An exhale of shaky breath, disbelieving, and you swear you can almost hear his heart pounding. Or perhaps it’s your own, combined with wishful thinking that you could perhaps affect him as much as he affects you.

“I am.” You breathe, then hastily shove the gift box into his hand, a hint of panic in your movements. You’re the worst Alpha, too anxious to portray the smooth, easy confidence that so many Alphas are seemingly born with. Laszlo clears his throat, stepping past you to set the box on his desk and open it slowly. Inside, he finds a long jewellery box and a wider jewellery box. In the wide box lie a gold and emerald set of cufflinks and matching tie pin. Folded underneath it is a handsewn handkerchief of phthalo green, embroidered with both his initials, and your own, in gold thread. In the longer box, he finds an ovular gold locket wrought with intricate scrolling, which contains a portrait of you, and on the other face, a piece of fabric that is so heavily scented by you that you’d be shocked if it ever wore off. A small clip keeps it clasped inside, allowing it to be removed and re-scented when necessary.

You wet your lips as Laszlo goes through each item in the box, and you feel your chest tighten as he comes across the handkerchief, which you’d dyed and sewn yourself, and painstakingly embroidered your initials upon. You’d also scented it, and your cheeks grow hot as he brings it to his nose, breathing you in. You have to grab the edge of his desk to ground yourself when you see his eyes roll back in his head.

“You made this for me?” He whispers, and you nod hesitantly.

“I… I wanted my first courting gift - should you accept me, of course, I wouldn’t presume that you don’t have other options…”

“I do not have any desire for other options. Finish what you were saying.” Laszlo interjects, and you take a shaky breath.

“I wanted my first courting gift to… well, it’s a bit of a cheeky message, I suppose. I apologise. It is simply that… Well, appearances can be deceiving.” You murmur, pressing your thumb gently into the tie pin, which unclips into two pieces to show a sharp blade of metal hidden within. Not a dagger, but enough to do damage and defend oneself. The cufflinks, you show him, contain a hidden compartment in which you’ve hidden two small folded pieces of paper. One is the words which end nearly every German fairytale, which you quite liked for its morose nature and odd romance.

Und wenn sie nicht gestorben sind, dann leben sie noch heute.

‘And if they haven't died, they are still alive today.’

The second is a quote from Gustave Le Bon’s The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind which you had spoken with Laszlo at length about in the early days of your work with him. The quote was one which you quite liked, and Laszlo teased you for enjoying it so much. It had been one of the first times that you had ever heard him laugh. Even then, you’d remarked upon how much you liked the sound.

An individual in a crowd is a grain of sand amid other grains of sand, which the wind stirs up at will.

The secret of the handkerchief is not difficult to find - You’ve embroidered a simple message upon the bottom right hand corner of the handkerchief in phthalo green thread, making it difficult to see but obvious to the touch. ‘You hold my heart in your palm.’ He rubs it between his fingers several times, staring at the message to try and see it against the softer fabric. Eventually, he tucks it into his vest pocket, then picks up the chain of your last gift. Laszlo rubs his thumb over the face of the locket, and you smile as he examines it for several moments before looking up at you.

“And what secret does this treasure hide?”

“You’ll find it.” You reply softly, “you need not answer me immediately. All of this is yours, should you want me or no-”

A warm, large hand cups your face, still wrapped in the delicate gold chain, and you gasp as his thumb traces your lower lip. The locket thwaps against your collarbone, and you stare into Laszlo’s honey eyes until he leans forwards and presses his lips against yours. Your first kiss is dry, and perhaps a little awkward, for you’ve no idea what to do with yourself and frankly hadn’t been expecting it. Both of your breathing is loud, shaky, practically panting through your noses as you smooth your hands over his waist to hold onto him. Finally, he releases you, then strokes his fingertips over the imprint of the chain of his locket on your face.

“I accept your proposal.” He whispers, “Come home with me tonight. We have much to discuss.”

Cheeks on fire, you brush your fingers across his cheek, brushing through his beard to stroke the line of his jaw, “I would… very much like to scent you. May I?”

Your Omega - you can say that now that he’s accepted, so long as you can keep his interest long enough to convince him to mate you - tips his head to the side to expose his scent gland to you almost demandingly. You lean in, breathing him in and gently rubbing your chin against his scent gland, and Laszlo gasps as you swipe your tongue across the soft bump. His pheromones are tangy and electric on your tastebuds, and while some might find it a little unpleasant, you chuff against his skin with approval. You only lean away from him when he gives a disgruntled chirrup, but before you can panic, your Omega buries his face in your neck and rubs his chin against your scent gland.

“You smell so good.” You whisper, and Laszlo purrs against your skin, chest vibrating something fierce as he tries to encourage your body to override the scent blockers you’d applied that morning. A whine rises in his throat, and you feel the need to fix it, and make your Omega’s distress go away.

“I’ll wash it off.” You mumble, and his purring kicks up a notch. You kiss his forehead, his temple, and then his orbital bone, “I’ll be right back.”

You return from the bathroom, freshly washed as best as you could, to see Laszlo sitting at his desk wearing his courting gifts proudly. He gestures to the door, telling you to lock it, which you do with a bit of reluctance simply because you would never want him to think that you only want him for sex. His left cufflink rests on the desktop, and you circle his chair, picking it up and putting it on for him with gentle hands. Once you’re done, Laszlo gently encourages you into his lap, and while you hesitate to sit on him, you settle on kneeling on either side of his thighs to keep most of your weight off of him. Laszlo immediately takes the invitation to nuzzle into your scent gland, and he moans softly at the smell of you, his left hand squeezing your hip tightly. He rubs his chin aggressively against your scent gland until his beard smells like you, and you’ve begun to smell like him as well. That blending of scents soothes you, and you relax against him, nearly jumping out of your skin when Laszlo licks your scent gland and moans quietly at the taste.

“Enough.” You mutter, leaning in to catch his lips again, and kissing him soft as butterfly wings, “I’m going to court you properly, Las. And as much as I want to worship you and show you how much I want you, I won’t until we get towards the end of our courtship.”

Laszlo groans quietly, squeezing your hip tightly, then gently pushing, “Get up, Alpha. We will discuss this tonight.”

Later that evening, you find yourself draped across a large, comfortable sofa in Laszlo’s home with your Omega laying with his hips between your legs and his head nuzzled against your chest. You comb your fingers through his hair, nails scraping gently across his scalp, and he purrs loudly, melting you into a puddle of happy goo beneath him. When you first arrived, you both had tried to talk briefly about your firm stance of not having sex until later in your courtship. Laszlo was firmly of the opinion that sex would only strengthen your bond, and that he was well aware that you felt for him beyond the sexual desire between you. You, on the other hand, wanted to prove yourself to him as a good, nurturing Alpha that wanted him for more than just a pretty little Omega to knot.

In the end, you promised to table the discussion for now, and instead pulled him onto the couch with you. Laszlo was touch-starved, and you were adamant about fulfilling his very clear need for some snuggles. If you were being honest with yourself, you may admit you were a little touch-starved as well. Nothing felt more satisfying than having your Omega’s weight on your chest, his weak arm tucked between him and the back of the couch, and his good arm wrapped around you. Feeling the tension in his body bleed out of him as you pet his hair, and the way he nuzzles against your chest needily, his purr almost deafening - nothing could be better.

You press your lips to the top of his head, and he coos, leaning his head back to blink up at you so that you press your lips to his forehead instead. His long, pretty lashes brush against his skin as he closes his eyes, purring and nuzzling closer to you. Gentle as can be, you kiss his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, and then the tip as well. You brush your lips across his cheeks, then tip his chin up, making eye contact with your Omega before you lean in to kiss him properly. Your lips move softly against his, deepening just a little when Laszlo tilts his head and pulls your lower lip into his mouth. With a soft chuff, you nip him softly, lapping at the roof of his mouth, and laugh as he gasps at your audacity.

Apparently he enjoys your audacity, because he cups your face, kissing you hard and licking into your mouth clumsily but eagerly. You sigh happily into the kiss, eyes rolling back in your head as he sloppily kisses your chin, sucking and biting your lips, his hips pressing ardently into yours. Laslo moans at the pressure against his erection, clearly already rock hard and leaking slick. You pet his cheeks, running your nails through his beard as you catch and suck on his tongue. You’re lulled by his purring, practically in a trance as he kisses you, your skirts pushed up nearly to your hips and your bloomers on full display. A soft moan slips through Lazlo’s lips as he ruts between your legs with little pulses of his hips, his knee pressed under your thigh to keep your legs spread.

“Las, darling.” You murmur against his lips, and he whimpers, biting your chin when you break the kiss, “you’re getting over-excited, little Omega.”

“Need you, Alpha.” Laszlo moans against your lips, and you sigh blissfully when he tilts his hips, the line of his cock rubbing perfectly against your cunt even through your layers. It feels so good - too good - and you struggle to regain your self-control. Laszlo’s nostrils flare as he catches the scent of your arousal, spicy and warm, and he groans, already starting to move to get a better whiff. You grip his hips to stop him and roll the both of you over, adjusting to make sure his arm doesn’t get trapped, and Laszlo gives an eager chirrup as you sit atop his hips.

“Relax, Omega. We’re just cuddling.”

“We could be doing more.” Laszlo reminds you, grabbing at your hip and looking up at you like he wants to devour you. You smile despite yourself, leaning down to kiss him again, then nipping the tip of his nose.

“We need to talk, Las.”

“I know. Where would you like to begin?” He asks, and you get up from the couch, pushing your skirts back down. Laszlo sits up so you can sit down, then drops his head into your lap so you can resume petting his hair.

“I don’t… I don’t know how to be a proper Alpha. I want you to understand what you’re getting into. I don’t want you to be… to be disappointed in me. I don’t want you to be unhappy with me, or suddenly realise you don’t want me. That’s why I want to abide by more traditional courting rules, despite the lack of… need for them, I suppose.” You murmur, and your Omega sighs quietly, like he expected the topic but hoped you wouldn’t bring it up as well.

“I know what I’m getting into. I know you. I know your fears, and your desires. I know the little things that bother you day to day, and how easy it is to bring you joy. I know the way you feel about yourself, and what you are. I know the trauma that weighs on you regarding your presentation, and I can empathise in a way that few others could. I understand how you feel about your responsibilities as an Alpha, and how your caring nature has affected that view. I know that you believe that your father is a bad example of an Alpha because your father did not show the same care and love to your mother as you do for me when they had been together since they were young adults, and we only just began courting. I know that unlike seemingly every other Alpha I have ever met - including John, who I consider a very good example of an Alpha - you believe that I hold all the power in our relationship. I know that you suffer from a severe need for control, not of others, but of yourself. Induced by your presentation, and the subsequent ridicule you received, and executed in many ways including your self-biting habit. I know that you would hurt yourself before you ever hurt me, either emotionally or physically. I know that I trust you enough that you are one of the only people who know the truth of my arm.” Laszlo practically rants to you, his voice gentle but passionate as he shifts up until his lower back is resting against your thigh, his upper body resting against yours and his head pillowed on your chest. You wrap your arms around him to support him, rubbing his arm with one hand and his stomach with the other.

“I want to give you the chance to change your mind. Once I have you, I won’t ever be able to bring myself to let you go, Laszlo. Already, the idea of having to let you go is… is nearly inconceivable. You have to have the chance to know me and… and choose not to keep me. Otherwise I would never forgive myself for claiming you, knowing that if you regretted it, it would kill me to release you.” You admit, and Laszlo takes a shaky breath, clinging a little tighter to you.

“I won’t change my mind.”

“Neither will I.”

You wake to hazy light filtering through the gauzy curtains, and the warm weight of Laszlo nestled against the front of your body. He’s curled up tightly, your knees scooped behind his to press yourself firmly against his back, and your arm is looped possessively around his waist. You’re dressed in a pair of Laszlo’s sleeping pants and an old shirt of his, unprepared for this impromptu sleepover that you’d been conned into by your Omega, but you won’t complain about getting more time to hold him. You nuzzle your face into the curve of his shoulder, breathing in the sweet floral smell of him straight from his scent glands, and he relaxes in your embrace. There’s a tangy note to the air that registers more and more in your mind as you wake up, blinking your eyes open to look at the warm expanse of Laszlo’s freckled and beauty-marked skin before you.

Something stirs in your chest, and you feel the sharpness of your own fangs against your lower lip as you chuff instinctively. The beast inside of you awakens having your Omega so close, and you tamp down on your impulses as best as you can even as you feel a swelling and growing between your legs. It’s not an extremely familiar sensation - you haven’t often played with your anatomy the way you can as a female Alpha - but you recognise it enough not to panic. The tangy scent settles in the back of your throat, coating your tongue, and you finally connect the dots. The spice of your own arousal begins to fill the air as you stroke your hand in slow, deliberate circles on Laszlo’s stomach.

“I know you’re awake, naughty little thing.” You whisper, and Laszlo purrs, turning his head to look at you with lust-blown pupils.

“Alpha.” He murmurs, practically a moan, “I can feel you.”

“I know you can. You’re tempting me with this sweet Omega cunt, aren’t you?” You growl, running your hand over his ass and squeezing gently. A new wave of tang fills your nose, and you nuzzle against the back of his neck, licking a stripe up to his ear.

“Need you.” Laszlo purrs so prettily, tilting his head to expose more of his throat, and you take the invitation to rub against his scent gland possessively.

“I can smell it on you, Las. So, so needy. How did I end up with such a ripe little Omega slut?” You croon, and Laszlo arches against you with a whimper, “Must’ve done something right to get a chance with a sweet little thing like you.”

Laszlo shivers, grabbing your hand to force it under his shirt, and you splay your fingers out over his belly possessively. His body hair tickles your palm as you stroke over planes of bare skin, chuffing softly against his neck. He rocks his ass back into your pelvis, and you gasp against his shoulder at the firm pressure against your growing erection. As soon as he feels it properly, Laszlo moans, reaching back to try and touch you. You’re not quite fast enough to grab his hand, and you groan as it closes around your cock, the pressure too much and simultaneously exquisite.

“Gentle, Las, gentle.” You murmur, and Laszlo lets go, rolling over so he can grab at you a little softer. He slips his hand under the waistband of your borrowed pants, and you gasp for air as he rolls his thumb over the head of your cock. You look down at yourself, and thank God that you look relatively how you expected. The last time you’d seen your cock was during your first rut, in a miserable week locked in your room as a teenager. Since then, you had gotten hard a few times, but never looked at yourself as you took yourself in hand or humped a pillow. Your cock is large, as is typical of an Alpha, with a rounded bulge at the base that would later swell into your knot.

“Want it.” Laszlo mumbles, and you laugh quietly, hooking your fingers in the edge of his waistband to slowly pull his sleeping pants down under his cock. He moans as you close your hand around him, stroking in slow, gentle pumps of your hand. He’s leaking slick from his cock, coating your hand and easing the glide, but you are far drier, and it’s a little uncomfortable. You guide him onto his back, laughing as he gives an eager whimper as you pull his sleeping pants down out of the way. You press your cock against his, wrapping your hand around the both of you and setting a firm but eager pace.

“I’m going to make you come, Las. Can’t have anyone smelling all this slick pouring out of my sweet little Omega and thinking your Alpha isn’t taking care of you. Is that what you want? You want people to think your Alpha isn’t taking care of you? Am I neglecting you?” You coo, and Laszlo shakes his head, clinging to his bedsheets.

“No, Alpha, you’re not neglecting me. You’re taking good care of me.” Your Omega insists, and you nuzzle against his throat, rubbing your chin against his scent gland.

“Needy thing. Such a little slut, I don’t know if you’ll be able to make it through the courtship period. I’m surprised I didn’t wake up to you climbing onto my knot.” You tease, and Laszlo groans, his cheeks pink as he stares up at you with half-lidded chocolate eyes.

“Close. Alpha, please, close!” Laszlo groans, and your laugh is laced with love and affection as you stare down at your Omega.

“Mine.” You whisper, and he nods frantically, bucking his hips up into your grip.

“Yours. Yours!” Laszlo cries out as he reaches his orgasm, coming across your fingers and his own stomach. You prop yourself up above him, letting go of his cock and instead jerking yourself off above him. Laszlo pants for breath, his good hand stroking up and down over your side as he stares hungrily at your cock.

“So fucking pretty. Can’t wait to claim you, Las, can’t wait to make you mine.” Your pace falters as you get closer, the scent of spent and happy Omega sending you reeling. Your breathing is heavy, practically panting for breath as you rut into your hand.

“Come for me, Alpha. Want it.” Laszlo begs, and you groan, spilling across his trembling stomach. He’s covered in you, his own cum drowned out by your heavy load, and you nuzzle against him lovingly as you lick the sweat from his throat. You drop your hand, swiping your fingers through your cum and rubbing it into his scent glands while Laszlo stares up at you with wide eyes. Once he’s covered, you tear your shirt over your head and clean up his stomach. You pull up his sleeping pants, then your own, peppering kisses across his face.

“I need to go home to change, sweetheart.” You murmur as you roll him onto his side and snuggle up against his back, “let me feel you for a little while before I go. And you better not wash that off. I want everyone to know who you belong to, and that I’m keeping my Omega happy.”

You spend almost every night at your Omega’s house for the next two weeks despite your parents’ concern for what remains of your reputation. You’ve moved your nesting trunk to Laszlo’s spare bedroom, along with a suitcase of your clothing and other belongings to avoid having to go home in the morning before going to work. Every night, you curl up around your Omega, showing him the love and affection he so desperately needs. You help him dress every morning, eat breakfast with your hand holding his weaker one, take a carriage to work with him, and leave with him every evening. You give him a music box at the end of the first week of courtship, and you can’t help but smile every time you hear the gentle tinkling of it.

At the end of the second week, you give him a silk phthalo green robe that made you think of him, heavily scented just for him. He wears it every morning from then on, and you beam as one lazy Saturday, he puts on the gramophone in his family room and walks around in his robe. You sneak up behind him, slipping an arm around his waist and using the other to grab his hand and spin him to face you.

“What are you doing?” Laszlo asks, and you grin, guiding his weak hand to your hip.

“Dancing with you.” You hum teasingly, and he rolls his eyes at your cheek, letting you bully him into a fairly acceptable waltz. Neither of you are particularly good dancers, but you make it fun, and you delight at the small smile that tugs at his lips as you use your strength to lift him just barely off the ground so you can spin him with you. When you put him down barely a second later, he lifts his strong arm and spins you, and your heart beats wildly in your chest at his playfulness. You both dance around together happily, laughing when you trip on the edge of the carpet and nearly topple the both of you over.

After a few minutes of dancing and nearly an hour of recovery cuddling on Laszlo’s sofa, you both get ready for your day and take a walk through the park. Lunch is a picnic of snacks you made for the both of you, and Laszlo reads to you while you trade between giving him a piece of food, and then yourself. He smiles every time you try to feed him mid-sentence, unable to help himself despite his obvious distaste for being interrupted every few seconds. On your way home, you stop by a jeweler to pick up your latest gift for Laszlo, and he demures at your side as you are handed a ring box. He tries to peek over your shoulder to see what lies inside when you pop it open to look at it and approve the piece, but you turn away from him, tutting.

“I’ll give it to you in a minute, sweetheart, have patience.” You coo teasingly, and he has to work not to pout since you’re both in public. When you get back home (when did you start calling it home?) you lay with your head in Lazlo’s lap while he reads to you, and you glance up at him through your lashes to catch him glancing at the pockets of your poofy navy dress. The next time you look up at him, you catch him staring again, and you giggle, startling him out of his reverie.

“You really want your present, don’t you, sweet?”

Laszlo purses his lips, and you grin, sitting up.

“I suppose I should give it to you, shouldn’t I? You’ve been very patient.” You muse, pulling the ring box from your pocket and opening it with a flourish. Inside lays a stunning cameo ring modelled after yourself, the lines smooth and reminiscent of a marble statue. It’s white on a backing of black stone, and the ring is made of gold with delicate scrolling. Inside the band lies your initials, a possessive statement just for him, and you watch his face soften as he studies the ring carefully. A heady sigh leaves his lips as he strokes the pad of his finger across the cameo of your face, his eyes going half-lidded.

“This is… stunning. It must have cost you a fortune. You didn’t need to-” Laszlo begins, and you cut him off with a raised eyebrow and a huff.

“I wanted to. I want to spoil my Omega, and show him how much I adore him.” You interrupt him, and you watch his eyes go half-lidded and dreamy.

It begins with a trip to the opera. In the last week of your courtship, you had been sleeping at your parent’s home more often, preparing your things to be moved and finishing up your final gift for your Omega. Laszlo had warned you early on that he didn’t have a nesting trunk of his own for various familial reasons, though his mother had given him a blanket that she treasured. To compensate, you had gone through your entire trunk to see what might be missing, bought several expensive fabrics that you thought Laszlo might like, and arranged for a shopping trip with Sara and John to give him what he should have had to begin with. In order to distract Laszlo while Sara and John schemed up his surprise, you had made the mere mention of being interested in going to a show. Your Omega jumped on the opportunity with open arms, arranging for you both to go to dinner and the opera together.

It began with the opera, but now, had somehow led to you being pushed up into a dark corner during intermission while Laszlo shoved his hand under your voluminous skirts to stroke his fingers against your cunt. You bite your lip to keep quiet as Laszlo strokes his fingers across your clit, murmuring praise against your throat as he works you into compliance. You’re on half-doses of your rut blockers and heat blockers in preparation for the end of your courtship, and the evidence is obvious in how you can’t keep your hands off of each other. Laszlo had even tried making a case for why if he fucked you, it wouldn’t count, because there wouldn’t be any knotting involved. His desire to bend and rewrite the rules was duly noted, but you were adamant about waiting.

Less so now, with two of the good doctor’s fingers buried in your cunt, his skillful thumb rubbing devastating circles around your clit.

“Las, someone is going to catch us.” You moan quietly, and Laszlo purrs, nipping at your scent gland.

“Not if you stay quiet.” He retorts, and you scoff at his brazenness.

“You’re meant to mingle during intermission, Las, someone will notice us missing.”

“They won’t find us. Let me make you feel good, Alpha, you spend so much time devoted to my care - shouldn’t I be able to devote a little to yours?” Laszlo asks, and you chuff, eyes rolling back in your head.

“Please, Las.” You moan, and his purring gets louder as he moves his fingers faster, lapping at your scent gland eagerly. Pressure builds inside of you, white hot pleasure compounding until a swift flick of Laszlo’s thumb sends you tumbling over the edge. You bite down on Laszlo’s shoulder to avoid being too loud, trembling against him as he guides you through your orgasm. Panting for breath, you run your fingers back through Laszlo’s hair and pull him up into a proper kiss.

“You’re so beautiful when you come.” Your Omega whispers against your lips, and you sigh blissfully, petting his tummy lovingly.

“S’been a while since I came like that. You’re so obsessed with my cock.” You murmur, and Laszlo scoffs, gripping your hip tightly. Heat shoots through you, burning under your skin as your Omega nips and sucks your lower lip into his mouth.

“I want all of you. I can’t wait until you finally let me sink into your warm, tight cunt.” Laszlo corrects you, then pops his fingers into his mouth to clean them while you stare with blown pupils and half-lidded eyes.

“We should get back to our seats. Intermission should be over soon.” Laszlo comments, and you nod obediently, following him in a satiated and happy daze. He’s smug and you know it, but you don’t mind it after getting to come in the middle of an opera show.

After a lavish dinner, Laszlo snuggles up to you on the carriage ride home, blissful with the knowledge that in only one more day, he’s able to stop taking his heat blockers. After that, he’ll never need to take them again if he doesn’t want to. One more day and he can have his Alpha’s knot, and get the chance to experience fucking his Alpha in his nest, and maybe even finally become a father. He can’t take his hands off of you now that you’ve got him used to being touched whenever and however he likes. He’s never considered himself anything close to spoiled before, but now? Now, he knew he was overindulged. Every night without you in his bed was a struggle, and this last week, his sleep had been poor at best.

“Las? We’re home.” You murmur, and he sits up a little, just the way you say ‘home’ sending butterflies through his stomach. He slips from the carriage, offering you his arm and smiling at the way you take it without any offense. He loves that you take such good care of him, but he also loves that you let him care for you without acting like it’s some sort of insult to your designation. You let him push you around, most especially when you both are playing, even allowing him once to scruff you and push you down onto the bed beneath him. Caged in by his body, you let him bite into your shoulder, his still-clothed hips rutting against your bottom, treating you like you were his Omega instead of the other way around. No other Alpha that he knew of would be so confident and self-assured in their designation that they would allow him that. You let him bend you over however he likes, pinning you down beneath his weight and threatening against your ear to tie you up. He loves to see you beneath him, most especially when you’ve removed your corset and he can feel the soft curve of your back under his hands.

Omegas love soft things, and you are the softest thing he’s ever touched. Skin soft as silk, lips like flower petals, breasts plush like the expensive pillows on his sofa, and hair always well-cared for and smooth because of how much effort you put into brushing it every day. He covets you. Laszlo can’t imagine not having your softness now that he’s luxuriated in it for so long. He thinks about you so often it almost distracts him from his work - your scent, your voice, the way you hold him, the way you sneeze, the way you laugh when you don’t expect to find something funny, and the way you smile when you see him and your eyes sparkle like you’ve never seen anything more beautiful in the world.

Laszlo opens the front door for you, biting back a grin at the dainty little curtsy you give him with a cheeky smile on your face. He follows you inside, and you pause, giving a very unconvincing gasp that instantly draws his attention. He pauses partway through removing his coat, almost instinctively giving a confused chirrup before he asks what’s wrong. He finishes removing his coat, hanging it, then approaching you to help take yours off as well.

“Oh! What is this?” You ask, and Laszlo raises an eyebrow at your odd, theatrical tone. He slips his arm around your waist from behind to peer over your shoulder, pressing a couple of kisses to the curve of your neck. In the centre of the floor lies an ornate trunk of dark wood with gold clasps. He raises an eyebrow, lifting the latch with all the care one might use while handling a bomb, and opening the trunk trepidatiously. The green lined interior protects its contents, though they won’t be in the trunk for much longer - considering the look in Laszlo’s eyes, it’s obvious that matters little to him, for he’s white-knuckling the lid.

“You did this for me?” He asks in quiet awe, and you giggle, while John and Sara step out from around the corner. They’d complied with your flare for the dramatic despite claiming Laszlo would be unnerved by the surprise until it was revealed to him.

“Not without the help of your friends.” You reply, touching his lower back and beaming as he reaches into the trunk. The first thing he pulls out is a pillow made of fabric so soft it feels like butter, but filled with stuffing so firm that it is evidently made for support. Sara steps forwards, rubbing the scent gland on her wrist against Laszlo’s in a quick, platonic show of love.

“It’s supportive. For your arm. I hope it gives you some much-deserved comfort.” She hums, rubbing your tricep as she steps up next to you, “I don’t have a particularly strong scent, but I did scent it for you. Your Alpha told me you’d like that.”

Laszlo shivers, and you rub his lower back supportively. He puts the pillow down, picking up the first blanket in the trunk, a silky thing that runs through his hands almost like liquid.

“I thought you’d like the colour. It’s… well, it was for a dress, but I asked if it could be hemmed and made into a blanket for you because it’s so soft, and the blue is so unique.” John explains with pink rising in his cheeks, “The tassels are made with one of my old shirts, and I scented it too. Your Alpha insisted it was okay.”

You hum your approval despite how unusual it is for an Alpha to allow their Omega to nest with materials from a non-familial Alpha, squeezing Laszlo’s waist as he processes these gifts from his closest friends. Laszlo pulls a thinner sheet and pillowcases from the trunk, which you indicate are a gift from Teddy, and then a thicker winter blanket that came from the Isaacsons and his staff. Finally, at the bottom of the trunk lay his final courtship gift. He recognises it immediately although he’s only seen it once, very early in your time working for him. He had visited you at home while your parents were away with family, desperately needing notes you had taken of the case to confirm a conclusion he had come to over dinner. It was too late at night for a man to visit a woman, but propriety had never been one of Laszlo’s key skills. You had been working on the blanket when he arrived, and he caught sight of it when you invited him inside. He’d been stunned by the embroidery work, and covetous even then when he only knew you as his employee, and the gentlest Alpha he’d ever known.

Now, he holds the delicate blanket in his hands, rubbing the embroidery between his fingers and marvelling at how soft it is. He nuzzles his face against the fabric, breathing in the heavy warm smell of his Alpha, noting how different parts of the blanket have traces of variations of your scent. He can smell a younger you working on this blanket throughout your life, preparing it for your future Omega. For him. He thinks of you then, gentle hands carefully, painstakingly sewing, dreaming of having him to yourself one day in the future. He wonders if you imagined anyone like him when you dreamed of your Omega while a younger you worked on the blanket. He can smell the anguish of your just-presented self starting the blanket as you languish in your isolation. He can smell the hope of your young adulthood, the lack of surety as you reach the age most young women are mated, and the hopeless despair as you drift closer to the age of spinsterhood. More recently, he can smell your desire, your hope, your happiness, and most key of all, your love.

“You finished it.” Laszlo murmurs, and you smile, nuzzling your face into the back of his shoulder.

“I did. It is part of why I slept at my parent’s house for a time, despite how much you complained about it and tried to get me to reconsider.”

“I didn’t complain that much, szerelmem.” Laszlo corrects you, and you snicker, rubbing his hips as you press yourself up against his back even in the presence of your friends. Neither Sara nor John seems upset about it.

“I’m sure you believe you didn’t. You didn’t have to listen to it all day while trying to type up your notes at work.” You mutter against his shoulder, and Laszlo scoffs playfully, stroking your hand on his belly.

“Home smells more like you.” Your Omega comments after a moment, a smile growing on his face as he begins to put the pieces of what you’ve done together. He’d been dreading the move, worried about looking useless in front of your parents, as he wouldn’t physically be able to carry as much as you.

“John, Cyrus, Stevie, the twins, and Sara were kind enough to move my belongings into your home.”

“Our home.” Laszlo corrects you, twisting his head a little and kissing the high point of your cheek even though John and Sara were right there.

“Our home.” You agree with a smile, “say goodbye to your friends, little Omega. We’re going to go through your nesting materials and start building your first nest.”

Laszlo’s breathing instantly deepens, and you nuzzle your nose behind his ear as he swallows, then clears his throat. As he turns, John puts his hands up immediately, cheeks pink.

“Yes, right, well, I’m happy for you both. I… uhm, I hope the nesting goes well. I will escort Ms. Howard home.” John insists, his embarrassment clear. Sara laughs, but for possibly the first time you’ve ever seen, she accepts John’s arm and, based on her body language, appears to escort the Alpha from the Kreizler home. Once the door closes behind them, you slip your hands under Laszlo’s vest to pull his shirt out of his trousers, then skim your hands up under both layers. You splay your hands across his belly and he sighs blissfully as you rub your teeth against his scent gland.

“Go upstairs, sweet thing. I’ll bring all this upstairs so we can strip the bed and get your nest ready, okay?” You purr, and Laszlo shivers excitedly, then heads for the stairs at a quick pace, his cheeks pink with desire. You watch him go with a smile, bending and lifting the trunk easily despite its solid weight. Laszlo’s honey-brown eyes stare down from the landing, and you can’t help but smirk as he licks his lips before he continues up the steps at a quicker pace. You follow, leisurely, the sound of your Omega’s loud purring from the bedroom reaching your ears despite the distance. As you enter the room, you find he’s already nearly stripped the entire bed, and you croon praise at his eagerness as you set the trunk down next to your own. Laszlo preens, opening the trunks while you finish stripping the bed and securing it against the two walls. Together, you line the bed with pillows, then trap them in place atop the bed with a secured sheet. Once that is finished, you back off, petting Laszlo’s arms and helping him take off his vest so he’ll be more comfortable as he works.

A nest is an Omega’s role, and they take great pride in them. It’s an instinctual process, seeming to come naturally to them, and you’d seen countless Omegas work on them when you were in prep school. You yourself had tried, but you didn’t have the same passion for it. That maybe should’ve been a sign. Laszlo, you know, has never built one before, but his eyes light up as he begins to tuck blankets into place. First, thicker layers to protect the shape of his nest and provide comfort. Then, he moves on to softer layers that will feel good against his skin. Pillows are added for extra plush, and you’re happy to see that he finishes the bed with the blanket you made for him. You praise him throughout the process despite understanding very little of his decision-making, knowing he needs to hear how good he’s doing. He’s doing this for both of you - it should be appreciated as the gift it is. As the gift he is. It’s a long process, made longer by the way that Laszlo keeps pausing to adjust, tuck and re-tuck blankets, and fluff pillows. Finally, however, he appears to be happy. His purring is near deafening as he sits in his nest, feet tucked under him as he surveys his little kingdom like a little prince.

“Look at you, sweetheart. You’ve done such a good job.” You croon, and Laszlo tips his chin up proudly, “Can your Alpha come in?”

“Now.” Laszlo insists urgently, and you obey, crawling up into the nest carefully to avoid messing anything up. He kisses you the moment you’re close enough, and you sigh happily into it, pulling him closer.

“Such a good Omega. Are you excited for your first proper heat?” You murmur as you kiss the point of his cheek. He nods eagerly despite a hint of trepidation.

“Nervous, but I am excited.”

You smile.

“May I confess? I am too. But, I can’t wait to mate you and make you mine. I can’t wait to give you children, however you want them.” You purr, and Laszlo groans quietly, his hand fisting in your dress.

“Take this off?” He asks, and you raise an eyebrow. It takes a moment before you concede. He’s been so good this entire time, and you know he wants so desperately. He’ll probably be in heat by the morning at this rate. Who are you to deny him? You let him help you strip out of your layers, and you don’t stop him when he gets to the last piece of fabric blocking you from his sight. He takes it off carefully, with your help, pupils blown to the size of saucers as he takes you in. You help him with his shirt, and then his trousers, pausing at his undershirt.

“Are you sure, Omega?” You ask, and Laszlo agrees before you can even finish the question. He presses you back into the nest once he’s as bare as you, both naked as the day you were born despite it only being early evening. You let him take control, fueled by the elation of finishing his first nest and getting his Alpha’s enthusiastic approval. He purrs as he licks his way into your mouth, devouring your lips in his eagerness, his hips gently rolling into yours as if he can’t help himself. You gently push him back, and he whines, but you shush him as you stroke his cheeks and kiss his nose.

“Does my pretty little Omega want to mount his Alpha?” You ask, your voice soft and velvety, and Laszlo groans weakly.

“Please. Please, Alpha, need you. Let me, please, I’ll be good.” He begs, and you smile at the unbridled lust in his eyes as you crawl onto your hands and knees, then sink down until your face is pressed into the soft fabrics of his nest. Presenting for your Omega. You’re shocked you aren’t struck by lightning immediately.

“Fuck.” Laszlo mutters, and you’re shocked at his cursing, but you’re more shocked by the feeling of him rubbing his cock against your cunt sloppily.

“Gentle, sweetheart.” You murmur, and he nods as he presses the head into your soft warmth. It’s bigger than your fingers. Bigger than anything you’ve had before, but you’re eager and wet enough to ease the glide. Nowhere near as wet as an Omega, but enough to let Laszlo thrust his hips and not hurt too badly as he sinks all the way in to the hilt. There’s a bit of a pinch, but you grin and bear it for your sweet Omega.

“Feels so good. You feel so good, Alpha, oh god.” Laszlo breathes, kissing his way up your spine as he crawls over your back to use his weight to force you further into the nest.

“Nice and slow, Omega. You’re my first, remember? I’m all yours.” You coo, and Laszlo practically sobs against your shoulder, nodding his head mindlessly.

“Mine. So warm. So soft, Alpha, I need-” He cuts himself off, groaning and balancing as best as he can, “can I move? Please!”

You stretch out beneath him, getting comfortable on your knees before nodding with a blissful sigh. Laszlo takes a moment to find the right pace for him, choppy and short thrusts to start that seem to be mostly born out of desperation at the intense feeling of being inside of his Alpha before he finally gets a hold of himself and slows down a little. He’s thicker than the average Omega, but average in length, and he fills you perfectly as if you were meant for each other. Soft moans fall from your lips as he begins to thrust deeper, slower, supporting himself on his good arm as best as he can. You push up a little to give him something to lean on, supporting his chest with your back, and he presses kisses against your neck in appreciation.

It feels like heaven to have your Omega inside of you. He’s so eager, hips rutting into your ass and drawing little ‘ah ah ah’s from his lips with every thrust. You groan for him, and he moans in response, nuzzling his face into your neck to try and cope with how good you feel wrapped around him. You reach between your legs, stroking your fingertips across your clit in loose circles, then tighter as you build yourself closer to your orgasm with every thrust. Your Omega’s angle has him rubbing against a spot inside of you that feels like heaven, and you shiver as you get closer and closer, your cunt fluttering around Laszlo’s cock. You don’t expect him to last very long, and he doesn’t, but you’re not surprised. This is also his first time, and he’s been waiting a very long time to finally get to come inside of you - you’re honestly a little surprised he even lasted as long as he did.

When he comes, it is far more than you were expecting. His hips stutter as he fucks his cum deeper into you, and you moan as that sudden feeling of fullness triggers your orgasm, sending you reeling. You press your face into the sheets, practically drooling as your Omega floods your cunt with his spend, and part of you hopes it takes just as much as you hope it doesn’t. You know Laszlo wants to carry your first baby, and you’re bound to put pups in him during his heat - it would be inconvenient to be pregnant together, even as much as it would be blissful.

You groan with surprise as Laszlo’s sharp little teeth sink into your mating gland from behind, his hips pressed tightly against your ass like he’s trying to keep everything inside you with his weight alone. You’re claimed. Your Omega has claimed you - made you his and only his, so long as you claim him in return. Blood trickles down your throat, but Laszlo chases it, licking it up with that clever little tongue. You sink deeper into the nest, happy little chuffs escaping you as newly-mated bliss sinks in bone deep.

“You’re going to get oversensitive, my little Omega. You can pull out, sweet, it’s okay.” You purr, and Laszlo adjusts on his knees as he laps at your new bond mark. Finally, he pulls out of you, then curls up around your back with his hand stroking your hip and belly.

“I love you.” He murmurs, exhausted, and you smile as you snuggle closer to him.

“I love you too, Omega. Sleep. Your heat is going to settle in soon.”

He’s asleep before you finish speaking.

You wake to the scent of tang and sweetness cloying and heavy, filling your nose and sinking into your brain almost like it’s taking control of you. You blink awake, breathing in deeply, and a heavy weight rubbing against your soft heat tells you everything you need to know.

Laszlo’s heat has settled in, and your little Omega is desperate.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” You croon, and Laszlo moans in response. You sit up and find your Omega achingly hard, his thighs and the blankets beneath him soaked with his slick. Licking your lips, you pat his hip, “Up. Present for me if you want my knot, Omega.”

Laszlo’s on his knees in an instant, legs spread and sunk down into his nest so eagerly he looks desperate.

“Sweet little slut. Look at you.” You praise him, stroking his hips, smacking his pert little ass, then sliding your hand between his legs to cup and stroke his cock, “God, you smell fertile. I can smell how badly you need my knot, Omega. You’ve soaked your new nest.”

Laszlo whimpers, and you grin, settling in behind him and swiping your tongue over his twitching hole. A fresh wave of slick rolls down his perineum, and you coo mockingly as you lick it up.

“Never seen an Omega this slutty, Las. I could put my big cock in you in one thrust and it wouldn’t even hurt you. No prep. Is that what you want? Want me to fuck you nice and ruthless?” You ask. Your Omega nods against the blankets, drool pooling under his pretty little mouth as he moans for you. You stroke his cock gently, grip loose and lazy as you roll the flat of your tongue across his hole.

“Need it, Alpha!” Laszlo cries, and you chuckle, biting his asscheek.

“Need it, huh? Need my cock in your tight little Omega cunt? What’re you gonna do if I don’t give it to you?”

“I’ll die!” Laszlo insists dramatically, and you laugh as you get up onto your knees behind him, rubbing your thumb across his twitching, leaking cunt. The head of your cock sinks into Las so easily it’s like he’s sucking you in, and his heady moan is loud and pleading, drool pooling under his mouth. You take it slow despite being able to feel that you don’t need to - Laszlo is truly deep into his heat already, sleeping through his preheat just like you’d hoped. He’s wet enough that his slick squelches as you pull out then sink back in deeper, displaced by your cock and welling up around the rim of his perfect hole. You lean over his back, adjusting your hips to let yourself sink deeper, and Laszlo sobs as he feels your knot pressing against the rim of his cunt.

“Please! Alpha, Alpha, please, knot me, I need it!” He begs, and you nuzzle against his neck as you pull out, then push back in nice and slow. Laszlo’s cunt clenches up around you, trying desperately to milk you as he comes for the first time of the day. You pet his hips, praising him for making a nice little mess of his nest, then pull out of him and thrust in again without giving him a chance to breathe. He sobs for more as you begin to fuck him in earnest, deep and a little rough, but nowhere near the fast sloppy thrusts of a rut-crazed Alpha. You’re mindful enough that you’re able to treat him right, dropping a hand between his legs to stroke him as you fuck deeper into him, your cockhead kissing his cervix.

“You want my pups, Omega?” You tease, and Laszlo moans wordlessly, his eyes rolling back in his head as he presses back on you in answer, “Ohh, good answer, sweetheart. I’m going to fuck a baby into you, make you round with my seed. I’ll keep you nice and knotted your whole heat so you have no choice, yeah? Is that what you want? Your Alpha to fuck her knot into you and keep you brainless on it until your heat passes?”

“Yes!” Laszlo cries, and you grin against the back of his neck as he comes again, covering your hand as much as the nest. He watches with half lidded eyes as you lift your fingers to your lips and lick them clean, and you giggle as his cock gives a weak throb in response. He’ll be hard again in a minute, but you don’t give him the chance to recover. Instead, you use your knees to spread his legs further, lifting his hips a little and setting a brutal pace. You want your Omega brainless on your knot, and you’re going to get it. You want to relish in the experience before your rut settles in and makes you wild.

“You feel so good, Las. So fucking good. Sweet little virgin Omega cunt so tight around me I don’t even know if I’ll get my knot in. You’re so wet. Such a good little breeder slut, slick dripping down your thighs, fucked out around my cock with every fucking thrust. S’getting creamy.”

Laszlo pushes back on you eagerly, and you groan as your knot slips past his rim, then back out, and the reaction is immediate. Your Omega cries out as he rocks back on you, and each time your knot slips inside, he sobs with relief. Each time it slips back out, he moans with frustration.

“Want my knot?”

“Yes!”

“Want me to bite your pretty little neck, make you mine?”

“Yes! Please, Alpha, stop teasing!”

“Gonna milk my cock with this perfect Omega cunt?”

“Alpha!” Laszlo’s cries grow more desperate, and you pull him back against you, pushing his head to the side so you can sink your teeth into his mating gland. He screams, and you push your knot into him one last time as you finally come together for the first time. A guttural groan rattles your chest as you lick his mating bond clean, your hands stroking down over his body to pull him closer. Your knot swells, locking you both together, and you use your strength to carefully move you both onto your sides so you can snuggle up against your mate while you fill him up. Laszlo moans quietly as you rub his belly, feeling the slight bulge as you pump him full of cum.

Soft snores fill the air as you relax into your nest, and you kiss Laszlo’s shoulder, proud to have put him to sleep on your knot. You know it won’t last long. You can already feel your rut setting in.

“Rest while you can, sweet thing. I’m going to make you a father, just like you asked me to.”

Your vision is hazy. Desperate, hungry, thirsty, love, need. It all burns through you as your rut sets in, and you hold Lazlo tighter to you as you fold him half, his knees nearly up to his ears. You’re knot-deep inside of him, fucking your own cum out of his sloppy hole as he cries out for more, more, always more. Your perfect little Omega. All yours.

“Mine.” You growl, and Laszlo sobs a loud ‘yours!’ in response as you fuck his rim with your knot. Over and over again, feeling it stretch around you, wanting you to lock with him again. You’ve filled him countless times already over the last couple of days, putting him to sleep on your knot as many times as you can to give him just a brief break. Bathed him, fed him, rubbed cream into his body and then did it all over again every single day for nearly a week. It isn’t a surprise. Being on suppressants this long is ill-advised. Normal heats and ruts only last a few days once they’re regular. Four at most.

“Alpha!” Laszlo cries, and you kiss his mating bond, forcing your knot into him and pinning him there, then wrapping your hand around his cock and stroking it until he screams as he covers his belly in cum. His chest vibrates as you growl your release, your knot locking into his soft body for hopefully the last time this heat cycle.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet.” You murmur, and Laszlo pants for breath, nuzzling his cheek against yours.

“Love you.” He whispers, and you kiss him softly, and briefly since he’s already struggling to breathe.

“Love you too, Las.”

Laszlo Kreizler walks into the Institute three months later, hand cupping his rounded belly, while you fuss over his every step. He looks unimpressed, mouth in a tight line as you growl at an orderly that drifts too close. Neither of you are going to be able to work much longer - Laszlo is growing quickly with his first pregnancy, and you’re an overprotective mother hen. You rarely let anyone near him aside from John, Sara, Cyrus, Stevie and the twins. You barely let him out of your sight, and you know he’s getting a little sick of it.

“Alpha.” Laszlo hums to get your attention, and you turn to him instantly, your arm tightening around him as you hang on his every word, “you’re making it hard to walk.”

“You don’t have to walk.” You retort, and Laszlo raises an eyebrow, “I can carry you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!”

“No! We’re in public.” Laszlo snaps, and you pout, nuzzling his mating bond.

“We don’t have to be. They know you’re leaving soon - everyone is ready for it. We could go home. I could take care of you. Rub cream into your belly and do that thing you like.” You tease, only to get a smack to the arm.

“Preposterous. I can work longer than this.” Laszlo insists, and you sigh, pecking his temple.

“Whatever you say, Las.”

He makes it another week, and only because of his stubbornness.

Many months later, he gives birth to your first child, a baby girl with dark hair and honey eyes who cries her lungs out from the moment she takes her first breath until the moment she’s laid upon Laszlo’s chest. He holds her, and you hold him, nuzzling your nose into his sweaty neck as you tell him how much you love him. How perfect he is. How perfect she is.

“What will you name her?” You ask quietly against his ear, and he purrs, stroking his daughter’s tiny little hand.

“Adelaide.”

“Adelaide it is, then. Adelaide Kreizler.”

#laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler #alpha reader #omega laszlo kreizler #a/b/o dynamics #omegaverse #daniel brühl

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