One of the things often overlooked in A/B/O or Omega-verse stories and media is how trans people, or those who wish to be a different sub or primary gender, are represented and handled. I've read a couple of threads around the net of people who realised they were Trans or gender non-conforming due to the genre, and so I would like to hear the peoples' thoughts on how this should look in an Omega-verse setting. How do you think it would be managed? What worldbuilding would be around it? Would certain cultures make it illegal? Would it be something biologically natural or easy to do as a choice, by exposing oneself to different stimuli to promote the emergence of a new gender?
How would this look to you? Have you read any interesting Fics that explore this concept? Let me know!
It’s midday Saturday when Scott calls and begs Stiles for a favor. Stiles, two days into his pre-heat, is fully prepared to deny him, but those puppy eyes are lethal, even through a phone, and he ends up agreeing to swap patrol shifts with Scott. So he changes his clothes and heads out and is pleased when Peter joins him five minutes is.
It’s stupid, really, and irrational, but of all the alphas and betas in the pack, Peter is the one that gets his proverbial hackles up the least. Maybe because, unlike the rest, Peter doesn’t use his dynamic as an excuse to act like an asshole – instead relying on his own personal charm to earn the title.
Stiles thinks at some point, a tally of all the shifts he’s spent with Peter running through his mind, that this might not be so bad.
Forty minutes later, they’re running for their lives.
“Fucking hunters,” Stiles growls, slogging his way through the mud. “Always ruining everything.”
He’s out of breath, legs and lungs protesting the flat out sprint of the last who even knows how long. The adrenaline’s starting to fade, the tepid beginning’s of exhausting slowly rearing it’s head and, to be perfectly honest, he really doesn’t think he can go much further.
Ahead of him, leading the way and dragging him along, Peter snorts. “You have awfully low standards.”
Because focusing on Peter is better than thinking about what awaits them if they stop moving, Stiles takes offense. “Excuse you,” he says, grip tightening on Peter’s hand as something – probably a tree root (they are in the Preserve, after all) – snags his ankle and nearly takes him down. “I will have you know that my standards are reasonable. Very reasonable. So reasonable, in fact, that they spend their time reasoning with everyone else’s stupidly high expectations.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes!”
Peter just hums and Stiles silently flips him off. In his head, obviously, he’s way too tired to do it for real.
But Peter must sense his intentions anyway – all that werewolf-ism...ish? – and glances over his shoulder. His eyes are glowing, too-bright in the darkness, and momentarily leaves Stiles blinking away white spots in his vision, and yet he still catches the tightening of Peter’s mouth, the way he seems to look past Stiles, deeper into the spaces they’ve left behind.
“Can you hear anything?” Stiles asks, trying to ignore the way his heart starts to bleed ice through his veins, sticky and cold. He doesn’t think Peter can, over the rain and the noises they’re making, and Peter shakes his head.
“No,” he says.
“But…?”
“But we have no idea what that thing was. We can’t stop.”
Which is true. Very true. Hunters were one thing, but some sort of Lovecraftian hell-spawn was another thing entirely. Just those few seconds in it’s presence, when it had entered the clearing where Stiles and Peter had been ambushed by a group of hunters, before it turned it’s attention to them and given them the chance to run, had been terrifying. Stiles couldn’t even describe it. The monsters they’d faced, human and not so much, had always scared him, but it had been the sort of fear that he could push aside and largely ignore until the problem was dealt with.
This, whatever it’d been? It’d been fucking primal.
And he never wanted to feel that again.
So he shuts up, digs deep for the extra reserves he totally doesn’t have, and picks up the pace. He doesn’t drop Peter’s hand. He tries not to think about how, if Peter hadn’t been so quick to grab him, and Stiles had been left alone to race through the wet gloom of the Preserve, he’d most likely be dead right now.
They run for what could be another ten minutes, could be another hour. Stiles has no way of telling, phone dead and waterlogged in his pocket and he’s struggling. The wet clothes are weighing him down, feet slipping across the forest floor more than before, and it’s only getting darker.
He’ll be damned if he says anything, though. He cops enough shit from the pack as it is, being human and omega and thinking that he has what it takes to keep up with werewolves and alphas, because they’re jerks like that and he’s just stubborn enough to deny them the pleasure of being right even if it kills him.
Humans can do incredible things when their lives depend on it. He saw that youtube video about that women that stopped a car from hitting her kid, yes he did, and he swears to god that if she could do it then so can he--
“Just a little further,” Peter says.
“Thank fucking Christ,” Stiles gasps.
Forget it. He’s done. Absolutely done, no energy left, no sir-ee.
Another handful of minutes and then they break through the treeline, staggering out into long grass and open skies. The rain falls harder here, with no trees to act as a measly cover, which is just perfect, because it means Stiles can go longer than a couple of seconds without blinking the water out of his eyes and wishing his hair was still short, if only so that it didn’t stick to his face like cold seaweed.
Then Peter’s tugging him close, almost angling him so that Stiles is tucked into his side, and Stiles looks up, probably to ask him a flat why – they’re both soaked, the gesture is useless – when he sees what else is in the clearing, and instead ends up asking, “What?”
“We should be safe here,” Peter says, and starts forward, like he’s expecting Stiles to be okay camping out in some old house that looks, even in the dark, like it should’ve been torn down years ago for health violations.
Which, fine. He wouldn’t be wrong – Stiles has always been freakishly adaptable to most things, and running for their lives during a freak storm is definitely a Thing – but, and Stiles is just putting this out there, really?
“With our luck?” He half snorts, half splutters. “Doubt it.”
“So young,” Peter mutters, shaking his head. “So cynical.”
“So old,” Stiles parrots, delighting in the way Peter tenses – so predictably – then relaxes. “Such an asshole.”
Peter barks a laugh that’s drowned out by a sudden deluge.
By unspoken agreement they both leg it across the remaining bit of what was likely once the front lawn and huddle underneath the overhang.
Stiles hugs his arms around himself while Peter fiddles with the lock. Kicks the toe of his shoe against the ground, bites his lip.
He must zone out, he thinks, because he jumps when the door swings open with a rusty shriek and Peter doesn’t look amused, only concerned, and doesn’t say anything smarmy before ushering Stiles inside.
“It’s safe,” Peter insists again, like he wants Stiles to believe him, and Stiles kind of wonders what his scent must be broadcasting, to get that tone in Peter’s voice. “I promise.”
So Stiles looks over his shoulder at Peter strangely, a sort of ‘what gives?’ and sets off down the hallway.
The house is clearly old-fashioned. All narrow and tight instead of the open and spacious. It’s too dark to make out any detail, the little bit of diluted moonlight painted across the floor through the broken windows glinting dully off what Stiles assumes are bits of glass, maybe some metal fixings.
Peter is a steady presence at his back, a hand on his back. The alpha is tense, strung tight like he’s on high alert and that’s making Stiles stress out even more, which is not fun and he kind of wants to tell Peter to chill out, only… This is Beacon Hills. It’s the middle of the night. Some creepy monster thingy is haunting the Preserve, and they’ve just spent the evening running for their lives.
In a town like this, you relax and you’re dead.
In fact, a part of Stiles is actually, stupidly, rather pleased with the attention Peter’s giving him. He feels like a priority, something important and it’s been so long since he felt like that…he just knows that’s the omega in him speaking, and firmly tells himself to knock it off.
“What is this place, anyway?” Stiles asks., figuring that, having nearly a decade and a half on him, Peter probably knows. He doesn’t mean to be quiet, rarely ever is, yet something about this house reminds him of the Juniper Mausoleum he had to pass every time he went to visit his mom’s grave.
Peter is silent for long enough that Stiles labels it as hesitation, and opens his mouth to pester, when Peter finally talks.
“It’s my grandparent’s house.”
Stiles actually has to repeat the words back to himself before it sinks in.
“Wait what?”
Peter huffs a sigh. “Of all the things – yes Stiles. My grandparents lived here. Happy?”
“No. I’m wet and I’m cold – what the hell happened to this place?”
“…”
“Peter?”
“They died.”
Well, Stiles considered, wincing. Didn’t that just make him feel like a dick.
“Was it…?” He isn’t sure what he want’s to ask. Was it the fire? Hunters? What?
And it’s like Peter reads his mind. As the man maneuvers them up a flight of waterlogged stairs and into a room that Stiles is happy to see has all it’s window intact, Peter talks.
“It wasn’t the fire,” he begins. “Though my father, Talia and I were never completely convinced that Hunter’s weren’t involved. They died when I was twelve. Car accident, head on collision with a truck.” He pauses, falling silent, and Stiles stands still as Peter drops his hand and moves away, heading towards what Stiles thinks might be an armchair. “When they died… there are wards up around the clearing, still are. When they died, this place, the house, the garden, everything, vanished. Like it had never been here. We spent years looking. We could never find it.”
He watches Peter run his hands over the fabric and imagines the man must be trying to finds hints of familiar scents, doubts he’ll find anything after so long.
Stiles is lost for words. They’re friends now – inasmuch as they wind up beside each other at pack meetings, and have a joint order at an Italian place that Stiles loves but can’t afford regularly and eats whenever he joins Peter for research at his apartment – and Stiles has seen him with all manner of expressions and yet, this is maybe the most human Peter has ever been.
So he says, “I’m sorry,” and Peter waves his hand.
“It was a long time ago,” Peter says, voice light in a way that Stiles knows means the total opposite. Peter pauses, then adds, “My mother was with them, in the car.”
“Jesus,” Stiles mutters before he can stop himself. “You don’t have to, like, talk about it, or anything, not if you don’t want to.”
“Don’t you want to hear my story, Stiles?”
There’s an edge to his words, somethings Stiles can’t place, which makes him tip up his chin, makes him bristle like he’s been insulted. “Only if you want to tell it,” he says.
And maybe it was the right thing to say, because Peter seems to relax, shoulders no longer hunching forward, and he let’s out a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh under different circumstances. “What’s a little more tragedy between us, right?”
Stiles snorts, and eases into the room, dropping his worry like yesterday’s laundry by the door. There’s still a part of him that’s tense, keyed into every sound, every creak, but he’s not alone; he’s got Peter and, honestly? That’s kind of reassuring.
“I wouldn’t call us tragic.”
“Then what would you call us?”
Stiles shrugs, and blinks and wonders at how everything is full of color, suddenly. “Misplaced, I guess.”
The colors makes his eyes hurt. His head starts throbbing and he misses whatever Peter says when his blood starts rushing loudly through his ears and his fingertips go numb.
It reminds him of coming down from a sugar high as a child.
“Peter,” he says, or thinks he says, thinks he hears himself say, but he’s shaking so hard now he might not have said anything at all.
And then Peter is right there, filling his vision. He’s so close Stiles can feel his breath against his cheek but he’s blurry around the edges. Sort of wobbly.
He swallows, focuses on not throwing up, whines, maybe, and lists forward. “I don’t feel so good.”
“No,” Peter says. “I imagine you don’t. You’ve never Dropped before, have you.”
It’s not a question. Stiles treats it as one, anyway. “Almost once,” he says, and grabs onto Peter’s jacket because that is the only thing not spinning right now
He thinks of a funeral and the wreak of alcohol and the smell of a furious alpha.
Thinks of cold tiles and ambulance sirens and the fuzziness of medication. Thinks of being too young to understand what was happening.
“Oh god,” he groans, doesn’t fully register Peter grabbing him and holding him when he starts to sink down, legs folding beneath him. “Is that what this? This can’t be happening.”
“It’s not ideal,” Peter agrees. The world lurches, sways, making Stiles bury his face in Peter’s jacket, and the next time he resurfaces, it’s to find Peter has taken a seat in the armchair, and arranged Stiles so that he’s curled up his lap, feet free of his shoes, cold toes tucked between Peter’s thigh and the cushions, back pressed against the armrest.
“Just try and relax, sweetheart.”
And something just… slumps, inside him, goes warm and soft.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
Peter hums and Stiles kind of likes how it echoes through his own body, but then Peter is moving, jostling him around, and Stiles latches on, suddenly unbelievably terrified that he’s about to be displaced.
But Peter’s only awkwardly shrugging out of his jacket, which makes a certain amount of sense, being soaked through and all, and deftly flicking open the buttons of his shirt, baring his chest.
Stiles doesn’t even get the chance to appreciate the view before Peter is doing the same to him, shoving off his hoodie, sliding up his t-shirt. The chill is immediate but Peter must’ve found a blanket somewhere and now covers him with it.
Stiles is certain he knows what Peter’s doing, positive he’s read about it, at least, and yet his brain isn’t making sense. His throat is hot, bonding glands feeling swollen and puffy and his limbs basically useless.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” Peter says into his ear and Stiles huffs a whine and falls forward into the alpha’s warmth, into his strong grip.
He shoves his nose into alpha’s neck and inhales rapidly. It’s maple syrup and warm blankets, sun-warmed soil with the bitter undertone of expensive coffee and something Stiles can’t name but craves anyway.
He probably isn’t under for longer than an hour. Time passes and his mind… drifts, overcome by instinct and the overwhelming need to feel safe.
It feels like falling asleep, almost, stuck in that in-between where nothing feels real.
Wakefulness returns slowly, seeping in at the edges. He is conscious of Peter’s hands running up his back, of his own hands curled into Peter’s chest. The hint purr building in his chest tickles his throat and makes him blush, knowing how intimate that sort of reaction is, how intimate their position is; an unmated omega alone with an unmated alpha.
His dad would lose his mind if he ever heard of this, which he was never going to if Stiles had anything to do with it.
Aside from their position though, Stiles feels… good. Not better, still a little unsteady, but it isn’t as bad as before.
His fingers don’t feel like little ice-blocks, for one. And he’s no longer shaking like some preteen that accidentally wondered into the horror showing in a cinema, which is wonderful, truly wonderful.
Of course, there is the small matter – very small, certainly not a big deal at all – that he just Dropped for Peter.
Psycho Peter, whom the rest of the pack can’t stand and don’t trust.
Crazy Uncle Peter that pokes and needles until he’s got Derek looking ready to start throwing him through walls again, and drives everybody else insane.
Peter, who…
“Back with me, sweetheart?”
Peter who does things like that. Calls him sweetheart and touches him like he’s something precious, something cared for, instead of a nuisance that’s too loud or too blunt or just too much.
Peter, who’s never mocked him for his dynamic, or put him down for instincts he can’t help. Who always buys him his favorite coffee and orders in Italian food for him and never minds when Stiles just happens to fall asleep on his couch during a research binge because the house is empty and he’s so goddamn tired of being alone.
Peter, whom Stiles is just realizing he might be a little bit in love with, while sitting in his lap.
Talk about inopportune moments.
“… this is so embarrassing,” he mutters, feeling stiff and awkward.
Movement, then Peter’s fingers are tangling through his hair and tugging gently, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.
Peter is quiet for awhile.
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says at last, quietly, like if he says it any louder, the meaning won’t be the same, will transform from something that makes Stiles’s heart stutter and race into something shallow and flippant.
Stiles swallows. “You – you. I, uh.” He was not equipped to handle this kind of conversation. “I am not equipped to handle this kind of conversation.”
“And what conversation would that be?”
Multitudes of snark appeared on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Breaths. Tries to get his thoughts in order.
“...you know very well what kind,” he settles on saying.
Peter doesn’t say anything in response to that. He just sighs, turns his head so his nose is in Stiles’s hair, and somehow pulls Stiles closer.
It’s nice. It’s so nice. It’s the kind of nice that should be illegal and after the shitty night he’s had, Stiles is weak for it.
An illicit thrill runs through him when he thinks of what this would be like if Peter was his mate rather than just an alpha that his omega was sweet on… thinks of a soft bed and pillows that smell of both of them… thinks of purring, something he’s never done in front of anybody else before, ever.
“You are very young,” Peter says, sounding pained.
Stiles worries his bottom lip. “I’m eighteen in two weeks,” he whispers, voice hitching. He clears his throat, adds, “Besides. After everything that’s happened, am I really still that young? Are any of us?”
“The pack will never accept it. Derek won’t accept it.”
“So? It’s none of their business. I can do what I want. Just because they don’t personally agree with what I do, doesn’t mean their opinion suddenly matters.”
“And Scott?”
“Scott,” Stiles starts, so sure of what he was going to say only to falter, because… because what if Scott didn’t understand? Derek and the pack were one thing. Stiles felt semi-responsible for them, mostly because he’d helped save all of their lives at some point, and that meant something, you know? But Scott was his brother, they’d grown up together, and Scott still looked at Peter like he was never going to be anything but a spree-killing monster.
He made a helpless sound, frustrated and confused.
Peter soothed him, humming unintelligibly into his hair.
“Let’s not talk about this now. You’re e--”
“If you say I’m emotional, I swear to god I will hurt you.”
“-exhausted. Don’t lie to yourself, you’re running on fumes right now, and I am not a good enough man to let you regret anything else you might say tonight.”
“Fine.”
“Okay.”
“Just because you’re being reasonable.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. Now, why don’t you try and get some sleep? The wards won’t let anything through.”
“...why’d it let us through, then?”
“They were once keyed to Hales. You were with me.”
“So… what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been with you?”
“Likely something suitably horrible.”
“Wow, great.”
****
They don’t ever really talk about it. The next day, when the storm’s passed and everything is yellow-wet and sweet, Peter steers them through the Preserve, back to town. They come out two streets over from Stiles’s house.
After… nothing really changes. They spend time together, do things together. Nobody notices. Or, if they do, they don’t say anything. The Sheriff isn’t home enough to notice how often his son is out, and when he is home, Stiles is careful to not make it so blatantly obvious that he’s spending at least three nights a week in a bed that isn’t his. It’s not like he’s trying to hide anything, exactly. Just, he knows his dad, okay? Knows exactly how much he would freak out if he knew what was going on and… well, sue him but he likes what he has now, and he doesn’t want to ruin it.
Outside of that, being with Peter and researching and hanging out with the pack, Stiles graduates, and seriously thinks about what he wants to do with the rest of his life, which leads to him hunting down a mage that’s willing to be his mentor in return for free labor and a research assistant and moving halfway across the country.
Peter is with him every step of the way and officially begins courting him on his twentieth birthday.
By his twenty second, they’re mated and back in Beacon Hills and Stiles is incandescently happy with the way his life is going and Peter is leading him through the Preserve after making him promise to keep his eyes closed.
Stiles does, reluctantly.
It’s spring, the day warm and the woods seemingly come to life with bird song and the quick scamper of small animals across the ground.
Peter’s hand is a familiar weight in his, fingers laced together in a way that should be awkward but isn’t and Stiles is busy cursing how no amount of training will ever make him the kind of graceful that means he isn’t always tripping over himself and--
Peter slows them to a stop, and Stiles has the sense that they’ve come to a clearing, sunlight warm on his face.
The air is filled with the subtle scent of flowers and fresh grass and there’s a sort of hush that’s fallen over the place, like even the birds have gone quiet in anticipation.
Peter steps up behind him, presses against his back, arms going around his waist. Stiles relaxes against him, not bothering to hide his smile, or the way his scent goes mellow-sweet.
“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” Peter tells him, and Stiles does.
His breath catches.
“Oh my god,” he says, staring. He can’t help it. He’s thought of the house often, wondered what it looked like in the daylight. In the months after, he’d even thought of asking Peter to take him out again, show him around, but Peter had never mentioned it, not once, and Stiles had figured that it was one of those things that had too many bad memories to outweigh the good but…
“Peter,” he says. “You…”
“I bought it,” Peter responds. “Fixed it up.” Then, while Stiles is still staring and speechless because the house is beautiful and equal parts Peter’s taste in architecture and Stiles’s taste in color, Peter shifts so he can press a kiss to the bondmark on his neck and says, “Consider this my mating gift to you.”
And Stiles breathes in, trying, and probably failing to contain his excitement, and says, “It’s perfect.”
you know what pisses me the fuck off? like, lots of things. but this especially.
those a/b/o fics where one of them is an omega and the other is an alpha, and let’s say the omega is working retails and the alpha comes up- and the alpha flirts with the omega and the omega’s like “not interested” and the alpha KEEPS GOING even though it’s clear that the omega is, again NOT INTERESTED.
and the omega’s all annoyed but then as the weeks go by it turns out the omega was “wrong” and the alpha’s actually a “really nice guy” who “cares about his family” and is smart or whatever. and they get together.
i don’t give a FUCK if alpha cares about his family. flirting when the person on the other end is not only not interested but also working, thus perpetuating an unequal customer/employee dynamic bc the omega CANNOT GET AWAY is A) wrong and B) disrespectful and C) A SUPER DICK MOVE.
it romanticizes sexual harassment. it adds to the misconception that women, or, in this case, “omegas” OWE men or “alphas” something- their time, their feelings, their body.
and i hate it that it’s always portrayed as the omega being “stubborn”. giving me “tell me more tell me more did she put up a fight” vibes a la Grease, and like- no.
if we’re ranting about a/b/o verse, can we also rant about how it’s such a blatant way to promote sexism? because you can say stuff like “oh omegas sit at home and do embroidery and blush and are really little” it’s just like “biology”, not “sexism” or “misogyny”.
additionally, it’s a way to fetishise mlm by promoting heterocentric sterotypes like having the “girl” and the “boy” of the relationship. now, i’m a queer woman and i write mlm. i am not saying “if you are X you cannot write Y”. i, however, am exceedingly careful when writing mlm, following guidelines i’ve read by queer men. (google “how to write mlm respectfully”).
seriously. “omegas” A) have their genitalia slicken when aroused, B) are thought to be feminine and wear frilly clothing and C) are the “bottom” of the relationship. what does this sound like? hmm, it sounds like a way to make one half of a gay couple adhere to the blatantly homophobic trope of a “girl” in the relationship, not only making one super feminine but ALSO making the SEX hetero as well, reducing the need for prep and just overall turning it into something super heterosexual.
now, i’ve read good a/b/o, and there was a time when i really LIKED a/b/o. not all a/b/o is bad. not all a/b/o is misogynistic, heterocentric, or homophobic. whoknows on ao3 writes pretty nonproblematic a/b/o fics. this hp teddy/james fic is also pretty decent a/b/o. this alec/jace fic from the TMI series is also decent. this is a tomarry hp fic- it’s actually het - that has pretty good nonproblematic abo smut. this fic from the folk of the air series by holly black is pretty kickass as well.
i’ve also read good alpha/alpha and omega/omega fics.
so not all A/B/O is “bad”, per se. but a good chunk of it is problematic.
Wow, besides the smut, I just had a difficult time reading it, not because it was bad, because it was awesome.
English is not my first language, so I kind of understood everything.
So questions:
What is rut?
What is heat?
What is the famouse knot?
Overall it was awesome how you created your little word, reading about Ichiruki is pleasant.
Have a nice day and take care from covid-19.
Ahh I’m so honored you read it since it wasn’t in your first language, I appreciate it so much❤
As for your questions, they’re more related to the ABO/Omega-verse as a trope which is also inherently sexual as far as tropes go, but basically:
A rut -> An alpha’s mating cycle, usually when alphas experience a rut they get very aggressive and either deal with it by getting into fights or shutting themselves up (alone or with others) for sex. Symptoms, duration, etc vary story to story.
A heat -> An omega’s mating cycle, usually when omegas experience a rut it’s pretty similar to when a girl is going through her menstrual cycle except there’s no blood, just general aches and pains, and a desire to eat/be cuddled/have sex depending on the type of person they are/how they feel at that particular moment during their heat. Again, symptoms, duration, etc vary story to story.
A knot -> This has to do with alpha anatomy and particularly male anatomy, though female alphas have a knot, anatomically, it operates differently. I don’t get into it because most fics I’ve read don’t get into it - but essentially it ties the couple together during sex to ensure a higher chance of having babies. As it is a part of sex, however, people generally derive pleasure from it.
Thank you for reaching out, I hope you enjoy the other ichiruki stories out there! Stay safe, sane and healthy!
Johnlock/Omega-verse is weird, it was not something I was looking for and have surprisingly surprised to find some well written fics in this genre and I am not ashamed to admit that it has somewhat become a guilty pleasure of mine. It can surprisingly work if written well and especially with the main characters acting like themselves.
I will admit that I have a weakness for Alpha Sherlock/Omega John and I have no idea why.
hey! not sure if you srsly meant the question... but if you did...
THE omega-verse crash course:
https://www.tumblr.com/pack-the-pack/672919536546283520/so-im-reposting-my-omegaverse-bilogy-crash?source=share
do be warned. it will seem genuinely unhinged. but uh try before you deny..? 🤷
some fics do really make it work though sooo it's not necessarily bad
that was… enlightening 😭
i knew like the basics but i’m always up for some biology! thanks diva
my education continues
(it’s not my fault i grew up with no internet access)
So, I only know the very simplified basics of genetics and how they work, but I was wondering about the omega-verse and how genetics would determine your designation, and how it would be possible for a beta-beta pair could produce an alpha or omega, and vice versa for the traditional alpha-omega, and the rarer alpha-alpha and omega-omega pairings.
(Note that this most recently came into my head when I was thinking of an omega-verse MDZS au where beta-beta Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan had an omega Jiang Yanli and an alpha Jiang Cheng)
Using beta as the most common designation, though I’m not sure how important that is.
So there’s the beta, alpha, and omega genes. These genes pair together. All of these genes are automatically turned off during childhood, and only get turned on during a person’s presentation, which usually happens sometime between the ages of 10 and 14, often around the same time they start puberty if puberty starts during this time, but not always.
Generally, the beta gene is dominant, and when the other genes are paired with the beta gene, it is the beta gene that turns on during presentation, and the alpha and/or omega gene(s) stay off. However, there’s another gene that switches which of the alpha-beta-omega genes turn on, when there are 2 or 3 different genes available. When 1 of this gene is tied to the designation genes, it turns on the alpha gene, if the alpha gene is there. With 2 of this gene, they turn on the omega gene.
So basically, beta-beta gene always results in a beta, alpha-alpha gene always results in an alpha, omega-omega gene always results in omega. Without the switch gene, any gene combo that involves at least 1 beta gene results in a beta. With 1 switch gene, any gene combo with at least 1 alpha gene results in an alpha, and with 2 switch genes, any gene combo with at least 1 omega gene results in an omega.
If there’s no alpha or omega gene, the switch gene does nothing, even if it’s there. If there’s only an omega gene to switch to, 1 switch gene will turn on the omega gene. Same with the alpha gene and 2 switch genes.
Note that someone with the alpha-omega gene pairing that doesn’t have any switch genes will not naturally go through presentation, as without the switch and/or the beta gene, they seemingly neutralize each other. Their presentation needs to be forced through outside interference, and how exactly it’s done will determine whether they become an alpha or omega.
Does this make sense?
(Also, my personal headcanon is that beta-beta pairs and alpha-omega pairs have the best chances of having kids. Alpha-beta and beta-omega pairs have a harder time trying to have kids, and alpha-alpha and omega-omega pairs have the lowest chances of having kids, but all of them are technically viable.)
