Author's Note:

I found the main principles of Omegaverse best summarized on fanlore dot org slash wiki slash alpha/beta/omega.

In the next chapters I will try to explain the rules I set up for this universe, so I hope it becomes clear pretty soon. If not, feel free to ask for clarification :)

Love,

kkolmakov

The pre-heat hits her in the middle of a normal work day a week later. She's toiling in a lab, and at first she thinks it's just the fan is off, and she squirms on the chair, when she realises that her cheeks are burning, and there is this pulling sensation at the bottom of her stomach. It's too early. She quickly grabs her mobile, and checks the app. It's eight days too early. Her cycle is usually stable, by the book - five days of heat, every three months, instead of normal period.

She quickly grabs her belongings. A pen rolls under the table, and she rushes after it. The lab assistant lifts his eyes. He's safe, he's Beta. He can't sense anything. She excuses herself and hurriedly leaves the room.

She needs to get a cab. She runs through empty halls of the research center, dialing the Med Office. As an active Omega she's entitled up to ten days of leave every three months.

In her handbag she has a mini jet injector. It's full of the suppressant, enough for two hours. She can doze herself now, and get home safely. The hormonal levels will drop, and she will seem like a Beta - a normal human - to any Alpha around her. On the other hand, she'll have to deal with side effects. She's not normally taking the sups. Cue nausea, vomiting, vertigo, possible rash.

When she was 15 she had her first heat. She was a late bloomer, just like with her period. She's skinny, and generally the women in her family are rather low on the hormone chart. She's the only Omega in the last five generations. There were two Alphas, including her Nana. Becoming an active Omega in the same household with her was a torture. Wren moved out as soon as possible.

At the age of 18 she made a decision that she wouldn't take suppressants. She has nothing to be ashamed of. And she always thought that Alphas should just learn to keep it in their pants. She's not property, not cattle to brand. After all, these days Omegas have the same civil rights as Alphas and Betas. Sniffing her out in the crowd is their business, she just doesn't want to know about it. And she breaks no rules - when in heat, she's always very careful. She takes two days off before the beginning, and stays an extra one at home after. She's never had any incidents. Unlike, say, Thea, who always manages to run into an active Alpha while she's in heat. Technically, mating without explicit sober consent is considered rape since the 1987 Bill of Omega Rights. Thea has never filed any claims, but Wren isn't sure she wants to know how Thea spends her heats. Wren supports sex and heat positivity, by the way. It's just she prefers her quiet, prudent ways.

This time is all botched up. She knows the reason, and hates it. She's in stable relationships with an Alpha. And there's lots of shag. Obscene amounts of it. So her O genes have just rebelled, and are demanding a mate.

Her forehead is sweaty, hands are shaking. That's the normal symptoms of 8 hours prior to heat. It's too early, she keeps on repeating in her head. Joints are as if twisted, and she as much as tumbles down the stairs, no time to wait for a lift.

In the hall of the institute she runs into a group of her classmates in Starbucks. One of them waves to her, he's an active Omega too.

Hostility rises in her, the whiny, passive hostility of an Omega. He isn't a competition, not only because he's male. By the way, his kind is extremely rare. Out of all gay and bi men in the world only 4% are Omegas. But that's not the reason. There's no such thing as Omega competitiveness. Biologically, their hormones dictate that that's them who are being picked, they have no say in the choice of the partner.

Wren shakes her head, trying to chase the O thoughts out. She quickly checks her phone. Even with the barmy processes in her body, she can still make some predictions. She needs to be home in twenty minutes, lock the door, and curl in a ball. Or doze herself in the cab.

She is only in pre-heat, but she is already jittery and paranoid. The driver is a Beta, but even if he were an Alpha, he probably wouldn't have caught her smell yet. And still, she squeezes herself into a corner of the seat, and grits her teeth. Every cell in her body is screaming that she has to preserve the said body for an Alpha mating, and since there is an Alpha in her life, her biology makes her set on not letting anyone else touch her. Even without him having branded her.

She makes it to her flat in 22 minutes. By then she's sure this one will be her hardest so far. She jerks the lock, throws her handbag aside, and starts pulling her clothes off.

A warm shower helps. She's sitting on the bottom of her tub, letting it drum on her head. Breathing is difficult. Moving is difficult. Her body feels heavy, swollen, almost aching. It's not. Pain will come later.

After her fingers prune up, she drags herself out of the bathroom, and grabs a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. She hates orange juice, but it's rich in potassium. Heat burns it out in a human body.

She plods to the bedroom, crawls under her blanket, and closes her eyes. The juice, her mobile with the app running, and the box of the toys are on her bedside table.

She manages to nod off, but soon the mobile beeps. She enters the symptoms into the app, and downs half a glass of the juice. She'll also need all the folate it can give her.

She is now feeling this first wave of languished, ticklish desire. She's had enough heats by now to know that to satisfy this first urge is to set the chain reaction of insatiability. She needs to last as long as possible before she does anything.

Sleeping is out of the question already, and she decides to read on her phone. It's a mistake. She's settled down on her pillow, and her nose catches the fragrance of John's shampoo and cologne. She swears loudly. She hasn't changed the sheets since he stayed over three days ago. Her oversensitive Omega nose twitches, seeking more of the delicious aroma.

Wren groans. The whiff was enough. The reaction starts, and her mind supplies her with the image of him sleeping on that very pillow. And immediately of him, on his back, hair scattered on the pillow, while she's straddling him, riding him hard and rough, just like the last time he stayed over.

Wren rolls on her stomach and bites into the pillow. She's swollen, wet already, from just the smell of his skin on the fabric. She stretches her arm, but instead of the first dildo she still has enough will to grab her phone. She clumsily slides her finger over screen, and after three attempts she manages to turn on the app's audio file.

"Wren, it is alright. Everything you go through is completely natural. You are a young female person, with Omega genome. You are one of the 25.4% population of the planet, and your biology demands you to mate with an Alpha marked human with the intention of insemination. The rising levels of a substantial group of hormones in your body affect your nervous system and cause psychosomatic symptoms, consistent with normal human arousal, with certain deviations." This is the voice of her therapist. Wren paid extra six hundred quid for the personalised app. "You are at stage one. Your body is beginning to feel the need to copulate. The hormonal levels at the moment..."

The tape continues droning, and Wren concentrates on the science. Science is good. Science helps. It reminds her why she doesn't take suppressants. She isn't ashamed of what she is. She is an Omega, she is a woman, and yet she isn't artsy, or pretty, or sensual. She is a future surgeon, she's a tomboy, she is… Her thoughts jumble. She once again brings her mind down onto the voice.

"At stage two the discomfort can be alleviated by use of GMC approved sex toys. Stage two ends with the appearance of violence thoughts. As soon as the desire to be spanked, choked, or copulated with sensation of pain added to the experience starts prevailing in your fantasies, please press button with digit three."

Wren sits up and pulls her knees to her nose. So far, so good. All she wants is for him to stick his cock into her. The leftover sanity shies away from such crude thoughts. And then she reconsiders her previous thought. John, she has thought of John. Not a vague, undetermined male Alpha, which would be typical at the early stages of heat. She can almost imagine the sensation of his thick head stretching her entrance, and that moment when she feels the ridge snatch at her convulsing ring of muscles.

Wren rolls out of the bed, grabs the bottle and the phone, and moves to the parlour. She can't change the sheets in this state, so she should just stay on the li-lo.

The first contraction comes. It's mild for now, just a demanding squeeze. She always thinks that it feels as if her fanny checks if there's anything inside. Wren is taking measured breaths in. She can do it. She can last longer. Her knickers are wet. She should go change, but she gives herself a few more minutes.

And then her mobile shrills with the sound of Tardis. She tells herself to leave the bloody phone where it is. It's John's ringtone.

It continues, shuts up, and then starts again. She tells herself not to touch it, and yet she slides her finger across the screen.

"Yes?" She is raspy, and sounds half dead.

"Wren, are you OK?" His voice as much as assaults her. Her vagina convulses, and she groans. And then she realises that he sounds agitated, and she rushes to answer.

"Yes, yes, I'm OK..."

"We were meeting for lunch today. Have you forgotten?" He's also slightly irked, and she whimpers.

She can lie now. She can tell him she's sick, and he might come. She imagines him entering her flat, and her mouth waters. She can already be naked, wait for him on the floor of the hall...

She pinches her thigh. Pain brings a bit of clarity.

"I'm sorry, I got… engaged… we will have to..." She can't remember the word. All she can think of is his hands on her skin. Or knuckles down in her. "Reschedule..."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Last time she was in heat they were already dating. She managed to avoid discussing it. He was away in Tokyo. She went through her usual five days of nonstop masturbation. She thought of him, of course, but sort of the same way as she thought of Tom Hiddleston. They did start sleeping together by then, but it was new, and she was nervous, and they were still using condoms then.

"I am..." She wants to scream to him she's in heat and she wants him to take her from behind, just like he did when they woke up together last time. She wants him to grab her arse, sink his fingers into her buttocks, and fuck her so hard that she could see her hair flailing in front of her eyes.

"Alright… I am alright. Just maybe under weather..." She is Wren Leary, a medical specialist, and an independent woman, she repeats to herself. And then as much as starts mumbling her usual mantra. The biology is no boss of her.

"Wren, are you… in heat?" he asks, his voice low, and she moans.

She can't lie to him. Even though he isn't technically her Alpha. They haven't mated yet. The thought makes tears roll onto her eyes. He hasn't offered. He hasn't asked her to be his mate. But she is his, all his. And she needs him.

"Yes.. I am… it's bad… It'll be so painful..." she whines. Her hands are shaking, and she realises that the li-lo's upholstery is moist under her.

There's a pause. She bit into her lip so hard she can taste blood.

"Do you want me to come?" he asks carefully, and she groans. She wants to thank him, again and again, but all she can do is hum in agreement.

"Wren, you need to be sure. At what stage are you? I need to make sure you can still make decisions..."

"Stage one. I… I'm managing it, and yes, please, come..." She's begging, and she can just imagine the crinkle between his eyebrows. "If you want of course..." That was a bad line. It shows how much she's set on meeting his needs. She should have said something like 'it would be a good idea' or 'it would make it easier for me.' She should have pretended she has desires of her own.

She wants to rush and reassure him that she is very much sane, and that was indeed consent, but she's still sober enough to understand that if she starts talking, that will be the clearest indication that she can't make the decision anymore.

"I'll be at your place in fifteen minutes..."

His tone is grave. Wren hangs up because she doesn't trust herself not to start talking.

And then she rushes to the bathroom. She wants to take a shower, to style her hair, to shave her legs, to change, to find pretty sexy red lacy underwear… and then she grabs her mobile, hits the button, and sinks on the cold tile floor.

"The best test of your current condition is the so-called 'recorded diary entry.' Choose a day, as ordinary as possible, and record your actions. Remember, the smallest details might be most crucial. Compare your current urges and inclinations with that day. Do they coincide? Does your current urge go against what seems natural to you on everyday basis? It might include substance abuse, promiscuity, risk behaviours. It can be as small as changing your looks, and as grave as renewing your relationship with previously abusive partner."

Wren takes a deep breath in. She has already taken a shower, she's dressed in a tee and pyjama bottoms. That's her normal clothes at home. She's OK, she's OK. She shaved her legs yesterday. These are all sane thoughts, she can still see it.

She then brushes her teeth and decides that it's as much grooming as she should do. She reminds herself of the story of an Omega who plucked their eyebrows in the ten minutes before their Alpha came over.

The buzzer goes off, and she slowly approaches it. She's shaking. Somewhere at the back of her mind she still remembers that that's the first time he'll see her in heat - and there are big visible changes in an Omega in this state - and that they haven't discussed the mating question, and also that she's never taken any suppressants in her life. Which means her hormones are off the chart. He's an active Alpha. He might come in, smell her, and then fuck her without taking his jacket off. Somehow it doesn't seem like an unfavourable option, and she opens the door for him.

He enters, and she drops her eyes to the floor, like a good submissive Omega should. She's also holding her breath. She's just realised if she smells him she'll drop on her knees in front of him.

She then feels his hand on her shoulder, and he roughly pushes her into the wall. Her shoulder blades hit it painfully, and she gasps. His eyes are in front of hers now, and she realises he's picked up her chin with his index finger.

"How are you, Wren? Which stage?" His tone is authoritative, and every cell in her body reacts to it.

The wave of desire and submission goes through her body, and her hand twitched. She wants to touch him - she's never wanted anything in her life as much as to feel his scorching, tanned skin under her fingers - but she is an Omega. She doesn't dare.

"I think it's stage two already. I'm ready… For penetration..." Medical terms habitually fall of her lips, and he sucks a breath in. His chest moves, and she has to squeeze her knees.

"Wren, look at me."

She reacts to the command in less than a second. She doesn't even dare to blink.

"Wren, I will help you now. I will make you come, so you can think clearer, and we can talk about it. But you still need to consent to it." His tone is firm, and then his lips twist. She has some sort of tunnel vision at the moment. All she can see is the black whiskers above his upper lip. She wants to trace the pink with the tip of her tongue and feel the scratching.

"What are you thinking of, Wren? Tell me. I need to know how far gone you are..."

"I want to lick your lips…" she whispers, and her cheekbones burn, the red spreading down her cheeks, and onto her neck.

"At least nothing more graphic… So, technically you still can consent. Do you want me to touch you?"

"Please..." she breathes out, not meeting his eyes.

Still holding her to the wall with one hand, he shakes off his light jacket, switching hands, and then his right hand lies on the waist of her bottoms. He hooks the index finger to it, and pants as well, and pushes them down. She moans loudly. She's always loud during shag. A panicked thought comes that he might not like it, and she whimpers.

And then he cups her between legs, and his middle finger sinks into her. She's so swollen she doesn't feel it right away, and he adds another finger, and pumps them up. She wails, and immediately comes. The first one is usually the fastest.

And the shortest. She whines three seconds later, because she wants more.

"God, it's never enough for you..." he rasps out, and starts moving his fingers again, rubbing just the right spot inside her. She drops her head back, and meets each of his movements with a raspy exhale. This one takes only seven seconds, and her muscles greedily constrict around his fingers.

She starts slumping along the wall, and he's not supporting her.

"Wren, I can't touch you… I shouldn't..." He sounds distressed, and she tries to look at him - she needs to reassure him - but she's a ragdoll. Her naked bum hits the cold floor.

"You should go to the shower, Wren. Call me when you can talk…."

She's still burning. But the minuscule of sanity that he gave her makes her more compliant. She gets up, swaying, and goes to the bathroom. She starts the water, steps under it, and only then realises she hasn't taken any of her clothes off.

So, it's stage two then.

There's a knock at her door.

"Wren, are you OK?" His voice is tense. She suppresses the first urge - to invite him in, climb out, and hope he'd let her unzip his jeans.

"Yes… I can talk now..."

He steps into the bathroom, a gush of cold air licks her oversensitive skin. He can't see her behind the curtain. She can only see the silhouette. The wide shoulders, the long arms, the broad chest. She presses her back to the wall, hoping its burning coolness to relieve the buzzing in her body.

"Are you angry? Or embarrassed?" he asks, and the question sobers her up. She's forgotten she has the right to be angry, or embarrassed, for that matter. She carefully steps ahead and peeks at him from around the curtain.

"How… how are you so calm?" And then she's immediately terrified that he'll just say she doesn't attract him.

"I took a shot in the cab. It'll wear off in..." He looks at his Patek. "An hour and seven minutes."

"Why?" She knows she looks pathetic, and she feels her throat constrict, and her lips shake. He took a shot when coming to her…

"Wren, I'd rape you for several hours straight without moving into your flat if I didn't."

She wants to scream that it isn't rape if she asks for it, but this phrase is exactly what shakes her out of her haze. The 'she was asking for it...' Because she wasn't. She is what she is, but her being Omega is not consent.

"Can you please leave?" she asks, and hurriedly adds, "The bathroom… Not completely! Just go to another room, please..."

He quickly leaves, the door bangs behind him. She turns off the hot tap. In five seconds everything hurts, and her teeth are chattering, but she's much saner. She wraps into her robe and steps out.

His jacket is now on a hanger, and she can hear him move in the kitchen.

"We should have tea… but not in the parlour… I can smell you there... " Right, she leaked on the li-lo.

She hesitantly enters the kitchen, small sideways steps, her arms wrapped around her middle. The kettle is boiling, and he's gotten their mugs from the cupboard.

"Wren, if you have a jet, I say you give yourself a doze, and we talk before mine wears off."

To be continued...