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The cup tumbles out of your fingers and shatters against the floorboards as you sway on your feet. You try to apologize but your mouth stumbles over the words and Joseph shushes you with a tender pat to the shoulder. His kind eyes crinkle behind his glasses.
"The tea was a little strong, I apologize. A new recipe. Can you walk?"
Of course you can. You go to take a step, to prove yourself, and cling to his arm as your legs give out. He lets out an ‘oof' at the sudden weight and staggers, but somehow the two of you stay upright. Your head lolls to the side as he laughs, and you find yourself smiling along because it sounds so nice. Of course he's nice, you chide yourself, he's the Father.
"Much too strong, it seems. We'll have to tweak the proportions of the Bliss compound for next time. How do you feel?"
Hot. Your face is on fire and your tongue feels swollen in your mouth. Are you drooling? You try to scrub your face with the sleeve of your sweater but your arm just flops bonelessly against your side as he drags you toward a doorway. You hope you aren't drooling; you hope you aren't doing anything to embarrass yourself further in front of him. Not just for your sake, but for all your brothers and sisters in status at the project. You are all equal in the eyes of God, he himself preaches the sentiment often, but rarely does the Father extend an invitation for a private lunch to betas like you.
You're set down on the soft surface of a bed and you flop backwards as soon as he relinquishes his grip. The springs bend and stretch to meet you, supporting the contours of your body as you bounce against the surface. You don't have anything this comfortable in the beta dorms. Was the special treatment because he was an alpha or because he was the Father?
"Rest here for a moment. Recover. I have a gift for you."
You splay out like a starfish and enjoy the cool air on the back of your hand as it dangles off the edge of the bed. Was it fever? That didn't make sense—striking all of a sudden. Heat exhaustion maybe, but it hasn't been a particularly hot summer; especially now that you're on the tail-end of it. And you'd been moved from Bliss farming to kitchen detail a few weeks ago (why you don't know; kitchen was usually reserved for omegas). You'd been doing nothing strenuous today. Barely even physical.
"Do you know what I heard the first time I saw you?"
He's back in the room, somewhere, and you close your eyes as you listen to his cadence. As always the steady flow of his voice soothes you (his voice is so lovely), though it's hard to concentrate on it. Your thoughts buzz like hornets.
"The Voice. Whispering. Showing me the truth."
Something settles on your rib cage. You open your eyes to find a paper bag waiting, rolled tightly to seal it closed, and Joseph standing at the end of the bed. One hand rests on the hand-carved wooden bedpost—your own bed is a stained mattress on a creaky metal fold-up frame and there's a hint of bitterness in that thought that you don't like—as he looks down at you. The sun's slanting in through the window and you can't see his expression beneath the glare on his glasses, only the tip of his tongue as it darts out to wet his chapped lips.
"Go ahead and change, I'll give you some privacy." His footsteps rap against the floor as he turns his back and moves to hover by the door. He doesn't leave the room.
Your fingers are still a little clumsy but you manage to unroll the sack without too much difficulty. You wrinkle your nose at the wadded up sweater inside it—identical to the one you're wearing now. He takes a piercing inhale but doesn't turn; not yet.
"Hurry. Change."
Taking off your sweater is a struggle. You stay half-dressed for a few seconds, relishing the breeze on your skin, before the drum of his fingers on the door jamb reminds you to continue. Pinpricks of sweat bead up on your forehead as you tug the new one on. It's too hot to wear this; any of this. You flop back onto the bed, propped up on your elbows.
The sweater is dirty, a cloyingly sweet smell embedded in the knit that's familiar but you can't place, and the fibers scratch against your over-sensitive skin as you wriggle in discomfort. You wonder if it's blasphemy to reject a present given to you by God's chosen Prophet. Probably.
When he turns to see you watching him from beneath heavy lids his breath catches. He clasps his hands in front of him, knuckles brushing against his lips as he murmurs. You can't make out the words but you assume it's a prayer. You struggle to sit up and mimic the gesture before closing your eyes once more, waiting for him to guide you on what to say. His hand weighs heavy on your head and you flinch, not out of fear but at the sudden flush of heat in your cheeks and the tingle in your scalp where his palm rests.
"I saw you and the Voice gave me clarity. Let me see the truth hidden behind lies and misunderstandings." His hand traces the curve of your cheek and electricity races through every nerve it brushes over. His fingertips prop up your chin as you swallow back a flood of saliva. "You believe yourself to be a mere beta but you are so much more. Your real purpose, the one He has decided for you, is here: at my side."
You don't understand, but your confusion takes a backseat as his thumb slides across your lip and you open your mouth instinctively (this is what you're meant for, take whatever he gives you). Salt pricks the tip of your tongue, a thin layer of sweat clings to his skin, and you swallow the taste gratefully as he sighs. The pad of his thumb presses down and pins your tongue to the bottom of your mouth. The rest of his fingers curl tight around your chin.
"Doesn't this feel better? Doesn't it feel right?" He tilts your head back and you peek up through your eyelashes. His pupils are blown out, eating into the blue-turned-green of his irises behind yellow lenses. His nostrils flare intermittently to scent the air.
"This heat coursing through your veins. All that need and want and desire finally coming to light, no longer trapped deep inside; hidden even from yourself. You can admit what you want now." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "What do you want, my omega?"
You blink dumbly up at him. Omega. Was that supposed to be you? Does it even matter right now? You don't know what to say (him, say you want him)—rather you don't know what he wants you to say—so you stay quiet. He clicks his tongue and you cringe at the disappointment dripping from the small, simple sound.
"Shame is the greatest gift God could give us. It grants us the ability to tell right from wrong, to follow His laws and feel the sting of shame when we disobey them. But He also gave us our urges and our nature, and it is a sin to be ashamed of the holy purpose He instilled in us."
He presses his thumb more insistently, the rest of his fingers tightening painfully along with it, and you whimper at the crushing grip. Tighter, tighter, until it feels like you’re going to snap. You try to say something, anything, to get him to stop but all that comes out around his thumb is garbled cries. Suddenly he relaxes, soft smile twitching at the corners of his lips, and his grip loosens. Your skin throbs where his fingers dug in.
"Then again, as the Father it is my duty to lead my wayward children back onto their chosen path; just as it is my duty as your alpha to lead you when you are overcome by your heat." His hand withdraws. You watch as he brings his thumb to his lips and laps at the saliva left there. "They say your first heat is the most overwhelming, after all."
Overwhelming is a good word for it. Your clothes stick to your body, soaked through with sweat, as you pant for breath and your nerves thrum uncomfortably against your skin. You want to pace, to run yourself ragged and get the pulsing energy out of your veins, but each shift and twitch sends a fresh crop of sweat breaking out and you don't want to imagine what actual exertion would do to you. This is torture. If it's heat exhaustion you hope you pass out soon. If it's not...well, still; you hope you pass out soon.
"So, are you overcome? Do you need my hand to guide and lead you through this trial?" He cups your cheek and you shudder at how cool he is against your skin: a cold cloth on a fevered brow. You lean into his touch.
"Look at me. Properly." You struggle to raise your heavy eyelids until he's satisfied. "I need to know that you want this. I need to know that you want me."
You almost laugh, but his tone and stare trap it in your throat. He's the Father, why wouldn't you want him? You vowed to follow him through the Collapse and right into Eden's Garden. Of course you want him (so bad, you want him so bad) with you—every step of the way. You lift your arms out to him, tremors running through them from the strain of it, and his cool hands capture yours.
"Thank you."
You think he says it to you at first and you're humbled to be thanked by the Prophet himself. But he tilts his head back instead, looking up at the ceiling as he continues.
"Thank you for finally uniting me with my omega—the one with whom I will walk through the Gate—and for giving me the chance to show her the true path you've set before her. Thank you for allowing me to pass this first heat with her, just as I will pass every other heat alongside her now that you've brought us together."
He turns to look at you again and you melt under that gentle smile (so kind, so perfect).
"Lean back. Relax. Your alpha is here."
You let him lower you, soft and sweet, until your back meets the mattress once more and you're staring up at the knots and bumps of the wood-plank ceiling. Gently, his hands move to the waistband of your pants.
"Omegas, submit yourselves unto your own alphas, as unto the Lord. For the alpha is the head of the omega, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body." Steady, sure hands undo the button and zipper of your pants as he slowly peels them down and off your dangling legs. A pleased hum slips past your lips at the first kiss of brisk air on your sticky thighs and he answers with a purr that sends shivers down your spine. It rumbles in the undercurrent of his words as he resumes the verse. "Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the omegas be to their own alphas in every thing."
His callused fingertips rasp against your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake as they slide up your inner thighs. You shudder (submit).
"You've been so patient, haven't you? Waited for this day for so long." His fingers twitch. "I've been waiting as well; day after day, year after year. Abstaining and denying so as to remain pure for the omega He would someday deliver unto me. And yet I am made humble before Him for He has brought to me an omega more special and perfect than I had ever hoped: someone with whom I could share the blessed event of their first heat—delayed until He brought us together as man and woman and gave me the resources to remind your body of its true purpose."
The worn fabric of your underwear is dragged down and you buck at the sudden assault of cold air on the hottest part of you. Your heels drum against the bed frame, the friction of your squirming thighs a poor defense against the frigid room, only to still begrudgingly as his hand settles between your legs. It follows the curve of your pelvis: heel pressing hard against your clit and middle finger skimming along the length of your entrance. He huffs.
"Not enough. A higher dosage, perhaps? No, that would just increase the risk of paralysis. Maybe—" The tip of his finger eases in and you bite back a cry. You swear you could memorize every loop and whorl and arch of his fingerprint as he swirls his finger back and forth, arousal leaking around it from the movement (good, it feels so so good). He trails off into silence.
You don't know why you force yourself to stay quiet, but you don't let out a sound as he sinks deeper deeper deeper until the valleys of his fingers sit flush against your skin. Only your hissed breaths through grit teeth and his soft inhales fill the silent room.
It's when he crooks his finger, pressure dragging down the folds of one of your inner walls, that a groan finally tears out of your chest. You can feel his stare boring into you and every millimeter of his finger as he straightens it back out. Again he curls it, this time a little more forcefully and with a quick jerk of his hand that pulls his finger out an inch and thrusts it back in deeper, and your hips jump off the bed like you've been electrocuted. He pumps in and out just like that a few more times and you throw your head back against the mattress as he murmurs.
"The tea hadn't worked as well as I had hoped, but it's alright. It must be His will that I prepare you myself, to bring us closer together. After all He has given me you and He has given me clarity to discover your true nature; and if at this juncture I must put my shoulder to the cart rather than rely further on His grace I will do so gladly and without hesitation.” He pauses. Purrs. “Lord, I will do so gladly.”
You don't realize he's bent down until his beard tickles your thighs, and it's also your only warning before his tongue presses flat against your clit and your vision fuzzes out. He's enthusiastic—sloppy, out of practice maybe; but enthusiastic—and you come shamefully fast as he hums praise that vibrates against your skin. His mouth never breaks contact as your hips roll, lapping and sucking on the over-sensitive bundle of nerves as you ride the waves of your climax well into the start of another one (more, more, more). When you can catch your breath you whine—a high pitched mewl you've never heard yourself make before in your life—in the hopes that he'll relent. Instead he slides another finger in and your hands scrabble down the bedsheets to tangle in his hair. Several strands come loose as you yank and tug, not meaning to cause pain but unable to do anything else, but he bears it silently. And if his tongue and fingers move faster and push harder against you as if in retaliation, it must be coincidence.
It isn't until your third orgasm that he pulls away, leaving you sore and raw and empty. It's the last one that hurts the most: the feeling of hollowness made worse by the spasms of your inner walls trying to clench down around nothing. You want more, ache for it even as your legs shake and your heartbeat pounds in your ears. If you had more control of yourself you'd hook a leg around him—dig your heel in the small of his back and pull him right back where you need him—but your muscles feel like they're made of Jello and you just let your hands slip off him. He straightens with a wince and you finally get your first good look at him since he lowered you onto the bed.
His glasses are askew, lips flushed red from effort, and you can see perspiration glistening against the dark hair of his beard (though judging by the wet spot soaked into the sheets beneath you and the slickness coating your inner thighs it may not be sweat). Even his hair has come undone, ends barely grazing his shoulders save where it sticks up in clumps from your assault. His hair tie is long gone, a casualty. He's a mess; almost unrecognizable as the Father whose portraits decorate the walls of his followers' homes and whose statue looms over the Henbane, and you feel a small sting of pride in your chest at the thought of being one of the few to see him like this (to make him like this).
Pride isn't the only sin you feel as you wiggle your hips and watch his eyes follow their movement. You still want more—need more—and you know it must be a sin to feel this selfish: this greedy and lustful. You don't care. And as he sucks your arousal off his fingers and drags your hips off the bed so he slots perfectly between your shaky legs, you get the feeling he doesn't either.
He fumbles with his belt and pants, swearing under his breath as his wet fingers slip off the metal, and when he finally gives up and shimmies them down just enough so they're out of the way—bunched down and cutting into his mid-thigh—you're only given enough time to take a quick gasp before he positions himself and thrusts in.
It seems like he did too good a job preparing you because he hits deep and hard, sliding in almost all the way to the base in a sudden surge of his hips, and he apologizes at your yelp: pressing kisses and kind words along the line of your throat as he draws back much more slowly. Your hands flutter around him, grabbing and pulling everywhere you can because he's not close enough, until you settle for latching onto the yoke of his shirt. You loop your legs around his waist—ankles crossed and tucked snug in the divot of his lower back—and he purrs his approval as he sinks in again, slow to build up speed despite your writhing and whining beneath him (don't tease, you'll be good). His thick snarl of pubic hair acts as a cushion: softening the push of his hips into yours and kissing against your overworked clit with each stroke. Your toes curl at the familiar build of numbness in the pit of your stomach, back too soon and yet sorely missed.
"This is where you belong, omega." He grabs you by the hips and holds you in place as his pace gradually picks up. "Under me. Taking me. You're doing so good; you were made for this even if your body denies it. Every inch of you takes to your heat perfectly. Takes to me perfectly." He cranes his neck, hissing up at the ceiling through grit teeth. "I knew He didn't forget me. I knew my omega was out there. That we'd walk hand in hand through Eden's Gate and live in the Garden that awaits us."
His glasses are fogged (almost opaque from his panting) but his stare is still piercing.
"No matter what others said, what my father said, I knew one day I would have an omega of my own to protect and cherish. And I knew you were mine the second I saw you. Even if I was the only one who realized it, even if I had to force your body to understand that you were my omega; I knew I was right." His gaze flicks down to the sweater and he bares his teeth in an almost-grin. "And I'll keep forcing it to understand until you present properly. I'll keep reminding you and teaching you over and over and over and over until all you know is me. Until you can't remember what it was ever like to live as a beta."
You squirm as he buries his nose in the fabric and the groan he gives is low and guttural as it rumbles against your chest.
"This is what you're meant to smell like. It's not—" His tongue stumbles for the first time. "It's not your scent, I know. Not yet. But until then.... Your brothers and sisters are more than willing to give the clothes off their backs to help the project. And if I surround you in the right pheromones, if I force your heats until your body is reminded of your purpose, then you'll come to your senses. And I can re-introduce you as my omega; as Mother of the project and my children."
His hand moves to rest on your stomach as he repeats himself.
"My children. Our children. This time it'll be different. I've been devout. I've been dutiful. I have feared God and I have praised Him. I have worked and worked until my body ached and my fingers bled and I know my work is not yet done. But the Lord is as merciful as He is unforgiving and I know He's seen my sacrifices. Has judged me by them. He's rewarded me for my faith by bringing me you and this time He won't..."
He drifts off as if he can't bear to finish the sentence. Just stares at your stomach, lost in thought. It takes a twitch of your hips when one of his thrusts (slow and subdued in his reverie) drags against a sensitive spot to bring him out of it; and he comes back with a sudden sharp inhale, as if surfacing for air. He opens his mouth. Closes it. You can see his eyes darting across your face, searching for something, and after a few moments his brows unfurrow. He presses a kiss to your temple with trembling lips before rubbing his face against yours—forehead-to-forehead, cheek-to-cheek, until his beard leaves your skin chafed and raw—and then more kisses: on the tip of your nose, the apples of your cheeks, down the column of your throat; over and over. Each kiss seems to bring him back to the present, makes his hips pick back up to their desperate pace (faster, harder, please more).
He shifts his weight with each thrust as they begin to stutter, and as the pressure builds you realize why just seconds too late. All you can do is bite your lip and dig in your nails as he forces his knot in you with a deep growl. Your hips spread to take the sudden intrusion and you swear your pelvis must be creaking at the strain—not that you could hear it over the rush of blood in your ears coinciding with the rush of heat between your legs. You twist and squirm without thinking, body instinctively trying to work itself free of the unnatural fullness (not unnatural, right), but every tug of your hips just pulls him with you and all your efforts reward you with is a nip on the neck and a glare that's more tired than stern. The glare softens once your movements subside and his beard tickles your collarbone as he laps at your neck. He litters you with kisses and small bites until you're drowning in his scent (such a nice scent, sweat from honest work and old books and ink) and only then do you feel him relax into you, still nuzzling the crook of your neck as his weight settles on top of you like a heavy blanket. The unbearable heat in your veins has died down into a much more tolerable warmth, and it's with a sense of disbelief that you realize your clit is still throbbing above the unpleasant stretch of him locked inside you: cheated out of one last orgasm by him cumming before you (but he'll make it up to you if you be a good little omega). Your eyelids droop and your body tries to jerk itself awake with a strong, involuntary spasm. Your thighs tense at the sloshing sensation (so much, your alpha's given you so much) but the knot refuses to budge. He traces the curve of your cheek with his thumb as he intertwines the fingers of his other hand with yours.
"It's alright. I'll make you some more tea when you wake, but for now rest. There's no rush. We have the whole week of your heat ahead of us." He interrupts himself with a yawn, half-muffled by your shoulder, and your jaw tightens as you fight to keep from yawning yourself. You lose.
"So go to sleep, my omega. I'll still be here when you wake. I promise."
And you smile because that sounds nice. Of course it sounds nice, you chide yourself, he's your alpha.