Author's Note:

I find Omegaverse fascinating, and very, very stimulating. Here, I said it :) Kinky kkolmakov is kinky :)

This is my first peek into the genre. It's not going to be particularly burdened with plot. It's mostly just smut :) It'll be consensual, yet... descriptive. It will feature John Thorington (modern AU Thorin Oakenshield alias, my usual protagonist) and my usual OC, Wren. If you've read my other stories, you know what to expect. The answer is... the unexpected! :)

Also, as my research shows, the rules of the verse vary from author to author, so I will arrange it the way I want.

Shall we begin? ;)

Best,

kkolmakov

"Have you done it?" Thea plops in front of Wren with her tray, pudding dancing on her plate, and Wren freezes with a piece of lettuce between her teeth.

"Hello to you too, Thea," she finally mumbles, after swallowing. She's just had a double shift, she properly has no energy to fight off her best friend at the moment. That's probably why Thea has stalked her into the staff canteen. The gleam in Thea's eyes is extremely alarming.

"So, have you? You and your god of shag?" Thea pokes a slice of cucumber and pops it into her mouth. Wren groans and pretends to be engaged with her salad. "C'mon, Leary. You've dated your delicious hot piece of arse for six months, you two are stable, and you're bio com. What are you waiting for? Because I can clearly see you haven't popped that cherry yet. You don't look properly knotted."

Wren shushes her with a terrified hiss, and looks around. The only other person in the room is another doctor in training, but he has earphones on.

"Thea, we aren't talking about it!"

"Why?" Sincere misunderstanding is reflected on Thea's face. "We still have half an hour before the next shift."

"Thea, even just the simple... Beta shag isn't something I'm willing to discuss. Why do you think I'd go into details of my..." Wren once again looks at the bloke in the corner. His head's bobbing at the rhythm from his iPad. "Mating," Wren whispers, leaning over the table, and Thea gives out a silver laughter.

"Leary! It's not something to be ashamed of! You found your A! Enjoy!"

Wren's nose twitches, and she goes back to her salad.

"And I want to know details," Thea presses on. "I'll never find out, since I'd rather end myself in than putting this collar on, so I want to experience it vicariously."

Wren regrets not playing sickie this morning. The main problem with such talks with Thea is that the thought will linger.

"Are you alright?"

Wren twitches and lifts her eyes at the man sitting across the table from her. Gods, what a specimen! She tends to sort of forget how glorious he is, and then it hits her like a lorry.

"Wren?"

"Yes, yes, I am. Sorry. It's just… I'm tired," she evades, and gets up to put her plate in the sink.

They are in her flat, and the kitchen is tiny. She has to step over his long legs stretched in the middle, and he catches the fingers of her unoccupied hand.

"Wren..." The voice is low, velvet, and shivers go down her spine. Even if he weren't Alpha, he'd affect her no less. Although, what else would he be? It's basically written all over him. All over the six four of his height, broad chest, wide shoulders, and patrician profile. The expensive jumper and denim are screaming of the status, and the dark mane and lush beard signal excellent health and admirable genes. He's as A as they make them. "What is it?"

Wren gives it a thought, and places the plate on the nearest counter. She then climbs on his lap, which he seems to very happily welcome, and his long arms wrap around her. She buries her nose into his neck and gathers lungfuls of his smell.

"Is it the days?" he asks softly, and she snorts.

"No… They were a week ago. Don't you remember? I jumped you in a cab..." Just as they describe in romance novels - Wren's guilty pleasure - a warm chuckle rumbles in his chest. She's strategically placed a palm over the rock hard pectoral muscle to enjoy it.

"Oh right..." He carefully turns his head and kisses her temple. "Then what?"

"It's… I had this daft conversation… No, it's not it. I just keep on thinking about us..." She peeks, and meets his laughing blue eyes.

"Should I say 'uh-oh'?" he asks, one of his eyebrows angles whimsically, and she gives his chest a ridiculous tiny punch.

"It's just that we are..." She chews at her bottom lip.

"Yes?" he draws out, and she sits straighter. Maybe, it's easier to just say it.

"We are bio com." The problem of talking to him about such matters is exactly the fact that they are. Because when he tenses like this, and narrows his eyes, her O genes flare up and rebel - against her feminism, and her ambitions, and her gigantic intellect, and the fact that she is a future surgeon, and an independent woman, and then all she wants is to make him happy, and satisfied, and curl at his feet, and…

"Yes, we are," he agrees in a low voice.

Omegas are unlikely to show initiative, and breach the subject of mating, or intimacy, in general, Dr Andrew Steward stated in Omega Biology and Physiology in 1956, but Wren reminds herself it's 2016.

"And we are in stable relationship… And..."

"And you would like to try," he states, not asking, and the eyebrow crawls up.

He's done it before, she remembers. He had two mates before her. It didn't work out, her gain, their loss, etcetera.

His face is reserved, unreadable, and everything inside demands her to change the topic. She's just offered an Alpha to mate. Even nowadays it's expected to at least be a veiled proposition. And if refused Omega isn't supposed to feel offended. Wren might.

He suddenly emits another chuckle.

"What did I expect from a doctor, after all..." he mutters, shaking his head good-naturedly, and she tenses.

"It has nothing to do with my profession!" she hisses and starts sliding off his lap. The circle of arms around her tightens. It makes her even more pissed off. "Let me go, please." Her tone is cold.

He theatrically opens his arms, basically impersonating Rio's Jesus now, and she climbs off and smoothes her shirt. She hasn't changed after work, because she was late, and he was already at her door. And she was starving.

Or maybe her damn O genes didn't let her leave him even for a second. She could've changed, and she really wanted a shower, after all the unmentionable stuff she touched and smelled and saw all day, and yet she quickly whisked them a salad while he was cutting bread, and they were eating ravioli she made yesterday, expecting him to come for dinner. Damn it.

She takes a few calming breaths. He finally put his hands down, on the table, and she stares at the back of his large hand. There's black hair on it, and she loves, loves, simply loves his hands. The fingers are long, and wrists are elegant and so very male. There's a silver ring with his family crest on the middle finger, the only decoration in all his no nonsense appearance.

"Wren, we should talk about it, if it bothers you..."

"It bothers me," she answers quickly, and then sits down on the only other chair in the kitchen. "We've talked about it. I have trouble accepting you being with me even without the whole biology thing..."

He makes a noise as if he's going to interrupt her.

"Please, let me finish." It's easier to talk if she's not looking at him. "We've talked about it, and I'm working on it, OK? My self-esteem isn't your responsibility, and… I'm starting to accept that you're with me, OK?" She looks up at him, and sees him frown. "It's not easy for an Omega on everyday basis, you know. And I'm mostly fine when I am at work, or uni, but with you… It's just the hormones, yeah?" She hates that she mumbles, and tangles in the words. She also hates that she wants him to reassure her. Because, just as her therapist always says, reassurance is like a drug. It only makes you addicted, without solving anything.

He isn't reassuring her. He's sitting calmly in her tiny kitchen, in her cheap flat. In his expensive clothes, in all his sexiness, and Alpha gloriousness. Damn it.

"Wren, there's no way to separate biology from what we have," he starts in a patient voice. She hates his patient voice. "You're an Omega, I'm an Alpha. You aren't taking suppressants, so I knew from the start. You went out with me, so I don't understand what bothers you now..."

"Why me?" she exclaims, and before he opens his mouth, she starts flailing her hands in the air. "No, no, don't answer it. It was daft!" She groans and rubs her face with her palms. "Give me a jiffy, yeah?"

She needs to gather her thoughts. She takes a deep breath in and goes through her usual mantra. She is fit. She is a skinny ginger, with a fey face, and long pins. It's 2016. Since Twiggy her looks are a fad. She's smart, like properly smart. She has a high IQ, she is a future doctor. She reads a lot, she draws, she is her own person. A bloke falling for her is not a glitch in the Matrix. She has her career, her interests, her hobbies. She is a separate independent human being. He saw it all and asked her out. She ogled his arse and agreed. That is what it is. Hormones be damned.

She opens her eyes.

"I'm sorry..." There's sincere remorse in her tone. It's not his fault they aren't Betas who can just… date and stuff. Without the biology arsing up the whole thing. "I'm just tired..."

He nods, but she can see she hasn't convinced him. As any male - and he is as male as they come - he prefers to avoid all this emotional rubbish. At the moment it might be a good thing.

They have tea and talk about her day. Her damn Omega ears are catching the minuscule tension in his voice, and how he doesn't look at her as much as usual, and by the time they move onto her bumpy, old li-lo, she's jittery.

He then leans in for a kiss, and she rushed ahead. Among other things, Thea didn't call him "god of shag" for nothing. As little as Wren had shared with her best friend, she just couldn't help but tell Thea of the five times in a row, and her orgasming for the first time in her life.

She decides to silence the thoughts buzzing in her thick, thick head by gobbling him up. She as much as lunges at him, straddles him, and pushed her hands into his hair. It's long, and there's no pony tail today. The heavy silky locks run between her digits, and she grinds her pelvis to him.

And then he carefully moves her away - not off his lap, but still pretty decisively - and attentively looks into her eyes. The O genes tell her to whimper and ask what she did wrong. the next step is Wren feeling irritated.

"Wren, are you actually in the mood, or that's you?.." he trails away.

"Me what?" she asks in an unpleasant tone. He sighs.

"Wren, if you need to talk, we can talk..."

"We don't. I just want to shag and forget about it, OK?" That's not her usual way of putting it. She is a bit of a prude, and besides - all biology aside - she's in love with him, and it's special, and she never said 'shag' before, and they do make love. It's never mindless. Although, it's never boring either.

He's studying her. The thing with the whole O and A matter is that he can actually make her talk. They've been together for six months. She's breathed in, swallowed, and eventually received into her vagina so much of his DNA that their initial biological compatibility has been sealed. He can softly but firmly ask, and she'd talk. She hates it.

"Wren, can you please just tell me what's wrong?"

Here we go. Wren grits her teeth. The words are bursting out of her, and she closes her eyes hoping to distance herself from him. His spicy fresh smell tickling her nose isn't helping.

She opens her mouth to confess she wants him to want her - to really want her - the 'm' word thrashing in her mind, when his long finger lies on her lips. Her eyes fly open.

"Wren..." There's a small warm smile on his lips. "I forgot you'd answer if I asked directly. You're so ballsy, I forget you're an Omega." Her jaw slacks. He's so Alpha that she sometimes forgets he is even human. "It'll be easier after we mate."

"And when would that be?" She's not fast enough to swallow this line. She then presses her lips, and flares her nostrils. She just could not keep her gob shut, could she?

"When you want it," he answers softly.

"Well, not tonight for sure," she bites again, and he nods, his hand now gently stroking her back between shoulder blades. Usually this makes her purr and curl into him. All she feels is irritation.

She slides off him, and sits in the corner of the sofa, pulling her knees to her chin.

"Wren, do you want to go to bed?"

She really isn't sure what she wants now. But definitely she will think better and breathe easier if he's not touching her.

"I… I'm very tired, and..." She doesn't know how to ask him to leave. She never has before. They would either make love for several hours and fall asleep on whatever surface they ended up. Or they would plod to his or her bathroom, brush teeth, and then sleep intertwined. They are very compatible.

"It's OK. I'll go then." He gets up, and she isn't looking at him. "I'll be back on Tuesday. Give me a ring?" His tone is perfectly polite and friendly, and she hums in agreement.

He has a small but very successful air charter company. Lots of travelling, lots of money. Lots of time she's left alone. No, not alone. She is fine on her own, damn it.

He leans in and kisses her cheek.

"Night, Wren."

"Night."

She hears him softly close the door after himself, and only then she starts sobbing. She congratulates herself on wise life choices. Were she his mate, she wouldn't be able to wait till he was gone. To think of it, were she his mate, this wouldn't have happened. She'd apologise and gladly spread her legs for him, she venomously thinks between hiccups and sobs.

It's not true, of course, and she knows that. After mating she'd be only more independent, her self-esteem would improve. It's simple biology. An Omega in successful relationship with a strong Alpha has 47% improvement in quality of life. After initial adaptation period, the stats are even higher. Wren hates the stats.

On Tuesday she has a cowardly - or spiteful - thought of not ringing him. Then she decides it's daft and childish, and dials him. He doesn't pick up, and she leaves him a cheery - and fake - voicemail.

It's past eleven, and she should be sleeping because she has additional hours in the morning, but instead she's drinking her third cuppa, and pretends she's not glaring at her mobile.

She's so tired after six months of trying to determine whether she craves him because he's just amazing, and lush, and sexy, and everything a chick can dream of, and it's her submissive O nature, that she decides just to mope and wallow in her misery.

Maybe he found a better Omega while in Montreal. That's her most common masochistic fantasy. The chick is tall, has amazing tits, and hips, dark wavy hair scattered on her shoulders, because that's the type of women he dated before her. And she gives ace head. Alright, Wren isn't that bad herself. Actually, she is wicked, and can come from it! Even her inner voice sounds defensive, and she drops her head on the table with a loud thud.

OK, where was she? Right, the other chick. She is Omega but not a feminist. She accepts her role, and is sensual and - unlike some ugly gingers - wears skirts and heels and stockings. She has some more feminine - Wren feels like throwing up - profession, and doesn't spend ninety something hours a week in the hospital. And she doesn't look like shite most of the evenings, with purple shadows under her eyes, and tangled hair. And she doesn't go into a benny because he hasn't yet offered her to mate. She is beautiful, complacent, and he will suggest it himself, very soon, and she will cook dinner and wait for him in a silk peignoir, just like Omegas girls were advised to do in 1967's A Guide For Smart Omega Girls: Manners (Revised Edition).

Her mobile rings, and she chokes on her cold Earl Grey.

"Hi..." she squeaks.

"Hey." He sounds tense. Her spine turns into a metal rod. "I'm… not far from your place. Are you up for a cuppa together? I'll just stop by for a wee bit..."

"Sure."

Her mind does its cursed exercise where it tries to determine whether it was the Omega Wren, or Wren Leary, future surgeon who agreed. She can't stand it.

She opens the door for him. He's his usual mind-blowing sexy self, and she remembers that she washed her hair and tied it into a bun that looks like something her Nana's cat would cough out. She invites him and rushes to the bathroom.

The hair sticks out like barmy orange springs as soon as she takes the elastic off. She is also additionally pale, more than her usual pasty colour, because she hasn't slept properly since they saw each other last; and there is a hole in her pyjama top. It's one of those tiny inexplicable ones, just the wearing out of the fabric. It's on her right clavicle. Her Nana used to tell little Wren that it's laundry mice, the special kind, that lived behind the box with soap. Wren always tried to sneak up on the laundry mice, but they always managed to escape.

Why is she thinking about it now?

Since there's no hope to improve her looks, she ties the hair back, and plods to the kitchen.

He's started the kettle, and is looking for his mug in the cupboard. He has his own mug; she gave it to him. It says: Q: What's the difference between a pilot and God? A: God doesn't think He's a pilot.

Muscles on his back are moving under the thin cashmere jumper, he is stretching his hand into the shelf, and she steps ahead, and presses her forehead between his shoulder blades, her arms wrapping around his waist.

"I missed you..." She has no strength left to figure out which Wren just said it. They all missed him.

He covers her hands with his, and she feels warm and safe. Damn the biology. Who cares…

"I missed you too, little one."

When he said it for the first time, she got offended. He swore it was about her size, and not patronising at all. Since he explained it to her while his fingers were moving inside her, and he was kissing her stomach, and murmuring that by 'little' he habitually means 'tight,' she agreed it was an acceptable term of endearment.

She nuzzles his back, breathing in the fragrance of the skin, and the familiar cologne, and the smell of the Summer rain that is pitter-pattering on her window.

"I want to go to bed..." Her tone isn't suggestive. Nor it is needy. She just needs it.

He starts walking to the bedroom, she's following, without changing their position, and she can't see, her eyes are closed, and her face is pressed into him, but she knows she won't fall.

To be continued...