(small hint of dietary issues in this chapter. Saw this prompt and could not let go of it) Since his early childhood, Credence had understood how the world worked. The strong males, the warriors, like Mister Graves; both of them, they were the Alphas. The kindhearted men and women of the world, they were Betas. That man who had come over one day with something held in a bag, and asked him if he would be willing to do something for him, who had offered him two fruit buns and said he could eat them both for free if he was willing to say which he preferred, he was a beta. From the ages of eight to fourteen, Credence had gone to bed every night praying that he might be allowed to be a beta, that he could be kind and good and helpful.
Then there were the weakest, most sinful males. Those were the ones who were cursed to be omegas. When Credence felt the first stirrings in warmth within him, he had prayed to god to be forgiven, to be allowed to be spared this weakness. But no freedom came. He was an omega. Sinful. Monstrous. He hated himself for how he was made, saw no good in it.
When he was young, he would try and hide feelings that would start to build within him, to close his eyes and try to will them away. He would sit in the corner of the church and breathe slowly, try to contain the urges that fought within him, and ignore how some of the other churchgoers came closer to him, how attendance rocketed those weeks.
After one of the men had pinned him to the pew, Mary Lou had chased the man away and beaten Credence until he was bloody, then thrown him down to the cellar to deal with the sinful creature that he was. The first time, she hadn't given him water. The second and the heats after that until his sixteenth birthday, he had been given water, and some bread, and been told to spend his time in prayer. If his mother found he had touched himself, there would be hell to pay. Regardless, he would still be beaten, for being a sinner. For tempting men from their wives and women from their husbands, for being against the natural order of things.
By sixteen, he normally managed to hide the first few days of the heat, until it became unbearable. The first heat after his sixteenth birthday, he had gone to his mother, expecting to be thrown in the cellar once more, almost longing for the chance to curl up and hide, knowing that being curled up smaller helped defeat the agony in his chest. "Ma-" He started to tell her, as she pushed some leaflets into his hands. She raised an eyebrow. "I know boy. Think I can't smell it on you? You're an adult now. If you think I'm going to continue to let you take weeks off at a time just because you feel like it, you have another thing coming. Return when you've finished your leafleting for the day. And Credence? If you sin, I will know."
Going out into the street, feeling strangers' eyes upon him, had been terrifying the first time. The second, knowing what was coming, it was worse. He learned to run, to hide. He managed to survive, even though he knew every day he could find himself dragged away. Not eating helped a little, because the heats were less intense when his body was fighting off starvation. He hadn't known before that his treatment in the cellar was a kindness, but he knew it now and he made use of it.
On his eighteenth birthday, Chastity had given him a bottle of perfume. "It'll help." Was all she had said. And it did help. It hid his smell, and while it didn't stop the agony that pierced through him, the way he wanted to scream, to cry, to beg, it at least meant that alphas didn't notice him as much. By the time Mister Graves arrived on the scene, he had run out of the perfume, and couldn't risk buying more.
The other Mister Graves had smelt what he was, had sworn that when his time came, he would take care of him. But before he had reached the heat everything had fallen apart.
His mother was dead. Never again would he be locked in that cellar, or forced to hand out flyers late at night with the eyes of men staring into his soul. Instead, he found a new purpose. He was helping Newt with his creatures, feeding them, grooming them. He was even helping Newt with his writing sometimes, sitting on the floor with a puffskein in his lap and listening to Newt's words. His old life was behind him, and everything was better now.
When he felt the first stab of pain in his stomach, he realised that there were some things he wasn't ever going to escape, some reminders of his sin which were written large in his body and his soul.
He got to his feet and went to fetch the pellets for the mooncalves. He had work to do.
The Nature of Things (1/?) (ABO, ace alpha!Newt, omega!Credence)
Since his early childhood, Credence had understood how the world worked. The strong males, the warriors, like Mister Graves; both of them, they were the Alphas. The kindhearted men and women of the world, they were Betas. That man who had come over one day with something held in a bag, and asked him if he would be willing to do something for him, who had offered him two fruit buns and said he could eat them both for free if he was willing to say which he preferred, he was a beta. From the ages of eight to fourteen, Credence had gone to bed every night praying that he might be allowed to be a beta, that he could be kind and good and helpful.
Then there were the weakest, most sinful males. Those were the ones who were cursed to be omegas. When Credence felt the first stirrings in warmth within him, he had prayed to god to be forgiven, to be allowed to be spared this weakness. But no freedom came. He was an omega. Sinful. Monstrous. He hated himself for how he was made, saw no good in it.
When he was young, he would try and hide feelings that would start to build within him, to close his eyes and try to will them away. He would sit in the corner of the church and breathe slowly, try to contain the urges that fought within him, and ignore how some of the other churchgoers came closer to him, how attendance rocketed those weeks.
After one of the men had pinned him to the pew, Mary Lou had chased the man away and beaten Credence until he was bloody, then thrown him down to the cellar to deal with the sinful creature that he was. The first time, she hadn't given him water. The second and the heats after that until his sixteenth birthday, he had been given water, and some bread, and been told to spend his time in prayer. If his mother found he had touched himself, there would be hell to pay. Regardless, he would still be beaten, for being a sinner. For tempting men from their wives and women from their husbands, for being against the natural order of things.
By sixteen, he normally managed to hide the first few days of the heat, until it became unbearable. The first heat after his sixteenth birthday, he had gone to his mother, expecting to be thrown in the cellar once more, almost longing for the chance to curl up and hide, knowing that being curled up smaller helped defeat the agony in his chest.
"Ma-" He started to tell her, as she pushed some leaflets into his hands. She raised an eyebrow.
"I know boy. Think I can't smell it on you? You're an adult now. If you think I'm going to continue to let you take weeks off at a time just because you feel like it, you have another thing coming. Return when you've finished your leafleting for the day. And Credence? If you sin, I will know."
Going out into the street, feeling strangers' eyes upon him, had been terrifying the first time. The second, knowing what was coming, it was worse. He learned to run, to hide. He managed to survive, even though he knew every day he could find himself dragged away. Not eating helped a little, because the heats were less intense when his body was fighting off starvation. He hadn't known before that his treatment in the cellar was a kindness, but he knew it now and he made use of it.
On his eighteenth birthday, Chastity had given him a bottle of perfume.
"It'll help." Was all she had said. And it did help. It hid his smell, and while it didn't stop the agony that pierced through him, the way he wanted to scream, to cry, to beg, it at least meant that alphas didn't notice him as much. By the time Mister Graves arrived on the scene, he had run out of the perfume, and couldn't risk buying more.
The other Mister Graves had smelt what he was, had sworn that when his time came, he would take care of him. But before he had reached the heat everything had fallen apart.
His mother was dead. Never again would he be locked in that cellar, or forced to hand out flyers late at night with the eyes of men staring into his soul. Instead, he found a new purpose. He was helping Newt with his creatures, feeding them, grooming them. He was even helping Newt with his writing sometimes, sitting on the floor with a puffskein in his lap and listening to Newt's words. His old life was behind him, and everything was better now.
When he felt the first stab of pain in his stomach, he realised that there were some things he wasn't ever going to escape, some reminders of his sin which were written large in his body and his soul.
He got to his feet and went to fetch the pellets for the mooncalves. He had work to do.