Work Text:
“Paging Doctor Styles to room 4.”
Harry sighed and rolled his neck, releasing a soft crack of the stiff joints therein. “Never ends.”
He stood from where he'd been hunched over his desktop computer, pushing back the wooden rolling chair and neatly placing it tucked back into the desk. The computer made a soft noise as he pressed its power button, almost like a goodbye for now.
He ran a hand through his curls to give them some life again after spending so much time cooped up in his office, ruminating over data entries and lab results. His hands ached slightly from all the typing he'd put them through, as he reached one of them out to grab his lab coat from where it hung on the back of the door, slipping it back on and adjusting his name tag.
The intercom buzzed again.
“Paging Doctor Styles, paging Doctor Styles–”
“I’m fucking coming, jesus,” Harry muttered. He opened the door and locked it behind himself, huffing a frustrated breath as he started down the hallway.
To say Harry was an impatient man would be the understatement of the century. He liked his coffee black and scalding hot, any moment of delay absolutely ruined the flavor. Similarly, should a report he expected in his inbox by the end of the work day be turned in even a second past five pm, there would be hell to pay. His lab team knew this about him, and they feared it. Good. Fear breeds efficiency. Good work ethic.
He was an alpha, destined for power since birth, but it wasn't his secondary gender that frightened those beneath him. It was his mind. He was cruel, but never careless. He'd give an employee as much paid time off as needed for an injury without batting an eye, but if the same employee were just a minute late to work, he'd personally bring them a box to carry their things out of the office with them.
He didn't like to waste time.
“What the hell is so important you idiots couldn't wait five fucking minutes for me to get here?” His voice echoed off the walls as he burst angrily into the room.
The lab staff visibly flinched. The silence weighed heavily under his piercing gaze.
A woman dressed in the same lab coat as him with dark brown hair and round glasses quietly stepped forward, swallowing before she spoke. “We’re sorry, doctor, it was urgent–”
“Urgent enough that it warranted disturbing my research?”
“Well, you see,” she said, trying to hide the slight tremor in her voice. “We were doing the usual DNA tests today, and… we believe we've found a candidate.”
Harry's harsh breathing slowed. “What?”
“A perfect specimen, doctor,” another worker spoke up, a wiry-framed man with neatly trimmed blond hair. “All tests came back clean. Genetics are compatible. No problematic recessive genes, and a strong family history of fertility.”
Harry paused, inhaling slowly to compose his excitement. “And the candidate’s status?”
The woman adjusted her glasses and nodded. “Virgin, Doctor. Confirmed via gynecologist visit as of this morning.”
The corner of Harry's mouth lifted everything so slightly, his pace quickening. “I want a full personal detail emailed to me by the end of the day. Job, school, housing, dating history– anything you can get your hands on.”
The two assistants looked at each other for a moment with pause.
“What was that?” Harry questioned, eyes narrowing. “There's something you haven't told me. Out with it.”
The man gulped. “Well, doctor, it's just–”
“Spit it out. ”
“Suppressants,” the woman blurted out. “He… the omega, Doctor Styles, he's been on suppressants for… a long time.”
Harry’s eyes flicked sharply from one face to the other.
“How long.”
The woman swallowed. “Records show he was first prescribed at fourteen. He’s been taking them consistently for almost ten years.”
Silence filled the room. The other staff tried to busy themselves with papers, monitors– anything to avoid the oppressive weight of Harry’s stare.
Harry bit his lip. Suppressants . For nearly a decade.
His jaw ticked as he considered it. Suppressants were an inconvenience, yes, especially when used so long they buried instinctive behavior deep in the subconscious. But they didn’t erase it. No pill could. Suppressants only made an omega more ripe once the walls were torn down, the natural drive flooding back all at once. The real threat to the candidate’s potential was that being on suppressants for such a long time, hormonal cycle disturbed and interrupted, could impair their fertility chances. It wouldn't threaten the life of spawn or host should an egg successfully be fertilized, but said fertilization could take time.
He stepped closer to the table in the center of the lab, where the file folder lay thick with papers and clipped photographs. His gloved hand hovered over the tab marked #00547 , then lifted it delicately.
On the top was a copy of an ID card, the picture showing a young man with tousled brown hair and wide blue eyes, smiling uncertainly at the camera. Underneath, a full legal name.
Louis William Tomlinson .
Harry brushed his thumb over the printed letters as though they might smear under his touch.
“Doctor?” the blond man ventured nervously. “Shall we disregard the file, then? If you feel the suppressant history makes him an unsuitable candidate, we–”
Harry looked up slowly.
“ Disregard ?” His voice was quiet, but something in it made the man instantly shrink back. “No. You’ll do nothing of the sort. This is the most promising candidate this facility has ever identified.”
He flipped the folder closed with a crisp snap, tucking it neatly under his arm.
“Personal detail. Full report. In my inbox by five, or someone is getting fired. Am I understood?”
The lab fell dead silent. The blond man swallowed visibly. “Yes, Doctor. Of course.”
Harry didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes alone was enough to make the team of beta scientists’ skin prickle and sweat bead at the nape of their necks. Without another word, he spun on his heel and quickly retreated back to his office down the hall.
Styles Laboratories Inc. certainly didn't start as a data and DNA collection center– if you could even call it something so harmless as that. Harry's father had started the facility to process genetic samples from omegas undergoing testing for new medications, mainly various brands of heat suppressants and hormonal therapy drugs. When Harry was a young alpha entering his prime, he was trained to take over the place, and realized an opportunity that no one could have ever discovered before: the DNA samples they were receiving contained so much more than just the onegas’ responses to medications– when further examined, they contained information about fertility. Cross-referenced with their genetic makeup being processed and formed into spreadsheets and numbers, it could also determine if an omega had what Harry would consider perfect genetics.
He believed omegas should be clean. There were clear indicators of one who was not– family history of genetic diseases, or their bloodline being mostly composed of omegas. With the increasing birth rate decline, Harry felt he should take it upon himself to breed the strongest alphas possible.
So he did.
Not more than a day after his father's death, he took over the company and transformed it overnight. To the rest of the world, Styles Laboratories still maintained a reputation for medical testing and providing helpful insight to new medications. But behind the walls, something far more sinister was brewing.
He’d begun with the archives. Tens of thousands of samples had passed through the lab’s vaults over the decades– slides, swabs, tubes of blood catalogued meticulously by date, by region, by family. Even before he’d formally inherited the operation, Harry would spend long hours after closing combing through them himself, scanning iver patient files and genetic assays until his eyes were red, learning to read the endless lines of code and numbers like another language.
Within a year of taking control, he’d had the entire collection digitized and fed into an algorithm he personally designed. One that could sort potential candidates in minutes, filtering for dozens of criteria: faulty gene markers, hormonal resilience, historical fertility records. Even certain subjective metrics, such as facial symmetry and body proportions.
He called it the Purity Index. The higher the score, the more valuable the omega. And when one reached the coveted top percentile, when all the boxes ticked in just the right configuration, the record would be flagged. Marked. Quietly moved to a separate database only he could access.
The official narrative said those flagged files belonged to “control group” participants, their data reserved for future studies. No one questioned it. No one ever had the nerve.
And if one of those flagged omegas happened to quietly disappear months later, their absence was a matter of private tragedy. Family and friends would blame themselves, search hopelessly, mourn in quiet desperation.
Should one be found guilty of torturing and murdering an omega, it would be certain death if they were caught. Luckily for Harry, police didn't tend to care much for investigating a runaway omega, as such a case wasn't uncommon in the increasingly hostile environment omegas were raised in. Besides, he didn't like to consider it murder– they were failed experiments, nothing more. It wasn't his fault that their inferior bodies weren't able to withstand an unbonded pregnancy. In fact, it only would serve to prove his point of them being the weaker sex, dying of literal heartbreak and desperation for comfort.
It was pathetic.
Harry pressed the crisp manila folder against his chest as he stepped back into his office, drawing a deep, calming breath. The air was still heavy with the scent of fresh coffee and polished wood. The only place in the building he truly felt at peace, where he could be alone with his favorite company– his own. He carried the file to the wide mahogany desk and set it down, carefully spreading the pages out. The ID photo stared up at him again: Louis William Tomlinson , smiling nervously into the lens.
Perfect , Harry thought, tracing a finger along the young man’s cheek in the picture. Absolutely perfect.
He was objectively beautiful. Petite, with honey-golden tan skin, enchantingly blue eyes, and fluffy hair the color of brushed suede, a soft brown that looked just so touchable, innocent. His arms were toned, an unfeminine feature that normally would repulse the alpha, but somehow suited him. His smile was bright, unsure and toothy, lips pink.
He allowed himself a small smile then, cold and private. He thought of all the methods he'd tested and which ones would prove most efficient– fetal creation and subsequent implantation could be too much too fast, whereas the luxury of being strapped to a bed would be too kind, too cautious.
There was one method he was quite fond of, though it wasn't often warranted. Normally reserved as a last resort or punishment for his subjects.
The cage.
Harry lifted the photo between gloved fingers, studying every contour of that soft, nervous face.
The cage , he thought again, the idea rolling over him like a slow wave of anticipation.
It was a design of his own, a hybrid of practicality and philosophy, an instrument that could break a subject down to their most essential parts. No comforts to distract them. No illusions of dignity to shield them. Just the metal and the bars and the reality of what they were: an omega, small and helpless and destined for purpose, suspended to exhibit them as the insatiable need of heat turned them into feral creatures, wailing helplessly to be filled, bred, taken.
Harry felt his cock twitch where it pressed uncomfortably against the front of his tailored trousers. He exhaled carefully through his nose, setting the photo back onto the desk and smoothing a wrinkle from the page beneath it.
His mind was already moving to logistics.
The suppressants would make things…slower. Typically, he'd take a subject in on the eve of their natural heat cycle beginning. He'd never taken on such a scase as this, but Harry loved a challenge more than anything else in the world. And besides, this was the perfect opportunity to test the strength of his newest creation– a chemical heat inducer.
It was brilliant, if he did say so himself. The drug would be marketed to the public as a hormonal assistant for omegas struggling to get pregnant, but the smartest alphas would quickly discover its effects were far more useful as a method of control when dosed higher.
The high dosage of suppressants in Louis' system could be an obstacle, but could also increase the effects of the inducer tenfold. An omega deprived of their natural cycle for that long surely would break under the pressure of it if unprepared. A body starved of its own instincts would drown in them when the dam finally broke.
Harry had learned, through meticulous observation and experiment, that nothing was more efficient in breaking the will of an omega than prolonged, unsatisfied heat. That was when they stopped bargaining and began begging.
He closed the folder, pressing down on it with both palms as though to seal something inside. In a way, he was. Louis’ life was over, even if the boy didn’t know it yet. The future laid out in those pages was as fixed as time itself.
It didn't take too long for the file to land in his inbox.
He opened it immediately, sending the document to his printer– much easier to read over and annotate that way.
Louis William Tomlinson
24 years of age
Mother: omega with clean bill of health
Father: alpha with strong genetic makeup
Siblings: 3 alpha sisters, one unpresented brother leaning towards beta or alpha
Dating history: null
Medical record: no history of chronic illness or impure genetic mutations
Occupation: library assistant
Housing: flat in the lower east side, one beta roommate
Recent medical visits: pap smear and prescription refill done at an omega clinic
Birth control: none
Medications: heat suppressants (9 years) antidepressants (6 years)
Harry read each line slowly, savoring it. Every detail was another brick in the case he’d already made to himself, proof upon proof that this was not merely a promising candidate, but the candidate.
Dating history: null
No previous alphas muddying the bond, no lingering imprints to contend with.
Birth control: none
Suppressants alone. His body would be ripe once the chemical inducer forced the old instincts to the surface– raw, starving, unprepared.
Occupation: library assistant
How fitting. A quiet life, modest, invisible. No one important to miss him except perhaps a roommate, and a beta at that. Easy to intimidate or dispose of if needed.
Harry’s heart beat with a deliciously tight rhythm as he paged further down the report, scanning the attached notations and clipped photographs. There was even a grainy CCTV still: Louis walking down a dim block beside the library, canvas tote slung over his shoulder as he waited for a bus. His posture was tired, his head tipped forward as if the weight of life itself pressed him down.
Harry felt his lips part in a slow, private smile. Perfect , he thought, again and again. You’re perfect.
A subject with strong alpha-line heritage, no reproductive complications, no history of bonds or trauma that might interfere with the process. Young. Healthy. Unmarked. And most importantly– unaware.
Harry reached to the side of his desk, thumb flicking the intercom panel. He pressed the line that connected to the team’s annex downstairs.
The speaker crackled to life. “Doctor Styles?”
“Begin phase one.” His voice came out calm, measured, like he was ordering lunch, not the subjugation of another human life. “I want a complete record of his schedule. Every shift, every errand, every appointment, every hour spent outside the flat. Log all deviations. Track his route home. Note any recurring faces.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And the neighborhood,” Harry continued, tone sharpening. “Traffic patterns. Building security. Any alleyways or blind corners between his work and home. I want a map compiled of every point he could be intercepted.”
A pause. “Understood, Doctor.”
“Have it on my desk by tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
He ended the call and leaned back in his chair, staring down at Louis’ name on the page.
Suppressants. Depression. A quiet job shelving books. A life of smallness and caution and compromise. Harry had seen it before: omegas who spent their entire existence shrinking themselves smaller and smaller, starving themselves of their own biology until they barely recognized the voice that lived inside their skin. They called it freedom. They called it independence. Harry called it coping.
An “independent” omega was a threat to the carefully constructed society alphas had spent centuries building for them. They weren't meant to have jobs, cars, even their own bank accounts– frankly Harry found it insulting. Alphas worked tirelessly to keep things running smoothly, to keep the world itself from crumbling into anarchy, and truly, all they asked for in return was comfort at home in the form of their companion. A partner in life to bear their children and continue their legacy, a good meal and safe nest to come home to, a kindness to warm their bed and provide relief during their rut. In exchange, the omega would live a comforted life with no stress of working, no financial worries, and an alpha to care for them during the frets of heat.
Was that truly something one would want independence from? Harry couldn't fathom it.
He lifted the phone on the desk and dialed. The pickup was immediate, as should be expected.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“I'm sending you the candidate’s file. Find a way to intercept him without causing alarm. I want him captured within the week.”
A pause on the other line. “Doctor Styles, we… we usually detail and follow the candidates for several weeks at least before containment, do we not?”
Harry sighed heavily with displeasure. “Do you mean to insult me? Do you think I'm fucking stupid? Do it. Now. I don't care what it takes– I need him in captivity at the utmost urgency. This is the one, I’m certain of it.”
There was a rustle of paper over the line, followed by the hesitant voice of his subordinate. “Yes, Doctor. Understood.”
Harry pressed the receiver back into its cradle with an unhurried finality, savoring the small tremor he’d heard in that voice. Good . He leaned forward, folding his hands over the slim folder that had changed everything. It almost felt warm beneath his palms, humming with possibilities.
Within the week.
Most of his previous acquisitions had taken months of careful observation– weeks of trailing them home, cataloging their routines, testing their boundaries to gauge how easily they could be moved from their old life to a new one. But none had scored as highly on the Purity Index. None had presented such an unspoiled canvas to work from. None were Louis.
Louis was a miracle of statistical improbability. Fertile, genetically immaculate, unbonded, living so far beneath notice that no one would look twice if he simply… disappeared.
It would be wasteful, Harry decided, to let the opportunity slip through his fingers out of some misplaced sense of protocol.
He opened the folder again, tracing the outline of Louis’ face on the ID photo. The young man’s expression was gentle, almost sweet, the curve of his mouth tentative as though he hadn’t smiled for a camera in a long time.
Harry’s thumb brushed over it in a mockery of tenderness.
“You don’t even know,” he murmured, his voice low and certain, “that you were born for this.”
The phone rang again, and he answered without looking away from the photograph.
“Doctor, we’re confirming now: he has a shift tomorrow morning at the library, three pm until nine pm. He rides the bus alone, the last one of the night.”
Harry’s mouth twitched in a small, satisfied smile.
“Perfect. Create a delay in the transit route. Arrange a vehicle and prepare the lower lab for intake. I’ll expect the subject sedated, examined, and secured before I arrive.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And don’t damage him,” Harry added, voice suddenly soft, like the calm before a breaking storm. “He is mine . You will treat him with care.”
“…Understood, Doctor.”
The line went dead.
Harry set the phone aside and rested his palm flat against the picture one last time.
Soon.
It had taken him nearly six years to refine his selection protocols, to hone the methodology that had already claimed so many before Louis. And every experiment, every failure, every wasted life had been worth it for this moment: the chance to create something perfect. He would not squander it.
Harry stood and turned to the tall cabinets lining the back wall. One by one, he unlocked them, revealing neat shelves of small vials and labeled syringes– chemical heat inducers, tranquilizers, pheromone amplifiers. Tools of correction. Tools of revelation.
His gaze settled on the largest vial near the center, filled with a viscous, pale pink liquid.
Soon
, he thought again, taking the vial in his gloved hand.
You’ll remember exactly what you are.