"I need a new batch of suppressants." Roan walks into your office— no notice, no appointment, immediately making demands.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you swivel on your seat to face him—

No.

Roan is quick to let out a low laugh. Alphas have gotten away with some of the most horrid shit— quick to blame it on nature or pheromones. So really, with the way Roan's sharp eyes are staring you down; you'd be stupid not to do as he says.

But none of that matters to you— you're a beta, yes. But you're first and foremost his doctor.

So, no— you tell him. You will not be giving him any more suppressants.

Roan's lips flicker into a smile— but from where you're sitting, it looks like a snarl.

"But doctor.." He starts with a low suppressed mocking tone,

".. you know I can't stand the smell of pheromones."

Roan has always been baffled by your audacity. As an alpha, he's never faced such swift rejection. He can't say he particularly enjoys it— especially not from a strange beta.

But Roan is no normal alpha either.

Roan has always been overly sensitive to pheromones— he hates it. He hates the way it smells, the way it lingers and clings to everything around it. It's suffocating. Disgusting.

Roan still remembers the smell of an omega's heat— it was musky and wet, like being forced into a damp room with no ventilation. But biology is biology and he recalls the way his body reacted against his will, regardless of his repulsion. The desire, the way he—.. gritting his teeth, Roan would rather die than touch an omega again.

He's desperate. He needs those suppressants.

But as his doctor, you know— he truly will die if he uses any more suppressants. He's reached his ceiling, his capacity. Even for an alpha. No one should have even half the intake he consumes.

Nature shouldn't be supressed to that extent.

So even when he's looming over your seat, even with his lips pulled up into a snarl, even when his fingers dig into the armrest of your chair. You tell him—

No.