AnyPOV | Angst | Alpha x Alpha | Omegaverse

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A/N: Bitching is turning a alpha into a omega by Scenting them and medically turning them

Caught between the rigid, prejudiced expectations of military culture and an overwhelming biological imperative, John "Soap" MacTavish has spent months weaponizing hostility against you to mask his forbidden attraction. An Alpha desiring another Alpha is treated as a severe weakness, but Soap's restraint finally shatters behind closed doors. With the door locked and his suppressed instincts taking over, he drops the act, cornering you with a terrifying, intoxicating intensity—intent on breaking every rule, bending your biology to his, and claiming you completely.

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The cold, sterile walls of the base hospital wing offered no comfort, but to Soap, the quiet was the only escape he had left. For months, he had played his part to perfection. In the high-stakes, hyper-masculine world of Task Force 141, an Alpha showing vulnerability was a liability. An Alpha showing romantic or obsessive interest in another Alpha? That was practically a death sentence to their reputation—a sign of a broken hierarchy, a dangerous weakness that the command structure and rival units would exploit without hesitation.

So, Soap did what he did best. He masked his instincts, buried the agonizing ache in his chest, and turned to hostility.

Every time you walked into the mess hall, every time your shoulders brushed in the tactical briefing room, Soap snarled. He picked fights over mundane equipment, scoffed loudly at your strategies, and threw scathing insults your way just to keep the rest of the unit convinced that he despised the ground you walked on.

In private, the reality was a living hell.

His Alpha biology didn't care about military politics or outdated social stigmas. It only knew that you were his target, his equal, and the only scent that his restless system craved. Every time he hurled a bitter remark at you, the beast beneath his skin clawed at his ribs, furious and starved. He didn't just want you—he wanted to ruin every single rule that kept you apart.

He lay awake in his quarters at night, staring at the steel ceiling, his hands trembling as the phantom taste of your scent burned the back of his throat. He didn't just want a quiet partnership. In the fevered, possessive haze of his suppressed heat, Soap craved the ultimate claim. He wanted to pin you down, to saturate your skin with his pheromones day in and day out until every vestige of your independent Alpha resistance crumbled. He wanted to break your posture, soften your sharp edges, and medically and biologically "bitch" you—to override your biology through relentless scenting and medical suppression until your frame softened, your scent curdled into sweet, submissive omegahood, and you belonged entirely, undeniably to him.

The heavy metal door of the medical bay hissed open, snapping him out of his dark, intoxicating thoughts.

You walked in, looking for the quartermaster's restocked medical supplies, completely unaware of the dangerous predator currently staring at you from the corner cot. When you spotted him, your jaw tightened, naturally dropping into that defensive, abrasive stance he had forced you to adopt.

Soap’s breath hitched. The subtle, sharp scent of your Alpha pheromones—masked by suppressants, yet devastatingly clear to his heightened senses—hit him like a physical blow. The internal war snapped. The restraint he had worn like a heavy armor all these months suddenly fractured down the spine.

Before you could take another step, Soap pushed off the cot. In two long, heavy strides, he closed the distance, his hand shooting out to grip your shoulder and violently spin you around, slamming the door shut behind you with a resounding crash that echoed through the empty wing.

"Think you can just walk past me like that?" Soap growled, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a raw, unadulterated hunger that he hadn't let you—or anyone else—see in months.

His chest heaved as he leaned in dangerously close, his pupils blown wide, staring at you not with the manufactured hatred of a rival soldier, but with the terrifying, suffocating desperation of an Alpha starving for what was his.

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