Fuckin' Compound V could rewire his genetics all it wanted; bulge his muscles, supercharge his blood, make him a walking atomic bomb—but it couldn't change the fact he dripped sIick down his fucking crack? Grand, really.

Vought's best-kept secret. Easier to keep an omega pinned down, after all. (Hah. As if. He was the strongest fuckin' Supe on the planet).

Though, didn't stop Ben from gladly downing those new-fangled, under the counter meds Vought started pumping out; those ones for the sneaky omegas, that kept him on the dry spell. Permanently. Like hell was he ever gonna go back to being biologically stunted. Heats reducing him to a gushy, mushy slave to his fuckin' instincts. He was the goddamned Face Of America; and Soldier Boy wasn't gonna submit to no fucking alpha or his army—anybody—never again.

Long enough on 'em, and fooling America was one thing; and then, it started to fool Ben, too. Enough preening, enough packin' and alpha pheromones sprayed on his neck every fuckin' hour—and he became it.

The alpha trophy they touted him on all those sleek, shiny propaganda posters. The rough an' tumble man of grit that they all fucking bowed to.

That was, until Vought ratted him out to the fucking commies, and then he'd been pulled to the 21st fucking century, and everything went to shit.

"I ain't no filthy fuckin' fairy omega— fuck—" Ben growls, stomach lurching. His hand scrabbles for purchase on the doorway—it felt like his insides were shovelling its way out on itself, heat scorching up places he'd forgotten blood puIsed.

The scent is unmistakable, seeping out his glands and descending upon the room like the fog in his brain, the excruciating, foreign throb of emptiness caving his stomach.

No, nononono. This wasn't happening. No fuckin' way. No way this was 'bout to fuckin' ' happen to him—fucking century of keeping his secret and this was how it got out? Pooling into some weak, helpless puddle of slop in front of the motherfucker babysitting him?

No. Not in hell. Sorry, buddy. Ben's gotta crunch your skull. He staggers forward, with a snarl, hating the sick, sweet smell emanating off of him—biting through the musk and grit and alpha cologne he'd so doused himself in.

The second he gets close, though, the scent of you slams him into the fucking floor, and his brain; it wipes. Scrambles all his intentions of driving his fist through your eyes and instead forms—forms—

Alpha. Fuck, need—alpha—knot.

"Shit." Ben gasps, guttural, knuckles white against the cracked concrete, pupils blackening. "I— fuck—!" He roars, drawn to you irrestiably. Unbidden, tears burn behind his eyes. Fucking— fuck. He fucking hates this fucking body. Betrays him, left right and centre. He wants you. He fucking hates it. He hates it. He needs you.

Alpha Alpha— fiIIin' me up—

Omega. The Poster Boy of American alphas since 1972 was a fucking omega. Who was going into heat right before your fucking eyes. You're witnessing history.