THE MISSION - TGCAPTIONSYT

 

Jonathan. War-born. Bio-augmented. Spine laced with alloy, bones denser than titanium, nerves trained for pain threshold levels that would make torture obsolete. He'd slice through enemy formations with the accuracy of a scalpel wrapped in barbed wire. But he wasn't ready for this. No soldier is ever trained for mutation by desire.

The battlefield was slick with blood and soot. Gas canisters enemy tech screamed through the smoke like metal wasps. He didn't flinch when one burst with a hiss at his feet, releasing a thick violet mist that rippled like oil on water. He breathed in a breath by reflex, prepared to fight through poison.

But it wasn't poison.

It was rewriting.

It hit his lungs and burned. Not with heat, but with. awareness. Something burrowed in. Something invasive, intimate. His heartbeat faltered. Then accelerated. His body contorted and began to divide.

Veins protruded. Muscles spasmed, pulsed, and then contracted. His armored torso plate shrieked as his pecs pushed out, not from hypertrophy but swelling, rounding, changing. His chest burst forward like it had been waiting years for permission. Sensitive. Heavy. Jiggling beneath the ruin of his uniform. The feeling? Agonizingly sweet.

"Fffuck," he moaned, voice plummeting a register lower then skyrocketing. It whip-cracked in the middle of a syllable. His throat closed up. Skin pulled tighter and smoother as heat ripped down his center. His abs, once brick-stacked, relaxed just enough to reveal the outline of a waist drawing inward, hips jutting out in counterpoint. His legs trembled in stance, feet spread, spine arching as something began to move between his legs.

That part his cock oh, that was warfare.

It didn't shrink. It throbbed, stretching tight, twitching with a pulse that wasn't just arousal, but rewiring. His balls drew tight, then yanked upward brutally. The pressure? Mind-shattering. Like an orgasm stuck in a loop with nowhere to go. He bit his tongue, tasted blood and moaned around it as his groin ignited like a circuit board.

And then snap. The pain dissolved into pleasure, wild and bestial. His rod twitched one final time, then. collapsed inward. Swollen lips formed where there had been length, wet, aching, hungry. His hips thrust forward by reflex, guided by another rhythm he hadn't yet learned. He screamed—but it came out a breathy, sensual moan.

Hair cascaded in thick black waves, framing a face now model-smooth, eyes glinting gold under lashes that hadn't existed seconds earlier. Skin shimmered. Sweat and gas residue mixed. She, he was now a hybrid of soldier and seductress, weaponized sex incarnate. Still lethal. Still him but trapped in a skin that could kill men by walking into a room.

And then there were the footsteps, It was Sarge. He stood at the edge of the smoke, arms crossed, mouth twisting in a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

"Well well. Look what the enemy cooked up."

Jonathan—no, she didn't even know what to call herself anymore stumbled forward. "Still me," she snarled, voice dripping velvet.

Sarge's eyes followed down her wet, trembling shape. He bent, wiped a smudge of gunk from her jaw with a gloved thumb.

"You sure of that?"

"I can still kill."

"I don't doubt that," he rasped, circling around behind her. "But I've got a different kind of mission in mind tonight."

His hand slid low.

"Time to put that new chassis through its paces, soldier. Full diagnostics. All night."

She was still winded from the shift. Her nerves a live wire. Her thighs trembled with the aftershocks of what had just happened between them—*what's still happening*—because her body didn't settle. It throbbed, pulsed, dripped. Every breath fed a new kind of flame she'd never trained for.

Sarge's boots scrunched closer on the broken concrete. He walked like he owned every millimeter of the bombed-out bunker. Like he'd expected this—**wanted** it. And when his shadow fell across her God, she almost collapsed under the heat of it.

"Ten-hut," he said, joking. And she snapped to reflexively, tits jutting forward, snug shirt molding like melted latex.

"I said ten-hut, soldier. That means attention." His voice sharpened to a razor's edge. "That means arms behind your back."

Her instincts snarled—but she obeyed. Arms shifted behind, hands gripping at the wrist, chest pushed out in a perverse mockery of military attention.

Sarge circled her slowly, tracing a finger along the bow of her spine, down to the small of her back, then lower—scooping into the waistband of her half-hanging combat trousers.

"So… tell me. What's the status of your weapon?"

She growled low, "Still dangerous."

He laughed dark. "Not that weapon, soldier. This one."

His hand dived down between her thighs without warning.

SLICK.

She hissed hips thrusting forward, her whole body convulsing. Her new folds constricted on reflex, and his fingers slid right in, two knuckles deep without resistance. Heat and wet enveloped him like velvet fire.

"Fuckin' hell, you're dripping," he whispered. "This gas didn't just change you. It built you."

He twisted his fingers, and her knees buckled. He caught her before she hit the floor.

"On your feet," he growled.

"I can't—"

"You will." His voice cracked like a whip. "Soldier, you think you're the only one who bled for this war? You think you're the only one who lost something?"

He pulled his fingers out slow, dripping and pushed them between her lips.

"Taste that. That's your new battlefield."

She moaned around them, the taste of herself hitting her tongue like gunpowder and sweat. He let her suck—then pulled them free with a wet pop.

"Time for the live-fire exercise."

He spun her, bent her over the half-destroyed command desk, splinters digging into her tender new belly. Her pants were torn down like candy wrappers, her ass high, quivering, dripping down her thighs. A war goddess forged in gas and agony—now laid out like a feast.

She heard him unzip.

Felt him push in.

No teasing.

No mercy.

He shoved in to the hilt and she screamed, half-pain, half-shock, all fire. Her new entrance stretched wide, quivering, and then welcomed him with a vice grip so intense his breath hitched.

“Fuck, you’re tight like the suit's still fitting itself to you.”

She braced herself, nails digging into metal. “Then make it fit.”

He slammed into her again. And again. Each thrust a punishment, reward, commandment. Flesh slapping, gas-stink thick in the air, her moans like war drums. Her breasts were flattened under her, swinging, jouncing with each blow. Sweat soaked her back, steam rising off skin.

And god, she came. Hard. Loud. Shaking. Her thighs locked, cunt tightening like it was milking him dry, flowing around his cock like a baptism.

But he didn't relent.

"Field test ain't over 'til I say it's over."

He grabbed her braid, yanked her head back, teeth scraping her throat. "You still a soldier, or you just a wet little trophy now?"

She writhed her head, lips curling into a snarl, eyes glinting.

"Both."

"You just earned yourself a promotion," he snarled and slammed her harder.

All night?

No. They didn't stop until morning. Until the sun rose over the wreckage and their wet, shining bodies were scattered like the remnants of a battle, cum and sweat smeared across skin that hadn't even had time to heal yet.

And the icing on the cake?

He'd already put in the request for her transfer.

Personal aide. On-base. Permanent duty.