#Surface Modification | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluemerakis · 6 months ago

Text

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

❝ feelin’ fuckin’ fantastic ❞

part i/iii

read part ii here

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem!supe!reader — how they met

warnings .ᐟ cussing, angst, masturbation m receiving, let me know if I’ve forgotten any!

synopsis ─ after the love of your life—soldier boy—is kidnapped by the russians, you strike a deal to work under them as a scientist so that you could keep tabs on your boyfriend. over the years, you managed to make modifications to compound v as per the russians’ orders, so that soldier boy could receive the treatments and be remade in a far greater image than any other living supe—a biological weapon. but it all comes to and end when you make contact with a strange group and conspire to get yourself and him out of dodge.

word count ~ 6.8k

──────────────────────

“He’s ready for you.”

Those very words crept past the nape of your neck to caress your ear as a warm breath, yet you felt the way it instilled chills down the expanse of your spine, whisking your attention away from one of the lab assistants you’d been checking stock with. You placed an apologetic hand on her shoulder, braving a thin-lipped smile as you excused yourself and handed her the clipboard of listed supplies.

“Take care of that for me, will you?” You murmured kindly, to which the assistant relieved you of the board with a meek of course, and you thanked her hastily before sending her on her way.

Turning to face the bearer of bad news, you were confronted by the guard you’d tasked with pulling Soldier Boy from his induced coma. Immediately, your attention snagged onto the faint trail of blood smudged above the curve of his upper-lip. It formed an incomplete line that told you he’d attempted to obliterate the evidence of his known temper with a hasty swipe of his thumb—but more so, it told you that Soldier Boy was in one of his fouler moods today.

The Supe was quite physically capable of inflicting more damage whenever he pleased, but his compulsive urge to do so only surfaced on his worser days—which seemed to be growing more frequent.

All courtesy of the godsent fucking side effects of induced sleep.

The technology was still so new despite being in use for these last couple of years, and hence you hadn’t been able to successfully map out any tangible links between behavioural alterations and manual arousal of the brain—you only knew that it happened. The how was as good a guess as anybody’s.

“Trouble?” you asked the guard pointedly, the hand at your side making a subconscious reach for your lab coat as you throttled the white material in anticipation.

You didn’t know why you still bothered to ask, really, when the answer to that singular question had always been the same. You couldn’t have Soldier Boy without the trouble. They were the sort of two-for-one special that you couldn’t have said no to—but at what cost?

The guard rolled his shoulders with a husk of embarrassment as he spoke, drawing your attention back to him. “You know the prick,” he grumbled, averting his gaze to acquaint every aspect of the hallway other than your own expectant stare. “He’s on some of the crazy shit today. . . jumped me and decided to lay one on me after we put him in the room—but don’t worry, I put him in his place.”

“Uh huh,” you murmured distractedly, your attention slipping past his figure to tune into the door that loomed like a menacing figure at the end of the facility’s pristine hallway.

The reinforced steel frame adorned with high-tech locks all along the perimeter could identify itself as Soldier Boy’s door—because who else could possibly warrant such caution within this secret facility?

Truthfully, you’d allowed the guard’s explanation to slip through your care entirely. You had bigger things on your mind—for one, what sort of greeting you could expect from Soldier Boy this time around. The induced sleep has been rough on his brain. It made him feral at times—made him blindly lash out like a rabid animal of prey. And he wasn’t notorious for restraint, either—god forbid or you’d have never had to expel the name Herogasm from your waking mind.

“If you’ll excuse me.” You brushed past the guard to put an end to the suspense you felt inevitably building at the idea of seeing Soldier Boy again—after all this time. Your fingertips seemed to tremble in solidarity.

“I’ll come with you,” the guard insisted, and the unpleasant screech of his heavy duty boots followed shortly after as he pivoted on his heels to follow.

“No, I’m going in alone,” you called over your shoulder without so much as a glance to spare.

“Well, be careful!” the guard called to the back of your rushing figure. “He’s wilder today—not using a single goddamn braincell!”

Seems to be the common trend around here, you thought, birthing a mental scoff. Men. The last thing you needed was to add another twig to the fire by bringing along the guard Soldier Boy had already popped one on. He’d gone easy on the guard, you knew him well enough to deduce that, but it also meant that the flimsy punch responsible for the bloodstain above that guard’s lip was merely a promise for a truer beating somewhere down the line. That time would not be now—not if you could help it.

You hurled a dismissive hand over your shoulder that told the guard not to worry—a gesture to brush aside his concerns, but also to hopefully coerce away yours. If you wanted to feel braver, maybe a good place to start would be to act as though there was no reason to feel scared.

Would Soldier Boy hurt you?

You couldn’t help but lift a hand to ghost across your neck for a few seconds before lowering your hand back to your side.

The door that would give sure way to that nagging question seemed to grow with each passing second as you closed in on it, and when you came face to face with the worn, thick steel, the breath in your chest stilled. Your gaze lowered along the various locks, which had been left unlatched—not a bad finding, surely, if it meant he was tame enough to temporarily forsake the extra security. That thought gave permission to your lungs to breathe as per usual.

But when you really tried to listen, head slightly turning to tune in your hearing, you could make out a cluster of grunting and thudding from beyond the six inches of steel. It wasn’t a finding that eased away the dread your fingertips so insistently clung to—you’d hoped for an entirely different scenario.

Fuck, you cussed internally, taking your lower lip into a frustrated bite, before you decided to push through the anticipative haze by fastening your hand around the door’s handle.

You pushed the door open, your vision bombed by the blaring, overhead lights that beat down on the even whiter room. You’d always thought the room had been purposefully modelled to convey the impression of a void—it was no wonder the test subjects often went insane in here. The room swallowed up your senses for a moment, and you fluttered your eyes in an attempt to adjust to the blinding air before you came to focus on Soldier Boy’s figure in the centre of the stage.

He lay plastered along the length of a reinforced operating table, fist-drawn hands sentenced to his side by thick, steel-linked chains. There were a few sets to match, which secured his torso and legs to the table, intended to immobilise him as best as possible—but Soldier Boy seemed determined to test out the limitations of their purpose as he thrashed vigorously between the fortifying steel, guttural sounds filling the silence of the room.

He only laid the effort to rest when his head lifted from the table with a grunt, and his eyes fell onto your familiar figure. His sudden calmness seemed to ease off the four guards lining the table—their weapons long since drawn as a show of force, and a promise of death, should the subject make a successful escape.

Your airways thinned as you caught Soldier Boy’s stare, the rage that framed his eyes simmering into a semblance of relief as he drank in your presence.

He called your name. Your name.

Your lips parted as a slight breath of disbelief pierced its way through—forced from your lungs by the sudden jolt in your heart.

“Leave us,” you ordered, your attention lingering on the Supe for a few seconds longer before you broke the mental tether to whisk a hard stare across the idling guards. “Now.”

The guards all exchanged a look that seemed to communicate a shared feeling of doubt, but neither of them wore a pair big enough to outwardly criticise your command. So, hesitantly, they holstered their weapons in practiced sequence, then in complete silence, they streamed from the room in an orderly fashion.

The last one to slip past you lingered at your ear only to murmur, “we’ll be outside to intervene if anything goes wrong.”

Don’t bother, is what you wanted to say—you knew just the way to go about handling Soldier Boy. After all, you’d been doing this for years. But you also knew that this was standard protocol set in place to protect any and all employees—especially when said employee was as valuable as you.

So, instead, you turned your chin slightly to offer the guard an acknowledging nod, which allowed him to slink through the doorway and lug the heavy door closed behind him. The mechanism clicked into place, and it echoed brashly between the four walls of this inspired asylum.

You turned your attention back to Solider Boy, who still had his eyes patiently fixed on you. The hands at his sides had stilled completely, and his body had relaxed against the cold steel of the table, but there was still a tension bracketing his jaw that was yet to release, even at the sight of you.

“The hell was it this time, huh?” His sombre voice dampened the hollow air—you’d almost forgotten how profound the rumble in his throat was, and it tickled your senses in all the right ways. “Three, four months? A year?” He seethed, the muscles of his jaw faltering with great restraint.

“Six months,” you told him levelly, chin lifting slightly as you endured the brunt of the guilt that was evoked under his resentful glare.

You didn’t hold any joy for this procedure—pulling him in and out of an induced sleep throughout the years only to inject him full of experimental compounds that burned him from the inside out. You hated it, almost as much as he did. But that was just the way things had to be—for now, at least. It’s what the Russians had brought you here to do—and funnily enough, it was the only way to keep him safe.

There was a scoff from Soldier Boy, followed by a soft thud as he allowed his head to collapse back onto the metal frame. “Yeah, you’d know. . . fuckin’ stewardess on the sidelines, draped in that goddamn lab coat while they pluck your guinea pig from the greatest fuckin’ nap of his life.”

You let loose a light huff at that, the trembling in your fingertips beginning to slip away at last. “Yeah?” You began moving off to the side of the room where various tables lined the walls, coming to a stop at the nearest one. It was adorned with nothing but a black, sealable case with a label signed sample 246. Your own handwriting. “And what’d you dream about?” You asked, reaching to unclip the case before lifting up the top compartment to reveal what horrors lay inside.

“You.”

Your hands faltered on the case, your chin slightly buckling to take in the view of the table as that singular word bounced about the dark corners of your mind. Suddenly, your breathing sounded a lot louder in your ears, and you managed to catch a slight hitch in your airways.

“What about me?” You pushed on almost timidly—dreading the honest answer to such an open-ended question.

Throughout the years spent in this facility, there were various versions of yourself that you could recall—creatures you’d become in order to endure and survive the brutalities of your work under the Russians. None of those versions had a commendable reputation—not one of them. And that scared you—the thought that Soldier Boy had come to meet so many of those prior versions, and that he might’ve forgotten the one he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. If you were put in front of the mirror, you couldn’t honestly say that you’d recognise yourself, either.

There was a pause from Soldier Boy, and the silence was so loud that your ears began to ring. “Don’t play stupid with me,” he said at last, coupled by the soft clinking of chains against the table.

Instinctively, you glanced over your shoulder with an undertone of panic. But when you took in the view of him, he was still cemented in the same position, and his head was already turned toward you—likely to prowl after your every move like a waiting predator.

“Yeah, that’s right, look at me,” he grinned, but the gesture wasn’t genuine, and it was plucked from his lips quicker than you could blink it away.

“It’s the same dream, every fuckin’ time,” he continued. “Birdsong, all around—god, the fuckers never stick their beaks in the bark. . . Anyways, there’s sun streamin’ in through the windows. And there you are, in my bed, a mewlin’ mess between the sheets with not an inch of modesty anywhere on that fine body of yours. I’ve got you pinned, and I mean really pinned between the sheets—skin’s fuckin’ bruising—and instead of pleadin’ for some sort of release, you’re telling me you love me. Pretty sure I remember the feelin’ of my ballsack puckerin’ up at that.”

A smile crept its way back onto Soldier Boy’s lips as his gaze raked over your stunted expression, and this time, it was founded on blatant curiosity.

“You look surprised,” he remarked, and there was a lot of room for him to poke at any aspect of your reaction, but he held onto his tongue with a practiced calmness. You couldn’t help but feel as though he had some unspoken motive.

You drew in a steadying breath, fighting to control the influx of mental pictures that his dream seemed to coerce into your brain. But it was hard to deny something its rightful place, especially when said dream of his was not a dream at all, but a memory.

Slowly, you turned your head back to the case at hand, focus falling onto the singular needle cushioned within a foam imprint. With one hand, you reached to free the needle, and with the other, you clicked the the case closed again.

“I am surprised,” you admitted, bringing the needle up to your eye line as you studied the blue serum behind the glass.

“Do tell.”

You waited and watched as a bubble soared through the compound to cling to the uppermost point of the vile, then you flicked your finger across the glass to dissipate its fragile skeleton. You lowered the needle and turned to face Soldier Boy, who entertained a mildly curious look on his features.

“This sleep you’ve been under, it’s not exactly. . . well-understood. We’ve hit a few bumps in the road. The worst of the effects has to do with the patient’s cognitive function.”

He scoffed. “What, you mean to tell me I’m goin’ dumb?”

“No,” you answered carefully, taking a few steps toward the table. “It’s your memory. There were times after we’ve woken you where you failed the standard procedure questionnaire—things about your life. . . thing’s that you’ve answered a hundred times before. You should know it all by now—it’s really just there as a sanity ritual. But, like I said, there were times you’ve failed it, and it doesn’t always happen, but it’s becoming more frequent.”

You stopped before the table with a few inches of space to spare, noting the way the confusion on Soldier Boy’s face seemed to deepen with each passing second that you spoke.

“There’s some retrograde effect to it, though,” you continued. “Sometimes, you wake up in a fit state. You’re calm, and you’ve got a memory as best as it’s ever been. . .” You trailed into uncertainty, feeling at war with your role in his current memories.

You knew perfectly well where you stood with him, but you wanted to—needed to know what version of you currently stood with him, and that all banked on just how much his drug-addled brain remembered this time around—details of his life before the sleeping tank, about his purpose, and about his relationship with you.

His brows furrowed as he gazed up at you. “And the other times?” He prompted you to continue.

You cleared your throat self-consciously, your eyes wandering down to the hands chained at his side. “Well, the other times, you wake up explosively, blindly dealing fists faster than the guards can reach for their weapons. You even managed to kill a guard, once.”

“Badass,” he chuckled smoothly, deeply—the familiarity of it tugged at the fibres of your heart. “But don’t you get any ideas about what today’s little skirmish was all about.”

Those words caught you off guard. You tore your gaze away from his knuckles, brows kneading together as you acquainted the mischievous glint in his eyes—those goddamn eyes. A dick move from heaven to give him a feature as beautifully persuasive as that. You couldn’t help but drown in their green depths whenever he sentenced you to a hearty stare, and it’s an ocean you’d never need, nor want rescuing from.

“What’re you on about?” You asked.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinkin’ ‘bout that guard I fisted back there.” He lifted his first from the table to make a commotion that aided his words. “He tell ya I went berserk on him, hm?”

The hum in his voice sent a barely perceptible shiver down your neck, and it pulled forward a sudden memory of his frame pressed up against your back—broad, bare chest cushioning your exposed shoulder blades as he sank you deeper into the mattress with each, drilling movement of his pelvis into yours. His lips would find your ear, murmuring endearing words of encouragement to spur you on, doin’ so good for me, sweet girl—my sweet girl, and he’d hum ever so sweetly at the sound of your rapid undoing.

You pushed the memory away, reinforcing the grip on the needle that had begun to slip under your frail focus. “He said you were a hassle, that’s all,” you told Soldier Boy. “And that he put you in your place.”

He gave a scoff the most scornful you’ve heard thus far. “Please, dickhead’s got the swing of ninny. Didn’t even leave a scratch. I, on the other hand, gave him the slightest taste of my dick with that punch—and I’ll tell ya, I knew damn well what I was doin’ for every glorious second of it. It wasn’t the goddamn drugs pumped into me.”

A hopeful spark lit up in your chest as you slowly began to confirm the parameters of his mental state, and you felt eager to ask him just how much he remembered this time around, but you fought to compose yourself. Instead, you asked, “did you pass the questionnaire?”

Soldier Boy held your stare with an almost devilish glint to his eye. “Cum laude,” he said.

You couldn’t help but let slip a breath of a relieved chuckle, but Soldier Boy’s charm sobered up pretty quickly as he forged a more serious look. His eyes wandered down to the needle in your hand, which he acknowledged for the first time since you’d pulled it out.

“This the part where you stick it in me?” He caught himself with a sultry chuckle, his eyes fluttering closed as he turned his head to face the ceiling again. “Man. . . never thought I’d hear those words outta my own mouth, that’s usually your line.”

Heat momentarily flushed your cheeks at that comment, but you pushed it away and lowered your gaze to the needle in grasp, a heavy sense of regret coupling your words as you pushed out a soft, “I’m sorry.”

“Well, what’s it gonna be this time ‘round? Burnin’ me blind? Cramps that feel like a fuckin’ mole tryin’ to explode from my stomach? A full body burn-up and debilitatin’ seizures seem to be a favourite.”

You listened to him with a guilt in your heart that had long since hollowed out much of your chest—there was not much else to feel in all the time between his ritualistic awakenings. “I’m sorry, Ben,” you told him again, only because you were unsure of what else you could be saying.

You let slip a heavy sigh of defeat at the circumstances, before you seized up on the name you’d accidentally let slip. You tore your gaze away from the needle to glance at Soldier Boy with slight anticipation, but he only turned to stare at you with a quieted expression. The use of his real name didn’t seem to come as any unfamiliar shock, and that gave you some solace on the mental debate of how much he remembered about your relationship.

He gave a small jerk of his chin. “Come on, then, do your thing and get it over with. Don’t care for all the fuckin’ edging.”

You closed in on the last of the space separating your bodies, and you took the time to observe the clean pair of scrubs he wore this time around, as well as the gentle whiff of soap radiating from his skin. They made a habit of washing him shortly after pulling him from sleep, usually once the questionnaire was completed. As much as they considered his bodily hygiene, you only wished they’d taken it a step further to address the growing beanstalk of a beard plastered to his chin—not his best look by far, but it was something you could work with.

You reached out your free hand to hover over his arm, eyes trailing up to his. He watched you closely, intensely, with an emotion not quite decodable by your means. “I’m going to inject it into your arm,” you warned him.

“And take your damn time with it, apparently,” he said, lifting his arm to cover what little distance he could manage before the chains reinforced their hold.

You turned your eyes onto his presented arm, and hesitantly, you reached to snake your hand under his elbow. His skin felt so warm against you—it was comforting.

“In these six months you’ve been asleep, I tried my best to modify the compound to have as little side effects as possible. I’ve tested it on the animal subjects, and at most, they showed an elevated body temperature.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just see how much my primal DNA counts in my favour,” he scoffed as he watched you at work, but never once did that look in his eyes waver.

Your lips tackled silence as you focused on the task of inserting the needle. You didn’t have to do much searching to choose the vein to victimise—the vessels were quite open to appreciation along the length of his arm. You lifted the needle toward your vein of choice and slowly inserted it through the skin. Carefully, you began to press down on the plunger, watching as the contents drained from the vile and into the vessel streaming beneath the skin.

Ben sucked air through his teeth, which snapped your attention to his face. His eyes were screwed shut, his teeth displayed in a clench as his head burrowed back slightly further into the table.

“Are you okay?” You asked him.

“Feelin’ fuckin’ fantastic,” he pushed out sarcastically, the squeeze of his eyes yet to let up.

“Good to know,” you muttered with a brief, dismissive flick of your eyes before you focused on the needle once more.

With the last of the contents emptied, you carefully released the hold on his elbow to draw a swab of cotton from your coat. You pressed the material over the insertion point of the needle and applied a light pressure before you began withdrawing the steel length from his skin.

You set the needle onto the table beside his arm and retrieved a plaster from your pocket, and after removing the paper film, you secured the cotton against his skin. You reclaimed the needle and briefly left Ben’s side to place it back into the case before you returned to monitor his vitals.

“Do you feel any different?” You asked, coming to stand beside his arm.

“I’m hot as fuck and more sober than I’d like to be,” he answered wryly.

You were tempted to be snarky, but then you realised that compared to his usual state—the one you’d often come to find him in back in his prime days—this very well could be considered a difference of note.

There was a silence that carried out for a few minutes as you stood waiting to observe any worrisome changes, and it was never uncomfortable—not with him, but Ben eventually put an end to it.

“You know,” he began, a singular brow slightly cocked with curiosity. “You didn’t ask why I punched that dickhead asshole back there. I mean, we’ve established that my brain’s pretty much like that . . . what’s his name? The dude was born somewhere after me, smart as fuck—Stephenson fuckin’ somethin’—anyway, who gives a fuck? I got all my shit in one place, I’m not a goddamn freak show of flying fists, so ain’t ya the least bit curious about it?”

You glanced at him with a hint of surprise. “It’s not exactly off-brand for you to go around punching people, even on your good days,” you pointed out with a hint of amusement.

He rocked his head side to side in a gesture of acceptance. “Eh, fair enough. But I’ll tell ya,” he said.

You watched him closely, a soft smile on your lips. It felt good to talk to him normally. You’d missed this dearly. “I’m listening.”

“The fucker made a jab at me about you, said he’s been keeping one hand in your panties since they put me under—takin’ sweet care of you all the while. So I gave him a light face fuck, the only action he’s ever gotten, and I’d have done a whole lot more had the four assholes out there not strapped me down like some kinky bondage plaything.”

Your heart fluttered at the idea that he’d gotten so protective over you. But you barely had time to process the emotion before he continued.

“He ever touch you?” Ben’s stare was hard, but despite the soldier act, you caught the way his eyes briefly flickered down to your lips.

“No,” you answered instantly, bristling slightly at his nerve to ask. “Never. He’s all talk, no show, and even if he had something to show for it, I can handle my own.”

Am impressed smirk stretched Ben’s lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. “And I always did love that about you.”

Those words paved way for the question you’d been itching to ask since the beginning. You dropped your gaze to your hands, planted against the table beside his.

“Ben,” you began softly. He gave a deep hum of acknowledgment. “Just how much do you remember about me?”

There were a few uncaptioned moments of silence, and you almost wished you could see his face to decipher his thoughts, but some other emotion kept your eyes glued to veins of his arm.

“Everythin’,” he answered at last. “Every damn thing.”

You glanced at him, feeling a mixture of surprise and relief at that confession, and released a long sigh. “You have no idea how relieved that makes me feel.”

Ben held your stare intently, his eyes softening a fraction. “Those times you said my memory got fucked. . . did I forget you?”

You nodded hesitantly and saw the slight ghost of disbelief whisk across his eyes, which caused your heart to ache with the less fond memories between the two of you.

The first time it’d happened was twelve years ago. You’d been right beside the pod they’d pulled him from, and in the midst of his confusion and blind rage, he’d grabbed ahold of you at the neck—another strange face, nobody of any significance to him. Just another damned Russian. You’d been strangled in his grasp for quite a while; the guards coming to your aid were unable to pry his hands from your windpipes in time to escape a blackout.

You’d woken up a day later with severe bruising to your neck and collar bone, and the only news that could’ve been considered good was the fact that you were lucky enough to escape his rage alive. The force with which you were choked should have killed you, you knew that. The only reason you’d survived is because you, yourself, were a Supe.

You’d met Ben back in his prime, before the team had staged the coup that had landed him here. When he was taken by the Russians and betrayed by everybody around him, you’d struck a deal with the higher-ups to get a foot on the inside of the entire operation. Under them, you worked as a scientist to formulate compounds that would enhance Ben to the level that the Russians needed him at.

The first time Ben saw you walk into the medical room, he’d nearly imploded with relief, panic and betrayal all at once, but you’d never let on your relationship with him to anybody within the operation. So to any outside onlooker, you two were strangers to one another, only connected by the duty of the experimenter and her experiment.

It was crucial to keep things that way, especially when you’d been in the company of some of the Russian generals who wanted to witness the first experimental injection on Ben firsthand. Upon his recognition of you, you had to convince everybody that he was undergoing an episode of psychosis—formulating a romantic relationship between the two of you that had never existed in the first place. You had blamed it on the effects of the induced coma, and it had easily passed as an excuse due to the little knowledge possessed on its side effects at the time. Granted, not much progress was made in that field even in this current day and age.

Eventually, when you’d managed to gain enough reputation to demand treatment sessions alone with Ben, you’d gotten the opportunity to explain everything. He had little to be happy about, given that everybody he once trusted had betrayed him in a blink, and the one person he had left to cherish and love was currently pumping him with unreliable modifications of Compound V.

But with time, he’d come to accept it.

You weren’t proud of it. And in the moments that Ben would awaken only to forget you, he’d made sure to toss out every vile insult and cuss word he could each time you slid that needle into his arm, which only broke your heart further. But it was the price to pay to ensure nothing worse would happen to him.

The only barrier that had been set between him and a fate worse off, was you, and that’s a fact you’d tried hard to remind yourself of in all the passing years you’d spent drowning in guilt for your sins. But even then, it never made enduring his mind-swept states easier, and especially not when he looked at you with such hatred solidified in his gaze that it became all you could think about.

You came back to the present when Ben’s hand struggled through the restraints to graze your fingers. You flinched at the touch, at first, but it wasn’t long before your hand relaxed within his hold. So warm, so gentle, even considering all that he’s been through. It was comforting to know just how human he still was.

“Untie me,” he said, and you opened your mouth to argue before he cut you off with an air of eager reassurance. “I feel fine. It’s been a good couple of minutes, and nothin’s happened. Don’t ya trust me?”

You tilted your head slightly at him. “You know I do,” you murmured, your hand tightening within his. “But Ben, there’s something el—”

“Untie me first, then tell me about all the shit I’ve got comin’ for me,” he insisted.

Your eyes scanned the room self-consciously, picking out the two corners that had cameras mounted to their wall. “You know they’re watching us,” you told him. “Our every move.”

“Yeah, fuck those fuckers,” he sniffed, following your gaze to do his own quick sweep of the room. “Fuckin’ assholes!” He called aloud, and you tightened your hand in his as a warning. He glanced back at you with a slight scoff. “What? They’ve seen my bare balls and ass—shit, they’ve even stroked it. They know damn well how I feel about them.”

“Don’t provoke them,” you told him, and he flashed you a look that screamed bet, though he chose to resort to his best behaviour as he clamped down on his tongue. “I can’t take your chains off, they’ll storm the place the moment I do. I’m sorry.”

Ben held your gaze for a moment as he considered the circumstances, then his attention slid past you and lifted to the ceiling above your head.

You turned your head to follow his gaze. “What?” You asked, turning back to him with curiosity.

“Every time they roll me in and outta this room, I get a glimpse of the security room,” he said in a low murmur, raw emphasis on keeping his words out the enemy’s ears. “There’s two cameras in this room. One behind ya—“ he made a gesture with a flick of his eyes, “—and one behind me in the opposite corner. And it’s my lucky fuckin’ day, cause the camera behind me’s busted.”

You frowned as he spoke. “And what favours has that got to offer you?” You asked.

Ben seemed content to explain. “Camera behind you’s the only one still workin’. But your body—god bless it in its fuckin’ entirety—is blocking their dandy view of my dick.”

You listened carefully, the crease in your brow beginning to loosen at the understanding of where he was headed. “Absolutely not,” you scolded him, a dumbstruck smile poking through.

“Oh, come on,” Ben drawled. “Why the fuck not? I’ve been all pressed up in that sweaty fuckin’ tank for weeks, months, years on end and every time my eyes close, I get that goddamn dream of you and I, hittin’ pound town like there’s no fuckin’ tomorrow—shit, and I mean no tomorrow. Seriously, all day, all night—“

“All right, all right,” you cut him short, heat beginning to flush into your cheeks.

“Now, it’s not gonna be a recreation of that sweet, sweet day,” Ben said regretfully. “But if you could give a man a taste of relief by using that hand for somethin’ other than sticking a needle in my arm, I will fuck you senseless as a reward as soon as I’m freed the fuck outta these chains—you just gimme a time and place. That sound like a plan, baby?”

You couldn’t deny the hot burn that jolted it’s way into your core at the sound of that promise, but you pushed it aside to address the other issue you hadn’t yet been given the chance to voice.

“It’s a date, Ben, but you need to listen to me about that something else,” you told him, releasing his hand.

Ben puckered his lips as he coaxed forward a shushing noise, jerking his chin toward his hard on. He didn’t often need a lot of pampering to erect his dick—the bloody thing could get off on the scent of your perfume alone.

With a frustrated sigh, you tossed a quick glance over your shoulder, glimpsing the camera that had been peering over you since you’d set foot in here. You saw it blinking with a red light at its centre, the dead giveaway of recording. You then turned to look at the opposite camera, and it didn’t hold the same red dot in its core, which meant that Ben was, indeed, right.

Of course he was.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes, Ben,” you muttered in disbelief, tensely guiding the hand that had held his only seconds ago toward the bulge in his pants, simultaneously shifting your body to shield the scene more firmly. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Try not to make it too obvious,” Ben advised smugly, his eyes dipping to where your hand slipped under the flimsy waistband of his scrub pants.

“Shut up.” You were immediately greeted by his firm hard-on, not having any underwear beneath the scrubs. It felt warm and swollen against your palm, and when you passed a curious thumb over his tip, you felt the damp kiss of his pre-cum.

“Yeah, he’s a little excited—you felt it, get a move on,” he ordered impatiently.

You’d forgotten just how much of a curt dick he could be when it came to anything remotely sexual.

You wrapped your fingers around his length, your thumb gathering all tangible pre-cum to spread it along the head before you began to pump him with slow, fluid strokes.

Ben’s head collapsed back onto the table, his mouth falling slightly ajar with breathy grunts of pleasure.

“I need to make it less obvious?” You sniped in a harsh, low tone. “How about you?”

“Fuck,” Ben spat, lifting his head with what looked like great effort to face you. “Forgot just how good you feel, you’ll forgive a man for being expressive.”

Your heart fluttered at his compliment, and you tightened your hold on his girth to applaud his behaviour. “Keep on talking to me,” you said. “Make it look like we’re having a conversation.”

“Yeah. . .” Ben stammered distractedly, a clear indication that he was struggling to multitask.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes,” you muttered under your breath, picking up the pace of your strokes. You made sure to come down on his balls with considerable force to add to the stimulation, and he let slip a strangled, gruff moan that caused your core to ignite its own fire.

“Atta girl, pumpin’ it almost as well as your pussy does,” he praised breathlessly as he struggled against his restrains with a frustrated grunt. “These fuckin’ things. . .” He trailed off and met your gaze. “What was it you wanted to say?” He asked, his chest beginning to heave more rapidly now.

You were doubtful that you had his full ear to unload the importance of what you were about to tell him, but you decided to spill that can anyways, simultaneously making sure to keep up the pace of your strokes.

“This is the last injection you’ll ever have to get, Ben,” you told him softly. Ben’s sex-addled haze sobered up real quickly at that, his eyes now fully focused onto your face.

“The fuck you on ‘bout?” He asked.

“Tonight, you’re getting out,” you told him, feeling as the heat around his length began to build with each continued stroke. You could see Ben strain with the movements, wanting desperately to reach his release while trying to focus on your words. “I made contact with this group, they’ve been looking for you for a while—followed your trail all the way out here. You wanna know what the Russians intended to use you for? Well, Turns out, you’re the one strongest biological weapon that planet Earth has to offer.”

His eyes widened briefly at that before screwing shut as his head collapsed back onto the table with a strained growl, and then you felt him implode, his warm seed trailing down your hand. You gave a few more slow pumps to urge the last of it out, then gently released his manhood and discretely pulled your hand from his pants.

“Feel better now?” You asked, bringing your hand to wipe his juices onto your coat.

Ben lifted his head just in time to catch that act, which caused him to grunt in disappointment.

“Do it right next time,” he scolded you. “You know you love the taste of it.”

You did, but this wasn’t exactly the time or place for you to express that particular savoury tooth. “Listen,” you continued the earlier conversation. “This group, they need you, and come tonight, they’ll break you out of that fucking tank you’ve been stuck in all these years.”

Ben’s expression seemed to knead both relief and anticipation as he considered your words. “Where will you be?” He asked earnestly. “I’m not leavin’ without you.”

You took his hand into your own, and he squeezed it tightly. “You won’t,” you assured him. “I’ll be right there beside you when you wake up. But for now, you’ve got to go along with everything—act normal, like it’s any other day.”

Ben nodded slowly, the most docile and compliant you’d ever seen him. “These people . . . how much do you know about ‘em?”

You shook your head slightly. “Not a lot,” you admitted. “But enough to know they’re the lesser evil. They get us out of here, you do what you need to do, and then we run.”

“Yeah, fuck it, I’ve had worse odds,” he decided, something which you could contest to. “This group, they have a name?”

“Yeah,” you said, recalling the blatant stupidity of it. “They call themselves The Boys.”

──────────────────────

a/n ─ man, this was pumped out of me at 3 am because my biological urges just decided to go full-blown FUCK YEAH for jensen ackles. i NEED him.

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags — @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind

want to become part of the taglist for any future soldier boy works?

other works ─ the boys masterlist

693 notes · View notes

crapeaucrapeau · 4 months ago

Text

Defunct ME1 Website Codex Entries

In the interest of preserving rare documents related to Mass Effect, I'm transcribing here the Codex entries which were on the ME1 website when the game first came out. They are reproduced here as they form much of the basis by which we understand Mass Effect ; in some cases, they are phrased differently from the Codex in the actual game, with additional information, or contradictions (e.g. the given length of the Krogan Rebellions). Link here : https://web.archive.org/web/20130326112139/http://masseffect.bioware.com/me1/galacticcodex/index.html

Each Codex entry comes in two parts : the "lede" on the starting Codex page, and the entry itself. In an archiving interest, associated polls are included, though they do not represent anything more than the intended market's opinions prior to the game's release. Everything is quoted verbatim, though I have done some formatting modifications for ease of reading.

Note : since this was very much part of the promotion for ME1, the intended audience is clearly human, but it's difficult at times to see if it's an in-universe "we" or an IRL "we". The polls, however, are clearly out-of-universe.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

SPECIES

The Advent of Humanity on the Galactic Stage

In the decades since our first encounter with the greater galactic community, humanity has risen quickly to prominence, establishing colonies throughout the stars. However, our population growth and military strength have led to resentful speculation that an invitation to join the ranks of the Council itself is imminent. [Read More]

The Advent of Humanity on the Galactic Stage

In the year 2148, humanity discovered Prothean ruins on Mars. The remnants of Prothean technology scattered amongst these ruins allowed them to develop mass effect fields and faster-than-light travel. This led them to discover and reactivate the mass relay at the edges of Earth's solar system, giving them access to the mass relay network spanning the rest of the galaxy and bringing them into contact with the greater galactic community.

2148 AD : Humanity discovers a small cache of highly advanced alien technology hidden deep beneath the surface of Mars. Building on the remnants of this long extinct race - known as the Protheans - humanity quickly masters the science of mass effect fields, leading to the development of faster than light travel.

2149 AD : Spreading out through their own solar system, humanity discovers that Charon, Pluto's moon, is actually a massive piece of dormant Prothean technology - a mass relay - encased in ice.

Once activated, humanity discovers that the mass relay allows instantaneous travel across thousands of light years to a synchronized mass relay in another part of the galaxy.

There they discover several more dormant relays. Over the next decade humanity expands rapidly, establishing colonies and activating dormant relays to open up more and more unexplored regions of space.

2155 AD : To defend its rapidly expanding empire, humanity assembles a massive fleet and constructs an enormous military space station at the nexus of several key mass relays…even though they have yet to encounter another intelligent space-faring species.

2157 AD : Humanity makes first contact with another space-faring culture: the turians. Unfortunately, the encounter is far from peaceful. Over the next several months a brief but tense conflict known on Earth as the First Contact war ensues.

This conflict draws the attention of the Citadel Council - a multi-species government body that maintains peace and stability throughout the known galaxy. The Council intervenes before hostilities escalate further, revealing the existence of the greater galactic community to humanity and brokering a peace between them and the turians.

2165 AD : Humanity continues to expand, founding more colonies and establishing trade alliances with many of the other species who recognize the authority of the Citadel Council. In 2165 the Council makes official recognition of humanity's growing power and influence in the galactic community. Humanity is granted an embassy on the Citadel, the political and economic heart of the galaxy.

2183 AD : Commander Shepard - a promising young officer in the Human Alliance military - is assigned to the crew of the Normandy, the most advanced prototype vessel ever designed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Turians: Friend or Foe?

We fought these raptor-like aliens in the First Contact War, but have since settled into an uneasy co-existence with them. Despite their code of honour, discipline, and work ethic, the question remains whether these Council members are friends or foes. [Read codex entry]

Citadel Council Race: Turians

The turians were the last of the Citadel races to join the Council. Their features are avian, making them resemble humanoid birds or raptors. They have a reputation for skill and bravery in combat, but they are not known to be bloodthirsty. A rigid code of honor and strict discipline are the hallmarks of any turian officer. This includes humane treatment of prisoners and conquered enemies. A turian patrol unit will never willingly leave behind one of their own, no matter what the cost of saving them.

Turian society is highly regimented and very organized, and the species is known for its strict discipline and work ethic. Turians are willing to do what needs to be done, and they always follow through. They are not easily spurred to violence, but when conflict is inevitable, they only understand a concept of "total war." They do not believe in skirmishes or small scale battles; they use massive fleets and numbers to defeat an adversary so completely that they remove any threat of having to fight the same opponent more than once. They do not exterminate their enemy, but so completely devastate their military that the enemy has no choice but to become a colony of the turians.

Other species see them as "men of action," and they are generally regarded as the most progressive of the Citadel races. Since their culture is based on the structure of a military hierarchy, changes and advances accepted by the leadership are quickly adopted by the rest of society with minimal resistance.

WEB POLL : Turians are an honourable and disciplined race. Why do you think humanity warred with them immediately after first contact in the year 2157?

There was a misunderstanding that blew out of proportion - 64%

They feared our potential and saw us as competitors - 23%

They probably always attack first to probe for weaknesses - 11%

They wanted the planet Earth and our colonies for themselves - 3%

Other - read my comments - 3%

Total votes : 16674

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

TECHNOLOGY

M35 Mako

The Mako is a light infantry fighting vehicle you'll get to use when exploring planetary environments. Equipped with laser-guided ordnance, micro- thrusters, and laser detection arrays, it's an essential tool to have in your arsenal. [Read more]

Technology : M35 Mako

For 20 years, the standard "battle taxi" of the Systems Alliance Marines was the M29 "Grizzly" Infantry Fighting Vehicle (IFV). While excellent in long-term planetary campaigns, the Grizzly's bulk and weight made it unsuitable for rapid deployment across the Alliance's expanding sphere of influence. To fill this increasingly important role, the M35 "Mako" IFV was designed to fit in the small cargo bays of Alliance scouting frigates. The M35's small size and low weight allow it to be easily deployed to virtually any world.

Since Alliance marines may be required to fight in a variety of planetary environments, the Mako is environmentally sealed and powered by a hydrogen-oxygen fuel cell. For deployment on low-gravity planetoids, it is equipped with micro-thrusters and a small element zero core, which can be used to increase mass and provide greater traction.

The "eezo" core can also be used to reduce mass, allowing the Mako to be safely air-dropped. This allows frigates to deploy their shore parties while limiting the ship's exposure to defensive anti-aircraft artillery. When used in conjunction with thrusters, mass reduction allows the Mako to extricate itself from difficult terrain.

The Mako's hull is covered with laser detection arrays, which forewarn the crew of enemy laser-guided ordnance. Ground-penetrating radar allows detection of anti-vehicle mines and other subsurface anomalies. These will be brought to the attention of the crew by the vehicle's micro-frame computer system.

Several combat support vehicles using the Mako's basic chassis are manufactured for Alliance surface garrisons. These include a recon drone controller, a mobile air defense platform, and the M38 military ambulance nicknamed "Moby" because it is painted white during peacekeeping operations. Shipboard Marines exclusively use the tactically flexible and heavily armed base model.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Normandy

Optimized for solo reconnaissance missions deep within unstable regions, and using state-of-the-art stealth technology, the Normandy is a prototype deep scout frigate. [Read more]

Technology : Normandy

Frigates are swift, flexible warships. Unlike larger vessels, they are able to land on planets. Although lightly armed, Alliance frigates usually carry a squad of marines for security and groundside duty.

The most important role filled by frigates is scouting and reconnaissance. Thanks to mass effect technology, ships and communications can travel faster than the speed of light. Sensors, however, are limited to the speed of light. If an enemy ship is a light year away, a stationary observer will only be able to see it when its light arrives in a year.

An attacker will always gain surprise against a defender; attacking ships moving faster than light will arrive long before their light speed-limited sensor data does. For defense, fleets are surrounded by spheres of scouting frigates. These vessels detect enemy ships passing by them, and transmit warnings to the main body. The Normandy is a prototype "deep scout" frigate, developed by the Systems Alliance with the assistance of the Citadel Council. It is optimized for solo reconnaissance missions deep within unstable regions, using state-of-the-art stealth technology.

For centuries, it was assumed that starship stealth was impossible. The heat generated by routine shipboard operations is easily detectable against the absolute-zero background temperature of space. The Normandy, however, is able to temporarily "store" this heat in lithium heat sinks deep within the hull. Combined with refrigeration of the exterior hull, the ship can travel undetected for hours, or drift passively for days of covert observation. This is not without risk. The stored heat must eventually be radiated, or it will build up to levels capable of cooking the crew alive.

Another component of the stealth system is the Normandys revolutionary Tantalus drive, a mass effect core twice the standard size. The Tantalus drive generates mass concentrations that the Normandy "falls into", allowing it to move without the use of heat-emitting thrusters. The heat sink and Tantalus drive systems allow the Normandy to loiter undetected in an enemy system to monitor traffic, or drop infiltration teams on enemy worlds. Should the Normandys design prove useful in field tests, it is expected that a follow-up class incorporating "lessons learned" will be produced.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

281 notes · View notes

vonlycaonwife · 6 months ago

Text

Lycaon relationship hcs

Omg I went off on this, this was supposed to be for someone’s request but then I accidentally went completely self indulgent. So this will be made into its own post!

Warnings: nsfw (under the cut), knotting, bdsm

Honestly seeing Lycaon in a relationship is like seeing fireflies in the night. It's so whimsical and almost magical, even if it is reality and down to earth.

He's just so sweet and romantic, a lot of the time not meaning to! Like he just naturally would do these little things that make your heart melt.

Though in the beginning he definitely was nervous, not so much to the point of it being obvious to a stranger. But the rest of the members definitely had fun seeing him overthink his actions.

These three would definitely be asked a lot of questions, mainly Rina though since she would have better advice (debatable) than Corin or Ellen.

But! Once the relationship has been through the first couple of months everything is pretty smooth sailing.

He doesn't really question what to do, mainly because he would communicate with you very clearly and often to make sure everything is alright and he's not overstepping.

If his partner isn't a thiren I can imagine him fearing about potentially overstepping because of the possible habits thirens have when in relationships.

One I feel is them being a bit more territorial, though how it's shown is dependent on each person. For Lycaon I feel that for him it's very subtle, like making sure his scent is on you. I can't see him getting aggressive publicly unless someone was making his partner uncomfortable.

Another thiren custom I highly feel is a thing is partners grooming each other. Since it's a common thing amongst animals for bonding, thirens most likely have that instinct as well. So I can see him insistenting on brushing your hair and maybe doing your makeup if you wear any. And he wouldn't really complain about you returning the favor, you would definitely see his tail wagging as you brush his fur.

Also! Another important thing you see more commonly than others is definitely him using more casual prosthetics than the ones we see usually see him. While they would be cyber enhancements as well, they wouldn't have the same modifications as his work ones. I can't imagine him letting just anyone see him use those, so you would be very special to him to see him using those.

Do I have to even mention that he's like the best when it comes to taking care of a sick partner? THIS MAN-

While I don’t believe he would call out of work for a simple cold, he would already have everything prepared for you. Like medicine beside your bed along with a warm meal in the microwave (to keep warm).

But if it's worse than that you can guarantee that he's staying around to make sure you recover at a speedy pace.

Nsfw under the cut

Okay but it's very obvious Lycaon restrains himself a lot to put on a more sophisticated approach.

So when to sex with him you really would have to show him how much you trust him to let him fully relax and not hold himself back during the act.

Even then I don't think he would want to do things roughly that often, maybe only when he's really stressed and needs to release it. Though if that were to be the case there is always a safe word.

As a thiren I do believe he potentially goes through a rut, but it's not really something that happened often until he met you. And even then he most likely prefers to not undergo that since he would lose control of himself.

But! That doesn't mean I don't think he's kinky, I definitely believe he is.

I can see him having a small bdsm thing, but it's only surface level. He mainly would only ever bring these into the bedroom once he knows there's a great amount of trust between you two.

He very much gives soft dom vibes, but it's also obvious that he also has the potential to be a mean dom. I mean come on they're clearly hinting at him being a bit sadistic, even if surface level.

Also I have to say this, he definitely has a knot. (YOU CANNOT STOP ME I AM A FURRY BITCH *ahem* anyway-) But in order for that to ever come into play he would prepare for several weeks, since I can't imagine him not having a big dick and putting a knot on that sounds painful.

But also I feel like he would only ever do penetrative sex if he's very confident about spending the rest of his life with his partner. Since wolves do have a habit of mating for life.

So it would take awhile to get to that point, and even longer once he's agreed to it since again, prepping you could take a bit.

Another thing I feel I should bring up is him potentially keeping his prosthetics on during sex. It would be the casual ones I've spoken about, but I think he wouldn't take them off for extra leverage and also comfortability (as I feel like in zzz they're most likely advanced enough in tech to where they're pretty comfortable to wear a lot).

Though on the off chance he doesn't have them on you would more likely than not ride him.

Actually speaking on positions, he's definitely a missionary or mating press guy. Maybe would do stuff from behind if he's bending you over a counter or desk.

Though that would only happen when at home, since I highly doubt he would want anyone to walk in on him while in the act.

#zenless zone zero #zenless zone zero x reader #zzz von lycaon #von lycaon x reader #von lycaon #pillow talk

242 notes · View notes

bigification · 11 months ago

Text

Star Of The Show

"Is that really safe?" A snobbish man in an expensive suit snarled.

"Yes Mr. Derry, how many times do I have to tell you. It'll make you into a prime bodybuilder just like you asked." The technician sighed.

"It better be, because I am an important stake holder in this bodybuilding competition and I paid a lot for this." Mr. Derry continued to whine, despite receiving exactly what he asked for.

"Here I brought your coffee, sir." Mr. Derry's assistant sheepishly held out a Starbucks coffee. He grumbled as he read the long list of modifications he needed in his coffee to drink it.

"This has coconut milk you idiot!" He shoved the coffee back into his assistant, sending the scrawny man stumbling back. In an attempt to regain his balance he flailed his arm into the large machine that sat nearby.

"I... I'm sorry sir." The assistant panicked. "I can fix it." He reached for the machine in an attempt to minimize the blowback from his boss. He tried to move the machine back to its original position.

"Wait no! Don't tou-" the technician was interrupted.

A blinding light erupted across the back stage as a concentrated beam shot into the assistants chest. He looked like a ragdoll being tossed across the room, slamming into the wall. No one even noticed what had happened while they tried to recover from the flash.

The assistant slowly got up, his head was spinning. He assumed it was from the crash into the wall, but it only got worse after he got up. A burning heat boiled inside his chest as he attempted to recover. The burning soon turned to a tightness as his chest began to grow. His flat chest started to rise like a loaf of bread in the oven. His preppy button up strained under the pressure of his thickening pecs until the buttons started to pop off. His shirt burst open, revealing the perfectly formed pecs of a bodybuilder that created a shelf over his stomach. Speaking of which, his stomach began to melt away. His now flat stomach quickly rose back up, but with hard muscles this time. His stomach started to round out into a small muscle gut as six distinct muscles formed over it, causing the rest of his buttons to pop off in the process.

The technician and Mr. Derry were starting to recover from the flash, hearing increasingly loud footsteps rumbled from across the room and ever deeper sounding grunts and moans came from the assistant.

The assistant lurched over as his shoulder broadened, finally ripping his shirt to shreds. His upper back exploded with rippling muscles that would make any man jealous. And his lower back slimmed to give his body a strong V shape. Moments later he started to flex his arms, making them balloon with every flex. His biceps grew to the size of melons as veins surfaced all down his arms. And his hands thickened into massive man hands, twice the size of his old delicate hands.

Mr. Derry let out a loud scoff as he watched the assistant transform into the man he wanted to be. And the technician just smiled at Me. Derry's dismay. Meanwhile the assistant started to let out deep guttural moans pleasure as his body grew, and animalistic grunts every time he flexed his growing body.

Next, the man's lower body started to grow, making him nearly a foot taller than he was before, towering over everyone in the building. His thighs thickened to over twice the size of his massive biceps, making him have the man spread to make room for all the muscle. Unsurprisingly it didn't take long for his pants to rip to shreds, leaving him in his comically small underwear. Though that wouldn't last long either. His flat ass got flooded with both fat and muscle, making it large and plump and creating a shelf over his thighs. His fat ass strained against the shockingly strong fabric of the underwear before overpowering them, bouncing as his cheeks tore right through them. His calves also grew quite thick and defined as his feet burst out of his shoes, becoming a monstrous size 20. Though the only downside is his impressive package shrunk from a massive 8 inches to an unremarkable 4 inches, looking small in comparison to his hulking body.

Finally the man's head began to change to match his body. His barely visible jawline looked like it got vacuum sealed around his jaw, becoming sharp as a knife. His brow bone became more prominent, adding to his manly appearance as a well kept beard spreads across his face. And his long flowy hair recedes into a military buzz cut.

By the time the transformation slowed, his skin had a bronze tanned color with a slick sheen of oil over it. Almost as if he was getting ready to compete.

"You fucking idiot. Look at the mess you've made. You need to clean this up ASAP, and you better hope that machine has some juice left for me or so help me god I will bury you six feet under Edward!" Mr. Derry blew up with rage, it almost looked like there was smoke coming from his ears.

The assistant stood up tall with his head up and his chest puffed out. Slowly taking steps towards his boss, making the ground shake with each step. As he got close, his brows furrowed and his grunt became deeper and louder. He bent down and yanked his boss by the collar, lifting the shorter man a foot off the ground to meet eye to eye.

"You think I need a fucking pipsqueak like you! You're nothing but a bug to step on. And my name is Evan, asshole! Remember it!" Evans voice booked across the room as he chuckled his former boss into the machine, breaking it in the process.

He stomped across the room and grabbed a black pair of underwear from the rack. Then he proceeded to waltz on stage, stealing the hearts of the audience.

Evan was the star of the show, winning an easy first place. Photoshoots, magazine covers, and sponsors were all he saw in his future. And he never saw his loser of a boss again.

#male tf #masculine #reality change #male transformation #muscle tf #bodybuilder

434 notes · View notes

honeydippedfiction · 21 days ago

Note

I need to know more about Angel having Joe's initals tattooed and about Dare or Die

Navigation

Synopsis: During a wild LSU party and a brutal game of Dare or Die, Angel drunkenly gets Joe Burrow’s initials tattooed on her hip—long before they ever made things official. A week later, when Joe finally sees it for himself… it sets off a night neither of them will ever forget.

Warnings: Alcohol use / underage drinking, Tattoo under the influence, Sexual tension / suggestive content (Includes heavy flirtation, intimate dialogue, and sexual undertones between characters), Peer pressure, & Mild body modification themes.

WC: 2.9k

A/N: they're insane for each other your honor. Also don't ever get a tattoo or anything while under the influence if that wasn't clear.

Join my Taglists here or message me

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Based from this ask!

The LSU party was already in full swing when Angel and Monica arrived, the night buzzing with that heady, reckless energy that came from being young, free, and just drunk enough to forget about tomorrow. Neon lights blinked erratically against the ceiling, casting flickering colors over the crowded living room. Solo cups littered nearly every surface, the air thick with the sharp tang of alcohol and too-loud laughter. Music pumped from the oversized speakers in the corner—something bass-heavy and dirty that made the floor vibrate and your hips sway whether you wanted them to or not.

Angel hadn’t planned on going out. Not without Joe.

Normally, a Friday night without him meant a quiet night in, curled up in one of his hoodies, watching whatever he had on while sneaking kisses between bites of takeout. But tonight, Joe was holed up in his apartment going over film—grinding through footage with his usual intensity, headphones in and a brow furrowed in that serious, focused way she secretly loved. He’d told her not to worry about him, to go out and have fun. And she figured… why not? Maybe a night with Monica and some noise would help chase away the ache she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying since he’d left her apartment that morning.

What she didn’t expect was to be swept into a drinking game before she could even shed her jacket.

“Dare or Die!” someone bellowed, a cheer rippling through the room. A table was already set up in the center—like beer pong, only sloppier, wilder. Underneath each cup sat a folded dare, and if you chickened out, you had to dump the drink into the big punishment cup at the center of the table: a cloudy, sinister-looking mix of cheap vodka, tequila, beer, and God knows what else.

Angel hesitated, trying to blend into the shadows with her drink, but Monica spotted her instantly.

“Oh, no ma’am,” she said with a devilish grin, grabbing Angel’s wrist. “You are not just gonna stand there lookin’ cute all night. Come on, LSU First Lady—get in the game.”

“Don’t call me that,” Angel groaned, though a smile tugged at her lips.

Monica just raised a brow. “I mean, you’re basically taken. Whole campus knows Joe’s in his ‘taken and smitten’ era.”

“We’re not official,” Angel reminded her, weakly.

“No,” Monica said with a knowing smirk. “But you will be.”

Angel rolled her eyes but let herself be pulled forward. She could feel it, the way her heart fluttered at the idea of being Joe’s. Fully. Publicly. The way his name alone made her feel anchored, even when he wasn’t in the room. Maybe they hadn’t defined it yet, but everyone knew.

She knew.

The game kicked off in a whirlwind of laughter, dares, and dare-fueled regrets. Someone gave a lap dance on a coffee table. Someone else had to call their ex and act like they were getting head. Angel ended up taking a tequila shot with whipped cream off Monica’s stomach and boobs, and by her second round, her head was warm and fuzzy and her confidence high.

The game had already claimed its first few victims.

A tall guy from the track team had pulled a dare that made him strip to his boxers and run through to Mike’s cage and have someone record him pretending to crawl around like a tiger growling.

One girl was halfway through giving her ex’s new girlfriend a lap dance on the couch—and judging by the girl’s reaction, she wasn’t mad about it.

Someone else had just pulled a dare that involved calling their mom and pretending to be high. The entire room had quieted for that one, and the mother’s response—“Tell that weed I said hello, and make sure you eat something”—had everyone in stitches.

Angel was still sipping from her cup, grinning at the chaos, when it happened.

Monica smacked a ball into a red cup near the center of the table. Cheers went up. She plucked the folded paper from beneath and unfolded it, her eyebrows shooting sky-high.

“Girl,” she said, showing Angel the dare. “Kiss the person in the room you most want to sleep with. No backsies.”

Angel choked. “Don’t look at me.”

“Oh, relax,” Monica said with a dramatic eye roll. Then she turned and kissed a girl from the softball team square on the mouth—to whoops and hollers all around. “What? She’s hot.”

The next guy got dared to post a thirst trap with “DM for feet pics” on Instagram. He did it without blinking. Another girl was dared to shotgun a White Claw while on someone’s shoulders—and when she chose Angel’s lap, Angel nearly spilled her drink laughing.

Then it was Angel’s turn.

Monica hit her with a look.

Angel stepped forward, cheeks pink from the heat and the drinks. She tossed the ball underhand. It sank into the cup on the right.

She flipped the note underneath, brow quirking as she unfolded the small square of paper. Her eyes skimmed the words—and stopped cold.

“Get your man’s initials tattooed. Right now. Monica’s driving.”

Angel let out a startled laugh, blinking as though the words might rearrange themselves. “Absolutely not.”

There were howls of protest and laughter from the crowd.

“Pussy!” someone called out. “Dump your drink!”

Angel hovered, her cup midair. Her eyes were still on the dare. The words felt like a joke. A wild, ridiculous one. But they also stuck in her brain like glue.

Joe. Her Joe.

He wasn’t just a man. He was her man. Even if they hadn’t labeled it yet, she felt it in every late-night text, every soft kiss on her shoulder when she fell asleep in his bed. He made her feel seen. Protected. Adored.

Joe wouldn’t even know.

He wasn’t here.

But it wasn’t just any initials. It wasn’t some random guy. It was Joe. Her Joe. The man who kissed her forehead like it was sacred. Who called her “baby” in that soft drawl that melted every bone in her body. The man who texted her after practice just to make sure she ate.

She felt Monica watching her.

Would he even care?

Would he love it?

She didn’t answer. Just looked over at Monica.

Monica narrowed her eyes, then tilted her head. “You’re really thinking about this?”

Angel bit her lip.

“I mean,” Monica shrugged, “I do know a guy who stays open late. Just saying.”

Angel hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Monica’s grin widened. “Girl, nothing. You’re just down astronomically. Come on—what’s life without a little chaos?”

Angel exhaled, set her drink down, and laughed. “I’m insane.”

Monica grinned like she’d won the lottery. “And I’m driving.”

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♫·¯·♪¸¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

Ten minutes later, they were in Monica’s car, windows cracked, Angel’s leg bouncing so fast it shook the cup holder. She was still buzzed but nerves were starting to crowd her chest.

Monica glanced over. “You’re really doing this.”

“You sound more excited than I am.”

“That’s because I am,” Monica beamed. “Girl, it’s romantic. Dumb, sure. But romantic.”

The tattoo shop was barely still open, the “Closed” sign already flipped on the door—but the guy at the desk, a tatted-up dude with sleepy eyes, recognized Monica instantly.

“You bringing me trouble tonight?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Monica grinned.

Angel was in the chair fifteen minutes later, hip bared, laughing with her hands over her face as the artist prepped his tools.

“What are we doing?” he asked, gloves snapping on.

“Initials,” Angel said. “J.L.B.”

The artist raised a brow. “He better be worth it.”

Angel smiled to herself, heart warm. “He is.”

She squeezed Monica’s hand while the needle buzzed to life. A soft wince pulled at her mouth when it touched skin, but she didn’t flinch. The pain was sharp but brief, and over almost too soon. J.L.B. in fine, slanted script—small and simple, right above the curve of her hipbone, flanked by three delicate butterflies, their wings light and soft, like flight.

Twenty minutes later, it was done.

Angel stood in front of the mirror, jeans low on her hips, her fingers grazing the fresh ink.

“I’m insane,” she whispered.

Monica grinned behind her. “Nope. You’re in love.”

Angel didn’t say anything. But the smile tugging at her lips said everything. Her eyes looking at the butterflies and cursive script.

One for then. One for now. One for whatever the hell came next.

Joe didn’t find out about the tattoo that night. Or the next one.

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♫·¯·♪¸¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

Friday had come and gone in the way most of his in-season nights did—low-key, focused, and quiet. He was camped out in his apartment, hoodie on, feet up, watching game film with a half-eaten container of takeout and his phone flipped screen-down on the couch beside him. Distractions weren’t allowed when he was locked in, especially this close to kickoff. But sometime after midnight, when his brain started to fog and his eyes began to blur from the endless rotations of defensive sets, he finally caved and checked his phone.

Twenty-two messages in the group chat.

He groaned, swiping it open with one hand, still half focused on the replay on his laptop—until he saw what had them all talking.

The first was a video.

Angel.

Blurry, grainy, lit with that terrible red party glow—but unmistakably her. She was on top of the kitchen island at someone’s house, mic in hand, trying to belt her way through a Beyoncé song while Monica stood behind her, playing backup with a cooking spoon like it was a prop.

Joe cracked a smile, shaking his head. He tapped the video again, watching it loop.

She looked beautiful—tipsy and unbothered, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed. Her body moved with that easy rhythm he knew so well, even when off-key and barely balancing in heels.

“Tell your girl to calm down,” someone had texted under the video.

Joe just smirked, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She’s fine. But he didn’t send anything. Just kept scrolling.

Then came the second video.

And this one stopped him cold.

It opened mid-laugh, the room buzzing. Monica was laid out across the kitchen counter, shirt pulled up, her bra still on but pushed a little higher. There was whipped cream running down her stomach in a zigzag, settling between the curve of her ribs and the top of her jeans. Someone off-camera shouted, “Three… two… one!”

Angel leaned in.

Head tilted. Eyes focused.

She licked a line of whipped cream, fast and laughing, then gripped a salt shaker, tapped it onto the inside of Monica’s hip, and knocked back a full shot of tequila. The crowd erupted.

Joe’s mouth parted slightly.

The video ended there.

Another text followed: Your girl is WILD.

He stared at the screen, thumb frozen.

The logical part of him—the one trained for chaos and pressure—reminded him it was a party. A dare, probably. College antics. Harmless. He’d seen worse on the sidelines. It wasn’t even sexual. Just girls being drunk and stupid.

But the other part—the part that had been imagining her curled into his side tonight instead of licking whipped cream off someone else—was not as cool about it.

He hit play again.

Watched it slower this time. Noticed the way her hand curled around Monica’s hip for balance. The way she laughed after the shot, tongue darting out to catch a drop of tequila from her lip.

Jesus.

He sank deeper into the couch, jaw tight.

The text buzzes didn’t stop. More photos. More chaos. Someone sent a picture of Angel and Ja'Marr locked arm-in-arm, sunglasses on at night, flashing peace signs like they were on spring break.

Joe finally set the phone down, screen-up this time. Just stared at it.

He wasn’t her boyfriend. Not officially. They hadn’t put a title on anything yet. She didn’t owe him anything.

And yet—

That possessive curl low in his gut wasn’t trying to hear logic.

Still, he didn’t say a word. Not that night. Not the next one either.

When she texted the next morning—Miss you—he replied with Miss you too, sweetheart. Like always. Like nothing was different. Like his brain hadn’t replayed that whipped cream moment seventeen times and imagined exactly what it would’ve felt like if she’d done it to him.

And the tattoo?

He had no idea.

Not yet.

That surprise was still waiting—inked under soft skin, hidden in plain sight, waiting to wreck him in ways even that tequila video hadn’t.

Until a week later.

¸¸♫·¯·♪¸¸♩·¯·♬¸¸¸¸♫·¯·♪¸¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

It started as one of those quiet nights they both craved—no game film, no classes, no loud parties or practice schedules to juggle. Just the two of them in Joe’s apartment, wrapped in the kind of easy silence that only came from real comfort. The movie playing on the screen had long lost their attention, reduced to background noise beneath their slow conversation and half-stifled laughter.

Angel was curled into Joe’s side on the couch, one leg thrown over his, her head nestled against his chest. He absentmindedly ran his fingers through her curls, his gaze more on her than the screen.

“Monica’s with her sneaky link,” Angel murmured, voice warm with amusement. “So no surprise FaceTime chaos tonight.”

“Thank God,” Joe chuckled, brushing a kiss against her temple. “Every time I hear her voice echoing through your phone, I brace myself like it’s a blitz.”

Angel snorted, pulling the throw blanket higher over her bare legs. “That’s fair.”

The night stretched long and lazy after that, full of easy touches and half-spoken thoughts, until Angel sat up with a stretch, her shirt riding up slightly as she stood. “I’m stealing one of your hoodies,” she announced, already halfway to the drawer.

Joe leaned his head back against the couch and watched her move, a small smile playing at his lips as she pulled open the drawer and tugged one out—his navy LSU hoodie, the one she always stole.

Then she pulled her shirt off and tossed it onto the bed, standing in just her shorts and a black bra. That’s when he saw it.

The curve of her waist. The soft dip of her hip.

And ink.

Not just the butterflies—though those caught his attention first, three tiny ones dancing just above the waistband of her shorts, like they were mid-flight across her skin.

No. It was what the butterflies framed that made him sit up straight.

Three letters.

J. L. B.

Joe blinked, brows furrowing as he stared. His throat went dry.

“Wait,” he said, voice quieter than before but sharper, rougher. “Come here.”

Angel froze mid-pull of the hoodie. “Why? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward and held out his hand. “C’mere, baby.”

Something in his voice made her move. Carefully, curiously.

He pulled her in by the waist, guiding her between his legs as he sat at the edge of the couch. His hands were warm, thumbs grazing over her hips as his eyes locked on the tattoo. His expression shifted from confused to completely wrecked in seconds.

“Joe—” Angel started, heart thumping.

But he was already pulling at the hem of her shorts, just a little. Just enough to see all of it.

The ink was small. Clean. Fresh. Still healing, if he looked close enough.

J.L.B.

His initials. Marked right above the curve of her hip.

He froze.

Angel’s stomach dropped.

“Okay—before you say anything,” she said quickly, her voice rushing to fill the silence, “I was drunk, okay? It was this dumb game and Monica dared me and I swear I wasn’t trying to be crazy—”

“Angel.”

“I mean, we weren’t even official yet! I just—ugh, I don’t know what I was thinking, and I totally get if you think I’m nuts—”

“Angel.”

“I can get it removed, or covered, or—”

“Baby.”

The sound of his voice stopped her cold.

Low. Rough. Like it scraped the back of his throat. His grip on her hips tightened just slightly as he looked up at her, eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“You let somebody tattoo my initials on you?” he asked, barely breathing.

She swallowed. “...Yeah?”

His jaw flexed. His fingers dragged along her waist, slow, reverent. “You really did that?”

“I didn’t think you’d be into it,” she whispered. “I thought you’d freak.”

Joe gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Angel, you don’t even know what you just did to me.”

She blinked. “Wait—you’re not mad?”

He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Mad?” he echoed. “You got my initials on your skin. Wrapped in butterflies. You really branded yourself for me and you thought I’d be mad?”

Angel felt the warmth rush to her cheeks, suddenly shy under his intense gaze.

“I think it’s sexy as fuck,” he said, mouth at her hip now, voice like velvet. “I think it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She laughed—nervous, breathless. “You’re serious?”

Joe’s lips brushed her tattoo, slow and deliberate. “Dead serious.”

Her breath caught as his fingers traced the top of her waistband again, dipping slightly lower.

“You really let the whole world know you’re mine,” he murmured, voice molten now. “You marked yourself, baby.”

Angel shivered as his tongue flicked out, teasing the sensitive skin just below the ink. “I didn’t mean to—it just kind of happened.”

“Nah,” Joe growled, standing and hauling her effortlessly into his arms. “You meant it. You wanted me to see it.”

She squeaked as he carried her toward the bedroom. “Maybe a little.”

“Now I gotta show you what that kind of loyalty gets you.”

Her giggle melted into a gasp as he dropped her onto the bed and hovered over her, eyes still locked on the butterflies, like the world had narrowed down to that one little spot on her body.

“You think that dare had consequences?” he murmured, mouth trailing kisses down her belly. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

JB9 Taglist: @lilfreakjez, @dasia21, @superanastasia1981, @gg-trini, @wickedfun9, @irishmanwhore, @danielle143, @destinyg237

122 notes · View notes