#i hope the united nations know what mpreg is

[honeygrahambitch]

I was asking the mun if they knew what mpreg was? But very funny

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"The Commander's Omega"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: alpha/omega, dystopia, sex slavery, forced breeding, mutilation, rape, corporal punishment, fascism, hurt/comfort, power imbalance, mpreg, age gap (38/23)

Summary: After years of a mass infertility crisis, the United States is overtaken by religious fanatics, and Bucky Barnes finds himself thrust into a brutal world of survival. When he's discovered to be fertile, he's forced to serve as a vessel: a caste of omegas who bear children for the political elite.

Chapter II. Ofsteven

Story Masterlist

Before:

“We’ll have order please.” A 'knock' of gavel on wooden block. “Mr. Gamble, for the state.?

“Yes your Honor.” A thin, reed-like man gets up and addresses the judge. “The accused stands charged with terrorism against the state, in violation of Romans, chapter thirteen, verse one through seven. By His word.”

“And do you swear by His name that the report you have submitted is the truth entirely?”

“Yes, I do so swear.”

“Then, in the name of God and his servants here on earth, the accused is hereby found guilty.”

Another 'knock' on wood, somehow more final than the last.

“Registered vessel 32-257, true justice for your crime would see you condemned to death. But God has seen fit to make you fruitful, and by that we are bound. So, you are hereby sentenced to redemption.”

'Knock!'

All it takes is three minutes. Three minutes in front of a judge and three knocks of said judge’s gavel, and Bucky’s fate is sealed. The same guardians who brought him into the courtroom guide him out, back down the long hallways, and outside to the waiting van. He’s shoved into the back, and they drive and they drive, and when the doors open again and he’s pulled back out to stand on his feet, they’ve parked in front of the hospital. No time wasted.

The guards escort him inside. The hospital, Bucky's been told, is one of the few places left in society where one might be likely to encounter people from all walks of life, all levels of ordained class. There are blue Spouses and and green domestics, gray laborers and brown caretakers, pink and white children, and red vessels.

Bucky's never seen a vessel up close. He still isn't sure he believes it, the things he's heard. Sex slaves. Broodmares. Even for Gilead's shiny new nation, it seems far-fetched.

... But he gets a sinking feeling when he looks around the waiting room and realizes that every single man and woman in red is visibly pregnant.

While the guardians sign him in at the desk, Bucky looks around. Some of the people in the room are hurt, others seem ill. Four of the five vessels look to be in active labor. No one but him is handcuffed. His attention falls on a little omega toddler who's there with her nanny, having her tears wiped away and soothing words murmured into her hair. Bucky's only aware of her designation because of the color of her clothes, the Ω insignia on her citizenry armband.

Used to be, a person's designation went unknown until puberty. But with things the way they are now, infants get blood tested to find out. It gives them more time, Bucky supposes. Allows them to get used to their enforced roles in society, and—if they're not alpha—to not get their hopes up too high.

It's sad. She’s young, probably no more than three years old. Young enough that she’s never known anything other than the world how it is now. She's a true, birthed citizen of Gilead, and something about that injustice breaks Bucky’s heart. More so even than the injustice that’s about to be done to him. This little girl, all dressed in pink and tear-stained, will never know what the world used to be like. She’ll never read, she’ll never work, she’ll never know freedom. And worst of all is she won’t care, because she never had it to begin with.

“Come on.” The guard on Bucky’s right grabs his bound hands and tugs it forward so that the admissions nurse can thread a hospital bracelet around his wrist. She clips it shut, the printed tag reading his name, age, blood type, and the procedure he's there for. The sight of it against his skin is jarring to Bucky. He doesn’t fail to notice how it’s been placed on his right wrist and not his left. Bucky's always been right handed.

Thank God for small favors.

He almost busts out laughing, but the guard startles him out of it as he yanks on his arm and gruffly says, “Let’s go."

They start walking in the direction of the elevators. They go up to the fifth floor of the hospital. Bucky’s told to take a shower and wash himself using antiseptic soap. He does, and then he’s given a hospital gown to put on. The guards stand watch while a nurse directs him to get up on the stretcher. They strap his legs and chest down to it, then wheel him down the hallway towards the room that’s marked with a sign reading: Surgery. The guards post themselves on either side of the operating room doors while the nurse pushes the gurney through.

There’s a doctor inside. She’s scrubbing up over by a little sink along the wall. Three nurses move about the room arranging things. The nurse that’s brought Bucky in pushes the gurney to rest underneath the bright lights. He has to blink to adjust his eyes to the glare. When he does he can see what everyone’s doing. The doctor has finished washing her hands and is allowing one of the nurses to put sterile gloves on her. Another nurse is calibrating the general anesthesia machine. Bucky’s eyes search for the third nurse and land on the metal tray table that he’s arranged and is rolling over. It’s lined with white paper towels, and on top of those are a number of medical instruments: forceps and tweezers, cotton balls and gauze. And a surgical marker. And a scalpel. And a bone saw.

Bucky’s vision wavers from fear. Someone abruptly covers his mouth and nose with a rubber mask. "Take a deep breath and count backward from one hundred."

"One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, niny-seff—"

“—oing to get him transferred to the bed right here. Be careful.”

“—and set the morphine drip up like this. Apostates like him shouldn’t even be given this stuff if you ask me.”

When Bucky wakes up, he’s alone in a hospital bed, in a hospital room. He's nauseous and his throat is dry and he’s in pain but his foggy brain can’t make sense of why. He drifts in and out of consciousness like that for over an hour. Then, when he wakes up fully, he realizes that his left arm is what hurts, and he remembers. He tips his head to the side and looks down.

His left arm is gone.

After:

The car ride to the Commander’s house is quiet. Bucky’s alone in the backseat while Commander Rogers sits in the front passenger seat. Commander Rogers’ house is a large, brick and stucco Tudor outside the city. A soldier posted at the front gate lets them in and they drive around to the back of the house where there are gardens and a garage. Commander Rogers gets out of the car and is already in the house by the time the driver comes around to let Bucky out of the locked back seat.

Bucky stares at the guy. He’s white, not much taller than Bucky is, with short blond hair and guardian's attire. There's a SIG Sauer holstered at his hip. Bucky gets out of the car and fights the urge to sneer at him—not just for the fact that he's carrying cross draw, but because his citizenry armband bears the mark of omega. Bucky doesn’t think he’s seen a single guardian of the faith who’s omega since this whole thing started, and it’s been almost four years now.

“Blessed day,” the man says, offering out his hand for Bucky to shake. “I’m Clint.”

"I'm ..." Bucky hesitates, unsure of the protocol. Omegas are allowed to shake other omegas' hands, but not guardians'. He errs on the side of caution and chooses to nod respectfully, rather than accept the handshake. "I'm James," he says. then hesitates all over again. "Erm, I mean ..." Shit. He peeks up at Clint with a wince. "What's his name?"

Much like Commander Rogers had done back at the red center, Clint's features tighten in something akin to discomfort. "It's Steve," he says. "Commander Steven Grant Rogers."

Bucky averts his eyes. "Right, then," he says dully. "Nice meeting you, Clint."

"And you ... Ofsteven."

Inside the house, it’s dim. The hardwood floors and moldings on the walls make the dwelling seem old, but it’s nicely-furnished. Rich.

Bucky’s been left on his own to explore, trailing from one room to the next. If Commander Rogers has a family, Bucky doesn’t encounter any of them. He finds the kitchen on the main level and sees that there’s a domestic in there, kneading dough on the island countertop. She catches sight of him and looks up. “Oh. Hello." She doesn’t stop her work, hands digging into the dough over and over again. “You must be the new one.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “New one?”

The woman doesn’t answer him, but she really doesn’t have to. Obviously, Bucky’s not the first vessel to be posted to the Rogers household. This isn’t his first posting either, though, so he tries not to read too much into it. The previous omega mustn’t have been able to have a baby during their time here, just like Bucky hadn’t at his first posting. “I’m Ofsteven,” he volunteers to the domestic, when it seems that she isn’t going to make the effort.

Her eyes flick up to him again, and Bucky doesn’t miss the way she takes in his lack of an arm. “What did you do?” she asks, rather than give her name.

In another time, Bucky would’ve been offended, but things are so different from how they used to be. He’s gotten used to not being respected very much at all. “I fought,” is all he says. It’s all he needs to say, too, because the woman nods.

“I’m Sharon,” she offers. She stops kneading the dough and balls it up, dumping it into a bowl. She swipes the flour off her palms and holds up her left hand: There’s a finger missing. “Tried to run, that first year.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything to that, just nods. He wonders if she would’ve lost more than a finger if she hadn’t been beta. Domestics do need hands to get their work done, after all. And what a strange world they live in now, that people can form comraderies over severed limbs. It produces within Bucky the slightest urge to snicker, but he refrains from doing so. Instead he says goodbye to Sharon the domestic and leaves the kitchen.

He makes his way up the grand staircase in the foyer and explores the second level of the house. He peeks his head through the door to what is obviously the master bedroom, if the size of the bed is anything to go by. But he doesn’t dare go in. He isn’t sure if he’ll be asked to sleep in the same room as Commander Rogers or not. At his last posting, the commander had had a spouse, so Bucky had been given his own room far away from the master suite. He’d liked it that way too, as Mrs. Putnam had been a woman who could be quite jealous. She hadn’t liked Bucky’s presence in her home at all, and Bucky had made a concerted effort to make himself scarce at all times. Well, all times except for ceremony nights, that was.

A little more exploring, and he finds a bedroom on the third floor that seems to be unoccupied. It’s so small and under-furnished that it gives Bucky hope that the space might be intended for him. He certainly won’t complain if he’s required to be kept away in here. The room’s one window faces the back of the house, and there’s a comfy window bench where he could sit and look out on the gardens if he wanted to. No, Bucky thinks, he wouldn't mind that at all.

Not knowing what else to do, he sits at the window and looks out. He can see the garage and the guest house from here, and the trees and flowers that make up the garden. It’s pretty. Very manicured. Commander Rogers must have a gardener on staff. There’s partial visibility of the house next door as well. It looks to be of a similar style to Commander Rogers’ house. Bucky’s heard stories of property being taken from non-believers and given to the faithful. That’s how it’d been at the Putnam’s. He wonders whether Commander Rogers started out with this house, or if it’d been stolen from some unfortunate Jewish family, or secularists, or perhaps even a pair of well-to-do, queer omegas. Had someone else lived here once? Entertained a happy life until it was taken away from them?

It’s a morbid train of thought, and Bucky decides to put it from his mind. That’s largely how his thinking goes, these days; ignoring things, burying them under other, less dangerous thoughts. It’s the only way to stay sane, really.

He sits there for a long time, enjoying the feeling of the September sun coming through the window. Bucky likes the weather, the change of seasons. It's comforting to him, because it's one of the only things that hasn’t changed. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall: An eternal order that not even the Faithful can take away. It’s a small comfort, and a safer resistance than fighting in the streets, or back-talking a Commander.

A knock comes at the door, and Bucky’s eyes shoot over. There’s another domestic, this one with red hair. She’s got Bucky’s suitcase in her hands. “Your things,” she says. She doesn’t smile at him, but she seems marginally less hostile than Sharon had.

“Thanks,” Bucky says. He gets up and takes the suitcase from her. She nods and makes to leave. Bucky figures he was right in assuming that this little room was set aside for him. There’s a small closet set into the wall right next to the door, and Bucky goes over and opens it. He pulls the chain that dangles from a single bulb in the ceiling, illuminating the tiny space. Sighing, he opens his suitcase and begins taking out his things.

Before, Bucky had had quite a liking for clothes and fashion. He'd considered it a great hardship when he'd had to work with the miniscule closet space of his first college dorm.

Now, he has only a few items of clothing, and none of them are things he'dve willingly worn in his life Before. They’re all assigned to him, the same clothes that all vessels are given to wear, to mark them as other. He’s got precisely five of everything, from the plain cotton briefs and undershirts, to the hand-stitched pants, shirts and sweaters. Everything’s modest, of course, the shirts all having the same high collars to hide his neck. Bucky hangs the clothing up piece by piece, silently hating each and every one.

Red was never his color.

Story Masterlist

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