#non con body modifications

[brainrotlesbian]

NSFWhump idea

Intimate whumper making tally marks, be it branding, a tattoo, or carved with a knife, on whumpee’s skin (preferably the back, there’s lots of room there, and it’s not always easy to see) every time they fuck whumpee. Then sometime after they escape or are rescued, some poor sap asks about the tally marks and what they mean, not at all expecting the breakdown/lashing out from whumpee.

[anon-e-miss]

Reformation - 12

“Ah,” Barricade moaned in his recharge. Prowl squeezed his servo. It had been an orn since Ricochet had flown him to Iacon and Prowl had not left his cousin’s side, apart from joors long surgeries.

Ratchet had not been able to make any repairs yet, beyond patching leaks. Until Barricade had beaten the infection, repairs were impossible. The surgeries so far had been to control leaks and to remove or to debride wounds. Though Ratchet had been cautious to avoid giving Prowl too much hope for Barricade’s recovering, he had seemed more hopeful during his last exams. The fever had finally started dropping late the last dark-cycle. This light-cycle, it had finally broken. So long as Barricade’s spark remained strong, the first repairs were set for the next mega-cycle. Time would only tell if his frame would accept the repairs. If the infections were not completely resolved, the repairs might reject and the infections might spread frame wide.

“Mm,” Barricade’s optics flickered and Prowl covered his cousins servo with both of his.

“I am here,” Prowl told him. “You are safe.”

“Prowl,” Barricade groaned. “Lockdown...”

“Jazz will attend to Lockdown,” Prowl assured him.

“He wants you,” Barricade moaned. “He wanted to make you watch.”

“I am safe, Barricade,” Prowl said. “We are in the medbay on the Autobot base. Lockdown is no match for Ratchet, Ironhide or Prime.”

“Nightstalker...” Barricade hissed.

“Is dead,” Prowl said. “They were saying it was you.”

“It was,” Barricade replied. “He ambushed me with Lockdown. I think he was the one that paid Lockdown to botnap you.”

“That... fits,” Prowl blanched, remembering Nightstalker covering him when that heat had crept up on him. Thank Primus he had not kindled in that heat.

“Lockdown...” Barricade groaned.

“Ricochet put a tracker on the Death’s Head before he got you to safety,” Prowl assured him. “He and Jazz are hunting him now. He will not escape. There is nowhere in the universe he can hide.”

“Won’t hide,” Barricade said. “He wants you. He’ll kill your bitties.”

“He will not get the opportunity.”

Prowl never left the medbay. Like Ricochet had given him a holster to magnetize to his leg. He did not need to reach into his subspace for a weapon, it was always at servo. If Lockdown got this far, Prowl was Barricade’s last line of defence, and he would not let his cousin down. Ricochet had told him what Barricade had said before he had lost consciousness and Prowl knew without a doubt Barricade had goaded Lockdown, encouraging the torture in order to distract Lockdown from search of him. Barricade had sacrificed so much for Prowl’s sake and Prowl wished he had not. He wished Barricade had stayed in Iacon, out of Nightstalker’s and Lockdown’s reach. He even wished he had begged, if that might have convinced Lockdown to leave him alone. It might not have but could it have been worse than it had been?

“How is he?” Punch joined him.

“Resting,” Prowl replied. “Ratchet performed the first grafts. It will be quartexes before we know if Barricade will have any kind of normal function.”

“He’ll be fine,” Punch told him. “He’s a strong mech. He’ll adapt how he gotta, if he gotta. Ratchet’s the best, o’ the best ‘n he’s got more experience fixing Omega ‘n Beta victims o’ Alpha abuse. I hate to think it, but he’s seen scrap, maybe not quite like this, but close enough ‘n horrible all the same.”

“I have not heard anything for Jazz,” Prowl worried out loud.

“He’s fine,” Punch assured him. “Both o’em are. They’ll be in touch when they’ve taken his helm.”

“I am glad to have you here,” Prowl told him. “I wish I just... knew. I cannot stand I have that mech’s mark on me.”

“Even if ya don’t got Jazz’s bite on ya, yer mated in the only way that counts,” Punch told him. “Yer mates o’ the spark.”

***

Lockdown did not take kindly to Ricochet stealing his prize. Rage made him more reckless than normal and they took advantage. While Lockdown was distracted in the drug den, Jazz sabotaged the Death’s Head fuel tanks. If the bounty hunter escaped them on the ground, when he turned on the engines, the fuel tanks would blow. It would have been easy enough to leave it at that, and left the explosion do him in but Lockdown did not deserve an easy death. He might have left it to his twin, he had a good claim for Lockdown’s helm but Ricochet could not just stand back and watch. What he had seen, what he had felt when he had explored Barricade’s mutilated array to try and find the source of the major leak that had been threatening to cause him to bleed out, Ricochet needed to make Lockdown hurt. He needed to make him feel humiliation and shame.

The bounty hunter had raped the Beta so violently that he had effectively destroyed both his valve casing and aft tubing and further ruptured his waste and fuel systems. Ricochet did not know if he had caused him some permanent loss of function by cauterizing the leaks he had found but if he had not cauterized them, Barricade would have bled out. If he Beta needed to vent on him for his choices later, Ricochet could accept that. The mech had the right to be angry about what had been done to him. There was no question in Ricochet’s processor that he would survive, though he had never seen Ratchet go paler when he saw a patient, Barricade had been strong enough to challenge Lockdown and to keep challenging him to protect his gravid cousin. He would be strong enough to survive to be gifted with a trophy.

“Did he always hit Syk this hard?” Ricochet asked.

“He was a casual user,” Jazz replied. “Probably got hooked on scrap in Garrus-9. Even thought they’re in solitary, they weld Alpha’s panels shut so they can’t even jack-off.”

“Shoulda gelded’m for what he did to Prowl,” Ricochet said.

“Agreed,” Jazz said. “Didn’t even charge’m for it. Too afraid to let it get out it could happen to one o’ theirs? Don’t make sense to me. I wouldn’t let it slide if it happened to one o’ my ops.”

“Even the Cons don’t do it,” Ricochet said.

“Right?” Jazz replied. “Probably afraid we’d do it back.”

“He’s comin’ out,” Ricochet said.

“Go Hound, lure’m o’er,” Jazz ordered.

They watched a hologram materialize. It was identical to Barricade. Hidden by the hologram, Hound moved towards the alley, mimicking a heavy limp. Lockdown made a guttural sound that echoed down the empty street. Both Ricochet and Jazz were ready. Hound was just a few steps ahead of the hologram he had deployed. If Lockdown got within a breath of reaching him, he would be shot where he stood. Jazz was constantly doing the math in his helm. Vengeance, for anyone, was not enough for him to risk his friend and subordinate. What was important, to all of them, was that Lockdown died this dark-cycle. There would be no trial, Spec Ops did not work that way, not for a monster like Lockdown. If they ever got their servos on Vortex, there would be no trial, no prisoner exchange, for him either. Lockdown followed the hologram into the alley. He screeched as the snare, triggered by his heavy ped, swallowed him up. The hologram vanished and Hound, a Beta, gave him a smirk. Ricochet and Jazz walked over and shared a look. They had caught him with his spike hanging out, his knot already about to pop. Jazz gave Ricochet a knife.

“Barricade said he’d cut yer spike of,” Ricochet told him as he knelt next to the bounty hunter. He wrench Lockdown’s spike out of the netting and held the borrowed blade to it. “Ya weren’t mech enough to face ‘m fair.”

Lockdown screamed as Ricochet severed his spike at the base. Hound stood in the entrance of alley, hologram deployed, showing just an empty, dirty alley. It was a rough part of town, no one came to the wretched scream, no one wanted to be the next victim. Lockdown shrieked curses. Jazz seized his jaw and cut out his glossa. The glyphs he had used against Prowl had wounded him. He would not speak again. They did not have time to clinger on vengeance, unfortunately. Jazz carved a knife through his abdominal plating and ripped out his internals, showing them to Lockdown. Ricochet watched his twin lean in close, glaring into the dying Alpha’s optics.

“I always knew ya was gutless.”

[sleepyfan-blog]

Hunger and Thirst

Author's note: This is the second part of the Warp-cursed Guillilman fic. Original idea by @men-want-me-fish-fear-me. Masterlist is here.

tagged: @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @wolf-tail @men-want-me-fish-fear-me

If anyone else wants to be tagged, please ask

warnings: male lactation, non-consensual body modification via magic, discussions of medical experimentation, drinking questionable fluids, please ask me to tag something if I've missed it/something bothers you

summary: Four aspirants sniff out something delicious to drink. Afterwards, Asterios updates his gene-sire on the fallout of that.

“Do you smell that?” Mekanilus asked his best friend and Brother, leaning into the other boy’s slightly larger form, his body aching from the most recent surgery that he’d gone through. It was an honor beyond honors to be in training on Maccrage’s Honor, of course.. But still, the young aspirant hoped that one of the Medicae would come by to give them the all-clear so that he and Aklesius and the rest of their squad of Ultramarine-Aspirants would be allowed to go back to their shared barracks room to try and sleep off the worst of the surgery pains. If things followed according to the previous patterns, their physical training would be lighter until their surgical wounds healed…

But that meant that they would be drilled more ruthlessly on the logistical side of being an Ultramarine. How to fill out forms properly, different terms of address to the endlessly different kinds of nobles and other important kinds of officials within the Imperium. How to out-think one’s opponent and of course, how to uphold the honor of the Ultramarines, Ultramar and their Gene-sire.

“The burning-chemical smell? That’s the stuff that they use in order to keep this place clean.” Aklesius answered with a tired yawn, shrugging the shoulder that Mekanilus was leaning on “Oi! Don’t lean on me! I hurt everywhere too, and your additional weight makes me hurt more.”

“I know what that smell is. I’m talking about the new one. The sweet-creamy smell. Can’t you smell it? It smells like food and I’m so hungry…” Mekanilus grumbled, smelling the air again. His mouth was watering and he swallowed down his spit, his stomach grumbling loudly.

“What are yo- oh! I smell it too, now.” Aklesius answered, taking in a deep breath in through his nose. “Maybe it’s what we’re supposed to eat?”

“You mean the chalky tasting nutrient paste? That doesn’t have much of smell at all.” Jupitalin huffs, shaking his head a little. 

“Maybe we’ve graduated to better tasting food rations, since we survived this round of surgeries?” Amik offers, a hopeful expression on his face. 

“Hopefully. I wonder why the medicae suddenly ran off? It’s not like the emergency alarms went off, which would mean that the ship was under attack… and I don’t think anyone was scheduled to come back from a mission today…” Mekanilus sighed, yawning and stretching as much as his surgical wounds would safely allow before he stood up and followed his nose to the source of the wonderful scent, his squad-brothers following close behind him.

The four aspirants found themselves in one of the medical labs of Maccrage’s Honor. The source of the scent was some kind of milk, set on one of the counters in collection jars, for reasons none of the four aspirants could discern. It looked like regular grox-milk. It smelled better, though.

“Well, I dunno about you three, but I’m going to try it.” Mekanilus stated, walking across the lab and up to the collection jars. His hands were shaky from the painful surgery he had been out of for less than half a day, but not so shaky as to spill the bottled milk. It’s scent was even more intensely delicious when the lid of the bottle was off, and it’s sweet and hearty taste is easy for his pain-cramped stomach to hold. He drains half of the bottle before offering it to Amik, who is a step and a half behind him. “Here, try this. It tastes good and I’m already feeling better.” Some of the pain had gone away, and his breathing was already easier.

“... Are you sure that we’re supposed to drink this? It… There’s probably a reason why it’s in one of the medical labs.” Amik asked, staring at the milk in the jar, taking a small and cautious sip. His eyes lit up and he drank several large mouthfuls. “I changed my mind. This is really good!”

Aklesius has grabbed a second container of milk and drains half of it, before handing the rest over to Jupitalin as the other two talked. “Maybe it’s a new formulation of liquid rations? It reminds me of grox-milk.”

“Except Grox-milk tastes grassy. This tastes a lot better.” Jupitalin answered after taking three huge gulps to finish off the container. He put the lid back on and placed it back where Aklesius had taken it from. “Wow, whatever is in that stuff, I’m feeling a lot better. How are you three doing?”

“I’m feeling a lot better.” Amik answers, a broad grin appearing on his face. He over-stretches a little as he places the empty bottle back on the Astartes-sized counter… But finds that his stitches don’t ache in protest of the movement. In fact… His pain has faded almost entirely. “Like… A lot better.” He reaches up to cautiously prod at the surgical bandage, to see how his body would respond.

Before he can do so, however, Mekanilus gently grabbed his hand, stopping him from doing so “Hey, I know that I’m also feeling like no pain, but they told us not to go poking at our wounds while they heal. We should listen to them.”

“So you were listening, at least to part of what I told you. Did you forget that you were also told not to wander off from areas that you were explicitly told you were allowed in?” The Ultramarines chief apothecary rumbled, a small frown on his face. “What are you four doing in this lab?”

“We smelled something delicious, and since enough time passed after our surgeries that it was time for us to eat, and we were all really hungry, we found something to eat. Or… Err, drink, I suppose.” Aklesius answered, pointing to the two empty bottles of milk “We each had half of a container of that milk. It’s really good. The pain is almost gone and I’m full of energy - we all are. Sir!” He remembered to address the older Ultramarine as sir somewhat belatedly. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice.

“... You did what?” The chief apothecary asked, a flash of emotion crossing very quickly across his face before it went to a neutral frown once again. “Why would you drink something you found in a medical lab?”

Oh. Uhm. He kind of had a point there. “Because it looked and smelled like milk, sir? And I had a tiny taste before I drank half of it sir. It didn’t taste bad, nor did it trigger the poison eating gland so I figured it was safe to drink.” Mekanilus answered, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. 

“... And all four of you drank half a container of this?” The chief apothecary asks, looking each of them up and down assessingly, icy gray eyes narrowing a little.

All four Aspirants nod “Yes sir.” They know better than to lie to a superior officer, even as uncertainty and worry begins to gnaw at each of them. 

“Jamis, Meloc. I need you two in here now. Right. The four of you are going to come with me and will submit to a full physical exam. If you are dismissed, you are to report to the medical bay at the beginning of your next waking shift, and will do so every day until I instruct you otherwise.” The chief apothecary ordered, calling in two more of his fellow medical professionals. “The substance you consumed has… Comes from a unique source, but… Could potentially be very beneficial, if what the tests I have run on that substance hold true.”

“Yes sir…” Each of the four aspirants answered with an obedient nod, following after the chief apothecary, uncertainty pulling at their hearts.

~

“My liege, here are the results of the test that we have performed on the… Substance you’ve been able to produce for the past week. Additionally, These are the reports on the four Aspirants who got into the medical laboratory that held the liquid and each drank half a bottle of the substance.” Asterios reported to his Primarch, setting down the reports on the other’s desk. 

Guilliman’s eyes looked up at him, from where he had been studying recent battlefield reports on the eastern front against the Tyranid fleet, along with the reports of Eldar raiders and T’au encroachment. One of his hands had come up to rub absent-mindedly at his aching chest. He was currently out of the Armor of fate - as its additional bulk and weight caused his nipples to constantly weep the warp-cursed substance into his body-glove, and while the recycling system within the armor dealt with the liquid in the same way it dealt with his normal bodily fluids… Guilliman had decided to instead wear more casual clothes. At least, while he was upon Maccrage’s Honor. 

The Ultramarine blue toga was made of reinforced clothing that could withstand small to medium lasgun fire and every kind of bladed weapon available in the Imperium. But the cloth was much lighter against his aching chest, and its removal while he rid himself of the fluid that collected in his pectoral muscles was much, much easier than getting in and out of the chest plates of the armor of fate over a dozen times in a day. 

“Thank you for the reports. I thought that the tentative trials on the effects of this… Substance with others was to start with the captive renegade astartes held in the brig, not with aspirants of the chapter?” Father asked as he set down the report he’d been reading through and reached out for the lab results.

“As I mentioned earlier, sir. Four aspirants snuck into the laboratory that held some of the fluid you’ve been secreting. They apparently could smell the scent of the fluid and were drawn to it, my lord.” Asterios explains, keenly aware of the fact that his gene-sire was juggling much and may not have caught all of what he had said the first time that he had said it. “And as you can see, based on the results so far… The… Ah… Substance has high nourishing factors for Aspirants. Based on not only how the four aspirants were fairing before they consumed the… Substance, and after, along with how they compare to their peers, after they have been taking the substance for several weeks.”

“... I see. Have there been any signs that the substance potentially weakens the mind or will to the effects of Warp or The Arch-Enemy? Do they show any increased risks for potential mutations?” Guilliman asked. He remembered better the… Encounter he had with the entity that had gifted him with the ability to create breast milk in the first place.

Roboute found himself in a light and airy temple. Beautifully painted frescos depicting scenes of life, birth and the creation of such for animals, plants and humans scrolled across the walls. Despite the graphic nature of the artistry, it was surprisingly tasteful. Sunlight, golden and warm shone through the colored glass on the eastern side of the temple.

Flowers of every type and description grew in carefully maintained planters that surrounded the circular antechamber that Roboute found himself on the outer edges of. In the middle of the large room was a tall, radiant figure whose face was obscured by the burning golden sun behind them.

He did not know how he came to this place, and the air had a thick, not-quite-there quality to it that his dreams… And occasional visions of places that never quite were, or once had been did. The being in front of him shone with a lavender-pink light. 

The lord-commander of the Imperium cleared his throat and asked “Where am I? Who are you? Why have I been brought here?”

“Peace, Son of Anathema. I mean you no harm, nor your sons, nor the mortals aiding you. You did me a tremendous kindness, by routing the ever-hungering swarm from the worlds I care for. You work so tirelessly, and have so many children to care for. I cannot do much, but I give you a small gift. The ability to feed the many sons you care for.” The Lavender-pink entity murmured, walking towards Guilliman.

“And if I refuse this gift?” The Regent asked, taking a half-step backwards before viridian vines bound his feet and legs in place, his arms locked behind his body.

“Come now. I can see into your hearts. You dearly, desperately wish to provide for those whom you love. To eventually live a life of peace and prosperity. While I cannot grant you that, I can grant you a measure of ability to nourish and strengthen your many sons.” The being murmured, their voice a sweet-hypnotizing choir of birds and bells. They reach out and touch his forehead in benediction, even as the ever-burning golden sun flares bright and hot, searing some of the outermost plants.

The entity sighs, shaking it’s veiled face “Your Father is quite possessive, Son of Anathema. But as I do not seek to harm or kill you, He cannot reach me in the seat of my power. This blessing I bestow upon you, Roboute Guilliman, Thirteenth son of Neoth. Of Humanity. Go forth and feed your children.”

He had blinked and found himself again in the ruins of the world that he had been fighting with his sons by his side and the astra millitarum supporting them. He had thought it a hallucination, or a brief, waking dream as he had been waiting for a report and had closed his eyes for a couple of moments to center himself as the last of the Tyranids had been killed and burned.

Roboute was… Fairly certain that had actually happened, given the sheer volume of fluid he was creating. While not enough to feed every single Astartes who claimed to be of his gene-line, he had filled enough containers to have roughly three gallons of the fluid available for consumption every day, since the fluid had started to leave his body. The primarch hoped that the fluid volume would not increase, as his chest and nipples already ached quite a bit as it was.

“I see. Please continue to monitor the four aspirants along with the rest of their cohort. If it proves that this… Fluid does continue to have such a marked positive effect upon them. I…” Guilliman sighed. It felt ridiculous to say outside, but if these results held true, he couldn’t ignore how useful the substance would be in lowering the rates of surgical rejection and mortality rates of aspirants “May authorize wider-spread use of the fluid in assisting the Aspirants, at least in the days following their surgeries, to better increase the odds of successful implantation and integration of the new organs and glands into their bodies during the process of becoming an Astartes.”

“... If I may speak frankly, my lord?” Asterios asked, waiting patiently for his lord father’s response.

“Yes, you may.” Father responded with a small wave of his hand.

“I feel that to do a proper study, more aspirants would need to be put on the warp-enhanced breast milk, sire. That way we would have a larger sample size, as four individuals is not nearly a large enough for a proper medical study for a substance like this.” Asterios paused for a couple of moments, steeling himself before charging onwards. Courage and honor. Even as his Primarch watched him with an inscrutable face and Sicarius vibrated silently at his left shoulder “I would also recommend we send samples off to close allied non-Guilliman line Marines for study in how their aspirants respond to the fluid as well, if possible. I would not inform them of… Of the precise origin of the fluid of course. Merely that it is an experimental supplement to be used in testing to see if it is beneficial to aspirants during their transition to Astartes, my lord.”

“... While your suggestion has merit, I am unsure if there will be enough to do a full medical study for multiple chapters of astartes. I am… Also concerned that… As this… Ability to produce breast milk was forced upon me by a Warp Entity, that there may be… Darker or Chaotic long-term effects that off-set the short-term positive benefits that we are currently beginning to see.” Roboute answered after several long moments of contemplation “There is also the fact that none of us are certain how long the breast milk can last before it sours. Or if it is Warp-touched to the point where it cannot be affected by normal bacteria. Which would raise other concerns.”

“As you say, my lord. Do I have your permission to do a study on our own aspirants, my lord? I will ensure that all proper safety protocols will be followed and ensure that they are monitored spiritually by both a chaplain and one of the Librarius.” Asterios asked, waiting patiently for a response.

“... You do.” Guilliman answered, sighing internally. If the warp-milk truly could do what the initial results were saying it could… It would lower the rejection and death rates of Aspirants significantly… At least for those of his own gene-line. 

“Thank you, my lord. I will send you weekly updates on how the participants of the study are doing, until they become full battle brothers. Or their autopsy reports, should they fail the process, my lord.” Asterios murmured, saluting his gense-sire. He paused to pick up the filled containers of warp-milk at the edge of the room before leaving. He would ensure that it would be a double-blind medical study for the aspirants involved, to hopefully not skew the data one way or the other.

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1231

Anon asked:

May I have some torture prompts please?*

TW: Non-con body modifications/gore/body horror/organ harvesting etc

I got a bit carried away with these...

Your whumpee is left cut open - perhaps with their organs exposed. Their flesh could be pulled back and held open. This takes the feeling of exposure to a whole new level.

^ This also entices anxiety/panic. As they may be able to see organs grow back, therefore as they get closer to 'completion' they start to panic when they remember the pain of removal.

^ Also the torturer could use this for 'science' in order to better calculate which organ is better value for time/money.

The torturer could also take blood at the same time to limit the mess during surgeries. Your whumpee is constantly nauseous/lightheaded/weak because of this. (Dubious science, but you get the idea)

The first time they're allowed to heal, even for a short amount of time, they're overwhelmed with relief.

Are they rescued while they're still 'open'?

Do they scar regardless of the injury type? For example, if a leg is taken, are they left with a ring of scarring where the initial cut was?

At what point do they stop feeling it/are so in shock that they just.. don't register what's going on?

How does the harvesting affect their sense of balance/bodily functions? Do they have nausea, but have nothing to make something to bring up? When they're able to stand after their rescue, do they feel heavy/full?

^ Are they so used to feeling empty?

Do the torturers take their eyes so they're unable to see what's happening/where they are?

What if, a long time after their rescue/recovery, they stumble across someone who received a limb/organ they needed - maybe they're so grateful for it, but the whumpee has to silently suffer knowing that it's their body part.

^ How does the whumpee know it's theirs? Do tattoos/pre-existing scars regenerate also?

After the rescue, the first time they have a day without pain is bliss. They sob.

*(The character context Anon gave is under the cut)

My whumpee is from a humanoid subspecies that can regenerate almost ANY lost body part - limbs, fingers, eyes, tongue, most internal organs, you name it - unless they've been fully chopped to bits. The only thing they cannot regenerate is their equivalent of a brain, because obviously that controls the regeneration process (if they've been lobotomized, they can still regenerate but slower). The regeneration process usually lasts from 3 hours to a week, depending on what and how much has been lost, but the process is painful, uncomfortable and it's usually for the best that the individual is asleep through most of it.

That makes whumpee's subspecies very attractive to organ harvesting rings, because their organs are compatible with those of many other species. One day, our whumpee wakes up strapped to a table...

[auroragehenna]

How about an ask for your OC soup bingo?

Non-con body mod

with Harmonia and Electra

Would that be something?

Have fun with that!

Non-con Body Modification

OC soup Bingo

Harmonia had never moved much in her sleep. Not when she was still living with her stuck-up family, not during her time working as a hit-woman and not now, being prisoner of a demon. She lay rolled together near the fireplace. Despite the fire burning 24/7 she never seemed to be able to warm up. Goosebumps and stiffness always being a part of her body. Just as now the fresh bruises, cuts and scars from Electra‘s lightning strikes. Her face was the only thing that truly seemed relaxed as she slept. Beautiful brown wings covering her body, trying desperately to warm it. Subconsciously the muscles stretched, reaching for the warmth of the crackling flames. A little further. Just a little more.

A scream tore through the stone cell room as Harmonia jerked out of her sleep and away from the glowing embers. Panting heavily she pressed her burned wing close to her body.

Then she heard footsteps echo across the king‘s blue marble floor outside her cell room door.

Oh no no no no no no! She can‘t see this, no no! I’ve only gotten a few hours of sleep after the last torture!

Quickly she scrambled back stretching her wings out behind her despite the pain. She needed a story. Now!

| Electra sighed as she stopped in front of her newest doll‘s room and unlocked it. She had only just put her to bed a couple hours before. Hoping to encounter nothing more during her patrol. But alas let‘s see what it was. |

Harmonia had started shaking when she heard the sound or the door unlocking. Which was so twisted-she should be happy to be let our of her prison room…

„My dear doll, what‘s going on? I heard a scream.“, the demoness asked sternly.

The angel gulped and straightened her back. Meeting the demon‘s gaze. „I just had a nightmare and got scared, I apologize for screaming.“

Electra cocked an eyebrow. „I also heard metal clanking. You‘re not by any chance lying to me, are you, doll?“, she asked, threat lacing her stern composed words.

Harmonia‘s wings flapped, a nervous tick she couldn’t control as usual. „N-No. I hit my wing on the metal gate of the fireplace in the process but I didn‘t damage it, I promise!“, she explained hastily. Not a complete lie…

As those gorgeous fluffy feathers of her doll rustled the demoness‘s eyes snapped to the wingtips. Completely by accident, instinct. And only for a moment but that was enough. Something was wrong. Determined she stepped forward.

The angel scrambled further back as her captor stepped forth and pulled her wings back, framing her body, to seem more intimidating. Ready to fight. But by doing so she also revealed the charred feathers. Realizing it far too late.

The demon‘s silvery blue eyes grew even colder as far as that was even possible. „So you did lie to me…I’m too tired to be mad, but I am disappointed.“

Ouch! Why did that hurt? Maybe because it sounded like my mother. My entire family for that matter. Disappointed. And now she was gonna get hurt again. Harmonia dropped her head, gaze getting fixed onto the stone floor.

„Now let‘s take care of those burned feathers.“, Electra spoke again. Very much noticing her angels hurt behaviour. It was good progress.

Harmonia‘s head snapped up. What!? „It‘s alright, I can take care of them they‘re only a bit charred. And I don‘t want to keep you up!“ I don‘t want you near my wings!!

„Nonsense it‘ll heal a lot nicer if I’m doing it. You don‘t have magic.“

As if I needed a reminder of that. But she submitted to her fate and relaxed her wings, laying them bare for Electra.

„Don‘t worry, I‘ll be gentle.“ She smiled at Harmonia as she sat down next to her on the stone floor. Legs splayed out legerly, as if this was some elegant couch and not bare, dusty stone. Carefully she let her fingers dance over the injured wing tips, as if she was playing a harp.

Slowly but surely the char residue on them started to disappear and the burn in the muscles and the thin skin over them relaxed and cooled down.

The angel couldn’t help it when a groan of relief escaped her lips.

Electra chuckled. „Feels good, doesn‘t it, my dear doll? It could be like this a lot more, you know? If you would just..let me.“, she explained. Purposely underlining her words by stroking some of the sensitive, uninjured feathers on the side. A checking side glance told her that her doll had closed her eyes.

The wings were healing well and Electra would have no issue healing them completely-making them appear the exact same as they had looked before. But where would be the profit in that. So she purposely healed them so it would leave messy-ugly scars. When she was done she pulled her girl closer into her lap and hugged her, being gracious with warmth and gentleness. It would surely go a long way. „I can‘t fully heal it in a way that would leave no scars unfortunately. But I do know a way to take care of the scars that would make them less bad. Less of a reminder for both of us, don‘t you think?“, the demoness asked her angel. Nodding down at her.

Harmonia still had her eyes closed. Pressed close by now actually. She didn‘t want to see-didn‘t want to acknowledge that the one giving out this gentle touch and taking care of her was the same one that had tortured her only hours prior. She didn‘t want anything done to her wings. Angel wings aren‘t meant to be toyed with, ever! But she didn‘t want to argue, didn‘t want to lose this gentle touch and warmth. She was so exhausted. It would probably really be better for both of them. So still with closed eyes she nodded.

„Use your words, my doll. I don‘t want to accidentally hurt you because you were unclear.“, Electra gently warned her. Voice by no means matching the sadistic grin that adorned her lips as she looked down at her doll. It‘s not like she had to hide it right now.

Harmonia wanted to die inside. Maybe she already had. „Can you please. take care of the scars on my wings…?“

„Of course I can, my dearest.“, Electra agreed delighted. Giving Harmonia a kiss on her pink wild hair. Then she went back to dancing her fingertips over Harmonia‘s wings. Making it feel oh so good as she itched the pattern into the wings. Gold markings, lines and stains seemingly randomly stretching out over the whole wing-both of them. Covering up the scars and turning the beautifully unique wings into an even bigger art piece. As if somebody poured gold into the cracks. The same way she had done with her floors whenever they had cracked. So Harmonia knew she never had to be worried about imperfections as long as she tried to avoid them. As long as she came to her to let her help. And admit that she wanted her help.

Eventually after she had already been done with marking the wings and had just continued petting them her doll had fallen back asleep in her lap. This was so much progress that the demoness decided not to wake her. She called for a maid to bring her pillows and blankets and so they both stayed like that for the rest of the night…

In the morning Harmonia slowly awoken to somebody touching her hair. Groggily she jerked away and tried to scramble out of reach but a gentle but firm arm wrapped around her waist and pinned her where she was. „Now now, no need to panic it‘s only me“ Electra‘s voice sneaked itself though her ears and Harmonia shivered upon hearing it. As if that‘s in any way reassuring! The demoness informed her that she had stayed with her after fixing her wings, as she had fallen asleep. Right. My wings. How are the-She had pulled her wings fourth to look at them and her breath caught in her throat. The brown, HER brown was laced with gold specks and lines! It was so..different!

„Do you like it?“, Electra asked, smiling down at her doll sweetly.

I HATE it. She thought. Take it away, take it away, get it off of me. Those are my wings, mine. What did you do to them!? But she couldn‘t show her emotions, she‘d only get in trouble again. So she gulped down the vomit and tears. All the hurt and how violated she felt. „It‘s beautiful and I can‘t see the scars anymore. Thank you.“, she managed to coax out. Voice rough from sleep and emotions.

Electra wound a hand through her dolls hair and cupped her cheek. „You very welcome, my dearest. Now you should get ready and so must I. I shall tend to you later.“, she said as she stood up. Leaving the room to see after her other dolls.

Harmonia kept sitting. She had nowhere to go until the maid came for her. She couldn’t cry, didn‘t feel that she had the right to either. After all she agreed to it! But it didn‘t change how it felt inside, didn‘t change that she hated it more than she would have hated the scars. That she wanted to tear the markings off her wings. Her wings HER wings. That didn‘t feel like her wings anymore. That she wanted to tear them off her back. She felt sick.

[hurtthemgently]

Demon tail whump ideas-

Cold, always fun. Force their tail under freezing water, or hold ice cubes against it. See how long it takes for it to go numb.

Shock collar, but small, meant to go around the tail

Put heavy jewelry on their tail and make them hold it up. After a while the strain will be agony

Restraining them by something pierced through their tail, such as a knife or doornail. Or put a piercing through the fin and attach it to a chain.

Bite it. Bite their tail.

Tie a cute little bow next to the fin

Get a whip, cane, or riding crop and mark up their back and tail.

Have a bunch of sewing needles and don’t know where to put them? Your demons tail makes an excellent pincushion.

Holy water has plenty of fun possibilities

Grab their tail and tug sharply. Pull around them by it.

[cyberrat]

89th Batch Of Fics: 20th Fill

Tim Drake/OC – Milky Verse – Gotham Timeline – Part 82 – noncon/dubcon; dark verse; forced body modification – Milk Man finally makes an appearance but Tim would rather he stay far, far away from him.

---

Tim is trying to fight it but his own body is betraying him. Try as he might, he just can’t shake himself out of the odd cotton-y sensation that has enveloped him. He’s not even thinking any thoughts; not really. All that does happen is he is feeling things, all of them unpleasant, and all of them centering around the fact that he’s getting his mouth held closed while it is filled with the slime.

The ache has subsided almost immediately, replaced with an odd hypersensitive tingling that has his cock lifting like the stupid, brainless thing that it is.

He doesn’t want to swallow the slime. It tastes just like it smells: sweet and overwhelmingly fruity. His stomach roils, clenching hard enough that some of the goop actually is dribbling out from his nose and starting to choke him.

Tim lifts his hands, intent on clawing at Ned’s arm to rip his hand off his mouth but all that he manages is to vaguely hold on to it.

“...What is happening here?”

Ned’s hand vanishes. Tim leans forward and opens his mouth. He does not puke; the whole mess just simply falls out of him as he starts to catch his breath. Then the voice registers and his eyes flick up to stare at the Milk Man.

He’s an odd little man. Short and skinny in a way that Ned is huge and hulking. He has a mild-mannered, kind of sharp face that reminds Tim of a rodent because he does not want to admit that the bastard is handsome. He does not want to admit any positive qualities. Like that he looks very put together and his dark eyes have a way of looking sympathetic as if it wasn’t him specifically that put Tim and the other calves through this ordeal.

He doesn’t want to admit that his words have a habit of getting under his skin. That he’s effortlessly charming and that it doesn’t surprise him that a fucking idiot like Ned would follow him into this whole mess. (Nevermind that he must be paying his idiot goon cold, hard cash.)

Tim tries to say something but his mouth still isn’t operating quite like it should be and his body is actively struggling against him trying to pull himself out of this odd headspace.

Ned is gesturing a bit helplessly at him with one of his large hands. He gives off the air of a child trying to tell their parent that they weren’t the one responsible for whatever fuck-up happened.

“I put him in the new machine and he got himself so worked up, he started bitin’ his tongue off.”

Milk Man frowns. He looks thoughtful, not moving an inch from his space right inside the door. He has his hands folded behind his back and while Tim is reasonably sure he does not have a weapon back there, he still feels threatened. He can’t help it.

“I see. He acts very… odd right now, though, doesn’t he?” Milk Man says with that gentle cadence. He looks like he is worried and Tim feels sick. He gathers more of his saliva and spits it out on the ground because it still tastes like that slick. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to eat fruity treats again – but the ache in his mouth has miraculously vanished.

“Yeah,” Ned confirms, scratching the back of his head. “He just kinda stopped all of a sudden? Got all… uh… soft.”

That for some reason makes Milk Man’s face light up. His mouth stretches into a wide grin, dark eyes flicking from Ned to Tim who shies away before he can force himself to stay still and stoic.

He frowns, annoyed with his own treacherous body.

Milk Man finally takes a step forward. He pulls his arms from behind him and gestures in the air, clearly excited by the development as he says: “Is that so? Fascinating. Wonderful! Did you use any of the trigger phrases?”

“Uh no. Kinda didn’t have much time to implement ‘em yet? Don’t think he’d react to ‘em much.”

The ratty face lights up in excitement, dark eyes glittering as he rushes forward, his arms outstretched like he wants to pull Tim into a hug.

Tim, despite the softness that has enveloped the edges of his brain, recoils, his arms coming up in defense. Still, Milk Man grasps him by the shoulders, his hands overly warm on his skin as he affectionately squeezes him and leans down until Tim can see that there are goddamn freckles on his nose.

He hates them. He hates them and he hates this goddamn asshole that looks so excited it makes him twenty years younger.

“You wonderful, wonderful cow-to-be! You are exactly what I am talking about here! This ease with which your body complies to its natural conclusion! It is yearning for its ideal state of being; so much so that it puts you into a subspace simply for finally getting offered what it needs to change. No-” he corrects himself, frowning as his gaze slides away from Tim and up above his head. He’s staring into the middle distance as he slowly rights himself back up, his hands still grasping a hold of Tim’s shoulders. “It’s not a change. It is a… it is a development. You and all those other wonderful calves. You all already have inside you what you need to become more. To become whole.”

Tim presses his lips into a tight line. He wants to jerk his arms up and knock the disgusting hands off of himself, but his body is too sluggish for anything so grandiose. Instead he just weakly pushes Milk Man off and the other, too caught up in his own fantasy, lets it happen.

“You are insane.” His voice is more steady than he thought it would be. The words sound so garbled in his head that he does not think they will even be understandable, but the serene expression on Milk Man’s face shifts a little and he finally glances at Tim’s eyes instead of just his general… everything.

“Pardon?”

Tim swallows. He pushes himself into a bit more of an upright position from the slump he had been in, though that very distractingly rubs his ass against the hard bench he’s on. His hole feels perversely swollen, the puffy rim and insides prickling still from the slick clinging to him.

“You are holding us all against our will. You are doing something wrong and you don’t even realize it. So you are insane. And, like every other insane, evil fuck, you’ll get what’s coming to you. Sooner or later. Batman-” now it is his turn to bite his lips and shut the fuck up, a sick feeling of shame curling through his abdomen and settling up high in his chest.

Milk Man looks intrigued. “I am not hurting anybody. The only people hurting here are you calves. You hurt yourself. Both literally-” he gestures at Tim’s current position and the blood still caked to his chest and chin, “-as well as simply by being born this way and not getting the needed help to realize your full potential.”

He looks sympathetic then. Honestly sad.

“Batman sees it, too. The work I am doing. Or else he would be here right now, right? Yes. Just… relax and accept.”

Tim, stewing in anger, would never.

[writing-and-art]

#8

context: chuuya is captured by the evil government and surgically fused with hunks of metal to form a vaguely humanoid robot. dazai attempts a rescue mission but arrives too late -

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so so so sorry.”

Slurred words broken by hiccups. Voices cracked from tears cleaning the dirt marks off his face.

This is what heartbreak feels like:

A tearing, a shattering. You’re there and then you’re not.

Cracked brown and blue eyes made of glass stare blankly up at him, a poor attempt to mimic what had once been so achingly bright and full of life.

Humans are hardwired to be cautious and unnerved by humanoid figures. Most feel a visceral feeling of discomfort comes from looking at a perceived fake. 

Chuuya is wrong (wrong, wrong, wrong) His eyes are cracked and made of glass, one blue and one brown. His fingertips have been rid of any prints, replaced by a disgusting rubbery material instead.

What is considered a human? A basic level of empathy? A moral compass? Or something else altogether. Whatever it is, Dazai isn’t quite sure Chuuya possesses it anymore.

Hands covered with sticky red blood, he sits there, numb, eyes wide and face frozen in an almost comical look of horror.

This is what heartbreak is:

Disbelief, grief, and then nothing at all.

[overlyenthusiasticfictionreader]

Breaking Groundbreaker

I've really enjoyed playing Techtonica, it's really kind of relaxing and satisfying, not scary at all. But one day I got to thinking about how the Groundbreaker is stuck in their suit, and they can't touch anyone, and they can't talk to anyone, and I started having existential-crisis-feelings. So I wrote a little thing!

The link in the title goes to AO3, but you can read it here too!

Summary: You are the Groundbreaker. You are now in a situation that seems designed to break you.

Story below the read-more!

When you first wake, Sparks is the first thing you hear, cheerfully determined to set you up for success so that you can go rescue the mission’s team members together. She walks you through placing your first machines, gathering resources… She is a constant, friendly presence.

When you find her deceased body (still in her suit), you despair. Is she gone already? But there is a perfect golden cube next to the body, and her voice is still in your ear: she is still here (alive?), and you are not alone. You take her with you everywhere you go. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- As you traverse the caverns of Calyx, Sparks shares her memories, triggered every time you come upon equipment or locations or campsites. She shares names of coworkers and work details.

You don’t remember any of these things. Nothing triggers a flashback or a moment of déjà vu. It’s like you were frozen the entirety of the Calyx mission, and you were never part of the team. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- After you learn that you can’t remove your suit without the code from someone higher up in the bureaucracy, you start to absently test the connection points of your suit, gently rubbing at the locations that should part to allow you to remove the suit. It only happens when you have time to think, which is not often at the beginning of things. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- You don’t feel much inside your suit. It is designed to protect you, and it does its job admirably. If you bump into something as you go about your day, you notice because your trajectory changes or you stop moving, not because you felt the contact.

You squeeze the arm of your suit with one hand as hard as you can, to see if you can feel anything. Maybe… you squeeze the leg of your suit with both hands, and convince yourself that you felt the difference in pressure. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- You have very limited options for communication with Sparks. Your radio only allows you to hear her, you can’t speak back. Your suit is bulky and dense, only the most rough and obvious pantomimes can convey information. If you knew a sign language you would not be able to use it as the fingers of the gloves you wear are too thick to bend much. You both make do. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- Food and water is a concern early on. If you can’t remove your suit, eventually you must die. But you are never thirsty, and hunger does not bother you. You never feel the need to eliminate (do you even need to?)

It’s fine though. The one who locked you in this suit must have planned for this (why would anyone plan for this? why would they do this to you). You must be getting liquid nutrients from an IV in the suit, and a catheter must take care of the liquid waste. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- Finding Paladin is a mixed blessing.

On one hand, finding anyone else on Calyx is amazing. Considering how far afield you have wandered without any evidence that anyone is still alive (still embodied? uncubed?) is doubly amazing. Finding someone high enough up in the hierarchy to have relevant codes and knowledge of emergency procedures is frankly improbable.

On the other hand… Paladin is focused on the mission objectives more than the people sent to Calyx to accomplish the mission. His perspective is important, the people on Earth are important. But you alone cannot fulfill the mission objective that thousands of people came here to accomplish (you are only human).

In the beginning, when you were alone, when you only had Sparks, there was some joy and satisfaction in completing a production circuit or increasing efficiency or straightening out a snag in the production line. Simple things that don’t require introspection.

There is less joy in the work now, and satisfaction gives way to monotony. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- You’ve never seen a human before. You wonder how you know what a human should be like, when your memory is gone and the closest you’ve been to a human body is the corpses of your companions inside their own suits.

You think you are human, but you’ve never seen your own body, stuck in the suit as you are. The polarized glass of your helmet doesn’t let you view yourself in a reflective surface. You’ve tried to use the inside of the helmet to catch a reflection, but the light is never quite right.

Maybe you are a type of highly compressed plant matter! Your attempt at humor fails to elicit a laugh from yourself. Plants are the only other living things you have seen on Calyx (are your companion cubes alive?) ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- Sparks and Paladin as cubes provide an interesting conundrum. Obviously they have no hands to use for tasks and no feet to carry them to another location. You are their hands and their feet, their arms and legs.

But Sparks was able to speak to you from her underground location. She knew you were there to talk to at all. That speaks to some kind of external awareness, and possibly the ability to use radio waves to communicate or sense their surroundings? Possibly only in proximity to radio equipment (her body, her suit was right next to her)?

Paladin was not able to reach out to you from his location, and was farther from equipment (his suit, his body) when you found him, but once you picked him up Paladin had no issues speaking his mind and directing your path forward.

You carry both Sparks and Paladin with you now, wherever you go, always. They have no trouble talking to you or to each other.

You are glad that Sparks and Paladin are not the strong and silent types, that they will voice their thoughts and concerns to you. It fills the silence. You can hear yourself talk inside the suit, but your colleagues can’t hear you and you don’t want to miss anything they might have to say: you are mostly silent inside your suit. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- Statistically speaking, you are probably human. The only sentient and sapient beings you have encountered so far were once human (are they still human now?), why would you doubt that you are human? ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- The higher up the tech tree you get, the more complicated the equipment you can fabricate. It is necessary to meet the production quotas left behind by the original mission parameters, but it does slow down your progress. Making 500 of a small component to fabricate one of a larger component is definitely a hurdle.

The downtime gives you plenty of space to think. The connection points of your suit begin to show some scratches and shiny spots. ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- If things had gone as planned, would you have ever met Sparks or Paladin? The thought pains you, but also you know these are extreme circumstances and maybe all of you are not building the healthiest relationships at the moment.

Would you have returned to Earth without ever stepping foot on Calyx (why would you agree to that?)? Are you part of some sort of contingency plan? ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- You feel like you’ve been on Calyx for millennia. You’re not sure if that’s because you may actually have been here for millennia (you remember the boulder that slowly crushed the hab that should have been sheltered by its Protection Zone) or if you simply don’t have enough memories for the time you’ve been awake to scale correctly.

The fact that you can’t have nuanced conversations with your companions doesn’t help. You find your mind drifting, allowing Paladin and Sparks to direct your work. You are the body, they are the impetus. It’s disturbing, but you can’t just put them down and walk away (you can’t escape), that would be inhumane.

But everyday begins to feel the same, and there is little to keep you mind engaged. The production quotas are endless, and it is monotonous. That is probably why it feels like you have been here an eternity.

[samanddean76]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Gabriel/Lucifer (Supernatural), Gabriel & Sam Winchester Characters: Gabriel (Supernatural), Lucifer (Supernatural), Sam Winchester Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Gabriel (Supernatural), Alpha Lucifer (Supernatural), Alpha Sam Winchester, Revenge, Or Justice, Omega Dominates Alpha, Body Modification, Cock Cages, Hitchhiking, Top Gabriel (Supernatural), Bottom Lucifer (Supernatural), Non-Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con Series: Part 4 of OmegaVerse Week 2024 Summary:

Omega Gabriel found himself with a once in a lifetime opportunity presented to him and he decides to make Alpha Lucifer pay for every wrong he had ever committed against the Omega.

@spnkinkevents @spnrareships

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

For the OC meet and greet, I'm going to give you one hell of a challenge >:)

TW | cancer mention, abusive parent mention, past child abuse, brief mention of self harm and suicidal ideation, noncon body modification

I want to know how your characters would handle Luca. They're very small (all of 5'0" and 95lbs on a good day) and are one of the most terrifying whumpers in my cast. White-blond hair, chillingly pale blue eyes. Even though they're pushing 30, they constantly get mistaken as a child by strangers. Their pretty, doll-like features don't help.

They come from my Liliholm and Page universe (superhero whump to anyone unfamiliar), and have the ability to heal almost any wound they themself inflict on another person. Those same powers will heal their own wounds whether they want them to or not. The kicker? All the pain they would go through for their body to heal that wound themself—all those months of aching and misery—still have to be felt in the matter of seconds it takes them to heal. They themself are nigh indestructible. Their employer uses them as a torturer. Not for information, but as punishment for political and social adversaries that step too far out of line. They are very, very good at their job, and very well feared by the people in their circle.

They're abrasive, bitter, and aggressive in just about every sense of the word. They currently only have three people in the world they care about: their partner in crime, Garcia; their "handler", Leon Molinaro, who is responsible for making sure they don't maim anyone their employer wouldn't approve of; and their horribly abusive mother who they're trying to keep alive through her chemo treatments. They can't stand to be touched by anyone, and are VIOLENTLY sex-repulsed. Even the people in their life that they give a shit about are kept at arm's length and then some.

Beneath that surface, you've got someone who has been abused their entire life, is being manipulated by their father-figure employer into believing he actually cares about them, and who has been unsuccessfully suicidal for decades. There's also a particularly nasty little rumor about them—that Luca is actually a eunuch. How that might have happened is anyone's guess, but if it's true, it certainly wasn't voluntary.

In their home universe, the only one brave enough to truly adopt them is Leon. Would anyone in your universe take them on?

Hmmmmm look. Am I on a Hilton kick? Yes I am but ironically enough it’s Hilton’s world that has my healing character (Parker is floating around somewhere). Griffin, Hilton’s Carewhumper, could most likely keep them in line. He’s an undercover agent.

Griffin can read people’s body language and expressions so well it’s practically impossible to lie to him. He also had a shit family so it’s not a world unknown to him.

There’s also Trevor, who is Griffin’s boss (the one griffin is trying to take down). The thing with Trevor is that his touch is addictive. Makes anyone he interacts literally crave his presence and attention. I’m super curious how they would work out if Luca is touch adverse and heals. Would it work? It would not be fun for anyone involved the first time.

Yeah Griffin is Luca’s best bet. He’d likely the be the one with enough personal experience to be able to ignore the agression and get pushed away. He’d have to keep Luca and Hilton COMPLETELY SEPARATED though because holy shit that would be bad. They would hate each other to the bone. Even when they’re older, Hilton “adopts” Parker, my healing OC, and would do everything in his power to keep them away from Luca from fear Parker would end up even more traumatized then they already are. Idk if Luca would even want to interact with them, but Hilton would literally attack if they tried and now there’s a whole new mess lol.

Other than that? I have a weird gut feeling Luca and Tool would get along okay. Can’t put my finger on it but I just feel like they’d find common ground and weirdly get along.

Luca would tear Brody to fucking shreds lmao.

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1175

“They’ll find me.” They always do. 

“They’ll find pieces of you. For about a year they’ll find your remains... of course you’ll still be alive for about six of those months.”

[starppleb]

Why are there 0 Non-Consensual Body Modification fics for Barbie fandom?

(if I get the Non-Con-Body-Modif tag wrong as a story base, I'm so sorry)

[sapphireginger]

Summary:

Tis beauty I have nare seen before but to admire it is no chore. I see both the inside and the out. For him I’m on my knees. To him I’m most devout. ~ Duke Gajos

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Make an Example of Them

@badthingshappenbingo​

Bingo #3!!  🙂

[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), mentions of abortion, miscarriage

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 VI. The Shudder Before the Slide

Story Masterlist

Before:

The first time Bucky hits heat, he’s just turned fourteen years old, has just had a great birthday party over the weekend, and is stressed out over all the stuff he’s gonna have to learn now that Rabbi Schmeckle gave the green light for his mom to start planning his bar mitzvah. Alpha boys get one at 13, but beta boys have to wait until they’re a year older at least, to make sure they aren’t “late bloomers” (a euphemism for an omega son—what Bucky learns later in life is every Jewish mother except for his own's worst fear).

He’s in homeroom at 7:15 am, backpack slung across his lap and foot tapping as he eagerly awaits the bell. Harriet Falsworth is in his third period English class and he’s got a not-so-subtle crush on her. He can’t wait to slide his hand-made valentine into her locker. Just thinking of Harriet makes his heart beat faster. … Lately, it’s made other things happen, too (there’s a reason he’s got the backpack over his lap, right now). If half the kids in his homeroom have put space between themselves and him, he certainly doesn’t notice.

“Hey Barnes, what the fuck?”

Bucky turns around in his seat to look back at where George and Seth are sitting. “What?” he hisses, not wanting to get in trouble for talking out of turn in homeroom. Sister Joan is a real hard-ass when it comes to stuff like that. Everybody hates her.

“Why d’you smell like that?” Both boys snicker. “Is it your time of the month or something?”

Bucky scowls. “Huh?”

“That’s enough,” Sister Joan says from the front of the classroom, making George and Seth shut up. Bucky’s still left confused over the remark, though. “Everyone work on your homework,” Sister Joan snaps. 

All the students in the room are quick to pull out notebooks and at least pretend to be working on something, meanwhile Sister Joan’s attention has narrowed in on Bucky. He gulps as she comes over to him, thinking, great, what’d he do now? (Bucky can’t prove it, but he thinks Sister Joan picks on the kids who she knows aren’t Catholic.) 

“James,” she says, using his first name rather than the crisp ‘Mr. Barnes’ that he usually gets from her. Her kinder-than-normal tone is also concerning.

Bucky wavers uncertainly as she stops in front of his desk. “Um, yeah?”

“It’s alright. You’re not in trouble. I need you to gather your things and come out into the hall with me, Dear.”

He frowns at the ‘Dear’, certain that he is in trouble, somehow. She’s just tricking him, trying to get him away from the other kids so she can really light into him. Bucky frowns, trying to wrack his mind for what he’s done lately that somebody could’ve snitched on. But he’s been good! He’d promised his mom that he’d try harder this school year not to make trouble. He glances back to George and Seth in the row behind, confused and annoyed about why they’re still snickering at him. He can’t help but feel that he’s missed out on some soft of joke. “Erm, but ... why?” he asks Sister Joan.

Her lips thin and she straightens her spine. “Because I said so.”

-

Bucky’s forced to leave school early that day. They send him home in a taxi, since his mom and dad are both at work and can’t come to get him. He tries hard not to cry in the backseat of the cab, but it’s a challenge. He’s presented as omega. That’s what Sister Joan, and later the school nurse, had told him. Apparently they could tell it even before he could. Something about the way he smells. It’s embarrassing in a way he can’t quite yet put his finger on, and he hates it. His mom had sounded really upset on the phone, but like she was trying not to be.

Bucky squirms uncomfortably in the cab and itches to get home so he can Google about this, maybe find some fact that can prove they've made a mistake about him. He doesn't feel omega. He has a vague memory of a fifth grade puberty lecture, but he hadn’t paid attention because boys hardly ever turned out to be o!

He can’t get his mind off the way that George and Seth were laughing at him, and it sticks in his mind as the first lesson he ever gets about being omega: it’s nothing to be proud of.

“Alexa: what’s that Tony Stark quote about Isaac Asimov?” 

“Here’s what I found on the web:”  

Bucky takes an absent-minded sip of his latte as he listens to the answer. It’s gone cold by now, but he hasn’t been able to peel himself away from his laptop for over an hour. Not when he’s on such a good roll. Halfway through his paper on the practical applications for intelligence simulation in robotics, and he is in the fucking zone, hyped up on caffeine—okay, and maybe just a little bit of Adderall that he bought from weird-Kevin in the Library. His fingers skip over the keyboard as he tries to keep pace with his fast-flowing thoughts. 

On the other side of their dorm room, Dylan is working, too. Or, he’s supposed to be. But Bucky’s pretty sure he fell into a YouTube rabbit hole a while ago.

“Ohh, sweet baby Jesus,” Dylan croons.

Bucky glances over. “What?” he asks, taking a second sip from his latte and wincing. He really should just warm it the fuck up. The microwave’s only ten feet away from where he’s sitting.

Dylan removes his earpods and looks over. “Henry Cavill,” he says, as if it’s a complete sentence. 

Bucky arches a brow. “Don’t you have a paper you’re supposed to be writing?” 

“Yeah.”

“Pretty sure it isn’t on Henry Cavill.”

“S’for Family Studies,” Dylan says absently. He’s distracted, still staring at his computer screen with dreamy eyes.

Bucky scoffs at the mention of the course name. “What’s your paper on?”

“‘Gender dynamics in mate selection: A case for traditional marriage.” Dylan catches the nasty look that Bucky shoots him and defends himself with a hasty, “Well I didn’t pick it. It's a diversity requisite.”

“Stupid waste ‘a time,” Bucky mutters. “Making us take a bunch of dumb 101’s that have nothing to do with our majors. And we get the privilege of paying for it. It's extortion. I don’t get how it's even legal. I mean this is friggin' NYU."

"It's private. I guess they can do what they want, yeah?" Dylan shrugs and keeps dicking around on YouTube, his disregard for his coursework once again reminding Bucky that his roommate comes from money.

Unlike Bucky himself, who can’t afford to be careless about anything. Not when he’s depending on maintaining his GPA to keep his academic scholarship. They’re only a few weeks into fall semester right now. Dylan’s an incoming freshman, and he has to take all the same bullshit gender and family courses that Bucky himself put up with last year. He’s got no need to maintain his grades the way that Bucky does, though. Lucky fucker’ll probably nab a paid internship straight out of college, just with his family’s connections.

Dylan sighs happily over at his desk (presumably over Henry Cavill, and not his Family Studies paper). “There’s all these videos of him, like, visiting children’s hospitals. He shows up in his Superman outfit to cheer up all the little cancer kids. Ooh! and this one here: he's holding babies at Comic Con!"

Bucky rolls his eyes, attention back on his computer. “So what?”

“'So what?' So I think my ovaries just exploded, is what! So I need this man to breed me, is what.” Dylan turns his laptop to show the video where Henry Cavil is, indeed, holding a baby, then shoots Bucky a peevish look for not reacting appropriately. “He’s unf—with a capital UNF.”

“He’s okay I guess.”

“... You’re gay,” Dylan declares. “You gotta be. Your ovaries never explode. This man is prime. alpha. real estate, he’s worth like fifty gajillion dollars—”

“Pretty sure he’s not.”

“—and he’s shredded, and he’s so sweet, and he likes babies!” Dylan whines helplessly as he puts his earpods back in. “Did you see his bicep? It's bigger than the baby's head!—and I'm sorry but that baby has a fat fucking head. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Breed me Daddy.”

Bucky hisses and waves his hand. “Hey! Watch it with the God stuff, would you?”

Dylan looks over his shoulder at the door. "Door’s shut.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” Bucky scolds. “Alexa’s listening. You think that shit doesn’t get reported back to the RAs?” 

“I—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Can you repea—”

“Alexa, never mind!” Bucky snaps. He looks back at Dylan. “They clock you for too many JFC's and they’ll write you up for creating a ‘hostile environment’ for the rollers,” he scolds. 

Dylan winces. “Right, sorry. Just …” he gestures at his computer screen with a happy sigh. “Ovaries.” 

“Yeah yeah.” Bucky pushes out his desk chair and goes over to stick his cup in the microwave for sixty seconds.

He hasn't been in a very charitable mood about the university's 'decency' code, lately, not since he got into a tense altercation with his ethics professor, after the guy had unfairly ruled on a debate that Bucky had clearly won. The debate had been about the campus’ recent ban on porn viewed through the university wifi—Bucky had been against, his opponent for. The professor hadn’t equally applied the debate standards. And even if he had ... Bucky’s been growing increasingly disturbed with the more things he notices changing around campus, not to mention the broader world.

"Sorry man," Dylan promises. "I'll put a post-it up to remind myself."

Bucky almost laughs. “Good idea. And you want my advice? You’d better stop joking about your ovaries all the time, too. Or your heats."

"Exploding ovaries is my go-to!"

"Find a new one. If the rollers get wind of you being fertile, they’ll never leave you alone.” He pulls his cup out when the microwave beeps and carries it back to his desk, making a long-suffering face as he blows on the top. “Trust me, I should know.” 

Of course by now he’s started taking all the precautions that they tell you to take, these days. He’s stopped getting his suppressants from the campus health center, ordering them from an online pharmacy that uses discreet packaging, instead. He uses incognito mode on his parents’ cell plan to watch any porn, or to buy condoms, or search for anything that’s even remotely controversial. He’s deleted his heat tracking app, changed his documented religion from “Jewish-Agnostic” to “Non-denominational,” edited his dating profiles on all the apps from saying “wants kids” to “unsure,” and has even had his father sign for legal control of all his O-HIPPA forms so that nobody can ever data mine his medical records again—Emphasis on “again,” as he certainly hadn’t done it in time to prevent it from happening once. 

Somewhere out there in the digital ether, somebody already has his medical information in their database. And they’ve definitely been selling it to others, if the nonstop emails, spam calls, and junk mail he’s been receiving are anything to go by. Ever since he got the abortion last semester, various fertility-for-profit and pro-life groups have been bombarding him with heartfelt appeals for his surrogacy, offering compensation for his eggs, extolling the virtues of omega motherhood, bemoaning the population crisis, blessing him with prayers, entreating him to join up with this congregation or that one, begging him to surrender to God’s will for his 'biological destiny'. Oh, and Bucky’s personal favorite: threatening him with surprisingly graphic descriptions of eternal damnation if he doesn’t repent for his sins and produce more babies as penance for killing his unborn child. 

He even received a signed copy of somebody called Serena Joy's book: An Omega's Place. Bucky's never burned a book before, but it'd been damn tempting to start, once he'd flipped past the title page and realized what it was: a flaming shitpile of anti-omeganist trash. He'd shelved it in the library, right next to a book about infectious diseases of the bowel and colon.

“Don’t you want kids?”

Bucky presses his lips together at the presumptive question, trying to cut Dylan a break. The poor fucker probably has ADHD, and to be fair, he doesn’t realize how insensitive he's being, because Bucky hasn't told him about the abortion. “Sure," Bucky says. "I guess. Like, one day if I get married or whatever. Just not now. Not for a long time.”

“Yeah. Me too I guess.” Dylan reaches for his computer mouse with a dirty snicker. “Unless I find an alpha like Mr. Cavill. Then it’s baby-makin’ time.”

“You’d better watch your mouth,” Bucky mutters. “Pretty soon they’re gonna start a womb draft.”

“Oh come on. That’s never gonna happen.” 

“You just wait and see. They’ll be going after abortion soon,” he warns. “Then who knows what else.”

Dylan ‘tsks’ and goes back to scrolling on his computer, telling him that’s an extremist and unrealistic way of thinking. “That’s about as likely as me getting with Daddy Cavill.” He makes a sad, mournful noise. “Son of a bitch is taken. Why can’t I meet a nice alpha like that?”

Bucky hums in false sympathy and goes searching in his desk drawer for a pair of earplugs to drown out any more distractions. He’s joking about the womb-drafting thing … mostly. But he’s actually got a bad feeling about the abortion part of it.

It’s been months, but he hasn't forgotten that rude-ass doctor from back at the first clinic he’d gone to, over break. He remembers the man’s face screwed up in disdain, and more worryingly, the confidence he’d had in turning Bucky away. Bucky can’t get the guy’s parting words out of his mind:

“The law’s gonna change real soon.”

It’s silly to still be thinking about it, he knows. Because he’s checked, since then. He's been keeping up on current events, reading up on national and local politics, keeping an eye out for anything in the news about any change or challenge to reproductive freedoms in New York, or even at the federal level. But other than the usual sanctimonious op-eds and click bait about holy rollers losing their shit outside Planned Parenthoods, there hasn’t been anything happening. 

Still ... He can’t quite get the words out of his mind. 

Base camp for the resistance is a scattered collection of trailers and hastily-constructed shacks in the Appalachian mountains. Bucky knows that they’re somewhere in Pennsylvania, but that’s about all he knows. When he’d first met his contact back in Brooklyn, it’d been very secretive. Nobody had trusted him at that point, and he’d been driven around and then led into camp with a blindfold on.

That’s just fine with Bucky. He knows what he needs to know. Other people shuttle them out on missions when they need to go. Bucky’s quickly made rank as sniper. He’s killed something in the range of fifty or sixty guardians of the faith, and he’s relished every kill.

His mom wouldn’t like that if she knew, would tell him it’s sinful to be glad about killing people. But she hasn’t seen the things that The Faithful are doing nowadays. They’re hanging people who won’t convert. They’re kidnapping omegas and doing god only knows what with them. The few omega refugees that the resistance takes in don’t talk about their experiences out there, and Bucky doesn’t ask. He’s heard rumors though, ridiculous things about sex slaves and breeding centers. He’s got a hard time believing that. It’s a little too outrageous of an idea, even for The Faithful.

Anyway, Bucky’s mom is tucked away with his sisters, safe in Toronto. She hasn’t seen the things he has. Bucky likes to think she’d be proud of him, if she knew what he was fighting against.

He sits next to two other guys on one of the cots that crowd the medical tent. He and the other serving omegas are waiting their turns to get suppressant injections. Bucky had cycled naturally until he was sixteen, then his mom had taken him to the doctor and he’d gotten set up with oral suppressants. He likes the way his body feels when he’s on them, and it’s a relief that he’ll be able to stay on them here. He hadn’t expected that luxury. Sex with anyone but your own hand out here is rare, so pregnancy isn't something he really worries about. But not having a heat while he's trying to shoot some motherfuckers? Yeah that's just peachy.

“Barnes,” the medic calls out. Bucky gets up from his seat and goes over to the guy. “Let's see your ID.” Bucky shows it to him and the man checks something off on his clipboard. “Alright,” he says. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Bucky does. He watches as the medic preps the syringe. It’s been explained to him that they do injections out here instead of pills because it’s more reliable. Makes sense. One shot every three months and you’re good to go. Can’t exactly depend on having a daily pill available when you’re out fighting for weeks on end. And the last thing that’s strategic on the battlefield is an omega in heat.

He holds out his arm for the doctor to shoot him up.

Bucky grunts as Brock and the other guardian pull him out of the back of the van. This is the second damned time he’s been dragged into the red center against his will, and it makes him feel like a hell of a failure for getting caught. At least he doesn’t have a bag over his head this time, but that’s about the only thing that’s improved.

“Thought you could run away, huh?” Brock says, as he tugs on Bucky’s arm to get him to follow along. He looks over, notices the blood crusted on Bucky's neck, and pauses. “You hurt?” 

“No.” Bucky tries to pull away, but he can’t. He growls in frustration when Brock reaches up and tucks his shaggy hair behind his right ear. 

"Aw, hell kid," Brock says when he sees the mess. "What the hell did ya do to yourself?"

Bucky jerks his head away and scowls without looking at him. "What I had to do." They pass through the outer fence, then the secondary, then the inner checkpoint. Each gate locks behind them with a click and a computerized ‘beep’, the sounds like physical blows to the deepest pockets of Bucky’s remaining hope. They hurt. Those are the sounds of his freedom being stripped away, again.

Brock takes him through the gymnasium and into the old locker rooms, back by the showers. He makes Bucky take off all his clothes—beta blue that he’d stolen off one of the caretakers—and tells him to wash the grime off himself. 

Bucky turns the water on and waits for it to get hot. The old pipes behind the tiled shower wall clunk and groan as the water pressure comes through. He holds his hand under the water, noticing the coat of dirt on his forearm and the back of his hand, the blood crusted under his fingernails. He’s been living rough while trying to figure out a way to get past the city limit checkpoints. It’d been okay building up a stink. At least it’d done a bit to cover up the smell of his heat. 

The Faithful don’t believe in the use of suppressants, think it’s against God or nature or some such bullshit. So of course Bucky and the other vessels are never allowed to have them. He hadn’t been able to find any when he was out on the street, either. Being in heat had made the escape harder, but not impossible. He’d gotten out and joined a homeless encampment underneath the 495 overpass near the northeast edge of the city, had traded handjobs with one of the alphas there in exchange for protection, for him scenting Bucky up real good each day and night. It’d worked, until it hadn’t. The camp got raided, and Bucky and a few other omegas were grabbed in the chaos before they could make a real run for it.

Now he’s right back where he fucking started. 

He pumps out soap from the dispenser on the wall and rubs it over his shoulders and his neck. He peeks back at Brock. The alpha isn’t averting his eyes. He’s leaning back against the wall all casual like, watching Bucky wash himself, his mouth turned up slightly at the corners. Asshole. “So what was the plan?” he asks. “Hitch it all the way back to New York?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Or basecamp. Whichever.” He’d thought about heading for New York, or the Canadian border, but that was a long fucking way to go without being caught. From D.C., the rebellion’s basecamp in the Pennsylvania mountains had been the closest option. And even then …

“You wouldn’t’ve made it,” Brock says. “Don’t feel bad. Nobody could, not with the way they’ve got the roadblocks set up. Checkpoints, patrols, citizen tip line. It’s impossible right now. You were always gonna get caught.”

Bucky wonders if Brock’s really trying to make him feel better, or if he’s just in the mood to rub his nose in his own failure. He shrugs, sluicing the water back off of his hair. “I had to try,” he says dully. “You know that.”

Brock hums in agreement, but doesn’t say any more. Bucky pumps out more soap, washes his face, rinses. He turns around and lets the spray beat down on his back, not caring to shield his modesty at all as he stands facing Brock. He lets his eyes slip closed for a beat, enjoying the hot water. 

“You should’ve waited until your heat'd passed,” Brock says. “Bought yourself more time.” 

Bucky grits his teeth and fights not to snap back at him. Of course he knows that, now. But he’d gotten emotional and had panicked. He'd jumped the gun—and Caretaker Kevin—when an opportunity presented itself. He’d acted before he could stop and analyze his options more rationally. Remembering it now just makes him feel awful, so he purposefully stops thinking about it. He opens his eyes and looks at Brock instead, who’s leaning casually against the wall and looking at Bucky’s naked body with mild but undisguised interest (Bucky’s not worried. Brock’s never tried to take liberties before, and he’s had plenty of chances).

But contempt curls in his gut the longer he watches the other man, watching him, standing there at ease in his Guardian’s uniform and his alpha insignia armband, a radio strapped to his chest and a stun baton hanging from his utility belt. 

“Why do you do this?” Bucky asks bitterly. He knows that Brock isn’t a zealot like some of the other Guardians of the Faith are. “Why do you help them, huh? Why not fight?” He watches as Brock’s expression turns grim. For a second it doesn't seem like he'll answer, but then he says,

“I come from a big family. Italian. Catholic.” His eyes flick up to Bucky’s face and he and Bucky just sort of stare at each other for a long moment. 

Bucky wasn’t expecting that answer, and he feels like an asshole. “They alive?” he asks. 

Brock nods.

“They get out?”

“Couldn’t. Not before the borders closed.”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky swallows thickly, looks down and shakes his head. “But that still doesn’t mean that you have to—”

“Oh, they converted,” Brock says, cutting him off. “But we weren’t just a little bit Catholic, right? We were a lotta bit Catholic. Known in the community.” He gestures to himself. “I had to join up. To help sell it.”

“Oh.”

“And my kid sister? She’s o. Married to a divorcée.” 

Bucky’s guts sink. The Faithful don’t recognize divorce, or second marriages. He’s met plenty of other vessels at the red center who were ripped from their "invalid" marriages, their “unspouses” executed for adultery, their kids given away, and their wombs rented out to the state. 

Brock nods again when he sees Bucky’s wan expression. “Yeah. So. One day I take inventory of what I got. I’m ex-special forces. I’ve got marketable skills. And ex-colleagues with those same skills. I approached a Commander, back home, and we came to an understanding. He’s the only reason my sister hasn’t been salvaged.”  

Bucky just stands there under the pouring water, wishing he hadn’t asked in the first place. It’s easier just to hate. He doesn’t feel angry or self righteous anymore. He just feels … tired. Like he did right after they took his arm. “You could’ve at least tried to do the right thing,” he says, but it lacks heat. “You could’ve fought back. I did.”

Brock’s eyes harden. “And watch them string my Nonna up on some wall? Uh-uh. I’ve got too many people I love to fight back.” He points his finger at Bucky, angry. “You picked up a gun in a losing fight cause you had the luxury of knowing that your family got out. So don’t you fuckin’ stand there and judge me.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches and, bizarrely, he feels tears press up hard at the backs of his eyes. He blinks and looks away in humiliation. They’re tears of despair more than anything else, he realizes. Despair at how fucking fucked the whole world is. For everybody. He clenches his teeth and turns back around to face the shower wall, not wanting to chance letting Brock see how stupidly close to tears he is. His face feels hot, and by the time the water hits his face again, he feels a sob working its way up in his chest. He gasps and breathes open mouthed under the deluge of the shower spray, throwing his hand up to lean against the tile wall and calm down.

Behind, he hears Brock sigh heavily. “I didn’t choose any of this, kid. S’just the hand I been dealt, same as you.”

Bucky wants to snap something back to him about that, something nasty about how Brock and he are nothing alike, how Bucky had done the right thing and Brock had been a coward, and wherever their families were didn’t excuse choosing the wrong side. But he holds his tongue and reaches for the soap dispenser instead, pumps out a bunch more of the shower gel and finishes washing off a month’s worth of grime from his body, feeling more drained and hopeless than he has since the day he woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed and looked over to see a stump where his left arm used to be.

Brock’s right: His mom and sisters are all safe in Canada right now. He’d joined the resistance knowing that his actions couldn’t hurt them. Would he have done the same if they were still living in New York, under the regime? He’s never stopped to wonder. Now he’s not so sure.  

“Please!” Bucky begs, struggling against Brock and the other guardian as they manhandle him down the hallway and into one of the old classrooms.

The red center is set up in what was once a high school, and this is one room Bucky’s never been in before. Having heard the screams echoing out into the hallway, though, he’s got a good enough idea about what goes on in here. There’s a padded table with straps that makes his blood run cold and his imagination run wild, and he jerks harder in their hold as they push him closer to it. “No please!” he begs again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He’s crying, but Brock and the other guardian ignore him.

“God, shut up already and take what’s coming to ya,” Brock complains. “I thought you used to be a soldier.” He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to make fun of Bucky, but the other guardian snorts like it’s a joke anyways. Bucky tries to headbutt him, but Brock catches him in time and stops the other man from striking him. “C’mon kid,” he warns. “Don’t make us tase you, too. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Nnngh!” Bucky might’ve been able to overpower just one of them, if he still had both of his arms. But he doesn’t, and he can’t. They get him up on the table and restrain him face-down. Straps over his back, arms, waist, thighs, calves, and ankles hold him completely immobile. Bucky’s bare feet hang over the table’s edge as he sobs and begs in fear. “Please!” He’s nearly screaming it at them by the time the caretaker walks in, and his heart seizes in fresh terror when he sees who it is. 

It’s Caretaker Kevin—the one whose clothes he’d taken, whom he’d left beaten and tied up and gagged in the school’s boiler room while he made his escape. The man walks in holding a bundle of short, frayed metal cables in his hand. “Under His Eye,” he says to Bucky, as he approaches.

“Please!” Bucky begs, eyes unable to move from the sight of what Kevin’s holding. He knows what that’s for. He’s seen other omegas brought back to their cots, bloody feet bandaged and dragging behind them. “Please don’t do this! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, I believe you, Sweetheart,” Kevin coos, reaching out to pet Bucky’s hair back in fake compassion. He tuts when he sees his bloody, mutilated ear, then steps out of sight towards the foot of the table. Bucky hears his horrible, saccharine voice say, “Forgiveness is God’s gift to us all, James. That’s the miracle of His love. But that forgiveness comes through redemption. Do you know what redemption means?”

Bucky sniffles and repeats, “Please, please, please,” against the table’s padded surface, wet from his terrified tears. 

“'Renewal through blood', Ephesians 1:7-8,” Kevin recites. “We all must be punished for our sins.” Down at the end of the table, he makes a slight movement, and Bucky yelps out in fear as something cold and hard touches lightly at the bottom of his right foot.

“No no no! Wait, wait!” He looks helplessly over to where Brock and the other guardian are standing sentinel by the door. “Please help me!” he cries. It’s pathetic even to his own ears, and Brock turns his back to him, looking pained. The other guardian however, seems to want to watch. Sadist. 

Caretaker Kevin takes an audible breath back where Bucky can’t see. There's the sound of displaced air, a 'swish', and then a searing, unbearable pain in the sole of Bucky's right foot. 

He screams bloody murder.

-

They drag him back to his cot that night, bandaged and barely coherent, his eyes swollen and face snotty from crying. Once the caretakers turn in for the night and only a few remain to do the usual nighttime rounds, Bucky gets a slew of apologetic murmurs in the dark from the other nearby vessels. He doesn’t thank them, just cries miserably into his pillow. He thinks of his family and of the unending pain in his feet. He misses his mom.

Within six weeks the wounds are healed, and Bucky’s left with some pretty unique scars.

After:

One time, when he was a few months away from turning fourteen—not long after he’d presented omega, and after the embarrassing debacle of having to cancel an already planned-out bar mitzvah for a "late bloomer" who was no longer eligible for one—Bucky’s whole extended family went on a cruise to Antarctica with the money that Grandpa Herschel left in his will. 

Bucky doesn’t remember too much about the trip, other than sneaking crab legs off the buffet with his cousins and being a moody fourteen year old who was not happy about presenting omega. But one day he’d been standing out on the stateroom balcony with his dad (having a “talk” about how life was apparently going to get better) when they’d witnessed a huge chunk of iceshelf break off from the Thwaites Glacier. It’d felt almost alien to Bucky, surreal, just standing there listening to the incredible noises it'd made, feeling in awe of how something so massive and sudden could seem to happen in such slow motion.

It was the most beautifully terrifying thing he’d ever witnessed up until that point in his life, and after the trip he’d gone on a bit of a geology tangent, reading books about glaciers and watching specials on the Discovery Channel about the polar ice caps.

Looking back on it now, it’s eerie how parallels can be drawn, between icebergs and what wound up happening with the country. Because you see, the thing about the shelves breaking off like Bucky and his dad saw, is that it’s a process. It happens over a long time, and most of it goes unnoticed. The cracks starts early, and small, and they don’t look like much. Sometimes they can’t even be seen from the surface at all. But underneath, they deepen, and they deepen, and they spread, and turn into fissures. Then caverns form underneath, unseen, getting hollowed out and eroded by the seawater, bit by bit. Then the caverns disappear entirely, and it’s just this big, massive iceshelf attached to the glacier, waiting for that final crack that’ll bring it all tumbling down.

The part that you see happens all at once, in a big, dramatic rush. But there’s a ton of groundwork that needs to be laid before that to make it breakable. Then one day it happens. There's this horrible, screeching groan of ice on ice, deep inside, the shudder before the slide. And the next thing you know, the entire shelf is collapsing in this huge, dramatic cloud of ice and snow, breaking off into the water, loud, cataclysmic. And when you watch it happen from the sensible distance of a stateroom balcony, it seems like: wow, dramatic, so horrifically sudden.

But it isn’t. Not really. It happens over time, with lots of cracks you don't see.

-

Bucky’s got no real patience for metaphors, anymore.

He takes things for what they are, and doesn't think too deeply on anything when he can help it. He definitely tries not to think about his old life and how things used to be. The only thing worse than that is thinking about whether he'll ever live a normal life again, or see his family again. One day at a time—isn't that what the alcoholics say?

That day it's cool out, mid fall, the neighborhood trees having dropped about half their leaves, the temperature having dipped noticeably overnight. Bucky enjoys it, likes the way the air smells at this time of year, with all the leaves piling up on the sidewalks and starting to rot, the neighbor houses burning woodsmoke out their chimneys. It's not a smell he associates with home back in the city, so it doesn't bring up any painful sort of nostalgia. He likes that, too.

He sits cross-legged on the front porch swing and watches Sam working at unloading pumpkins and pots of brightly colored mums, hefting them out of the truck bed and bringing them over one by one to sit on the porch at either side, going up the steps and framing the house's stately front door. He’s arranging a nice, autumnal display.

Rich people, Bucky thinks with a smirk, trailing his fingers idly over the bottoms of his feet. He's barefoot even though it's cool out. His red cloak draped over his shoulders does the job of keeping the chill away, and he sits there and plays absently with the texture of the scars on the soles of his feet, contemplating the ridiculousness of seasonal porch decorations in this brave new world of theirs. He wonders if it annoys Sam and the others, to have to put up with all of the mundane domestic tasks that they have to do, to serve as cover for … whatever else it is that they do.

Probably, Bucky thinks. It would certainly annoy him if he had something more important to be doing. Though as it is, Bucky would kill to have a daily routine full of tasks like gardening and bread baking. Anything to cull the hours of boredom that he faces each day, with no reprieve to look forward to besides the couple of hours Steve allows him in the office each night—and he does look forward to it. Bucky is insanely grateful to have that.

He and Steve have become more comfortable around one another, maybe even something resembling friends. Almost. Steve still refuses to talk to him any more about The Secret. He either doesn't trust Bucky enough, wants to keep him out of the loop for his own safety, or both. Bucky thinks it's both. Natasha and Sharon and Clint and Sam have clearly been told to keep their mouths shut, too, because they haven't yielded to any of Bucky's prodding questions.

Sam arrives back at the porch with the last of the mums, setting it down in one spot and then stepping back to judge its placement. He comes back to turn it at a slightly different angle.

“Hey Sam?” Bucky says, knowing that he can talk to the others without worrying about rules of propriety. “Do you think we could carve some of the pumpkins? In private? Just for fun?”

Sam gives him a look. ��C'mon. You know we can’t.” Carving pumpkins has been forbidden, along with all other Halloween-related things, since the regime took over. It’s a pagan ritual that The Faithful scorn. Sam seems aware of Bucky's boredom, though, and he glances back at the truck. "I picked up a crate of sugar pumpkins for Sharon. She'll probably need help scooping those out for pies, or whatever she makes with them." Bucky looks pointedly at his empty left sleeve, and Sam shrugs. “Well she could cut, you could scoop?"

"Maybe."

"Eh. She won't be doing it today, anyway."

"Right," Bucky says, resigning himself to his boredom.

Sam gives him a considering look. "... I could use a hand raking all these damn leaves, though," he offers. "If you're—"

"Sure!' Bucky’s never been so quick to agree to yard work in his life. He unfolds his legs and hops off the swing, hurrying for the front door. “Let me just get my shoes!"

-

Later, just as he’s raking to merge his pile in with Sam's, a black van marked with the Gilead government crest pulls into the driveway. Too many bad experiences in the backs of such vans have Bucky freezing in place and staring. Could it be guardians? he thinks. Someone come to take him away? Has someone reported him for reading? Has someone reported Steve? He gulps as his heart rate ticks up in apprehension.

The van’s side door slides open with a jarringly loud sound, and a man gets out. He’s dressed like a guardian, with an alpha’s insignia on his armband. He has slicked-back hair and a scar across his chin, a rifle slung over one shoulder and a duffle bag over the other. He’s got a grim set to his face as he spares a glance around the property, barely looking at Bucky and Sam before dismissing them and heading for the front door.

He goes up on the porch and rings the bell, and meanwhile the van he arrived in pulls away and heads off down the street. Bucky’s shoulders relax somewhat once it's turned the corner and gone out of sight. No van in the driveway means nobody’s getting black-bagged and hauled away. He still watches the newcomer with a sense of unease, though. In a moment, Steve has come to the door and is stepping out onto the porch to shake the guy’s hand, speaking with him like he was expecting his arrival.

Sam appears close at Bucky’s side. “That’s Steve’s new head of security,” he tells him lowly. “Rollins. He was assigned here. Steve didn’t pick him out.”

“Does that mean he’s not one of you?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says. He doesn’t seem pleased.

Bucky resists the urge to let his eyes slide sideways. “Should I … act on protocol, then?”

“Follow Steve’s lead,” Sam says, after a moment of tense silence. 

They both watch as Steve gestures in their direction, talking to Rollins and ostensibly telling the man who they are. Rollins’ eyes do another cool sweep over Bucky, and without realizing it, Bucky’s lowering his eyes in a deferential move that’s been drummed into him since his earliest days at the red center. When he dares to peek back up, Steve and Rollins are just disappearing through the front door into the house. 

“Definitely keep your mouth shut around him,” Sam advises. "As far as he's concerned, this is just another Commander's household. And as far as we’re concerned, he’s an Eye."

"Right."

Together, they go back to raking the leaves. Eventually Bucky works up the nerve to ask a question that he isn’t sure he really wants the answer to: “Why does Steve need a head of security?” Commander Putnum hadn’t had one.

“Death threats,” Sam says. “Not a big deal,” he assures him. “We get them all the time. Mostly it’s nothing.”

“Mostly?" Bucky scoffs, wondering who’d be dumb enough to threaten a Commander of the Faith. "Sounds like a good way to end up on a wall," he mutters.

“Most of it’s noise," Sam excuses. "Untraceable. The ones we can trace almost always lead back to resistance members."

“But I thought—”

“Other resistance members,” Sam says lowly, shooting Bucky a look that clearly says he should shut up. Nobody in the household has yet confided to Bucky just what sort of organization they work for. “Militia remnants, like the ones you used to pal around with, apparently.” Sam smirks and knocks his rake against Bucky's, then goes back to pulling in the edges of the pile they've got. "I should go get bags for these.”

Bucky ducks his head and represses the urge to ask more questions about Steve and Sam and the rest of them: who they work for, what their mission is, how they communicate with—

“This Rollins guy might not just be here for security,” Sam warns, just as Natasha appears at the front door and gestures for them both to come inside. They drop their rakes and head for the door. "There could be another reason."

"You really think he’s an Eye?” Bucky asks, hoping it isn’t true. Whenever eyes start getting involved, people start being disappeared.

Sam doesn’t deny or confirm, but the unhappy set to his face says plenty. “Treat him like one,” he mutters, as they go up on the porch and into the house. 

In the darkened interior of the foyer, Natasha is holding an armful of bed linens. “Commander Rogers is welcoming Guardian Rollins to the Household,” she says, speaking in a way that Bucky only picks up on as being fake because he’s observed how everybody talks now when their guard is down: this isn’t it. Natasha nods for them to come with her, and they follow along behind as she starts up the stairs. “They’re in the office, having drinks. Dinner is in an hour—just them, but we’ll be on standby. Then he wants us all presentable in the parlor for the evening.”

Sam and Bucky share an unenthusiastic look, but say nothing. For the life of him, Bucky can’t imagine what they’re all going to do in the parlor with their new houseguest that evening. At his last placement, the Putnams would frequently entertain guests, but Bucky was rarely ever requested to be present for such things. He’d been quite content to remain in his room in the basement—out of sight, just the way Mrs. Putnam had preferred it. 

“I’ve gotta make up a bed for him,” Natasha says at the second floor landing, and they all part ways to head off to their respective parts of the house. 

Bucky goes up to the attic level to wash up and change clothes. He tries to think of what he’ll be expected to do whilst spending an entire evening with Steve and this new guy that they need to stand on ceremony around. With all the protocols he learned back at the red center, and knowing how things were at his posting with his first Commander, he’s not expecting to enjoy the rest of his evening very much. All he can think of is that he’ll probably be expected to remain quiet and tucked aside, only speaking when spoken to, and only very politely and perfunctory at that.

He gets grumpy about it, because this means that his usual routine of eating a nice relaxed meal with everyone else at the dinner table and then getting to immerse himself in books in Steve’s office is out the window for tonight. Maybe even for the foreseeable future. Oh god, he hopes not. He hopes that this new guy Rollins won’t wind up staying long. He’d hate to lose the one thing he’s come to enjoy. 

He usually makes a firm habit of trying not to let himself get his hopes up about anything, but in this one thing, he realizes he’s failed. He’s fallen into the trap of wanting, and now it’s going to lead to the same inevitable result it always does: disappointment. 

He dresses the way he knows he’s expected to, in a fresh pair of soft red pants, long sleeved red shirt, tidy red sweater, white socks, brown indoor shoes that are more like slippers than shoes. Red’s not his color, but at least the clothes are comfortable.

He stands in front of the bathroom’s crappy plastic mirror and combs his hair, which has grown longer since they last cut it at the red center, before this placement with Steve. If it grows much longer without being cut, it’ll reach his ears again soon. Bucky considers the blurry reflection of his left ear, with the tiny redtag curled over the cartilage … and his right one. He brings his hand up absently to touch at the mutilated place where he’d used scissors to do what had to be done. He feels oddly apathetic about it, though it’s anything but attractive. What’s the point in worrying about a little ear mutilation when you’ve had ninety percent of your left arm lopped off? 

Still … maybe Steve won’t care if he lets his hair grow out.

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[brightestorangedawn]

fuck it, Vader's getting brought back wrong

Chapters: 1/?

Rating: E

Characters: Sidious, Darth Vader, Padmé Amidala, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Luke Skywalker

Relationships: Sidious & Vader, Vader/Padmé, Luke & Vader

Warnings: violence, body-horror, non-consensual body modification

Summary: Vader dies on Mustafar. Sidious brings him back to life. Things go very badly after that.