Jun. 22nd, 2010 01:53 pm
[personal profile] brancher
Title: Immaculate
Pairings: uhhhhhhh...
Summary: Adrian captures Rorschach and uses him as a human incubator for his uber-race eggs. Written for kinkmeme eggfest 2010. Yeah, this was me.
WARNINGS: noncon, body horror, humiliation, depersonalization, bad science. The "I'm-going-to-hell" tag is here for a reason folks; the first sentence should tell you where this is headed, and it doesn't get any better from there.

Walter groaned and squirmed in his bonds as the eggs pumped steadily into his abdominal cavity.

"Shhh," Adrian soothed. "This is all for the best." He bent down, checking to make sure the coupling between the artificial ovipositor and Walter's new orifice was sealed tight.

Walter couldn't see what had been done to him there; he could only feel the grotesque cold squirming of the eggs as they were deposited deep inside. He had resisted with all his strength through his first few broods, but now his protests were becoming more perfunctory.

"It's a lucky thing for me that you took such an interest in my activities," Adrian said. "It is a great sacrifice, but you must remember that you are, in some sense, the savior of mankind."

"Abomination," Walter spat.

"Have it your own way," Adrian said mildly, and left him alone with the machine.

He had told Rorschach all about the project when Rorschach was first captured. Adrian had sought to prevent the coming apocalypse, but his geneticists had failed him. So he had turned to Plan B. Humans would not survive the nuclear holocaust, but something would, something that was at least partly human.

He had just needed a host.

The warmth was starting now, spreading through Walter's body as the IV in his arm flooded him with hormones. He could move very little, but he still tugged feebly against his restraints, even as the familiar dullness overtook him.

His muscles had atrophied after so long a period of immobility, and his skin hung loose around his waist. There were stretch marks there, he knew; Adrian had told him.

Soon, though, he would be taut and rounded again, swollen with developing eggs. The heat rose until the coolness in his belly began to feel pleasant, and he realized he was no longer pulling against the place where the machinery joined his flesh, but was leaning into it, letting it fill him.

"Whore," he muttered.

He thought of his mother, opening her legs for so many men. He was a mother too, now, in a way.


The first brood had been the worst.

Disoriented and aching, he had moaned as the weight of the eggs distended his belly, pushing against the skin. He had cursed Veidt and concentrated on feeling only hate, trying to destroy the life inside him through sheer fury. Prayed to a god he no longer believed in that the eggs would be sterile, stillborn, defective.

When they came out of him, Adrian had been very pleased.

"You've done a good job, Rorschach," he said, beaming. "Very promising. It seems you are perfect for the project. You should be proud."

That was the first time he begged.

"Let me go," he said. "Got what you wanted. No danger to you. No one would believe."

"A good scientist must repeat his experiments," Adrian said, smiling. "These results are encouraging, though we will learn more when we dissect them. The next brood will certainly be even more robust."

Walter swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his own emptiness now all the eggs were gone.


Adrian just smiled at him again, like a favorite uncle with a somewhat dim but valuable child.

"But I could not let you go even if I wished," he said. He laughed lightly. "Did you think I was simply using you as you were? You have been surgically altered, Rorschach. If I were to detach you now and release you I doubt you would survive."

He brushed his fingers across Walter's lips, and then the technicians came to start the process over again.


Slowly, he became used to it: the uncomfortable coldness of the metal coupled to his flesh, the dull ache as the eggs were forced into him, the slowly increasing pressure on his bladder and his lungs. When the oviposition was complete and he was sealed up, he felt sick; nauseous and weak and angry. But he also felt full.

He told himself that the first brood had clearly failed, that this one would fail too, and then Adrian would put an end to this obscene violation. They would throw him out with the rest of the laboratory waste, and if he survived he would come back and burn this place to the ground.

He told himself this over and over as his belly grew round, as his nipples leaked thin, yellowish milk.

But then he woke and realized he had been sedated, that the technicians had emptied him again, the eggs were gone. And Adrian had not come back.

He dreamed of dismembered children, of fledglings with human faces and red hair and staring yellow eyes. Their teeth were sharp.

When Adrian came to see him, finally, Walter was fat with eggs again, his nipples two points of agonizing sensitivity. He had been drugged and was too groggy to speak, but he glared as Adrian ran a manicured hand over the curve of his stomach.

"You must think of the greater good, Rorschach," he said.


It has gotten easier, each time.

He has come to look forward to the coupling, the low pulse of the machine, the steady pressure inside him. He is no longer restrained; his limbs are too weak now to be of any use. Instead he is cradled in Adrian's device, limp as a kitten, watching his own body as he waxes and wanes.

He is hard intermittantly, especially when he can feel the eggs shift inside.

Sometimes he is deeply, deeply angry. But there is nothing he can do. They take them from him, every time, and he knows they kill them and cut up their bodies for study. When the technicians come to empty him, he weeps.

There is a recovery period, when the hormones and the drugs drain from his body, and he can almost remember how it felt to be Rorschach. But then it starts again; there is always another brood, and each time he can hold more and more.

He knows his body is no longer his own; it is Adrian's instrument. He is just another piece of lab equipment. An object to be used. His disgust with himself is complete, and for a long time his disgust and his grief sustain him.

And yet with each cycle he is more sensitive, more volatile. He thinks it may be the cumulative effects of the substances in his bloodstream, breaking him down, changing him. His body is so much more malleable now, more tender and responsive. The first time he comes when the ovipositor is filling him, he almost doesn't recognize it, because it's so much more intense than anything he's felt before.

Each cycle he leaks more milk. He feels tight there, as if his tits have swollen too.

He's not sure how much time has passed since this began; months, he thinks, but then it could be years. The cycle repeats: the violent and unwelcome pleasure of the oviposition, the long haze as the eggs mature, and then the sudden depletion. He sleeps and wakes. The cycles blurr together. He is sure that Adrian has not come to see him for a long time, though he isn't sure how long. He sees only the technicians, and they do not speak to him.

Their faces are covered in masks, and this makes him ashamed more than anything else.

Walter wakes disoriented; the light is wrong, the room is all wrong, and there is the sound of music and conversation all around him. His first thought is for the eggs, but he can just see the horizon of his round belly; they are still safe inside him. He relaxes. It takes some time for his eyes to focus.

He's in some kind of ballroom. He's still attached to the device: his swollen abdomen supported with straps, his penis catheterized as always, the IV drip still in his arm. But he has clearly been moved from his room in the science facility to -- here, wherever that is. The lights are low, and there are people milling around him in fancy dress, talking to each other in low cultured voices over their cocktails and hors-d'oeuvres.

Inside him, the eggs squirm and shift in response to the sudden stimulus of sound.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" a woman says, just out of his line of sight. "The technology involved ... Adrian really is a genius."

"I have never claimed not to be," Adrian's voice answers, and there is a brief flurry of polite titters.

"Who was he?" a male voice asks. It is so familiar.

"Only a man. A man who was willing to give over his body to a noble cause," Adrian answers. "And really, is there any nobler cause than the preservation of the human race?"

They murmur agreement that there is not.

The group is moving, coming into his range of vision. Walter rolls his eyes, trying to focus on their faces, and the first woman gasps. "He's -- he's awake!"

"Only in a manner of speaking," Adrian says smoothly. "The host does not experience any discomfort, and in fact I have made sure that he finds the entire experience quite ... pleasurable."

There is another round of titters. Walter is suddenly aware that he is half-hard.

"Now that we have perfected the process, we can move on to larger-scale production." Adrian says.

"Must be a nice life," one of the men says. "Eat, sleep, and pop out babies."

"Easy for you to say," a woman replies, and they laugh.

"Actally, the process does not include a live birth," Adrian says, blandly scientific as ever. "After the eggs are harvested there is still a final stage of maturation before..."

The voices recede into the distance as Walter gives himself over to involuntary orgasm. It is a more and more frequent occurance -- no more than a quick breath and a shudder as the catheter takes care of his issue.

He feels himself slip away from consciousness again. Later, he will not be sure whether or not it was a dream.


He dreams of the children.

They are whole, and beautiful. They are blond and full of light. Their eyes are mirrors.

They stroke their small hands over his face, over his chest and his belly and his thighs and between his legs. In his dream his body is as it once was, and he tells them they must stop, but they do not stop.

They tell him he deserves this.


He no longer has a name. He is a vessel. He is a link in a chain that makes the future. He is a warm shelter. 

He is happy.


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