[CW: Needles, Bondage, Sensory Play, Blindfolds, whipping, choking/gagging (on dick/a gag), chastity, and all the expected cult stuff – manipulation, bad bdsm ediquette, etc. And also non-consensual sexual picture taking and sharing. And teeeechnically lying to a partner? But I’m not sure if Tim/Bernard are actually dating at this point.]
Bernard had never wanted wings. He wasn’t one of those kids, the ones that jumped off the monkey bars and pretended to fly, the ones that idolized Superman or Hawkman. He and Tim and their other friends had talked about super powers extensively as kids. Tim had always had a deep cut of an answer, something too smart and too niche for anyone else to know. But he’d dumbed it down to flight more than once. Bernard had always been more of an Aquaman guy. Breathing under water was fucking cool. He didn’t want to fly away from his family, he wanted to go deep and have a place to hide and maybe even be able to talk to some fish.
So it was a wrench when the scales the Cult burned into him were obviously snake scales.
Bernard didn’t even question it when he was sent out to make out with boys in the garden – to work himself up into a state of pure desire. Pain as his cock got harder and harder and pressed against the spikes inside the cage hard enough to draw blood.
He didn’t question it when he was pulled over to a corner of the garden and a Maenard pulled his hair and held his head still as flower after flower fucked his throat. Coming down it and filling his belly and dirtying his face and neck and hair. Distracting him from the rope winding its way around and around his limbs and torso. The rope was rough hemp, and it tightened and scratched as he was abruptly hoisted into the air, legs splayed uncomfortably – showing off his caged cock and pulling at his shoulders so they ached after only seconds. (Is this incredibly bad rope tying? Yes. It’s very unsafe and not good. But the Maenards don’t give a single shit about Bernard’s long term safety and well being. They’re going to kill him in a couple of months and probably D will mend any damage anyway so why be careful?)
His back was exposed to someone with a whip and they tied a blindfold around his eyes so he couldn’t see and then he couldn’t taste anything but more flesh down his throat and couldn’t smell anything except the come drying on his skin and the sweat from bodies fucking his face and couldn’t hear anything but the laughter and chattering voices – all indistinct and giddy. And he felt. He felt PAIN.
His throat was raw and aching, his lungs burned for air, his cock was pierced by the spikes in the cage, his limbs were pulling and screaming from the ropes, and his back. Something hit his back. A whip? A flogger? It was a dull, thudding pain. It drew the blood to the surface and made each hit worse than the last. The hits spread out, covering his entire back again and again and again. Until his entire back was a throbbing, aching mess that he felt deep into his muscles.
There was a moment. Endless and an instant, Bernard didn’t know which. Time had no meaning anymore. A moment where something cool traced his back. A drawing? A soothing cloth to wipe the sweat and calm the muscle? He couldn’t even count the time by the thrust of the cocks in his mouth because those had stopped. He tasted only silicone now, shoved deep down and plugging him from puking up the come he’d swallowed.
He drifted, unable to concentrate, unable to focus. An eternity of the same gentle cool caress and fullness and struggle to breathe and steady pain.
And then.
A prick in his back.
First one. Then another. Then another. All down his spine.
As more and more and more went in, the first began to burn. His muscles protesting.
He shifted and PAIN flared. A zinging pain like being struck with lightning or sticking a fork in a wall socket. His nerves were on fire.
The pricks began to sink into him and cause his nerves to scream with every pinch.
It was needles. When he woke the next day, one of his college cult friends would show him a picture of the thousands of needles in his back, each designed to mimic a feather in a riot of chaotic colour. They were all sizes and at first Bernard couldn’t see a pattern and then the friend flicked to another picture at a different angle and those were. They were wings. Massive feathered wings sunk deep into Bernard’s back setting every nerve on fire. In the pictures, he’s screaming. Blindfold covering his eyes but unable to mask the excrutiating pain on his face. Nothing hid the way his cock was dripping in its cage. Both blood and the come forced out of it by the people fucking him. Pictures of hands on his hips, pictures of the wings blurring as they shook from the force of being fucked – every nerve ablaze and his prostate pounded over and over and his cock leaking. Pictures of his hole, empty and leaking. His mouth finally freed and leaking drool everywhere. A picture of his face entirely uncovered that Bernard had no memory of even though he was looking at the camera – mouth open and begging.
Bernard wanted to ask his friends to delete the pictures, but they were shared everywhere. Everyone in the cult seemed to have a copy. And people were praising him. Telling him he was an amazing sacrifice. Telling him he was beautiful and awe inspiring. And how they were devastated that they’d missed a chance to fuck him. Telling him all the things they wanted to do to him. Texting him. Pulling him aside after class. Cornering him in the kitchen at work.
The only time he didn’t check his phone was when he was with Tim. When they were watching Superboy on TV (when Bernard was laughing at Tim’s grumping about Superboy’s terrible leather jacket. Bernard kinda liked it). When he was trying to avoid staring at Tim’s chest in a thin tshirt because then Bernard started to get hard and his cock pressed against the spikes and he was reminded all over again that his body belonged to the cult and D.
Which he wanted. Obviously. They’d given him a home. Taken him in. They loved him in spite of who he was. He was so proud to be a sacrifice. So proud.
(Not ashamed at all. About the scars and tattoos and piercings and unexplainable body mods and the cage. Never ashamed. He just didn’t want Tim to get all investigaty and stick his nose where it didn’t belong so he wore heavy shirts and baggy pants and never suggested going to the pool or the gym. Even if he really wanted to see Tim without his shirt.)
Mmmhmm. I personally favor the design function, but I know Zeldy likes the camera rune
What else is there?
Uhhhhhh... a lot. There's the map, bombs, a storage function, bombs, I tried to make an arson function but that got vetoed, bombs, oh there's the communication feature, and more bombs!
So a whole lot of bombs?
There's other stuff too! The slate was recovered with about seven runes already on it: Stasis, round bombs, square bombs, magnesis, stasis, cryonis, the camera run and hyrule compendium, and the master cycle zero
Oh my Hylia, not that thing again
Hey! I only set one thing on fire with it!
You drove the master cycle into a wall and blew it up, causing part of the castle to collaps
Favorites: Dance, Dance, Dance/In The Back Of My Mind
Rating: 8.2/10
The Beach Boys have no right slapping as hard as they do. I haven't heard one bad song from them. My ideal nightclub is them just blasting beach boys and letting me go wild on the dancefloor. It's a bit too cutesy at times but that's ok 😌✋
