#objectified wire wrap

[leederpfucker]

I made an Objectified family tree (kind of)

I made it using Google Slides although it would be fun to draw a traditional family tree with these guys one day. Also the images will be updated with new info (although how much after is up in the air)

Notes under the cut

I am only including confirmed public information. Any speculations (like my theory that Faux is Morrigan's sister based off of the fact that the mythological Morrigan is part of a sister trio) or Patreon confirmed relations are banned from this family tree

We do actually know to an extent how related to Faux the Faux Objects are. To quote the FAQ on the site: "Closely related characters often have long bodies, fly, and have curved claws. Far descendants are more likely to have a special hidden ability that can help them in a survival situation, though they may not be aware of it until it is too late." So, Body Pillow is on some level closely related to Faux. I THINK (do not quote me on this) during an LSD video (not sure which one) Chester mentioned Faux has been dead for a while to Faux is likely Body Pillow's great great grand relative. However, since we don't know the specifics Body Pillow will currently stay in "unknown relations"

The reason pretty much none of these include two sets of (unknown) parents is because if we have zero info on a relative they weren't included. Although I should mention right here that out of the main cast Gum is the only one who spawned from a single parent

If you think you've seen this post before you have. I deleted the original since Tumblr messed with the ordering

Characters that are here but not tagged due to tag limits: Unnamed marine person (note the fins), Citrus' sister, Painkiller's parents, Gum's mom, Sharps' mom, Minty and Malt's mom, Fuzzball's mom and step dad, Sugarcube, Dynamite's parents, Dynamite, Push, Push's adopted nephew, Ribs, Porkloin, Wagyu

[yagurlhere]

Can somebody help me find the post where Chester confirms what creature Mushroom's mom-Wire Wrap Tree-is? I forgot, and I can't find it, and I think it was on their @chesterfern account.

[kieran-granola]

Identity Porn AOB scenario in which alpha Roy and omega Jason work together but they don't know each other's real ID.

Jason has a massive crush on Arsenal but there's no way he's outing himself as an omega to anyone from the cape community. He'd rather pine. Meanwhile Roy is VERY bisexual and crushing hard on Red Hood... but he doesn't want to jeopardize their relationship with a one night stand, and he's not getting serious with anyone he's not sure he could introduce to his baby girl.

So, they both repress their feelings. They bury them deep deep into the dark recesses of their minds and stick to friendship.

...Then a hot single alpha dad moves into the flat next door to Jason's.

It's nothing serious at first. They're just neighbors. Then they start spending time together. They invite each other over for dinner, they help each other build furniture, they share tips about the neighborhood and go grocery shopping together. Stuff like that.

And the more they hang out together, the more they resonate... and both of them start to fall for each other in their civvies.

They hide it, of course. Jason because he doesn't want to expose an unsuspecting child to the risks that come with being a vigilante's stepkid, and Roy because he's pretty convinced he's totally out of the bombshell omega next door's league.

Then Roy's season comes around. He leaves Lian with Ollie and Dinah and holes up for his rut. He does his best to be a considerate neighbor. He spends a week alone, getting re-acquainted with his hands and humping his bed, smothering his growls into his pillows.

Unfortunately for Jason, despite Roy's efforts, the noise and smell of his rut carry. It wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience for anyone else, but Jason is already attuned to him, and that combination triggers a sympathetic heat.

This means that Roy comes down from his rut after a week — exhausted, missing his kid and just looking forward to denning down and sleeping — only to smell the last days of Jason's heat. Roy hears the desperate cries for pack that Jason just isn't able to suppress anymore after days of heat fever when he walks in front of his door on his way to go pick Lian up. His wires get crossed so bad because fuck, he wants this omega in his den with them, bracketing Lian with him, safe and comfortable instead of in pain and lonely... And so when Jason's heat ends, Roy awkwardly shows up to ask for a movie night with the three of them, just to soothe his need to comfort and protect.

Jason is like... he waited for the end of my heat to knock at my door AND he's offering platonic affection? With a PUP when Jason's paternal instincts are still raw from heat? Be still his beating heart.

Arsenal: "I won't be around for patrol on Friday. Don't miss me too much, yeah?"

Red Hood: "Don't worry, I won't even notice."

Arsenal: "Oh, I see. Let me get my Bat-translator... Yeah, I love you too, buddy."

Red Hood: "Fuck off. I meant that literally. I won't be patrolling either."

Arsenal: "Ooooh. Hot date?"

Red Hood: "Hotter than your dumb ass, that's for sure."

Anyway.

Lian falls asleep between them during the movie, and they stay cuddled up together for a while after, just enjoying the feeling of safety. Eventually, Roy puts her in bed, before offering Jason a drink.

Jason is more relaxed than he's ever been, and agrees. Roy gets them both a beer, and goes to sit at a respectable distance, but Jason holds him back by the wrist because, "C'mon, alpha, hold me? Those arms have gotta be good for something."

Roy blue screens for a second thinking of all the things he could do to the cheeky O on his couch before sitting down like, "If you're gonna objectify my arms, does that mean i have permission to talk about your thighs?"

"Only if you're offering to let me wrap them around your neck."

Roy bursts out laughing. "I don't know if you're threatening me with violence or if you're asking for head."

"Hmm..." Jason settles into Roy's arms. "I haven't decided yet. Ask me again when I'm done with that beer."

Despite Jason's brazenness, they don't fuck that night. Even after a few days of rest, they're both exhausted from their seasons and not actually up for anything. Instead, they fall asleep intertwined on the couch.

The next morning, Roy wakes up to Lian poking his cheek. He's surprised and disappointed when he realizes Jason isn't in his arms anymore, but he's also a bit relieved that Lian didn't catch them in an awkward position... And then he smells coffee and breakfast, and all of the negative feelings are replaced by affection and lust when he spots Jason cooking.

Fast forward to a week later. Roy begged the fam to babysit, and invited Jason out to dinner "to repay him for breakfast". They go to a restaurant and spend the whole meal flirting, then they both head home together. That's when the two of them fall into bed.

Sex with Jason is a lot wilder than Roy expected, and holy shit Jason's muscles definitely aren't for show... But hey! He's not complaining. Jason's pussy feels even sweeter after a bit of wrestling, and Roy is perfectly happy to get pinned down and ridden within an inch of his life if that's what his omega is looking for.

That is... Until he notices a VERY familiar scar that he remembers seeing when he was tending to one of Red Hood's wounds in the field.

Every single one of their interactions comes rushing back to him. Their camaraderie in the field, the fun they've had as civilians... It all flashes through his mind as he finally connects the dots and realizes how similar Red Hood and Jason are and why.

"You're Red Hood," Roy blurts out.

Jason frowns and slows his movements. "Seriously? Did you have to wait to be balls deep in my cunt to be delusional?"

"I'm not delusional. You're Red Hood. And I'm Arsenal."

"Is this a kink? Are you into rolepla—"

"Jason. I know that scar. I saw it when I stitched you up after Clayface threw you into that fucking piece of rebar."

Jason tenses, and goes still. Roy bites down a groan at the feeling. "How long have you known?"

"About 30 seconds."

"For real?" Jason growls low in his throat and makes a move to dismount. "And you couldn't have waited 10 minutes to have this conversation?"

Roy whines and holds him back by the hips. "In my defense, my brain isn't getting a lot of blood right now. Please don't stop, you feel amazing."

"...You're a fucking dumbass, Harper."

"Maybe, but I'm your dumbass. Come on, please—"

Jason snaps his teeth in annoyance and presses him down into the pillows by the shoulders. "Fine. But if you come before me, I will shoot you."

"Yessir."

By the time the two of them are sated and lying next to each other, Roy is feeling a little bit more normal about his discovery. It's an unexpected but not unwelcome development. They share a cigarette and talk about it, and they both agree to keep dating. There's nothing left to hide between them after all, and it's not like they can uncross the lines they blasted through in their civvies. Their friendship has already been changed. They just have to hope that it's been changed for the better.

(Years later, sitting next to each other at Lian's middle school graduation, they'll thank the Universe for pushing them together despite their hang-ups. Friends, lovers, husbands... their titles in each other's lives have changed over the years but one thing hasn't: the complicity and love they share are still as bright and warm as they were when they first learned to trust each other.)

[breedbategd4]

3D: Final

This is my 3D piece. I won’t say final yet, in case I decide to tweak it before presentations, but I am quite happy with how it turned out. I created “clots” in the inner shape, then wrapped the strings/wires along the outside. 

This piece objectifies the “breedbate,” who is, by definition, a human being who causes quarrels. It represents the conflicts caused by the breedbate, and how their quarrels sometimes have no logical reasoning behind them. It is a more abstract approach than my 2D piece, but it is also sometimes the reality of things. Why a rhombus and not a cube? What is this red ball and why are there wires surrounding it? I’ve had interpretations of the red ball representing the breedbate; the wires come from it. There is also the interpretation of the red ball being the receiver of the breedbate’s nonsensical and disturbing quarrels. The differences in these interpretations align with my abstract approach of being unable to understand the breedbate’s actions.

More pictures:

[wonderful-wells-writing]

Fanclub; Chapter 1

EoWells x Reader

Some of the STAR Labs employees have a secret fanclub where they discuss Harrison Wells and share pictures they take when they think he isn't looking. Problem is it's not quite as secret as they think it is. The man himself seems to have taken an interest in the the little group, finding it to be the perfect place to find willing partners to satisfy his needs. And you're his next pick.

Work is dying down for the evening at STAR Labs. Chemists are checking that all the storage units are set to the proper temperatures. Engineers are making sure that everything that needs to be powered down is. Lab techs are cleaning up their stations. But nearly everybody is discussing their plans for the weekend.

There is one worker who is not engaging in such conversations. You are currently crammed between two sections of machinery, determined to get this wiring finished before leaving for the day. That way, Monday, bright and early your team can start doing test runs.

You are not engaging in conversation with others but rather are talking to yourself as you work. “Some red over here, blue wire over there.” Your grin would light up the room if anybody could see it. “I just love when a color-coded array comes together.” There’s a buzz on your right butt-cheek, and you squeal in surprise.

“Everything alright in there?” One of the other scientists looks up from the desk.

“Yeah, Bri,” you extract yourself from the machine parts. “My phone just went off, and I thought something shocked me.”

“Girl, I can not tell you how often that happens to me,” Bri takes her purse from a drawer and a jacket off the chair. “So, what are your plans for the weekend. More number crunching?”

You pull your phone from your back pocket. “Actually my college roommate is having a bachelorette party tonight. So I said I would swing by the bar for a bit.”

“Sounds fun,” Bri gives a wave before heading to the door. “Don’t party too hard.”

She returns the wave before opening a group chat app on her phone to see what the notification is about.

KittyCat42; O.M.G did you see Dr. Wells today? a shirt THAT tight can not be workplace appropriate!!!

Attached is a photo taken from a smartphone at an angle in which the subject does not seem to be aware their picture is being taken. Dr. Harrison Wells is leaning over a desk, examining something on a monitor. Kitty is right; his shirt is very tight, his biceps bulge through the long black sleeves.

You grin, considering sending a reply, but another message comes in first.

YummyBitch73; Think he’s got plans? Looking that good, he’s got to be going out tonight.

Your thumbs move across the screen to type a quick response.

BabyDoll14; Maybe he has a date tonight?

KittyCat42; wonder who the lucky girl is?

You lean against a nearby workbench, smirking at the screen.

---

On the other side of the lab, somebody picks up their phone to check the barrage of notifications coming in. They chuckle before adding their own two cents.

Speedy22: Hey, who knows, it could be a lucky guy.

YummyBitch73: Oh you wish, he is a lady killer through and through

BabyDoll14: I mean, who are we to judge if it’s a lucky lady or gent. Maybe he swings one way, maybe he swings both ways. Who cares, we’re just here to talk about his ass behind his back.

“Speedy’ nods, almost respecting the woman on the other side of the screen for staying objective about objectifying her boss.

Speedy22: Speaking of ass, I got this one yesterday

He opens his gallery and scrolls until an ‘appropriate picture is found. A nice shot of Dr. Wells from behind; the quality is incredible for a smartphone shot. The man’s shirt is riding up, showing a nice strip of the skin of his back, even a bit of where his boxers rise above the waistband of his hands.

YummyBitch73: Damn Speedy, you always get the good ones. You’ll have to teach me some photography lessons sometime.

KittyCat42: what kind of camera are you using? The quality is so gooooood.

“Hey,” a woman’s voice draws his attention away from his device. “Are you staying late again tonight?”

Harrison Wells takes a breath to look her up and down, mentally running through his mind all the employees to try and remember who it is at his office door. “I’ll be headed out soon; I just have to wrap some things up.”

He recalls who she is when he sees the look she’s giving him. Brianna Masters, a specialist working down in Lab C. She would have had to go out of her way to get to his office before leaving. Self-proclaimed president of the Dr. Wells Fanclub, he had just been interacting with the group chat of; after the former president left with a job offer at Mercury Labs. She had been making goo-goo eyes at him since her interview three months ago.

“Well,” Bri twirls a curl of her hair, fluttering her eyelashes. “Harrison, you know I was wondering if you might like to take me out to get some drinks tonight?”

Dr. Wells tries to hide his displeasure at the thought. She wasn’t his type, physically, mentally, emotionally, “I have plans in the morning that require a clear head. Miss. Masters. Now is there anything of importance that you need?” The man was not adverse to flights of fancy to pass the time; he wouldn’t be keeping an eye on the little Fanclub of his if he wasn’t willing to look for ‘interested parties,’ but this particular woman has been of no real interest to him.

For reasons such as how she pouts at his response, “Well, having fun is important.” She mutters before wandering off down the hall, turning her attention to her phone.

YummyBitch73; holy Shit! He just asked me out for drinks. It sucks so much that I have to drive out to Coast City; I”d have taken him up in a heartbeat otherwise.

----

Back in Lab C, you finally finish with the maintenance on the machine. You check your phone once more while heading over to the desk and nearly cackle at what you’re reading. Everybody knows that Bri is full of shit, but there’s no point in calling it out and causing discourse.

You mute the phone to focus on your computer. While humming a quiet tune, you work on moving files to the USB stick plugged into the monitor.

“Fuck,” you whisper, seeing the download time in comparison to the clock on the screen. Of course, you could just leave it be, take the weekend off. It’s not like you get paid extra to run calculations at home.

17 minutes later

“Nonononono, wait, please!” You’re half running to the street as the bus pulls away, leaving you in the illuminated circle of a streetlamp, cursing yourself. That was going to be the last bus coming this way for the night. If you walk home, you’ll never make it in time to change for the party. You might not even make the event at all. You pace up and down the sidewalk, contemplating your options.

A car pulls up beside you, tinted window rolling down, “Need a lift?”

You stop, shocked, “Oh, no I…” you pause, looking through the window, “Dr. Wells, hi...hey.” You swallow your pride. “I would really love to get a ride on-with, with you.” Internally you cringe at how that came out, but figure he probably wouldn’t have heard such a minor slip.

The lock clicks open, and you reach for the door.

“Maple Apartments on South 11th street, right?” Harrison glances at you as you get in the car.

You pause before shutting the door, “do I want to know how you know that?”

He laughs, and you jump a bit at it, “I can see how that would sound a little suspicious.” His smile is reassuring, and his blue eyes are kind behind his glasses. “It was on your registration forms when you started. I enter new employee data myself. Total recall can be useful even for small matters.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, shutting the door and buckling in. “I really appreciate this Dr. Wells, I would have been so late tonight if I didn’t get home to change soon.”

“Bit plans tonight?” Harrison asks as he starts driving. Truth is he had suspected you’d be missing her bus. He had seen you running after the last bus or driven past you walking home numerous times out his way out. You had quite the habit of working until the absolute last moment.

You smile, twiddling your thumbs to keep your hands occupied. “Yeah, I’m meeting a friend at the new bar that opened down the street from my place. She’s getting married soon, and since I can’t make the wedding, I promised I would spend at least a couple hours at her bachelorette party.” You aren’t exactly sure why you’re volunteering this information to your boss. It would be inappropriate to be so casual with him; then again, it’s also inappropriate to be part of a Fanclub that secretly takes pictures of him and talks about how great his ass looks.

Harrison ‘hmms’ in thought. “Why can’t you make it to the wedding?” He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, taking a moment to take in the way you sit, act, look, before returning his eyes to the road.

“Oh, they scheduled it for a Wednesday, so,” you look towards him just moments after he looks away. The first thing you notice is his hair; whenever you’ve seen him in the morning, it’s perfectly combed and straight, but it seems like as the day went on, it began to take on a life of its own. While the back is still nice and neat, the front is sticking out in all kinds of directions.

“You could have asked for the day off,” Dr. Wells offers, “Am I such a terrible boss that you think I”d deny you some vacation after all your hard work?”

You feel a heat rise to your cheeks at what seems to be a compliment to her work ethic, “Oh no, I don’t think that at all. It’s just that, well, we have so much work to do. Every day we get a little closer to your dreams of the particle accelerator, and I want to contribute absolutely everything I can to that dream.” You smile. “You’re going to do such incredible things for the world of science Dr. Wells, and I don’t want to waste any time that could be spent helping you.”

The man is somewhat stunned by this. He’d attributed her long hours and determination to personal ambition. “What about you? Do you want history to remember you for your achievements?”

You bite your lower lip in thought at the question, “I mean sure, it would be nice to be recognized for my contribution, but,” she takes a deep breath, “I’m more concerned about how my work will impact the world, not so much if I’m remembered for it. Anyways you’re the true genius. I can tell that STAR Labs will make big changes and put humanity on a path towards the future. As long as I get to be a part of that, it’s all I really need.”

Harrison does a low chuckle at your sentiment, amused by the naivety. You speak with such hope and wonder and admiration. If you knew the truth, how horrified would you be? The realization of the end goal of the particle accelerator, the effects across history that your determination would wreak.

He grins, “Well, I am glad to have such a dedicated employee, but I do believe that one off day is not going to hurt our progress.”

You purse your lips, “You don’t come down to Lab C very often; you’d be surprised how off the rails things can go when I’m not there. Anyways I would rather work than go to a wedding. It’s not my kind of scene.”

He can sense that you are holding something back but doesn’t press the issue any further. He’s reached your apartment building anyways.

“If you change your mind, I’ll be more than happy to give you the time off,” he says as he parks.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you reach for the door handle, “oh, and thank you so much for the ride. I really owe you one.”

Dr. Wells makes a mental note about cashing in that favor later. “You just stay safe and enjoy yourself tonight.” He smiles warmly at you as you wave goodbye, but when the door shuts, his grin turns a bit darker. He watches you walk away, eyes tracing the curve of your figure, resting on the beautiful shape of your rear, right up until you disappear into your building.

As he begins to drive away, he catches sight of himself in the rearview mirror. There is something about this form of his that seems to drive the ladies crazy, and he wasn’t opposed to taking advantage of that. While pulling back into the street and driving away, he thinks on his situation.

For 13 years now, Eobard Thawne has been trapped in this god-forsaken time period. For a while, he had focused solely on his mission, rarely interacting with others unless it served a greater purpose. But he was still a man, subject to desire. At first, it was almost enough to make him regret allowing Harrison Well’s wife to die, she could have filled his needs easily. But that woman had been intelligent; she’d have discovered his identity eventually, so allowing her to die had been for the best.

Still, after a few years of isolation, Thawne had found the need unbearable and began seeing ways to fill the hole that was forming in his chest. Little flings, one-off nights where he indulged his carnal side, allowed himself the pleasure of another’s body before quickly parting ways with them, when he discovered that a fanclub devoted to him had been formed amongst his employees, that made the whole thing easier.

Joining the group chat under a false name was easy enough. It inflated his ego every time he read them discussing how great they thought he looked, and he was more than happy to provide material for them to gush over. And with that, it was like he had been given a list of women who would fuck him with no questions asked. All he had to do was choose. Of course, he has to be wary of those who might get too clingy or go off telling other people. But it’s not that hard to week those types out of the pack.

Thawne notices magenta neon as he’s driving. A club with a grand opening sign out front. He smiles, knowing that now not only does he have a new prey lure in, but the perfect hunting ground as well.

[bypeau]

tyler feng had no what had gotten into him... well, aside from a few inches of twink cock. he would have never thought of giving up his ass for anyone else, but there was something about declan that had tyler's wires crossed. for once, he wasn't being a selfish lover. he wanted declan to have the time of his life— and if that meant giving the boy unlimited access to his tight, doughy ass, then so be it. "i can tell, baby... got you making out with it like it's your first love," tyler moaned softly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. sex wasn't anything new to tyler. the boy had taken more lovers than he could count, but declan lapping at his tight, sweaty hole felt far more intimate than anything tyler had ever experienced. he could feel the passion in every stroke of the younger boy's tongue, a sensation that only intensified as those dainty digits dug into his glistening cunt and spread him apart. "fuck, keep breeding daddy's pussy, princess— eat that creamy cunt, too. don't let my load go t'waste," he hummed. his eyes rolled back, toes curling at the blissful sting of his taut rim stretching for the very first time. gone was any hesitation that tyler once felt, any sense of control that he wished to preserve— he didn't understand why, but he was giving it all up for some twink he barely knew. tyler pushed back onto declan's fingers, golden cheeks clapping obscenely as he shook his ass like some wanton slut. "keep tellin' daddy how much you love his fat ass, princess. slap it a little, make me feel it," tyler begged, turning his head to meet the younger boy's gaze. "y'want daddy t'feel like a nasty little buttslut, don'tcha? y'gotta work for it, princess... don't treat me like your daddy, treat me like one of those useless bimbos in porn. turn daddy's juicy ass into your toy, baby— objectify me. c'mon, i know you can do it."

the boys watching had drifted to the back of tyler's mind. he didn't care that they were witnessing the complete destruction of the guy, of the man, they were supposed to fear and respect. he didn't care that he might wake up to rumors of sigma chi's president getting butt stuffed by some nerdy twink. tyler had spent so long in control of everything that surrounded him, and he was ready to give some of that up— it was by mere coincidence that it'd fallen right into declan's hands, but tyler couldn't have been happier. "i want it so bad, baby... been thinking about that pretty little cock of yours stretching me open since y'shoved it down my throat in the library. would'a spread this boypussy open right then and there if y'asked me to, y'know? c'mon, don't be mean— gimme that twink cock already," tyler plead, glistening rim fluttering around the boy's tip. his eyes widened as declan finally slid inside, eyes watering from the stretch, even though his fat, tan cock twitched pathetically against his abdomen. he wrapped his legs around declan's torso, keeping him put momentarily as he got used to the feeling of being full. there was a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, spreading across his body until every inch of his golden skin tingled with pleasure— little did he knew, declan's cock was the perfect size to press against his sweet spot, helping him get used to the invasion and soothe the dull ache. his lover, being the devious little thing he was, had hardly given him time to adjust before his soft little lips were mouthing at his sweaty toes, causing tyler to moan out pathetically as his cock spurted pre-cum all over his abdomen. "y'don't have to go without this peachy ass anymore, baby... daddy'll give up his boypussy whenever y'wanna use it, sweetheart. you don't even gotta ask for it," he moaned out, pulling his legs as far back as they would go. that was it— tyler had given up the last bit of control he had over the situation, and his bite-sized lover was soaking it right up. he moaned out girlishly with each punching thrust, grasping onto declan's back as the pretty boy gave him the pounding of a lifetime. the vicious assault to his prostate was too much for tyler to endure, and pretty soon his virgin hole was fluttering around the girth of declan's cock. cum shot out of his cock like a firehose, painting his face with creamy white spurts as declan kept pounding into him. it never seemed to end, and it wasn't until tyler opened his eyes that he understood why— this little twink was fucking the piss right out of him! "i love your cock, b-baby! you own daddy's pussy, o-okay?! 's all yours, you've made tyler feng your personal buttslut," tyler wailed, squirting all over himself like some slutty sorority chick. "f-fuck, it fills me up just right, baby! you're hitting that fuckin' spot so fucking good, can feel it all over... g-god, i'm in love with that twink cock, baby. don't fuckin' stop, keep using that pussy, keep wrecking that frat boy hole, fuck! if i would'a known it would feel like this, i would'a been taking cock the last four years— fuck!"

for as long as declan could remember, he'd abided by the rules. he'd never stayed out past his curfew, had barely even tasted a sip of liquor, and had a perfect gpa. he had a full ride to belgrave university and had a bright future ahead of him. getting involved with the school's most notorious frat king should have been the last thing on his mind . . . but instead of staying locked in his room doing his statistics homework, he'd found himself at the epicenter of a sigma chi party — tyler feng's bedroom. not many guys, let alone freshmen, made it past a certain point, but tyler had deemed him a special case. declan had every intention of making it worth tyler feng's time. "i don't mind . . . maybe i just want to hear you say it," the curly-haired boy replied with smirk curled up on his lips. tyler had him venturing outside of his comfort zone and trying all sorts of new things. declan was becoming bolder, given the fact that he brought his own, well-worn shoe to his face. his little cock twitched in his tiny shorts as he breathed in his own sweaty scent . . . but it paled in comparison to the effect seeing tyler getting a whiff of his boymusk. the pre-cum dripping from his cock stained his shorts. "uh-huh . . . just makes me wanna try yours," declan admitted with a little giggle. his pale cheeks had flushed with a bright pink shade. there was a thrill in the pit of his stomach, a taste of ecstasy that had somehow evaded him until he'd met tyler. he knew that, in that moment, there was something serious going on. he didn't want to be the annoying little virgin who caught feelings for the very first person they touched, but tyler was irresistible. the little voice in his head wasn't riddled with anxiety for once; it was telling him to go all in for tyler . . . and so, declan did. "whenever you want 'em, daddy. they're all yours, but i think you know that," declan promised. he whined as tyler's nose pressed against his sweaty, socked foot. his toes wiggled against the handsome boy's face, doing whatever he could to tempt the sigma chi president. "n-no, but i kinda love it," he admitted. "i like knowin' i have this power over you, daddy. just one whiff of my feet, and you're ready to be my little . . . goon slut!"

"then consider me the luckiest boy in the whole world then," declan hummed giddily. his dainty hand reached out to lift tyler's face. the tiny male leaned down to press a kiss to tyler's plump lips. his tongue swiped across his own lips, tasting the sweat drawn from his own feet. a devilish gleam twinkled in his chocolate eyes, still glued to tyler. "maybe that's what i like. maybe i like it when you're a little gross and sweaty," he countered with a chuckle. the world of sigma chi was completely foreign to him, but declan oddly felt right at home. the boy who wouldn't have been caught dead at some rowdy frat party was now calling the shots — as crazy as it sounded. declan didn't have time to process it, though; he was far too concerned with his next round of pleasure was going to come from. as tyler brought his hand down to his crotch, a shiver was sent down the curve of his spine. his digits curled around his clothed length and slowly began to stroke his cock. he could feel how heavy it felt already, how his hand barely would wrap around it! "it's even bigger than i remembered . . ." declan said in disbelief, his mouth hanging ajar. hungrily, impulsively, the tiny boy recaptured tyler's lips in his own. free hand tangled in those dark locks, keeping him close as their lips moved against each other. "all you gotta do's tell me whatcha want, daddy, and your princess'll give you everything you need 'n' mnore," declan promised against his lover's lips. he sealed the deal with another kiss to those irresistible lips. his desperation, his hunger and need for tyler was clearly on display. he needed tyler to know just how badly he wanted him, to know that his beating heart was in his hands. declan was down for a wild ride, but he wasn't down to get his heart broken — and tyler needed to know that. "it's all up to you, daddy. my body's yours. i know you'll treat it right . . . and i'll tell if you if somethin' gets too much. if you want me to just be your little whore all night, i'll love it — or if you want your boys to get a taste too, i'll love it," declan hummed. all he knew was that he wanted nothing more than to please tyler, and no matter what that entailed, he'd do it. just seeing the look on tyler's face would be enough to get him off — especially since he'd came about fifty times already just reminiscing on tyler's mouth stuffed half full of his cock! "i'll play it however y'want me to," he whispered, thumb stroking against his chin. "i kinda wanna see that . . . i mean, who wouldn't want to slobber all over your sweaty feet?! i'd be cruel if i didn't let someone else get a taste," he chuckled. "i'm coming in your world, daddy. i just wanna get to experience it firsthand as your princess. i'm gonna treat you like a king. i just wanna be there with you through it all." maybe he sounded naïve or silly, but declan couldn't help himself. everything he said just flowed from his lips before his brain could stop him. tyler feng had declan's heart on a string, and there was no turning back now.

prior to stepping foot into declan had fully accepted that he was, well . . . a bottom. that was before he'd gotten a glimpse at tyler's doughy cheeks. the massive globes glistened, even before the sigma chi boys had loaded him up with oil. the moment he'd laid eyes on tyler's ass, declan was ready to bury his face between those cheeks and go wild — and he'd have no shame in doing it either! as he found himself down on his knees, his tongue traveling across that puckered rim with a fervor he'd never known existed before, declan felt the butterflies in his stomach ruffle in flight. he'd never forget the taste of tyler, would forever crave it on his tongue. "and i love your little mancunt," declan murmured, his face still buried between those doughy cheeks so his voice was muffled. he kept going until he felt like his jaw was going to burst. the curly-haired male pulled back with cum-coated fingers ready to press into his lover. he'd never touched anyone like this before, just himself . . . so he did what he liked on himself to tyler. he angled for that spot that he knew would make tyler's toes curl. his digits spread apart a bit, stretching those velvety walls out around his fingers. "uh-huh! thought it was only fair the first load in you was your own," declan giggled. "you're, like, the hottest guy ever, so if anyone got to breed your mancunt, i figured you should be the first! i thought it'd be hot!" he was following his instincts and wasn't second-guessing himself for the first time. declan was allowing himself to fall into the world of pleasure, and for that, he'd only have tyler to thank. when he finally pressed those digits past tyler's lips, a giddy smirk came over his lips. "since you asked so nicely, daddy, that's exactly what i'll do," declan promised. "i'm gonna wreck you . . . and after i'm done breeding your fat ass — seriously, why is it so juicy? — i'm gonna beg you to wreck me . . . in front of all of your boys, so they know i'm all yours and only i can turn you into a little buttslut!"

"love it's an understatement, daddy! i could spend all night wrecking your little cunt," declan hummed. the audience had disappeared in his mind, only reminded by their presence when one of them occasionally egged him on — not that declan ever needed it. for so long, he'd be alone, committed to his studies. but now that he had a taste of tyler, declan was head over heels . . . and he'd never be able to get enough of him, now or ever. the tip of his cock pressed against that newly stretched rim, teasing him ever so slightly. "see, i already turned you in the perfect little whore for me, daddy . . . haven't even given you my cock yet, and you're already my little buttslut," declan teased, letting his hand smack against his plump cheeks. he watched in mesmerization as those doughy cheeks jiggled. finally, declan let his cock slipped past that tight ring of muscle, moaning rather pathetically as that tight heat enveloped his little cock. when he finally bottomed out, his knees nearly buckled out from how tightly tyler's hole was hugging his cock. his hands rested firmly on his lover's hips, as his hips started to develop a rhythm. everything — the pleasure, tyler's feet, the look on his face — was so overwhelming. his lips wrapped around those toes, tongue swirling between each of them. he moaned around his toes, cock twitching inside his lover. "and i didn't tell you i went home and fucked my fist with it on replay . . . that i couldn't stop thinkin' of you and how you'd wreck me, but i didn't think i'd be here splitting this fat little pussy open . . . but how the heck am i ever gonna go without this peachy ass?!" declan whined. he took a whiff of tyler's musk once again and lost all control. if tyler wanted him to turn him into a slut, then declan owed it to him. he needed to blow his mind once and for all, to get him as addicted as he was. "since you asked so nicely, daddy . . . your little princess is gonna destroy this fat ass," declan replied with a smirk. his hips gained momentum. his rhythm might have been unsteady and erratic from his inexperience, but his enthusiasm was clear. he was whining and moaning like it was nothing. the sound of skin slapping against skin was bouncing off the walls of tyler's room. he knew he wasn't going to last very long, not with tyler's virgin hole practically drawing him in on its own. "t-tell me how bad you love my cock, daddy," declan managed to choke out. "tell me that i own your pussy, that this fat ass's all mine, that you're my little buttslut."

[highqueenofelfhame]

glory & gore

I don’t know what part this is I’ll edit that in later lmao MOB BOSS AU AYYY!

“Aelin,” Aedion croaked out, his voice hoarse. His hands didn’t move from where they were situated around Rowan’s throat, however. Aelin’s jaw was clenched as she took in the scene around her, eyes immediately falling to Fenrys and the way he held Lysandra. It was a gentle grip, Aelin could tell she wasn’t in any pain and knew Fenrys enough to know that he wouldn’t ever hurt her. Not without orders, anyway.

“Get your hands off of him, Aedion,” Aelin said coolly. Despite how happy she was to see her cousin, she was not happy to see Rowan’s face nearly purple from how hard Aedion was gripping his throat. As soon as Aedion loosed his grip, Aelin’s eyes shifted to the men that continued to have their guns pointed at her flesh and blood. “Lower your rutting weapons.” The tone of her voice was so cool, so commanding, that every member of the Cadre stood down immediately. Fenrys even took the liberty to release Lysandra’s arms and gently untied the black satin fabric from her eyes.

Aedion stumbled toward her, his hand gripping her chin to make sure she was okay. His eyes searched hers with such fervor that she shook her head slightly, mouthing that she was okay. After a moment she sidestepped him, her fingers moving to trail over Rowan’s neck.

“Are you okay?” She asked him softly, sighing when he nodded. “I’d like some privacy with them but for you to stay.” Aelin spoke primarily to Rowan, but at hearing she wanted space the rest of the crew immediately nodded once in her direction and disappeared. It was strange, giving orders to the most powerful people in Adarlan and have them listen. To have Rowan Whitethorn willing to kneel before her and fall to her every whim.

“Your office?” Rowan murmured, nodding his head toward a door behind her. Aelin turned with raised brows, unaware she had her own office. She couldn’t even think of what she might need it for, but she followed Rowan through the large oak door with Aedion and Lysandra close behind. Aedion was so tense that he was like a wire ready to snap.

The office that Rowan led them into looked much like his own with deep emerald velvet couches and oversized chairs. A sleek black desk was centered near the fireplace with silver and gold accents scattered about the room. It reminded her of home, of Terrasen. Rowan had somehow managed to get the details right, exactly how she would have decorated it herself.

“It was meant to be a surprise, but I suppose now is as good a time as any,” he told her, brushing her hair over her shoulder and pressing a kiss to the bare skin where her robe had slipped off her shoulder.

“Is anyone going to tell me what the fuck is going on here?” Aedion demanded.

Lysandra stepped forward and touched his arm softly as Aelin turned to look at him, her head tilted to the side. Rowan moved to sit on the couch only for Aelin to curl up next to him, settling against his side. She gestured to the other chairs across from her for Aedion and Lysandra to sit, and then she started to tell them a story.

The story of how her father led the mob in secret, of how he’d had the Cadre watching Aelin closely from the time he’d taken over when she was a teenager. She told them of her relationship with Rowan, how it evolved into something much more than either of them had anticipated. Aelin explained that she was safe here, and Aedion had snorted. Of course she was safe. She had demanded that a room of men lower their weapons and they had listened to her. On and on she explained, looking to Rowan for him to fill in the details here and there that she had missed or didn’t know all the ins and outs of. Aedion and Lysandra both were quiet the entire time, listening to them prattle on until the end, until they reached the point of them sitting in her new office. Aedion’s face was unreadable as he processed her words, unreadable still when he started to speak.

“So, what? You’re in control of things now?”

“No. Gods no. Rowan is still...in charge. I don’t even know how it works really, other than --”

“Other than she is my queen and will be treated as such. She carries as much weight around here as I do. She will never be looked down upon or belittled because she’s a woman. The second one of my men attempted to objectify her, I shot him in the head. I will keep her safe before anyone else,” Rowan said, shifting to put his arm around her shoulders.

“Does Chaol know?”

“I don’t particularly give a shit about what Westfall does or doesn’t know. I’m not going back.”

“You’re choosing this life then?” Aedion asked, nostrils flaring. “A life where you’ll always be running, where it’s kill or be killed? Choosing to be the mafia’s whore?”

Quicker than Aelin would have thought possible, Rowan was on his feet with the barrel of a gun pressed to Aedion’s temple. The tension shift in the room was damn near palpable, Lysandra screaming and wrapping her arm around Aedion’s. She begged Rowan to stop, to not shoot, but he didn’t even spare her a second glance. Rowan was so tightly wound that Aelin could feel how taut every muscle and tendon was under her hand when she stood and ran her hand down his spine.

“Rowan,” she said softly, and almost immediately he dropped his arm and shoved the gun back into the holster at his side.

“If you talk to her like that again, I will not hesitate to cut your tongue off and shove it down your godsdamned throat,” he said coolly, turning only to press his lips to Aelin’s temple. “I’m going to go check on dinner,” he said to her then, fingers grazing her cheekbones. Aelin nodded tilting her head back slightly for Rowan to drop the softest of kisses to her mouth before he left the room. Once the door closed, Aelin turned to look at her cousin, to look at the man that was the other side of the same coin that she was. The same golden sunshine radiated from him that did her, the same fire flashed in his eyes that she saw in the mirror every day.

“I asked them to bring you here because I don’t want to have to go through my life without you, Aedion, but you have to deal with your temper.”

“You really think your father would have–”

“I don’t know what my father would have wanted! He was the head of this entire organisation for Gods sake! You knew him Aedion, you know he probably intended for me to take over at some point when he thought that the time was right. It didn’t make sense to me either but the proof is undeniable and you don’t get to throw any of this in my face. I didn’t ask for it but I have the entire damn Cadre on their knees if I so ask so I’m willing to bet that whatever it was my father wanted would have had a lot to do with Rowan Whitethorn and the band of misfits he leads because otherwise I don’t think they would be so willing to do anything I said otherwise.”

“She’s safe, Aedion,” Lysandra said softly. “That’s all you were worried about. And she’s probably the safest she’s ever been.” Aelin felt a surge or gratitude toward her friend, even reached out and squeezed her shoulder and offered her a small smile.

“You don’t have to stay here, you don’t have to be here. I can have them take you home. Or you can stay a few days and I’ll have a room made up for you.” Knuckles rapped on the door before it opened and Rowan stepped back in. “It’s up to you.”

“Dinner is ready, love,” Rowan said softly. Aelin merely nodded, folded her arms across her chest and followed him out, leaving Aedion and Lysandra alone to make their decision.

~*~

“I’m sorry that I held a gun to his head,” Rowan said, pulling the blankets back on his side of the bed as Aelin slipped between the sheets. He lay next to her, pressing his lips to her forehead, her nose, then her lips.

“He was being an asshole,” she admitted, kissing him again. She let her hand run up his arm and over his chest, allowed her fingers to trace the whorls that made up the tattoo that consumed the left half of his body.

“I don’t care who he is to you, nobody talks to you that way.” He was so serious with his brow furrowed and a clenched jaw that Aelin couldn’t resist leaning forward to kiss him softly. Soft kisses slowly turned more urgent when he rolled on top of her, pressing his hard body against hers. She would never tire of it, she decided then. Of the heat of his body against her, of feeling the hard planes of his muscles pushing her into the mattress. The feeling that flipped through her stomach when he slipped his tongue into her mouth that left her breathless every time, even more breathless when he moved from her lips to kiss down her throat, down her stomach.

Soon, he was lifting the hem the shirt he was wearing — his shirt — and his lips met bareskin that he took to worshipping like he had all the time in the world to do it. Like he had hours and days and weeks to lay settled between her legs, kissing lazily across her lower abdomen.

It didn’t take long for him to kiss each of her thighs, kiss the lace of her panties. After looping his arms around her legs he used a single finger to tug the scrap of lace to the side and allowed himself to taste her. To lick and suck at her until her hands were pulling on his hair, until she was nearly screaming, until she was shaking and pushing him away.

And then he started again.

@musicmaam @starseternalnighttriumphant @myfeyrelady @westofmoon @schmlip-scribble @kandasboi @nalgenewhore @city-of-fae @empire-of-wildfire @mariamuses @notaelingalathynius @rhysands-highlady

[marvel-lucy]

The Walking Disaster, chapter 7

You want quality content? You’re in the wrong place, mister. You want fic chapters written in one go and never edited? Welcome! All chapters are on the Walking Disaster Masterlist This chapter kindly inspired by the angel @amandarosemire sending me these pictures, although I’ve swapped it up a bit and let the Disaster have a good day for a change!

Awkward goodbye. Lots more apologies – I’m a freaking expert at apologising, it goes with the territory of being a disaster. Steve goes into his apartment, I go into mine. Today has been a rollercoaster. Some great highs – laughing, being asked out for coffee – and some swooping lows that leave my stomach churning.

My phone beeps.

Nat: So how was it? Details!

Me: I think he likes you, and I threw a coffee cup at his nose (not because he likes you).

Nat: Oh. Shit. Want me to come round?

Me: No, I’m already ankle deep in wallowing, I need to keep going so I can drown myself in self pity. Wear something good to my funeral?

Nat: Text me if you need me then. I’ll allow you a few days of misery, I’ll be there Weds

So Monday comes, and I leave for work, and Steve’s probably already gone, so I don’t see him, but that evening I decided to adult up, and go round. Knock on the door, and he answers it. There’s a deep purple bruise across his nose, like warpaint, but he gives me a smile and the world feels OK.

‘I just wanted to see how you were, how your nose was.’

‘As you can see,’ he gestures, ‘barely noticeable.  I definitely did not get asked questions about it by every kid I saw in school today.’ I wince a bit, guiltily, but he continues. ‘It’s all good though, my reputation has gone way up. I heard one kid in the corridor saying he’d heard that I was in a huge fight over the weekend, and single-handedly took out a whole bunch of people.  Art teachers do not usually get that kinda rep, believe me.’

Ugh, he makes things so… right. Damn him.  OK, how can I prolong this until he proposes?

‘Great. Ok, well, good. Yup. OK, bye.’  Smoooth.

Tuesday I’m working late, get home and pretty much fall into bed. Wednesday I’m home and Nat’s come over to tell me all about Bucky. All. I can never look him in the eyes again. Thursday I get home and accept that I am now one with my couch, and it has claimed me as its own. Friday I hear Bucky’s voice, and then Steve’s voice as they go out.  It’s not like I’m monitoring his movements or anything. I don’t have a spreadsheet…

So it’s Saturday, almost a week later, that I see Steve again. And by ‘see Steve’, I mean see Steve. SEE him. Get what I’m getting at? No? Let me explain…

Our apartment building is old, but it’s pretty good. It has a great fire alarm system, great in that it never works, so I can burn my dinner as often as I like and no-one’s the wiser. But Saturday morning, something changed. Two wires met across a crowded circuit board, and things got hot. I don’t know how this stuff works. Long and short of it is, that 4.30am, I’m dragged from my sleep by the sound of screaming in my ear, or that’s what it seems like anyway. I throw myself out of bed and am really glad I sleep in my comfiest sweats (a girl gets cold, OK?), but I grab up a coat and fling open my front door. And there he is.

Apparently, Steve sleeps naked.

He’s standing by his door, with just a towel clutched to hide his dignity (curse you, towel!) and he has a look on his face of utmost fear. He hears my door click and looks around, towel carefully clutched, and gives me such a bashful smile I can’t help but grin. I’m not staring (honest, mom) but hoo-ey, if I wasn’t a good person, I’d be objectifying right now.

‘I panicked! I heard the alarm and panicked! I grabbed just this…’ (for a moment I think he’s going to wave the towel to demonstrate but at the last minute, he thinks again) ‘… then I realised that I needed something else, but my keys are, well. There’s no pockets in this.’

There’s a momentary satisfaction that I’m not the only person to lose their keys, then my nice side kicks in as I realise it’s freezing cold, and I really can’t let the poor guy go outside with just a too-small towel to wrap around himself. The alarm’s still blaring and doors are slamming and people heading downstairs, so I hold out my coat. He reaches for it with one hand, then looks awkward. He needs one hand to hold the towel, and two to put on the coat. I could offer to hold the towel… but I turn my back instead and hear some rustling.

‘Ok, um, thank you’

I turn back and try so super hard not to laugh.  He’s managed to tuck the towel mostly around his waist, but I suspect it doesn’t meet at the back.  The coat is not designed for someone super sized, so it barely reaches past his elbows and at the front all it does is reveal a delicious slice of abs and fuzz. I’m biting my lip, but I also don’t want us to burn, so I reach out for his hand, to pull him downstairs, and at that moment the alarm cuts out. The silence is deafening but it’s filled by the sound of choirs of angels singing the hallelujah chorus because I am holding Steve’s hand and it’s everything you could imagine. Warm, firm, large. His hand I said, jeez.

The super’s voice comes shouting up from downstairs, something about a false alarm, and all clear, and I’m kinda disappointed because although I don’t want to be awake at this time of day, I’m holding Steve’s hand and there’s worse ways to wake up. Even the fact I probably have bed hair and am wearing a sweatshirt with comic characters on is OK, because I’m least I’m dressed. Then Steve lets go and ugh, whyyy.

‘I’d better go catch the super before he goes to bed, for a key.’  He does this sort of shuffle, trying to keep his exposed backside pressed to the wall as he shuffles along towards the stairs, so I take pity on him.  I give him my key, tell him I’ll go, and head downstairs, as I hear him letting himself in to my apartment.

Once I’ve got across to the super that no, for a change, it’s not a spare for my apartment that I need (the way he clutches his chest dramatically in pretend-shock is a little unnecessary, I feel), I go back up and knock on my own door. I hear a rustling and then the door opens, and Steve’s standing, wrapped in my duvet, to let me in. He’s taken off my coat, and I can see it hanging on a hook, next to what looks like his towel. Which means that right now, this moment in time, is the moment that Steve Rogers is naked under my duvet. Now, when I dreamt of this moment, he wasn’t standing up and about to walk away, but I’ll take it. I hold out the key, and a hand snakes out from a gap in the duvet and takes it.

‘Thanks, um, just give me a sec…’ he shuffles away awkwardly, duvet swishing behind him like a cape, unlocks the door, and heads in. There’s a moment of silence, then he re-appears, in shorts and a T-shirt, with his keys in one hand and my duvet in another.  He hands it back quietly, and my mouth opens. Always dangerous that.

‘I mean, it would have been quite nice to watch you crawling along the fire escape in just a towel, but sure…’

His face turns red and he doesn’t know what to say, and it’s great, because then he laughs, and now it’s half an hour later and we’re drinking coffee on my couch in our pyjamas, with the duvet over both our legs, and honestly, kill me now because I’m done.

===

@melconnor2007 @avengerscompound @kittyslove @badassbaker@phoenix21love @lbouvet  @bellenuit45 @prplprincez @gingerrootknits@pineapplebooboo @feelmyroarrrr @avengerofyourheart @eyeofdionysus @hellomissmabel @learisa @mitra-k-w @imhereforbvcky @shaddixlife @supernatural-girl97 @iwillbeinmynest @amrita31199 @algud @whatsbetterthanfantasy @pixierox101 @edward-lover18 @madcheshire89 @heartfulloffandoms @chipilerendi @kenya-17 @mckorni32843 @amandarosemire @rda89 @nyxveracity @sea040561 @mrsalh32611 @ruinerofcheese @callmebucky-doll @vintagepigeon @bubbasmom @sassycanoodler @ladylorelitany @natcad @thisismysecrethappyplace @geeksareunique @mywinterwolf  @moderapoppins @rinthehufflepuff @holyfuckloueh @onebatch��twobatch @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @patzammit @procrastinatingart1st

[fanfictionized]

The Hating Game - Beautiful Bastard (1)

Characters: Lance Tucker x Latina!OFC

Chapter Summary: The Reader comes by to pick up her sister from practice and gets another dirty comment from Lance. She fucking hates his guts, but why is that also making him so much more attractive?

Warnings: Flirting (Dirty talk), Lance being an objectifying asshole but hey, what else is new?

Words: 2k

The Hating Game - Masterlist // Main Masterlist

He was running his hand through his hair in exhaustion.

Another child prodigy lost to the pressure of their parents’ expectations.

To be honest, he didn’t even know what the hell they were complaining about…

They had come to him in the first place asking to train her and now they were just too dissatisfied with how their little girl didn’t turn out to be?

Sorry, not his fault.

Some people were born for greatness. She just hadn’t been one of them.

And after having said it so bluntly they decided to pull her out of his gymnastics training because “Here she wouldn’t achieve any greatness anyway” and dragged their crying daughter behind them and out of the gym.

They had been hoping for their daughter to bring them success and pride because apparently her parents had failed to do that themselves, leaving her to balance their burden on her shoulders.

Poor kid.

He was a gold and silver medalist, so no wonder they had looked for his help.

But it’s just the way it is sometimes.

Some people weren’t made for greatness.

Except maybe this one girl he trained, the one with the incredibly hot older sister who always picked her up after a session.

God, she was so freaking hot. It was almost sad that seeing her had become the highlight of each of his days.

Because every time she opened her mouth it was some sort of Spanish curse word being flung at his head for staring at her ass or something.

And there was nothing that’d get his dick harder anymore.

Fucking pathetic.

But anyway, her little sister really was a big shot when it came to gymnastics.

“So tell me” He started, beginning to wrap up her session for today.

“What’s the deal with your sister, Ana?” He smirked at her, suppressing licking his lip at the mere thought of her.

She raised her brows at him judgingly, eyeing him up and down.

“Stop trying, Tucker. You’re not her type.” The girl said with a final swing from the gymnastics bar, landing on the mat elegantly with a huff, offering a taunting curtsy before grabbing her towel and heading for the changing room.

“Hey, what- whaddaya mean by that?” He stumbled after her before she slammed the door shut in front of his face, making him curse out loud as he had basically run into it.

He heard a mocking snicker coming from his left as he rubbed his forehead, his head snapping to where the sound had come from before a (truly involuntary) smile spread over his face, pain fading altogether at the sight of her.

She knew she regretted having let out that laugh the second he turned to face her, that smug grin on his face that told her, really anyone who took a good look at him, that there were some pretty sinful thoughts lingering behind that playful smirk.

Hell, why hadn’t she stayed in the car in the first place?

She’d brought this onto herself. Now she had to deal with this persistent son of a bitch with the tongue of the devil.

Truly every word coming out of his pretty mouth made her blush furiously, but admittedly he could even make the most uptight nun go red at the unholy speech leaving his lips.

Not her fault she reacted this way. It was just the way he was wired.

Not like she gave a shit, that man was the definition of a playboy. Look him up in the dictionary, picture of him right fucking there.

El fucking diablo.

“Hey there, sweetcheeks.” He purred as he strutted over to her, making her roll her eyes so hard that for one second she was afraid they’d be stuck inside her skull like that.

She scoffed, turned around, then turned back to him again because she knew that once she’d turn, his eyes would be glued to her ass.

Last time she’d picked Ana up from practice she’d felt his gaze lingering on her butt for days, making her spine tingle and a shiver run through her every time she thought of it. He had already found himself a home inside her head, that manipulative asshole. She truly hated him for making her weak like that. Because she knew exactly that she’d never even bother to think of a flirt any more than a whole ten seconds.

But after weeks, hell, months of this going on like that, seeing him at least twice a week and having his voice linger in the back of her head like an obtrusive earworm she should feel like she’d had enough. So the logical conclusion for her was to go and wait in the car.

And yet she didn’t. Again.

Why was that?

“Calm your tits, Tucker. Go and harass another soccer mom.” She muttered angrily, crossing her arms over her chest and unfortunately it let her boobs emerge from her cleavage, standing out prominently on her chest, captured only by the strength of her bra and the tightly fitting tank top she wore above that.

His eyes were immediately glued to them.

“I’d love to calm yours, you know.” He mumbled, inching closer until she could smell his ridiculously strong cologne.

What was this, Douche Canoe by Paco Rabanne?

He leaned forward to whisper close to her ear, her entire frame tensing up as he did.

“I bet I’d make you cum so hard just playing with those pretty tits of yours.” Her eyes went almost comically wide, swallowing so hard, he heard her gulp down the surprise and the probable insult that came with it, getting stuck in her throat at hearing his filthy words.

It was almost like he knew exactly which buttons to push to make her insecure and nervy like a fucking teenager. She didn’t like the power it gave him.

He pulled back to smirk down at her shocked expression, eyeing her mouth that hung open in disbelief and her perfectly plump lips which formed a pout.

He didn’t miss the way her cheeks were heating up either.

And she thought about making his shiny red as well. When the imprint of her hand would manifest on his skin after giving him the slap of the century on his irritatingly handsome face.

Her heartbeat rung in her ears.

“An-” She started, having to clear her voice because it had gotten too shaky to whisper or talk normally so instead she had to rely on shouting.

“Ana!” She yelled while Lance was still watching her closely, his gaze never wavering, never off her face and she felt the burning tension between them rise to an almost uncomfortable level so she stepped backwards, taking big steps around him like he had some contagious disease and storming forward towards the ladies’ changing room.

She didn’t care anymore if he stared at her ass.

But the thought did send an over-excited tingle down her spine.

“Ana! Are you ready?” She shouted and she was just about to rip the door out of its hinges before it flew open and revealed a moody Ana, shaking her head at her sister, seemingly irritated.

“What?” She hissed before her sister grabbed her hand, pulling her after her and towards the exit, but not before sending Lance Tucker the about deadliest glare he’d ever seen, making him chuckle before she was out the door, hearing her hissing curses in the foreign language he couldn’t understand, but miraculously made his dick achingly hard.

.

.

.

She shifted in her seat while driving, not getting those stupid man’s words out of her head.

She was boiling with rage, her heart thrumming, her skin boiling and… her core pulsing…

She clicked her tongue angrily while she shook her head almost aggressively.

Why did he always need to be stuck up inside there?

Why couldn’t she just not care about him? Or his words? Or what they did to her?

Oh, he knew exactly what he did to her. And it was pissing her off even more.

Her pride remained untouched. She couldn’t bare giving in to that smug bastard.

She simply couldn’t.

“Ay” She hissed as she drove them into the driveway, hitting their garbage can on the way in and making her spit out some more curse words. Their car was a garbage can anyways so what the hell.

“God” Ana mumbled before she could finally get out of the car, not enjoying their shared car rides anymore since the atmosphere in the small space had gotten so tensed up, she’d positively say she’d suffocate the next time her sister picked her up from practice.

And she knew that one certain trainer could potentially be the reason for that.

“Hey” Her big sister stopped her from getting into the house before her, grabbing her by the arm and looking at her earnestly.

“He doesn’t talk to you…” She sighed, looking into the sky “Inappropriately?” She raised her eyebrows at her pleadingly “Or touching you…?”

“Ew, oh my god, no. Trust me, he’s all yours.” Ana scoffed before heading inside, her sister following her.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” She said with this whiny voice.

“Please, you need to tell me if- “

“Lucia” Her little sister warned her, turning around and raising her little finger at her.

“He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t flirt with me. He’s a really good Coach though. So please, don’t make this weird for me, okay?” She rolled her eyes before turning to walk into her room.

“Making this weird…” Lucia muttered under her breath, brows knitting in confusion before she followed her “What do you mean with weird?” She yelled, seeing her little sister fall onto her bed.

She just sighed like she knew her sister knew the answers all along.

“I don’t know. Every time you see him you get super angry all the time and let it out on me. I’m the one having to deal with you eating tons of Chocolate because you’re frustrated because of whatever he’s telling you but still-” She shook her head, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“You come in to talk with him every. Damn. Time.”

Lucia just stood there for a second, mouth hanging open for the second time that day, speechless because her sister had just hit her with the painful truth.

“Well…” She stammered, not really finding the words to fight back.

“He’s the one talking to me and I never say anything in return, so…” She shrugged almost innocently, crossing her arms as she pouted, but Ana only scoffed.

“Okay, tell me when you’re done lying to yourself. I’m gonna take a shower.” She rolled her eyes before going past her, leaving her stunned and still prominently blushing sister standing alone in her room.

Her sister was right.

Barely twelve fucking years old but she was damn right.

She’d have to look into that, if even she could see how obvious she was she didn’t want to know how much Tucker saw of that. He could probably read her like a book by now.

She couldn’t possibly be into Lance Tucker. She wasn’t. And she couldn’t.

Boys like him had fucked up her entire love life for her, leaving her scared to try for anyone else because of what they did to her, how they’ve treated her…

She wouldn’t go through that again. Even though he was pretty charming. And a mistake.

That was really what lured her in, made him so tempting.

But that’s all there was to him.

And she’d have to fix her own problematic feelings for him before she’d take a look at her sister’s attitude next.

.

.

.

A/N: So... it’s been a while. 

Anyways, tag list is open if you want to be added. 

[mushroomminded]

Bend Until You Break (Part 3)

Written by @fundeadasylum, illustrated by myself.

Warning for heavy violence, torture, and generally a bad time.

Part 1 Part 2

Back to square one. He was right back where he started when he first came to the Facility. Only this time he was weaker and exhausted and terrified of his own body. Milo had never experienced such a prolonged sense of fear. It clung with sticky tar fingers to his mind, jarring him awake in the middle of the night with muscle seizing terrors painted across the backs of his eyes. It made his breath short, his lungs cramped against the walls of his narrow ribcage, struggling to expand against the steel beams of panic wrapped around them. Food wouldn’t stay down because the idea of feeding whatever it is that’s inside him made him wretch. Worse still were the phantom sensations; the feeling that something was wriggling underneath his skin, twisting amidst muscle fibers and chewing on his already frayed nerves, like if he put a hand on his stomach he would feel it move. But he still wanted his hoodie back. Even if whatever was inside him came from his hoodie—his completely normal, definitely not cursed hoodie—he wanted it back. He’d had it for as long as he could remember. And it was his. Milo let out a choked whimper, pressing his hands over his eyes as he lay curled under the blanket on his cot, hiding from the cameras and other prying eyes. He wanted his hoodie back. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be safe and warm and loved. He wanted Dan to pick him up like he weighed nothing and spin him around in a bear hug. He wanted Jake fretting over him like an anxiety ridden mother hen. He wanted Cody telling him off for trying another harebrained scheme to get big views on his channel. He wanted normal. He wanted safe. He wanted his family. ——— If Milo thought the testing from before was intrusive, it was nothing on what they were putting him through now. They took sample after sample from him; from his skin, his saliva, his blood, and anything else they could get at short of cutting him open. They shoved cameras down his throat and into his stomach, leaving him raw and hoarse. They induced vomiting to see the contents of his stomach, then they fed him chemicals and made him do it again to see if anything had changed. He overhead Dr. Pearce talking to one of the nurses once, discussing how Mr. and Mrs. Sumney kept bothering the facility for their son back. Pearce had said something about forced government ownership and how there probably wasn’t anything human left, that it was just a thing wearing a teenage boy’s skin, and Milo had screamed. Just sat strapped in a chair with drugs in his veins and wires taped to his head and screamed at the indecency of it all until they’d muzzled him again.

“The rapid weight loss is becoming a concern,” Another doctor told Pearce as they checked Milo’s vitals. He was perched on the edge of an examination table, legs dangling in the air as he swayed dazedly from side to side. An occasional shudder would rattle down his thin frame, making him blink rapidly as he appeared to come back to himself for a few seconds before he would fade out again.

“He’s just not keeping food down and at this rate, we might lose him.” The doctor continued, not at all put off by the progressively sour expression on Pearce’s face, “I suggest we hold off on further testing until we can get his body at an acceptable and healthy weight. He’s obviously suffering trauma. He needs a chance to recover.”

“As much as I hate to push back our timetable, I have to agree with you,” Dr. Pearce shot a glance at Milo who looked ready to drop, his cheekbones sharp angles and his wrists pencil thin, “What’s left of the host is wasting away. Start him on a food plan and make sure he’s getting vitamins and nutrients. Provide psychological assistance at your discretion.” The woman’s fingers drummed across her clipboard, “The director is breathing down my neck about this project. It’s going to take a bit more convincing to get the board to favor our bid to keep the host as a government acquisition. This is our first chance at a supernatural breakthrough like we’ve never had before and I am not going to let it slip through our fingers.”

———

“Come on, come on, come on. Please.”

Milo’s voice was a breath across his own hands as he shivered under his blanket. He was laying sideways, curled on his cot, the blanket pulled over his head as he shakily worked on unlocking the phone he’d stolen days ago. He was surprised he still had it, that he’d managed to keep it a secret and no one had come looking for it. But then, rich people probably bought new phones all the time and the loss of one was no big deal.

Frustrated tears welled into Milo’s eyes, a soft hiccup shaking his thin frame. He had almost cracked the damn thing but kept falling short at the end and it was exhausting him. The hope he’d felt when he’d first stolen the device had all but fizzled out by now. He was beginning to think the battery would die before he could ever get it unlocked. Wiping tears from his eyes with one hand, Milo tried again to unlock the phone, praying with every ounce of himself that was left that this time, this time, it would work.

Someone must have been listening because in the next instant, Milo was blinking stupidly at the home screen. By the time his shocked brain had processed what was happening, the screen had dimmed in preparation to lock again. Milo scrambled, tapping frantically at the screen and paging through applications until he found what he was looking for.

He checked to make sure the phone was on silent and then opened the app. The logo lit his face up in bright blue and, for what seemed like the first time in months, Milo smiled.

———

“Open. Your mouth. Now.”

“Pry his jaws open, he’s not going to cooperate.”

“Stupid kid, does he want to starve to death?”

“Open your mouth!”

“Hey! Don’t touch me you—stop it! Leggo of m—AHGK!”

“Feeding tube in place. Dispense supplements.”

“Nutritional supplements incoming. Round one.”

“Clear. Dispense round two.”

“Round two is a go. Incoming.”

“Clear.”

———

His weight came back slowly and, as it did so, they started pushing him hard again.

They forced him onto a treadmill with a mask over his nose and mouth, and varied the strength of the oxygen being released to see what would happen. He passed out and twisted his ankle badly when the still running treadmill had shot him into the wall behind him.

Pearce was as cold and ruthless as ever. She’d stopped calling Milo by his name, only referring to him as “the host” on a good day. On a bad day, he was just “it”. Dehumanized and objectified, nothing but a smear on a glass slide to be studied until it could provide no more information. Every time she called him “it” his insides would turn icy and his breathing would pick up as he was forced to remember that stuff they had pulled out of him.

They hadn’t seen any of it since.

Though Milo was bracing for the day they stuck that huge needle back into stomach to see what they could find.

———

just keep fighting

we’re coming for you

i promise

———

Milo would have been suspicious if he hadn’t spent most of his time sleeping.

No one had come for him. The door never opened. No one tried to force him into that awful muzzle, no one tried to stick him full of needles, no one said a word to him. The most they’d done was escort him to the bathroom that morning but that was a short walk and no one had spoken. His food was delivered as always but there was nothing else.

The silence dragged on his ears, prickling against the back of his neck. But fretting about it only wore him out so he spent most of the day asleep.

He didn’t touch the phone he’d hidden inside his mattress. As much as he longed to spend all day on it, he knew they were still watching him and it would be obvious he was up to something if he spent all day underneath the blanket on his cot. So he paced his room, stretching out his sore muscles, sat cross-legged on the low table just to be spiteful, and eventually migrated back to the bed. He sat there for a while, humming to himself, staring off into space.

But the exhaustion lay thick and heavy on his bones and he ended up sleeping until his lunch was delivered.

Still nothing from outside his room. No tests, no science jargon, no Pearce looking at him like a rat in a maze. Nothing. Milo wanted to be suspicious, wanted to fret and worry and pace, wanted to try and figure out what was going on. But he was tired, so tired, and the sweet paradise of finally being left alone was too much to deny.

So he slept. And he dreamed of escape.

———

Milo knew better, he really did.

He knew that when they left him alone for an entire day, it was probably because they were planning something monstrously awful. But he’d been so damn tired, so exhausted and so taken with the thought of just sleeping, that he hadn’t really had time to think about it.

If he’d had, he may have had time to plan. Although, given his circumstances, even if he had, it would probably have been for naught.

The nurses had swarmed him early in the morning, dragging him out of bed before he’d even woken up. The blanket was ripped away and he was plucked off his cot before the lukewarm air of his room had sunk into his skin. By the time he’d blinked the sleep from his eyes and oriented himself as to what was going on, the nurses had hauled him halfway down the hall. They’d already passed the bathroom and the showers and showed no signs of slowing as they neared the halls that led to more unfriendly rooms.

“H-hey,” Milo’s voice croaked with the last vestiges of sleep, “Hey, what’s going on? What’s happening? D-did I do something wrong?” Milo wracked his brain as they pulled him down another hall, trying to think what he could have done that made Pearce break her oh so precious schedule. He didn’t pay attention to where they were going until the sharp stench of chemical cleaner burned into the back of his throat. He raised his head in time to see the nurses push open a set of double doors and into a large room that was dark except for the brilliant circle of lights in the center.

They did a fantastic job of lighting up the polished steel operating table.

It took mere seconds for Milo to register the tray of medical tools, the team of doctors with surgical gloves and masks, and the heavy straps on the table. The cold terror that flooded him made his muscles seize and his throat close up, his breath clogging in his lungs and his eyes wide. He looked petrified. But when the nurses lay him on the table, he jolted back to life with a panicked scream.

They weren’t ready for it and he bolted, slithering out of their startled grasps and running for the doors. Everything felt like too much and not enough in those brief moments of freedom; the hard floor underneath his bare feet was icy cold, the heavy shocks of his own footfalls sent ripples up his bone, he could feel his own breaths scraping his throat like sandpaper. The room stretched, narrowing into a single focus, a single point in all of existence—the double doors. The way out.

Of course, he was never going to make it.

A weakened teenager in a room full of healthy adults didn’t stand a chance.

Someone tackled him, arms wrapping around his waist and dragging him to the floor with a bang. Milo screamed and twisted around in his assailant’s grip until he was on his back. He kicked out ferociously and the heel of his foot smashed into the nurse’s nose. He felt something crunch and the man let him go with a yelp, hot blood splattering from the broken nose Milo had given him. Milo scrambled away, clawing across the sleek floor until he’d managed to get back to his feet and was running for the door again. He could hear their heavy footsteps behind and he pushed himself until his breath rattled and wheezed in his chest, stretching his hand out in desperation. His palm stung as it slammed into the door bar, sending him tripping over his feet into the brightly lit hallway. The overhead fluorescents dazzled his eyes as he bounced off the far wall and nearly fell over, panic shooting spikes of fear and adrenaline down his spine. So loud was the beating of his own heart in his ears that it almost drowned out the shouts of the pursuing staff, the white-out terror in his mind blinding his thoughts as he ran. He had no idea where he was going, no idea how to get out, no idea where to go. He only had the animal driven instinct to get out. A flash of yellow against the pale halls of the Facility caught his eye and Milo registered the words “Closed For Maintenance” on a wide plastic stand blocking another hallway. He didn’t even think, just launched himself past the sign, his shoulder clipping the edge and leaving a sting that quickly faded amidst his adrenaline rush. He smelled mortar dust and drywall, that metal-ozone tingle of power tools, saw the plastic sheeting draped from the ceiling, and tripped over a box of hammers and wrenches lying open in his path. He slammed into the floor, ears ringing with the impact of his head hitting the hard tile, momentarily stunning him. “Shit, is that a kid?” “The fuck—“ “Hey, kid, you okay?” Men in overalls and hardhats loomed over him and Milo whimpered, backpedaling frantically away from them. They were adults, they were strangers, and they were in the Facility—they were not to be trusted. The workers took several steps back, glancing at one another, and then they all turned to look back down the hall as shouts rang out from Milo’s pursuers. Milo didn’t wait for them to catch up. He’d spotted a likely escape route; an unblocked air vent next to a ladder, the covering hanging open, the metal interior looking more than inviting. Milo bolted for it, banging his shins on the steel steps of the ladder as he clambered up it. He had to jump to reach the air vent, not quite tall enough to reach it even from the top step of the ladder, and his leap caused the ladder to tip and fall over with a resounding crash. Milo’s fingers dug into the smooth metal of the vent as his bare feet kicked against the wall, trying to push himself in, trying to get away before— Hands closed around his ankles and gave a savage yank, dragging him out of the air vent, his fingers squealing across the unblemished metal as he screamed at the top of his lungs. They caught him as he came tumbling out of the wall, firm grips settling vice-like on his arms and legs, holding him in the air between a bustling group of nurses that carried him far too easily through the plastic sheeting. He screamed and cried and called for help, bucking against their hold, his back arching as he tried to pull away. There was a lot of shouting and angry voices, all of them smearing together around him, incomprehensible and terrifying. When they hauled him back into the surgical room, Milo’s fear was so much that he began to hyperventilate, dry heaving and coughing as he choked on his own saliva. The nurses and doctors paid him no heed, only using the distraction to fasten him to the cold metal table. Milo sobbed as they painfully tightened the straps across his body, the same way they had when they stuck that huge needle in his stomach. The coughing got worse as his panic escalated, tears blurring the bright lights into white starbursts. Bile and something sour and metallic clogged his throat, bubbling into his mouth and spilling over his lips. It felt sticky and suffocating, like glue clinging to the inside of his mouth. Milo thrashed, trying to breathe through the gummy slime and blood that frothed out of him. The shouts of the staff sounded far away as his vision darkened at the edges, the pinch of the needle in his arm a distant prod against his dulling senses, the taste of blood and rot over powering everything else. His eyelids fluttered, ice prickling through his veins, his mind going fuzzy as the world became indistinct and melted away from him. And then it was dark and it was quiet and Milo was gone.

———   the dull ache of a body in pain                                (his body?) muffled ping of sound, far away, constant                                                                (beep…beep…beep…beep)    something that might have been voices                (underwater?) floating, weightless, untouchable                                  (where…?) darkness ——— Milo woke up because he hurt. His eyelids fluttered but he closed them again when bright light seared across his vision. A soft, pained grunt made its way out of his mouth and it hurt. Everything hurt; his legs, his arms, his face, his head, all of it ached or twinged or pounded. But his chest…his chest burned. Milo whimpered, a weak sound that was barely a breath, and tried to move but it sent fire through his veins and nausea swimming through his system. His stomach heaved, which only caused him more pain, and he cried out, the scrape of sound in his throat like tiny needles tearing him up from the inside out. Even the prickle of tears heating up his eyes hurt like acid dripping into his skin. There was the all too familiar hiss of a hydraulic door opening and a set of hurried footsteps. A hiss of displeasure. Something clinked and jostled above him. Milo cracked his eyes open, looking through heavy lashes at a hazy figure beside him. Blinking a couple of times made his vision settle and he realized it was a nurse and she was busy with a bag of medicine on a pole. It took his sluggish brain a few minutes to put two and two together but when he did, it drew another pathetic whine out of him. The nurse glanced at him, met his pleading gaze, and looked away, still fussing with switch out the medical drips that fed who knew what into the needle in the back of Milo’s hand. “Please…” His voice was hoarse, cracked, weak and strangled as if he’d swallowed sandpaper. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for, all he knew was that he was tired and he was hurt and he wanted someone to comfort him, “P-please…” The nurse cast one last glance at him and then turned away, walking back out the door and ignoring the broken cries that followed after her. ——— Milo drifted in and out of sleep. He was recovering from…something. Something bad. He couldn’t think of what. He couldn’t think much of anything with the drugs they were pumping into him.

They tended to him, were careful to keep him stable and alive and as put together as they could. But they wouldn’t comfort him. They wouldn’t ruffle his hair or pat his hand or tell him everything would be okay, that he was strong, that he was a fighter. The ache inside him was more than just physical.

———

He didn’t know how long it took him to recover. He barely remembered the time at all, only left with a vague sense of weightlessness, dulled pain, and harried voices.

Milo was still sore when he was finally aware of his surroundings, but it was a manageable soreness, the kind that came from the tail end of still healing injuries. His breathing was still shallow and excess movement hurt but he was awake and he was alive and that had to count for something.

He also woke up alone but he tried very hard not to think about that.

Once he recovered enough to register the tiny hospital-like room he was in, he’d switched to self assessment. All his limbs were still in place, two eyes, all his teeth, his tongue, and all the other important external bits. It was when he was running the palm of his hand down the front of his hospital gown that he realized something was wrong. His fingers were bumping over lines that weren’t there before, the light tingle of raw pain fresh against his mind as he touched his chest again. The beeping of the heart monitor increased.

Hands shaking, Milo gently pushed the blankets aside and curled his fingers around the hem of his gown. His breathing was loud in his ears, rasping over his dry throat as his heart beat a tattoo against his rib cage. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted the gown up, exposing the pale, trembling expanse of his legs, his narrow waist where his hipbones stuck out like handrails, his stomach that was only slightly less concave than it had been. And then—

Milo choked, his hands shaking so badly he could barely keep a hold of the edge of the gown.

There was a hint of stitches peeping cheekily out at him.

Just tear the bandaid off, just rip it off, it’s over faster if you just rip it off, come on, just look, just look, damn it, just LOOK—

Milo looked.

And he screamed.

———

The nurses and doctors who swarmed into his room at the noise and the alarms of the disconnected heart monitor found Milo in front of the shallow sink of the bathroom. He’d managed to drag his IV pole in with him, probably the only thing that had kept him on his shaking feet as he’d made his way into the side closet of a room, but his trembling hands were now gripping the edge of the basin so tightly his knuckles were white. His hospital gown was twisted around back to front, the ties on it hastily undone down to his waist. It hung off one shoulder, exposing the jutting line of his collarbone and the taut stretch of his neck, his freckles as faded and pale as the rest of him. But Milo’s eyes were snagged on the precise, even I-shaped scar across his abdomen. It crossed from just underneath one shoulder, over his sternum, and to the other shoulder, a line down his middle curving him perfectly in two, and curled over his stomach from hip to hip like an obscene belt. Medical staples pinched his separated skin together again, grotesque imitations of body piercings that stamped evenly around the incision, gleaming dully in the bright overhead lights. Milo’s gaze flickered to the reflections of the doctors in the bathroom mirror, “Wh…hn…wh-what dh-did you…gh…” He ducked his head towards the sink, exposing the prominent curve of his spine, his breathing heavy as he tried not to throw up, “What did you dh-do to m-me…?” “It would be best if you returned to your bed—“ One of the nurses began, reaching out to take his arm. Milo wrenched himself away, tripping backwards until he’s plastered himself against the wall between the sink and the toilet, chest heaving, his mutilated skin stretching against the staples holding him together. Panic glazed his eyes and his voice came out in a broken rasp, “What did you do to me!? WHAT DID YOU DO!? WHAT DID YOU DO!?”

——— They moved him back to his old room. And Milo made sure to give them hell. He refused to eat the food they gave him, going so far as to dump it on the floor and smear it on the walls, forcing them to clean it up while he sneered at them from behind his muzzle. Not because he wasn’t hungry—he was terribly, gut-wrenchingly hungry—but because he was too pissed and hurt to care anymore. When he wouldn’t eat, they stuck a drip in in his arm. He tore it out and left bloody splatters across the room. They stuck it in his hand and ripped that one out too, snapping at them when they rushed in to bandage him up. He left it alone when they put the drip into his neck, too afraid of what it could do to him if he took it out on his own. It made his blood boil to know they’d won that round. Sometimes he would scream for no reason, just sit on his bed and scream wordlessly until his voice cracked and broke. Other times he would remain quiet, staring at the ceiling or the wall, never saying a word or moving. There were a couple of times he purposefully tipped his IV pole over, crashing it against the floor, but the tug at the line in his neck spooked him too much to keep up that behavior. They still took him out for testing but were far gentler about it. They called him Subject 0-1A. No one said his name anymore. Dr. Pearce didn’t even bother with the brainwashing procedures now. When he’d snidely asked if she’d given up, she calmly informed him that Mr. and Mrs. Sumney no longer had any claims to him. He was the property of the Facility for the Exegesis of Abnormal Realities. The board and the director, she’d continued as he’d gaped at her in horror, had unanimously decided that whatever Subject 0-1B (his hoodie, apparently) was brewing inside Milo, it had the potential to be a dangerous threat and must be contained at all costs. He tried to bite her for that and it got him a swift punch in the jaw. ——— Milo’s chest was a constant state of pain. It throbbed dulling, scraping across his senses, always reminding him of what they’d done to him. Wearing the pajama shirt just made it worse, itching against raw and bruised skin. So he’d stopped putting it on, even though it turned his stomach to see the way his flesh was warped and twisted and bunched against the staples, the angry red of the vivisection lines traced delicately over his thin frame. The worst of it was that the doctors wouldn’t leave it alone. They would put him under and when he came to, he knew, he just knew, they’d pulled out all the staples and peeled back his skin and muscle and went poking around his insides again. It always left him tender and sore, left him feeling violated and disgusting and far less than human. It was a wonder this constant opening and closing of his chest cavity hadn’t killed him. But of course, they were very careful with him. Oh so careful to make sure he stayed alive. He did get sick, once. Horrifically so. His fever was so high he was delirious with heat, the cough rattling his ribcage like a windstorm. Black ooze and stinging stomach acid clawed up his throat and sent him wheezing for air, he couldn’t even keep water down, and anyone’s touch was like ice against his feverish skin. That week was full of misery and tears, soft linens and cool compresses, an unending sour taste and smears of purple-black that made Milo wretch all the harder when he saw them. When the sickness had passed, he was allowed a few days to recover before they started picking at him again. But they were less frequent about opening him up again. ——— Muscles seized in pain and tears were speckled across the uncomfortable pleather of the exam table.  Milo’s cries had long since petered out but he still made strangled, pathetic, hiccupping noises that were muffled by his muzzle. His arms were stretched out on either side of him, his raw and throbbing chest pressed into the table, strapped down securely so he couldn’t get away. Not that he’d get very far if he tried, not with the armed guards that followed him around these days. Sharp lances of stinging pain made him spasm and groan, pushing his forehead into the sweat and tear soaked table underneath him. The swipe of fabric over his aching right shoulder made him hiss. The buzz of the tattoo needle droned in his ears, steady and constant and awful. He didn’t need to see it to know what they were branding into his skin. 0-1A Nothing more than an object with its owners name written on it in permanent ink.

——— Milo could sense the tension building in the Facility. He didn’t know what it was causing it and no one really talked to him anymore. There were a lot of big words being tossed around, people in suits bustling around the pristine white corridors and hissing at one another. He watched them with narrowed eyes and they looked back at him in disgust. He flipped them off a couple of times and they looked suitably mortified. They all gave him a wide berth, regardless of the muzzle and the guards and his clearly weakened state. But one of them still yelped in fright when he rattled his IV pole at her. ——— He was puttying around his room, leaning heavily on his wheeled IV pole as he paced the perimeter, working off the stress of the day’s testing before bedtime. The hydraulic door opening made him jump and freeze in place, a shiver running down his spine as his brain instantly flashed to the worst possible scenarios. He’d done something wrong, he’d mad someone angry, they needed to redo a test, they needed to open him again, they needed to take his organs out and—

A man in a suit stood in the doorway, looking disgruntled and maybe not a little put off. He was flanked by two guards and Milo immediately bristled at the sight of them on principle alone. Milo’s grip on the IV pole tightened and he slowly inched closer, eyes narrowed, puffing heated breaths against the muzzle to make his agitation clear. The suit tensed but didn’t move.

“You’re being moved to a new location,” Said the man in a voice that made Milo want to punch him in the face, “You will cooperate or—“

A shout down the hall interrupted him and he and the guards turned to look. A look Milo didn’t understand flashed across the man’s features and he barked some orders at the guards. Milo slunk closer, clutching at the pole, suspicion prickling over his skin.

More shouting. The guards left the doorway, heading towards the left. A few moments later, the suit took off in the opposite direction.

He didn’t close the door.

Milo’s breath caught in his throat.

For a second, he swore he saw heavenly light shining on the open doorway, heard a choir of angels singing.

He stared at it.

Then he gritted his teeth and ran.

Running hurt, it jarred his bones and sank meathooks into his weary muscles, dragged his lungs and jarred his damaged chest with painful shocks. He wasn’t even sure if you could call what he was doing running, leaning as heavily as he was on the IV stand, tripping over his own feet, over the shaky wheels of the pole, rasping for breath through the muzzle still strapped to his face.

He didn’t know where he was going, he just knew he had to go.

It was a chance and he’d be a fool not to take it.

Then he rounded a corner and his blood ran cold because there were people clustered in the hall. Adults. In the Facility. He could pick out the guards and doctors, all of them shouting and gesturing. He thought he saw police officers. Or maybe army? Army wore camouflage, right?

Milo’s legs twitched. He wanted to turn and run the other way but something…something made him pause.

This wasn’t the usual hysteria of the Facility. This was different. Something crackled in the air, a spark, a flicker of something that might have been hope a long time ago.

He was still standing there, brow furrowed, when one of the doctors caught sight of him,

“Fuck! How did it—grab it! It’s out of its room!”

Milo backpedaled, ready to turn and run, but a furious roar made him freeze in terror. It was a sound of such rage and passion that it drove iron nails into his feet and made his knees lock. The bag hanging from the IV pole rattled as his hands shook.

A large shape suddenly exploded through the group of guards and doctors and law enforcement. It punched the doctor who had shouted in the face and knocked her to the floor with a snarl. Then the man looked up, looked down the hall, and saw Milo. Instantly, all the hard edges and angry angles melted out of his body, tears welled into his eyes, and he staggered on his feet, something like grief and happiness and horror all written across his features.

It took Milo far longer than he would ever admit to recognize who it was.

“Milo!”

Dan shouting his name—his real name—shattered him. Milo let out a cry that was swallowed by the stupid muzzle and launched himself forward, one hand on the IV pole and the other clawing desperately towards his dad. Dan ran to meet him, skidding across the tile floor on his knees when he drew near. The man hesitated, arms wide to wrap Milo up, but his eyes darted over the wretched staples on Milo’s narrow chest, over the fragile looking frame, and he hesitated.

Milo did not. He threw himself into Dan’s arms with a broken sob, pressing his muzzled face into the man’s chest, shaking fingers curled as tightly as possible into the soft fabric of Dan’s shirt. And Dan hugged him back. Warmth and safety wrapped around Milo and he sobbed, sagging in his dad’s arms, breath hitching, his legs nearly giving out from underneath him at such affection.

“Jake! Jake, it’s Milo! Jake! It’s him! We got him! We got him back! It’s him!” Dan was crying, his voice shaking, and Milo looked up to see—

Jake tripped his way through the crowd, his eyes wide, looking more drawn and tired than ever before. His chest hitched and he pressed a hand over his mouth. Milo whimpered and reached a hand over Dan’s shoulder. Jake broke. Tears flooded down his face and ran to join them, nearly toppling over when he dropped down beside Dan to hug the little boy still in the man’s arms. Jake’s shaky fingers ran through Milo’s hair, snagged on the muzzle, and he let out a wavering cry that was part anger and part pain and all parts love and grief and happiness.

Milo cried. He cried harder than he had his entire time in the Facility, grabbing at both men, afraid to let them go for even a second.

He felt fingers scrabbling at the back of his head and jerked in fight only to realize it was Dan, wrenching at the buckles with an almost inhuman strength. They snapped and Jake helped Dan pull the damned thing off, throwing it across the floor with a venom that Milo had never seen before.

“Milo!” Jake sounded like he was about to hyperventilate, breathing so hard and fast, tears streaming uncheck down his face. He cupped Milo’s face in his hands, the pads of his thumbs rubbing gently at the deep circles under the boy’s eyes, “Milo, my god, I thought you—we fought to get you back so hard and—if you hadn’t sent those messages—Milo, my brave boy, Milo! You’re so brave, Milo!” Jake’s words dissolved into gross sobbing and he clutched Milo to him, body shaking with emotion. Dan wrapped them both up in his arms, tears dampening Milo’s skin as he cried, rocking them back and forth.

Milo gasped through his tears, only on his feet because of the support of the people who had fought tooth and claw for him. He drew in a shaky, sniffling breath and said, “I knew you’d come for me. I—I knew you would. I miss—I missed you so much. Dad…d-daddy! Dh-d-dad!”

And he broke down into a fresh wave of tears.

———

Milo didn’t ask what happened.

He didn’t care. Didn’t want to know.

Even as Dan carried Milo out of the Facility in his arms, Jake clinging tightly to Milo’s hand, escorted by a dozen or so soldier, Milo didn’t care.

He didn’t care about the camera flashes and the news reporters shouting. He didn’t care about the cold autumn air that made him shiver as he curled against the warm chest of his dad. He didn’t care about his old hoodie, lost somewhere in the depths of the Facility. He didn’t care about how weak he felt or how tired he was or how every inch of him ached. He didn’t care about what had happened or what would happen.

They would cross those bridges when they got to them.

All Milo cared about in that moment was the smell of fresh, crisp, clean, unfiltered stale air. All he cared about was the bright and wonderful glow of sunlight and the way it danced over the shapes around him. All he cared about was the warmth and love and safety of the arms around him, of the hand in his, of the gentle reassurances and tender kisses and tear-filled smiles.

All Milo Pierly-Fuller cared about was that he was finally home.

[laetro]

Samby Sayward: Comic Art that Celebrates Strength

Samby Sayward, the artist who manages to contain ‘boundless’ ideas on paper, battled her way through the hurdles of perfectionism and procrastination to reach greater heights and thrives for more! Her works are living proof of majestic works. The quirky and ambitious soul has worked on various projects and gained popularity with her ongoing comic series “Daughters of Grimm”.

Samby Sayward or more commonly known as Boundless Bard creates comics focused on female empowerment. She is a dogged person when it comes to working and does not fallibility as a reason to stop and suggests the future artists have a similar attitude towards their work. Sayward hopes her work inspires people from all backgrounds to be proud of who they are and to strive to make their wildest dreams come true.

ORDER CUSTOM ILLUSTRATION FROM SAMBY

Q. What was your childhood like and what made you, you?

Samby: I was such a quirky, scattered child! Constantly curious. Constantly jumping to the next “shiny” thing. I’m extremely lucky to have parents that tried to facilitate my exploration, while also teaching me to focus and direct my energy.

My mom is a pretty curious person herself, so she’d take my sister and me on themed library runs. Sometimes we’d do crafts like building a radio in a shoebox. We had to wrap the wires around the sink faucet to catch a signal, though it was still pretty garbled. My dad always tried to facilitate any interests with tools and instructors. When I latched on to comics, he took me to the bookstore and offered me any book I wanted. And when I wanted to go to college to make comics in Japan, he said, “OK!”

I never moved to Japan, but it just goes to show how incredibly supportive my family is. I changed my dream career multiple times a year for most of my childhood, and as long as I had a game plan for it, my parents cheered me on. And with all these different experiences to go off of, I think comics ended up the perfect industry for me. I don’t have to change careers every time I’ve got a new interest. I just explore it through my characters!

Q. Tell us something about yourself. About your journey of being an Artist.

Samby: I’ve been drawing as long as I can remember, with pretty much anything I could get my hands on. It started on scrap paper with crayons and markers. When my family saw my enthusiasm, I got sketchbooks and paint sets and colored pencils, anything “artsy” they could think of on every gift-giving holiday.

When in class, I drew my notes in the margins. When out to eat, I drew on napkins. When I entered the general workforce, I spent the minutes between shifts scribbling on receipt paper or paper plates in the breakroom. What’s more, my mind has always been my cinema. In grade school, I would spend months crafting serial stories in my dreams, watching the next part unfold each night as I drifted to sleep. And now I have the pleasure of crafting those stories during the day and sharing the finished products with the world. I’ve had a variety of aspirations throughout my life, but I think I was always meant to make comics. Now, I honestly can’t imagine doing anything else.

Q. What or who is your inspiration?

Samby: There are a lot of people, stories, experiences, art, and philosophies that have inspired me over the years. But if I had to bring it down to my top two inspirations, I’d say the combination of seeing people live and create authentically, and hearing that people reading my comics feel inspired to be themselves.

As much as I’ve had supportive influences in my life, I’ve also had people tell me I’m too much, or that my ideas are stupid, impossible, or too idealistic. I’ve even had people judge me to the point that I felt I needed to hide an integral part of who I am.

So seeing other people share their stories, inspires me to keep sharing mine. And when others accept my truth and resonate with it, it keeps that cycle of inspiration going — both to them and back to me.

Q. What inspired you to make comics on Badass Woman?

Samby: Honestly, a lifetime of stereotyped representation. With a few exceptions, I often had trouble getting into media that was marketed to girls and women. It always felt like a caricature that I couldn’t even relate to. When I turned to men and boys’ entertainment, I got stories that were more my speed, but the female characters were still parodies from a male perspective, or a fantasy “ideal”.

When I was younger, I thought that was just the way things were. I even took my action-packed story ideas and changed the protagonists to guys, since that’s all I saw in the stories I liked. But college did a lot to help me spread my creative wings, and around the time I started seriously pursuing comics as a career, I thought, “Screw it. I’m going to make the stories I want to see. With BADASS WOMEN.”

I think a lot of other women had the same epiphany because soon after, I was finding all sorts of movies, shows, and comics with badass female protagonists I could get behind. It’s awesome to see the plethora of stories and experiences that have been represented since. The media’s really heading in a cool direction now.

Q. Is there any specific reason why you make Badass woman comics?

Samby: It started out just as self-indulgence. I wanted to see myself in stories and genres that, historically, I had not. And I wanted to flip the script. To call out the tropes that belittled and objectified women.

I think my motivations have grown from that though. Seeing so many people relate to my work, and their excitement at feeling represented adds fuel to my creative fire. There’s a real need for diverse representation without stereotypes. And though my main focus is badass women, I really hope that over time I can give everyone that joy of seeing themselves in a story they love.

“When I was younger, I thought that was just the way things were. I even took my action-packed story ideas and changed the protagonists to guys, since that’s all I saw in the stories I liked. But college did a lot to help me spread my creative wings, and around the time I started seriously pursuing comics as a career, I thought, “Screw it. I’m going to make the stories I want to see. With BADASS WOMEN.”

Q. What’s your comic “Daughters of Grimm” about?

Samby: “Daughters of Grimm” is a coming of age story about five young women aiming to be heroes in a world that thinks them better as damsels. Set a few generations after the original Grimm fairy tales, each Daughter follows in the footsteps of a hero they idolize until a “Grimm” vision weaves their narratives together for a larger quest.

There are action and intrigue, swords and sorcery, and a cute goat to balance all the badassery. And if women breaking the mould to fight monsters, rule kingdoms, and become heroes intrigues you, you can read the full story to date for free on Webtoon! The introduction is wrapped up and I’ll be launching the first story arc in the spring.

Q. Are there any real-life experiences in your life where you considered yourself badass?

Samby: It’s funny, I don’t think I’ve thought about it before. But I think the times I’ve felt most badass are the big milestones of my career — printing my first comic, tabling my first convention, participating in my first panel, and receiving fan art for my comic series. Each achievement just reinforces the fact that I’m doing it. I’m really a comic pro!

Q. Do you always work on your personal projects or do you take clients’ work as well? If yes, what is it like to work with a client and how much freedom do you have in such projects?

Samby: When it comes to comic projects, I tend to stick to my personal work. But I have done some illustration work and variant covers for other comic creators. Honestly, those projects have been a blast! All my clients have given a lot of creative reigns, just giving some character references and a concept to work off of. And as fellow creators with similar goals, we often end up vibing and helping each other out with cross-promotion afterwards.

I’ll add though, I’m absolutely open to doing comic page work for the right project! I’m pretty hyped about a project pitch I got the other day from a client. It’s all the genres I’ve wanted to do and haven’t gotten to yet. We’ll just have to see if our schedules line up when the script is done.

Q. What’s the strongest female protagonist you have ever created in your comics and what’s the inspiration behind it?

Samby: So far, I think the strongest protagonist I’ve created is Emil from “Daughters of Grimm”. Not only can she take down a sea dragon solo, but also, she’s managed the task of posing as her brother for years! I think it takes a lot of internal strength to hide such a large part of yourself for so long.

Her character and struggle are largely inspired by my own experiences, both with gender roles and with the broader sense of trying to be myself while fitting in with others’ expectations.

Q. What are the projects you are currently working on or looking forward to work?

Samby: I’m currently writing the first main story arc of my fairytale series, Daughters of Grimm! Until now, the series has been made up of little short stories that introduce the world and characters. So it’s really exciting seeing all the characters and plots coming together. I can’t wait to finish it up and share it!

I’m also working on a YouTube channel and book to share some of the story planning and production techniques I’ve picked up over the years. Though I’ll be honest, I’m not sure when it’ll be ready. It’s a passion project I’m building between comic and commission work. But I’m definitely hoping the YouTube channel will be online soon(ish)!

Q. What is one tip or advice would you give to upcoming comic artists?

Samby: My advice is two-fold:

Don’t be afraid to get started, but also don’t be afraid to ‘finish’.

I think beginning artists get told that first bit a lot. “Make something! Just do it! You’ll figure things out along the way.” But in my experience, starting is much easier than finishing. And it’s finishing a project that really levels up your skills and lets you learn something.

My art leveled up more in my time outside of college than in it because in college I got so focused on perfection that I never finished anything. I never learned how to get that polished product.

[glynnisi]

FYDL Drabble-a-thon, Day 7- Summer Haze

Charity:  Environmental Defense Fund (help protect polar bears and other living creatures from climate change, habitat destruction, and toxic pollution)

996 Words

It was too hot.  Darcy kicked off her shoes to let her feet breathe. Her turquoise-painted nails looked cute, anyway. She wiggled her toes.  The tile floor of the makeshift lab cooled the soles of her feet and relieved some of the oppressive feeling of sweltering heat.  The view out the window of the Secret Avengers’ latest hiding place did nothing to help.  Waves of summer haze rose from the pavement as the sun beat down mercilessly.

Modesty could suck it.

Darcy peeled off her peasant blouse.  The fan cooled her bare shoulders. The red tank top didn’t cover her purple bra well, but Jane wouldn’t care.  Paired with short shorts, it was an outfit that would’ve had Darcy chased home from school to change since boys couldn’t be distracted from schoolwork.  Memories of unjust dress code infractions did nothing to cool Darcy.  So, she put that out of her mind while she put her glasses on again and went back to work.  Every now and then she muttered, “hot as hell in here today, Janie.”

Deep in her work, Jane only grunted agreement.

Hours later, Darcy heard happy laughter nearby, looked out the window, and smiled.  Kids danced and played in the spray of open fire hydrants. She looked around to see who’d opened them, when she realized there was no fire truck and no one carrying a large wrench or whatever other tool might use to open a hydrant.  She had the idea that it wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Movement in the shadows outside the building gave her the answer; one smoking-hot, self-satisfied super soldier smirked with pleasure from his discreet vantage point.

Darcy let her eyes roam over Steve Rogers’ skin-tight workout clothes.  “He’s not even sweating, Jane. How is that possible? It’s a million degrees.  And his clothes only cling to torment me and soak my panties. Just like he exists to stand over me with too-hot disapproval, looking like I shouldn’t be allowed in here.”

Steve jolted.

Jane sounded bored.  “Captain Rogers?  You ogling him, again?”

With a lusty moan, Darcy nodded. “Uh huh.  I am ogling one Steven ‘just get in my pants already’ Rogers. Look at that ass, Jane! I wanna bite it or something. And those arms!”

“You want to bite his arms?” Jane’s lips twitched as she made notations.

Darcy stuck her tongue out at her friend.  “More like hold on tight, while riding him.  Even in this heat.”  She craned to get a better look.  “Maybe, to hold onto as handles while wrapping my legs around him and letting him fuck me in a cool shower. Handles!”

Steve’s face reddened, but he looked pleased as he turned to wave at her.  Darcy took a step back.  He pointed to a vent on the side of the building.  “You’d probably be cooler if you close that vent, Miss Lewis.”

She could hear him clearly. 

Every word.

“Shit.”  Darcy’s face flushed with mortification  

Jane stopped working. “I had to run wires to a dish on the roof earlier and opened the vent.  Probably should’ve mentioned it.”

Darcy stared at her friend, “Ya think?” Steve knocked on the door. “He’s gonna kick my ass out for sexual harassment.  I’ll get arrested by JSOC and dumped in that prison Scott tells scary stories about. The only mercy is that at least it’ll be cool at the bottom of the sea.”

Steve opened the door. “Sorry.  I should’ve let you know I could hear you sooner.”  As he got a good look at Darcy, he stopped talking, mouth hanging open. “Wow.”  He shook his head and snapped his mouth shut.  “Sorry, again.  I just… You‘re stunning. I mean, damn. I’m sorry.”  Rueful, Steve rubbed one hand over the back of his neck.  “I should’ve stopped while I was ahead.”  

Darcy shook her head as her breathing returned to normal. “Nope.  You’re adorable.  And, thanks. I didn’t mean for you to see me dressed like this now any more than I meant for you to hear me objectify you, but at least you don’t find me hideous.”  She mock cheered, “yay.”

Steve’s head shook vehemently.  “Not at all. Gorgeous.  You.  I mean you’re gorgeous.  You always look pretty, Darcy.” He ducked his head.  

Darcy grinned to Jane. “He knows my name!”

He took a deep breath as he thought of times he’d called her name in the privacy of his shower or his bunk. “Of course I do.”  His tone was lower, intimate.

Darcy nodded, half-teasing, “yeah, you have super-soldier memory.”

With a tight smile, Steve shook his head.  “Not just that. I’ve been lurking around you because I’ve been listening, liking what I hear and working up my nerve to respond.  I’m bad at talking to beautiful women.  I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you I’d like to know you better.” He nodded to Jane.  “Sorry for the interruption, Dr. Foster.”

Jane suppressed giggles, “no problem.  Darcy? Why don’t you take a break?”

Darcy folded her arms and looked at her friend.  “You just don’t want me to yell about the open vent that’s roasted me all day and…”

Steve cleared his throat and spoke quickly.  “The air conditioning in my quarters works really well. It’s almost freezing in there.”

Both women swiveled their heads to him.  Jane’s eyebrows flew up and she turned to see Darcy’s reaction.  Darcy’s mouth fell open.  “O-kay.” She turned and led him to the door.  “Perfect.  If it’s too cold, I have ideas on how you can warm me up again.”

His smile was as bright as the hot summer sun.  “Happy to help.”

She smacked his arm. “Ow. Your arms are like rocks.”  

His smile widened.  “Or handles.”

“I’ll stop talking. My mouth is a menace.” Darcy groaned as she remembered what he’d overheard.

Steve hesitated, then took the plunge and whispered, “when we’re alone I’ll help you with that.”

For the first time all day, Darcy shivered.

fin

[censorurselfitshecko]

if i’m supposed to truly objectify and romanticize the presents all the guys that have ever liked me have given me:

ah, to speak of such wondrous objects!

i have a single goblet from a widely acknowledged event, given to me from a boy of great ebony skin, which was woven of a petroleum product (a mardi gras cup)

i have also have had a young boy present to me a small pouch of poleyester fiberfill, with features so endearing, i cannot help but keep it within sight of all times (a stuffed monkey)

from yet another boy, i have been given an incredibly adorable flap of fabric, structured by wires to protect me from the haters, one of which he eventually turned into (a lemon printed umbrella)

and finally, a creature of unidentifiable species, with arms to wrap around someplace i have not yet found suitable (some other plushie)

honestly though what has my life come to? why do i attract boys like this?

i didn’t ask for this

why can’t i just attract a girl for once 😩

Alice°

[kinktionary]

TESTIFY: RENEE RUBBER

Living Doll. Latex Fetishist. Performance Artist. Renee Rubber speaks on the pleasures of self-objectification, and sexual denial.

  K: You present yourself as an agender, full-time rubber doll. How and when was Renee Rubber born?

RR: I think all dolls are genderless, especially when you see them as objects. I want to mimic that as a living one. I want people to be confused over my gender. I actually think it’s great when both genders get excited over Renee as it frees up sexuality without their prejudices or pre-conceptions etc. I am straight, but I like to challenge those conceptions and be an object, neither male nor female.

It’s hard to pinpoint when I began, I think my first latex hood a few years ago definitely started something with the way it encased me and the way it felt. But I think really I just decided one day that I wanted to be a rubber doll and see how far I could go with it, ever since that day I’ve got more and more addicted to this as my life. Me becoming a rubber doll is about objectification and the sheer sexual desperation that comes with it. I’ve become addicted to the feeling of intense ‘horniness’ or desperation, as I like to put it.  

  K: How did you discover your passion for latex fetish? What was the gateway into that realm?

RR: It’s hard to pinpoint but I do remember buying my first pair of latex stockings many years ago, and how they looked and felt. I used to wear latex to compliment outfits but never really thought about it.

I would say there were two moments with my fetish to be denied that drove my latex fetish to what it is. The first was a moment when I was in latex leggings and a latex gown, and the other person was naked lying in bed on top of me. Then a time where I was inadvertently rejected over time, which made me, crave denial and crave the restriction of latex. For me latex goes hand in hand with my need to be denied and objectified as the tight, restraining nature of latex accentuates it, whilst looking sexy and slick.

  K: What qualities of latex, and rubber make it most appareling to you? Why not leather, or saran wrap?

RR: Nothing gives objectification and the idea of a doll quite like latex, plus the way it clings to the body and hugs the human form. The sound, smell and touch of shined latex is also irresistible. For me personally nothing else matches it. All my catsuits and hoods are custom made by Am Statik Latex, and when it fits you that well it can be worn for days before changing into a different colour. It becomes a second skin, a part of you.

  K:  Do you have any specific rituals that help you get into the Rubber Doll headspace? What are they?

RR: Nowadays I hardly ever leave that headspace, my desperation, and the amount of time I spend as a full rubber doll means that I’m really always in it. Once all the zips are closed and I can feel the all over restriction of my second-skin there’s definitely no going back!

  K: Has your anonymity been empowering? What part does it play into your transformation?

RR: It does allow me to talk freely about my life and fetish; I can talk here without any thoughts of watching what I say. But there’s actually not many people from my life before that don’t know I’m now Renee. I ended up messaging a lot of them to tell them what I’d become. What was really interesting is no matter how far from vanilla to fetish they were I had nearly all positive responses, some saw it as art, some as hot, and at least two blossomed into serious domme /rubber doll relationships. I really think that you shouldn’t be scared to be who you want to be, at least in my experience some amazing things come out of telling people you least expect.

 K: Forever denied. Forever horny, is a quote from your bio. Are you practicing chastity? What is the longest you have gone without a sexual release?

RR: Truth is I used to count, but I can’t remember the last time I had sexual release. With chastity I’ve always felt the physical device isn’t good enough for me personally, it doesn’t really prevent anything. I’m mentally to the point I don’t want to orgasm or have sex, it’s just happened over years of me being a rubber doll. I’m now wired that pleasure is to be right on the edge, desperate and to stay there. I want to be like that forever, to feel the intensity grow and grow, and also see where it takes me sexually with fetishes and expanding my mind.

K: How has abstaining from physical sexual contact affected your sensitivities to pleasure?

RR: I’ve always been submissive, but it’s definitely made me more submissive and lustful. I now get very desperate over simple things, that add to the senses. Perhaps the scent of a leather heel, or not being able to feel someone’s skin when they touch you. Over time I’ve also wanted to experience bigger things, I’m sure two years ago I wouldn’t imagine I’d be living like I do now, and I’m sure that has a large part to play in it.

    K: In what ways does self-objectification gratify you? Is there a sexual component to it?

RR: Yes definitely, being an object for someone is very sexual to me. The power and dominance they have over you and the rejection of being an object is what I love. Whether that’s a rubber doll in the corner of a room as art while they ignore you, or being a useful object with a purpose.

Being objectified takes away all preconceptions and attitudes about how you’re treated I think. Others can just treat you how they want, and fulfill their desires perhaps at your expense, because you’re de-humanized. With only lips and eyes visible. You really become a plastic doll.

K: Which do you prefer, solo play, or a power exchange dynamic? How does your Rubber Doll experience differ between the two?

RR: A power exchange dynamic definitely, but being a rubber doll does mean solo play too. I am imagining in the end when I reach my goal, when I’m not used I’ll be put into a vacbed which means I’ll be restrained in latex along with only my thoughts for long periods at a time.

K: How do heels factor into your transformation? Are they merely an accessory, or are they an essential part of the experience?

RR: It’s funny, although I have a huge heel fetish on others. The way it arches their feet, the shapes and angles, and perhaps that all important toe cleavage! For me wearing heels isn’t sexual it’s style, an accessory to the look, to give poise, posture and to accent the latex. A barely there heel with layered latex always looks amazing.

  K: How important is community and fellowship to you?

RR: As a personality that is becoming more of a rubber doll day by day, and wants to be objectified completely, it goes hand in hand to say I’m not someone who parties a lot and gets involved in lots of events. But what I do feel is that you need at least a few people to support the transition and exploration. I definitely have a small sub-set of friends who push and drive my journey as a rubber doll in different ways, and when you have that it seems anything can be possible.

K: You are based in the UK. Have you seen kink more widely accepted by mainstream culture recently, or is it sill considered a fringe interest?

RR: Being in London definitely allows for all walks of life to be more widely accepted. Especially with the fetish scene and nights available. I think the city is very open minded, and definitely creative. I know I can do things in London that I couldn’t get away with in any other area of the UK.

On the other side, if you compare it to somewhere like Berlin, where German Fetish Ball is held, London is very aggressive. I feel safer walking around Berlin as a rubber doll, because it’s more calm. In Berlin I’ve never had someone say or do something negative to me when full rubber doll. I’m not sure London would be the same.

It’s definitely a fringe interest. What really gets to me is our government’s take on privacy and their ignorance in dealing with it. We are notoriously the most surveilled country. They want to get rid of encryption, and you’re opted in to a ‘safe internet’ when you get internet (which even blocks Torture Garden’s site) and you have to opt out. If we continue to hammer sexual exploration, society will default to the lowest common denominator and that is sad for creativity, sexual adventure and those of us want to live their fantasies and dreams.

K: What are you yearning to explore? What next for your in your journey?

RR: I’m very interested in Vacbeds, alas not getting to try one yet. As a Rubber Doll in the way I am, I feel a vacbed should almost be my ‘doll box’ where I’m kept when not wanted, again tying into the elements of objectification, restraint, and powerlessness. 

I goal really is to live my life as a 24/7 rubber doll. There are a few people who support me to that goal in different ways. Obviously to me this is mainly the goal as its exciting sexually but its interesting to me too, there must be others living like that we just don’t hear about them.

Follow Renee Rubber’s journey on Instagram at http://ift.tt/2jGKBIi

Photography: Am Statik   @amstatiklatex

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