#rubber story

[mybigboots]

"Drip" - Part One

Drip

Written by Boggy Fryer, The Cape Cod Boot Boy

Part One: Slickman

“What the hell do you mean, ‘accident’?” Frank barked as he burst through the doorway. 

Joel, who looked as though he had been halfway through completely chewing the nails clean off his fingertips, jumped in surprise and gave out a little squeak. He snatched up his clipboard from the desk where it had been resting and began to wave it frantically under Frank’s nose. Joel was moving it so fast that Frank could barely see what was written on it – but he could definitely make out a lot of hastily scribbled notes and a lot of it in red ink.

That was a problem in itself. Joel, anal and uptight as he was, made it a point to never use red ink unless something was wrong – and Joel NEVER used red ink. Snatching the clipboard from his foreman’s flailing hand, Frank rapidly scanned the page and saw something else that worried him: for the first time in the history of his employment, (and quite possibly his life), Joel’s penmanship there was messy. Joel was the sort of man that could write with a perfectly calm hand should he be walking barefoot on a bed of nails in the middle of a level nine earthquake. The fact that there was both red ink and it was barely legible meant that this was not good.

“Joel, what the hell happened?” shouted Frank. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, desperate to calm himself. “What is this? What is this! This,” he shook the clipboard at Joel before hurling it into the nearby trashcan by the desk, “is crap, Joel. This is crap, you hear me? What in God’s name happened?”

Joel opened his mouth and shut it, and then opened it again, and closed it again. He looked like a fish gasping for air. Losing patience, Frank grabbed Joel by the shoulders and shook him.

“Answer me, Thorpe! What accident? What happened? Tell me! Now!”

Joel looked ready to faint, he was so pale. Despite being shaken back and forth, he managed to gasp out the words, “There’s been a… a… something happened to them…”

“Joel Douglas Thorpe, I swear with God as my witness…” roared Frank. Joel seemed to come to his senses upon hearing his full name thrown out there like a parent calling out a naughty offspring. Wrenching himself free from his boss’s grip, he straightened his tie, adjusted his glasses that had been knocked askew on his nose, and took a deep breath.

“Mr. Shelton,” he hissed, “We have a problem. A big problem. There was a leak, in the factory, and some of the employees were… exposed. And it changed them, Mr. Shelton. I don’t know how, but it changed them and they’re…” his breath caught for a second, and he swallowed, “They’re not the same anymore, Mr. Shelton.” He lowered his voice and stepped close to Frank. He hissed, “I’m not even sure they’re human!”

Frank Shelton, president, founder, lead inventor, and head muckity-muck of Slickman All-Purpose Liquid Latex, took a few very heavy steps towards his desk and dazedly sank into the comfy office chair behind the desk. His eyes stared straight ahead without seeing a thing, and as Joel launched into a longwinded explanation of what happened, Frank’s mind began to float away and back to where this had all begun.

Frank had, after years of finding no use for his twin degrees in Engineering and Bio-Molecular Research, stumbled upon a miracle. While screwing about in his laboratory for the hundredth time, praying for a scientific breakthrough, he had invented something incredible: Slickman.

Slickman was a whole new brand of liquid bonding material, with the elasticity and durability of rubber, the sheen and texture of smooth latex, and near-unlimited uses. It could bond together the heaviest of substances, from cement blocks to steel girders. It could mend even the tiniest cracks so smoothly that it would be like they were never there and form an unbreakable seal. It was springy enough that if someone ran into a knife coated in Slickman, the blade would harmlessly bounce off their skin. Hell, a bowling ball coated in Slickman could be dropped on your head and you would feel as though someone had dropped a tennis ball on your noggin. It protected you from heat, it insulated you from cold, it kept you from suffering electrical shocks, and it could be molded into any length, shape, or form that you pleased (or in Frank’s case, paid him to make).

The stuff would change the world. The stuff would take the world by storm. There was only one tiny drawback: Slickman was technically… alive.

Frank snapped back to reality as Joel’s voice came to him across the desk. 

“From what we can tell,” Joel went on, “Only a select few have been affected. Our factory team was quick on the uptake and quickly moved them to the med office here in the factory, but when the symptoms started to get worse, we transported them quietly downstairs to the basement for containment.”

“The other workers,” Frank said sharply, “Do they know anything?  Did anyone see what happened?” Joel glanced pointedly at the wastebasket off the side of the desk where his clipboard had landed, as if to say “Well, if you’d just read my report, you’d know all that, Bossman.” He cleared his throat and went on, “They saw it happen. We were quick to spread the story that they suffered some minor burns and were being moved to an infirmary to be treated.”

“Good man.”

“Thank you, boss,” said Joel with a blush. Joel Thorpe was a good kid. Fiercely dedicated and very hard-working, the boy was fresh out of college, twenty-four years old, and he looked as though he’d stepped off the page of a magazine advertisement. Girls would have found him adorable, Frank knew, if Joel ever took off those horn-rimmed glasses, ever loosened that tie or unbuttoned a few buttons from his dress shirts, or put the slightest crease in his appearance. Joel’s hair, always a tight dark brown combover, seemed to never fall even slightly out of place by sheer force of will. He had a bright future ahead of him, and he’d made the choice to jump onboard the S.S. Slickman as Frank Shelton’s factory foreman – and now he was wrapped up in this nightmare too.

Joel continued: “We held an emergency drill a little later and took the chance to check out the other workers. They all checked out, no one else has been affected. No one knows anything. We’re in the clear.”

Frank scowled at this.

“In the clear.” He repeated. “Except for…”

Once again, Joel unraveled. He began to pace back and forth, and he took off his glasses and began to polish them on the end of his tie at an alarming rate. Any faster and the glass would wear straight through.

“Except for those affected.” Joel muttered. “Eight of them. Eight workers in all, all male, all still here in the factory. They’re downstairs. I’ve had Chip down there, sending up hourly reports, and I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

“And just what, pray tell, are you hearing?” whispered Frank, putting his head in his hands and waiting for the news he’d been preparing for.

“The Slickman seems to have…” Joel searched for words. Frank held his breath. “It seems to have… taken over, boss.  It seems to have somehow possessed them.”

Frank Shelton covered his face with both hands, hiding Joel from sight, and began to breathe heavily. 

So. It was happening again, just like before. He should have seen this coming. He should have stopped the production at the first sign of trouble, but it was too late for that. 

After he’d developed the Slickman, Frank had been only too eager to flog it on the open market. He’d demonstrated it at trade shows, he’d cozied up to the right clients, and he’d even arranged a romantic candlelit dinner with one of his on-the-fence investors. But it had all paid off. Slickman was ready to roll out, the factory had sprung up and was pumping out the product in containers for home-use to industrial gallon drums for big businesses. And a few days after a nice dinner, Frank had returned to his lab, still tipsy off several glasses of wine, and happened upon his first ever container of Slickman, the first he’d ever brewed up.  Frank had decided to keep it around for sentimental reasons. 

Opening the top of the container, Frank had stuck his hand in and raised it up to see his whole hand, from fingertips to his wrist, coated in shiny black latex. He’d said to it, “You and me, my friend, are going to change everything.”

And then, without warning, the make-shift glove had suddenly reached over and grabbed hold of a pencil sitting on the tabletop, and scribbled on a piece of paper:

YES FRANK

WE WILL CHANGE EVERYTHING

Frank had jumped up from that table in horror, knocking over his stool, but found himself unable to move away from the counter. His gloved hand suddenly seemed to weigh a ton and was holding him tightly in place. Grabbing hold of his shiny wrist with his other hand, Frank had pulled as hard as he could, only to find that it felt exactly like a glove, fit to his hand perfectly, and he could not remove it.

“What the hell?” Frank had hissed. He’d thought he was drunk. There had been an awful lot of wine, actually… but then the shiny black glove had grabbed his bare wrist and effortlessly dunked his other hand into the container of Slickman. 

“What is this?” Frank had yelled. He’d planted his feet against the table and attempted to wrench his hands free, but it was too late. When they raised themselves from the plastic tub, they were both wearing a pair of shiny latex gloves. He couldn’t so much as wiggle his fingers. He’d yelled again, this time calling for help, but it seemed like the Slickman had had enough of his noisemaking. Quickly, the gloves had raised up to his neck and unfastened the tie he had been wearing for his business dinner. Unable to stop himself, Frank had watched helplessly as he had swiftly wrapped the tie around his own mouth and tied it behind his head, gagging himself.

Panicking, Frank had fought to control his hands, but they would not answer. His hand found the pencil and paper again and he wrote:

SUBMIT FRANK

Then, without warning, his hands had forced him up from the table and had quickly begun to undress him. His shirt, then his undershirt, were quickly removed. He’d stood there, alone in the dark lab, and had been forced to grab a small brush that he kept nearby on the table. Dipping it into the tub of black goo, Frank had quickly placed the tip against his left arm and had started to paint. More out of fascination than anything, Frank had stopped struggling and watched as he gently began to coat his entire arm, from shoulder to wrist, in the rubber. Pretty soon, it looked as though he were wearing a long tight glove. The Slickman must have somehow sensed that he was admiring the handiwork and raised it before his eyes.

Frank had grunted through the gag, and his other hand had removed his tie (although he was now no longer sure if it were himself of the Slickman that was truly calling the shots). Taking a minute to gasp for breath and calm himself, Frank had whispered to the container of Slickman before him, “What are you? What do you want?” At once, his other hand had written on the paper on the counter:

WE WILL BE ONE

“What does that mean?” Frank’d hissed, “How can you be alive? You can’t be alive! You just can’t!” Evidently not wanting him to ask more questions, the shiny hands stuffed the gag back into place in Frank’s mouth. A sudden horror had surged through Frank’s heart when his hands had reached down and started to fiddle with the clasp on his belt. What the hell was it going to do down there? He didn’t even want to think about it. A second later, he’d found that he didn’t have to.

The Slickman was working fast. In seconds, Frank had removed his belt and then loosened his pants. They’d fallen around his ankles. Frank had been determined not to move his feet even the slightest bit, but a sudden darting motion from his arm had knocked him off balance just long enough to lift his left foot off the ground, and then his arms, now more a pair of shoulder-length gloves than anything else, had moved on with the business of pulling off his pants and socks. Frank had started to freak out when a moment later he was naked in the middle of his lab after he’d also been forced to remove his underwear.

Right then, Frank felt a chill that had had little to do with the cold, dark lab space. His entire body was exposed to the Slickman like a blank canvas before an artist with a pallet and brush. Begging the Slickman for freedom, Frank’s muffled pleas for mercy had turned into moans of despair when his arms had picked up the entire container and dumped a liberal amount onto his chest. A heavy glop of the Slickman splattered across his naked chest, washing down his body. Everywhere the Slickman had landed, he instantly both felt and saw it becoming one with his body.  He was a pretty well-built guy for his age, but as the goo coated him, he suddenly become aware that all he could see was the tightest outline of his chest and stomach, of his waist and his thighs.

His hands had gone to work instantly.  Like the claws of some robot, they had started to rhythmically brush his body up and down, smoothing the shiny ooze into every part it could reach. The gloved arms didn’t just slap away at the material, they moved slowly and methodically. He felt it rub his groin and at once Frank’s panic was replaced by bliss. He’d never felt anything like that before down there. Long, slow strokes came as the gloves wrapped around his dick and balls, smoothing them, and Frank let out a traitorous moan of pleasure. His body became slick and shiny, and he found that the more of it was covered, the less of it was responding to him. He ran his hands over each other, them smoothed down his chest and his hips, and then returned to his balls and dick again. Now they were pulling them sensually, almost playfully, touching them, coating them. Rather than just vanish into a sheath of rubber, though, like some toy store action figure, they grew larger and wider, more perfect, covered in rubber. His feet, covered with the drippings of the Slickman, were perfected as well. At once he didn’t feel like the Slickman was between his toes, but more that it was his toes, his entire foot, in fact. In fact, the only part that was left was his face.

As if psychically linked, the Slickman reached down and took a handful of the ooze, cupping it in a hand, and raised it towards his face. Frank, having been admiring the sexy way his rubber-covered body was making him feel, and how his dick under all this slime was springing to life, realizing that the end was staring him right in the face. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “No!”

With sudden adrenaline born of fresh terror, Frank had wrenched his right hand away from the table and swung it wide. As luck would have it, he had left the glass beaker containing his only hope at that moment – the solvent – on the table. His flailing arm made contact with the beaker, which flipped over and flew into the air before falling back to the desk with a crash. The glass had shattered and splashed the clear chemicals across the table – and across Frank’s body.

He’d felt the strange grip that the Slickman had been holding over him instantly break. Seconds later, Frank stood there, peeling and ripping the quickly cracking latex from his skin, hurling it away from him in large pieces. It stung like hell, almost like tearing off a layer of Frank’s own skin, but he hadn’t stopped until every scrap was gone. 

For the next two days, Frank was a wreck. He’d spent the next day convincing himself that the entire incident had been just his imagination. Unfortunately for Frank, the slight burns on his skin and the loss of the hair all over his arms, not to mention his crotch, were too much to ignore. Then there was the note scribbled on the lab table with those haunting words that Frank MUST have written, but couldn’t possibly have.

And then, the day after that, when he’d finally wrapped his mind around the fact that it hadn’t been some kind of crazy hallucination, he’d received a big fat Thank You basket of wine, cheese, and scented soaps from one of his investors. His mind had nearly blown a fuse – Slickman was within days of hitting the shelves. It would be in every home in the country. It would be used in every factory, and would be applied in every auto shop. Electricians, plumbers, repairmen, farmers; so many people were about to become so many victims.

Frank had instantly started work on more solvent. A lot more if it. Gallons upon gallons of it. To cover his bases, Frank poured it first completely over the original batch of Slickman. As soon as it was nothing more than a withered pile of shreds, he had burned it. Next, he’d haunted the factory and the lab for the next few days. He’d read every report and called up every supplier until they were sick of him. After almost a week of frantic searching for the slightest sign of trouble, he’d turned up nothing. Whatever strange, frantic phenomenon had taken place in Frank’s personal lab had yet to appear anywhere else. Frank dared to dream that it was the original batch. That maybe he’d left it hanging out for so long it had literally and figuratively gone bad. That thought provided no comfort – how does an inanimate object with no brain or soul develop both and turn on its creator? But Frank wasn’t one for philosophy, he was all about the bottom line, and the bottom line right now was good, so long as nothing went wrong.

Nothing, until now.

“Boss. Boss!” Joel’s voice broke into Frank’s concentration again. He started, looking up from his hands.

“Yes, Joel?” Frank said tiredly. “More bad news?”

Joel looked exasperated. He seemed to also be on the verge of tears. Slapping his documents down on the table, which he must have dug out of the wastepaper basket while Frank was in his reverie, Joel began to run his hands through his hair.

“Mr. Shelton, we have no idea what to do about this!” he hissed. “For God’s sake! They’re mutants! There is nothing in the books about what to do when your employees are exposed to liquid latex and turn completely into monsters! Boss, what are we going to do?” Frank would have found Joel’s little meltdown funny had he been in any other situation in the world. Joel’s hands closed over his face and he seemed to sway as he shook his head back and forth, all the while muttering, “What are we gonna do, what are we gonna do, what are we gonna do?” In a heartbeat, Frank was there at his side, enclosing his young assistant in his arms. It was perhaps a great deal more than was necessary, but at least Joel stopped moaning. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” whispered Frank. He held him tightly, closing his eyes, and at the same time feeling Thorpe’s tight little body through his crisp and clean office clothes. Joel stiffened at this, but said nothing. Today was the day for dealing with this nightmarish crisis. It was not the day for Joel to find out that part of the reason Frank had hired him in the first place had been that he had developed, within seconds of laying eyes on him, a total crush and a major hard-on for the guy. That would wait for another day. If that ever came.

“We’ll get through this,” said Frank quietly. “Damned if I know how, but we’ll get through it. We can get through this, Joel, you hear me? Don’t go to pieces on me now.”

It took almost another minute for Joel to compose himself and snap out of his hysteria. Gently breaking away from Frank, he took a second to remove his glasses and wipe the lenses, straighten his tie and collar, and brush off his shirt. When he was once again breathing normally, he asked Frank, “Alright then, bossman, what are we going to do? What’s our first step?”

Frank closed his eyes and thought back to that night in the lab. The rubber slithering over his skin, bonding with him, his own hands controlled by the shiny black slime, the blind terror with which he had fought back as it sought to take over his whole body, piece by piece… and the erotic, sensual pleasure he had felt as it wrapped around his dick.

“First things first, Joel.” Frank said at last. He stood and swallowed hard, hoping that he was exuding a calm and a confidence which he did not in any way feel.

“First things first, Joel,” he repeated. “Take me to them.”

[tightsweatyclothes]

An idea for a game: she is bound and placed within an enclosure, less than a metre in height. She just needs to get out of the enclosure to get to the unlocked door, and freedom. Easy enough to push herself against the enclosure walls and get up, but the catch is that touching the enclosure walls will set up debilitating shocks in the collar, so that even a brush will send her into a frenzy of agony. She can try to get her legs underneath her from a sitting position, but the armbinder behind her either messes up her centre of gravity, or forces her torso forward, blocking her own bound legs from getting beneath her body. She may, with great effort, push her bound limbs into a kneeling position, as above, but from there it is almost impossible to stand up. The door beyond the enclosure stands ajar: once out of the enclosure, she could literally push it to get out of the warehouse, whose metal roof makes it a furnace in the heat. Hours pass, and her tormentors have force-fed her bitter and rotten-tasting fluids to stop her from overheating several times before leaving her to her struggles once more, but she is no closer to freedom than before, though it stares her right in the face. At night they leash her to the corner and recharge her collar, and she sleeps as best she can while bound, and in the day the struggle begins anew, sometimes with a bunch of keys for her restraints, which hands trapped in an armbinder cannot possibly use, thrown in to tease her still further.

[botanyshitposts]

ok this sounds insane but in 2018 i went to a few carnivorous plant talks at the botany conference in minnesota. i got caught up in conversation with one of the guys there who was a huge nepenthes guy who told me a story about another collector in the pacific northwest who'd been buying poached plants, like a huge amount, and eventually got staked out by the fish and wildlife service and arrested and had all his plants seized and went to prison for it. idk if i ever talked about this on this blog before-- i know i liveblogged a lot from that conference but cant remember what all i posted-- but ive avoided talking about it since then because i was never able to find like, news articles or anything covering it, but behold.... we now have proof it was real, and im like 80% sure this was this guy he was talking about. the raid happened in 2016 and they'd been staking them out since 2013. he had nearly 400 plants and had been sourcing many of them from poachers in indonesia and borneo.

remember folks: poaching happens with plants too! it's a huge problem not only in carnvirous plants (nepenthes especially, which this piece is dedicated to talking about) but also in native plant populations in the US, including native carnivorous plant populations (north and south carolina's venus fly traps, california's darlingtonia, and sarracenia from the east coast), native orchids (historically one of the most poached categories), desert plants/cacti/succulents, and slow-growing woody ornamentals (cycads, for example). never buy bare-root plants off ebay or facebook! your best bet is local nurseries (which usually purchase farm-raised plants that do well in a wide range of conditions, and as a result have a healthy population in the wild) or specialty greenhouses (more expensive, but at least in the case of carnivorous plants offer young plants bred from established adult plants in-house, raised in captivity).

[thebramblewood]

They're going on a best friend date. 🥰

Previous / Next

Helena: Caleb, get dressed. We’re going out.

Caleb: [mumbling] Oh, but Dru and I were just getting comfortable.

Helena: She looks like she’d rather be elsewhere. And so would I. I’m tired of being a recluse with you. All I can think about when I’m hanging around here is my next meal.

Caleb: But where are we-

Helena: It’s a surprise! Would you rather I ask your sister instead?

-

Lilith: Where are you two off to? Oh, are you having one of your little mental conversations. You know I hate that. It’s so unfair! Fine, don’t tell me. But at least take your hellcat with you. [to rubber ducky] I guess it’s just you, me, and that… thing. Now, what are we going to do about them keeping secrets from us?

-

Helena: Why have we never taken this path?

Caleb: Enemy territory.

Helena: Oh my god, is this the way to Vlad’s? You have to show me his place!

Caleb: [weakly] Helena…

Helena: [shudders] Ostentatious and creepy as fuck. It’s strange how little I noticed that first night. And what I do remember is all fragmented and blurry, like a dream.

Caleb: Well, you had an awful lot to drink, and you did technically die. [ruminative pause] Then, of course, there was all the glamouring-

Helena: Glamouring?

Caleb: Vampire party trick. Like hypnosis, but more sophisticated. Once you learn it, you can make yourself as discreet or flashy as you’d like. Most humans have encountered vampires without even realizing it. If they stumble into this place  — and make it out alive — they likely won’t remember how to return. Straud and the other ancients keep it well-shrouded.

Helena: [nervously] Does it work on other vampires? I’ve barely seen any-

Caleb: We can always see our kind for what they are. You’ve just been unobservant.

Helena: Hey! I’ve been distracted. It’s hard not to have tunnel vision when you’re in perpetual survival mode.

Caleb: You’re feeling better now. I can tell.

Helena: I’m full on plasma and ready to party!

Caleb: [chuckles] Seriously?

Helena: Well, not quite. You’ll see.

Caleb: You know, I could just peek into your head and-

Helena: [teasingly] Too bad your morals will never allow it.

[kink-creator]

THE RUBBER DOG

Short Story

The council has voted: the handsome jock will become an obedient rubber dog.

--

"You can't do this!" he yelled, to the councilmen's amusement. The chamber filled with gas. His panic only made him breathe deeper.

Slick black rubber spread across his skin. He felt something form in his ass—a silicone plug. It grew bigger and outward to shape a long black tail, bobbing gently as he shuddered from the feeling.

A thick rubber dog mask formed over his face, darkening his vision. His mind was growing cloudy. He let out a muffled groan of protest: "You won't … get … away … w—WOOF!" He stood still for a moment, shocked at his sudden loss of … something. He couldn't remember what.

He breathed the gas, deeper and deeper. It made him relaxed; euphoric.

It started to feel so good to be a dog—an obedient, slutty rubber dog. He dropped to all fours and trembled with pleasure. He panted greedily and wagged his tail in the air. Degrading himself, with the councilmen watching, made him so hard.

Ten minutes of ecstasy passed, and the dog couldn't contain his excitement any longer. He came inside his rubber suit, whimpering, growling, panting stupidly as his body convulsed. With that pathetic ending, his transformation was complete and irreversible.

The gas receded, and the chamber door opened. Still quivering, the dog crawled out toward the councilmen. He was desperate to lick his masters' boots—desperate to suck on their bones.

--

If you like what you see, check out my other AI videos:

The Conversion Pool

The Red Singlet

From Prep to Pig

A Gimp is Born

The Drone Factory

The Vampire's Thrall

A Hero Corrupted

And short stories:

The Rubber Dog

[etheral-moon]

His hottest moments, argue with the wall. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋✧˚.⋆

[starphenie]

whenever i think of how nikki's personality has changed from her first game to her latest i get so emotional.. bring back silly lazy genki girl nik </3

[hard-like-ai]

seeing your work; turning people into rubber skinheads, chavs, etc. has really made me realize how nice it would be if something similar were to happen to me. What would have to change in order to become a rubber soldier?

Indeed, envisioning yourself as a rubber soldier conjures up images of a striking figure clad in shiny latex and PVC, with every muscle accentuated to perfection.

However, the magic of such a transformation lies in the precision of your words. A 'rubber soldier' might not just entail a shiny uniform but could literally mean becoming a RUBBER soldier.

As the transformation begins, you might first notice your compression T-shirt hugging your torso a tad more snugly than usual. Then, a peculiar sensation sweeps over you as your muscles stiffen, your skin takes on a glossy, green sheen, and you feel both powerful and constrained simultaneously.

In the blink of an eye, your uniform and boots seem to dissolve, melding into your very being. Now, you stand not just dressed as, but truly embodying, a toy soldier - resolute and unyielding.

Your every movement resonates with a surreal, rubbery echo. As you move, the stiffness of your body becomes apparent. Each motion is deliberate, almost mechanical. The most immediate and striking change is the pervasive scent of rubber and plastic mixed with sweat that now seems to emanate from your very pores. It's a constant reminder of your transformation, a heady and unmistakable aroma that clings to your newly glossy skin.

Isn't this what you asked for?

[tightsweatyclothes]

It is difficult to properly describe the disorientation, the helplessness of sensory deprivation. In the first few days, or what I supposed to be days, I screamed constantly into the gag, trying to hear my own voice, but even the vibrations of bone conduction had somehow been stilled by the hood. I did not realize how much our hearing and sight are taken for granted until I was denied of them completely. Each movement I made was halting, hesitating, desperate for anything that would break the stuffy dark and silence, yet fearful of what lay outside my skin-tight prison. Countless times did I try to pry off the hood, pry the suit off, but it stayed on, and my only reward was sweating worse into the itchy suit from the exertion. My tormentors prodded me with a sticks, shocked me with electricity, and I could neither see nor hear them. It was utterly infuriating. At first I tried to swipe at them, to retaliate, but with my sight and hearing gone, I could not even lay a finger on them. They would trip me up, and each time I put my gloved hands against the ground, trying to feel out the ground, to support myself and stand, I would find myself kicked down again, and nothing could tell me where the next blow would land. My only hope was to kneel, silent and docile, hoping they would tire of tormenting me. Who knows how many hours I spent like this, cowering and helpless, alone in the hot and muggy dark, afraid to move a finger for fear of the abuse coming back? Countless times did I pray for someone to save me from the stillness, the darkness which pressed in on me and suffocated me, and not once have my prayers been answered.

[alcoris-shiz]

The Big Boss Of Hell Himself

Chapter 1: Remember Me

Description: You died, well at least that’s what Lucifer had witnessed right? You were killed in his meeting with Heaven all those years ago when Charlie was just little. Lilith and he had split up when Charlie was only years old, then you came into his life. He was courting you at the time, Charlie adored you, you adored him and as you tried to help redeem demons, they shot at you saying an incantation that Lucifer didn’t even know. Then suddenly out of the blue, he gets a call from Charlie that there is someone at the hotel for him. She remembers you, but you can’t remember anything except a white light and waking up feeling lost.

Inspired by multi-fandom-imagine: And You’re In My Heart (Tumblr)

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Lucifer’s POV

I played- I mean placed my duck very particularly on a shelf. It looked just like them, so pretty. Next to my other ducks. This was probably only my 1,000th duck that looked like Y/N, but it was the most resemblant so far. I proudly had it sitting next to my duck which looked like Charlie and I. 

We were barely together, I know I had only been courting them, but either way, it hurt to think of them. They would’ve accepted a proposal, I know this. But why now? Why did they have to leave so soon? We were partners! They’d been there since the beginning. Lilith may have helped me start it, but Y/N was there for me to get the job done. When it seems everything fell apart. 

Their wings being ripped from their body flashed through my head and I winced at the memory. How they’re body were thrown into a portal lifelessly and they were gone. They died fighting for my dream and while I know it was also their dream. I know it was their dream because it was mine. They did so much for Charlie and me and yet they were the one who suffered. Now here Charlie was taking the same stance, almost as if they were related and not Lilith. Those two always had so much in common.

I felt my eyes tear up and had to look away from my most recent project when my phone began to ring. I flinched grabbed it hurriedly and answered. “Heyyy… you?” I said awkwardly, cursing myself for not rehearsing before answering.

“Hey, Dad! I have… someone here who I think you’d like to see!” I sighed as I waited for her to say who it was, but the line was quiet and awkward.

“May I ask who it is? I’m pretty busy,” I said awkwardly in reply.

“It’s a surprise, just be nice when you show up. They’re not really in the right headspace and I think that seeing you will help them a lot.” Charlie said happily. Well, who could it be? Happy to see me? Was Lilith back? I missed her, but I feel like that’s the last person I would want to see. But a chance to see Charlie? Alright! Good enough reason to show up!

“Well, are you asking me to come see you as well?!” I asked I felt excited at the idea of coming to see Charlie, but she just laughed. 

“Yeah Dad, you can come see me as well. But I promise, you’ll be more than happy to see them.” I sighed again at the idea of having to socialize. 

“Alright, alright… I’ll be there in 20!” 

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Around 20 minutes later I stood awkwardly in front of the hotel, should I even knock? I already said I was coming over… This is for Charlie!

I knocked on the door and it was quickly opened. “Heyyy bitch~,” I said and then paused awkwardly, my arms outstretched. I saw the spider thing in the back cover their mouth, clearly trying not to laugh. “Bad intro again? Hah, I’ll just work on that some more Sweetheart,” I chuckled rubbing the back of my neck.

I got a better look at Charlie and she had tear streaks down her face but was smiling. I felt myself immediately go into dad mode as I hugged her tightly. “Honey, why have you been crying? Did someone do something?~ 王’ĮĮ ƘíĮĮ ፐん巳ണ~” I snarled and she shook her head in my chest. I breathed a sigh as she pulled away. “No… it’s- just come see them,” she whispered and grabbed my hand, pulling me into the hotel.

She led me to our new beautiful dining room we had designed as she hurried inside.

That’s when I saw them…

My eyes swelled. This is an awful joke… they’re dead. I can’t be seeing this, there’s no way. They’re long past dead. “Y-Y/N?” I whispered looking at their face. They’re beautiful face where they sat looking so confused. “I- You’re Lucifer I guess?” I felt my chest swell hearing their voice once again. But why were they questioning this? I put on a little weight and aged a little, but I couldn’t look very different! They looked the same as the day they- 

“They seemed to have lost their memories. They said they just woke up in an alley and saw the hotel, assuming they could find help, they knocked. The last thing they remember is white and waking up, they don’t know any of us.” Charlie whispered.

“That’s okay, it’s so okay. My darling, we’ll help you. I’ll never leave you helpless again my dear,” I whispered slowly walking towards them. They looked up, eyes teary as well. She must be stressed, where did that emergency duck go that I had brought?!

I quickly pulled it out and presented it to them. It was a small classic rubber duck that just felt soft when you squished it. Charlie had said it may be a little more relieving for stress and it had become one of my new favorites. What a clever daughter I have!

They slowly reached up and touched it, looking at my eyes they grabbed it. That’s when I heard them giggle quietly. Oh, how I missed that laugh and their voice. “Thank you, I love ducks,” they giggled and softly squished it. That’s still my darling, that’s definitely them. 

“My dear, how are you feeling? Do you need to rest? I can help you! I make a great pillow if you need one! Or I mean I can also get you pillows I guess. I can be the blanket! Or just get a blanket.” they laughed again and smiled at me softly.

“No I’m okay, I feel like I’ve slept one hundred years, I don’t think I wanna sleep ever again.” they whispered.

I chuckled, right. “I’ll let you guys talk,” Charlie said and hugged me. “Thank you,” I whispered to her as she nodded and left the room. 

“I know you don’t know this and it sounds crazy probably, but I missed you. So much dearest.” I said softly to Y/N. They looked at me quizzically. “I don’t remember you, but I feel like I also missed you, somehow. That probably sounds crazier.” They said chuckling.

“No,” I said grabbing their hands softly, making sure they were okay with it. But they grabbed my hands as well and looked at me softly. “It’s perfectly okay and makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. I thought you had… were dead?” I felt my eyes fill with tears again and bit my lip, trying to keep my tears at bay.

“I died?” they asked softly looking shocked. I nodded. “Yeah, but I’m more than thankful you’re here.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Word Count: 1,279 A/N: So this is the first idea for a story I'm writing. I'm taking some of my favorite prompts for Lucifer that I've read and turning them into an actual story. If you guys have a specific prompt you wanna see, I'd love to see it. ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ~ Master List~ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

[a-s-levynn]

Aww Trevin's family grows yet again 🥺🫶🏻

[tofu83]

Offset your own debt

Martin Fisher lost a lot of money on a gambling machine and was caught and locked up in a small room. The Boss said he could leave after his friend paid off his debt. But he knew no one would help him and he must escape while he couls to avoid execution. It was strange that the back door of this room was unlocked, so he quickly slipped out.

Behind the door was a long corridor full of screens. After he took a few steps, all the screens lit up, and they were all spirals that kept turning.He felt dizzy and at the same time, a soft voice came from the loudspeaker:

"You lose everything, including your clothes, take off your clothes!" He subconsciously followed the order and stripped himself naked.

"You also lose your old identity, you are nothing." He nodded in understanding.

"Whatever the Boss gives you, you accept unconditionally. Now put on the rubber shorts. You will wear them forever. It marks your new identity: the Boss's slave." A mechanical arm handed over a pair of rubber shorts, and Martin put them on. A little tight, but it feels exactly right.

"You are too thin to be a qualified slave. Drink the Boss's latest protein drink, and then start your process." He drank the drink handed to him by another robotic arm. It was very thick and tasted salty. It also had a fishy smell and was not tasty, but he liked the nutritional supplements given to him very much.

"Now lift the barbell, lunge forward, and follow the instructions." Martin started moving and working out.

His skinny body should not have been able to bear such a rigorous exercise, but under deep hypnosis, he far exceeded his limit. And because the Boss's special drink not only prevented his body from getting injured, it also allowed him to rapidly evolve due to high-intensity exercise. His shoulders and back were getting wider, his limbs were getting thicker, his chest muscles were getting bigger, and his abdominal muscles were getting more obvious. When he reached the end of the alley, he had changed from a nerd to a jock.

The robot arm took the barbell away, and Mark came to a door. "Your transformation is almost complete, now comes the final test."

He stood still. After a series of changes in his body caused by exercise and supplements, he could no longer think and could only accept instructions.

"Who are you?" the voice asked.

"The Boss's slave," he shouted back.

"What is your name?"He couldn't answer. His head had undergone a violent transformation and he had completely lost his memory.

"Your name is M13."

"My name is M13."

"As the owner's property, M13 has offset Martin Fisher's debt. Martin Fisher is allowed to leave, and M13 will stay forever."

"M13 will stay forever."

"Very good, your transformation is 100% complete and you are allowed to open the door and enter."

The Boss was half lying on the bed, enjoying the massage from two slaves while watching his newest slave walk in. M13's toned body was full of sweat and glistened under the light, which made the boss very satisfied.

M13 knelt down in front of the Boss, lowered his head and asked, "How may I serve you, master?"

[imagined-rubbermen]

There's a lot that no one ever tells you about acclimating to becoming a rubber drone. Granted, everyone that used the Dronification Kit can't really talk about it, and most of them won't communicate just because their "master" forbids, or something. The lack of needs wasn't hard to get used to, if anything that's a lot of worries off my back. But no breathing? No talking? The lack of bodily functions felt alien. At least I could still see and hear, even if I lacked the body parts to do so. But my hearing and vision was so clear, so crisp, that it was overwhelming. The combined sensory deprivation and amplification was a lot to handle, so I did what usually helps me; I took a walk.

It was raining that night, and the rain kinda helped calm me down. I could differentiate each droplet hitting my new rubber skin, and it drowned out my anxiety. The increased sensitivity was a godsend now, and I savoured it. As I walked, my movements became more simplified, rigid, focused, yet flexible, softer, pliable. I assumed that's my flesh and bone turning into rubber now. The ideas in my mind about how to use my new body made me feel like my blood was pumping, even if I lacked such.

When I got home, I went to the bathroom to dry off. However, the rain made me so smooth, I got a little carried away. I relaxed and felt myself up right on the spot. I rubbed myself all over, my tightly defined chest, my smooth helmet like face, even my crotch. That last one was the biggest surprise, I didn't have anything down there. No shaft, no balls, no anus. There was a weird lock imprint on my bulge, but other than that, I really liked it. I knew I'd love being a featureless rubber drone.

Eventually I felt the sensation of climaxing; the rush, the release, the exhaustion, but I didn't come. After all, I didn't need human anatomy to pleasure myself. The best part? It took almost no time at all for my new rubbery, smooth, elastic body was ready for round two, and I went again, my body squeaking alone on the bathroom floor. After climaxing again, I let myself fall asleep on the bathroom floor.

It's weird now, my life that is. So many people think I have a "master" or an "owner" but instead I'm the master of my life. I'm made of rubber now, and if anyone gives me any issues, they can barely hurt me, while I show them what I can do. Now I have complete control of myself, my emotions, my body, my life. My libido is ready to fire on all cylinders whenever, and I can feel myself for hours sometimes, and can easily stop. I was like a machine, although I kinda am.

Of course, I saw an opportunity, and sometimes sell my "services" to lonely men that need that sexual satisfaction of an object. Of course they know I'm in charge, and getting into a fight with a rubber drone is not something I'd advise (although some of those guys really liked it, so what do I know?). I'll let them play with me. Some guys like to smell and lick me, like how I would play with rubber drones before I became one. Some guys would try to fuck me, although without any orifices, their shafts rubbed against me until they came. A few beat me, which I kinda liked, probably cause my rubber body would bend and twist with ease.

Mainly though I've found myself being kind of a therapist, letting men air out their emotions out. Sure, a few were still in the closet, and few were still a virgin. For those men, I went the extra mile. Of others, they'd just talk. I guess being a gay man can be isolating at times, like how almost no rubber drone I met seems to be independent. Unsurprisingly, being made of rubber meant I was comfortable to hug and cuddle, and in those moments, being a rubber drone is really worth it.

From that, my life is perfect now. The strangest thing is that I don't need clothing anymore. My body is so featureless that I don't feel naked, like my rubber skin is a suit anyways. Even when I do wear clothes I tend to mainly wear plain, oversized clothes, mostly gym stuff. However, sometimes at night I'll walk alone in the nude, just me and the night air. And when it rains like that first night I was a drone, it's so... Perfect...

It's not for everyone, maybe not even you. But if you still want to experience it, I'd suggest a gimp suit first before getting a Dronification Kit. Or if you just wanna find out what a rubber drone is like, I'm $50 hour.

[flyingfabio]

EMILIA ROMAGNA GP 2021 - Fabio Quartararo & Marc Márquez celebrate their respective World Championship and Grand Prix win with a burnout

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (IV)

Breaking Balls

Continued from // Masterpost

I hope this is coherent, it went under a lot of revisions, but finally it is done! And this part is dedicated to @nameless-beanie because it wouldn’t have been updated as quick without their very kind words :3

Enjoy~

*~*~*~*~*

Kit came to, slumped in a chair. His head hanging forward, almost resting on his chest. Omen was squatting in front of him, curious black eyes trained on Kit as he slowly woke up. His head heavy and groggy from sleep.

“Naughty, Kit. Very naughty. I didn’t say you could wake up yet,” Omen scolded, his voice dreamlike and faraway, as if Kit was hallucinating him.

“Where—”

“Shh, Kit. Go back to sleep.”

Kit didn’t fight the command. He was tired anyways. He closed his eyes and willingly let the darkness take him into a dreamless sleep.

When Kit woke again, he was horribly aware that this was the second time he awoke. The realisation sent every nerve in his body on fire, awareness hitting him like a truck as he forced his Omen induced sleeping body awake.

He was in the same chair as last time, a metal chair, he realised, his hands taped to the armrests at the wrist with thick black tape. Bright red rubber gloves that went halfway up his forearm were tapped in the same black tape as his wrist. Kit pulled at his restraints, testing how tight he was stuck, his heart leaping in his chest when he found a little wiggle room. Kit leaned forward in his chair, yanking at his arms, pulling them back and forward and side to side with all his strength trying to loosen the tape further.

Until light flooded the room and Kit froze in his seat, playing possum, hoping Omen hadn’t realised he was awake yet.

“You just keep surprising me, Kit,” Omen said, a smile in his voice. A hand settled on the nape of Kit’s neck and Kit flinched, moving away but the villain’s hand followed him wherever he moved. Kit couldn’t repress the shiver that ran down his spine as he stayed silent, waiting for Omen to speak again. “I’m still not finished with your new predicament, Kit, so I’m afraid you’re going to—”

“No wait!” Kit cried, panic climbing up his throat and bursting from his mouth without any thought. To his surprise, Omen paused, the pad of his thumb running up and down Kit’s throat, waiting for him to continue. Kit swallowed and said, “please, don’t put me back to sleep. Please. I won’t— I won’t fight I’ll be good I just— don’t put me back to sleep, please.”

Omen let go of Kit and walked around the chair to face him. Kit leaned back in his chair, looking up at Omen’s smiling face as he came around to stare at Kit.

“You promise you won’t fight me?” Omen asked, cocking an eyebrow at Kit. Kit licked his lips, shocked at himself for suggesting to willingly be in Omen’s presence longer than he had to, but he just knew he couldn’t go back to sleep again against his will.

It’s not like he was even getting a good rest from it. Each time Kit woke up his body was more and more sluggish, his brain overrun with fear or panic, and he just wanted to have some idea of what Omen was doing to him while he slept.

“I—” Kit began, swallowed, and looked away from Ambrose nodding. Kit was stupid to think a nod would satisfy Omen in all his sadism, and he barely suppressed the flinch when his hand reached out and took Kit’s chin, steering his head back to look at Omen. Onyx eyes studying him, something Kit didn’t recognise gleaming in their fathomless depths.

“Say it,” Omen commanded, his voice just a bit above an alluring whisper.

Kit swallowed hard, wanting to look away again but knew Omen wouldn’t allow it, so he steeled himself and said: “I won’t fight you, just please, don’t put me to sleep again.”

A triumphant smile spread across Omen’s features as he let go of Kit’s face. “Look at that. So polite, Kit, Superhero must have been teaching you something at least.”

Omen’s smile quipped into a smirk as he stepped around Kit’s chair again out of sight. Kit could hear Omen doing something behind him. With his heart hammering against his chest, Kit couldn’t help the curiosity at wanting to see what torture Omen was creating for Kit to endure.

He turned his head to look over his shoulder, but a firm hand rested on his cheek and turned him back to face forward. “Ah, ah, ah, Kit. No peeking. Can’t have you spoiling my fun now, can we?”

Kit didn’t reply, just chewed on the inside of his cheek, eyes trailing back down to the semi-loose tape that kept him restrained to the chair. It was heavy and bulky, not ordinary tape, but Kit didn’t really care about the type of things Omen was tying him up with, he only cared about getting free from it.

As quietly as possible Kit started turning his arm as much as he could, yanking it forward and back, side to side, hoping Omen was too preoccupied with what he was doing to notice Kit’s struggles.

Kit’s head was yanked back by his hair, craning his neck at an awkward angle until he was looking up at Omen. His black eyes regarded Kit coolly, as he said, “the terms of our deal were that you didn’t fight, Kit. Are you telling me you want to go back to sleep?”

“No!” Kit protested and then let out a small whine as Ambrose yanked his head back further.

“Then sit still, and don’t fight. That is the only warning I will give you. The next time you struggle, you’ll be asleep in an instant and when you wake, I’ll make sure you regret your decision.”

Kit couldn’t stop the anger bubbling up in him at his helplessness. “You’re a sick bastard,” Kit spat, and Omen’s features melted into a delighted smirk Kit had grown used to.

“Thank you, Kit. Now be a good little hero and sit still while I work.”

Omen let go of Kit’s hair then and Kit’s head bobbed back up to stare at the wall in front of him.

“Please, stop using my name,” Kit said quietly. He froze like a deer in headlights as he realised, he said that, actually said it out loud for Omen to hear. He heard Omen stop working again and he wished he didn’t say anything at all. Footsteps from the left and then Omen was in front of Kit, staring down at him with his stupid smile. “Forget it.”

Omen tsked, drawing Kit’s attention and keeping his eyes locked on Kit’s. “Is there something wrong with your name?”

“I said forget it.”

“What,” Omen pressed, ticking Kit off. “I just assumed it was your name considering it’s the name that ran through that water Hero’s mind once you showed up. Do you want to be called Christopher or something?”

Kit’s nose scrunched up at Omen. “My full name isn’t Christopher.”

“Then what? –”

“Look, I said it didn’t matter okay!” Kit fumed, unable to control the anger that bubbled up for no good reason. Well, no, a good reason, but misplaced at the time.

Omen stared down at Kit. “You’re annoyed that I know your name.”

“I’m not,” Kit said much too quickly. Omen’s smirk returned.

“Are you upset that I didn’t ask your name?”

“I’m just saying it’s a bit creepy to go around and invading people’s minds and using their name like they gave it to you.”

Omen laughed. “You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?”

Kit huffed out a breath and looked away. Omen’s stupid smirk was doing his head in, and he kind of wished he was knocked out right now so he didn’t have to witness it.

“Hey, Kit,” said Omen, and Kit made a point of not looking at him. “Kit, you have to the count of three to look at me. Thr – good. See, you can learn. You’re so obedient today.”

Kit gave the villain a blank stare. Omen smiled, not his stupid smirk, but a smile that if Kit passed him in the street he would think that he was a nice, normal guy.

“My name is Ambrose,” said Omen. Kit couldn’t help the surprise from knitting his features together. “Nice to formally meet you. Are you satisfied? We both know each other’s name now. Equal footing.”

Kit snorted and pulled his elbows up, showing his tied down arms. “Yeah so equal.”

Ambrose shrugged and walked around the chair again. He wouldn’t admit it, but it did make Kit feel a little better to know Ambrose’s name instead of calling him Omen. Now he had someone to curse and pray to every god to smite before he could torture Kit anymore.  

Restlessness crawled ugly and brutish under Kit’s skin as he stared ahead, fingers clenching into fists, the rubber of the gloves creaking against itself. Only then did it grab Kit’s attention. The fire truck red of the gloves almost comical as he stared down at them. His eyes flashed to the tape, thick and black and heavy.

Kit couldn’t feel the electric currents in his hands from the air, couldn’t feel his power anywhere the gloves were. The realisation settled like acid in his stomach.

Rubber gloves. The bastard used rubber gloves on him. Rubber’s an insulator of electricity, meaning it’s harder to pass a current through it, and Kit only ever used his hands to start a spark. Ambrose had taken his power from him without putting Kit in power dampeners just to prove that he could. To prove who had the real power, how easy it was to take Kit’s power away; put him in metal, in water, make him use his powers against himself then put him asleep and tie him up in rubber and what Kit could only assume to be electrical tape.

Tears gathered behind Kit’s eyes, but he wasn’t upset. Frustrated, yes. Angry, definitely. Not sad. More despairing and hopeless.

What had Mentor ever saw in Kit that would make him take interest in him? Make him his protégé, teach him the ropes of the Hero industry? Kit was a joke. The first villain he encountered solo was Omen, the Omen, and he was completely powerless to stop him; to protect Other Hero, to do anything.

Superhero would have beaten Omen.

Any other hero would have beaten Ambrose, but Kit couldn’t.

He didn’t even deserve the title of Hero.

Kit clicked his fingers anyway, trying to get that spark of friction but nothing happened. The air remained the same. Kit stayed in his chair, trapped and powerless.

He didn’t even notice that Ambrose walked around to his front until the villain crouched to meet Kit’s eye. Fear gripped Kit’s throat and settled at the base of his neck as he met Ambrose’s black smiling eyes. His too red lips quipped into a horribly sweet smile.

When he spoke his voice was gentle, “it’s awful, isn’t it? Knowing that your power is there, sizzling under the surface, knowing that you could still use it.”

“Yeah, I could use it, until you wrapped me up in rubber,” Kit spat, leaning forward in his chair. The side of Ambrose’s lips quirked into a smirk at Kit’s anger.

Ambrose reached his hand out, placing it on Kit’s cheek and Kit, thankfully, didn’t flinch this time. He didn’t pull away, or show that it bothered him, even though Ambrose’s hand was so cold.

“It’s just maddening,” Ambrose laughed, though laugh was a generous word. The sound that came from Ambrose’s mouth was unhinged and baffled. “I could turn your brain to mush like I did to Mentor. Leave you in a pool of your own drool, babbling about true horror and plant shadows in your brain to keep you occupied as you slowly waste away to nothing.”

Kit’s lips curled back into an ugly snarl, glaring at Ambrose as he said, “then how about you make good on your threats and get to it, Ambrose, hmm? Because I feel like sitting here listening to you is a worse fate than Mentor’s.”

Ambrose tilted his head to the side, eyes locked on Kit’s. He must have put up a convincing enough front because Ambrose huffed out a soft breath of a laugh, taking his hand off Kit’s face.

“You know Kit I can see why Mentor and Superhero liked you. When you’re not hanging by your wrists there’s a devil-may-care courage about you that borders on stupidity. I suppose you heroes would call it bravery, though, right?”

Ambrose’s eyes narrowed, his smile staying on his face, unnerving Kit but he didn’t react. “Mentor was the bravest of you all and look what I did to him.”

Kit jerked forward in his chair again, his movements limited by his arms being taped down, but he didn’t care. He was so sick of fearing this fucking Ambrose that he was throwing all caution to the wind.

“Yeah. Mentor was the bravest of us, and you know what Ambrose? As long as you’re around, there will always be brave heroes willing to fight you. All you did with Mentor was put a target on your back and every hero in the city is gunning to take you down.”

“I’m honoured, Kit,” Ambrose said, standing up straight again.

“Do what you want with me,” Kit continued, his words and voice far braver than he felt. He didn’t know where this was coming from, but he didn’t try and stop it. “Torture me, take my powers, talk me to death,” it was Kit’s turn to smile now. “Just know, that Superhero is out there looking for me too, and when he finds you—”

Ambrose let out a small laugh, the melodic sound filling the cool silence, interrupting Kit. Ambrose waved his hand at Kit. “No, no, go on. You were on a roll there.”

“What’s so funny?”

“No, no, Kit. I insist, continue. It’s good to see you brave. Good for your spirits. Keep going, sorry for the intrusion.”

Kit’s hands clenched into fists, the rubber creaking loudly around him. “What?” Kit demanded through gritted teeth, suddenly very aware that he was at a loss to what was happening on the outside world and Ambrose was in the know.

Ambrose rolled his eyes dramatically, but Kit could tell there was something brutal about the glee hidden under his expression.

“I mean…” Ambrose began, but paused for effect, then shook his head, holding his hands up. “I was going to wait until you were more properly secured, but if you insist, I can show you now.”

“Show me what?” Kit all but growled, panic seizing his chest. Ambrose walked behind Kit, and Kit turned his head to follow but Ambrose tsked and said: “eyes forward Kit or you’ll miss it.”

“Miss what?!” Kit demanded, his heart pounding against his chest. The lights switched off and he was plunged into darkness. Kit sat back in his seat, about to ask Ambrose what he was playing at when light flooded the wall in front of Kit and he stared.

Kit felt the blood drain from his face, nausea settling into his stomach and filling the gaping pool of dread and fear that had frozen Kit’s blood in his veins. He was suddenly very cold as he stared at the wall, his hands loosening his fingers from his clenched fist.

It was a picture of Kit and Superhero on the steps of the Hero tower. Superhero had an arm thrown around Kit’s shoulder as he smiled for the cameras. The small podium Superhero did press announcements on in front of them.

The Headline read: SUPERHERO’S SUCCESSOR VOWS CITY IS IN SAFE HANDS. Then a smaller title beside it reads: an insider scoop with the hottest new hero on the block.

The reviews seemed very good, so Kit should be happy that his debut to society was received well, only the article filled Kit with a heart stopping dread.

Kit didn’t debut to society yet.

Kit didn’t do an interview with the City’s Newspaper.

He didn’t hold a press conference with Superhero on the steps of the Hero tower.

That wasn’t Kit.

It was some imposter wearing Kit’s skin and living Kit’s life. Somewhere in the back of Kit’s mind something was screaming, clawing, trying to get free, to warn Kit, to tell him not to forget again.

Forget again?

Kit looked to the date in the corner of the image, and he wanted to scream.

It’s been ten days since Ambrose took Kit.

The image changed and it was another page of the paper. Only this time it was an image of Kit at the docks, wrapping a steadying arm around Other Hero and hauling them away from the docks where… where Ambrose took Kit from.

Kit was going to be sick.

It felt as if every nerve in Kit’s body was clenched, and he couldn’t release the tension from solidifying every part of his body. His breath became laboured, stuttering out incoherent, half formed questions to Ambrose.

“What?”

“How—”

“Who…”

One word is all Kit could manage on the exhale; his ribs felt like he were trying to inflate an accordion with a hole in it. As soon as he got enough air to pump through, to breathe, it was gone, ripped from his lungs by Kit’s quick panicked breaths.

He wanted to look away. He wanted so badly to look away from the wall, the article, the image of them helping Other Hero, but it felt like his eyes had been stapled open and he was forced to take in every detail.

The Headline: SUPERHERO’S PRODIGY: THE HERO FOR HEROES.

Kit’s eyes scanned his face, over and over and over – looking for a flaw, for the catch. For the thing that was wrong so he can catch Ambrose out on a lie because this was just too much.

Still that voice in his head screamed and begged Kit to remember this time.

Kit’s eyes went to the date.

It was published the day after Kit fought Ambrose on the docks, so how? Kit wanted to scream and cry and thrash in his restraints and curse Ambrose, but he just stared, trembling.

“The people love you,” said Ambrose, his smug charm lacing his tone and Kit shuddered. “You’ve made quite an impression, Kit. You should be happy! Celebrating.”

“Yeah, I’ll celebrate as soon as you let me go you fucking psychopath!”

“Hmm,” Ambrose replied, putting a hand on each of Kit’s shoulders. Kit flinched and instantly regretted it, but he didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know what to do. “Resorting to anger when you’re scared isn’t very healthy, Kit.”

“Shut up!” Kit snarled, yanking at his wrists, and throwing his head back trying to catch Ambrose off guard.

“That’s not very nice Kit.”

“Who is that?!” Kit demanded, turning to look at Ambrose over his shoulder. Furious eyes met the smiling abyss of Ambrose’s and narrowed at the villain’s silence. “WHO IS THAT?!”

The scream that tore from Kit’s throat was desperate and raw. He was crying and he didn’t care, he just needed to know. He needed Ambrose to tell him what he already knew, somewhere, in the furthest, darkest corner of his mind.

“I think you already know,” Ambrose said, smile coy.

“Just tell me,” Kit cried, struggles weakening the longer it took for Ambrose to just answer a simple question. Kit was exhausted, and he wished he’d never stayed awake. He wished Ambrose would have put him to sleep forever and never have him wake up.

There was a reason there was no sign of the imposter in the pictures. Kit knew that as sure as he knew his own face, because… because…

“It’s you, Kit,” Ambrose said, voice soft and deadly. The knowledge went through Kit’s ears like a sweet whisper and plunged into Kit’s heart faster than snake venom.

Kit looked back at the image on the wall, his body heavy, sunken, tired on the chair. Kit stared into the image of him helping Other Hero through bleary eyes, mouth parted slightly because he couldn’t close it. He was crying silently now, the tears flowing freely down the curves of his face that was looking at them on the wall.

Ambrose came around to stand in front of Kit, blocking his view of the paper. Kit didn’t even fight it when Ambrose took his chin in his cold hand and tilted his head. He probably looked horrible, tears and snot flowing freely down his face and chin, eyes hollow and hopeless.

“Nobody is looking for you, Kit,” Ambrose told him softly in his voice that was like sweet honey. Everything he said sounded so lovely, and everything he meant was so horrific. “Superhero’s not looking for you because you’re not missing. At least, in his eyes anyways.”

The sound of the rubber creaking filled the room as Kit clenched his hands into fists because he couldn’t do anything else.

Ambrose tilted his head to the side, as if trying to measure a new angle on Kit’s suffering.

“If I took you and didn’t cover my tracks, well, then, yes. Superhero would be knocking down my door right about now, probably scorching the Earth trying to find you, but as it happens,” Ambrose’s grip tightened on Kit’s chin, his eyes lighting up at Kit’s grimace of pain. “I do cover my tracks, and I cover yours so beautifully that no one knows you’re not you. The world thinks you’re just Superhero’s new hero and why would he need to look any closer?”

“You—”

“Go on,” Ambrose cooed, releasing Kit’s chin, and instead putting his hands on Kit’s forearms, leaning his weight on Kit and relishing in how Kit squirmed in discomfort, but Ambrose didn’t care and kept leaning down until his faces were nearly touching. Kit could feel Ambrose’s warm breath on his cheek as he spoke. “Call me a name again and see where that gets you.”

“He’ll find out,” Kit tried, though the excuse sounded desperate even to Kit’s ears. “He’ll know it’s not me, Superhero—”

“Superhero, Superhero, Superhero.” Ambrose echoed, rolling his eyes before a deadly, charming smile broke across his pale face, stretching his too red lips into a beautifully gruesome smirk. Ambrose reached his hands up to cup Kit’s cheeks, fingers digging into the flesh. “How about you be selfish for once and worry about you, Kit, hmm? There’ll be plenty of time to mourn Superhero once we’re through with the heroes.”

Fear gripped Kit’s heart in its cold, unyielding grip, as if it was pierced with ice, or Ambrose’s vile freezing fingers.

“You can’t—”

“Oh, I know I can’t. But you and me, together, oh, Kit. There isn’t a thing that will stop us, and the best part is, your heroes will never see you coming,” Ambrose said, then booped Kit’s nose and stood up straight again.

“I’ve got some arrangements to make, some evil plans to pour over, and since you beg so beautifully, I am giving you your wish, Kit. I won’t put you asleep again. You can just wait here and stew on things, it was a lot of information to throw at you all at once I realise,” Ambrose said, already walking out of Kit’s sight.

“Wait! Ambrose!” Kit screamed, thrashing like a wild animal in his restraints. “Ambrose! Don’t! Ambrose—”

“It’s okay, Kit. I can be reasoned with. You don’t want to sleep so don’t sleep, relax here. We’ll have plenty of time to chat later.”

“Ambrose!” Kit screamed, his voice cracking. He heard the door open and shut and a lock click into place, but Kit didn’t stop screaming for hours. He pulled and pushed and tore and bit and gnawed and tried to get the tape off his arms so he could stop Ambrose’s heart the next time he saw him.

The tape didn’t relent.

The rubber still insulated Kit’s powers.

The tears still fell.

And eventually, mercifully, Kit fell asleep, slumped in the chair, staring at the wall with his face watching over him.

*~*~*~*~*

continued here

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[girl107749]

I finally understand the desire behind “I need him biblically.” I’m about to burst into flames. 🖤