The Boys Fanfic?

[Overlord17]

Whatever became of that Boys Fanfic where Gunpowder uses his powers to wedgie two guys? Anybody else remember that?

[Bluestone]

I remember that one, I think it was posted by the user Darkness but I might be wrong. It’s a real shame that it’s gone because I really wanted to see what would happen next. I did save it if you wanted a copy, I might be able to send it to you or post it here if that is allowed.

[wedgieboy]

Yeah, repost if you want.

[Bluestone]

Here you go, one resurrected story back from the past!

To my knowledge it was not continued before being deleted.

Breaking and Entering Gone Wrong

It was the middle of the night, so anybody up at this hour was up to no good.

“You sure they’re on vacation? Is that a car in the driveway?” I whispered.

“Man, you think a family of five’s only got one set of wheels?”

In the pitch black, something snapped. I held my breathe. From how still Mark went, I knew he was doing the same. Neither of us moved from where we crouched in the foliage on the edge of the yard, straining our eyes to see whatever had made the noise. When nothing did, we assumed it was some animal. It wasn’t helpful in settling my nerves, since I still felt like I was going to puke. This was stupid. Nobody did B&E jobs in the middle of the night; that was for movies and shit. You hit houses in the middle of the day, when the owners were at work or school, and very much out of the house. Sure, this place was as vacant since, according to Mark, they were in the Caribbeans or something. Still, I didn’t like this.

“Okay, c’mon,” Mark said, checking out of habit that the coast was clear.

This is sooo fucked. We’re so fucked if we’re caught.

Except Mark was my ride out of here, so I’d have to wait for him to finish anyways. Sighing, hoping we got this over with, I followed him through the yard and up to the patio. Even though we made it unseen, something still felt… off. There weren’t any toys, and evidence kids lived here. The place was so clean (for a rural place, that was, the houses on either side a good few hundred meters away) you’d have thought nobody lived here. Maybe the kids had outgrown colorful, plastic yard shit? Or they’d cleaned up before leaving?

Except, once we got inside, I knew something was seriously wrong. The house looked like… honestly, like my own or Mark’s place. A bachelor pad, maybe a little bit nicer thanks to a better-paying job (that didn’t require the extra income B&Es brought in). Nothing an investment guy and a wife and kids would live in, though. Mark slid the sliding glass door shut, whispering where the landscaper he’d paid for inside specifics said the game consoles would be. I shuffled further in, seeing nothing he was quietly rattling off, and turned to tell him this wasn’t worth it. Even if there was the latest gen consoles sitting around, this shit was just too weird, man.

White hot pain burst in my eyes. Mark swore, fell on his ass, and as he threw out a hand to catch himself ended up dragging me down with.

“So, you’ve either got the shittiest luck,” said a voice, eerily calm, “or a death wish.”

Even without that last part, I knew this was so, so fucked. You didn’t go toe-to-toe with people robbing your house in the middle of the night, not unless you could damn well take them. That the home owner—very fucking home, goddamn Mark—had put on the lights, giving himself away, and said what he did just confirmed our state of fucked-ness.

Oh, and the last thing, which absolutely meant we were going to die:

This was Gunpowder’s house.

“Mark.” I must have been in shock. That was all I could make myself say. “Mark.” I grabbed the hand still clutching my shirt collar. “Dude, what the fuck?” I finally managed.

Shock did weird shit to you, honestly. “Is… this is 401 Broadway, right?” Mark asked.

Mark. What the fuck.

“403, actually,” the retired supervillain said. My eyes adjusting, I could see that he was retired-looking, or probably how somebody retired looked woken up in the middle of the night: white tank top, jeans sort of thrown on so he wouldn’t have to fight somebody in flannel pajamas. The guy was retired, so he probably wore that shit.

Gunpowder folded his arms, leaning on the wall where the light switch was. Shit, even retired he was ripped. Piercing eyes went between Mark and me. “Hang on, 401? That’s the Andersons’ place. Good folks, see ‘em in church, youngest’s in the choir,” he said fondly.

Neither of us knew what to say. What the hell do you say when the guy you almost robbed, who’s house you’ve already snuck into, was having a regular conversation with you?

Then his eyes narrowed, and it wasn’t a regular conversation anymore. “So, you were gonna rob ‘em, huh? Smart. They’re in Nassau for Easter, would’ve been a goddamn steal—literally. Shame you mixed up the houses.”

“Look, we weren’t gonna—we know ‘em!” I said, thinking fast.

The villain looked straight at me, and the air crackled with some kind of power. Right, who could forget: manipulating and/or materializing weapons, channeling energy, really good at aiming and otherwise killing. Nothing was getting shot or thrown at me, though.

“Belated April first, ya know?”

He wasn’t buying it, clearly, but at least seemed to find the whole thing funny. “I like a good joke. Can’t say I know any that involve breaking into a friend’s house at… 3a.m.?” he guessed, squinting at the clock over the stove in the kitchen to make sure. “Alright, quarter after. Whatever. But like I said, I like a good joke. So I’m gonna let you two scram.”

No way. No fucking way. “Really?” Mark asked.

Maybe the energy I felt was specifically to screw with me, since no way Mark could believe that if he was feeling it, too. It was… ominous. I wanted to puke and piss myself, maybe because we’d finally gotten caught doing this, maybe because we weren’t going to live to see prison, or maybe because of who’s fucking house this was. Those last two weren’t exclusive to each other, by the way. This was rural, upstate New York. People liked their guns and their second amendment rights.

Gunpowder smiled an all-American, interview-worthy grin. “Nope. April Fools,” he said, and suddenly he was holding a shotgun.

Everything happened fast and slow all at once. Scrambling to get outside and onto the patio took forever; the roar and thump of the gun was over in an instant. Weirdly, though, neither of us were hit. That had to be wrong. You don’t miss point-blank range, especially if you’re Gunpowder. The only thing I felt was something small pelt my hips and ass, like he’d tossed a handful of sand at us. No pain, so he wasn’t even slowing the ammo enough for a painful, lethal crawl through our organs.

Something shifted my clothes, working my underwear up my back, so faintly that it almost tickled. Mark, who’d hit the floor immediately after the shotgun appeared and was halfway to his knees and the patio door handle when it shot at us, started to twist a hand around to his back, as confused as I was. Was Gunpowder really fucking with us? Not in a playing-with-my-meal, predatory way, but actually letting us go with a good scare?

The sudden lurch of gravity, of my briefs rocketing up and the ground dropping out from under me, was a no. A grinding pain ran through my ass, bunching at my groin as I was held aloft. It was so sudden that I could only gasp, choking on air as I tried to swear and yelp at the same time. Next to me, Mark was hanging by the striped waistband of his boxers, face twisted in what I assumed was the same pained, shocked expression I had.

The house had high ceilings, not the colossal, forty feet high ones in mansions and churches, but high enough to keep two about-to-be felons (assuming we lived) suspended well off the ground by their asses. Cotton rammed up and through my crack, my weight turning against me and keeping the crotch and seat firmly lodged into my ass. Only a few seconds had gone by, but it was enough for me to recover from the shock and fully take the pain of it. I’d gotten a few wedgies in my life, joking around with friends. Never as severe as this and never from bullies, especially not super-powered, fully-grown ones.

“Fuck…” I managed to croak, face going bright red from the blood rushing to it.

I was blushing even more from the humiliation, hanging by my goddamn underwear. It would’ve been worse knowing I was being watched, even if somebody else was suffering the same pain, except clearly Mark’s was cutting deeper than mine ever could. He was wearing boxers, after all; from the way his legs kept stopping and starting, flailing and then going rigid, I knew the seam was running along his crack and everything else, crushing it all with his own weight. At least with briefs, my pouch was only constricting everything.

That didn’t make anything pleasant. I yelped as I was suddenly falling, only to halt with a nauseating lurch as the pulled-out wad of white fabric was reeled up again. I clawed at my waist, cursing myself for wearing a belt and jeans. Jeans meant what parts of my ass weren’t getting scrubbed with cotton were chafed by denim; the belt meant the waist of said denim wouldn’t bend out, ensuring everything would stay snug against me.

“Oh yeah, I’m goin’ with shittiest luck, guys,” Gunpowder said casually, standing in front of us with the shotgun over one shoulder. “Boxers are a real bitch. They’ve got that seam, you know? Really chops your cock in half.”

As he spoke, Mark twitched and groaned, the striped fabric pulled out of his pants cinching tighter on their own, almost like magic. Whatever ammo Gunpowder had thrown, he’d let it sprinkle harmlessly into our clothes rather than permanently maim our insides. I could see little bumps writhing and obeying whatever Gunpowder was mentally telling it to: grouping up to grasp a handful’s worth of fabric, another yank ran up Mark’s ass, tugging him higher and making him shriek.

I winced, clenching my cheeks around the grating sensation as the villain turned his eyes to me. “And tighty whities,” he said.

Slowly, methodically, every inch of slack was mercilessly pulled tight. My thighs were getting pinched from the straining and stretching of my leg holes. What had gotten brutally rubbed was going numb, and what I could still feel was on fire. This was going to be a bitch to get out. The next few days of walking were going to hurt. That assumed I’d get out of this alive. Gunpowder was retired, after all. He still ranted on news broadcasts and was involved in the occasional shooting, but he didn’t have any sprees under his belt lately. That was the only thing keeping me hopeful, that he’d get his fill of beating our asses and let us go, if only to avoid the bullshit that came with murders.

“Bullies don’t get their fill hands-on anymore, huh? All of that’s… online,” he scoffed, and I groaned as a lurch cinched another yank. “Wouldn’t be wearing those if this was the good old days, can tell you that. Shit, guess I can’t talk a big game when I’m not doing anything hands-on myself, right?” he laughed.

I was dropped without warning. From the sounds of it, Mark was too. Underwear still lodged between our cheeks, we crumpled to the floor, engulfed in the chafing, squeezing pain. I didn’t dare try to get into my jeans to pull any of it out, afraid that if I moved it would sic the villain on me again. The way he’d lingered on me, reminiscing about “the good old days” of bullying, was terrifying. It didn’t surprise me, not when Gunpowder was classified as a villain. Of course he’d been a bully. If he hadn’t, he would’ve been a hero. Probably left-wing, too, unless that was rooted in his abilities with weaponry.

“Tell ya what,” Gunpowder said, except he wasn’t talking to me. With a yelp Mark was pulled to his feet, all the way up onto his toes, almost looking at attention if you ignored the boxers halfway to his neck. “You, I feel sorry for. You fuck up a B&E job this badly, you must be pretty stupid. Imagine what they’ll do to your ass in prison—especially if those boxers go any deeper into your colon, they’ll have a field day with your dumb ass. I’ll let you go. For real,” Gunpowder said.

Mark was shivering from the pain, cupping his crotch. “Really…?”

“Yup. If,” Gunpowder said, a tug jostling Mark and emphasizing the severity of whatever he was about to offer, “you leave your friend here. No cops, no nothin’. I wanna have some fun, like old times. Feel me?”

“O-okay,” Mark gasped.

I froze. No way. He had to be answering Gunpowder’s feel me, not accepting the offer. He couldn’t leave me here, we’d been friends since middle school, and he’d dragged me along on this whole thing to begin with. It was his fault. He couldn’t do this.

“I… I’m sorry, man,” he said. “I’ll… see you tomorrow, I guess.”

No. No, no, no…

But Mark was limping for the patio, shotgun pellets rolling lifelessly out from his pants legs, leaving him to make his way back to the dirt road we’d parked on with his boxers hanging out. I watched him go, so fixated on the fact that he was leaving me behind that, for a moment, I couldn’t even feel the wedgie I still had anymore.

“No way,” I groaned. Mark was actually leaving me.

Gunpowder sighed, going to a knee and patting me on the back, like there was something for us to commiserate in. “That’s some real shit luck you’ve got, kid. Shit friend, too. Don’t worry,” he said, and his hand slipped to my waist “You won’t have to dwell on that too long. I’ve got some real good shit in store for you. Teach you a thing or two about robbin’ good, honest people. And wearin’ these,” he said, hauling me onto my feet. I couldn’t do a whole lot else other than groan, already exhausted.

And here Gunpowder (who had to be at least fifty) was, not even winded.

Shit, this was going to be a long night.

Shit, this was going to be a long night.

Pop.

Or, maybe not.

I groaned, doing my best to keep quiet as the yank to my feet rammed my briefs deeper. There was some slack, a short mercy swiftly ended as my briefs were yanked up again; testing the almost-caricature pop-pop-pop of a thread giving way, followed by another with the second yank, another with the next I was given. I wish I could say I was thankful I wasn’t getting whatever the villain originally planned for me, but the pain was so goddamn bad that I couldn’t be grateful. Shit, was my ass bleeding yet? It felt like it, at least what I could feel that wasn’t hot and tingling or numb.

“Shit, really did a number on these,” Gunpowder said. “Huh, maybe I haven’t got a lot in store for you. Still…”

My underwear stretched higher, tearing into my crack and forcing me onto my toes. A hand on my shoulder kept me grounded, forcing the next pair of yanks to cut against my skin. I could feel knuckles at my shoulder blades, my ruined briefs in their iron grip. Slowly, they opened and closed their fingers, bunching up even more fabric into their grasp. I could feel every seam sliding forcefully through my cheeks, the added pain of my leg holes stuffed into my ass. It was, without a doubt, the worst wedgie of my life.

“Screw you, man,” I groaned at last, hissing and squirming at another yank that wasn’t that much worse but the last straw. God, this was humiliating. “Ow! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Ignoring me, the villain continued to yank on my briefs, savagely hammering his fist up to force the wedgie deeper. I couldn’t keep quiet anymore. At least my yelling wasn’t childish wailing or begging; I swore and threatened him like a man, which part of me knew was only going to make things worse, but this was so fucking embarrassing. It was the least I could do to save some of my pride, getting my ass shredded by some playground crap. What kind of old ass man went around grabbing a younger guy’s underwear, anyways? A pervert, probably. No wonder he was a villain. And there were Supes out there as old as him still fighting, right? So he wasn’t even a good one, if he couldn’t keep up with the others.

“You’ve got a smart mouth, you know that?” he asked after my tirade, giving a yank that only kept pulling once it hit its limit, burying the frayed middle of my briefs into my skin.

I hissed, shifting on my toes, only to go still when I felt the hand on my shoulder go down the front of my chest, over my stomach, towards where the front of my waistband had been pulled up over the top of my jeans. The undisturbed front of my waistband was grabbed, my crotch squeezed tighter on top of the damage the regular wedgie had done.

All color drained from my face. Oh God. “Please, man…”

There was no buildup, no warning. Suddenly, I felt like an iron fist had plunged down the front of my jeans, grabbing me like it was trying to make something burst. That wasn’t where Gunpowder’s hand had gone. It was actually halfway to my chin, with the front of my briefs pulled so tight over his knuckles you could see the outline of them. Most of the fabric was crammed up my ass and out of the back of my jeans; the single pull sent a ropeburn-like grind through my legs, a seam of friction I couldn’t escape no matter how much I writhed. Another savage yank began pulling more fabric, which my belt was fighting to keep, to the front. It was an ugly tug of war with my ass in the middle, one that ended with knuckles clad in white cotton hovering right under my chin, cotton I was pretty sure I could taste by now.

My mouth was open in silent agony, the pleading I’d started to give stuttering to croak. “No, come on. I’m sorry, you’ll never see me again,” I whined as I felt a hand exploring again, this time around my back—and what little underwear still stuck out of my jeans.

“Oh, I know you won’t.”

Hooking cotton on the other side, Gunpowder pulled. The earlier slice doubled; tripled, as he reeled everything to the front again in a brutal, violating squeaky clean. Slowly, he threaded my briefs through my ass, into that no man’s land between ass and crotch, finally sending a sheet of binding fabric to flatten everything against my stomach. Without mercy,  he reversed the wedgie until knuckles touched my shoulder blades.

Over my yelps he said slowly, matching the pace of my underwear sliding forward again, “One of powers is manipulating energy, you know—actually, that’s kind of the heart of it. I can repress it, like so… or make it feel like you’re getting cut in half. Or, you know, actually cut you in half.”

He demonstrated, of course, with his handfuls of cotton rocketing me off my feet, bouncing me on the cotton between my legs. I kicked, screeched, and coughed at the nauseating pummeling, so disoriented that I didn’t realize he’d let me back on the ground again until a sharp pull lifted me to my toes, putting our faces close together. It was dominating and terrifying, his hands on the sides of my underwear like you might see a cartoon hero grab the bad guys.

“From asshole to belly button,” he said plainly, a quick curl of his wrists sending everything so much deeper with so little effort. “If I had to,” he said in a very loaded, very clear warning.

“I… I’ll go, I promise!”

“Good. Now, since those things oughta be put outta their misery…”

At least they ripped quickly. The sting of frayed leg holes and rub as the final, finishing yank tore my underwear apart put me on my knees, cupping between my legs, maybe my crotch or maybe trying to nurse everything. I felt like I was going to puke. I felt it ten times worse, at the thought of having to walk to the car if Mark hadn’t left yet, or home if he had.

The remains of my briefs were dropped in front of me. “Alright, kid, you ain’t across Daddy’s knee anymore, so fuck off. If you’re still on my property in five minutes, you’ll wish I’d have shot you on sight when you came here,” Gunpowder warned. He was standing in the kitchen at a rugged-looking laptop. Even though he’d threatened me, he looked amused. “Oughta give you enough time to help your friend.”

I didn’t know what he meant, but like hell I was sticking around to ask. I ran, staggering from the burn on my thighs, in my ass, everywhere. I swore to myself that if I got out of here alive (there was no way I could trust a villain’s word to give me five minutes) then I was going to go devoutly, enthusiastically commando.

When I reached the wooden fence we’d hopped to sneak into the place, not really security but more of a rural property marker, I remembered what Gunpowder had said about Mark. Well, I was reminded of it, mostly because of the weirdly shaped thing hanging off one of the posts of the fence: Mark. I knew there was no way I could climb in this state, so I twisted my way through the slats in the fence, shaking Mark’s hanging legs once safely on the other side. It was clear he’d tried to hop the fence like before, except before his boxers hadn’t been hanging out from his jeans. They’d gotten snagged on the post, secured there firmly once Mark had jumped from the top, probably in a hurry to get the hell out of dodge.

Maybe he’d passed out from the pain of the massive hanging wedgie. Maybe he’d fallen asleep, or maybe we had taken so badly of a pounding we were both sort of out of it, delayed when it came to everything other than feeling our flossed asses.

“Dude?” Mark croaked, his weight on his everything changing his voice.

“Hey. I, uh, can’t climb—squeaky clean,” I said, face going scarlet in the dark. Mark wouldn’t have laughed anyways, considering his own problem. “Um, we gotta go or he’s gonna do worse, he said. Think you can unhook yourself if I give you a—yeah, there, there. Okay,” I said once Mark was freed and on his hands and knees in the grass, probably overwhelmed by the sudden halt of the hanging wedgie. His boxers were stretched so far now that his leg holes peeked out from his jeans.

Any anger or hurt at him bailing was moved past (the mental hurt, at least). I helped him slowly to his feet, knowing from personal experience he was rekindling the chafing between his legs. “A squeaky clean? Oh man,” he groaned. “Hey, I—I was gonna wait in the car, you know. I was rushing so fast I wasn’t paying attention, I dropped my phone.”

He found it facedown in the grass, thanks to the muted glow of the screen; the wedgie must have made him drop it mid-dial, since over the keypad was 9-1.

“Let’s just get the fuck outta here,” I said.

“I thought he was gonna kill us,” Mark said on the slow, careful walk back to his car. “What would I have said if he’d just beat our asses? ‘Hey, this old man’s house we broke into isn’t the one we were looking for, and he’s giving us wedgies.’ I’m not that dumb.”

“Dumb enough to give yourself a hanging one,” I joked.

“Hey, you can hitchhike home if you want. Or you can go ask our new bully.”

Even though we laughed, I shuddered. No, I wasn’t that dumb, either.

“We could so get him back,” Mark grumbled, wincing and plucking at his underwear.

“This isn’t middle school, bro. We wouldn’t be tag-teaming the eighth graders,” I snorted.

Even in the dark, I knew Mark was smiling.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

[Overlord17]

Oh, bless you for reposting this. <3