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l4long-winded · 4 months

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o.s. the phone call regarding the onions

summary: richie won't stop calling and despite how busy carmen is, he picks up the phone. he didn't know richie would take so long to tell him about his trip to the farmer's market, let alone how impatient you would be in his lap (carmen berzatto x afab!reader)

reflection: i wrote this last night and edited it this afternoon. i find i have a hard time writing dialogue because i always want it to flow with my other descriptions. it's tricky for me, so this was an interesting challenge for myself. indulgent? yes. but intriguing nonetheless. as always, enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated!

warnings: cursing, kissing, phone call during sex, riding, religious allusions, more cursing, pussydrunk!carmen (the best kind), longwinded descriptions, slander of the elderly, cynicism, filth, secret girlfriend!reader, humorous dialogue, richie being richie, set before or during season 1 ig, double entendre ending, very slight dirty talk, overuse of the word "cousin" (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 2,101

“Are you even listening to me, Cousin?” Richie’s voice irritates Carmen’s eardrum drastically more than it usually does, and that’s saying something considering how his tone and words always sift right under the flesh of Carmen’s forearms to scrape against his bones. He should really tell Richie to shut the fuck up, to get to the godforsaken point of this overdrawn story about his trip to the grocers, but Carmen can’t find the speech in him to do so. As a defensive and sharp individual, Carmen seldom runs into the issue of not being able to come back with a witty remark of his own speckled in a seasoning of honesty, but his brain’s already having difficulty concentrating on his shallow breathing. If he loses focus on that particular aspect, he would never hear the end of it. Richie’s too much of a pain in the ass to hang up on, in fact, he’s part of the reason Carmen’s in this predicament.

Richie just had to keep on calling over and over and over and over again. Carmen’s phone buzzed and buzzed and buzzed and the motherfucker on the other end would not take the fucking hint. Carmen recalls catching the flustered, frustrated, and deprived expression on your features as you looked at him, disappointment in your blown pupils because you knew you had to climb off his lap in the middle of your shared fun. Carmen assured you that it wouldn’t take long, to remain where you were because he couldn’t bear to depart from your heat for a single second in this state of mind, the state of nothingness possessed by desire. He’s confronted that compelling phenomenon too often with you and it’s absolutely everything for him. Richie’s call, Carmen surmised and explained to you during the fifth ring, would only take three minutes, five at the most.

Carmen forgets how bad at math he is until it smacks him upside the face and attempts to ruin his day. Richie’s been yapping on the line for about… how long has it been? Carmen stares up at the ceiling, phone pressed to his ear, pink lips parting as your tongue and teeth glissade down his neck. He can feel his body’s primal need to roll his eyes far into the back of his head, but he somehow sustains his half lidded gaze so he can raise his phone away from his ear to check the call’s duration.

14:53. 14:54. 14:55.

Seriously? Fifteen minutes of this bullshit? Carmen’s close to tossing his phone across the room so he can fuck you properly against his bedroom door, but he knows Richie. Richie would bolt on over here to tell Carmen his story in person, stomp away on Carmen’s remnants of alone time with you before he’s back to busting his ass in the kitchen. Carmen can’t have that. A fucking crowbar couldn’t pry you off his cock, and he’s sighing out shakily, pushing the mic away from his mouth far off to the side of the couch and into the cushion so he can release the tendril of fucked out noise you’re igniting in his stomach. Its smoke is climbing up and up, swirling around his lungs, collapsing into purrs and grunts of pleasure since he can’t be any louder than that. You haven’t made his mistake easy on him, fluttering your walls around him, arching as you rise and fall, adding in your lips and dutiful tongue into the sum of his impending eruption. He notices the twinkle atop the slim rings of your irises, how in awe and turned on you are from hearing those little noises he can’t will himself to wrangle down.

Do you like that?

He mouths.

Yes,

you nod your head.

For a moment, resolve slips. Carmen’s other hand maneuvers from gripping the throw pillow on his couch to gripping your thigh, sliding slightly down where he sits so he can roll his hips up into you. He revels in the gasp you inhale, your hands steadying yourself by the use of his shoulders. A ghost of a smile forms on his lips catching your pout and he’s about to inform you to behave when his phone speaks from under the cushion, still in Carmen’s other hand as he was trying to metaphorically and literally smother Richie, but the bastard’s gumption defeats Carmen’s efforts. He tightens his top and bottom lip together as he snatches the phone in agitation from under the cushion to lift it back to his ear.

“Carmy? Carmy? I’m fucking talking to you, Carmy,” Richie grits out, the bass in his voice scratching an unpleasant portion of Carmen’s ear. Carmen shuts his eyes, instructing himself soundlessly to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth… the same mouth you kiss, your hands cupping his cheeks, tongue shyly petting his. He should put a stop to it. He’s powerless when you kiss him, it’s why he avoided doing so this entire phone call with Richie. He knew he couldn’t stop you, the hand once at your thigh palming up to your ass, his middle finger slipping under the fabric of your lacy panties that you still had on. It rests there, like it’s part of the ensemble (or lack of), twitching and clutching as the lace hugs him and tethers his digit to you.

“Hey, bozo, are you going to answer me or not?” Richie snarls, and Carmen almost tells him to fuck off, but you’re the one who takes mercy on him. Your mouth slides back down, lapping over a sensitive vein in his neck. Carmen finds himself falling back into the couch, licking his dry lips, a desire in him present to curse his friend out.

“I hear you, Richie, I fucking hear you,” Carmen blurts suddenly. He’s got a breathy rasp to him due to the sex, crimson in the face, yelling almost in the same fashion he does at work. You hide your amused grin under your hair as you tenderly kiss his jaw, picking up the speed of your hips. Before, your movements were gentle and small. But now, you have intention as you fuck yourself on Carmen’s cock, sucking spots on his skin to conceal your moans away. The worst part is that even though Carmen can barely hear them, he can feel the hum of each one vibrating against his flesh. And it feels like he knows you sound. How does someone begin to describe that? The walls of a cathedral must know exactly what he’s experiencing, angelic hums reverberating through their surfaces, etching sound waves into crevices and making them whole. That’s it. He feels whole. Complete. It’s almost as good as when he swallows those moans into his mouth and feels them alive in his throat.

“Yeah? Yeah? Then what the fuck did I say, huh?”

Shit… yeah, what the fuck did he say? Carmen’s horrid at multitasking outside his craft and he’s especially inept at maintaining his control and composure when he’s watching his secret girlfriend impale herself repeatedly on his throbbing length. He closes his eyes again to subtract sight’s distraction, middle finger sweeping back and forth so that your lace can rub his knuckle and jog along his memory. Oddly enough, it helps him collect the thoughts you’re so keen on dissipating with those gorgeous, enticing hips of yours.

“You said… you went to the farmer’s market,” Carmen begins, gulping heavily as you clench. “You went to… uh,” Carmen tilts his phone away from his mouth, biting hard on his index finger to refrain from hissing out. He glares at you, you’re being unfair, and the mischief is written all over your gaze despite the innocent smile you attempt to give him. He’s definitely going to pay this back. He’s not a saint, he holds grudges, and he’s harboring one against you for almost causing him to moan into his phone.

“Carmy,” Richie disrupts Carmen’s plans for vengeance and fortunately, Carmen instantly recalls what they were talking about like an epiphany, no thanks to you.

“You went to pick up the onions!” Carmen rushes, his syllables spilling over one another. He hates how he sounds. It’s different from his regular speaking voice and if they weren’t dealing with shitty cell service, Richie probably would’ve noticed.

“Then, what? I’ve been talking for almost twenty minutes,” oh, Carmen fucking knows, “and that’s all you’ve gotten from that?”

“Richie,” Carmen says as sternly as he can as your tightness sinks to his base. He sucks onto his upper row of teeth, pulsing increasing, lighting up with heat inside of your delectable walls. This is your fault, too. You and your enveloping warmth. You and your pretty face and your pretty cunt and your persistent needs, your pliant open legs as you ride him and make him drunk without a smidgen of alcohol around. He might as well have bathed himself in scotch, the effects most likely easier to handle than the vise you’ve got on his mind, body, and cock. “Did you, or did you not get the fucking onions?”

Richie scoffs, “Ugggghhhhhhh,” into Carmen’s ear. Annoyed by it, Carmen grips his phone tighter as he pushes it away from his head for as long as Richie does it. He shakes his hair out of his eyes as he retracts the phone back to its original position, his stare greedily finding where his cock disappears and reappears with more and more of that wonderful slick that glides him in deeper and deeper. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! The fucking old broad from the lot gave me that dirty ass look as she took all of the product right in front of me. What the fuck is some old chick with a bad hip going to do with sixteen onions, Carmy? She had her stumbling grandson with his little toddler hands dropping the motherfuckers on the floor right in front of me because he couldn’t carry them all. Like, are you kidding me? Are you cooking French Onion soup for the whole neighborhood? For the next winter?”

“Richie,” Carmen grinds out as you grind down on him. His teeth clatter as he scrapes them together. “Richie… Richie…” He can’t gain Richie’s attention back as he rants in Carmen’s ear, as you swivel your hips and whine at the stretch. Carmen’s holding himself back, painfully hard from the experience you’re condoning.

“Next time I see her, it’s on. Watch what fucking soup she can make when I buy the whole stock and flip her the bird,” Richie continues, the sound of a trunk being harshly slammed on the other end. But Carmen’s had enough. He can’t take it anymore. He feels feral, he’s going to burst any second and he refuses to do so with Richie still on the line.

“Cousin, Cousin, Cousin, Cousin,” Carmen parrots, rolling his eyes as he increases his volume with each repetition.

On the other side, Richie talks over him. “She’s driving some ugly ass Pontiac, no wonder she’s bitter.”

“Cousin, Cousin, listen to me.”

“Do you think they’ll notice me if I take a stab at one of her tires?”

“Richie!”

“Nah, you’re right, it looks like there’s a bunch of fucking narcs around here.”

“Motherfucker, stop talking,” Carmen spits and that’s when Richie shouts back, his own irritation building because that entire time, he could hear Carmen babbling on and on. Apparently no one knows how to listen to a fucking story anymore.

“What? What, Carmy?” Richie responds with a yell. He must be inside of his car because Carmen heard a crash right after. Carmen pinches the bridge of his nose having finally snaked his other hand away from your underwear.

“So, you’re telling me… you don’t have the onions?” Carmen asks.

Richie sighs. The reason he felt the need to orate what happened is because of Carmen’s temper regarding the restaurant. He had one task today and he failed it because of some greedy elderly woman. Though, he understands how Carmen’s busy. Through this phone call, Richie hasn’t been able to hold his Cousin’s focus for very long. He doesn’t think there was any interval longer than three minutes where he had it all to himself.

“No, I… I don’t ha—”

The line goes dead. Richie looks down at his phone, fully tempted to call Carmen one more time to explain himself and make his stubborn, mule-headed friend see his point of view for once. He only doesn’t because he swears Carmen sounded like he was about to explode.

#l4l.writes #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear #the bear series #jeremy allen white #richie jerimovich #the phone call regarding the onions #l4l.oneshot

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onthepyre · 16 hours

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my dear moot. so gallavich are fuckbuddies and the ian leaves and becomes an emt and then what??? how do they get back together? do they like. see each other in the couple years between because of mandy or other people or do they go no contact?? if it's no contact then why do they see each other again?? i desperately need to know. i'm invested in this au definitely more than i should be since i haven't even finished the show yet but like. it's amazing. i'm obssesed

omg hi!!!!!! thank you so so much for the question. i swear im still spinning this au around in my head ive just been so very preoccupied lately but i intend to write about that first night in the bar soon so keep an eye out for that. BUT! i will put the answer to this under a cut because it got longwinded.

so i want to start with why things fizzle out in the first place. they start up very much like canon gallavich - ian is ass over teakettle for mickey, and mickey, while definitely interested, isn't nearly as invested. things diverge from their canon characterization around the time of mick and svet's marriage. ian remains pissed, but rather than fucking off to the army, he stays - and it triggers his first major depressive episode.

and then mickey's like....... dude what the fuck is going on with you. because mickey, at this point, has bigger fucking fish to fry. instead of him being ian's main caretaker during this time it falls on the other gallaghers and mickey's just sort of around, in the periphery, and then when ian hits that manic upswing again, a LOT of the insane reckless shit he does is with or for mickey. but they never hit that deeper connection that we see gallavich develop in seasons 4/5 because they're just too fucking busy

so then ian quits work, and that's fine, but that means he and mickey dont really see much of each other anymore. they try to keep things up for a little bit, but it's just not really convenient since they aren't constantly in the same place, and so they're just kind of like, well whatever.

(they are both secretly very sad about this. but neither of them wants to come out and say that. so they just don't.)

and yeah, they do end up seeing each other a little, because ian and mandy are still friends, and she's probably so, SO tired of his bullshit, because he tells her all of these conflicting feelings he's having. she drops these stupid-obvious hints to mickey, but he's got a thick skull. so mostly she just pesters ian.

and then a little over a year goes by before the next major event - eventually they kind of put each other in the back of their minds, not really forgotten but not a main figure anymore. maybe ian gets a boyfriend, for real. but he still hasn't exactly nailed the balance of his meds, and though he doesn't experience the full spectrum anymore, there's definitely periods of time that...... aren't quite right. so he finds himself in one of those, and he gets off work and, well, that bar he used to work at is kind of close. and he kind of misses that messy thing he had going with mickey. and he drops in.

he gets more than a little tipsy at the bar, hanging around waiting for mickey to come in - and eventually he does. and ian isn't really sure how to approach this, but you know what always worked for him? starting a fight. so he does that. he calls mickey over, brings him outside, and just fucking. socks him in the face. and it does what ian wants it to! they beat the shit out of each other, take a little breather for mickey to ask what the fuck that was about, and in response, ian kisses him. they barely make it inside before their pants are off.

but ian, for the most part at least, has his life on track right now. he can't get involved in organized crime, he's a fucking emt. he has shit to be doing. his brother's a cop, even if a corrupt one. so he leaves that night, as much as it pains him, and puts it in the past. for a bit.

but FUCK! it hurts more this time. it SUCKS, suddenly, very badly. he wants nothing more than to go back again and apologize and start over, start it again the right way. and though ian loves mandy, he doesn't really trust her judgement on this specific thing. so he confides in lip. lip says, no dude, you did the right thing. don't spend more time around them than you need to. and ian takes that advice! for a little while.

another ten months goes by. it's been two years - two years! - since they had a regular thing going. and really? they're still stuck on each other. mickey very nearly reaches out a few times, but svet worries they'd be spending too much time with the gallaghers. and mickey trusts her.

thing is? yev's a clumsy kid. when he's about three, mickey turns his back for all of ten seconds and yev pulls a pot of boiling water down from the stove - and onto himself. it only really gets his arm, but it's a LOT of his arm, and naturally, mickey freaks the fuck out! and like, ive mentioned this offhand before, but he and svet are STUPID protective over their boy. like, would kill for him protective. so he calls 911. guess who shows up?

ian. of course it's ian. so they treat yev and get everything sorted out, but fuck, if watching mickey be a good dad isn't, for some fucking reason, the hottest thing ian's ever seen. and he misses him! by this point, he misses him so goddamn bad. can't get mickey out of his head. so he says, hey, you still have my number. give me a call in a couple days, let me know how yev's doing. i can come check on him, change the bandages.

and mickey calls him that night, actually. ian's like, did something happen, is yev okay? and mickey says, yeah he's fine. do you want to get dinner. and ian says yes, jesus christ, please.

and they're like, actually pretty normal from then on out. they remain ian and mickey, so of course there's ups and downs. but they're ian and mickey again.

#milkovich crime family #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ask #i had this loosely in my head. so i had to ponder the details #but here they are!! mwah thank you

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sebastianswallows · 20 days

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I adored the hell out of your Feyd/girl!dad headcannons because it wasn't only well written, but yoy actually used little Marie as the inspiation and main character to Feyd. But I have one question, wgen you wrote that Margot was to go to Ksitain to answer for her crimes, do you propose that she SA' ed Feyd as you may have interpreted it from the movie, because I felt that Feyd was very willing even with being under her BG influence. As one commenter wrote, "Margot may had led Feyd to water, but he was alredy thirsty and was willing to drink,". I love hearing different opions on their interaction, so it helps me understand more fully. But I reakky do enjoy Feyd and Margot together cayse they had a lot of chemistry.

Hello! Thank you for your kind words, I'm glad you liked it! 🖤

When I was coming up with a "plot" for the headcanons (because I can never seem to just write ideas, I always have to have some longwinded narrative to it), I initially thought that Feyd would just kill Margot. And then I decided that he would very deliberately not do it in front of Marie, as it would traumatise her and it would be too much of a dick move, even for him. But then as I was writing the idea came that they'd just be upfront about what Margot did and have her tried and sentenced. That was the gentler option. Because leaving Margot alive and free would just be a danger to him at this point. He wouldn't risk her trying to get Marie back.

Now, as to whether it really was sexual assault, yeah. Rape, even.

I don't really go by the movie version when I write, mind you, I go by the books. And in the book, Feyd is indeed attracted to Margot, he even offers to dedicate his kill in the arena to her (which she rejects), although he's also slightly intimidated by her. He's just turning 17, by the way (a fact which might get lost since he always seems to be played by 32 year old actors lol). But even if he's attracted, the fact that Margot uses Bene Gesserit mind tricks on him makes it non-consensual. This aspect is more clear in the movie, because there's no scene in the book of them being alone together.

What's not in the movie, however, is that while they're having sex Margot imprints Feyd with a phrase (a meaningless prana-bindu word, specifically "uroshnor") which is meant to paralyse him temporarily if he should hear it again. It becomes relevant before Feyd's duel with Paul because Jessica, being able to tell from how Feyd walks that he's been imprinted, advises Paul to use this word if he begins to lose the fight. Paul outright refuses because he wants an "honourable" win, and it's in fact his visible, dramatic struggle over not speaking this word that confuses Feyd and gives Paul the chance to stab and kill him.

So clearly there were a lot of mind tricks involved between Margot and Feyd, and even though he would have slept with her consensually, this hypothetical scenario could not be proven in court. The only thing that can be proven is that she manipulated Feyd, and imprinted him with a word that could paralyse which, obviously, can be fatal in certain situations.

So I guess this was my version of mercy for Margot, because yeah, originally I thought Feyd would just kill her 😂 But I figured he'd be a bit more forgiving for Marie's sake.

#sswallow;answers #infinitememory12345 #Feyd #Dune

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thesherrinfordfacility · 10 months

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it's high time that i redid the ✨masterpost✨ of all the shit floating around this blog where i say anything arguably insightful, existential/philosophical, or even just teetering on the cusp of being vaguely intelligent, so voila here you go and fucking enjoy:

worth having a looksie through this: longwinded anon (LWA)✨ masterpost

and then because i am actually so proud of these i did video edits to lewis capaldi (he's my hozier fight me) and im sorry but my beat matching is insane, godlike even:

season 2 (forget me)

season 1 (heavenly kind of state of mind)

also:

did i get emotional over crowley's fall and having to leave behind his creations and aziraphale's various conflicts in faith? you're goddamn right i did (credit to hillywood for the fall scenes that sent me into a frenzy)

stuff that is potentially relevant to s3 or is essentially my safe space to shit on these two incompetent-ass characters for being the most ridiculous beings god ever conceived:

(be warned, all of these will conflict each other bc im a loose cannon, a wildcard, and can't settle on a single thing)

(no seriously my opinion changes over time so interpretations that i once held might no longer be the interpretation that i have now, ya feel me)

you wanted a s3 plot prediction, right?

aziraphale brought an ak-47 to a fist fight and ohooo boy did it have Consequences

god i really ought to work out a tagging system in here, huh - this is my ramble on what i think could have happened during the fall

just a small one on the 1967 scene and the holy water thing (tw: suicide)

crowley found the book of life and tbh it was very james bond of him

saraqael rapidly slotting into my top 5 GO characters based on a singular hc wahoo

fuckin ✨1941✨ (this also upsets ALL of my interpretations of the Final Fifteen which... well what can u do)

a fucking rug just put shivers down my spine

more on raphael/azazel/scapegoat/fall theory, glorious smart anons are feeding me yummy soup

perhaps a more comprehensive rambling on omelas, scapegoats, and Those Promo Photos

an updated maggie rambling why not, she's still giving me a headache (and this ask neatly summarises some stuff too!)

my boy crowley really doesn't like change, does he wee baby (may develop this into a full meta who knows)

you know i think heaven might just be the bad place, i know - shocker

god i hope i was possessed by agnes nutter when i wrote this

a gifset format bc i cba to write, but aziraphale might have been, or might become, raphael

ive lied like a rug in previous theory posts: THIS one, this time travel clusterfuck, is the bottom of the barrel

spent hours studying michael sheens face in utter disbelief that he is capable of portraying every emotion known to man, and wrote about it (ie my take on the kiss)

i think goob might have been more important in the mega miracle than we initially thought (and no - not in the way you're currently thinking)

aziraphale and suffering are pretty well acquainted with each other (warning: i absolutely HATE this meta it's so bad)

um i guess you could term this as god is dead theory? nietzsche strikes again anyway

we REALLY hit rock bottom in the theory stakes with this one, lads (it's about whether crowley does in fact fully remember the fall)

(REWORKED) greasy johnson is the second coming. that's it. that's the post.

finally wrote about the book of life well done me

crowley was offered the same chance as aziraphale, im fairly sure, and as far as ive seen noone noticed??

the motif of lies in job made me come over all poetic

relativity is NOT my milieu especially in GO but giving it my best shot

hahaha is everything aziraphale's fault hahahaha

fuckinnnn BOOOOOOKKKSSSSS

EVERY DETAIL MATTERS? YEAH I SHOULD FUCKING THINK SO (and im still keeping this on here bc if im right in s3 im never going to shut up)

job is crowley and crowley is job except job didn't get sent to sit on the naughty step

never thought id see the day where i analyse richard curtis' 4WAAF but this show has got me whipped, jumping through hoops and over stalls like a fucking show pony

i have the dreadful feeling that we might have been fools by sleeping on aziraphale's own angelic importance all this time

did the costume department just simply go ham in s2 or are the angel costumes Important?

more on outfits

ruminations on the fall, morality and omniscience vs. free will, and making choices as if i have any idea what im talking about

okay this one is a little shitpost-y but the message is sound and im an un-apologetic aziraphale supporter, sue me

a sprinkle of s2 symbology, a dash of ineffable plan speculation, and laure girlbossing on how the two go together mwah

this was sooooo tasty i love talking about nietzsche

honestly this one doesn't even have a theme i just like talking to people

okay so this is the genesis of my aziraphale defence league (population: like 15% of the fandom) but i will not stop until he gets the recognition and empathy he mf deserves

Cancel Metatron 2k23

this was pre-s2 but the concept still stands: something feels icky about crowley's fall narrative and the book of life is ringing alarm bells

the concept of pedestals is one of my juicy favourites in psychology and you will find out just how much if you stick around this blog long enough (aziraphale's critique)

and lastly crowley's narrative of his fall? hm, big issue there and honestly the root of all Crowley discourse on this blog, be duly warned

old stuff if you fancy having a giggle at my expense

come chat to me about things

#good omens #no need to interact if you dont want to but feel free to like #this is honestly so i don't have to scroll through my blog shitpit to find old theoties etc #toodles✨

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landgraabbed · 11 months

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thank you for tagging me @irrewilderer! it’s a sims q&a thingamajig, under the cut! i will be very longwinded bc that’s how i roll

01: what’s your favorite sims death? the one you had when you got cursed by a mummy in ts3 world adventures. there is a lot of skeeviness around that whole pack, but i remember stumbling onto it in gameplay and it being deeply fucked up in a way recent installments refuse to match

02: alpha cc or maxis match? i lean maxis mix-ish but i don’t care about which way people lean ngl

03: do you cheat when your sims gain weight? this is a weird question and as someone who is experiencing a resurgence in [redacted] i think that whoever made this originally should be ashamed of themself.

04: do you use move objects? yes, no default sims grid placement may satisfy my hoarding tendencies.

05: favorite mod? ts2 needs a suite of mods to encourage it to not self-explode, but i am an acr enjoyer. with the right tuning it makes sims not breed like rabbits but have their own autonomy and people of interest that i find very enjoyable

06: first expansion/game/stuff pack you got? i believe that i got ts1 bundled with some expansion pack? so whichever one came after that until dad got tired and learned how to pirate so i could enjoy games hehe

07: do you pronounce “live mode” like aLIVE or LIVing? alive, i don’t care if it’s the wrong way

08: who’s your favorite sim that you’ve made? it has to be jess. it’s silly but writing her at times allows me to work through some shit of my own.

09: have you made a simself? i never cared to until i got me a wife who lives very far away from me hehe

10: what sim traits did you give yourself? no idea tbh, i forgot (i reek of ts3 absent minded trait)

11: what is your favorite EA hair color? the witching hour defaults and addon palette by pyxis my beloved

12: favorite EA hair? no friggin’ idea my dude

13: favorite life stage? this question would only make sense if eaxis put any thought into life stages other than young/adult since the release of the generations ep. but i’ve recently been reminded of how fun the ts2 teens are.

14: are you a builder or are you in it for the gameplay? is build/buy not a gameplay function? i can’t build to save my life but i enjoy decorating and live mode (in ts2 mostly)

15: are you a CC creator? as need and want hit me

16: do you have any simblr friends/a sim squad? LMFAO what kinda question is this!! no i don’t have a simblr avengers squad or anything and i’m over caring about it. there’s people in the community i’m fond of but i’m not trying to join or create a clique

17: what’s your favorite game? listen. i am going to obtusely pretend that this isn’t a sims interrogatory and talk about the games that have my heart right now bc i can’t choose a single game. you have been warned.

now and forever, the games that miyazaki has directed at fromsoftware, particularly the souls series and bloodborne (i haven’t played elden ring yet but i KNOW i will adore it) are very special to me. bloodborne is a masterpiece. and i am sad that discourse has morphed these games into everything that’s wrong with Gamers and Gatekeeping. the games and the 99% of the community aren’t about that. i walked into them as someone who’d mostly played games casually but loved the games that approach storytelling indirectly. i fell in love with the marriage of gameplay and theming. i love how miyazaki approaches storytelling as an act of archaeology. the world was there long before you. you’re a nobody. things are bleak and you can’t get a straight answer out of anything, but you have other people going through it with you. you can imbue meaning and history into things, and that is beautiful. and i am bitter that one can’t say that the games don’t need an easy mode without being deemed a gatekeeper. (the games were designed with multiplayer that allows other players to cooperate with you and help you. there are gameplay styles that make things easier. all out of the box)

i am a known tes lover but morrowind is the apple of my eye. it’s weird listening to essays about modern day open world design and its pitfalls and to see how morrowind largely circumvents these issues, all the way back in 2002. the lore is amazing and once more it places a large chunk of the meaning making on the player’s hands. vvardenfell is a wonderful region of morrowind and i enjoy the diverse landscapes from the humid and mysterious bitter coast, the harsh ashlands, and the welcoming breadbasket which are the ascadian isles (lovely until you stumble upon the plantations). the exploration and navigation are unmatched and nothing will ever match the skill that is navigating the world through in game directions and learning the silt strider, boat, and stronghold routes. not to get into mark/recall/almsivi and divine intervention. you arrive at vvardenfell as a stranger and the world is hostile, but as the character becomes more familiar with the land you the player master the transversal and that’s honestly some sexy marriage of theming and gameplay. some aspects have aged horribly which is why these days i play with the amazing sexual harassment remover mod.

i think everyone owes it to themself to play outer wilds (NOT worlds). it plays into the strengths i mentioned above. i can’t say much because it ruins the purpose of the game. it’s a tender bastard of a game that makes me so happy that i am alive at a time i can play it and makes me cry every time i listen to tracks from its ost. the writing is maybe the best i have ever witnessed in any art form (“the pain of your absence is sharp and haunting, and i would give anything to not know it; anything but never knowing you at all (which would be worse)”). just play it. i wish i could hire someone to bonk me on the head and give me selective amnesia so i could play it for the first time again. just. play. it.

there’s more, like octopath traveler which is quickly climbing through the ranks, darkest dungeon, pillars of eternity, project zomboid, dragon’s dogma, journey, and more

also, it’s ts2.

18: do you have any sims merch? ew, no

19: do you have a youtube for sims? ew, no

20: how has your “sim style” changed throughout your years of playing? it has, but i’m not quite sure i can describe it? it’s been decades of sims so of course it’s changed.

21: what’s your origin id? come back with a warrant

22: who’s your favorite cc creator? i am a known sforzcc simp

23: how long have you had a simblr? wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy (too long)

24: how do you edit your pictures? i use Very Legitimate photoshop. these days i just run a photopeia action that gives it some color aberration and slap some noise on it.

25: what expansion/game/stuff pack is your favorite so far? i love sims 2 freetime? hobbies are such a great addition to the game that just fits in seamlessly with the rest of the game

26: what expansion/game/stuff pack do you want next? the eaxis stop shoving shit into ts4 and fix issues and let the modders have it pack

#p #tag stuff #i should apologize for the essay but like. that's me #i just am chatty when it comes to games

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wawamouse · 1 month

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Wip wednesday!!

I thought I had worked on a lot this week, but when I went to go search for a snippet to share, I couldn't really find anything 😆 The above is from "Desire Path", which I feel like is my fallback for wip wednesdays because it's my longest wip right now LOL.

After careful consideration, I realised that I actually haven't written that much for my Oz wips recently—I just THOUGHT I had because I did actually just write and post "Dead Air" last week. Like that's very much a thing that happened lmao. I made a couple gifsets over the past week, too, and in the process spent a lot of time just staring at images and thinking really hard about the characters, so I guess things sort of blended together in my mind. What is time, anyway?

In other writing news, I've been working on a couple of prompts for the Cdrama action thing this past week/week and a half, i.e, filling prompts in exchange for users donating to aid for Palestine. It's been fun thinking about my old fandom—The Sleuth of Ming Dynasty—again, having taken some time away from it... Doubly interesting, I guess, because I have been working on prompts for the main ship of that fandom, which I never actually wrote for at the height of my hyperfixation (I wrote 50+ fics for a rare/sidepair instead 🤣✌🏼).

I still have two prompts for that event to work on, so I've sort of just been working on Oz things here and there. After the bit of writer's block I had with "In the Course of Destiny" (mostly gone now!), I've realised (not for the first time, to be honest) that it's best for me to remember to aim short. Me being me, that is, longwinded, the fic is sure to run past my word aim anyway, and also, I psyche myself out whenever I get ambitious and try to write some sprawling epic. "Holding Up the Sky" was a bit of a breeze because I had no real idea what I was doing, and didn't decide to post it as a chaptered fic until I had already written up to the part where Miguel has the second meeting with Sykes... so there was no time to psyche myself out about ch.3, basically, because I was already fully in it.

One of the troubles I've been having with "In the Course of Destiny" is that the fic has completely gone off the rails from what I initially envisioned. Maybe I'll talk more about it when I actually get it the fuck completed, but as I said before (somewhere), that fic wasn't even initially supposed to HAVE a robbery, and adding it has really changed everything... and maybe not for the better, either.

Me 🤝🏼 Miguel, shooting ourselves in the foot with this series. Not that he's going to shoot himself in the foot... well, 啧. You'll see, I guess. Eventually.

IN MEMORIAM this week:

crack ficlet I wrote on a device that subsequently died, taking the fic with it. I might try to rewrite it, but I might also just let it go in the wind, because it wasn't that well written anyway. The premise was that Jaime did actually successfully kill Chico in the showers lol

#text #wip wednesday

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tackytigerfic · 2 years

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can I just tell you that I open modern love up all the time and read this little excerpt over and over again and it never fails to make me weep:

“Harry wishes that he could say, I'm a nice man, but knows he can't. He's done good things—he probably is good, if actions matter—but he's not very nice. He's petty and a bit selfish and too emotional in the wrong sort of way. Not the sort of way that lets him love people easily; just a clinging, too-much sort of emotional that only a handful of people have ever been able to stomach, and lots of them are dead now.”

I just want you to know your work moves me and I guess I can just relate to this feeling Harry has. It makes him feel so real, so human, to me. i think we all experience that inner-doubt and some of us are harsher self-critics than others. I know what it feels like to feel /wrong/ in some way, and reading Harry’s struggle with that makes me feel less alone, I think. It’s absurd how reading and writing can make us feel closer to people, can make us feel our humanity, and reminds us that we’re not alone. So thank you for what you do! It matters.

i feel like this ask really came at the right time, anon - thank you for dropping this ray of sunshine into my ask box just when i needed it.

i am so glad you liked that bit, i wrote that fic as a love letter to harry but also put a lot of myself into him - the parts that make him annoying haha. someone close to me once told me that no one would ever be able to bear to love me, they didn't mean it but it did stick with me and i think that's the type of harry i like to write, with all the bits that he feels are bad but that make him who he is. i love the redemptive power of seeing someone imperfect be loved perfectly and we get to create that all the time in fic, which i think is why i love it so much!

i also really wanted it to be the case that while the fic is harry's pov, and that's how he feels about himself, actually he is very lovable and also very worthy of love, and that's very clear to us all along (or i hope so anyway).

i guess what i'm trying to say in my usual longwinded way is that i get you, anon. i really hope you're ok and that you can appreciate your own worth in the way that the people who love you do. thank you so much again for this insight - i loved reading it and i'm very touched by your words.

#asked and answered #lovely people being lovely #rowing and chatting #i queue #modern love #hjp my beloved

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withlovelunette · 2 months

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Hi Lunette! How've you been?

So full disclosure this is about a self indulgent fanfic with a self insert oc lol but anyway I still want it to be good™

The characters of the actual show have super tragic backstories and my oc is just a regular ol girl, but she's still like.. an emotional/sad character, do I need to give her a tragic backstory for it to make sense & for her to be able to connect with the other characters?

Hello hello!! Upfront, sorry for the super late reply; I began answering this almost immediately when it came in, but then I fell ill again shortly afterwards and struggled to get myself to write anything, and I didn’t want to give you anything that was half baked, hence the delay :,) Aside from that, I’ve been good! And been looking forward to tackling your question!

Firstly, my short answer here is no, you don’t need a tragic backstory for a character to be tragic, nor does your character need to be tragic to connect with tragic characters! But I figure you’d like something more in-depth, so I’ll try my best to provide something more concrete.

I think it’s actually a very good exercise to practice making characters connect despite not having anything specific in common backstory wise. The reason I say this is because I often find that this can be something of a crutch for writers, and there’s a risk of this connection coming off as somewhat superficial. Don’t get me wrong; there are incredibly well written character relationships where part of their bond is shaped by their shared tragedies, but this should never feel like a component that their connection depends on. If removing their equally tragic backstories suddenly breaks their bond completely, then there’s likely something else missing there (the notable exceptions here would be more dysfunctional/codependent/complex relationships). Try and see if you can find some other components than tragedy (such as shared themes, opportunities for narrative foils, opposing or shared ideologies, etc.) that your characters can connect over!

I also think that writers (myself included) can sometimes overemphasise backstories as a "function" for why a character is a certain way. Sometimes, characters can just be a certain way without there being a blatant cause-and-effect in play! Some people are just naturally more emotional and sensitive than others, and have an easier time connecting to other people as a result of that.

There is also an inherent sadness to such characteristics which you might be able to play around with. A character who is very emotional and has an easy time connecting with other characters, but maybe has a difficult time allowing others to connect with her in that same manner. There's a lot of vulnerability that comes with putting in so much emotional labour into other people, which somewhat generates a certain tragedy to her own arc without having to explicitly give her a tragic backstory to justify the way she acts. That in and of itself could be something for your character to connect with other characters (I'm speaking a bit vaguely here, since I don't know what media this is for. Hopefully that's ok!)

A very longwinded answer to what basically amounts to just a "no", but I hope I was able to help you churn some ideas and get the gears going :,) Thank you for trusting me with your question! And again, very sorry about the delay in my answer. If there's any follow-up questions or anything you'd like me to explain more thoroughly, don't hesitate to send in another ask, and I'll do my best to help out!

#answered asks #writing advice

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yournightowl · 5 months

Text

Your NightOwl #041

Got invited to a protest today. i wasnt able to go, sadly, because i had a prior engagement- which i could've easily gotten out of.

But i didn't

Because i'm scared.

It's a good cause, obviously, organizing against the constant simmering fighting in the tropics. Making people pay attention to where the rare earth metals in their phones and cars and androids are coming from, making megs and politicians acknowledge the blood on their hands. Hell, everyone should be out there, marching and yelling and refusing to stay quiet.

But you don't get to show up, voice your opinion, breath a sigh of contentment and then go home.(￣ε￣＠)

What you say online can follow you for a long time,

┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴

but what you speak up against in person follows you for life.

There are cameras everywhere. Everywhere.

Traffic stops, security systems, androids and robots and advertisements watching where you go and what your eyes look at. Not to mention the cameras we're all carrying around in our pockets every waking moment of every day. Any one of those frames, just ripe for f-rec to scrape from.

i saw it myself last month- a boy got pulled out of history class because the police wanted to talk to him. Apparently, they gave him crap about breaking curfew, or not having a permit, or someone at the event was smoking something near where his underage nose could smell, or whatever-

But the important part is, they were ready to charge him.

If we were a different school, in a different part of the city, with families that operated in a different tax bracket

He could've been arrested.

As it is, his parents paid a fine and it went away, but its not like he went unpunished. Everyone can tell, since he's changed so much afterwards. Very "focused on his schoolwork". Very apolitical. Whatever they did to him, you can bet it was a lot worse than a spanking.

See there's no chance his family cared about the money. i mean, i can't even imagine how big a fine would need to be for them to take notice. But the rich and powerful hate nothing more than they hate being embarrassed in front of the competition- ୧((#Φ益Φ#))୨ which is everyone, around here.

Because the real elites- the truly, obscenely wealthy? The ideal that they're all aiming for?

Those kinds of people never pay for anything.

i write all of this in part to educate you, but mostly to give a longwinded excuse for my own cowardice.

It's all bull.

There are kids with one percent of what i've got that've got a thousand times more guts- And none of them are out here pretending to be something they're not- hiding on the oldnet, playing at journalistic integrity.

The next time i get invited, i should go. o(TヘTo)

Easier said than done. There may never be a next time.

No one ever asks a coward for help twice (╯︵╰,)

on the sidelines again, your nightowl

#unfiction

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obsequence · 1 year

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hi i hope this isn't weird askdjfksdksl, you seem to be much more active on twitter but i REFUSE to make an account on that website BUT a mutual of mine just said something to me about the idea of an au where the rattlers run like. an apocalypse gladiator ring instead and ellie eventually gets caught and stuck there with abby and this is just actually insane we can't believe no one else seems to have had this idea yet??????? my first thought was tell the only ellabs person i know of who is in any way active on social media idk you can tell twitter about this or whatever i just think you need to know. i think ellabs nation (ellabs village really lol) needs to consider the possibilities

1) come to twitter i promise it’s like not that bad i just get into fights a lot 😭

2) i have a new tumblr but it’s under a pseudonym because i’m literally writing x readers and i know people will clown me and think i’m doing it in the “y/n” way (nothing wrong with that) and not the “x readers are a great way to character study without making whole ocs and you’re able to share them with a large audience” way

3) honestly , i really hate fics that have like . anything to do with the rattlers . because they’re just , like , EXTREMELY miserable (hypocritical coming from me , i know) and i deserve a speck of dopamine every now and then . but i will spread the idea ! because tbh it’s pretty good and not done before . just not my thing

4) i’m going to take this as an opportunity to explain why the fuck tl2 isn’t out yet , but it’s going to be a very longwinded self-psychoanalytical bananza , sooo . .

so , tl2 isn’t going to be a multichapter , if it ever gets put out . it’s gonna be a really long oneshot , because if i post it , i want it to be FINISHED so i don’t leave anyone waiting again .

the reason why i have a mental block against writing it right now is because i’m really unhappy about where tl1 left off . i never really liked it honestly , i just felt a bit pressured to get it out asap so i could be done . i reread the first few chapters all the time , and i really consider that its peak , because it started to feel like a chore after chapter six .

it’s hard to write the sequel to something you don’t like . it feels like you can only disappoint (if not others , yourself) and expand on its horribleness , which sounds so melancholy , i know , lol , but it’s the truth . like , how do you fix what’s broken on something you can’t touch ? by adding more that’s broken ? nuh uh . it’s a lot of stress .

also , i just . . need a creative recharge . “spencer , it’s been like five months since you finished tl !!” no i mean like . a year . before i even poke it with a ten foor pole again . LOL it’s that bad . this might change , but that’s how i feel right now .

i’ve been really insecure about my work lately , and i’ve never been able to read original novels or other fics without feeling incredibly envious of others’ talent , and it has sowed a lot of discontent inside of me . so i stopped consuming others’ work for a bit , but that just left me uninspired and in an echo chamber of my own writing without any improvement , so it became hyper-stylized and odd to read , especially months later . i don’t even know what i was trying to accomplish at some points ?? it’s all very odd and tryhard and makes me cringe .

so , right now , my goal is to read more published work lol . i’m reading my childhood favorite “daughter of smoke and bone” right now , and it’s even better than i remember . highly recommend

but yeahhh that’s why tl2 isn’t out sorry 🌸🩷🩷💕🥺🥺🥺

(but like fr i am incredibly sorry)

#asks #my writing #ellabs

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mybigboots · 1 year

Text

"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.”

#capecodbootboy #one-handed reading #rubber story

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