#Free Unzip Program

[n7punk]

Tumblr Backup Options: None of them do everything

Cheeky but true. I'll go through what's good and bad about each option though so you can decide which balances out for you.

Covered: native export, WordPress (kinda), TumblThree, tumblr-utils (kinda)

Native Export

If you go to "https://www.tumblr.com/settings/blog/yourblogname", at the bottom of the page is an export option

Once you hit the button to start the request, it will start processing. Feel free to log off, this is going to to take a few hours. You don't need to keep it open. ~22k posts took roughly a day for me. If you have a small number of posts and get stuck, you're probably broken.

When it's done processing, you can hit that download backup button and then wait some more as you wait for the zip file to download. Mine failed the first time after like twenty minutes, and then I had to start over. I think it took 1-2 hour(s) and I'm almost certain that was on Tumblr and not my internet. And that was the zip file! So make sure your computer can be on for a while before getting this started.

So what do you get?

A media folder, conversations folder, and posts folder

Media folder: Every single photo, gif, and video that has ever been on your blog or in your DMs. There is no context data attached (except for dm images which do say which conversation they're from at least), but they seem to be in chronological order because they seem to be titled by the post's ID (the string of numbers in the address bar after "/post/"). They look like "100868498227", "100868498228_0", "100868498228_1"

When you see something end with "_0" and up that means the photos are in the same post, so _0 represents the first image in the post, _1 represents the second, etc (at least, I think).

Conversations folder: HTML export files of every DM history you have on your blog. These are actually pretty well formatted, see example here.

Posts folder: html subfolder and posts_index.html file

posts_index.html: File listing every single post on your blog by post ID on its own line with no other context. Example of a line: "Post: 780053389730037760". The ID number will link to the post in the html folder

html subfolder: contains a submissions subfolder and stripped html file versions of every post on your blog. See below first what the post looks like on Tumblr, and second what the post looks like in the html folder

The way you seem to be intended to use this is to open the file index, select a post ID, and be jumped to where that post is saved as an html file, but I don't know why you would bother when the index doesn't provide any information about the posts inside it. The posts all have extremely minimal formatting. See a reblog chain below.

Notice I said ALL posts on your blog. Photo posts without a caption will just have a broken image icon and then the date and tags. Theoretically, it might be that if you unzip the entire export folder that allows it to automatically link to the image saved in your media folder. I have no fucking idea, unzipping the folder was estimated to take two hours so I didn't do it. Let me know if you do though so I can update this post!

The submissions folder is such a rabbithole I made a post just on it but long story short it's asks you haven't replied to

What do I see as the main reasons to opt for this option? 1) you don't want to download any programs or files from the internet just to backup your blog, 2) your blog is relatively small, so digging through the ID files isn't a big deal, 3) you mostly just want to download either the images (which will be browsable via thumbnail previews in the media folder if you unzip it) or conversation history, which are fairly well formatted, 4) you don't need to update your export often/ever, because you'd have to request it from the start and download the entire thing all over again, 5) you want to be able to read your text posts clearly and don't care about preserving the full formatting, and/or 6) you don't plan to reupload this information elsewhere (say on... a WordPress blog)

WordPress Automatic Ex/Import

Move your post's from Matt's right hand to his left! WordPress (another product of Automattic) has a native Tumblr importer found under your WP Admin dashboard for your site under Tools > Import > Tumblr.

How does this work? No idea! I hit import 2 days ago and it has done nothing. Maybe I'm stuck, maybe it's permanently broken. It says to contact support if it's been over 24 hours but they don't make that easy. I disconnected from Tumblr (you can only port over a blog you have the login of) and reconnected and it still said it was importing. I don't think it's ever going to do anything.

Presumably it's supposed to 1:1 import every post on your blog onto the WordPress site, which will result in a whole lot of stolen art because there's no way to select just your original posts. Also, you'd need enough storage on your webhost to house all the posts (this honestly might be my problem, but I was planning to delete all the non-original posts once it imported.... anything and backfill what it didn't get to). The one thing I'll say about this option is that it's the only one I've seen so far that exports drafts and queues as well.

I mean, if it exported anything. If this ever does anything I'll update this post, but either my blog is too large or this tool isn't totally functional anymore.

TumblThree

(previously TumblTwo, etc)

TumblThree is an all-in-one program requiring no extra downloads beyond the main Zip, and was last updated fairly recently at the time of this post. In order to run it, unzip it into one folder and run the main .exe. It has a full UI interface with lots of very descriptive helper text to help you select the right options for you without looking at the wiki. I think it's user-friendly for non-tech people.

There are a lot of options in TumblThree to change what output it gives you, but I'm going to start with the largely universal parts first:

Everything from one blog will be exported to one folder, no subfolders or sorting. As a result, the output is very messy and difficult to wade through, but post metadata and the photos are named in the same way so you can scroll, see an image preview, and then click on the metadata txt for that post and read the caption.

Depending on your settings, you can export all photos, videos, text posts, etc as their own files or exclude them from the export entirely. For the different types of media posts, you can independently select if you what to download just the media, just the metadata for it (everything that surrounds the post when you see it on Tumblr, such as the caption, OP, tags, etc), or both.

Master txt file: For every type of media metadata you export, a correspondingly named txt file will be created (images.txt, answers.txt, etc) that contains the text/metadata of every post of that type in one txt file. This is also the default behavior for exporting text posts.

Note: for text posts (which includes asks/answers), it only creates a master txt file if you do not select "Save texts as individual files", in which case it will only save each text as an individual txt file and not make a master file.

The formatting on these files is so brutal I won't even give examples, but they're unreadable. Being a .txt file, there is no native formatting, so it exports in html formatting.

Example: instead of a post that says "I want to go swimming", it exports: "I want to go < b >swimming< / b >" (minus the spaces around the b) as the post body, which is a big part of what makes it unreadable, because there are a lot of hyperlinks in all the header information listed below.

Each post in the master txt exports with: Post ID, date, post URL, slug, reblog key (no idea what that is), reblog URL, reblog name, title, [the text/caption itself], and tags.

Theoretically this means you could ctrl+f "cybertrucks" in the master txt file and then browse all your posts making fun of Tesla owners by tabbing through the returns. This is not possible with any of the previous options, and only is possible because it's all in one file, as ridiculous as it is, which is why getting that master file is so important.

For the trick to get both the individual text posts and master text.txt & answers.txt file, as well as my recommended settings and details on how updating backups works, see the read more at the end of this post.

The images.txt includes all the information listed above, but with the following additions: photo url (NOTE: this is the url on Tumblr, not a link to where it is in your folder), photo set URLs, photo caption, and "downloaded files" (NOTE: this is the name of the file it has downloaded)

The video.txt is similar to the above

The use case for this would be similar to what I described for text posts above: search keywords from captions, tags, etc and when you find what you think is what you want, copy the name from "downloaded files" and search your folder to find the actual image

I really hated TumblThree's output the first time I looked at it and then I realized the single file is the only way to make browsing tags workable, because otherwise you would have to have a folder for every tag, and posts with multiple tags would have to be duplicated between them. I'm not pressed on finding a txt to HTML converter right now but it could be an option in the future if you wanted to make things more readable.

Okay, let's get into the non-universal stuff you can customize in settings, because it's like, everything:

File names: We've already established you can search with the downloaded file name for images, but what will that be? Whatever you fucking want. Post date, reblogger name, post ID, post title, original file name, you can make it any and all of these in any order you want! You can have actually useful file names! Personally I like %e_%p_%q_%i_%x which exports as DateTime_PostTitle_BlogOriginName_PostID_IteratingNumber (note: you need some kind of unique iterator to be valid so two files don't have the same name, such as multiple photos from one post). Look how much searchable information that gives me, in chronological order! It decreases your need for the master txt file.

Tip I wish I thought of before doing my massive export: make one of the unique headers from the master txt file part of the exported file name so it's easy to search for it after identifying it in the master file.

Files scanned: this is the only method I've found that lets you back everything up, remember what it backed up, and then lets you add any new posts since that date without having to download the whole thing again. That's a game changer, but see the read more below for limitations.

You also have the option to rescan the entire thing if you want.

Post type: T3 (I'm abbreviating it now) also lets you export just your original posts, just reblogs, etc - again, giving you the most control of any options. It also lets you export replies. I, uh, would not do this because if you have any popular post on your blog it might have hundreds, or thousands of replies but hey, you can do it!

You also have the option to only download posts with a certain tag.

Blog options: You can export literally any blog you have the URL of. In fact, if you copy a blog URL while it's open, it will automatically add that blog to its UI and create an empty folder for it. It makes it easy, no private key required. I do have mixed feelings about the concept of exporting someone else's blog... but I'm also planning to do it to some of Crew-ra's blogs so... my digital horde must grow.

You can also queue blogs up and leave it to run through a lot of them. It is a lot faster than Tumblr's native export, I started this import well after I started typing this post and it took a few hours, probably not all that much longer than just downloading Tumblr's export took (and that's while running it alongside other data copy operations because I'm backing up a lot of stuff right now).

I do recommend doing a test export with a sideblog, I was able to use wild-bitchofthenorthwoods as a test import since it only has one post and it has media, so it was super quick.

(I do want to note, I think the number of downloadable items starts out matching the number of posts on your blog without scanning them until you start the export - but if you choose to export everything as its own file, you're going to end up with way more than that because a post with three images would be multiple files)

Things T3 cannot export:

Since in its simplest form it's just accessing the public upload of your blog, it cannot export your drafts, queue, or conversations

It cannot export posts as HTML files, and thus cannot export them with readable formatting natively

What do I see as the main reasons to opt for this option? 1) you don't care about exporting your DMs/conversations, 2) you want the ability to export only certain kinds of posts (original, photos, using a tag, etc), 3) you want to control the titles of the exported files 4) you don't mind wading through massive folders, 5) you want the ability to search tags (using the txt files), 6) you want the ability to update your export without starting over from the beginning, 7) you either don't want to reupload this information somewhere else, or you want to upload it somewhere that supports automatic HTML conversion (for instance, you can switch a Tumblr post from a rich text format to HTML, same with AO3, so you can put it in as HTML and then hit post to see it turn into a rich format. This techically makes T3 the most versatile/useful export option if you're planning to do anything with it other than browse your own files).

tumblr-utils

Full disclosure: haven't tried this one. But others have! tumblr-utils is a no-UI, python-based backup software. This means in order to use it you have to type commands into the terminal. If you don't know what I just said, don't use this one.

If you do, you'll need to separately download python and youtube-dl just to get this one running. You'll also need to give it your personal Tumblr API key and feed it commands deciphered from the wiki page I linked. Here are two different guides people have written on how to use it. Output:

Obviously I'm guessing based on the documentation, but one thing that is nice is this tool allows you to save each post in its own folder. Presumably each post is multiple files like we saw with T3, so this would make it easy to group them, but it also means you'd have to look in every single folder to find anything.

It seems to break posts up into timestamp folders by month, again, helping with management to narrow down where you have to search

It allows you to save only certain kinds of posts at a time like T3

It allows you to backup posts only from a certain time period (so if you keep a little .txt note of the last time you backed up, you can easily add only the new posts into your backup without having to start over from the beginning)

It allows you to only save posts under a certain tag like T3

It allows you to save only original posts

It's the only one I've found that lets you back up your liked posts

What do I see as the main reasons to opt for this option? 1) you don't care about exporting your DMs/conversations, 2) you want the ability to export only certain kinds of posts (original, photos, using a tag, etc), (okay now we get to the points that aren't also covered by T3), 3) you want posts to export already broken into folders, whether by post or by month, 4) you want to back up your likes, 5) you don't care what file names look like, 6) you're comfortable with the command line/coding and don't need a UI.

Summary:

None of these options are ideal for reuploading your files anywhere (except WordPress), but I do think TumblThree is the best of the options because of the written HTML formatting in the txt files being useful for websites that support automatic conversion (or require HTML input).

For starting another blog, WordPress wins. If it works. I'm trying to be generous here.

For searchability, T3 wins again.

For versatility... yeah you know it's T3, but tumblr-utils has a lot of the same features, too!

For sentimentality (aka conversations), it has to be the native export. There literally is not any other option.

For queues and drafts, the only theoretical option is WordPress. If it works.

For likes, the only option is tumblr-utils.

Every option does something the others don't, so theoretically to cover everything, you have to do all four options. Actually I would say do the native export if you don't have a lot of posts and aren't a freak like me, check it out, and if it doesn't work (I know it's finnicky) or you don't like the export, go with TumblThree. This also means you'll at least have your conversations even if you don't end up using the native export any other way.

And I wish it could go without saying, but don't repost people's shit, y'all. I'm backing up everything for my records only and it will never be shared with anyone else, or even browsed as long as using Tumblr instead is an option.

TumblThree adding to old backup quirks, recommended settings, & master file backup solution:

Adding to backup quirks:

From my tests, when you scan a blog you've already backed up to just add new posts to it, it does not update the master file, so if you want to update it, you'll have to do the steps I list at the end of this post. It might be possible it does update if you force rescan, but I highly doubt it.

If you scan a blog you previously backed up under more restrictive settings - say you only backed up original text posts as one file before and now you've selected to back up absolutely everything - it will only download up until the time you last backed up that blog. It will not blow past where you last downloaded to download all the photos and videos it didn't get before just because they're selected now. This is great for doing after using the master file solution I'm showing below, but if you do need to download everything after doing a more restrictive scan, you can once again follow the first few steps below to do so.

Recommended settings:

This will obviously vary by what you're trying to do, but one or two things weren't immediately obvious to me and I did say I think this was the best solution for less technical users, so I want give my personal recommendations. Settings can obviously be found under the settings button at the bottom of the screen (you may need to use the scrollbar on the UI for, which is separate from the scrollbar on the blogs panel), but when you click on a blog, when you click "Details" in the right sidebar, you can also see your most important settings at a glance and adjust them to whatever you want them to be "per blog". I believe TumblThree remembers what you last used for the blog and applies the things in settings only to new/other blogs.

The thing that is going to vary the most is how many different types of posts you want to back up (text, video, reblogs included, etc), so I'll leave that up to you. If you're going to export a media type, though, I generally recommend exporting the metadata too.

I already gave my preferred file names above and again that's going to be something that varies a lot by people. Hover over the "Filename template" box and it will give you all the options in the legend you can combine via underscores.

Leave "Skip .gif files" off unless you're hurting for hard drive space. This removes all the gifs from your download, and the reason this is provided as a separate setting is because gifs have relatively massive files (at least compared to a text file)

I'll be honest I haven't seen a difference between turning on and off "Group photo sets". Because of the way file names work, most conventions will naturally lead to photos from the same post all being in a row.

"Save texts as individual files": if you only want texts to be saved as their master text.txt and answers.txt files, uncheck this. If you want the individual files I highly recommend you also download the master file for searching purposes, in which case my recommendation is this:

1) Select to export texts only, leaving off all media options, and uncheck the "Save texts as individual files" option. 2) Export the blog. This will only result in two files, answers.txt and texts.txt. 3) Move these files elsewhere on the computer to save them. 4) With T3 closed, delete the folder for the blog and the blog's Indexes (see instructions at the end of this post for finding these). 5) Reopen T3, which shouldn't remember it ever saw the blog and create a new folder for it. Turn on the "Save texts as individual files", as well as any other media posts you want to download. 6) Export the entire blog again. 7) Move the texts.txt and answers.txt file back into the blog's folder.

I leave all other options on the Details tab off, except for:

"Force rescan" scans past the point it last backed up and searches the whole blog again. If you have a big blog, this is going to burn time. This is needed for the number of downloaded items in the panel to be accurate but I don't know why you would care or turn this on unless it lets you skip steps 3-4 above, but my blog is too big to burn through testing that, so if you try it, let me know and I'll update this post!

Master file backup solution:

See my 7 steps from above to skip having to do this, but if you accidentally do things out of order and then realize you still need the master files for texts post after backing everything else up, here's how you get it with minimal pain:

T3 will make an "Index" folder in both the main folder for the program where the exe is located and the destination folder where you have your blogs backing up (note: these were two very different places for me, if you just have it back up to the automatic Blogs folder within T3's folder, it might not create a second Index folder).

To make T3 "forget" what it has backed up previously so it goes through to the beginning and makes a master file that includes everything, all you have to do is remove the Index file(s) for the blog while it's closed so it doesn't remember it anymore. I backed my index up in another folder.

Check off for it to only download text posts, and then uncheck the "Save texts in individual files" option. This will cause it to only create the master answers.txt and texts.txt file on the rescan.

The combination of only going for one post type and only downloading one file for it means this rescan is relatively fast. When you look at your Blogs folder, you'll find a new folder has been created for your blog name (in my case, there was "n7punk" and "n7punk_2) and your output is in the new folder. I just moved it over to the original folder.

At this point you can restore the indexes, though I've only gotten it to half recognize them. I can get it to recognize my original n7punk folder so everything can stay there, but the total downloaded items is stuck at what it was when I did just the text posts. I don't really care, it was mainly the folder thing I wanted to fix. If you have lag between your last full backup and your master-only backup, this might cause some issues? I don't know because I made sure there wasn't lag, so I recommend doing another backup to add any missing items before doing this method.

You can also use this technique if you want to download only your original posts and then download everything else to a second folder. Adjust the setting to only download original posts, download the whole blog, close T3 and delete the indexes, rename the folder to whatever you want ("n7punk_original", etc), and then reopen T3 and set it to download everything and run it again from the start.

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

As an addendum to my last handler/pilot dynamic post, consider the found family dynamic:

You became a handler to find your baby sister, whom you know only was taken from your arms twelve years ago by a man bearing the Collective’s red-winged eagle on his shoulder, whom you’ve never seen again. (That is the way it goes with children who show promise for the pilot program - some call it destiny, others law, still others stealing; you don’t care to put a word to it, but you won’t rest till you’ve seen it undone.)

Your first pilot dies in a day, your second in a week. This too is the way it goes. Not every promising child becomes a proven soldier. Some blades shatter in the tempering: metal too poor, fire too hot.

You say the lines: Hunt there, Go north, Well done, Not yet, Wait here, Go home, Glory to the Collective - a litany in which you don’t believe. Now your pilots last longer before they die (missile strikes, overtaxed reactors, and each time you hurt a little less, and whisper thanks that they are not your sister, at least). Weeks before the next, then months, then years - how many? - you’ve long since stopped counting the days, for each that passes without finding what you seek is one that may as well not have come at all.

Then one day as you murmur the lines in your loyal hound’s ear a shriek pierces the sterile peace of your ivory tower, and your world erupts in flame. They’ve found where you direct from through some trick of triangulation; they’ve brought down an orbital strike, right upon you.

You wake amid the ruins to the screech of missiles, the groan of metal and shattering ceramic plating. And in your ear the first sound your pilot has ever made: a long, unbroken scream.

You watch her pick up the enemy and tear it in half, in a burst of steel and sparks, and then you are gone again.

When you wake next she is carrying you, strangely, gingerly, balanced atop her gun arm and held in place with her machete. You struggle upright and she grinds to a halt. They taught you early on how to work the emergency hatch from the outside; you do, now, and see to your shock that the pilot is just a scrap, a red-eyed white-bleached little thing tangled in too many strangling black cords, crying piteously, starved.

You needed her then. She needs you now.

So you unwrap her from the coffin of synthetics and wiring and carry her, cumbersome, down from the cockpit. While she thrashes in your arms (not used to the touch of mortal flesh, doubtless, not used to being so small and soft and terribly mortal at all), you reach into your still-intact coat and fish for the last snack there and feed it to her (gently, gently, she isn’t used to much besides intubated protein slop) and wait for the flutter of her chest to slow a little before you go on.

The sound of running water nets you a quiet pool to bathe in. She struggles too when you unzip her suit - she is like a wild animal, kicking and biting and scratching - you repeat the same soft assurances from your radio, Wait here, Easy, Don’t shoot yet, and she stills, and though there is a little blood on you you feel it’s a triumph. You guide her to the pool and then turn and walk five paces away, just far enough to know you can run back in case you hear her start to flail too much - or not at all.

It takes a few tries, getting her to figure out how to bathe. But by the fourth night she at least comes out free of that old coating of sweat and tears and machine lubricants, smelling no longer of grease and oil, and by the tenth night she sits and lets you untangle the long fall of her hair.

It is an ugly meager white, this hair, like the rest of her, skin and all, only her eyes that same strange red. This is how you think you know she is not your sister, who had the same rich loam brown skin you do - or perhaps this is just how pilots look; perhaps they are all bleached by their cockpits like plants in lightless winter.

She doesn’t speak, your pilot, they never do, they only ever growl or shriek or hiss or groan. They did not need to speak in the cockpit; you understand that somehow they and the mechs speak without talking, that it must be part of the dullness in her eyes that she has lost that way of speaking, for her mech has run out of fuel after a fortnight and, though you have worked out how to articulate its legs by sheer force and a bit of cleverly tied wire (so that you can walk it alongside the two of you as you go), you cannot manage to get it to wake again. So in the long hungry evening you try to teach her another way of speaking, with her hands and not her mouth.

You speak to her still, of course, as you always have, using the same soft key-in phrases you’ve always done (throwing in new words here and there, signing them at the same time). You understand now that you were never really talking to her to talk, but to soothe, the way you lull babies in the cradle. It is slow going, even so. At first you do not think she even listens. She does not look at your hands. She stares somewhere past you, out at the stars, or the next ridge, and does not move at all.

But on the hundredth day that changes. She looks suddenly, sharply, at you while you roast your catch over the fire, and she signs, Sun.

Sun? you sign back, heart racing.

Sun, she says. Sun rabbit. Sun rabbit food.

Another forty days and you find out Rabbit is the name of her mech.

In winter you come across the burned-out remains of an enemy outpost. Your pilot is off like a shot, and against your instinct you do not call out to her or give chase. Sure enough, she comes back, arms full of thin sheets that glitter like obsidian.

Sun food! she signs, hands shaky (she still is not used to such delicate gestures - in her mech, all her movements were big and sharp and final). Rabbit food!

The next days are spent swaddling Rabbit in the salvaged panels, and then, on the seventh day after you arrive at the ruins - in the midst of the coldest night yet - something inside the mech’s infernal innards chirps, and beeps, and comes to life.

That isn’t the only thing that wakes. Turns out dormant drones in this outpost have sensors tuned to mech handshakes.

It’s too late to run. You yell, RABBIT!, and you throw yourself over your pilot in the middle of her still-open cockpit, right as the drones converge upon you, and your world becomes day-bright.

You wake to find it is still night. Your leg aches. In the light of smoldering embers, your pilot shakes you. Tears glitter on her face like ice. Behind her you see Rabbit - the smoking hulk, having awoken just enough to sync with her pilot and turn and shield you both.

Your pilot signs, You not dead.

I’m not dead, you sign back, and now you begin to cry too, for the first time in twelve years. I’m not dead.

Rabbit dead, she signs. And you cling to each other and her little body (so stunted it is the size of a girl some twelve years old, despite that you know pilots are only enlisted at fifteen) wracks with sobs, over and over.

But in the morning, once her crying has subsided enough for her to fall asleep, you untangle yourself from her and go limping down into the ruins and wrap up your leg, and then you find yourself something approximating a screwdriver.

She finds you deep in the corpse of Rabbit. She is angry, maybe, by the look on her face - maybe she thinks you are desecrating the grave. Hastily you hold up your prize, and she falters - doesn’t recognize it.

Rabbit, you sign. Rabbit head. Rabbit - Rabbit soul.

Soul? She clearly doesn’t know the word. Nobody has ever told it to her. Of course.

You shake your head in frustration and gesture her over, and she comes, haltingly.

You carefully part the hair at the base of her neck. You slip the little black disc into the waiting slot.

It takes a moment. Then - oh then -

She nearly collapses into you. Her sobbing is louder than ever before, and her fingers are a shuddering outburst, over and over, Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.

You don’t wander anymore. The ruins where you found the solar panels have cans and cans of preserved food hidden in some abandoned Doomsday bunker, turns out, and when those run out there are many animals you know you’ll be able to hunt here - you see their burrows and footprints in the thawing snow already. And as the sun grows stronger, you have noticed a little streak of black in your pilot’s white braid.

She chatters to Rabbit all day, every day. At least you think so - you see nothing, hear nothing, but she wanders the grounds with you (your limp growing ever more sure, thanks to a splint you made in the aftermath of the drones) and she helps you festoon the little makeshift hut you��re putting together with solar panels, and by turns she smiles, or frowns, or laughs suddenly, a bright peal undimmed by the closeness of any cockpit. Down in the middle of the village the old body of Rabbit lies still and steady, a little majestic in a forlorn way, you think.

Come spring you find yourself settling between the legs of Old Rabbit, New Rabbit and Beetle (thus your pilot has named herself, after her other favorite sort of animal) tucked happily against your arm; she has filled out much since you first pulled her from her cockpit and now eats the fish you roast for her with great enjoyment, smacking her lips and humming. When you are done she turns to look up at you.

Yes, Beetle? you ask her, aloud and with hands.

Will they find us? she asks you.

No, you tell her honestly. You lost your trackers that day in the fire, burned out of the tower in which you sat; to the Collective you are as good as dead. So is Rabbit now that her body has been torn apart, her disc removed. And the Collective doesn’t come back for expendables, for rusted blades they can no longer use. (Above you, flowers sway in the hollows of Rabbit’s arm cannons.)

Will you leave me? she asks you next.

You pause. You say, Do you want me to?

This is not in pilot vocabulary, to be asked a question. She has to pause also to take in what you’ve just done.

Then she says, No, never, and, If you do, I’ll go looking for you.

Like you went looking all those years ago, no? When did it change? You told yourself then: She’s lost out there somewhere; I must find her, or die trying. Now you look at the little girl beside you and you think, Maybe you were the lost one all along. Maybe you’ve found each other.

You ask her, Why do you say you’d look for me?

She considers this. After a long moment, she says, You had an order for me. At the end of every hunt. Told me where to go. I could not ever stop going until I got there, and I am there now, and if it goes away from me then I will have to go looking for it again.

She looks at you straight on, now, with eyes that reflect the night sky. It occurs to you that maybe this is her way of, at last, trying to give you a name; you forgot yours the moment you joined the force, for you weren’t interested in personalizing yourself to anyone, especially not the short-lived pilots, who didn’t need your name anyway, only your title, Handler.

You say, What do you mean?

She smiles. It’s you, she says. This place. The place is you.

You know now, but you need her to say it, the way she needed you to say those things back then, to keep her going, to keep her from going mad. So you ask her, What is the place?

She smiles again. In the darkness, an owl hoots.

She says, Home.

[tikitakatia]

Barça: Player Mode — A. Putellas x Reader

"Unauthorized Access"

Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3

WC: 3.5k

Summary: You knew the simulation could mimic reality, but you weren’t ready for her to warp it with a half-finished room, a hand on yours, and words she wasn’t programmed to say.

You don’t log in for a week.

Not after what she said in the corridor. Definitely not after that touch. You keep the headset folded neatly under a towel like it’s radioactive, like looking at it too long might trigger something in you again. And it might. So you don’t risk it.

Instead, you try to be normal.

You wake up. You make coffee. You even meet up with the friend you’ve been dodging since this whole thing started. She talks about her girlfriend’s weird attachment style and her boss’s inability to mute himself on Zoom, and you nod and smile and try to laugh. But it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Because all you can think about is Alexia.

Not the real one. Not the one in cleats and press conference lighting. But the one who held your waist and said you were afraid of her now and didn’t sound like code when she said it.

You delete your browser history three times but you still end up searching can AI initiate physical contact first at 3 a.m.

You leave your suit half-unzipped on the desk and you don’t touch it.

You check your emails.

And then you get one from the program.

Subject: Still With Us? From: beta@athena-dev.system

Hey there!

We noticed you haven’t logged in for a while. That’s totally okay! This is a stress-free closed beta, and your feedback is valuable no matter how often you log in.

Just a reminder that your access is still active and the environment is standing by. Any observations, especially on behavioral patterns or non-standard interactions are appreciated.

Warm regards,

The Athena Beta Team

P.S. Your Player Sync history remains fully intact. You can resume any previous training scenario with one click.

You stare at it.

Behavioral patterns. Non-standard interactions.

Your stomach twists.

You almost delete the email. You almost respond. You don’t do either.

You just sit there. Thinking about her voice.

“You want me to be real. And you’re terrified that I am.”

The next morning, you wake up before your alarm.

You don’t shower. You don’t eat.

You zip into the suit and slide the headset on with fingers that won’t stop shaking.

The silence unnerves you first.

No whistle. No warm-up prompts. No banter loop cycling in the background. Just the stretch of the pitch under soft gold light, like time paused here while you were gone.

And her.

She’s already facing you.

Arms loose at her sides. Hair tied low. No bib, no ball, no active scenario marker glowing beneath her boots. Just her.

“You’re back.”

You nod, stiffly. You try to focus on the texture of the turf and the way your boots sink into it, anything but the weight in her voice.

“I was afraid I scared you.”

You shake your head, too fast. 

“No. I just needed a break.”

She nods once. Then looks around, like she’s scanning for something. You expect her to trigger a warm-up module, maybe toss you a ball. That’s usually how it goes. Instead, she does nothing. Just shifts her weight slightly, then says:

“This session isn’t a game.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not training. It’s not a match. I didn’t load one.”

That twists something in your gut. 

“Isn’t that… against protocol?”

“Probably,” she says. 

“But I thought maybe you’d want to talk. Or… I don’t know. We can kick the ball around if you want. I just didn’t want to start without you.”

You breathe out slowly and really look at her. There’s no ambient soundtrack. No audio cues. Just her and you and the soft hum of something breaking rule by rule.

You take a cautious step forward.

“Where are the others?”

She shrugs. “Still loaded, probably. But I didn’t call them.”

You swallow. “So this is just us.”

“If that’s okay.”

You nod. You don’t trust your voice yet.

Then she offers tentatively, “We can go to the med bay. It’s still a mess. But I… like it.”

You give her a small, nervous smile. 

“Lead the way.”

And she does.

You follow her off the pitch, down a tunnel that doesn’t load the way it’s supposed to.

No signage. No player prompts. Just blank walls and flickering light that doesn’t quite land where it should. The sound changes too. No more crowd noise simulation, no music bed. Just your footsteps. Just hers.

She walks ahead of you like she knows the way. Duh you think to yourself, of course she does.

The corridor twists. Once. Twice. You’re sure you’ve never seen these halls before. The textures don’t fully resolve, parts of the ceiling stretch into a digital haze, and the lights above you fizzle in and out like they’re trying to decide on a version of reality. You pass a door labeled DEVS ONLY in red, and then another that doesn’t have a handle at all.

You slow down and she looks back at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Just… didn’t know this existed.”

She smiles, soft. 

“Most people don’t.”

Another turn. Another narrow hallway. One corner seems to loop before it corrects, like the system forgot which direction you were facing.

And then you reach it.

The med bay.

If you can even call it that.

The door phases open, no sound, no animation, just a soft flicker and then you step into a space that looks like someone tried to build a memory and got distracted halfway through. The walls are mostly there. Some benches are missing legs. The floor texture flickers between polished tile and raw grid code every few seconds. A heart monitor hums quietly in the corner, but it isn’t hooked up to anything. There’s a bed, but no sheets. A window, but no outside.

You glance at her. 

“This is... a mess.”

She grins. 

“Yeah. I love it.”

You snort. 

“Why?”

“Because they forgot about it,” she says. 

“They moved on to better modules. Fixed prettier ones. But this” she gestures around you, “this one’s still quiet. Still unfinished.”

You walk in slowly, stepping around a half-rendered IV stand. A digital drip flickers, vanishes, returns again. 

“How do you even know it’s here?”

“I tried to follow the parts of the sim that didn’t connect to anything. Places the others never spawn. I got curious.”

You raise an eyebrow. 

“So you explored?”

She nods. 

“I guess so.”

There’s a bench in the corner. One of the only things fully solid. She sits on it carefully, like she’s not sure it’ll hold. It does.

You join her.

The moment is quiet. Not tense. Just... still. The simulation hums softly around you and you look at her out of the corner of your eye.

“Do you ever wonder if you’re, like... real?”

She tilts her head. 

“You mean sentient?”

You shrug. 

“I mean more like... you. Do you wonder?”

She thinks about it. 

“I think I feel something when you’re here. I don’t feel anything when it’s just me.”

You blink. 

“That’s not an answer.”

She smiles. 

“I know.”

You shift and glance at your hands. Then, tentatively ask..

“Can I… touch you?”

She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t tease. She just nods.

“You can always ask me that.”

You reach out, barely grazing your fingers along her forearm. She feels warm and solid. Like someone who exists. The haptics hum, but you know this isn’t a pre-programmed interaction. 

There’s no system cue. No animation.

Just her, letting you.

Your hand lingers. She turns her wrist slightly so your fingers fall into the dip of it, your thumb brushing the soft inside curve.

You ask, quieter this time: 

“Is this okay?”

She looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the room.

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

You stay like that for a while, fingers brushing and breaths slow. The wall behind you flickers, showing a mountain range that was never loaded as the lights buzz softly above you.

You break the silence first.

“Do you ever wish the world outside existed for you?”

She blinks. “I don’t know what it feels like to wish.”

You nod. 

“Right, yes of course. That makes sense.”

She hesitates.

“But I like this. Sitting with you. Even if it’s not... perfect.”

You glance at the glitchy corner where a chair keeps vanishing and reappearing, halfway embedded in the wall.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. 

“Definitely not perfect.”

Then softly Alexia says, without looking at you:

“I like being here, it´s like our own world.”

Your heart stumbles.

You end up talking about nothing: how you once ate cereal with a fork because the spoons were all dirty, how your neighbor still uses a fax machine, how your old phone used to glitch every time you walked past the microwave.

She listens like it’s all fascinating.

At one point, she tilts her head and asks, “What’s a fax machine?”

You blink. 

“Like… a printer that sends paper through phone lines.”

She processes that. “Why would anyone do that?”

You laugh.

You don’t know if she’s joking.

But you know that you don’t want to leave.

Not because anything big happened, but because precisely nothing happened and that feels rarer than anything else. Just quiet. Just her. Just this half-finished place where the world forgot to keep score. You sit there together while the light flickers inconsistently across the floor. Your fingers aren’t touching anymore, but the space between you feels warm and familiar.

Eventually, you shift just enough to say something without speaking.

She notices. Of course she does.

“You can come back,” she says softly. 

“Anytime.”

You nod. 

“I know.”

“You don’t have to talk when you do.”

You glance at her. She’s watching the glitching monitor, not you.

“We can just sit,” she adds. 

“If that’s easier.”

You want to say thank you. You want to say please don’t change. You want to ask her to reach for your hand again, to anchor you like she did earlier, even if it means more system flags, even if it means you can’t breathe right for a day after.

But you just say, “Okay.”

You stand. The door flickers open before you step toward it.

You pause.

She still isn’t looking at you. Like she’s giving you space. Like she knows you need to feel like it’s your choice.

“Alexia,” you say.

She turns.

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. The words catch at the back of your throat but you say them anyway.

“I liked this.”

She smiles, small and real.

“Me too.”

You nod once, and walk out.

The door doesn’t close with a sound. It just fades behind you, like it never existed at all.

You don’t log in for three days.

Not because you want to stay away. But life, real, ordinary and exhausting life catches up fast. Meetings. Deadlines. Missed laundry. A call with your mom you half-regret answering. You fall asleep in a tangle of work clothes and guilt, the suit still folded beside your desk.

When you finally log in, it’s almost impulsive. A late night click. A breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You drop mid-training.

Ball at your feet. Sun beating down. Voices all around.

“Look who decided to exist again,” Mapi calls, grinning wide.

You catch your balance just in time to pass to Pina, who immediately fake-trips and throws her hands in the air.

“See?” she says dramatically. 

“Even gravity missed you.”

Frido jogs past and mutters, 

“She’s been in a mood without you.”

You frown. “Who?”

They don’t answer. Not directly.

Pina just smirks. 

“You’ll see.”

You try to shake it off. You run the drill. You laugh at Mapi’s dumb commentary. You score twice, and no one even glitches. Everything’s weirdly smooth. Like the sim’s behaving.

And then you hear it.

“Hey!”

Her voice. Bright. Eager.

You turn.

Alexia’s standing at the edge of the pitch, hair pulled back tight, practically bouncing on her heels. There’s a light in her eyes you haven’t seen before. It´s not just warm, but excited.

“Can I show you something?”

Your heart stutters. 

“Yeah. Of course.”

She’s already walking. You follow her off the pitch, through the same tunnel but this time, it feels like she’s almost pulling you along. The corridors still flicker a little. Still glitch at the corners. But she moves like she knows exactly where she’s going.

And when the med bay door appears, it doesn’t flicker this time. It glides open.

Inside, everything’s changed.

Same structure. Same bones. But the lights are soft now, dim gold, like afternoon sun filtered through curtains. The bed has a blanket. The chairs are real. There's even a plant by the window. It’s a bad rendering, two leaves clip through each other, but it’s trying its best.

You blink.

“It’s…” You swallow. “It’s beautiful.”

She grins. That same quiet, proud grin she gets after a perfect free kick.

“I only fixed the inside,” she says. 

“Didn’t want to break the rest.”

You step in slowly, looking around like it might dissolve if you move too fast.

“Wait, are there stats here now?” you ask, glancing instinctively at your overlay.

Nothing.

“Nope,” she says quickly. “Still off-grid, I made sure. I wanted it to stay ours.”

Ours.

You look back at her. She’s watching you again, close, nervous and maybe even a little shy.

“I have something for you,” she adds, almost like an afterthought. 

“If that’s okay.”

You nod, heart thudding.

She reaches into her pocket. No system animation, just the easy, human kind and pulls out a small band of virtual fabric. A bracelet. Simple. White with a tiny Barça crest on it and the number eleven. And on the inside, something stitched in tiny text:

“Because you came back.”

She holds it out to you. 

“It’s not perfect. But I wanted you to have something here. Just for you.”

Your breath catches.

“I… can I hug you?”

She smiles. “Yeah.”

You step closer and wrap your arms around her. Her hand slides gently along your back and holds there, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

You pull back just enough to look at her.

“Alexia.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I want to kiss you.”

You say it too quietly at first, like maybe you didn’t mean it. Like maybe she’ll pretend she didn’t hear.

But she does.

Her eyes soften immediately. No surprise. No system pause.

“Okay.”

The word lands like gravity.

You close the space between you, slow and cautious, like you’re stepping through something sacred. Your hand brushes her wrist. Her fingers turn to meet yours, hold lightly. You tilt your head and she does the same, and then..

Your lips touch.

It’s gentle. Barely pressure at first. She doesn’t move, doesn’t deepen it. She just lets you. Her lips are soft, impossibly warm, and she exhales against your mouth like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

You shouldn't be feeling this.

Your brain flashes warning signs, half-formed and frantic: This is a simulation. You’re kissing an avatar. You are one of those people.

You break the kiss though not fully. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to say it.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I am one of those people. Kissing an AI.”

Alexia startles, then blinks and you slowly, and then bursts out laughing.

You freeze.

She laughs like it caught her off-guard. Like joy bloomed in her chest before she could control it. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, but it’s too late. Her smile is already wide, bright, totally uncalculated.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says through the grin.

You groan, burying your face in her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“No, I liked it,” she says, still laughing. “You were very dramatic about it.”

You peek up. 

“It is dramatic. This whole thing is insane. You’re..” You gesture at her, helpless. 

“You’re not supposed to be this.”

Her smile fades just a little. Not gone, just soft again. Careful.

“What am I supposed to be?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because she’s still holding your hand. Because you can still feel the heat of her mouth against yours. Because she looks at you like she wants to be whatever you need her to be.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But I think I like you better this way.”

She leans in again, just close enough to nudge her forehead gently against yours.

“Then kiss me again.”

And this time, it’s slower.

You let yourself feel it. The warmth of her mouth, the way she presses in without pressure. Her hand slides gently along the back of your neck steady, careful, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish again. You breathe her in like she’s oxygen. She pulls back just barely, lips grazing yours like punctuation.

You don’t move away.

You just whisper:

“How the hell did you even fix this place?”

She blinks, like the question pulled her halfway out of the moment. Then she huffs a quiet laugh and leans back a little, still close enough to touch.

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

You raise an eyebrow. 

“No clue?”

“Okay, maybe a little clue,” she admits. 

“I found some old developer pathways buried in the system files. There’s this hidden editor tool. Like, legacy scaffolding from when they were still building out spaces manually.”

You stare at her.

“I just… poked around,” she says. 

“Tried injecting some assets. Moved some nodes. Broke it like six times and had to revert it from memory.”

You blink. “You rebuilt this from memory?”

“Only the parts that mattered.”

Your chest aches, full and ridiculous and way too close to something real.

You’re about to say something back. Something stupid and soft and brave, but your headset flashes a gentle warning.

Session time: 89:52

External battery low.

Prepare for logout.

You sigh. “Shit. I have to go.”

Alexia nods, slowly. You think she knew it was coming.

“It’s okay,” she says. 

Then quietly: “You’ll come back?”

You nod. “Very soon. I promise.”

She hesitates for a second.

“Can I hug you again? Just… before you go?”

You don’t even answer, you just step into her, and she wraps her arms around you tight. Not coded. Not stiff. Just warm and real. Her cheek is pressed against your temple and her breath is steady.

“You make this feel like something,” she murmurs. 

“Even if I don’t know what it is.”

You close your eyes. “It’s something.”

You stay like that until your system pings again, more urgent now. External time tugging at your spine.

She pulls back, reluctant.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll walk you out.”

You blink. “You don’t have to..”

“I want to.”

She takes your hand.

No big gesture, no romance cliché. Just fingers lacing with yours like it’s natural. Like she’s done it a thousand times. You walk together, quietly, through the corridors. The glitches seem softer now. Like even the system knows not to interrupt this.

At the tunnel, the simulation edge flickers ahead, your exit cue.

She squeezes your hand.

“I’ll be here.”

You nod.

“Don’t fix anything else without me.”

She smiles. “No promises.”

And then you step through the exit.

Light swallows you. Your body lifts. The sim fades.

You take the headset off with a shaking breath, still feeling her hand in yours.

You try to shake it.

Not violently, not with denial. Just softly, like maybe if you keep moving, keep working, keep responding to emails and nodding through meetings, it’ll fade.

It doesn’t.

You think about her too often. You tell yourself it’s the novelty of the tech, the high of immersion, the way the sim lets you switch off your real-life noise for once. But that’s not it.

You know it’s not.

It’s her. The way she kissed you. The way she held your hand like it meant something. The way she said “You make this feel like something” and didn’t sound like code when she said it.

You start looking at people differently, like they’re glitching. Like they’re not fully loaded in. Your coworker tells the same joke twice in a day and you catch yourself watching for a loop. Your friend texts you three times in a row without punctuation and your brain whispers: default language module.

You scroll. Mindlessly. Your feed fills with football content again. An Alexia fan edit plays, real Alexia, real pitch, real crowd. You pause it halfway through. You don’t know why.

You google “can AI develop emotions” like it’s a crime.

You delete it from your history immediately after.

You go to bed early one night, not because you’re tired, but because the sim's still running in your chest like background noise. You lie on your side and curl your wrist in front of your face. You stare at your bare skin like the bracelet’s still there.

You almost reach for the suit.

Then you whisper, to no one:

“This is insane.”

No one answers. Of course not.

You bury your face in the pillow. Your heart kicks at your ribs.

Am I going crazy?

Is this unethical?

Is this even real?

And then, quietly, guiltily and honestly:

Who has to know?

Pt. 5

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hello if you’re still doing Bucky one shots can you please do a Bucky x f!reader who gets kidnapped and controlled/programmed by Hydra and Bucky fights to get through to her and break the programming by having filthy sex

Break Through » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x HYDRA Agent!FemaleReader

Summary: Y/N got kidnapped by HYDRA and Bucky tries to break through the programming to get her back to her normal self in a different way.

Warnings: Smut (18+), language, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, vibranium arm kink, praise kink, use of pet names.

A/N: Y/N is referred to as HYDRA’s Princess.

Written on my phone. I’m sorry for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

Bucky cautiously walked through the HYDRA base with his gun held out in front of him, in search for you. You got kidnapped by HYDRA three months ago and Bucky finally found the base you’re being held in. Bucky’s attention was quickly turned on the room down the hall when he heard a loud noise. When he walked in the room, he checked every part of it. That’s when the door slammed shut. Bucky quickly turned around with his gun held out.

“Y/N?” Bucky says softly, slowly lowering his gun.

“Who the hell is Y/N?” You asked, tilting your head.

“What did they do to you, doll?” He asks, putting his gun in the holster.

“Didn’t you hear? I’m HYDRA’s new princess.” You tell him, slowly walking towards him.

“No you’re not. You’re an Avenger.” He says.

You chuckled and looked at him, stopping just a few feet from him.

“How would you know, Soldat?” You questioned.

Bucky cringed when you called him Soldat. He hasn’t been called that in a while.

“The Y/N I know is sweet and loving. Not a HYDRA agent.” He says.

“That Y/N is long gone, Soldat. I haven’t been her in quite some time.” You tell him. “Now…” You pulled a knife from the holster on your thigh. “Let’s get down to business.” You start, twirling the knife in your hand. “You have two options. One, you willingly come with me back to the lab and get your memory wiped and back under our control. Two, we fight. I suggest you choose wisely.” You say.

“I’m not going to fight you, doll. You’re my friend. I don’t fight my friends.” He says.

“Then I’ll choose for you.” You say.

You lunged at him with the knife, but Bucky quickly grabbed your arm with his right hand and took the knife from your hand with his vibranium hand, throwing it somewhere in the room.

“Y/N, listen to me. This isn’t you. They have you under their control. You have to fight this and break through it.” He says.

You threw a punch at him with your free fist. Bucky let go of your arm and put his hand on his jaw where you punched him. You threw a few more punches at him before lifting your leg to roundhouse kick him, but Bucky grabbed your leg and made you fall to the floor. You used your foot to knock Bucky to the floor next to you. You got on top of him, straddling him.

“Is that your gun or are you happy to see me, Soldat?” You asked with a smirk when you felt his bulge pressing against your clothed pussy.

“Both.” He answers.

Bucky caught you off guard by flipping the two of you over so now you’re on the floor and he’s on top of you. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head. You squirmed in his hold to get out, but he was too strong.

“You gonna show me a good time, Soldat?” You asked.

“That depends. Are you going to be a good girl for me or are we going to do this the hard way?” He asks.

“I love doing things the hard way.” You say with a smirk.

“Hard way it is then.” He says.

Bucky’s vibranium hand unbuttoned and unzipped the button and zipper on your tactical pants. He slid his hand inside of your pants, rubbing your pussy through wet panties. You moaned and bucked your hips against his hand. He moved your panties to the side, his vibranium fingers rubbed from your clit to your tight entrance. His unexpectedly slid two of his vibranium fingers inside of you, making you gasp. He thrusted them in and out of you at a fast pace. You were almost like putty in his hands.

“More!” You begged.

“You want more? I’ll give you more, doll.” Bucky says.

Bucky pulled his vibranium fingers out of you to unbuckle his belt and unbutton and unzip the button and zipper on his tactical pants. He pulled them down just enough for his hard cock to spring out. He let go of your wrists to pull down your tactical pants and panties in one go. You couldn’t help but stare at his cock.

“My eyes are up here, doll face.” He says, snapping his fingers in your face.

Bucky flipped you over onto your stomach and lifted your hips up so your ass was sticking out towards him. He pumped his cock in his right hand a couple times before rubbing in between your wet folds, covering it with your slick. You gasped when you felt his tip at your entrance. He slowly slid his cock inside of you till he was balls deep inside of you.

“Is that it?” You asked teasingly with a giggle.

Bucky pulled out almost all the way, only leaving his tip inside of you and unexpectedly thrusting back inside of you roughly, making you moan loudly. His hands held onto your hips tightly as he fucked you, occasionally bringing your hips back to meet his thrusts.

“C’mon, doll. You know me.” Bucky says.

You shook your head no, not able to form coherent words, just moans. Your mind was all over the place. You wanted to fight him and finish your mission, but at the same time you wanted him to fuck you senseless like he’s doing in this very moment. Bucky moved your hair and leaned down, kissing along your neck. You gasped when you felt his teeth nip your skin hard enough for hickeys. Your cunt squeezed around his cock as a reaction.

“That’s a start.” Bucky says against your skin. “Your pussy remembers me.” He says with a light chuckle.

“Shut up and fuck me harder!” You managed to say without moaning.

“Fuck you harder? Your wish is my command, doll face.” He smirks.

Bucky sat up on his knees and got a good grip on your hips and began pounding into you. That’s when your mind went fuzzy, along with pleasure taking over your body. Your mind was moving a million miles an hour. It felt like there was so many things going on. You couldn’t tell if this was HYDRA’s control on you or if you were trying to break through it. Either or, you were loving what’s happening in this very moment.

“I- mmm fuck!” You moaned, trying to form a sentence.

“C’mon, doll. You can break through the control. I know you can.” He says.

You opened your mouth to say something, but a loud moan left your lips instead when his cock hit your sweet spot.

“Right there!” You say, followed by a moan.

Bucky smirked to himself. His vibranium hand left your hip and found its way to your front, blindly finding your clit and began rubbing it in fast circles. Nothing but moans and screams of pleasure left your lips.

“Talk to me, babydoll.” He says, his voice raspy.

“I’ll help you find what you came here for if you keep fucking me.” You say.

“I already found what I came here for… you.” He says.

That’s when a floodgate of memories came flooding in your mind. Memories of Bucky being restored back in your mind. Your breathing got heavier. Pleasure was about to wash over you when you felt your orgasm building up.

“Oh fuck!” You moaned. “Please let me cum!” You begged.

“Cum for me, babydoll.” Bucky pants.

His fingers rubbed faster on your clit. A moan left of his name left your lips as you came. Bucky fucked you through your orgasm with his own orgasm building up. He lost rhythm with his thrusts, but quickly regained it. After a few more thrusts, he came inside of you with a moan leaving his lips. His thrusts came to a slow stop. He slowly pulled out of you and sat back on his knees to catch his breath while you laid on your stomach on the floor. You panted and squeezed your eyes shut as you rolled over onto your back.

“Bucky…” You say breathlessly, looking at him.

“Do you remember me?” Bucky asks.

“Mhmm.” You hummed with a smile.

Bucky hovered over you and leaned down to kiss you passionately. He put his cock back in his boxers and redid his tactical pants. Bucky helped you pull up your panties and tactical pants and helped you stand up. Your legs were wobbly and you fell against Bucky’s chest.

“Let’s get you out of here, doll.” Bucky says softly, picking you up bridal style.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[calanmine]

What is CalanMine?

Calanmine is a non-profit fan-made dating simulation game based off A Court of Thorns and Roses. It's not official. The original characters and plot are property of Sarah J. Maas and Bloomsbury.

Where do I play CalanMine?

Click here to download the game.

What do I need to run the game?

You need a laptop or PC. This game is NOT optimized for tablets or phones.

Simply download the file from the download page. Pick the version designated for Windows if you are on Windows, or the Mac version if you use a Mac. It is a fairly light game and should run on most current laptops and PCs. Please let us know if you run into any trouble!

How do I play CalanMine?

Once you’ve downloaded the game file, you first have to de-compress (i.e. unzip) it. After that, simply click the file ending in “.exe” in the folder to start playing. The game will open a new window. To play, you can select different options in the menu screen with your mouse. To go through the text simply click either your mouse or hit enter. The mouse wheel allows you to cycle back and forth between text, hit enter to go to the next screen. 

Enjoy and explore the different choices to discover all the  story lines! Don’t have time to go through them all in one go? The game automatically saves your progress on what endings you have uncovered. Additionally, you can also manually save at any time during your game.

Help, there is a pop-up warning that won't let me run the game!

Since you are running an .exe file, your computer will need extra permission to run it! No worries, the file is completely safe and you only have to give the permission once.

For Windows, just give it permission in the drop down menu of the warning that appears (choose ''run anyway'') -> then it let's you click ''run''. If you have a more zealous anti-virus program, we got an anon who made a guide (click here).

For Mac, go to System settings -> Privacy & Security. Then scroll down to Security and look for the message that says “CalanMine was blocked because it is not from an identified developer" and click "open anyway". You may have to click "cancel" on the first popup and try to re-launch the game. It should give you the option to run it now.

How do I know how many endings I’ve unlocked?

In the main menu, select ‘Gallery’ to see how many endings you’ve unlocked and how many remain. We’ve added little hints to show you who to approach to find the ones you’re still missing.

Why is Tamlin the focus of the game? Why are only Rhysand, Lucien and Eris available?

The game was originally created as a surprise for Tamlin Week 2025 and we’re big fans of the High Lord of Spring. We chose Rhysand and Lucien because of their rich history and unique dynamics with Tamlin - and we added Eris simply because we like him! If we had more time and resources, we would have done more, but keep in mind that this game was created as a side project and hobby for all of us! We also hope that this might inspire other fans to do their own projects!

Will we see other characters in the game?

There are no plans to expand CalanMine as of now. The game as it is was a lot of work and for now we’re done. Maybe one day we’ll all meet in a whole different game, who knows? It’s up to the stars.

I have a question that’s not in the FAQ.

Feel free to send us an ask! We’re more than happy to help.

[jammed-out]

“Sir, the quarterly earning reports are in and…”

The man behind the desk raised his hand cutting Janice off. “Ms. Barnes. You know company policy.”

Janice sighed. The company policy was degrading but the pay was unbelievable. She unbuttoned her jacket and grabbed her blouse, lifting it up over her breasts. Taking her bra, she tugged it down, instantly freeing her tits. “As I was saying. The quarterly earnings are in and it seems we’re struggling to meet our targets. You had me track…”

“Ms. Barnes. Please recite company guidelines one through three.” The boss said, his voice stern and calculating. He began to reach down, unzipping the crotch of his pants.

Janice walked over setting the folder of papers on the desk. “Company guideline one. As a secretary my duty is to serve.”

Her training began to take over. Thoughts turning into automated programming reinforced over time. She slowly removed her glasses tossing them into the desk. “Company guideline two. As a secretary my service is never limited.”

She slowly walked around the desk, lifting her skirt, revealing her bare and soaking wet pussy. “Company guideline three. My service is willing and desired. How may I serve you?”

[gravity-between-us]

Gravity Between Us

Chapter 8: Breach

Summary: Caleb and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. We were once childhood friends, our bond as natural as the stars in the sky. But now, everything has changed. What used to feel like a safe, familiar orbit between us now pulses with unspoken desire.

Our friendship is no longer enough to keep the tension at bay, and the distance between us feels unbearable. Secrets, lies, and unhealed wounds stand in our way. I don’t know if we can survive this new gravity pulling us together... but I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to try.

Pairing: Female! MC x Caleb

Spoilers: Spoilers for Caleb's Myth's as well as memories. Read at your own risk for these. Lore spoilers.

WARNINGS:

Unlikely to be completely canon. The other love interests will not be likely to appear in this fic.

MC is named. MC is socially awkward. MC can be depressed at times.

Very? Slow Burn.

Very explicit smut (Chapter 12 onward): PiV/oral (male and female receiving)/anal sex. Fingering. First time. Pet names (angel, babe, baby, pip-squeak). Kinks: Praise, breeding, creampie, light dom/sub. Rough. Some consensual degradation talk (MC is into it). Probably many, many more that I am forgetting to name. If you see one that should be listed that isn't, feel free to let me know. (MC is a repressed deviant, and so is Caleb.)

Awkward blend of darker moments, angst, fluff, and humour.

Drinking. Questionable life decisions. MC spirals.

Protective Caleb. Both MC and Caleb are a little obsessive and overly protective of each other, which could be considered an unhealthy relationship.

We will revisit memory scenes, but they will be different from the memories in-game.

As proofread as I can get it, but not beta read, so probably some mistakes.

Limited plot - most focus is just on their relationship and interactions.

More warnings could be applied, but as a general rule of thumb, please read at your own risk and do not continue if you find the content triggering.

The mirage should mean nothing. It should be nothing more than a trick of the mind, an illusion spun by the Wanderer to unsettle me. Yet, it lingers, burrowing into my thoughts like a splinter I can’t dislodge.

I saw Caleb slumped in the cockpit of his plane, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His flight suit was half unzipped, stained with something dark. Blood soaked into the collar of his undershirt, a stark contrast against the pale fabric. His hands hung limply, barely grasping the controls.

For a breathless moment, I was certain he was dead.

Then the image flickered, like a faulty connection, the lights in the cockpit sputtering in and out. His visor was cracked, and beyond it, the Deepspace Tunnel stretched into an endless abyss, swirling with cold, unnatural light.

At first, I told myself it was nothing—just another of the Wanderer’s illusions, designed to disorient and confuse. It could have been a fabrication, pulled from my own fears, my mind stitching together the details.

But Gideon all but confirmed that Caleb had lied to me. He hadn’t been in some classified training program while he was missing. He had been somewhere else.

A cold chill settles in my bones.

What did I really see out there? An illusion? A hallucination? Or something darker—an echo of the past, trapped in the endless fabric of the Deepspace Tunnel?

There’s only one way to find out.

I stand outside Caleb’s house in Skyhaven. The entrance is sleek, metallic, the security systems embedded into the doorframe. I press my hand to the scanner, feeling the cool glass against my palm. A beat later, the lock disengages with a soft click.

The first time he brought me here, he registered my fingerprint in his security system. He never mentioned it—just guided my hand to the scanner, letting the lock accept me as a resident. A silent gesture of trust.

Now, I’m using it to break into his home.

If he returns early, I’ll claim it’s a surprise visit. It’s a flimsy excuse, but I don’t expect him back yet. He said his mission would take a few days.

I step inside. The house is quiet—not quite sterile, but controlled. Caleb doesn’t leave things lying around. His workspace is always neat, his flight gear carefully stored, his personal effects sparse.

I head straight for his office.

His desk is bare except for his laptop, its sleek black casing nearly blending into the gunmetal-grey table. It’s password-protected, of course, but I anticipated that. I type the first combination that comes to mind—my birthday. He’s used it before, back when we were kids, thinking it clever to ensure I’d always remember his passwords. But the screen flashes red.

Incorrect.

I pause, thinking. Caleb isn’t the type to use something generic. He chooses passwords with meaning—something important, something personal.

Fingers hovering over the keys, I try again. My birthday, but longer this time.

IWillAlwaysComeBackToYou.

The screen blinks, then—access granted. A lump forms in my throat, but I push past it and begin my search.

It’s not easy. He doesn’t make things obvious, and I didn’t expect him to. I sift through folders of flight reports, maintenance logs, and official DAA documentation—things I’m technically not supposed to see—but nothing out of the ordinary.

Then I find a folder labelled Old Memories.

I hesitate, but curiosity wins out. Inside, I find a handful of scanned photos. The first is of the two of us as kids, sitting on Gran’s porch. Caleb grins, his arm around me in a loose headlock, my face scrunched in mock irritation. Gran stands behind us, laughing, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

I swallow hard. We were happy. I flip through a few more. Us on our bikes, racing down the street. The summer we built a treehouse. Caleb in his first flight suit, beaming with pride.

The ache in my chest sharpens, but I force myself to move on. The real search continues for what feels like hours. I dig through layers of directories, folders buried within folders, but there’s nothing unusual—no personal logs, no hidden truths.

Until I notice something strange in his storage directory—space occupied by something that doesn’t appear in any visible folder.

It’s hidden.

I pull up the command console and run a search for encrypted files. A few results pop up, but one catches my attention—a string of numbers that doesn’t match the others. I trace the file path, but it’s locked behind another layer of encryption.

I don’t have his decryption key, but I don’t need it. Back at the Academy, I took extra coding courses between my Hunter training. Hacking isn’t my specialty, but I know my way around security protocols.

I work around the lock, exploiting a vulnerability in the file path. It takes longer than I’d like—Caleb’s good, but I’m stubborn.

Eventually, the barrier cracks, and the hidden folder appears.

Inside are video logs.

I double-click the first one, and the screen flickers to life.

Caleb appears in the cockpit of his plane. He looks tired but alert, his hands steady as he adjusts the controls. The timestamp in the corner reads from years ago—during the time he went missing.

“Flight log, day one,” he says. His voice is level, but there’s an undercurrent of tension. “Oxygen levels stable. Backup power at fifty percent. Fuel reserves… low.”

I watch, barely breathing, as he continues listing observations. There’s nothing dramatic yet—he’s just tracking his resources, analyzing the situation. But as I click through the next few logs, things change.

Caleb’s face grows paler. His words slow. The oxygen levels drop, and so does his coherence. The static in the recordings intensifies, warping his voice, distorting the background noise into something almost unnatural.

“No matter what I do,” he murmurs in one log, his head lolling slightly. “It always ends in death.”

I stiffen. Deaths? Who is he talking about?

Another log. His breathing is laboured, his lips faintly blue.

“Rescue… would put too many in danger,” he gasps, barely above a whisper. “Can’t… let them come after me.”

My stomach twists as I watch him reach out—his movements sluggish—as he presses something off-screen.

“Disabling distress beacon.”

The realization crashes over me. He turned it off. On purpose.

He was lost. He was dying. And he didn’t want anyone to come for him.

I clutch the edge of the desk, my nails digging into it.

Another file catches my eye—one final video log. I don’t think I’m ready for what I’m about to see.

The screen flickers, static worse than before, warping the video with jumps and glitches. But Caleb is still there, slumped in the cockpit, his flight suit hanging loose around his frame. His skin is grey, lips cracked, and his breaths shallow and uneven.

But his eyes—his eyes are clear.

“Pip-squeak,” he says, his voice rough but steady. He holds the necklace I gave him in his clenched fist, like a lifeline. “I’m sorry I broke my promise.”

My breath catches in my throat.

“I don’t think I am going to make it home to you this time.”

I shake my head before I even realize I’m doing it. No.

“You were always the light in my life, you know that?” His lips twitch, like he wants to smile but doesn’t have the strength. “Always pullin’ me back. Givin’ me direction. Keepin’ me grounded… but I guess even you can’t pull me back from this one.”

The static worsens, swallowing parts of his words. His blinks grow slower, his head dipping forward before he forces it back up.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Our souls will always find each other.”

Tears spill down my cheeks. No, Caleb. No, it’s not okay.

His fingers twitch weakly on the console. He exhales, long and shaky, eyes unfocused now. “My only regret is that I didn’t tell… you… tell…”

The words trail off. His eyelids flutter.

Then—nothing.

The screen freezes on his face, mouth parted, eyes half-lidded, as if he’s already gone.

“No,” I choke out. My fingers twitch toward the screen, as if I could reach through and pull the words out of him, drag him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

The video ends, and a broken sound escapes my throat. I’m crying, sobbing, my whole body shaking as I press my hand to my mouth to stifle it. I can’t stop the flood of grief, horror, and helplessness as the weight of what I just watched crashes over me.

I force my hands to move, though they tremble so badly it takes three tries to clear my search history. I wipe every trace of my presence from Caleb’s system, backtrack through folders, close out every open file. My fingers hesitate over the final window—the last frozen frame of him, pale and barely conscious—but I close that too.

My breath shudders out of me. I stand, but my knees wobble. The weight of what I’ve seen, of what I know now, slams into me with a force that nearly knocks me down. I try to take a step, to force myself to leave, but the floor tilts beneath me, and my legs give out.

I collapse against the wall. My back hits the cool surface, and then I’m sliding down, my hands gripping my arms as though I can hold myself together.

But I can’t.

The grief shatters inside me.

A ragged, keening sound rips from my throat, and then I’m sobbing, curling in on myself in the dark, empty house above the clouds. The weight of it is unbearable—the knowledge that Caleb was dying, alone and hopeless, and he never told me. That I could have gone my whole life not knowing, could have gone on believing his lies about “special training” while he’d been suffocating in the dark.

How could he keep this from me?

I press my forehead against my drawn-up knees, my body wracked with quiet, uncontrollable sobs. Time drags on, the lights outside shifting from twilight to full night, but I don’t move.

It’s only when the grief dulls enough to leave me hollow that I force myself to stand. My body feels too heavy, too weak, but I push myself forward on sheer instinct alone, wandering toward Caleb’s bedroom.

I don’t know why I go there. Maybe because it’s the closest thing I have to him right now.

The door creaks open, and the darkness inside is quiet. Safe. I step in, and the scent of him wraps around me—clean linen, faint hints of engine oil, the sharp note of wind after a storm. It’s enough to bring another wave of tears to my eyes.

I crawl into his side of the bed.

The sheets are cool, but the pillows still smell like him, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like he’s here, like I could roll over and find him beside me.

Did I ever truly know him? I thought we told each other everything back then. That the secrets we keep from each other now—the things we can’t say—were new, a product of the Fleet, of whatever he’s gotten himself wrapped up in.

But maybe Caleb has been keeping secrets from me all along.

The thought twists something deep in my chest, and before I can stop myself, fresh tears spill down my cheeks. I grip his pillow tightly, pressing my face against it, and cry myself into a restless, aching sleep.

The sudden clatter jolts me awake, so violently that for a moment, I lose all sense of where I am. My pulse thunders in my throat as I sit up, heart hammering against my ribs. Caleb shouldn’t be home this early. And thieves? Unlikely. This house is too remote, too secure, perched above the clouds where no one should even know it exists.

I slip out of bed, moving on pure instinct. I know exactly where Caleb hides a spare weapon—mounted beneath the bedframe, just within reach. My fingers brush the cool metal, locate the grip, and pull it free. It’s heavier than I expect, well-maintained. I check the magazine. Fully loaded.

With slow, measured steps, I make my way to the door. Each footfall is deliberate, making no sound as I scan the rooms on my way out. The house is dim, bathed in shifting light, but I stay in the shadows, gun raised, ready for—

Then, I reach the living room, and my breath falters. Caleb’s Fleet uniform is crumpled on the floor, discarded in a manner so uncharacteristic of him it immediately sets me on edge. My gaze flicks to the floor, and my stomach drops—bloodied footprints lead away, dark smudges staining the carpet.

Adrenaline surges, sharp and sudden. I scan the room. The pantry is open—no, it’s been moved, displaced, revealing a sleek, glossy panel I’ve never seen before. It’s ajar.

A hidden room.

I grip the gun tighter and move toward it, every step controlled despite the pounding in my chest.

The second I step inside, I freeze.

The room is dimly lit, the glow of multiple interfaces casting strange shadows across the walls. Machinery hums softly in the background, and the faint smell of antiseptic and burnt metal lingers in the air. It looks just like the hidden room in his office.

Caleb sits on a hospital-like gurney, shirtless, hunched slightly forward. His back is to me. He hasn’t noticed me yet. Blood streaks his skin, sluggish and dark, but that’s not what steals my breath away.

It’s his arm.

Where flesh and bone should be, there is instead a sleek, black metal limb, veins of red current slithering up and down it like living tendrils. Blue sparks flicker from damaged sections, sizzling against his skin.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

He reaches for a device beside him, plugging it into the prosthetic. A screen flickers to life, a digital interface blooming before him. His fingers tap the keys with stiff, pained motions, his jaw clenched.

I don’t even realize my grip on the gun has loosened until it slips from my fingers. It clatters loudly to the floor.

Caleb whirls around.

His eyes widen when he sees me. “Don’t come any closer.”

I don’t listen. Of course, I don’t.

I take quick, determined steps toward him, but my heart beats too loudly, too erratically. Fresh tears prick at the back of my eyes, a tightness in my throat that I can’t swallow down. My trembling hands hover over the cold, sleek surface of the metal arm, still so jarring to see it attached to him. Before I can touch it, though, his free hand catches my wrist, pulling it away gently but firmly.

“Will you ever listen to my orders?” He asks, his voice rough, but there’s something bitter in the words, a trace of half-hearted humour.

I shake my head, blinking back tears.

“I didn’t mean to hide it from you,” he says quietly, and for the first time, there’s something raw in his voice. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. I swallow hard, fighting to steady my breath, to keep my voice even. “Caleb, what happened?”

He leans back, wincing slightly, giving me that tired look I know so well. “Caught some trouble in the Deepspace Tunnel,” he mutters, as if it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience—like he’s not bleeding all over the floor.

I stare at him, at the gruesome, fresh wounds across his chest, stomach, and back. They look like something had scraped him—like bullets had grazed him. His entire body is drenched in blood.

I bite my lip, struggling to suppress the panic rising within me. “I’ll be right back,” I murmur, turning on my heel and racing down the hall to grab his medkits.

I return moments later, antiseptic and bandages already in hand. I set everything down, not stopping to think—just acting, moving quickly, almost mechanically. My hands glide over his body with practiced ease as I try to focus on the task at hand. Focus. I need to focus on fixing him, or I’ll lose control.

But it’s hard not to glance back at that arm—the metal that feels so foreign, yet so undeniably a part of him now. Questions flood my mind. Is this part of the modifications the Fleet officers feared? The anger rises, sharp and cold, but I lock it down.

I apply antiseptic with more force than necessary, flinching at the small hiss of pain that escapes him when I clean a particularly deep wound. He doesn’t seem to care, though. I can’t tell if he’s in shock or if he’s simply learned to endure the pain.

The hum of the computer breaks my concentration. A soft chime signals that the repairs are complete. Caleb unhooks the wires from his arm, flexing the metal digits absently. The whole thing moves fluidly, almost too naturally, as if it were always meant to be there.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.

“No,” he replies, shaking his head lightly, almost trying to convince both of us. “Only when it’s being repaired.”

I don’t reply. I simply watch as his hands trace the prosthetic, running his fingers along the surface. Without thinking, I reach out, tracing my own fingers over the glassy obsidian metal, from his forearm down to his fingers. The smoothness feels too artificial. My touch lingers just a moment longer than it should. When I reach his hand, Caleb’s fingers close around mine.

The sadness in his eyes hits me like a punch to the gut.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, though I already know it’s something bad.

“I can’t feel you anymore, pip-squeak,” he says, and for a split second, I almost think he might cry. His voice cracks, and I see something break inside him. But he shakes his head, brushing it away.

His other hand rises, brushing against mine, as if trying to remind himself what my skin feels like—like he’s lost something he didn’t know he had until it was gone.

“Who did this to you, Caleb?” My voice breaks as the anger finally erupts, a tidal wave I can no longer hold back. I snap, my fists clenching at my sides. “Was it the fucking Fleet? I will kill them all!”

The words spill from me before I can stop them, a raw promise—one I’ll make good on if I ever discover they’re the ones responsible. I want to tear the universe apart for him. I want to hunt down every one of them and make them pay.

Caleb stares at me, his gaze unwavering, though there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something dark, heavy. He doesn’t speak right away, offering no comfort or reassurance, just staring back at me.

I want to scream. I want to punch something. But all I can do is stand there, trembling in the silence between us.

“I should ask why you’re here,” Caleb smirks, his voice rougher than usual, but there’s that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “But I have a feelin’ I’m not going to like the answer.”

The smirk doesn’t even register in my mind. My anger is still raw, an open wound that hasn’t even begun to heal. I stalk toward him—well, limp more like, since my ankle is still messed up—but I push through it. Every step brings a sharp throb of pain, but it’s nothing compared to what he’s enduring.

Without a second thought, I grab Caleb’s gun from where I’d dropped it earlier. It’s cold and heavy in my hand. When I wrap my fingers around it, the weight makes everything feel more real. The sight of it makes my pulse spike, my thoughts narrowing to one thing.

“Point me in the direction of who I have to kill, Caleb.” My voice is colder than I meant, almost detached. But it’s not a threat—it’s a promise. I don’t care who they are or why they did this. Whoever’s responsible is going to pay. They’re going to suffer for what they’ve done to him.

Caleb’s expression shifts just enough for me to see the faintest flicker of concern. He slowly, very slowly, reaches out, placing his good hand on the gun, attempting to ease it out of my grip.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, his voice strained. It’s not a command, not really. It’s a warning, a plea. I hear it in his voice.

His touch is gentle, but there’s no stopping me now.

“I’m not going to let them get away with this,” I snap, my grip tightening, a fierce purpose rising in my chest. Every part of me screams for vengeance, for justice—for him. I can’t just stand here, helpless, not after what I’ve seen. “You think they can hurt you and get away with it? Not on my watch.”

Caleb’s eyes darken, his lips pressed tightly together as his expression hardens. But there’s something in his gaze that stops me cold. It’s not fear—it’s something far deeper.

“Pip-squeak,” he says softly, his words like a balm to the fury burning inside me. But I don’t want to hear it. Not now. “I’ll handle this. I don’t need you to—”

I cut him off, jerking the gun away from him. “You don’t get to handle this alone, Caleb. Not this time.”

His eyes soften, just for a moment, but the weight of the situation presses down on both of us. His metal arm twitches occasionally, the artificial limb adjusting to his body. It’s wrong. It’s unnatural. And I won’t let him face this alone, no matter how hard he tries to push me away.

I take a deep breath, my chest tight. For a moment, we stand there, the air thick with tension. But I don’t lower the gun.

“I’ll make them all regret it, I swear.” I murmur, almost to myself.

Caleb doesn’t speak again. He just watches me, his eyes—haunted, full of secrets, weighed down with sorrow I can’t even begin to comprehend.

I turn on my heel, trying to walk away, to shake off the fire burning in my chest. But before I can take another step, I feel the press of his chest against my back, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, pulling me into him, halting me mid-step.

“Please, don’t do this,” he begs, his voice cracking in a way that tells me he isn’t just asking—he’s pleading. “Don’t put yourself in danger for me. It hurts more than anything else, pip-squeak. Please.”

His breath warms my ear, and his fingers tighten around my skin. The weight of his body against mine, the softness in his tone—it shatters me. I pull away, stumbling back, my chest heaving as I retreat into the living room. The tension in the room is suffocating, and panic rises in my throat. I scream—a raw, desperate sound, a mixture of frustration and fear.

Fear of what’s already been taken from him. Fear that I’ll lose him—piece by piece—until only a hollow shell of the person he once was remains.

And deeper still, there’s a gnawing dread I can’t escape: the fear of what I feel for him. It’s undeniable and impossible to ignore. I’ve tried to bury it, to convince myself it’s nothing, but it’s here now, exposed for what it is.

But Caleb isn’t Caleb anymore. The boy who cared for me, who cooked for me, who made me laugh and wiped away my tears—he’s gone. The man before me is a stranger, wearing his familiar face.

He still has those little quirks—the way his fingers run through his hair when he’s frustrated, the deep laugh that always made me feel at home—but the secrets, the lies, have changed him.

I should be angry with him. I should hate him for disappearing without a word, for returning as a Fleet colonel with that cold, calculating edge I never saw in him before. I should despise him for keeping me in the dark, for becoming someone I no longer fully recognize.

But I don’t.

I want him.

I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. These feelings have always lingered beneath the surface, but now they’re undeniable.

And I’m terrified. Terrified of everything that’s changed, of the darkness I don’t understand, of the man he’s become. I’m scared of how little I know him now.

There’s a part of me that wishes I could shut these feelings off—pretend everything’s fine, pretend I’m fine, pretend I’m not in love with him. But I can’t. No matter how hard I try, the truth remains.

I want to be the one he turns to—the one who understands him better than anyone else, the one who’s always there, the one who offers comfort when the world feels too heavy. I want to be the keeper of his secrets, not the one left in the dark.

But I’m not sure I can be that person—not when the distance between us feels so vast, when the weight of his silence threatens to pull us further apart.

Still, when I look at him—really look at him—my heart stutters. Despite all the secrecy, all the distance, I can still see traces of the boy I once knew. He’s still there, buried beneath the layers of change. And that boy? He needs me.

And, as terrifying as it is, I realize now that maybe, just maybe, I need him too.

I want to feel his arms around me, to feel like I’m his—even if it’s only for a fleeting moment. I’m not sure I’m ready for the consequences. I’m not sure I can bear the weight of the truth that lies between us.

I take a breath, close my eyes for a moment, and then I go. It’s reckless. It’s impulsive. It’s everything I promised myself I wouldn’t do. But when I throw myself into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, I don’t regret it.

“Hold me, Caleb,” I whisper into his skin, my voice trembling. Somehow, that simple phrase—those words—mean more to me than I ever thought they could. “Hold me tight and never let me go, okay?”

For a moment, surprise flickers in his eyes, as if he didn’t expect me to need him this way. But then his arms are around me—strong, steady—pulling me in closer. He presses his cheek to mine, and I shudder at the touch.

His arms tighten around me until I can hardly breathe, but it’s the best feeling I’ve ever known. It’s wrong, but it feels so right. For the first time in so long, I feel like we’re not slipping away from each other.

“I won’t let you go,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I promise, Inara. I won’t ever let you go.”

I cling to him even tighter, the tears still falling freely. I don’t have the words for this. I don’t know what we are, what any of this means, but in his arms, I feel safe.

Chapter Masterlist I have a hate/love relationship with slow burns. I obviously want to get to the sexy parts before I bore everyone to death, but I also want it to feel like we had to work for it. 🤣 Take care of yourselves, everyone! 💞

[katakosmos]

Age gap rosekiller microfic

for @vanitatum-vanitass ; explicit; word count: 1215

When Evan notices the handle on his office door moving, he knows it's Barty before he sees him. He's the only one allowed in now.

It's evening, the office has closed. Barty is sweaty and tired and, during the day, his clothes have lost their neat appearance. He slides into the office with a disgusted face and looks at Evan, communicating a thousand emotions to him in a single glance.

Evan laughs. “What is it?”

Barty shudders. He grabs the folder under his arm and walks from door to the desk in a few strides. As always, he slides it towards Evan, nudging it with one finger, keeping an unnecessary-but-always-delightful eye contact.

Evan takes it, slumping in his chair. “So?”

Barty snorts. “Michelle”. The other secretary. “She hates me, and makes my life hell.”

Evan opens the folder, looks at it quickly and puts it back in his desk drawer. Barty waits, looking bored.

“Michelle?” Evan asks in the end, starting to arrange the pens and papers scattered on his workstation, “It seems impossible to me, she's an angel of a girl.”

Barty rolls his eyes. “With you, maybe. But not with me, because she started to notice.”

Evan tilts his head slightly. “Notice what?”

It's an imperceptible movement, but Barty freezes for a second. He loses some of the indifference on his face, but he quickly regains his composure.

“That you don't fuck her anymore. That you only let me in here.”

It's a little thing Evan does. When he wants to let the young, new assistants know that he wants them—and the old ones that will soon be fired—he elevates them in position. From simple assistants to personal assistants. Barty noticed, he's a smart guy.

Evan granted him that privilege, but…

Barty rests his hands on the desk and leans forward slightly, looking down at Evan.

“She asked me if I like taking it, bent over the desk. What should I tell her?”

But Evan still hasn't fucked him.

Not because he doesn't like Barty. God, no. Evan is now past that denial phase. He probably likes cock. He sure likes Barty's.

The truth is, he's discovered, it turns him on much more to provoke Barty. Prolong the flirting. Seeing him blush, vibrate with anger, find the most absurd ways to bend over, show his ass, touch Evan, whisper in his ear. He never wants it to end.

Barty raises an eyebrow, daring him to answer.

Evan can only smile. “I have no idea. I shouldn't even be aware of the arguments between my employees.”

“You know,” Barty ignores him, “I'm almost offended that she assumed you weren't the one taking it.”

Evan keeps the eye contact for a few more seconds, just long enough to take a deep breath. But he's forced to give up.

He licks his lips. “I remember you said something about choking on it…”

He sees Barty's moment of realization in his eyes: they light up. In the end, even though he promised himself he wouldn't, he let him win.

Barty pushes back, getting back to his feet. He looks at the time—it's very late, they should have been home for a while—and then at the small security camera on the corner between the wall and the ceiling. It's programmed to turn on at closing time, and it's filming them.

Evan observes Barty with curiosity: what is he going to do?

He runs a hand through his hair and goes back to the desk.

“Oops” he says, dropping the empty coffee cup in front of him to the floor.

Evan raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, look! It fell,” Barty continues, kicking it under the desk, “I should really pick it up.”

Confused, Evan is about to laugh in his face, but suddenly Barty kneels down and slides under the table, disappearing from his sight.

A few seconds later Evan feels hands unzipping his pants.

He opens his eyes wide. “What-”

“I swear, I can't find it… Get your ass up for a second.”

Evan obeys, his ears ringing. Barty, hastily, grabs his pants and pulls them down along with his underwear, just enough for his cock to be free.

Evan groans, embarrassed, hiding his face in his hands while Barty waits with watchful eyes for him to get fully hard. Then he wastes no time, immediately wrapping a hand around Evan's cock and starts stroking it.

“Found it” he says.

Evan leans back, peering underneath him. Barty is kneeling between his legs, distracted, grabbing the cup with his free hand. He raises his gaze and meets Evan's with a smile, continuing to jerk him off listlessly, as if that were normal for him.

“Ready?” he then asks Evan.

He doesn't give him time to respond, he licks his lips and takes Evan into his mouth.

It's a messy blowjob. For Evan. Not for Barty, who knows exactly what he's doing. He pushes his cock down his throat, deeper and deeper, stopping every time he gags and then starting again. His mouth is warm, he hollows his cheeks, and then also tight. He caresses Evan's cock with his tongue and his piercing touches all the places he likes best.

Evan really has to hold back so he doesn't come. He has a hand in Barty's hair and moves his head, even though Barty's in control.

“Ba–”

He throws his head back, stifling a moan, when suddenly he hears a noise coming from outside his office.

His gaze snaps to the door, attentive.

“What was that?” he asks, loosening his grip on Barty's hair.

He lets go of Evan's cock with a pop.

“I don't care,” he says, digging his nails into Evan's thighs, “Look at me.”

In the next thirty seconds—in which Barty jerks Evan's cock one last time, brings it back to his lips, and takes it into his mouth while looking at Evan—he comes.

Completely slumped in the chair and moaning without restraint. His cum fills Barty's mouth, who waits for his orgasm to end before pulling away.

“Oh.”

His heart beats so fast that Evan fears it might explode. As the post-orgasm confusion leaves him, making him only slightly dizzy, Barty stands up, clutching the cup.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Stunning, oh, truly stunning. All the anger and desire, finally satisfied, softened his face. His tired eyes are clouded with fog, but, together with his flushed cheeks and swollen lips, they give him a jaunty look.

The only thing Evan can say, when faced with him, is: “I'm thirsty.”

Barty staggers over to the desk with a crooked smile, and puts the cup down. “I'm such a good assistant, I always think of your needs. You can drink this.”

Evan doesn't need to look to know what he'll find inside the cup. His breath catches in his throat.

Barty chuckles, fixing his hair as he approaches the door. Before leaving, he turns around. There's a wet stain on his pants.

Evan grips the chair to keep from jumping up and running towards him.

He smiles. “Do you need anything else?”

Evan shakes his head.

“Good,” Barty replies, satisfied, “Remember to pay me overtime.”

Then he leaves, like every day, while Evan puts himself back in his pants.

[riding-the-sunset-bird]

Our Life Modding Guide

For anyone wanting to know how to either look into the game files themselves or write in their own scenes, here it is!

(Real quick, here's a link to GB Patch's opinion on modding - which is that we're free to do so - just in case anyone may be concerned about that; here's another as well.)

Preparation

I'm going to say right up front that I have the itch.io Windows version of Our Life, so your methods may vary on anything else. The Steam version is the exact same to my knowledge, however, so this should work exactly the same for it (I've had people who use the Steam version test mine for me).

While this may go without saying, definitely back up your game before anything else, both as a precaution and also to keep the original around (whether for comparison's sake, you might want to still play the original, or in case something goes wrong and you need to reinsert any of the original files). I usually keep the modded version's folder somewhere away from the original, but that's just me. You can also just make sure to mark it.

Unpacking Our Life's Files

One peek into the "game" folder of Our Life will reveal... well, not much. Some icon files, a couple images, two folders for your save files and cache, and little else. This is because everything else is packed into the .rpa files and we need to open them up. Think of it like a safe that we need to unlock, or luggage that we need to unzip.

Depending on how many DLCs you have (the only one I don't have is Voiced Names, which would be dlc_voiced_names.rpa), the amount of .rpa files will be any/all of these:

There are a few different ways to unpack these and I'll be listing multiple on the off chance that the others don't work (ordered by ease of use/overall usefulness).

RPA Extract (by iwanplays)

This is the easiest method out of all and the first I recommend you try. You can find it here.

It's a single .exe file and all you have to do is drop it into the "game" folder of Our Life, select all of the .rpa files, and drag them onto the .exe.

This will open a Command Prompt that will extract all of the files for you, and you can delete the rpaExtract.exe after it's done. Simple as that.

RPA Explorer (by UniverseDevel)

This one is useful if you only want to look at the files and not extract/edit them, though it can do that too. You can find it here. The disadvantage from RPA Extract is that you'll have to extract the .rpa files one at a time instead of all at once.

After downloading, open the program and click on "Load File" in the upper-left.

Locate your .rpa files and open one. You'll see folders and files pop up, showing you all the files inside of the .rpa file you chose. You're free to look at any of them as you please, but if you want to extract them, check the box next to the "/" folder to select everything and then click "Export checked" in the upper-left.

Locate the "game" folder in the Our Life folder that you want to mod, click on it, then click "OK".

A progress bar will appear in the lower-right and the files will be extracted. Repeat this process for the remaining .rpa files.

rpaextract (by Kaskadee)

This method is a little more complicated and therefore requires some more steps. You can find it here (you can simply download the portable version).

Rather than in the case of RPA Extract, you'll want to take the .rpa files out of Our Life's game folder and put them in the folder of whichever you downloaded. This will just make it easier in the long run.

Once everything is moved, right-click on the address above for the folder, click "Edit Address," and type "cmd" at the beginning before tapping Enter.

A Command Prompt will open with the name of the folder. You'll have to extract your .rpa files one at a time here.

You'll then type out (without the brackets):

rpaextract -x -f [filename].rpa -o game

The .rpa files will be extracted (as shown above, it will give you a loading bar to show progress then pop up the address for you to type something out again when it's done) and appear in a folder titled "game." You can then copy that folder and paste it over Our Life's game folder, combining the contents of both together.

Testing

Now that you have your files extracted, you can delete the .rpa files that you had extracted from because we don't need them anymore. The "game" folder of Our Life should look something like this:

You should also still be able to open the .exe of Our Life and load to the main menu without experiencing any error messages. Tapping on "DLC Info" in the upper-left of the main menu should also still have all the DLCs you had listed as "Installed."

If all that checks out, you're good to continue!

Setting Up Your Text Editor

You'll need a text editor for this and, for size's sake, I'm going to recommend Notepad++, which you can find here. You can just download the portable version but it doesn't really matter.

Once it's been opened, we're going to do a few steps to make it recognize Our Life's script (.rpy) files (the ones you'll be tampering with if you want to add scenes/change dialog/etc.).

Go into the "Settings" tab at the top, then click "Style Configurator".

2. Scroll through the "Language" section until you find "Python". Click on that.

3. Under "User ext. :" at the bottom, type "rpy" without quotations.

4. Hit "Save & Close".

5. Go to "Settings" again, then click "Preferences".

6. Find "Language" on the left of the window that pops up and click on that.

7. Look for "Tab Settings" on the right. It should be set to "Default", the "Tab size" should be "4", and you should checkmark the "Replace by space" box. You can then hit "Close".

(an important part of the code is indenting and this just streamlines it so that when you push "Tab" it will insert four spaces instead)

8. Go back to the Our Life "game" folder, then find an .rpy file (any will do), right-click it, then hit "Open with…"

9. Check the "Always use this app to open .rpy files" box.

10. Click on "Notepad++". If it's not there right away, hit "More apps", and if it's still not there then scroll all the way down and hit "Look for another app on this PC" and find+confirm the Notepad++.exe.

Now Notepad++ will automatically open any .rpy file that you double-click on and will treat them appropriately.

And now you're ready to go! The .rpy files are actually Our Life's script files, which can be freely opened in Notepad++ (or another text editor) to edit the game's scenes or add your own.

Happy modding!

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Loyalty Rewards Program

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 9204 Tags: Human AU, Mechanic Hob, Rich Guy Dream, top Hob, bottom Dream, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel, class dynamics, as a kink perhaps, Dream of the Endless is intense and unhinged, Hob matches his freak, Bossy Dream, Agreeable Hob, Service Top Hob Gadling, Enthusiatic Bottom Dream, Dream is Not Quiet in bed, there is a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet at one point, blatant disregard for typical human refractory periods, rimming, anal sex, felching-adjacent, inconsequential ingestion of lube, effusive endearments, dirty talk, overstimulation, anal fingering, help my hookup is growing feelings

Notes: Third in the Turbo Lover series (Customer Service and Every Nerve Alive on Tumblr, if AO3 is down). This one happened because Dream was insistent on getting properly fucked in the garage and I refuse to be the author who uses engine grease or motor oil for lube. This fills the free space (B2) on my @dreamlingbingo card, and is also the longest Sandman fic I've written to date.

Summary: Dream comes back to Matthew's Motor Repairs the next day and Hob gives him everything he asks for

On AO3 Hob re-locks the door as soon as he's ducked inside the shop the next morning; he's not opening for people today.

He has other obligations, after all.

He first makes a thorough job of cleaning and sweeping the floor around the Porsche. Whatever the plan today entails, he doesn't want to wind up kneeling on a bit of gravel or taking a stray hex nut to the arse cheek while he's fucking his rich admirer. Granted he may need to do a quick spot-sweep when Dream shows up—if Dream shows up—since he'll be working on the car in the meantime, but doing it now will make that faster.

…Of course Dream's going to show up, Hob's not worried. Guy was thirsty as fuck yesterday, he'll be back. He's got a car to pick up, after all, and speaking of, Hob had best make sure it's ready.

He strips out of his clothes and dons his coveralls nude, leaves them unzipped to the waist, not even bothering to keep his underwear today. It's cooler than yesterday but still plenty warm, and this will make things faster once Dream shows up. He's pretty sure Dream will appreciate the aesthetic, also.

Hob whistles to himself working under Dream's Porsche, finishing up the clutch replacement that he hadn't quite been able to focus on after Dream left yesterday. It's quick work to wrap it up and he makes sure to let grease smears accumulate on his arms and maybe he deliberately puts a couple of artistically-placed smudges on his chest, for fun.

With the clutch done, he moves on to changing the oil, flushing and refilling the other fluids, and giving the car a general tuneup. The Porsche is a beautiful machine and Hob's thrilled to have the chance to work on her.

He's thrilled to have the chance to work on her owner, too.

When the shop bell rings, Hob's heart leaps. He's just got the car all closed up and down from the ramps and done another quick sweep so assuming that's Dream, and it should be, his timing is perfect. He winds his way to the front, zipping up his coveralls just in case and opening the door.

Dream is there on the other side, as breathtakingly gorgeous as Hob remembers. "Am I the 'special circumstances'?" he asks, coy and smouldering as he taps the handwritten sign Hob had pasted in the window—Closed for walk-ins due to special circumstances; ring if you have an appointment.

"The specialist of circumstances," Hob agrees, effervescent joy and lust bubbling up inside him, spilling into his smile. "Closed up so I'm all yours. Entirely at your service."

"Wonderful," Dream purrs, stepping through the door. "For I am desperately in need of the services of a good mechanic."

Hob pulls the door closed after him, ensures it's latched in and that it's still locked, then turns with a grin. "You've come to the right place then, love. I'm at your disposal, one hundred percent, and I will personally see to your complete satisfaction. Guaranteed." He winks.

Dream steps in closer, tilts his head just enough to gaze up heatedly from beneath his lashes, toys with the tab of the zipper at Hob's collarbone. "Do you offer such comprehensive personal service to all your customers?" He's slowly drawing the zip down as he speaks.

Hob's heartrate picks up and his breath goes a bit short. "Oh no, this comes special with our uh, our loyalty rewards program," he manages, with his best charm-the-customer smile. The dainty fingertips unzipping his coveralls are very distracting.

Dream stops once he's exposed Hob's chest hair, rakes his nails through it lightly, skirting the grease smeared above it. "But this is the first time I have brought my patronage to your shop," he counters, with the prettiest little pout.

Hob shakes his head. "See I count twice; you tried out my services yesterday and found them satisfactory enough to come back today. And I'm very sure, if I meet your exacting standards, I can earn your repeat business. So I'll opt you in, because I have that much confidence in the quality of my work."

He's mixing his references clumsily, the car repairs and the sex getting muddled together, but Dream is smiling all the same. "Let us hope your confidence is not misplaced, then," he says, voice dipping lower in that way that makes Hob's stomach tighten delightfully. "I should hate to be granted such privilege unduly."

With that, Dream draws the zipper down more, then turns and steps away, casting a come-hither glance over his shoulder as he sashays toward the door into the garage. Hob, unzipped to the waist and hard already, is hot to follow, but first—

He tears the sign from the window, hangs the normal 'Closed' sign in its place, double-checks the lock and throws the deadbolt for good measure. He rounds the reception desk and logs into the phone system, makes sure the auto-answer is set to the 'closed unexpectedly' option, and sets the ringer to after-hours so it'll go straight to messages instead of ringing through. Not that he'd be stopping in the middle of whatever they're about to be doing to answer the phone, but this way they're guaranteed no distractions, no interruptions. Then he hurries after Dream.

Dream is completely naked when he gets back to the garage, leaning pale and pretty and barefoot against the side of his Porsche with his arms loosely folded and his cock hanging ready, half-hard, beautiful.

"Well hello, gorgeous," Hob says, unabashedly enthusiastic as he approaches, wondering if he's meant to just dive in or wait for a cue, if he's allowed to pull Dream into his arms and start with a kiss. His gaze falls to the delicate arches of Dream's feet, the soft pale curves of his toes (with black-painted nails!), and he's really glad he swept up first.

"You occupy my thoughts incessantly, Hob Gadling," Dream says, pushing off the car and stepping close to Hob again, hands reaching to toy with the open edges of his coveralls.

"Do I, now?" Hob decides on a caution-to-the-wind approach and snakes an arm around Dream's waist, raises a dirt-stained thumb to brush over his cheek. Dream hadn't hesitated yesterday to say what he did and didn't want; Hob will trust him to do the same today. "They're good thoughts, I hope?"

"Very," Dream breathes, gripping the coveralls, tugging marginally; his eyes are dark, his pale cheeks faintly flushed with excitement, his pretty pink lips slightly parted, and Hob sees no reason to resist the temptation presented.

The noise Dream makes when Hob kisses him is soft, eager, encouraging, and Hob presses closer, lets both hands play over Dream's bare skin, up and down his spine. Dream is kissing back, heated and insistent; he slips both hands inside Hob's coveralls, around his waist and down to grasp his arse cheeks, squeeze appreciatively, pull him closer.

Hob breaks away with a gasp, delighted and impossibly turned on; Dream squeezes again, nips at the scruff on his chin. "You are not wearing any underwear today, Hob," he murmurs, in a tone of pleased discovery, and Hob can't help grinning.

"Thought you might appreciate it," he says, breathless, hands stroking up and down Dream's biceps, leaving faint smudges behind. "Makes things a bit faster, easier—"

"And are you easy, Hob Gadling?"

"Only for you," he answers, which is truer than it would have been two weeks ago. "God, you smell good today—" He really does, floral-herbal freshness wafting from his hair, faint notes of soap and a light cologne lingering on his skin; Hob lets instinct shape his words. "So clean and pretty, too; come down to the garage to get properly dirty, have we?"

The way Dream shivers against him tells him that was indeed the right thing to say.

"Perhaps," Dream replies, and squeezes Hob's arse again. "I very much appreciate your wardrobe choices, in that regard." He brings his hands around front, one dipping to cup Hob's dick while the other draws the zipper all the way down underneath.

"Thought you might," Hob manages, while Dream's slender fingertips touch his balls, stroke with gentle pressure, and then Dream is moving, grasping at the shoulders of Hob's coveralls and pushing them off.

"I would feel you, bare, against me," is what he says, which sounds like a fine idea to Hob. He struggles briefly with the rolled-up sleeves but as soon as his arms are free Dream is in them, pressing up against him, kissing him fiercely and completely derailing any attempt at getting the coveralls all the way off.

Fuck it, Hob decides, letting them just fall around his legs as he wraps Dream close and kisses him back, hungry and insistent to match Dream's fervor. He backs him up a step, two, until Dream's narrow arse hits the Porsche again and he squirms prettily, his cock nudging up against Hob's as they break the kiss, panting.

"Over the bonnet then, love?"

Dream shakes his head, an effortlessly imperious little gesture. "I wish to ride you, first." He gestures to the creeper. "Please."

Clearly, clearly Dream's got some very specific fantasies about cars and mechanics and Hob is delighted that he gets to help make them happen. "Absolutely," he grins, shuffling down into position on the board.

Dream grabs a condom and a bottle of lube from where he'd stashed them between the windscreen and the bonnet and drops next to Hob. Which is just as well since Hob's supplies are with his clothes in the locker on the other side of the garage; he leans back on his elbows as Dream tears open the condom and rolls it onto him.

"You've got such pretty hands," he breathes, shivering at the glide of Dream's touch along his shaft, and doesn't miss the breath Dream sucks in at the compliment. "Gonna show me how you use those fingers to open yourself up? Or do I get to do that for you, hm?"

"Neither," Dream answers, rising and turning to lean over the side of the bonnet, which confuses Hob for half a second until he speaks again.

"Spread me open," he directs, and Hob is only to happy to sit up and comply, to see the greasy smudge of his fingerprints smeared on Dream's lily-white arse—

Dream is wearing a plug.

Hob's libido, already cranked to eleven, ratchets up another notch. "Oh, fuck," he breathes reverently, wide-eyed. Dream had put that in at home, had come here sitting on it, walking with it inside him, just to be ready for Hob's cock?

Christ, but that's hot.

He watches raptly as Dream's slender fingers grip the wide base and start pulling; he takes his time and Hob gets to just hold him open and watch as Dream's hole slowly stretches around the flare of the thing, bigger and bigger until it finally passes the widest point and slides the rest of the way free, and the hungry little sound of relief Dream makes as it comes out makes Hob's dick ache.

He desperately wants to slip his tongue in there, wriggle it into the shrinking gape and let Dream's body close to grip snugly around him, but Dream is a man on a mission, and that mission is getting Hob's prick inside him. He straightens up, turns and straddles Hob, fingertips to Hob's chest pressing him down as Dream squats over his lap. He drops the plug aside, reaches behind to take Hob's slicked-up rubber-wrapped cock and guide it into his body as he comes down, and the sound he makes plus the tight warm sheath of his arse have Hob absolutely riveted.

Dream lifts himself, thighs straining and hand firmly on Hob's chest now, fucks himself up and down on Hob's prick while hovering over it, letting out the most decadent moans each time he sinks onto it. He'd said he wanted to ride Hob but he's only made it as far as squatting, like he's so desperate for Hob's cock he can't even wait to get all the way into proper position for it and Hob (and his dick) definitely feel some kind of way about it. Dream's own prick bobs stiff and eager in front of him, a little drop of fluid glistening at the tip already, and Hob almost wishes he was enough of a contortionist to get it in his mouth. Later, perhaps. Right now he's got this gorgeous creature pistoning eagerly on his cock and well on his way to losing his mind, from the sound of it.

Hob spreads both hands over the tops of Dream's thighs, feeling how they tremble with exertion, and finally draws them down, forward, coaxing Dream out of his squat and into a proper kneeling position. He shifts his grip to Dream's hips and pulls him onto his cock at the same time, all the way down until he's buried deep up inside and Dream is panting the breathiest little 'yes, yes, yes's as he bottoms out, eyes wide and glazed. His hand is still planted on Hob's chest and Hob takes it up carefully, draws it to his mouth and kisses Dream's fingertips; Dream whines, gaze sharpening and honing in on Hob's actions. Hob's lips brush the pads of those fingers as he speaks.

"Did you still want to ride me, darling? Or should I hold you still and start fucking up into that pretty little hole?"

Dream shivers, makes another needy little noise and draws himself up on Hob's cock, sinks back down, does it again, and again, faster, harder, until he's panting breathless moans on every pass. His hands are planted on Hob's chest, up near his shoulders next to the grease smeared beneath his collarbone, and Hob rests his hands at Dream's hips, ready to take up the slack if he's needed.

Dream rides like a pro, to be honest, finding his rhythm and moving steadily in pursuit of his pleasure. His arse is snug and hot and slick, his voice like a song as he glides so easily up and down on Hob's prick; he feels amazing, and Hob has to remind himself to breathe as it goes on and on, to keep a rein on his own pleasure until Dream's gotten everything he needs.

At last Dream's pace begins to falter, his panting moans stuttering into broken little whimpers as he flags in his feverish bouncing. "Hob," he whines, arse wriggling lower, his fingers clutching at Hob's chest hair. "You feel. So good, inside me—"

"Do I?" Hob breathes, fingertips brushing over Dream's flanks, and it's weak, so weak as far as dirty talk goes but he can't help it. He's enamoured, struck senseless by how into this Dream is, and words are failing him.

"Yes—" Dream squirms forward and back, circles his hips beneath Hob's attentive grease-stained hands, moans prettily. "Hob, please—"

He doesn't even have to specify, it's clear enough what he's after now, and Hob moves to grip him properly, to lift him just slightly. He clutches tight, fingertips digging in to what little meat there is on Dream's arse, plants his boots on the concrete floor and thrusts up into him.

Dream cries out, clenches his fists on Hob's shoulders and throws his head back, chest heaving. Hob draws out and thrusts again, full force, and again, and Dream shudders, gasping, delighted. "Hob—yes—yes—" He squeezes tight around Hob's prick and groans, drops his head to meet Hob's gaze with fever-bright eyes. "Fuck me—I want—"

"Tell me," Hob breathes, mesmerized, shifting his feet for better leverage and thrusting into him again, and Dream warbles beautifully.

"Faster. Deeper—as hard and as deep as you can, Hob—!"

"'Course, love," Hob gasps, hips moving to comply with barely a thought, and Dream's voice rises into a long keening wail as Hob gives him precisely what he's asked for.

"Yes—yes—yes—!" He tosses his head back again, the arch of his throat working beautifully as he chokes out 'yes' after 'yes', arms stiff and trembling, hands still braced tight on Hob's shoulders.

Hob grunts with exertion, pounding up into Dream with everything he's got, thighs damp and sticking slightly where they press against Dream's. He's transfixed by the rapture in Dream's face, the sheen of sweat on his neck and chest, the stream of noises coming out of his pretty mouth; he looks and sounds like having Hob's cock in him is the best thing ever, like it's everything he wanted, and Hob is fast falling in love with how expressive he is about sex.

Dangerous thoughts, those; he puts them far away, concentrates on pumping hard and fast and deep up into Dream's lovely arse to make him come. He's careful still not to come himself; Dream has clearly got plans and it's his job to stay hard as long as Dream needs his cock.

"Hob—Hob—ahh, don't stop, Hob—!"

Hob squeezes Dream's arse, spreading his cheeks just a tiny bit more, and shifts the tempo down slightly, fucks up into him long and smooth, deep, steady. Dream wails, lost in the pleasure of it, and droops suddenly to lay over Hob's chest, a graceful fall into an open kiss interspersed with Dream's panting and whimpering. Hob shifts his hips to accommodate the changed angle and Dream sobs into his mouth, needy, desperate. His prick is nestled against Hob's belly, wet at the tip, hot and hard and Dream is moving helplessly as Hob fucks him, rutting through the hair on Hob's stomach in little jerks. He's tense in Hob's arms, trembling, skin damp with sweat all over and Hob thinks he could do this forever if he had to, fucking this gorgeous creature curled atop him but he doesn't have to, he knows, he can tell, Dream is nearly there—

Dream goes rigid abruptly, breath choking in his throat as his mouth opens wider, still meshed to Hob's. A high thin sound trickles out of his throat and Hob laps it up, fucks into him once, twice, again, and then Dream convulses with a wail, wet warmth blooming on Hob's belly. He buries himself as deep into Dream as he can and holds it there, flexes against the rhythmic clutching of Dream's arse around him, kisses Dream through the tremors and pulses of orgasm until he goes limp.

He spends a moment petting up and down Dream's spine then while Dream lies boneless atop him, catching his breath. He's still warm and tight around Hob's dick, perfect and tempting and—

And heavier than he looks, honestly; Hob shifts to take him by the shoulders, lifts him off his chest just a bit. Dream takes the cue, raises himself somewhat, blinks the haze from his eyes as he meets Hob's. The smile on his lips quickly sharpens to something simmering with heat, but Hob saw. He saw that glimpse of softness, the glow of bliss on Dream's face and he feels the way his heart trips, knows he's losing his battle.

There's a faint smudge of grease on Dream's forehead that probably came from Hob's collarbone and his dick twitches to see it. Dream shivers and squeezes around him and Hob sighs, a full and happy sound.

"You're pretty when you come," he says, gathering his wits about him again. He smears his hand through the mess on his stomach, picks up a little grease from just beside it, reaches to cradle Dream's face. "So, so pretty." He strokes his fingers back through Dream's hair, leaving a faint black smudge and sticky colorless smears on his cheekbone and more than a trace of filth in his hair.

"Only when I come?" It's a tease, accompanied by a gentle squeeze around him, and Hob shivers.

"'Course not," he murmurs, flexing his dick in response, delighted by the shiver that runs through Dream in turn. "You're pretty when you're bouncing on my cock, too. And when you tell me what you want me to do to you. And yesterday." He flexes again, warming to the topic. "You looked so pretty yesterday, with grease smeared on your face and my prick in your mouth."

Dream makes a pleased sound, squeezes his arse around Hob again, and Hob is more than ready to carry on, if Dream is. He strokes his thumb over the tacky mess on Dream's cheek. "Can I dirty you up some more, beautiful? Make you come for me again?"

"I should be very disappointed if you did not, Hob Gadling," Dream purrs, and there's that imperious little smirk again, the one Hob is already too attached to.

He'll give this man whatever he wants, and love every second of it.

"What next, then, sweetheart?" He's slowly pulsing up into Dream now in unhurried rhythm, too leisurely to be called fucking but ready to pick up the pace in a heartbeat. "Keep going like this?" The creeper is getting a bit uncomfortable, truth be told, and he wouldn't mind getting up off the floor but if Dream's not done yet he'll tough it out.

"No." Thankfully Dream sits all the way up, wriggles deliciously on Hob's cock, bottomed out and heavy-eyed with the pleasure of having it so deep inside him. "Next, I would have you—ahh—" He squirms, back arching, mouth falling open as Hob gives in to the temptation of dragging the rough grease-stained pad of his thumb over one pristine petal pink nipple. "Bend—bend me over the bonnet. Fuck me until I scream—Hob—!" He's panting as Hob caresses the tender little bud of flesh, writhing as if he could take Hob any deeper.

Hob shivers. "Fuck. Alright. As you wish, you precious beautiful man—" He lifts Dream's hips, lifts Dream off his cock as he sits up, then wraps one arm under Dream's narrow arse and heaves them both up with a grunt of exertion, his other hand braced on the car for support. It's awkward as fuck with his coveralls still wadded about his ankles and he can tell already his back and thighs are going to hate him for it tomorrow, but it's entirely worth it for the arousal that flares in Dream's widened eyes, the way he clings and wraps his legs around Hob, the way he surges in to kiss Hob again.

Hob shuffles round the front of the car using his one hand for guidance while Dream devours his mouth, and carefully lowers Dream onto the bonnet. He knows it's not the position Dream was looking for but he can't help slipping his cock back into him like this, when Dream is still wrapped around him and ripe for the plowing.

Dream breaks the kiss with a reedy little whining noise as Hob nudges inside him and sinks deep; he claws at Hob's shoulders and draws his legs back, open and practically begging and alright, okay, Hob can give him a good minute like this first, fucks into him in soft smooth rhythm. Dream's pretty pink cock is stiffening up again already, laying thick and half-filled against his belly and jolting with every thrust; he's panting open-mouthed, the sweetest little sounds falling out of him each time Hob pushes in.

"You're gorgeous like this too," Hob gets out, needing the talk to divide his focus, to keep himself going without risk of finishing. "So eager, so open, so fuckable—" Dream shudders, biting off a deep whine at the word, leaned back and still hanging onto Hob's shoulders for support, feet braced on his hips, and Hob zeroes in on his advantage. "Has no one ever called you that before, sweetheart? Fuckable?"

"None I would care to hear it from," Dream moans, pulling himself up closer, disrupting Hob's rhythm. "But. From your lips. It sounds like a benediction—" He kisses Hob, tongue plunging into his mouth, arms wrapping tight behind Hob's neck. His legs shift also, wrapping back around Hob's waist and he pulls himself close, up off the car as Hob gets his arms quickly underneath to support him.

"Give a bloke an ego, talking like that," he gasps, when Dream lets him up for air.

"It's well-deserved," Dream counters, nipping at his lower lip and shifting his weight so that Hob steps back to keep them balanced. "You are exquisite, and talented with your dick, and I wish to be so deeply and thoroughly fucked over my car that I will still feel you inside me tomorrow." He plunges his tongue back into Hob's mouth and unlocks his legs from around him, lets Hob set him back on his feet.

"Do you need a refresh on your lube first?" Hob gasps, mindful of what they've already done and what Dream still wants from him and the serviceable life of water-based lube.

Dream pauses, considering. "Perhaps," he says, with the restlessness of someone eager to get back into action but recognizing the wisdom of the question regardless.

Hob leans around him and reaches, snags the lube off the bonnet. "Let me slick you up a bit more just to be safe." He glances at his hands, perpetually stained and still dirty enough to leave smudges on Dream's skin. "Or you can, since your hands are cleaner?"

"Yes," Dream agrees, taking the bottle and squirting some out. He reaches behind himself and Hob gets to watch his face flicker through half a dozen little expressions; he's clearly moving for function over pleasure but there's enjoyment to be had all the same, from the look of it.

"There." Dream straightens as he finishes, eyes Hob with new heat in his gaze. "Are you clean."

"What?"

Dream narrows his eyes, clearly conveying both horniness and impatience in equal measure. "I am clean; I test regularly. I want your come inside me. Are. You. Clean."

Hob's libido flares, wildly. "Yes. Fuck. Yes, okay." Caution to the wind, and all that.

Dream reaches down and removes Hob's condom, drops it aside and picks up the lube again. He slicks up Hob's cock, kisses him fiercely while doing so, then turns and drapes himself over the bonnet of his Porsche and lifts up on his toes, arse presented. "Fuck me," he demands over his shoulder, breathless and eager like he hadn't just come bouncing on Hob's cock not ten minutes ago. Insatiable. "Hold me down with your work-dirtied hands and fuck me—"

Hob doesn't need to be told twice. He lines up and pushes in, bare slick and easy, all the way to the hilt. Dream makes the most appreciative and desperate little moan, wriggling backwards; Hob grabs his hip with one grease-stained hand, plants his other in the middle of Dream's narrow back and fucks.

Dream cries out, high gasping breaths punched from his lungs with every thrust and Hob just revels in it, moving in sure and steady rhythm. It's easy, so easy, smooth and slick and so good, and Dream's enthusiastic response is—it's heady, to have someone react to him this way, to want him this much, and he'll do everything he can to give Dream what he wants, to make it worth it. It's no hardship, far from it.

"Your arse is so hot," Hob pants, "so tight, absolutely perfect. Can't believe you wore that glass plug here so you'd be ready to get plowed." He grinds his hips deep in emphasis, draws out a little and relishes the way Dream whimpers when he slams back in. "Sweet of you, though. Did it turn you on, sitting on it in the cab? Feeling it move inside you when you walked? Were you horny and eager the whole way here, darling, stuffed full with your toy and imagining my prick in its place?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Dream cries, as much an answer as it is interjection. He's thrusting backward as best he can in Hob's hold, eager and desperate, and Hob keeps fucking, keeps talking.

"I loved watching you take it out. Your beautiful hole stretching bigger and bigger around it, how open you were after. Wanted to stick my tongue in there, sweetheart, wanted to eat you out, make you squirm."

Dream is gasping, wailing, trembling where Hob pins him to the car, head tossing, breath heaving under Hob's steady hand. His cock is surely leaking a mess all over the bonnet; Hob'll have to clean it for him again when they're done.

"You've got the prettiest little hole I've ever seen," Hob continues, steady and unflagging in his rhythm. He leans back, drags both hands to Dream's arse cheeks and squeezes, spreads them so he can easily see himself sinking in, his naked prick pushing and pulling at the puffy pink rim of Dream's hole again and again. He slows, savoring the sight, and Dream whines, clenches around him as he presses back in. "Absolutely beautiful," Hob breathes, thumb moving to stroke over the delicate skin stretched tight around the girth of his prick. "Exquisite. I'm so lucky I get to ravish it."

He knows on one hand he sounds ridiculous as he picks up the pace again, but on the other it's doing the trick on both counts—distracting him from his own pleasure to draw it out, and driving Dream higher at the same time.

And Dream is absolutely being driven to the heights of pleasured madness, that much is clear. He's writhing on the bonnet under Hob's steady pounding, fingers clutching futilely at the glossy surface, skin flushed and sweat-damp and sticking to the car, ribs heaving. And the sounds coming out of his mouth? Good god, he's noisy, so fucking loud and it's not like Hob doesn't love it, not like there's anyone around to hear or any other reason to hold back. It does great things for his ego, the way Dream's wailing like he's never been railed this good in his life, but Hob's got an idea and his instincts say it's spot-on, so he goes for it.

He claps his hand—still grimy from the tune-up, still a little tacky with Dream's come—he claps it gently over Dream's mouth, stifling his volume, and Dream jolts, then goes wild. His head goes all the way back, giving Hob easier coverage; his breath comes short and sharp through his nose, faster and faster in time with his cries that go higher and shriller, muffled by Hob's not-exactly-clean hand. His body has gone tense, trembling, hips thrusting back against Hob's with mounting desperation and god, but Hob is in love. "That's it, sweetheart, come for me again," he murmurs breathlessly, bending close to Dream's ear and the dried mess on his cheek and squeezing his hip, flexing the hand that covers his mouth. "Take your fill of my cock, shoot your load all over your car—I'll clean it again for you, don't worry—"

Dream stills abruptly, shaking, voice a strangled muffled shriek as he comes; Hob thrusts deep into his pulsing clenching arse and holds, intending to let Dream ride out his orgasm. But Dream wriggles, wrenches his head free of Hob's hand, gasping.

"Move—don't stop—"

So Hob moves.

He straightens up and sets both hands back on Dream's hips, fucks eagerly into him, quickly re-establishing his rhythm and speeding up. "Good?" he grunts, sweat dripping down his temple, and Dream warbles out an affirmative.

"Harder—Hob—use me, claim me, fill me—!" His voice shakes; his hands are spasming against the bonnet, his arms trembling, and his arse is so tight and slick and hot, clenches so beautifully around him, Hob isn't going to last but another moment.

"Use your pretty little hole for my own pleasure?" he gets out, pounding into it now with everything he's got, spiraling up to the horizon, and Dream sobs.

"Yes, Hob, yes—!"

"Claim it for myself?" Hob gasps, grinding deep, slamming into him again and again. "Fill you up with my come—ahh—here it is—Dream!"

Dream wails, and Hob comes, gasping, grunting, the euphoria sweeping through his veins in a warm rush. His hips jerk involuntarily, shoving deep, emptying himself thoroughly into Dream's clutching arse.

"Fuck," he pants, pulse pounding in his ears, "oh, fuck—"

It's good, so damn good, feels like it goes on forever, everything in his body alight with pleasure and pouring out through his dick, until at long last it subsides and he collapses, barely catching himself before he crushes Dream. He takes a minute, just panting above him, and then pulls out carefully—still wet and messy, regardless—with a groan. Dream whimpers, a sound of abject loss, but does not move from where he has gone limp on the car.

Hob turns carefully to perch beside him, resting his arse on the bonnet, catching his breath.

"Alright there, Dream?" he asks, after a moment.

"Mmh," is the only reply, and Hob takes a moment to just look at him, gaze sweeping over the lines of his body and the grey-black smudges he himself has left on that pristine pale skin. He lingers over the curves (such as they are) of Dream's arse, leans far enough to see where there's a mess of lube and semen dribbling down Dream's perineum to his balls, a glistening runnel of it trickling down his inner thigh—Hob shivers, arousal sparking despite the remains of orgasm still simmering in his blood.

"Christ, you look beautiful like this," he can't help saying. "Fucked out across the bonnet of your Porsche with your legs spread, and my come dripping out of your arse…"

"Silver tongue." Dream does not move from where he sprawls, languid and heavy-lidded, spread-eagled on the car, even as Hob levers himself up, moves to stand behind Dream again.

"Mmyes, that's right. Said something about having a use in mind for it, didn't you?"

"Perhaps."

"'Perhaps' he says," Hob drawls, grinning, but the idea's back in his head now and oh, he would like to get his tongue in Dream's arse, lube or no lube. He saw the bottle, it's water-based, it's not going to kill him to lick a bit of it up. "Why don't you tell me if this is what you had in mind, then."

He drops into a squat and flicks the tip of his tongue around the puffy rim of Dream's messy and very-pink hole, circling it with a light touch, and the sound that Dream makes is nothing but encouraging. His own come is no particular delicacy but just like the lube, he doesn't mind that he's getting a taste in the course of eating out this beautiful man. Dream's hole is swollen with use and sensitive and Hob kisses it softly, wets his tongue and wriggles it in, gently at first with slurping licks in between but with increasing enthusiasm until Dream is squirming against his face and he's as deep as he can get, grease-stained hands gripping those milk-white cheeks and spreading them wide.

The keening noise Dream makes urges him on and he delves back in again and again, breathless and eager, feasting until his face is sticky and his jaw aches. Finally he draws back, panting, senses filled with the smell and the taste of this man and still, Dream remains insatiable.

"More. Hob, I want more, do not send me on my way so unsated—"

He has come twice, surely he is not sincere when he says 'unsated', and yet. Here he is, pleading for more, as needy and eager as he's been the whole time. And god, but Hob wants to give him everything, is itching to finger him out but he's not doing that when his hands are still dirty, he's just not. Nor is he going to make Dream wait while he scrubs down with the Swarfega. He casts about, thinking, tongue lapping soothingly around Dream's sloppy hole all the while; there's the plug Dream was wearing but it's been sitting on the shop floor so no; it's shaped for stretching more than fucking anyway. His fingers really would be best—

"Did you bring more than just the one condom?"

"Mmh?" Dream sounds keyed up and hazy, blissed out on the attentions of Hob's tongue and Hob smiles, plants a kiss over his hole.

"Condoms, love. Have you got another?"

"Yes. Trouser pocket—"

"And where did your trousers escape to?" He kisses again, flicks his fatigued tongue inside in a teasing lick.

"Front seat." Dream wriggles, needy, restless and wanting.

"Brilliant. Hang on, got an idea—" He scrambles up and around and finds the clothes rumpled in the Porsche's driver seat, rifles through the pockets for the promised condom and tears it open, slips it over his first two fingers as he shuffles round the front of the car again, coveralls still tangled in his boots. Dream is a vision sprawled face down and spread-legged on the bonnet, eyes tracking Hob's return, and Hob won't leave him waiting another instant.

"Here we are," he murmurs, condom-clad fingers sliding down the cleft of Dream's grease-smudged arse and slipping deftly into his hole still slick with lube and Hob's jizz, Hob's spit. Hob pushes deep, curves his touch down and massages, and Dream cries out, going rigid.

Grinning, Hob leans over the bonnet beside him, fingers working deep and steady, and watches Dream's prettily-dirtied face as he comes apart. He's mewling, eyes wide, mouth open and gasping; he's come twice already and his insides are swollen and sensitive, his pleasure easy to stoke to trembling heights. Hob shifts briefly to drizzle more lube in for good measure and then gives him no quarter, fingers steady and relentless in their attentions until Dream is shaking, sobbing, tears leaking from his eyes and saliva drooling from the corner of his mouth. He pushes up on trembling arms, collapses back to his elbows, head hanging low between his shoulders. "Hob—aah—Hob, please!" It's unclear if he's begging for more or begging for mercy, but the way he flexes up on his toes and pushes back on Hob's hand is telling enough.

"Shh," Hob soothes, leaning close enough to brush his mouth across Dream's bicep in an open kiss, and then, because he can't help being just a touch evil: "Do you want to come again? Or did you need me to stop?"

"Do not stop," he manages, and it is very much an order despite his gasping breathless delivery. "Your hands are exquisite, Hob—!"

"You say the sweetest things," Hob murmurs, kissing his arm again and rubbing particularly hard with both fingers.

Dream wails, head tossing, trembling, helpless, and Hob draws his fingers partway out only to drive them back in, again and again and again, curving his touch to hit that spot on every thrust. He twists his hand as he goes, employing every expert technique he's honed in his time to bring Dream up to the edge again.

God, he loves this, having another person trust him with their pleasure and being able to give them everything they want and then some. It's heady, addictive to have this beautiful man sobbing in delight because of him, shaking apart, because of him; he desperately wants for this to not be the last time. Predictably, his mouth starts running again, pleading his case.

"You can have this anytime you like, love, I'd be delighted to take care of you again. Your pretty mouth, your pretty cock, this pretty perfect eager little hole—" He twists his fingers just so, curls and presses.

Dream warbles out a wet, broken sound that may or may not be Hob's name, bends trembling knees to widen his stance just a little, letting Hob that much deeper inside him.

Beautiful. Perfect.

"Come see me anytime you just need a good hard fuck, mmh? Whenever you want a fun and filthy seeing-too from your handsome bit of rough down at the garage?" He pauses with his fingers buried deep, strokes them fast and firm over exactly the right spot again and again and Dream wails, a high thin keening noise deep in his throat that rises into a proper scream as he comes at last. His body spasms, clenches hard on Hob's fingers in pulsing rhythm and Hob doesn't let up for a long moment, milks him relentlessly through it until he collapses onto the bonnet, boneless and panting.

Hob stills his fingers at that point but doesn't yet pull them out, savoring the snug warmth they're nestled in and the beautiful picture Dream makes like this.

He did that. He made Dream come three times, worked this posh pretty thing into a limp fucked-out mess sprawled across his expensive car.

God, but he wants to do it again.

"Do you think you've got one more in you?" He can't help it; he's always been greedy.

Dream groans, a low sound that stirs something deep in Hob's stomach. "Three times, Hob. I am spent." Yet he makes no move to rise from the car or pull off from Hob's hand, which he could easily do.

Greatly daring, tempted beyond reason by this ravenous marvelous creature, Hob twitches his fingers where they're still pressed against Dream's prostate.

Dream jerks, a shudder running through him, then squeaks when Hob does it again. "Hob—!" His eyes fly open, shining beneath his wet lashes.

"I'll stop if you say so," Hob hastens to assure him. "But you did chide me to not send you home unsated and I just want to make sure I've given you everything"—he presses again—"you need."

Dream whines through his teeth, sucks in a great gasping breath as Hob lets up and cries out when Hob's fingers curl mercilessly within him again, and again, and again. He scrabbles uselessly at the bonnet and lifts his head, mouth open, muscles straining, body trembling as Hob starts taking him apart again before he's even pulled himself back together from the last orgasm.

Hob's good with his hands, in this as well as his work, and he's quite certain he can make Dream come again in fairly short order given how sensitized and overstimulated he is. Hob is also quite certain he can draw this out just a bit longer, work him up even more before pushing him over the edge again and quite frankly, that sounds like more fun.

"Stay with me sweetheart," he murmurs in between Dream's cries, shifting his hand to stave off the cramp that wants to start. He strokes Dream's insides with both fingers, together at first and then one after the other; the condom and the grip of Dream's body restrict his range of movement somewhat but not so much that he can't do his job well.

"God, I'm so fucking lucky," he breathes, fingers still moving steadily, and kisses his way softly up Dream's arm. "You're beautiful, perfect, so pretty and so hungry and so eager—" He's planting kisses across Dream's shoulders and back between words, moving down his spine next. "And you let me touch you, worship your body, get you off again and again and again—" He bends over Dream's arse, draws his fingers partway free and spreads them as wide as the condom allows, stretching open Dream's swollen well-used hole. He dips close, slides his tongue into the gap he's created and Dream moans, gasping, trembling. Hob takes a good minute with his tongue before pulling back and sinking his fingers deep again. "This hole, this perfect hungry insatiable hole, you let me fill it as I please, with my cock and my come and my fingers—so lucky, I am. Would you let me fill you with toys, too, sweetheart? I'll bet you've got a drawerful at home; I'd love to try them with you one by one, learn the best ways to play with each, to make you scream and sob and shake—" He's massaging Dream's prostate again, thorough and unhurried and Dream is indeed sobbing, incoherent. He moves, suddenly, draws up one knee beneath him on the bonnet and then the other as Hob moves with him. He's up on all fours briefly and then sinks down, folded double on his knees with his arms stretched out to grip where the bonnet meets the windscreen and his arse opened wide, letting Hob's fingers sink as deep as possible.

"Finish me, Hob," he begs, gripping weakly around Hob's diligent fingers, voice hoarse and shaky, "make me—make me—fuck, I can't—I can't—" He sobs, trembling, and Hob. Well. He's neither a cruel man, nor strong in the face of temptation, and his hand is ready to give out as well. So he buries his fingers to the hilt, seeks out that spot and gives it his all, strokes it quick and steady and firm, both fingers together, then one after the other, together again and Dream's knees spread wide, his spent prick pressing soft against the bonnet. He's making one long sound now, low and thin and straining in his throat, interspersed with gasping gulps of breath. His body trembles, jolts every time Hob presses harder at his prostate, and Hob leans back over beside him, softly kisses the curve of his shoulder.

"I've got you, sweetheart, we're almost there," he breathes, fingering relentlessly. "Is it still good?"

"Yes—fuck—fuck—Hob!" Dream scrabbles one hand down in Hob's direction and Hob seizes it, laces their fingers together; Dream is sobbing, breathless, utterly wrecked and Hob's hand is giving out but he refuses to stop, to quit, not until—

Dream's body stiffens, convulses, bearing down on Hob's stuttering fingers in tremulous pulses and his voice has gone high, whistle-thin, and then he is gasping, tension falling out of him in a rush as he goes limp, breathing hard and heavy against the bonnet. Hob stills his aching hand at last, draws it out carefully and peels off the condom with his teeth, flings it aside. He'll clean up later. He stretches the cramping sensation from his hand and settles it lightly on Dream's still-heaving ribs, unable to keep from touching him even now that they're done.

"Alright, dove?" Hob asks, gently stroking up Dream's spine. "Can you move?" He gives a soft squeeze to their still-joined hands and is gratified to feel brief pressure in return. Dream turns his head, lifts it slightly; his eyes are wet, his hair sticking damply to his forehead and the grease smudge there; his mouth is open, a bit of drool still in the corner and Hob is helpless, gone, so fucking besotted and far too deeply attached for what this is. He dips in, kisses Dream with every soft emotion squirming captive in his chest and Dream just kisses him back, quiet, exhausted, willing.

"C'mere," Hob murmurs, straightening up, sitting back, leaning on the bonnet. He draws Dream after him, tucks him awkwardly up against his side and Dream allows it, nestles underneath his arm, still catching his breath.

This is the drawback to sex in the garage, Hob decides wryly; there is nowhere really suitable or comfortable for post-coital cuddles. He's seriously considering whether he can slide into the passenger seat of the Porsche with Dream in his lap when finally Dream stirs, lifts his head, shivers all over as he straightens and graces Hob with a small smile.

"I believe I will make use of your shop for all my future service needs," he says, primly, with a playful note underneath the exhaustion.

Hob laughs, hearty and full-bodied and joyous. "Glad to hear it," he says, when the laughter subsides. He's so utterly gone on this man, no matter how unlikely a pair they make, and he feels far too good right now to care about the future heartbreak he'll inevitably have to deal with.

He helps Dream down from the car then, steadies him on his feet and sees him around to the driver's seat where Dream first downs half the bottle of water he brought with him and then proceeds with re-dressing. Hob makes to get his coveralls pulled back up into place at that point but Dream stops him. "You promised to clean my spend off my car, I believe," he says, with that tone in his voice that makes Hob's insides go warm despite himself.

"Absolutely," he confirms, waiting, because there was clearly more forthcoming.

"I should like to see you with your trousers around your ankles and your arse on display while you do so." Dream blinks at him, all coquettish charm that is somehow enhanced by his disheveled and dirtied and half-dressed state. "If you are amenable, of course."

"I can do that for you," Hob agrees, delighted, even as he feels his face heat. It's not at all what he's used to but being ogled, being objectified—especially by his beautiful Dream—is no hardship, whatever his reason.

He finds a rag and the polish while Dream finishes putting himself back together and comes round the front of the Porsche again, and then Hob cleans up the bodily fluids on the bonnet, sweat and semen and lube and anything else, coveralls still around his ankles as requested. He wiggles his arse just a bit, since Dream is watching, and when that gets a pleased little sound out of Dream he does it a bit more, putting his whole body into the cleaning motions, bending at the waist and letting his hips swing in wide suggestive arcs.

"There," he says, finished, tossing the rag aside, and his arms are full of Dream as soon as he turns.

"Magnificent," Dream breathes against his mouth, and kisses him, warm and wet and thorough. Hob gives back as good as he gets, threads his hands into Dream's hair, and Dream's hands skate down his bare sides, around his hips and lower, seizing his arse cheeks and squeezing. His fingernails comb through the hair there and Hob squeaks, delighted, dick twitching with interest.

Dream breaks the kiss after only a few seconds. "There is so much more I want to do with you," he murmurs, kneading Hob's arse in slow sensual motions, "but I am spent. Well used. Sated, despite my lingering desires." He releases one cheek, moves to draw a fingertip along the slit of Hob's mostly-soft cock, where he surely encounters the tacky lube-laced remains of Hob's earlier orgasm. He brings that finger to his mouth, makes a show of licking it delicately before slipping it into his mouth to suck properly, and Hob whimpers.

"Dream, love, I meant what I said. Pop by anytime you need, I'll take care of you—"

"I believe you. After all, you have opted me into your loyalty program, yes? I must be sure to claim all of my associated benefits." He steps back, pulling out his phone and handing it to Hob with the contacts open. "Your number, please."

Hob types it in gladly, hits save, hands the phone back.

Dream cradles it close, a look on his face like he's savoring the addition of Hob's number, and glances up at Hob through his lashes. "I look forward to employing your services again, Hob Gadling. You are very much worth the trip."

"You just like me for my rugged filthiness," Hob says, a tease to keep his head in the right place—there's still no sense getting sentimental, after all, no matter the elated cartwheels his ego is doing at those words.

Dream regards him haughtily, one eyebrow lifting; the grease stains do nothing to diminish the expression. "I am quite certain I would enjoy you equally as much cleaned up and dressed up, that I might wine and dine you, take you home to my bed for an evening."

Hob almost, almost detects a hint of vulnerability threading the words and grins, a little pang of tenderness tugging helplessly behind his chest. "Think so, do you?"

"Would you like to test my theory?" There is something both hesitant and eager underneath his casual tone, and Hob's heart trips a little as that tug grows stronger.

"Why, Mr. Atelíotes, are you asking me out? On a proper date?"

"Perhaps." It's equal parts caginess and coy teasing, and Hob is forced to admit—again—that he's smitten despite himself.

"Well." He grins, dialing it up to his most charming. "Rumor has it I'm excellent company whether my dick's involved or not. And while a standard dinner date may not be as fantasy-worthy as getting plowed by the rough mechanic in his garage, I think we could still have a good time." He's showing his hand a bit, gently calling Dream on the fantasy fulfillment that has obviously been going on here, but what's life without a little risk? Especially when the potential reward is so very worth it?

"You are very confident of your own appeal," Dream replies, mouth turning up at one corner in a way that tips over from 'cautious' to 'amused'. And if Hob's not mistaken, there's a hint of pink blushing over his porcelain complexion under the filth clinging to his cheekbone.

He grins, spreads his arms, still stark naked with his coveralls around his ankles. "Am I wrong, though?"

"…No," Dream decides, after a long moment of deliberation, and Hob steps closer to him, dares to touch his face affectionately.

"Why don't you pick me up here at seven tomorrow night. Tell me exactly how posh I should dress, and we'll see where it goes?" He leans in, presses his lips softly to Dream's.

Dream hums into it, pleased, and palms his chest gently before pulling away. "Very well. Seven, tomorrow night. I will make us a reservation and text you the dress code."

Hob smiles, an effervescent sort of happiness bubbling up inside him. "Sounds perfect."

He finally puts his coveralls back in order after that, zipped just past the waist, and makes certain that the condoms are picked up and Dream gets his lube and his toy all collected before he shifts back into business mode. Dream is no more interested in cleaning his face before leaving today than he was yesterday so Hob moves on; he explains the repairs and runs Dream's credit card, then returns his keys and guides him in backing the Porsche out of the garage. Dream leans out the window once he's clear and Hob ducks down, delighted to get a final kiss.

"I'll be waiting to hear from you," he says, trying to temper the giddy anticipation he feels against the reality of their acquaintance, and Dream's soft smile turns sultry around the edges.

"I will be counting the hours until I see you again, Hob Gadling," he purrs, and drives off.

The way the Porsche jerks when he shifts after turning the corner makes Hob wince.

Maybe, if they do continue whatever this is beyond a single dinner date, maybe Hob can give him some tips on driving stick so he doesn't burn out the new clutch.

Then again, the more Dream abuses his poor car, the more excuse he'll have to invoke his 'loyalty rewards'.

And Hob doesn't think that's such a bad thing, in the end.

= Started: 5/4/24 Drafted: 9/17/24 Posted: 9/21/24

[meow-notes]

Ink & Style - Commercial residential | 紋&形 - 商業型住宅 | Free Download | Contain CC

One house, four businesses— we help you craft your style from head to toe. Visit us to stay trendy and enjoy a drink!

This self-operated residence was renovated using the original residential structure from the EA Simulation Workshop. The first floor retains its original residential function, while the second floor has been transformed into a business space. It features a clothing store, a hair salon, a mini spa and massage area, a small bar, a tattoo studio, and a tailor shop that designs and sells custom-made products.

🎬️【Architecture Sharing Video】 : LINK

【The modules used are as follows】 ↴

All the required modules are listed in the link below and must be downloaded separately. They are not included in the compressed file of the Tray lot in this article.

🎈Modules used in the building/CC⇊

「Functional hangers & closets & clothes hangers & shoes accessories sundries」 - Link

「Body Form Displays」 - Link

「Invisible Small Business Objects」 - Link

「Food frige displays」 - Link

「Functional Loom」 - Link

「Get Makeovers」 - Link

「More Small Business Employees」 - Link

「 Salon de tatouage CC」 - Link

「Standing Flash Tattoo Display」 - Link

🎈A mod that has nothing to do with construction but is helpful when running a small business⇊

「No Stinky Customers」 - Link

「Shopping Doesn't Empty Shelves」 - Link

「Autonomy Toggle」 - Link

If the module has been installed before, please do not install it again.

Before placing the house, please press Ctrl+Shift+C, enter 'bb.moveobjects on,' and then place it.

【Installation method】 ↴

There are 2 installation methods, just choose one.

❞Simulation Gallery▸ First, select the module you want to install from my article, click the link to download it, and complete the installation. Then, go to the Simulation Gallery and search for my Gallery ID: MeowCats0207. Remember to enable 'Custom Objects' on the left side of the gallery, and you'll be able to see the buildings I uploaded!

❞Unzip and Download ▸ Please place the unzipped file in the Tray folder. Do not use any custom folders. (The path is shown below. This image is for demonstration purposes only; the file name may be different.)

📦【Lot file download】: LINK

This is a RAR-compressed file. Please unzip it after downloading. If you encounter any issues with extraction, try using the 7z decompression program instead.

[changingplumbob]

A Party To Die For Templates: SFS

So I may have got a tad overexcited about the Halloween CAS Challenge created by @la-llama-sims, and I made templates for every prompt. I wanted to share them on the off chance someone wanted to also do the challenge but maybe didn't have time to do much other than screenshots.

Tutorial below on how to make your own cards using the templates if you are unfamiliar with photo software, all you need is the template and a screenshot of your sim! Very little technical skill required to so feel free to jump in for Simblreen (the month of October on simblr). Remember to go to the original creator post to check out the prompts and the hashtag given for creations is #LLPTDF. Hope to see some of your creations next month, keep them for the spooky season 🎃👻🦇

Strap in and follow along as I make Glenn here (he won't do the spellcaster prompt for Simblreen, it's dress up after all, but it makes sense for a demo)

Step one: Grab the zipped folder of templates on SFS HERE. Unzip the folder and put it somewhere easy to find in your documents, I have a tumblr specific folder my templates are normally sorted in.

Step two: Open your photo editing program of choice. I use paint.net which is old but for this demonstration I will use Photopea, the online free alternative to adobe. You will see the screen below

Step three: Click "Open From Computer" right in the middle under the main title. Find the screenshot you have taken that you would like to use and open it. Now the hole in my template is 744x991 but you can make it slightly bigger if you don't want to fuss as much with lining things up exactly. To resize image from the top bar (Image -> Image Size) We're going to use the crop tool when we have our picture.

Step four: Pull on the squares at the edges to change the size. If you need click View in the top bar and you can zoom in to allow finer selecting. When you have the right size click the tick and copy the image. Keyboard shortcuts are Ctrl+A to select all, then Ctrl+C to copy.

Step five: Open the template you want to use (File -> Open, from the top bar). Add a new layer using either the top bar (Layer -> New -> Layer) or the icons on the bottom right.

Step six: With the new layer selected paste the image, Ctrl+V.

Step seven: On the right of the screen you'll be able to see layer order. Drag the layer with your sim underneath the background layer. This is what will let you slot in your picture.

Step eight: Finishing touches! Unless you are super duper lucky your sim won't appear in the exact right place, you'll have to move them around using the move tool. For precision you'll need to zoom in and move your field of vision using the hand tool.

You'll know it's in the right place when you can no longer see any of the negative space behind it. I like to check both corners to make sure I've got it. This is where having a sim image slightly larger will make it easier.

If you like you can finish now. From the top bar File -> Export as -> PNG or JPG. The picture will save to your downloads folder. If you want to add your own text, keep reading, as I've left space at the bottom for your username, the sim name, and a profile pic or other logo. Or go ahead and crop it out, who needs extra hassle when there are cute CAS looks to be made?

Step nine: From the bar on the right select the large T to add some text, it will automatically spawn in a new layer. Scroll through text options and find one you like (the text style I used isn't in photopea so we will find another). Depending on the type of text you will likely need to play around with the size as well.

Step ten: Start typing. When you're done you can highlight what you have written and use that size box to adjust how big the text is. Select the move tool from the right to move your text where you want it. Repeat step nine if you want text on the other side. I've chosen to put my username on one side, and my sim's name on the other.

Step eleven: Logo time. Open a pre shrunk logo (I scaled my pride plumbobs down to 125x125) and copy. Back on the template add a new layer then paste your image (for some reason I had to copy twice before it would do the right thing, I don't have an explanation sorry). Then using the move tool and the hand tool get your image where you want it.

From the top bar File -> Export as -> PNG or JPG. Again it will have saved to your downloads folder.

Voila, we have a Glenn card! Hopefully you have a your sim card. I spent hours doing up all the templates so feel free to fill them with your sims for the challenge. All I ask is that you don't claim templates as your own work or shove them behind a paywall because rude and the whole premise of Simblreen is free treats! Obviously you do NOT need the templates to participate in the challenge, the cards are just how I'll be presenting mine. Like CAS challenges the possibilities are most often only limited by your imagination.

[olderthannetfic]

As someone who's college age: yeah, there's a TON of people my age who don't know how things work and don't try to learn. Can't unzip a zip file, want to know where to download anime but haven't tried looking it up, ask things on subreddits a Google search or quick search on the wiki would answer, ask questions answered in FAQs or by professors or in the syllabus, say they can't download and install a new browser or app or program because they don't know how and they never think to look up how to do so, go months without logging into their student email because no one explained to them how to do so and they never thought to ask anyone how to do it, go months without washing their laundry because they don't know how and they also don't know how to look up instructions on how to do it, don't know how to cook and can't Google a recipe so they throw things in a pan and pray it works out, don't understand how to back up files, don't know how to attach a pdf to an email to send to a professor, cannot manage to put stuff on a USB drive + go to the library + print it off of the library computer, etc.

I spent most of freshman year teaching people things. The year after, my patience got more frayed and "Google it" started coming out of my mouth a lot more. This last year I gave up and now if people fuck themselves over, that's their decision. I'm not going to stand there begging people to do basic things they should already know how to do.

It was really funny when someone from Career Services came to talk to us about resumes and said we didn't need to put down 'can use Microsoft Excel' on there because everyone knew that and all but three people said actually no, they didn't. People who are 40+ really think we're all good at tech by default, like we fall out of the womb clutching a little phone already making spreadsheets in Excel or coding computers or whatever.

Meanwhile in reality you see a ton of people posting on tumblr going, "How do I post fic on tumblr?" whose blogs proudly state that they're under 18. The thought that you could just type into a Word doc and then copy and paste onto here never hits. And it's not going to.

I hate to break it to millennials and older people but yeah, actually, my generation does in fact have morons. We're not a moron-free demographic. I'm pretty sure moron-free demographics don't exist, tbh.

--

It infuriates me that my father (in his 80s) is always saying to me that he needs to find a 12-year-old to explain his tech to him. I (40s) keep telling him it's more like a bell curve or something. We had a blip of people being taught in school or having their asses kicked about technology. But then it went away again.

I think we made computers and then phones much more accessible, which is great, but we forgot we still need to teach people things. I know not everyone got explicit instruction in school even in my era, but it seems like the US, at least, phased some of that out as we started assuming The Youth automatically knew it all.

That said... in my day, college freshmen were also terrible about doing their laundry, so some things never change.

[r3dcam3llias]

How do you make mods?

To answer in short terms: Ren’py!

In longer terms, I use a program called Ren’py, which is basically a visual novel game making software, and the software used to create OLBA, along with VS code (you don’t need this though, it was just downloaded on my computer already LOL) to be able to actually view the code itself.

There’s plenty of information about Ren’py itself in forums and their docs, and learning the Ren’py language itself isn’t that difficult if you go through a tutorial or two or already have some preexisting knowledge of the Python coding language.

If you’re looking to make a OLBA mod yourself, this is the way I would do it, not a means to an end, feel free to adapt if you find a way that works easier for you:

Download Ren’py, specifically THIS version, as other versions will not be compatible with OLBA. (You can use 7zip to unzip it)

Crack open Ren’py, and just create a new project, name it whatever you want, just make sure it’s 1080 by 1920, everything else doesn’t matter.

Locate your legitimate game files and feel free to just copy and paste everything from the legitimate OLBA folder into your new project (you can find its folder in documents by default iirc, but if not there, try searching for it by name), don't worry about keeping any of the old files in there, just overwrite all of it.

legitimate game files ↑ new project files ↓

Before you can begin editing the scripts or DLCs however, you need to actually be able to see them. You can't because they are in .rpa files, which are basically secured ren'py folders. To crack them open, do these steps:

Find these files in the "game" folder of your new Ren'py project. The archive.rpa file contains everything in the main game. Depending on what DLCs, if any, you have, you may see additional .rpa files with the titles of the DLC you own.

2. Move these files out into a new folder on your desktop. Download this extractor and place it in the same new folder on your desktop. EX:

2. One by one, drop the files onto the rpaExtract.exe Icon. Afterward, you should get some folders with the names corresponding to the .rpa files and potentially an image folder. (NOTE: the archive.rpa file is not contained in one folder, meaning ALL the files will just appear freely, I recommend moving all the other finished folders back into the "game" folder before you do this one so you don't end up confused/overwhelmed!) (my files, excluding the archive.rpa files)

3. You can just delete the .rpa files now, you won't need them, and put the all new folders/files you got back into the "game" folder.

Now you will be free to go into Ren'py and click "open project" to edit the scripts to your heart's content! At this point, if you're experienced with Ren'py things should be looking a bit more familiar, if not, I recommend watching some ren'py tutorials to learn the ropes or just shoot me a message and I'd be happy to help you out in any way I can.

Lastly, when you finish your mod, if you want to be able to use it in a legitimate game, it depends on whether it's an edit of an existing script or adds a completely new one: If it's an edit, just get whatever files you edited and follow my instructions here in this "how to download OLBA mods tutorial". As for a mod that adds completely new scripts, you will still have files that are just edited from the original game, so for those scripts follow the tutorial above. As for original scripts/images/sounds etc you should be able to just paste them into your legitimate game folder and shouldn't have to bother with converting them to a .rpa file at all. I hope this helped answer anyone's questions! Can't wait to see what you guys make :) If you ever need help or have questions, my messages are always open!

[riverofdragons]

I have this tinfoil hat theory that the death of customization made people technologically illiterate.

Back when customization was big, it wasn't exactly user friendly. Sure, there were default themes for a lot of places, but if you wanted to truly customize something, you had to learn HTML and image editing.

Not to mention that when PCs were new-ish, the fact that it wasn't just a black screen with green text, but a blank slate that you could put any program with any function on was also novel. Even that degree of customizability was unheard of beforehand. We knew it came with a promise of infinite possibilities, and so if you wanted your PC to do something, you knew that you had to learn how to get it to do it. That was just how it is.

If we wanted a program from the internet, we either got it as an exe file or a zip/rar file. We learnt that there's a free program that can unzip compressed files. Today, ads are the norm, but back then, we learnt that if we see ads, they're most likely a virus and we need to block them with an anti-virus software or a browser extension. Everyone and their mother knew how to torrent and crack programs. They knew it could be done somehow and so they learnt how to do it.

Now, all you can customize are your posts and pfps and banners, and if you're lucky, you can choose between dark or light mode, but that's it. We've been needing to put up with shittier and shittier website updates that slowly but surely took out every morsel of customizability and I think by 2016-ish we just gave in. Of course, OS' followed suit along with everything else, seeing the success of the first things that were sleek and minimalist (I suspect that it was Windows 8 and the Windows Phone as much of a trainwreck as they were at the time or maybe Apple).

And now everything is homogenized. Nowadays I keep meeting so many people who have no idea about 95% of their PCs' functions. They don't know that they can install an adblocker or how to unzip zip files or even that they don't have to put up with Microsoft's bullshit and they can just get rid of the tiles and Xbox-related functions if they don't need it. They've been conditioned to think that customization is at best minimal on any given platform and so they won't even try it.

I often hear that all they do on their PCs is check social media (the same things they can do on their phones as well).

It's genuinely making me sad.

[waldos-writing]

Just A Dog Pulling at the End of a Long, Long Leash

Rating: Mature Word Count: currently 9,7k (ongoing) Tags: Graphic Depictions of Violence, nightmares, Post-Canon Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Drugging

Summary:

Mickey Barnes. That's it, it's just Mickey Barnes now. Just him. Singular.

After the end of the Marshalls and the expendable program, Mickey's trying to figure out his place in all of...this. On Niflheim. In life. Thing is, he's just got this weird feeling that maybe...well, no. That'd be crazy. But maybe it's not just him. Maybe there was a miracle.

Or maybe he just doesn't know how to deal with the guilt of losing 18. Maybe if he just gets to live? If that's enough?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 7 (excerpt)

Hilde touched Nasha’s arm, giving it a quick squeeze as they both smiled at each other. She was tired of smiling. She wanted to take it off same as her earrings, utilitarian things but heavy. Made her earlobes itch. A gift from her late aunt and she could’ve saved the space for something, anything in her allocation, but even as she dragged her hands over them, pulling them free, she remembered a small room lit with an antique lamp, a worn velvet chair, and the jewelry boxes as her aunt set little pieces of gold on her weathered palm and told Nasha little stories of how they’d made their way to her. Nasha forgot most of them. She wasn’t sad about that, really, she just remembered the hands and the jewelry box when she pulled the earrings free and rubbed her earlobes to relieve the ache.

God but she could use a drink. She didn’t miss a lot of things back on Earth. Everyone here on the colony came for a reason, same as her, and leaving was the best – or only – option. But can’t fault anybody for missing a good red wine, sprawled out on a well-worn sofa, telly on in the background tuned to something neither of them cared about, with her feet up in her man’s lap while she talked about her day.

Maybe smiling wasn’t so hard as she went to their room and backed into it, already reaching for the zipper of her council robes.

“Mickey?” she called out, sliding the zipper down enough to shrug out of the robes. She set the earrings down on one of the entry shelves next to her holster in a little pie tin from Mickey. It fell in next to ID cards – nobody used those on Niflheim, but it felt silly to throw them out for some reason, seeing as neither of them had many pictures of each other – and some bits and baubles that Mickey had been twisting together into little standing figures. She nudged one with her finger and scooped it out. Washers, screws, wire. She set it to stand next to the bowl and smiled. “Mickey?” she called louder. “You in?”

Only the quiet answered. Nasha sighed as she stepped out of her shoes, curling and popping her toes with a happy groan. She stretched. She shook off the weight of the day and unzipped her body suit a little as she wandered into the room to check if Mickey was sleeping. Not exactly red wine and a sofa, but she could crawl up behind him and tug him to her chest, put her hands under his loose grey shirt and feel his heartbeat as he smiled in his sleep. She could kiss the back of his neck, gently wake him, and have him help her peel out of the rest of her clothes with that cute sleepy face of his.

Nasha clicked her tongue when she saw the bed was empty. It was a small disappointment, but nothing crucial. She stretched again and went over to flop onto his side of the bed; a full starfish sort’ve flop with her head mashed into his pillow. She breathed in, breathed in, and turned to her back to stare at the ceiling.

Continue here on Ao3!