#lapse a forgotten future

[mythical-bookworm]

"I almost can't believe it..."

"...it worked, you're alive! That's amazing."

[mindoermatters]

"Tea? Tell me when."

With how often she comes by for tea (and gossip) I like to believe she knows more about the nation than it's own president sometimes.

She knows more than she lets on! Word gets around...

[bed-wed-behead-your-fave]

Researcher Kumiyo from Lapse: A Forgotten Future?

[imsogayhelpme]

Drawing lgbtq characters for this pride month part 4

He's anything but straight tbh

[mythical-bookworm]

I'll only be able to do a selection of these, which will hopefully allow me to get farther than last year. Unfortunately though I am going to be rather late at least on the first few as I won't have time to work on them until the 4th.

(Also, anonymous Lapse fandom, if you're reading this, I am working on a Jeffrey fanart, it will just have to be put on the back burner until I complete this! Sorry I was hoping to finish it before this but life lifed)

janAUry 2025!!

my sincerest apologies for the lateness, but i have FINALLY made the list! explanations for the various aus will be listed below! the rules remain pretty much the same - please respect the aus creators!

medieval au by @bg-sparrow - Featuring Marty as Prince of the Hill and Doc as the Royal Alchemist

clara in the 80s au by @itsthemorph- That one fic I have where Clara makes it on the delorean and comes to the future with the gang and then kinda regrets it for a second

weredoc au by @kit-screams-into-the-future - after a mishap with a bit of einstein's DNA and the power of Science, doc finds himself with a bit of a problem, if "a bit" means "11-feet-tall and very hairy and also not exactly human". basically he just turned himself into a dog man. a big, wet, sad dog man. taking the term "dog person" to new heights, doc and marty now have to figure out how restore doc to his previous state of being without anyone else in hill valley suspecting a thing. which is easy at first (doc's always been a bit of a recluse, so it's not like this is any different) but, of course, when have things like this ever stayed easy for long when it comes to these two...

spy x family au by @izzy-draws05 - Based on the anime Spy X Family! (I recommend reading a plot summary to get more details!) Doc is a scientist working for a spy agency, who needs a fake family to complete a mission. He adopts Marty, who as a young kid, escaped a lab that gave him the power to read minds. Queue found family and slice of life shenanigans while Doc tries to complete his mission, and Marty tries to help without revealing his secret and what he knows.

ashen pines au by @rose-of-pollux - In 1971, the Cold War goes hot, and Hill Valley is incinerated in an attempt to get Doc, who has escaped; with him is a 3-year-old Marty McFly, the only survivor of his family, and now his adopted son.

trinity trilogy au by @daryfromthefuture - marty ends up stuck in the 1940s permanently due to a delorean malfunction. shenanigans ensue when he ends up in los alamos with his adopted father, the 29-year-old doc, when the latter is recruited for the manhattan project.

everything everywhere all at once au by @stillpreoccupiedwith1985 - Basically Marty is aware and can access all universes. Here is a link, https://www.tumblr.com/stillpreoccupiedwith1985/745704523820089344/as-promised-my-everything-everywhere-all-at-once

zombie au (! multiple versions by multiple creators! ask either @jayisnotdrawing or @mundancheemudomo for more context, i am too lazy to copy all of it in here at the moment lmao)

stuck in the 60s au by @bri-to-the-future - marty ends up in 1967 based on the first draft of bttf 2. remember the lsd

spiderman au by @styxbugg - marty is spiderman (see the doc for last year's challenge for context! in fact, i can say that for a lot of these)

frankenstein au by @jayisnotdrawing - marty dies in the train experiment in 1885, and doc revives him with science. angst ensues.

mermarty au by @itsthemorph - see last year's document!

stuck in 1885 au (this one specifically refers to @daryfromthefuture's "until i get home". i think) - see last year's document!

time circuits series by @bg-sparrow - see last year's document!

the shadow's gambit/spies au by @aceofthyme - Summary: Spies? Spies! Doc is a technical agent working for a spy organization, and Marty is his apprentice/a junior field agent. Longer Explanation: Doctor Emmett L. Brown is a member of a top secret organization dedicated to ensuring world peace. As an agent in the technical and scientific department, he spends most of his days buried in research or working on various inventions. He enjoys his work, and it pays well, but there’s one problem: every senior agent is expected to take on an apprentice, and Doc hasn’t yet. Were he not so indispensable to the agency, he suspects he would have been ‘released from service’ long ago. Regardless, he can’t risk losing his position—he needs the funding, after all, and he doesn’t have much else lined up. When a teen is brought in as a suspect relevant to a new case, Doc is able to clear the boy’s name thanks to the power of science. He finds himself taking a liking to the kid, though, seeing something there that reminds him of himself. Before he can think about it, he offers the boy the apprenticeship—and Marty McFly immediately says yes.

around the world in 80 days au by @daryfromthefuture - marty and doc take over the roles of passepartout and phileas fogg based on jules verne's novel. marty, orphaned, is employed as a servant at emmett brown's house, who, as a result of a bet, is going to travel around the world in 80s days. read "the perils and the promise" on ao3 if you want it as a whole, but there's also clara and hurt/comfort because doc is marty's first employer to actively care about him and all the stuff

jennifer in 1955 au by @carrotsofthepirabbean - With Marty out of the picture due to an incident in Hell Valley, Jennifer goes back to 1955 to retrieve the almanac and repair the timeline

marty & the pinheads au by @stillpreoccupiedwith1985 - Think of the 2001 movie Josie and the Pussycats, but with Marty and his band. Based on the fact in the movies they are just The Pinheads, but in the musical it is now Marty McFly and the Pinheads. In Josie and the Pussycats, they were just the Pussycats first. So tons of music industry corruption and Marty getting temporarily brainwashed into being a snobby rockstar.

nutcracker au by @stillpreoccupiedwith1985 - Says on the tin, the nutcracker. Doc is Drosselmeyer, Marty is his nephew/The Nutcracker, and Jennifer is Clara (from the ballet/story not Clara Clayton)

royalty au by @professorsaber - see last year's document!

it's like utopia! au by @jayisnotdrawing - instead of doc, marty disappears upon arriving in citizen valley. cue doc dealing with nerd marty while trying to repair the timeline.

fenrir au by @madscientists1mp - After an invention mishap, a terrible white wolf starts to terrorize Hill Valley... and it looks all too similar to Doc. Can Marty help his friend cure his bloodthirsty dark side? Will Clara find out about her husband's bone-breaking transformations? Will the Men in Black claim him for dissection? Tune in to find out!

vincent au by @whosmurphy - see last year's document!

once upon a time series by @bg-sparrow- see last year's document!

miitopia au by @daryfromthefuture - marty is cast as the hero in the video game miitopia, and the other bttf cast joins him over the course of the adventure. au post is here!

alien doc au by @alex-a-fans - see last year's document!

local legend au by @styxbugg - see last year's document!

steampunk au by @stillpreoccupiedwith1985 - Yet another stuck in 1885, but this time Jennifer is with them in 1885. After Doc married Clara, Marty and Jennifer tie the knot and move to Kansas City. While they are there they discover an underground advancement of technology, using steam. They go to learn more as a way to see if they can use this to help get back to 1985, while also navigating their life in 1885.

jennifer in 1885 au by @kit-screams-into-the-future - what it says on the tin! jennifer has stayed concious through their time travels and now has to work with marty to save doc's life in 1885. so basically part 3 but if jennifer was there. she gets to be a cowboy yeehaw

soulmate au by @daryfromthefuture - see last year's document

for the alternate ones ALSO see last year's document! i will link it once again:

thank you all for your wonderful submissions! i can't wait to see what you create :D

[barnesonly]

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 6643

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter Three | Previous Chapter

Kern sits across the table, he doesn’t smile this time. No clipboard. No pleasantries. Just the click of the door locking behind you and his stare — unblinking, unreadable.

It makes your skin crawl.

“I’ve watched the tape from the recent session,” he says calmly. Almost bored.

You say nothing and Kern leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “You were making such good progress,” he continues. “You were calm, cooperative. Focused on the mission.” His head shakes in half amusement, half mockery.

“I still am,” you say, voice even.

He hums. “Funny. Doesn’t look like it.”

Your throat tightens.

“You flinch when he does,” Kern adds. “You speak softly. You… pause. Let him speak first. Let him lead.”

He leans in farther, and the tension coils tighter.

“You’ve forgotten your place.”

Your nails dig into your palms.

Kern tilts his head, voice colder now. “You still think because he looks at you differently, he’s yours? You think a weapon like that can be tamed?”

You don’t answer.

“You’re becoming a problem,” he says flatly. “And you know what we do with problems.”

Your stomach turns, but you hold your ground. “Then why am I here?”

“Because you’ve made bigger progress than others who tried. Because I want to give you a chance to fix it,” he says. “To remind you what this is. You’re not a savior. You’re bait.”

He lets that word hang.

“You think he wants you?” Kern says, his voice quieter, meaner. “He wants the comfort you offer. The peace. But that’s not real. You’re not real to him. You’re just the calm before the trigger pulls.”

Your breath comes shallow.

“You think I don’t see what’s happening?” Kern’s voice sharpens. “The way he looks at you. The way you look at him. Like he’s something more.”

He sits back, smiling now — but it’s nothing kind.

“Let me be clear,” he says. “If I sense one more lapse in control, one more slip of judgment, I’ll have him reprogrammed until there’s nothing left to look at. And you? You’ll go back to solitary. No more sessions. No more connection. No more him.”

Silence chokes the room.

Kern stands. “Get your head on straight. Because the next time I call you in, I expect results. Not feelings.”

He walks toward the door. But before he leaves, he glances back — and this time, his voice is almost gentle.

“I warned you not to get attached.”

The door slams shut.

Interview over.

———

You step in. Your body moves with that same soldier-smooth precision they trained into you — quiet, efficient, unremarkable.

Your boots don’t echo. Your breathing doesn’t falter. You keep your gaze straight ahead, like you practiced all night behind the cold hum of your cell door.

Like Kern told you to.

So you do what he said.

You don’t pause at the threshold like you usually do. You don’t wait for the Winter Soldier’s eyes to find yours. You don’t feel for the invisible pull that always seems to stretch between you — taut and charged, like a wire strung between two live bodies.

You pretend it isn’t there.

You sit down.

Straight-backed. Hands in your lap. Composed.

You fold yourself into the kind of calm they like to see — the one that makes you forget your name. The one that makes you forget his.

But he notices.

The second you stepped in, his head lifted. Not sharply — slowly, almost cautiously, like he thought it might hurt. And now he’s watching you — not with suspicion. Not with coldness.

With something worse.

Worry.

You haven’t seen that in him before. Not like this.

“What’s wrong?” he ask after a moment. His voice is low, gravel-edged. A sound that used to make you feel safe.

You don’t answer, then — flatly, “We should begin.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. The silence stretches long enough that you almost look up — almost.

“You don’t sound like you,” he murmurs finally.

You ignore the way your stomach twists. “I’m fine.”

His eyes sharpen. “Did they hurt you again?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Your spine stiffens. You force your tone steady. “I’m not.”

But you flinched. He saw it. He shifts in the chair. The metal cuffs bite faintly against his wrists. His metal fingers twitch.

“You won’t look at me,” he says.

Your throat constricts. “That’s not relevant.”

His head tilts slightly. “Is that what they told you to say?”

A beat of stillness. Then you nod.

Barely. Just once.

And his expression crumples — not all at once, but piece by piece. Like he’s trying to hold something fragile together and watching it fall apart in his hands.

“What did they do to you?” he asks again. Softer, now. Like the question hurts him.

“Nothing.”

“Then what did they do to us?”

You suck in a breath. It catches.

“I’m following orders,” you whisper.

“Whose?”

You hesitate. And that’s the answer.

The silence that follows is cold. Hollow.

“I thought I lost you,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “After what I did. I thought I wouldn’t see you again. That I’d… ruined it… And you assured me I won’t lose you.”

You look down at your hands — white-knuckled in your lap. You’ve been gripping your own fingers so hard they’ve gone numb.

“I am here,” you murmur.

“Then look at me.”

Your chest aches.

You want to. God, you want to.

But you know what Kern said. What he threatened. That if they think you’ve grown too close — if they sense attachment — they’ll remove you. Or worse, remove him.

You speak slowly. Carefully. Like each word is a fragile thing. “I have to protect you.”

A pause. The chains rattle as he shifts again.

“From what?”

You lift your gaze — only for a heartbeat — and it’s enough. The pain in his expression cuts deep.

“From them,” you breathe. “If they think I’m too close — if they know how much I care — they’ll take you from me.”

He shakes his head. A faint, disbelieving sound escapes his throat. “I don’t care what they think.”

“You should,” you snap, more desperate than angry. “Because if I slip up again, they’ll lock you away, or worse — wipe you clean.” You can barely keep your voice steady. “And then you won’t remember anything. Not this. Not me.”

His hands flex in the cuffs.

“You can’t—… You can’t say that. You can’t walk through the door and pretend nothing ever happened. You can’t pretend you’re not mine.”

Your breath breaks in your throat. That word — mine — shouldn’t hit like that. But it does. Because it’s not possession, not control.

It’s longing.

It’s grief again.

It’s him, wishing he still had a right to you.

You look up — fully this time. Your mask slips.

“It’s not like that,” you whisper. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“By pretending I don’t matter?” His voice cracks. “By shutting me out?”

“I thought if I acted normal — if I followed their rules — they wouldn’t see how much I—”

You cut off.

His jaw clenches. His shoulders tense, and for a moment, you think he might pull back.

But he doesn’t.

He leans forward instead — slow, careful, like he’s afraid he might break you.

You don’t move.

“You’re the only thing I remember,” he says. “The only thing that feels real. And if you go away, if you start pretending like it didn’t mean anything — then I’ll forget it meant something too.”

His words hang in the air like smoke — choking, impossible to ignore.

You sit frozen, heart hammering in your chest, your hands still folded in your lap even as everything inside you screams to reach for him. To break the space between you. To tell him he’s not imagining this.

That it’s real.

That you are.

“Please,” he says. Soft. Cracked.

Your breath stills.

“Please, little dove. Don’t do this to me.”

Your heart lurches. That name — it’s not just a comfort anymore. It’s an anchor. A reminder of every time he watched you walk through that door and remembered something human inside himself.

His eyes — steel blue, full of ache — don’t leave yours now. They’re pleading. Raw. He looks like he’s on the edge of something, like the chains on his wrists are the only things keeping him from falling apart.

He slowly moves. His fingers shift in their cuffs. The chains rattle softly as he lifts his flesh hand from where it rests in his lap. You don’t breathe. You can’t.

He hesitates, halfway there.

And then he touches you.

His fingers brush the back of your hand. Light. Careful. As if he’s not sure he’s allowed. As if he’s afraid you’ll flinch again.

But you don’t.

Because it’s him.

His thumb traces the edge of your knuckles — gentle, reverent. He looks down at the contact like it’s hurting him, or healing him. Maybe both.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he says, voice rough. “But I know what it feels like when you’re near. And I know what it feels like when you’re not.”

You blink hard, tears burning behind your eyes. You try to speak, but the words don’t come.

So instead — you turn your hand over.

You give it to him.

You let your palm meet his, your fingers curling just slightly to hold the shape of his grip. And he exhales — like he’s been underwater this whole time, and just now broke the surface.

“When you walked in here today like this… I thought I broke you,” he whispers. “That I’d lost you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, voice hoarse. “You never could.”

His eyes close for a second, as if the weight of that truth is too much to carry.

But he keeps holding your hand.

Like he finally believes it’s his to hold.

His hand is wrapped around yours. Not tightly — no. Carefully. Like you’re fragile. Like he’s terrified you might break again, and this time, he won’t know how to fix you.

The silence stretches, but not the kind that hurts. This one feels… suspended. Like a held breath. A waiting.

And maybe it’s time to stop waiting.

Your other hand trembles in your lap. You try to keep it still, try to keep yourself still, but everything inside you is starting to shake — and this time, you don’t swallow it down. You don’t push it away.

You let it rise.

Your voice, when it comes, is thin and trembling. “I’m scared,” you whisper.

His gaze snaps to yours. Alarmed. Hurt.

“Did I—?”

“No,” you breathe, squeezing his hand before he can pull away. “Not of you. Never of you.” You give him a weak, sad smile.

His lips part like he wants to speak, but no words come out.

Your throat tightens.

His thumb brushes over the back of your hand again. A tiny gesture. But it cuts through everything.

You blink rapidly, jaw clenching as the sting builds behind your eyes. You’ve held it in for so long — held yourself in for so long — but now, his touch, his eyes, the way he says please like you’re the one who could ruin him.

It undoes you.

Your breath shudders. And then the first tear falls. Not violently. Just… quietly. Like it’s been waiting for permission.

His gaze sharpens instantly.

“Little dove…” he breathes. His voice is low, frayed.

But you shake your head. Not to stop him. To stop yourself — from falling too fast, from reaching too far. Your shoulders tremble.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper. “I can’t pretend it’s not real.”

He goes still. Like he’s afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

You lift your eyes to meet his.

“I’ve been trying to stay… controlled. Safe. Distant. Like it’s just a mission. Just a job. Just survival.” Your voice breaks. “But I come in here, and you look at me like I matter. You see me — and I don’t know how to live without that anymore.”

His fingers curl slightly against your skin.

“I don’t even know what I’m saying,” you laugh, bitter and wet, wiping at your face. “I’m not sure what I feel, I just—when I see you—” You press your lips together, shaking your head. “I feel like I have a name. Like I exist again.”

You’re sobbing now — quietly, not messy. Just open. Raw. Finally letting it out.

He watches you like it hurts him. Like every tear slices across his chest.

And then he moves.

His hand leaves yours — and for a second, you think maybe he’s pulling away. Maybe you said too much—

But he reaches for your face with his other hand. The metal is cool against your skin, but steady. Tender. His thumb brushes along your jaw. He cups you like he’s holding something sacred.

You still. The world stills.

Then he leans forward.

His forehead touches yours — slow, careful, reverent.

“I don’t know what this is either,” he says, voice almost a breath. “But I want this.”

You close your eyes.

And in that space between silence and surrender, he kisses you.

Softly.

Once.

And again.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… real.

Like he’s asking a question.

Like you’re the answer.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest doesn’t hurt. It belongs.

You kiss him back with so much passion and so much hunger. The world outside doesn’t exist, not in this moment. You had no idea how much you wanted this, how much you needed this.

He cups your face with both of his hands now, as If you were about to disappear the moment the kiss breaks.

And the kiss lingers on your skin long after he pulls away. His forehead stays pressed to yours, breath warm between you, the metal of his hand still cradling your jaw like you’re something delicate. Something sacred. You don’t move. You barely breathe.

His touch is slow, reverent. The way his thumb brushes under your eye — wiping away the tear he didn’t cause — feels more intimate than anything that’s come before it.

“Little dove,” he murmurs, like it’s a prayer. A lifeline.

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Let yourself feel it.

The warmth of his flesh hand and the coldness of his metal send a shiver through your spine — the contrast is so stark yet so comforting. The ache in your chest is finally quieting.

And for a heartbeat — just one — it’s like you’re not in that room.

Like you’re not a prisoner.

He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple — a touch so soft it barely registers.

And then—

BZZZT.

The intercom crackles overhead.

“Sit back.” The voice is calm. Not Kern’s.

Voss.

Every inch of your body goes still.

The Soldier stiffens instantly, like a string just snapped tight down his spine. His hand freezes against your cheek.

You don’t move. Can’t. Not yet.

“Now.” It’s still calm. That’s worse than if he’d shouted.

You pull back slowly. Controlled. Not rushed. Like it means nothing.

Like you weren’t just kissing him.

You lower your gaze, hands returning to your lap with practiced stillness. Your posture straightens. Your mask re-forms.

The Soldier doesn’t move.

“Compliance failure will result in removal.” Still even. Still quiet. But the message is clear.

Your heart stutters.

They saw.

They saw everything.

They always see.

They always watch.

And now — you’re not sure who they’ll punish.

The Soldier’s jaw clenches. His eyes don’t leave yours. But slowly — like it costs him something — he moves back. Just a bit.

“That’s better,” Voss says. Then silence. The line goes dead.

It blooms, sharp and ugly in its aftermath.

The Soldier’s breathing is heavier now. You don’t know if it’s anger. Or fear. Or both.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The damage has been done.

———

You come back the next day. Your body remembers what it’s supposed to do — smooth, composed, controlled — but your blood doesn’t. Your blood knows. Something’s wrong. You feel it before your eyes even lift.

And then you see him.

And it rips the air from your lungs. Your eyes wide up in horror.

He’s on the floor — still restrained — but he’s slumped low, jaw bruised, lip split. There’s blood dried across one temple, matting his hair, and more smeared dark down the edge of his jaw. His ribs blooming with mottled bruises — some old, most fresh. There are wounds on his chest. Ones you haven’t seen there before.

You stop breathing.

He looks up. Slowly. Like it hurts.

But the second he sees you — the second your eyes meet — he tries to sit straighter.

He fails.

The chains rattle weakly as he sags back against the wall. His metal fingers twitch, reaching — instinctive.

Still reaching for you.

“I’m fine,” he croaks, before you can say anything.

He isn’t.

You know he isn’t.

“What did they do?” you whisper, your voice trembles, cracks.

But you already know.

Because this wasn’t about him. Not really.

It was about you.

And they knew exactly what would break you.

“They said I needed a reminder,” he says hoarsely. “About boundaries.”

Your throat tightens. You try to speak — to say something — but it catches like barbed wire.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” he says quickly. Like that’s what you’re worried about. “Not about us. Not about how I feel. I just kept thinking—” He winces. Breath hitches. “—if I stayed quiet, they wouldn’t hurt you.”

You move before you can stop yourself. You’re at his side in two steps, hands outstretched — hovering, shaking. You don’t touch him. You don’t know where to touch. He’s bleeding in too many places.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, already sobbing.

He closes his eyes. His head tips back, resting against the wall. His voice is barely a breath.

“You came back.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to ache. You blink fast — you will not cry. Not again. Not here. “I always come back,” you whisper.

His eyes open again. Clouded, pained. But soft. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t blame yourself.”

You want to scream. You want to grab him, hold him, undo every inch of what they did — but you can’t even brush your fingers against his skin without hurting him.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” you murmur. “I knew they were watching. I knew what they’d do if—”

He shakes his head. “I kissed you.”

“They punished you.”

“They always do,” he says, quietly and casually, like it’s nothing. “It’s not your fault, dove.”

You freeze and his gaze holds yours.

“I’d take it again,” he says. “The bruises. The pain. All of it. If it means I get one more second with you.”

Your heart stumbles so hard it feels like it might tear itself in half.

He’s looking at you — with one good eye and a face full of bruises — and he means it. Every word. Like it’s nothing. Like he’d suffer again just to feel your warmth for a moment longer.

And it kills you.

Because he shouldn’t feel that way. He shouldn’t have to bleed for crumbs of comfort. He shouldn’t be sitting here, broken, because you let yourself feel human for once — because you let your guard slip and you fell in love with someone who understood your pain in a way no one else could.

And he thinks it was worth it.

Your throat clenches around the sob that threatens to escape. “Don’t say that,” you whisper.

He blinks slowly. “Why not?”

“Because I shouldn’t matter that much to you. Because they used it. Because they knew it would hurt both of us. And they were right.” Your hands are shaking now. “I never wanted this. Not like this.”

He watches you — the way you hover, helpless, like you’re about to shatter. “But you do,” he says softly. “You do matter to me.”

Something in you buckles. Not your spine — not your posture — but something deeper. Something hollowed out long ago that suddenly fills with ache.

“I can’t protect you,” you say, barely audible.

He almost smiles. But it’s too tired, too pained to reach his mouth.

“You already are.”

You take a slow, shaking breath, then finally reach for him — gentle, trembling — and press your fingertips to the edge of his jaw, just where the bruising ends.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize again, and this time your voice cracks.

He leans into your hand, eyes fluttering shut and something in you gives way.

The thing you’ve been holding back — for days, for weeks, maybe even since the moment they first locked you in with him — it slips its leash.

You move closer to him, carefully — like you’re afraid even the sound of it might hurt him. Your hands move to his sides, hovering for a second too long before you finally gather the courage to touch. Just barely. Just enough to guide yourself closer.

And then — slowly, gently — you lean forward and bury your face in his chest.

He goes completely still.

You’re careful. You don’t press against the bruises. You shift slightly when he flinches — adjusting, protecting, cradling him as if he were made of glass. But you don’t pull away. You can’t.

Because the second your head rests against him — the second you feel his warmth — you break.

The sob that leaves you is soundless, but it rips through your whole body.

Your fingers tremble as they curl against his bare sides, careful to avoid the worst of the bruises. His skin is warm beneath your touch — too warm — and you feel every shallow breath he takes, every small flinch he tries to hide. Your chest shakes as tears fall hot and fast, dripping onto his skin and smearing through the blood and sweat already there. You try to stop, but you can’t. You’re not built for this. You were never trained for this kind of pain.

You didn’t mean to fall in love with him.

But you did.

And now you’re holding his broken body like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“I love you,” you whisper, so quietly you’re not even sure you meant to say it aloud. “God, I love you.”

His breath hitches above you.

His fingers — still trembling — move with slow effort. You feel the faint brush of his metal hand as it curls weakly around your wrist. He doesn’t pull you closer. He doesn’t need to. You’re already wrapped around him like you’ll never let go again.

And maybe you won’t.

For a moment, the room disappears. The walls, the cameras, the chains — none of it exists. Just the two of you. Clinging to something that was never supposed to be yours.

———

Another day passes.

They bring you in.

The lights are too bright, humming loud in your ears. The walls look the same as always, but your powers flicker the moment you walk in. You feel it — his pain, much stronger than yesterday.

And then you see him.

Kneeling.

His arms are bound behind his back, He’s bruised. Fresh cuts trail down his ribs. He’s slumped but upright, panting like it hurts to breathe, blood dried in the corner of his mouth.

And he looks up the second you enter.

The moment your eyes meet, he knows.

You know.

Your breath stumbles.

No, you think. No.

But the speaker crackles to life, overhead. Cold. Detached.

“You want to prove you’re not compromised?” Voss’s voice. Smooth. Deadly. “Then hurt him.”

You don’t move.

“What?” you whisper.

Kern is there with Voss. He must be, you think. It’s always his ideas, his commands. His sick, twisted, fucking game he loves playing so much. He’s watching. Always watching.

“Strike him,” Voss says again, with practiced ease. “Inflict pain. Make it convincing. Or we’ll send someone else in who won’t stop at convincing. Let’s see if you can break him yourself. Since you’re the one who got him into this mess.”

Your gaze locks onto the camera.

Then slowly, to him.

And he’s already nodding.

“It’s okay,” he croaks, voice rough. “Do it. I can take it.”

That’s what undoes you.

Not the order.

Not the setup.

Not even the threat.

It’s him.

The way he offers himself up like it’s normal. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s done this before.

You step forward. Slowly. Your limbs feel like they aren’t yours. Heavy. Shaking. Your hands curl into fists at your sides as you lower yourself to your knees in front of him.

He blinks at you. There’s blood on his teeth. Confusion flickers across his face.

“It’s okay,” he says again. “I’d rather it be you.”

“No,” you whisper.

“You have to.”

“No.”

You turn toward the camera, jaw tight. Your voice doesn’t shake.

“I won’t hurt him.”

Silence.

Then a breath of static. And a slow, amused hum from Voss.

“Disappointing.”

You barely have time to turn around.

The doors behind you slam open. Heavy boots. Two guards enter — bigger, armored, not here to play pretend.

“Stop!” you shout, scrambling to your feet. “I said stop—!”

They don’t listen.

They grab your arms. Yank you back. You thrash, wild, desperate, screaming his name as they drag you across the floor.

“Don’t touch him—please, don’t—!”

He lifts his head as they pull you away. You see it — just for a moment — his face, broken, bloodied, and still trying to find you through the blur.

“Little Dove—”

Then the door slams.

They don’t take you far. Just down a corridor, through a door you’ve never seen before. The walls here are darker, the air colder. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sickly hue on the metal surfaces.

You’re thrown into a chair, wrists and ankles bound with cold, unyielding restraints. The room smells of antiseptic and something more sinister — blood, sweat, fear.

Kern stands before you, clipboard in hand, eyes devoid of emotion. Voss watches from behind a glass pane, his gaze sharp and calculating.

“You disappoint me,” Kern says, his voice devoid of inflection.

You glare at him, defiance burning in your chest despite the fear coiling in your stomach.

“You had a chance to prove your loyalty,” he continues. “Instead, you chose weakness.”

He nods to someone behind you. A figure steps forward, face obscured, holding a tray of instruments that gleam ominously under the harsh lights.

The first cut is shallow, a mere scratch across your forearm. But it’s enough to make you flinch, to draw blood. The pain is sharp, immediate.

“This is just the beginning,” Kern says, watching you closely.

The next cut is deeper, slicing through muscle. You bite back a scream, refusing to give them the satisfaction. Blood drips onto the floor, pooling beneath your chair.

They continue, methodically inflicting pain, each wound calculated to cause maximum agony without causing death. Your vision blurs, sweat mingling with tears as your body trembles.

“Still silent?” Kern asks, raising an eyebrow. “Impressive.” He leans in close, his breath cold against your ear. “But everyone breaks eventually.”

The torment continues, each moment stretching into eternity. Your mind begins to fracture, pain overwhelming every thought. But through it all, you hold onto one thing — him. His face, his voice, his unwavering belief in you.

You won’t give them the satisfaction. You won’t let them win.

———

You don’t know how long it’s been.

Time blurs when you bleed this much.

The room is still — quiet now. The torturer’s gone. The instruments have been cleaned. You’re left hanging, slumped from your restraints, blood drying sticky down your sides. Your shoulders scream. Your legs are shaking. But you don’t make a sound. You won’t give them that.

Then the door opens again with the familiar sound of boots.

You don’t lift your head, but you already know it’s him.

Kern.

He doesn’t speak right away. You hear the slow flip of a folder. The click of a pen. Like he’s reading over notes before a meeting.

You force yourself to breathe.

To stay awake.

“I have to admit,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and even. “I expected more from you.”

Your jaw clenches.

“You had so much potential,” he continues, stepping closer. “All that power. All that pain. You could have been unstoppable.”

You finally lift your head. Slowly. Your vision doubles. One of your eyes is nearly swollen shut.

He smiles faintly.

“And then you got soft. Love makes you weak.”

You say nothing.

“You started caring,” he says. “You let him in. You started feeling things. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

Your voice comes out broken. Dry.

“You mean for you?”

“For everyone,” Kern replies smoothly. “But mostly for you.”

He leans in, just enough for you to see the glint in his eye. “He’s going to die because of you.”

Your breath catches. Kern sees it.

“That’s the part that kills you, isn’t it? Not the pain. Not the beatings. Not even what we just did to you.” His voice lowers. “It’s knowing that he’s the one who’s going to suffer next. Because of what you feel.”

Your body tenses, but you’re too weak to move.

“Every second you let yourself get attached,” he murmurs, “you carved the knife deeper into him. He’s broken because you didn’t do your job. He’s bleeding because you couldn’t follow orders.”

Tears sting behind your eyes.

But you won’t let them fall.

You won’t.

“Say it,” he says softly. “Say you understand what you’ve done.”

You look at him.

And somehow, through the haze, you still find it in yourself to spit. The blood hits his shoe.

Kern stills.

Then laughs, cold and quiet.

“I’ll give you credit,” he says, stepping back. “You’ve got fire.”

He walks to the door.

“But fire only lasts so long when there’s nothing left to burn.”

He glances back one more time.

“Rest up. You’ll need it. Next time, he’ll be watching.”

Then the door shuts.

And you’re left in silence.

Hanging by your wrists. Blood drying down your legs. Muscles trembling with pain.

But you don’t break.

Not yet.

Because even now — even ruined — you’re still his Little Dove.

And you won’t let them clip your wings.

———

They throw you back into your cell like you’re trash.

Your body hits the concrete hard, a sick thud followed by the rasp of the metal door slamming shut behind you. The sound echoes, then disappears into silence.

You don’t move.

Blood pools slowly beneath your cheek. Your body is a raw, pulsing thing — ribs cracked, wrists torn open where the restraints dug deep, skin burning where they cut, peeled, pressed. Your mouth tastes like rust and ash. Every breath is a jagged edge.

You couldn’t scream by the end. There wasn’t enough left.

And now — now there’s just the cold, the blood, and Kern’s voice still whispering inside your skull.

“He’s the one who’s going to suffer next. Because of what you feel.”

You try to push it away.

You try.

But it plays again, anyway.

“He’s going to die because of you.”

You want to scream — not from pain, not even from fear — but from fury. From shame. Because you know what he meant. Because you saw the way they looked at you when he bled for you. Because you saw him kneel and still offer himself just to keep you safe.

You curl into yourself.

You don’t cry. You can’t. There’s nothing left to give. Just the quiet drip of blood from your nose, the sting of your own heartbeat against split skin, and the knowledge that this — all of this — started the moment you let yourself feel something.

“Love makes you weak.”

No. No, it doesn’t.

But here, in this silence, on this cold floor… it’s so hard to remember that.

———

They left him on the floor. Just cold concrete beneath his ribs and the weight of dried blood caked in every seam of his skin. He hasn’t moved in hours. Can’t. His body doesn’t listen, not really. Everything aches. His shoulder’s out of socket again. Jaw split at the hinge.

But worse than the pain is the silence.

You’re not here. And he doesn’t know what they’re doing to you.

The door creaks open. No alarms. No guards this time. Just footsteps.

“Soldier,” Kern says, voice like ice poured down the spine.

A chill creeps under his skin. He flinches before he can stop it — barely a twitch, but Kern catches it. He always does.

“Still in one piece, I see,” Kern murmurs. “How resilient.”

The Soldier’s breathing tightens. Shallow and fast. His pulse scrapes in his ears.

Kern’s boots stop just beside his face. Close enough to step on him if he wanted to.

And for a second, it feels like he might.

The Soldier shifts — slow, broken — trying to push himself up onto one elbow, but his arm gives out. He crashes back down with a low grunt, breath shuddering. His eyes stay on the floor. He doesn’t even try to use his metal arm.

Kern crouches beside him. “Funny,” he says. “I thought you’d be relieved she wasn’t here. After all, you’ve done quite enough damage to her already.”

Silence.

Blood drips from the Soldier’s split lip.

“I saw her,” Kern continues, softly now. “After we pulled her out. Do you know what she said before she blacked out? She asked if you were still breathing. Not for herself. Not for freedom. Not even for mercy. Just you.”

He doesn’t respond.

He can’t.

Fear crawls up his throat, dry and clinging. He tries to swallow, but it sticks.

Kern leans closer. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” he whispers. “You care.”

The Soldier’s eyes flick up — just for a second — and Kern smiles.

“There it is,” Kern says. “That look. That flicker of something trying so hard to be human. Tell me, do you know what we do with broken weapons around here?”

A beat.

Then he says it. Quiet. Deliberate. “We reset them.”

The Soldier’s stomach turns. His breath catches.

No.

“I think it’s time we reminded you what you are,” Kern murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. “No more distractions. No more softness. We scrub the slate clean.”

He leans in even closer — like a lover, like a ghost — and breathes the next words right against his ear: “Would you like to forget her?”

The Soldier recoils. He actually tries to move — muscles spasming, panic jolting through his limbs like an electric shock. The restraints on his wrists bite in harder.

Kern stands. “You won’t remember her name. Her voice. The way she looked at you. All of it… gone. Just another crack sealed shut.”

He turns to leave.

“But don’t worry,” he adds, stepping over him like he’s nothing, “we’ll keep her alive. So you can hurt her again. Just like the first time.”

The door hisses open.

The Soldier lurches forward, gasping.

“Please—”

But Kern is already gone.

And the light flickers overhead. His face is still pressed to the floor, breath torn ragged from his chest, shaking with a fear deeper than pain.

Because death would be mercy.

Forgetting you?

That would be worse.

That would be the end.

———

The surveillance room hums low with static and fluorescent buzz. The screen in front of them flickers slightly — just enough to suggest interference, though neither man seems to mind.

Kern stands with arms crossed, posture crisp, almost elegant in his stiffness. Voss sits, as always, legs spread in a relaxed sprawl, suit jacket open, a finger tapping absently against the console.

Soldier is barely visible in the monitor’s grainy grayscale. Curled on the concrete, motionless. The bruises on his side have started to bloom purple-black.

“You saw her reaction,” Kern says calmly. “She cracked.”

“She didn’t hit him,” Voss points out.

“No,” Kern agrees. “But she disobeyed. That’s more valuable.”

Voss turns his head, slow and amused. “You enjoy this too much.”

“And you don’t enjoy it enough,” Kern replies, barely a smile. “We’re past the phase of brute compliance. If we want them to turn on each other, we need her to break where it matters. Not with screaming. With silence.”

Voss’s fingers stop tapping.

“You think she’ll still protect him after this?”

“She thinks she’s protecting him now,” Kern answers. “Guilt is a powerful motivator. And he—” His eyes flick to the screen. “—he’d rather die than let her suffer. We use that.”

“Until?”

“Until she begs us to erase him.”

Voss lets out a low whistle. “Cold.”

“She won’t mean it,” Kern says, unfazed. “But she’ll say it. That’s all we need.”

He pauses, tilting his head toward the monitor.

“You take something precious. Twist it. Make her believe he’s better off gone. That she’s the one keeping him in pain. Eventually, she’ll beg us to wipe him clean. To put him out of his misery.”

Voss hums. “And when she does?”

“Then she’ll never forgive herself,” Kern says quietly.

They both look at the screen again.

The Soldier hasn’t moved.

“Should I schedule another wipe?” Voss asks.

Kern’s lips twitch, not quite a smile. “No. Not yet. Let him remember. Let him rot in the fear of it.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes sharp as blades.

“Fear is the thread we pull.”

———

You’re back in the chair again. No restraints this time, but you know better than to think you’re free. The walls are smooth. Clinical. There’s no sound except the quiet hum of the overhead lights. Across from you, Kern sits with his fingers laced, calm as ever. No clipboard. No notes. Just watching.

He waits a moment before he speaks. Just long enough to let the silence crawl under your skin.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says finally.

You don’t answer.

His head tilts. “Not like last time. Not like the screaming.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I thought we made progress,” he muses. “But maybe I was wrong. Maybe you need another reminder of what’s at stake.”

Still, you say nothing.

Kern leans back slightly in his chair. “You know what I think?” He smiles — just a faint tug at the corner of his mouth. “I think you still believe there’s a version of this where you both survive. Where you get to keep him.”

Your hands curl into fists in your lap.

“But there isn’t,” he continues. “Not really. You were never meant to get attached. And he… he was never meant to feel anything.”

He pauses.

“But he does. And you do. And that… complicates things.”

You look up, finally. Meet his eyes.

“You did this,” you say quietly. “You made us like this.”

Kern smiles wider. “And now I get to unmake you.”

He stands. Walks slowly to your side — not touching, not even looming. Just circling.

“You’ll let him go eventually. I know you will. You’re too smart to die for someone so broken. You’ll fold. You’ll cry. And then you’ll beg us to end it.”

He stops behind you. His voice lowers.

“I hope you are aware that you are in control now. I’ll let you do the honors.”

Silence.

Then he leans in, just enough for you to feel his breath on your neck.

“We can wipe him. Make him forget you… or… He can suffer, of course. You both can. We’ll continue the tortures, the pain,” he whispers. “Maybe he’ll die in the process.”

He lets that hang in the air.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

And then, like nothing happened at all, he straightens and turns to leave the room.

“Until next time, 009.”

Interview over.

fuck kern we all say in unison!

Chapter four soon! 🕊️

tags (tysm for love and support): @tfamidoingwithmylife @stell404 @shakysif @unicornqueen05 @carolinianmermaid @zoroforlife @beforemdnight @nicksolemnlyswears

[agentpeggycartering]

For the prompt:

"i know you didn't just hang up on me without saying 'i love you'."

Thank you for the prompt, I had so much fun working on it!

"Oh, you did not just do that." Buck said, moving his phone away from his ear and starting at it in disbelief. "He did not just do that." Buck repeated.

"Who did what now?" Chimney asked from where he was sitting next to Buck on the bench in the locker room, putting his shoes on.

"Tommy. He hung up on me."

"That's what you do when conversations are over. It sounded like the conversation was over?" Chimney said, confused. He wasn't eavesdropping, but it was hard not to hear a conversation when it was happening right next to you.

"I mean, yeah, but he hung up without saying he loves me. He always yells me he loves me before we hang up." Buck said, and there might have been a tinge of desperation in his voice.

Because ever since he and Tommy had gotten back together after the lapse in November, they always ended their calls by saying that. Yes, they were taking things slow, Buck was letting Tommy set the pace this time around because they both realized that Buck had been going too fast for Tommy, but neither of them wanted to deny the feelings that had grown in the six months they'd been together. And it was a reassurance, for the both of them. That they were equally committed and invested. They they both still wanted to be here, wanted to work on this. They they saw a future worth working towards together.

"I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it." Chimney said, trying to reassure Buck.

"Well I'm going to make sure." Buck said, tapping the call button on Tommy's contact and bringing the phone up to his ear.

"Hi, Evan. What did you forget?" Tommy said, tone fond and amused. It was not an uncommon occurrence for Buck to call Tommy back only moments after hanging up the phone, having remembered something that he'd meant to tell his boyfriend but had gotten distracted from. Or realized he'd forgotten to tell him something to pick up while he was at the store.

"I didn't forget anything. You did."

"Oh? What did I forget?" Tommy asked, going along with Buck.

"You didn't tell me you loved me before you hung up the phone!" Buck said, not keeping his tone as neutral as he intended.

Tommy chuckled. "I didn't. Evan, I told you I loved you. I always tell you I love."

"Yeah, every time but this last time." Buck retorted.

"We only hung up a few minutes ago, my memory isn't that bad, Evan. I definitely told you I love you. Right after I told you to drive safe, and that I would see you when I was done at the store." Tommy told Buck.

"I would remember that too. And you didn't say it." Buck wasn't whining, was he?

"I might not have said it in English, but I did say it."

"You- what?"

"Ti amo. That's what I said to you. It's Italian."

And. Oh. Buck did remember hearing that. He just hadn't realized that it was something that Tommy was directing towards him. "Oh." Buck said, sheepish. Even though Tommy wasn't there to see it he ducked his head.

"It's okay, Evan. Just try to remember it for the next time, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. See you at home."

"See you at home, Evan. Ti amo."

"Love you too, Tommy."

[bumblesimagines]

so… what are we?

i had a ring and everything.

i wish i could take it all back.

(post timeskip) Betty Cooper

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Sexual content

(Y/N) wanted to hate himself. 

He knew better than to answer Archie Andrew's call. He knew better than to take days off work at the local university to visit Riverdale. He knew better than letting Betty sit beside him in the booth at Pop's and speaking more than a few sentences to her. He knew better than to agree to drive her home. 

He made a promise to himself two birthdays back that he'd forgo anything and everything that reminded him of Elizabeth Cooper. It was for his own good, for the sake of himself and any stable future relationships.

She chose work over him, over every single aspect of her social life, and he simply couldn't stand to continue living like a toy forgotten in the attic. It was for the best, he convinced himself repeatedly throughout the following years, each time his friends forgot about 'she-who-will-not-be-named'.

But it was hard to say no to so much history, and he was a sucker for familiarity. 

He knew Betty well, probably knew her better than she knew herself. He knew what made her tick, what amused her, what made her coo and awe, what made her blush, what made her gasp and moan. It annoyed him how pleasantly surprised he'd been to discover little to nothing had changed about her in the two years since they last saw each other.

Betty's blunt nails dug into his skin from the hand firmly planted on his chest, her other hand tightly gripping the armrest his head was leaning on. She rocked back and forth on his lap feverishly, her movements growing clumsy whenever he squeezed her ass with a lift only to push her back down. Her wavy blonde hair swayed and bounced, draped over her shoulders and cascading down her back. She'd grown it out since he last saw her. 

His hand slipped to grip her thigh and squeeze it, briefly amused by the sight of her underwear hanging limply from her knee. He leaned forward, his hand lifting to palm the back of her hair and bringing her in for a kiss. She cupped his face, her palms lightly pressing into his jawline, and breathily moaned into the kiss.

She pressed her body as close as humanely possible to his, her bra scratching against his chest in the progress. Betty was beautiful when she unraveled. There was a frothy ring at the base of his length and his lap was already a mess, a mess that covered her inner thighs with evidence that they weren't fully done with each other yet.

He was almost twenty-eight; he was well-aquatinted with the half-truths others spewed to appear innocent while plotting otherwise, especially when it was Betty.

She claimed she wanted to see his old childhood again after the years since he was staying there for the time being, he drove her there. She asked to see the inside again to jog her memory, he opened the door for her and pointed out things still there from their teen years. She asked for a drink, he poured a cup of wine for her. 

Within a few minutes and some jogs down memory lane, her mouth was on his and his hand was slipping past the waistband of her underwear. It was a tale as old as time.

Betty squeezed around him and her toes curled, her head tilting back and chest stuttering with a deep inhale of air that was released in cut-off exhales afterward. She spasmed in his lap a moment after, her hips jerking and hands digging into the muscle of his shoulders while her high washed over her. Betty panted and slumped in his arms with tired kisses pressed to the nape of his neck. 

"So…" Betty tucked some locks behind her ear and tucked her head further into his neck. He leaned back into the armrest again, his arms loosely wrapped around her and eyes focused on the white ceiling. "What are we?"

"Exes, Betty. This was just.. a lapse of judgment." 

Her hands pushed against his chest when she lifted herself to look down at him, her brows furrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Betty," He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We broke up, remember? Three years down the drain because you were more committed to being an agent than being an actual human being. I had a ring and everything. I was going to propose the night of our anniversary and you couldn't even show up for dinner!"

Betty's breath hitched in her throat and her pale green eyes flickered wildly between his. Her features softened. "You were going to propose?" She asked softly, the rising and falling of her chest quickening. "I didn't know. I.. I wish I could take it all back. If I'd known, I-"

"Nothing would've been different." He breathed soberly and reached back toward the side table beside the armrest to retrieve the box of tissues his mother often kept tucked inside. Betty grimaced. "You would've been married to your work instead of me." 

"Being an agent-"

"Almost got you killed." (Y/N) swallowed harshly and shook his head, averting his eyes to avoid looking at her saddened face. "It's in the past- we're in the past. I'm not doing this again, Betty. Not with you, not with anyone. I deserve better than that."

[cyras-visual]

Playback//残響 (Echo)

synopsis: Gojo’s old camcorder holds the ghost of a friendship: laughter, rooftop confessions, and the slow collapse of everything they thought would last. Years later, Shoko presses play. tw: Grief, trauma, blood, emotional breakdowns, smoking, loss, identity crisis. AN: in honourable mention of the new jjk movie, i made this not proofread

[00:00:01 – FILE: “1STYEAR_GOJO_CAM”] Footage begins. The image is unsteady, with light flares from the sun. Gojo’s laughter echoes, bright and reckless.

GOJO (behind camera): “Day 47 of being the strongest– and the hottest. Don’t get it twisted.”

The camera swings toward Shoko, perched on the rooftop edge, nose buried in a medical textbook. She flips Gojo off without looking.

SHOKO: “You’ve got brain damage, Gojo.”

GOJO: “Only the fun kind! Catch up, Doc.”

Geto leans into frame, serene, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he munches on a dango.

GETO: “Quit filming my snack breaks, idiot.”

GOJO” “What if I die tomorrow? You'd miss me.”

Getos's smirk widens.

GETO: “I'd sleep better.”

--

[00:08:33 – FILE: “DORM_ ROOF_EVENING”] Golden hour light filters through the trees around their dorm rooftop. The trio sits in a loose circle, sharing snacks. The mood is relaxed.

SHOKO (quietly, eyes distant): “Have you ever wondered if this is all we get? Just… this?”

GOJO (grinning): “meaning? High school memories and dango sticks?”

GETO (softly): “Maybe it's enough. Maybe it’s the only thing worth having.”

They lapse into silence, watching the sunset. The wind carries the faint hum of the city below.

--

[00:15:42 – FILE: “LAUGHTER_AFTER_TRAINING”] Heavy breathing, sweat dripping. Gojo clumsily attempts a spinning kick, losing balance and collapsing into the grass. Geto chuckles.

SHOKO: “Gojo, if you break your neck again, you're not getting patches up.”

GOJO (grinning): “Guess you’ll have to carry me then, Doc.”

GETO: “Some things never change. You always land on your ass.”

The camera catches a rare unguarded smile from Geto, warm but fleeting.

--

[00:23:11 – FILE: “SECRET_CONFESSIONS”] Night. They're sprawled on their backs, staring at stars visible between city lights.

GOJO (whispers): “What scares you the most?”

SHOKO (without hesitation): “losing who I am.”

GETO: “being forgotten.”

GOJO: “I'm scared, I'm not scared enough.”

Their breaths fog in the cold night air. The camera shakes as Gojo sets it down.

--

[00:31:07 – FILE: “INSIDE_JOKES”] Gojo's handheld camera zooms in on Geto's face as he delivers a dramatic retelling of their latest mission with theatrical flair.

GETO (mock-serious): “And then, like god of destruction– “

GOJO (interrupting): “Stop, you're gonna make me cry with how bad that was.”

SHOKO (laughing): “I think Getos are auditioning for ‘Most dramatic sorcerer’.”

They laugh together, the kind of laughter that stitches a wound you can't see.

--

[00:31:07 – FILE: “ORGANIZING”] Gojo films Shoko quietly organizing her medical kit. She doesn’t notice at first.

GOJO (soft); “you’re always so damn serious.”

Shoko looks up, surprised but not annoyed.

SHOKO: “Someone has to be. Someone has to fix you idiots.”

GOJO: “Someone has to save you from yourself, too.”

Their eyes meet briefly, a flash of something unspoken. The camera wavers with Gojo’s breath.

--

[00:56:18 – FILE: “MIDNIGHT_ROOFTOP_TALK”] Soft city lights flicker below. The three sit close together, legs dangling off the edge. The camera is propped on a crate, capturing all three in a loose triangle.

GOJO (grinning): “If you could change one thing about your future, what would it be?”

SHOKO (exhales deeply): “less pain, more peace.”

GETO (quiet, almost a whisper): “I don’t want to lose myself.”

Gojo turns to look at Geto, sensing the weight behind the words, but chooses silence.

--

[01:03:40  – FILE: “LAUGHTER_BETWEEN_MISSIONS”] The footage shows the trio in a narrow alley, shadows long. Gojo's goofy antics, trying to juggle cursed energy, are met with laughter.

SHOKO: “You're going to blow something up.”

GETO: “More than usual.”

Gojo's eyes sparkle, but beneath the laughter, a subtle tension lingers–Geto watches him with something unreadable.

--

[01:10:22 – FILE: “SHOKO_HEALING”] Shoko is patching Gojo's scraped knee after a training mishap. Her hands are steady, but her voice is softer than usual.

SHOKO: “You’re reckless.”

GOJO (teasing): “And you’re a nag.”

SHOKO (smiling faintly): “Someone has to keep you alive.”

The camera cuts off abruptly

--

[02:25:47 – FILE: “SHOKO_ALONE”] Shoko sits on her dorm steps, her face illuminated by pale moonlight. She's writing in a small notebook.

SHOKO (voiceover): “They think I'm the healer. But sometimes, I feel like a witness–watching them tear apart, piece by piece… despite being so in love.”

The camera lingers on her trembling hands.

--

[01:32:11 – FILE: “LAST_HAPPY_DAY”] The trio is on a bridge, watching the river below sparkle in sunlight. Gojos recording with a rare softness.

GOJO: “Promise me something– no matter what, we stay like this. Together.”

Geto nods, but his smile is fragile.

GETO: “I promise.”

SHOKO: “Promises don’t mean much, but… okay.”

They laugh quietly, the camera capturing a moment they all wish to hold forever.

--

[01:18:05 – FILE “GETO_ALONE_1] getos silhouette is dimly lit by a flickering streetlamp. His voice is low, trembling.

GETO: “Have you ever felt like your soul is peeling back from your body? Like… you're watching yourself rot from the outside in?”

He forces a smile, wiping blood from his face, not his own. Geto stans apart from the corpses in the village. The camera is handheld, shaky, focused on his face as his shadows grow long.

GETO: “I see things differently now. The world… It's cracked. Rotting from the inside out.”

He swallows hard, eyes distant.

GETO: “Sometimes, to save something pure, you have to burn it all away.”

He looks directly at the camera for a long moment, eyes hollow.

GETO (quieter): Don’t save this one, Satoru.“

The screen fades into black, the weight of the unspoken horrors pressing in.

--

[01:40:55 – FILE: “GOJO_ALONE_CRY”] Static flickers violently before the image sharpens into Gojo's tear-streaked face. His voice is barely more than a broken whisper, cracked like shattered glass.

GOJO (choked, trembling): “geto…—why did you leave me here? You were supposed to be… everything.”

Static distorts the audio. A long pause, broken only by quiet, ragged sobs.

GOJO (barely audible) “I swear… I’ll—”

The feed cuts out with a burst of white noise.

--

[01:45:20 – FILE: “SHOKO_MONOLOGUE”] Shoko sits alone in a dim room, cigarette smoke curling upwards. Her voice is flat, weary, but with an edge of pain.

SHOKO: “They say healing is about fixing what’s broken, but some things… some people… can't be fixed. Just watched. Just remembered.”

She stares at the camera, eyes hollow.

SHOKO: “I don’t know if it's mercy or curse–to carry all that loss.”

--

[01:50:43 – FILE: “GOJO_LAST_WORDS”] The camera shakes, unsteady in Gojo’s trembling hands. His bruised face flickers in and out of focus–sweat and blood mixing, the sharp scent of iron almost audible through the cracking audio.

GOJO (voice ragged, almost a whisper): “If you're… watching this… then I'm already fading–like smoke in a wind that doesn't care.”

He blinks slowly, the pain etched in every line of his face. A faint, broken smile tugs at his lips, fragile as glass.

GOJO: “Sukuna… he took me, tore me apart from the inside out. But maybe… just maybe… this isn’t the last frame of the story?”

His breath hitches. The camera tilts, catching a glimpse of something distant in his eyes—something haunted and hopeful all at once.

GOJO (soft, urgent): “I love you geto, I wish I said that before… and shoko, I wish I could’ve been with you more, I wish—” broken sob “I wish I was a better friend to you...”

The image wraps, the edge flickering like dying fireflies. His breathing slows, ragged and shallow, until silence swallows the frame.

The footage ends, cut abruptly to static.

The camera dies. Silence.

--

[02:10:12 — FILE: “SHOKO_FOUND_CAMERA_YEARSLATER”] Shoko, older now, her face lined with grief, sits in a quiet, dusty room. She presses play on the camera with trembling hands.

The old laughter and voices of Gojo and geto fill the air, ghosts of a happier time.

She doesn’t speak at first—only silent tears trace down her cheeks, ash from her cigarette falling onto a worn blanket.

SHOKO (breaking, to the camera) “You idiots… You never learned how to stay.”

She inhales deeply, voice barely a whisper.

SHOKO: “I should’ve burned these tapes.”

The camera dies. silence

[mythical-bookworm]

Let President Hall have his emotional support rubber ducky

[mindoermatters]

Watched Sonic the Hedgehog 3 (actually fun movie you should totally give it a try) a few days ago and thought of this...

K would totally be a Shadow fan—they're both dark-esque knights fighting against government(?) figures with probable identity issues—but hypes sonic because who doesn't love the little guy?

I don't know, they're all just really cool.

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #200!

Character: Arcee (ES)

Word count: 1k

Earth wasn’t so bad with good company, good food, and hearing a certain warlord had finally had a change of spark. Arcee finding herself to feel quite at home, and the benefits that followed settling in for the long haul made her contentment all the more satisfying.

With new bots sprouting up, new companions taking charge, and old waves of leaders, comrades, and Autobots alike finally getting the tentative retirement that they deserve, there wasn’t much else for them to do than to kick back, relax, and guide the new generations through their futures. Everyone had everything under control for once, and without an eons-long war to keep her on her toes, Arcee was finally able to wind down, too.

The Malto family was as inviting as they were independent, which meant lots of mischief for the young bots and lots of entertainment for the old Cybertronians like her. It also meant freedom, simplicity, and a chance to finally be the backup for once—something she had desperately craved for a a long, long time.

Arcee had been stuck for so long in autopilot that she had almost forgotten how sweet the world could be when she was allowed the chance to take a break every so often, and down here on earth with the humans to keep them company and her old friends to watch her back, she was just starting to catch up on everything she had missed in the age of destruction. She was turning a new leaf, just like they all were, and it felt so good.

She needed this lapse in action. She needed the quiet that came with peace and protection. Most of all, she needed the indulgence and satisfaction of sitting back on the small cot in her private room (Primus, it had been so long since she’d gotten her own room, let alone her own space) and enjoying the rapid effects that piled on after really taking it easy.

She was no archivist like Optimus in the olden days, and she definitely wasn’t as skilled in the medical field as someone like Ratchet, but she knew one thing was for sure, and it was that this—her soften frame, her plumped hips, her jiggly thighs and her curving belly—was the ultimate form that came from proper fueling and a healthy lifestyle. Cybertronians were a big, bountiful race, and it was all the more abundant in how the best of their species carried themselves. Soft bodies and fat frames had just about been lost in the sea of time, but it was starting to make a comeback… and that much was for certain.

Arcee was never very picky when it came to appearances. Then again, she couldn’t afford to be. Limited energon and the threat of extinction had weighed over their helms for much longer than the war between their two factions had gone on, and getting by on the barest of resources was nothing new. Things changed over time, though, no matter how long it may take, and finally, the cold winter that plagued them was over.

Earth had its threats. It had its limitations, its downsides. Thus was the way of things and the way of life, but things had changed for the better. She had changed for the better, just like Optimus, and… tentatively… just like Megatron.

She was softer, healthier, plumper. Primus, she was practically glowing, and fondling the rolls of fat between her fingers as she sat at the edge of her bedspread and studied the short work of a few months’ time reminded her of that. Her processor was constantly playing over and over the sensation of her thighs chafing as she moved, and she secretly obsessed with the warm satisfaction of a set of tanks filled to the very brim after every refueling. All was as she had always dreamed it would be, and she was glad to have finally made it to the end.

The Malto household was asleep, given the creaky floorboards’ silence and the absence of whispers on the top floors. There was no risk of unexpected visitors this late, and no sound of voices chattering on the other side of the thin building’s walls. She was alone for the night once again, which meant she had plenty of time to sit back, relax, and indulge herself a little more.

Arcee had been so in tune with every last bit of her frame for so long, it was hard to adapt and relearn from the beginning. Things made it easier when she was softer, though. She felt happier, and when she was happy, she could enjoy herself more—and enjoy she did. She drew her servos across the span of her rounded belly, she pinched at the bits of fat poking between pieces of plating, and she traced her digits over the tiger-striped lines marking every last inch of her fattened frame.

It was slow, tender, intimate… it was the kind of affection preserved for a lover, and it was the kind of obsession shown for priceless art. She, of course, fit both categories nicely. What better lover for her than her own self? What better picture of perfection than the weight she had gained in light of peacetime between her kind?

Earth meant fewer limitations, and fewer limitations meant filling up on fuel before taking her stuffed, sloshing belly and soft, fattened self into her quarters for another round of self-love… and then some. Arcee loved nothing more than the quiet nights spent with herself and herself alone as she mapped out the newest additions to her physique. The warmth and weight of a good, proper meal was a bonus, and it made rubbing her servos over the swell of her belly all the more satisfying.

This was her life now, her routine, and honestly? She would give anything and everything to keep it all just like this. A comfortable home, a fat frame, and the promise of tomorrow, and on top of that, the promise of more nights to come spent ravishing her frame in the attention it deserved.

Arcee’s smile grew as she cupped her belly and gave it a good squeeze. This was the life… and she couldn’t be happier.

[marlenesmajesty]

Bad Spells & Bad Signs

The day is finally here. My first book, 'Bad Spells & Bad Signs' has gone live on Amazon. Please give it a glance if you're looking for new reading material!

'When London witch Katharine tries a little magic to get her dead boyfriend back, she draws the attention of the Spellbinders - a joyless organisation dedicated to suppressing the existence of magic in the world. Specifically, she draws the attention of one of their top agents - Silvius, who has lived for his work for so long that he has mostly forgotten how to interact with normal people. Katharine is far from normal and she's very keen to see if she can charm her handsome new acquaintance into cutting her some slack. She finds herself torn between the memory of lost love and the possibility of future fun, while Silvius finds himself torn between duty and passion.'

UK store link

US store link

Canada store link

It's also available in other areas, I just didn't want the list getting too long.

It contains explicit sexual content. There is one relationship with aspects of femdom, then the primary relationship is sort of led by the woman too in many regards, though that's more open to interpretation. For the quality of writing, please see a [non-sexual] sample beneath the cut:

                    Silvius recognised the route they were taking. At least they really were headed back to Spellbinder Headquarters. There were worse places he could be taken after a lapse like that. Cursed creatures were not guaranteed freedom in England. Certainly not in cities, though the North could be more lawless in that regard. He had always been grateful to Madam Material for making a place for him in the Spellbinders. It had required overlooking a few quirks and finding ways to manage his condition. Nobody had asked her to put in that level of work. She had saved him.

                    And now Silvius had let her down again.

                    The closer they got to the headquarters of the Spellbinders, the more Silvius felt the weight of that guilt. The shame. Being brought to her door like a dog that had escaped the garden, covered in mud. Except he was covered in blood. He was sure he had killed in his cursed rage. He tried not to think about it, wary that recalling the emotions from that recent lapse might well elicit another resurgence of the curse. As much as Gina and Andreas annoyed him, they did not deserve to be torn to shreds in their own car.

                    Whatever spell the witches had used to put him to sleep was responsible for the carnage, of that Silvius was certain. They had muddled his mind and suffocated him with magic. Since his curse, magic had been something he could sense. It gave him signs of its presence that manifested in all sorts of different ways. The signs were often uncomfortable, but usually he had his reactions under control. The discombobulation from overexciting the curse in that false dream world had clearly sent it into overload. It was exactly the sort of curse surge that he feared. Exactly the kind that Madam Material had warned him against. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but that was worse in a way – surely he should have learned his lesson by now? He was not some unruly teenager grappling with a new affliction, he was an adult with responsibilities and aware of the need to control himself.

                    But here he was, naked and bloody being escorted back to headquarters.

[eirikrjs]

Fuck you been up to lately, Eirikr? How's your health progressing? Any games you've played or series/movies you've watched lately?

Yo!

I've been doing well, thanks for asking!

My medicaid reset after the new year, which means it's covering my therapy again after a 2 month lapse. Americaaaaaaaa

Here's what I've been consuming with my time:

GAMES:

First game I bought for my PS5 Pro. It's been very playable with only one hand, though getting the platinum is going to be out of reach until I can use both hands again. I've loved it, especially the combat, though the mandatory minigames during the main story were irksome. Yes, the original had mandatory minigames too but this game goes too far with their density, especially during Costa Del Sol, which I felt was the game's nadir.

Progress: Post game has been more enjoyable than the main game. Open world suits the combat engine. I've completed every region's data for Chadley. This includes the moogle wrangling. One-handed. Very irritating but I'm proud I could accomplish that.

A sale enticed me, plus I haven't played X in over 20 years. I may not even play X-2, it was the game that broke my unwavering faith in Square(soft) and ultimately led me to try out other JRPG publishers, eventually Atlus with Nocturne (it and X-2 were released in the US within a year of each other).

Progress: Just beat Seymour at Mt. Gagazet. I forgot that this game has some real teeth during certain bossfights. I suppose I'll be setting myself up to once again completely remake Sphere grids and min-max characters like I did circa 2002. I thought I would be annoyed by the game's pacing and the inability to skip cutscenes but the story is still good and I don't think I would have wanted to skip them anyway. I had forgotten so much, especially about Dream Zanarkand.

I haven't been enjoying this one as much as I'd hoped. Part of it I think is being spoiled by the FF Pixel Remasters' boost options to eliminate grinding. DQ3, on the other hand quickly became relentless, so, in lieu of grinding I didn't want to do, I lowered the difficulty to the "Dracky Quest" Easy mode. And it's been strange, since its major conceit is that it won't allow you to die. Any mortal blow still leaves a character with 1 HP; this includes the monster arena, which is the kinda cheese I do enjoy since you get great reward for winning those. Now, I would have preferred some kind of attack/HP rebalancing instead of perma-endure so I felt my equipment/party choices still mattered for something.

Progress: Reached Zoma's castle so I'll probably beat it tomorrow. I've still been having lots of fun rounding up monsters and exploring, so it hasn't been a total wash. For being a Famicom game originally, the scope is pretty staggering. Still, I'm an FF guy at heart.

SHOWS:

An absolute delight from start to finish and probably the best Star Wars production of the Disney era after Andor. I'm legit sad it's over with no Season 2 in sight.

Castlevania: Nocturne season 2

After feeling a bit whelmed by the first season, other than the surprising inclusion of Juste, I felt this one was an overall improvement and an interesting adaptation of series elements without being bogged down by them. Plus it embraces Castlevania's SMT-like side. Fingers crossed for more with this same creative team; they seem to have planted some seeds for a potential future Soma story within this season.

YouTube

I watch a lot of Dan McClellan, a Bible scholar and his companion Data over Dogma podcast.

[cadavpurr]

ok here’s why I think that molly and the tardigrade might actually be the same character. very very big spoilers under the cut

from the moment that the tardigrade is introduced to us, we are given the information that despite him being immortal, he has awful memory. he doesn’t remember anything beyond the fact that he’s the owner of the museum of everything, and he’s supposed to be documenting everything that’s ever existed, even through he’s also forgotten a lot of what he’s documented too… he’s not frustrated by being forgetful though, he’s just kind of accepting of it.

“yeah, but most of these books aren’t important. or, just unsorted or something. that’s why they’re in the junk pile. see, like this?… *why do I even have this? did I make this? who knows!*” - the tardigrade, chapter 41.

the tardigrade relatively lax demeanor towards his own flaws is something that he actually has in common with molly, especially how they act in the comics first and second arc. I don’t really think I need to elaborate on how little molly really thought of themself in the earlier comic because arc 2 really makes sure that you understand… something something “lazy idiot and im happy that way”.

it may seem like mollys issues regarding their memory didn’t appear until chapter 44, but in chapter 38, she talks to leaf about how she can’t remember anything about seeing her future selves from her pasts point of view. she refers to her life before working at the museum to be a blur together in her memory. that’s 26 years of not remembering anything from her personal life. molly and the tardigrades lapses in memory is actually the most important part of this theory, they’re the only two characters that have this trait brought up multiple times throughout the story… it’s almost weirdly emphasized in a way.

alright this next part is like. a REALLY big hypothetical, and it’s also kind of hard for me to explain properly but hear me out here. what if your physical appearance at the end of time is based solely on how you perceive yourself? i genuinely have no “real” evidence for this beyond the tardigrades height inconsistencies. check how tall he is in chapter 2 vs how he’s mollys height in chapter 46 it’s kind of funny. sorry that was mean LOL. but anyways im saying this because I had this thought: when Jo and leaf eventually die, mollys going to be left alone with the tardigrade for a nearly incomprehensible amount of time. there’s a line of dialogue or a post that peyton made, I can’t remember which but ill come back to update this later when I find it, where the tardigrade explains how they find more stuff to put in the museum. he just goes out into the end of time and wanders until he finds something, and sometimes it takes *years.* so what if one day he just goes out and doesn’t come back? without the tardigrade, Molly won’t have anyone to remind them about who they are, or where they came from. the only thing they’ll be able to remember is that they’re immortal, and they’re in charge of the museum. so they turn into the tardigrade… thus making the story a loop. fucked up ain’t it.

(you could also make the claim that the tardigrade was never an actual tardigrade to begin with and it’s just a weird costume from one of those remotes but idk i like this idea better.)

there’s plenty of other instances of Molly and the tardigrade being eerily similar to eachother though. probably more than I can currently remember (it’s been a second since I reread mfm in its entirety) but this is one that always comes to mind when I talk abt this

anyways that’s all I can think of for now. ill come back to this later im tired lol… I didn’t know where to put this panel below but hey wouldnt this be cool if it was foreshadowing

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

If you're looking for some indie novels to get you into the Halloween mood, let me recommend the works of my friend Ren Montgomery. She's self-published over on Amazon, and I want to get the word out for her three books.

Horror

Haunt is a period piece set in the late 1970s. It tells the story of the Stewarts, a dysfunctional family who are looking for a fresh start in a brand new housing development, but the trauma they bring with them feeds into something sinister within the house itself. Pete is an abusive alcoholic, Mae is a lapsing fundamentalist at her wits' end, and their three young girls Kelly, Robin, and Lori are just trying to get through the new school year without slitting each others' throats.

Ren explores what it means to have faith when your views don't line up with what your Church dictates, and when those in power don't have your best interest at heart. Haunt is about the ties that bind a struggling family together, for better, or more often for worse, and the pain they face while trying to break the cycle of abuse. The presence which darkens the doorstep of the Stewarts' new haunt heightens their worst impulses and brings each and every one of them to their personal breaking point.

Haunt is both terrifying and gripping, and the 70s setting permeates every aspect of the plot; it doesn't feel like a modern story with a nostalgic 1970s coat of paint over it, it feels like something straight out of the dingy, smoke-filled, no-seatbelts-or-airbags era, an oft forgotten aspect of the decade that so many authors struggle to capture on page.

Contemporary fantasy

Monsters Are We is a story about burning bridges, both accidentally and on purpose. With some relationships, when the passion is gone, you can cut your losses and go your separate ways, but Penelope Draven doesn't have that option. Her old life with Leo the soul-sucking cheater needs to come to an end so her new life can begin.

She's danced this dance before, but this time around is going to be much more difficult for two very important reasons. First, she finally has something that makes her hesitate before throwing it all away, something she wants desperately to take with her when she goes; her teenage daughter, Clementine. Second, Leo knows what she is, what she's done, and what she's capable of, and he's not going to let either of them go so easily.

Ren explores the relationship between a mother and daughter from two very different generations, but who are more like one another than either realize. Monsters Are We is about figuring out who you are and choosing who you want to be. It's about being allowed to make irreparable mistakes so you can learn from them. The Draven girls find themselves on a road trip to hell and back which puts their lives and the lives of their closest friends into Leo's crosshairs. When they find themselves down on their luck, Penelope knows how to make her own, but it comes with a price.

Psychological thriller

Drawn to You is the story of the one that got away and one woman's twisted machinations to try and get it back. Ruby Deardon never got over her college crush, Sean Chaplin. They could have had something beautiful, Ruby tells herself, if only they had had anything at all. The timing was never right, the dominoes never fell the way she needed them to, so she lost her chance at her fairy tale happy ending.

Well, after nearly a decade of pining from a distance she decides to take matters into her own hands and insert herself back into Sean's life so they can finally have the life she's always wanted. He wants it too, she's sure of it, he just doesn't know it yet.

But just as she's about to zero in on Sean, she learns that Jeremy is zeroing in on her. She's was his one that got away, and while most women would be wary of his level of obsession, Ruby sees him as nothing but an obstacle standing between her and the future she's set her mind on. Jeremy is an unexpected dog in Ruby's game of cat and mouse, but cats have claws, and he has no idea what she's willing to do to make sure the mouse gets got.