#He's so evil and twisted and evil and twisted and evil and twisted and evil and twisted and evil

[littlelamy]

“okay, but i’m serious this time,” you said, squirming back against the beach towel while rafe kissed down your stomach. “don’t, like.. do that thing with your tongue unless you’re prepared.”

he looked up from where his mouth hovered over your mound, brow raised, lips already shiny. “what thing? baby, my tongue’s got a long menu. you’re gonna need to be more specific.”

“you know what i mean!” you whined, wiggling under him, hands braced on his shoulders. “the curl..that evil curl thing. the one that makes my legs do the funky chicken.”

“ah,” he said, smiling slow. “you mean the soul-eater..noted.”

“you’re such a dick.”

“you love my dick,” he said, pressing a kiss right at the top of your slit, grinning when your whole body jumped. “and my tongue. and me.” you groaned, covering your face with one arm. “yes, i love you, now shut up and get back to work.”

“say please,” he said, licking a line from your entrance to your clit. your hips jerked automatically.

you gasped, “please..”

“good girl..” his hands instantly gripped the insides of your thighs, holding you open with casual strength, and then he buried his face between your legs like you were his first meal in a full-blown year.

you let out the loudest moan and whimper, “oh my gosh, rafe—”

his tongue worked you slow at first. lazy licks that teased more than they gave; he wanted you to whine, wanted you to squirm maybe even cry. he flattened his tongue, dragged it up your slit, then sucked your clit between his lips with obscene gentleness.

“you’re so wet already,” he said, pulling back just long enough to breathe against you. “what’s got you this needy, huh? was it the swimsuit? me telling you to bend over for sunscreen?”

“yes,” you gasped, toes curling. “you were rude about it!”

“i was honest.” he went right back in, licking with more purpose now, mouth noisy and shameless. your back arched, fingers twisting in his hair.

“rafe—fuck—oh oh my, don’t stop—” it's very obvious he didn't; his tongue flicked over your clit, faster now, then slower, then fast again. he knew exact what he was doing, and he wanted you to know that he knew. his fingers dug into your thighs to try and still your body, but you couldn’t help it, your hips rocked against his face, chasing everything you could.

“you taste so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, teasing you, “like fuckin’ candy..my pink sugar pussy?”

“you’re disgusting,” you moaned, your whole body tensing.

“and you’re about to cum.”

“no i’m not,” you lied immediately, not giving him the satisfaction.

he pulled back, blinked up at you, lips wet. “baby..”

you blinked down at him, wide-eyed, panting. “what?”

“you’re clenching like you’ve got a gun to your head. even your eyes are crossing, just cum.”

“don’t tell me to cum like it’s that easy—” as soon as he curled his tongue, you shrieked. it wasn’t a scream, exactly. more like a choked-out cry that you didn’t even recognize. your legs snapped around his head, body jerking from the immense pleasure and liquid coming from you.

your eyes flew open in panic. “rafe—” he pulled back, arousal dripping, stunned for half a second, then a proud grin graced his very attractive face.

“holy shit, you just squirted.” your face went nuclear. “oh my god—oh my gosh—no i didn’t—”

“you did! baby, i felt it hit my face! i saw it! dammit baby i felt it!” you tried to close your legs but he held them open, just staring at the mess. the towel underneath you was soaked. his chest was damp, and his chin was shiny.

“i—i think you broke me,” you wailed, covering your face. “i’m never coming back from this. i’m dead. bury me in the sand.”

he leaned up, kissed your wet thigh, nipped it with his teeth. “you’re so fuckin’ cute,” he said, voice softer now. “embarrassed over something that just made me hard as fuck.”

“you’re so annoying!”

“you’re so sensitive now. i could just look at your pussy and you’d flinch.” you whimpered as he blew cool air on your clit and laughed when you jerked. “stop! i’m tender!”

“i know, baby,” he said, crawling up to kiss your mouth, not caring at all that his face was soaked with you. “you’re perfect.”

“i can’t believe—”

“believe it,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “you squirted all over my face like the good little mess you are.”

“i’m never letting you go down on me again.”

“you say that every time.”

“i mean it this time.”

he just smiled, pressed his hand over your fluttering belly, right where the orgasm had wrecked you. “sure, sweetheart,” he said. “until next time.”

coco's notes: i’m having soooo much fun writing for chichi right now! and i just wanted to say the BIGGEST thank you for 5k followers—i’m seriously so grateful that any of you even take the time to read my stuff, let alone follow me! closer to the end of the month, a 5k celebration will be post so def look out for that!

❤︎‬ tags below

taglist𑄽𑄺: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @rafesangelita @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @@ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @wintercrows @st8rkey @nemesyaaa

[pricechecktranslations]

Not sure if this was asked before, but what’s your favorite plot twist (or the one you think was the best written) in EC?

I've written about the Elluka-is-Levia twist before--genuinely I think that's the best one. I won't make another long essay about it but I think it added a ton of depth and really turned the series on its head.

Close second would be the Margarita-is-Eve twist. I adore it. I know a lot of fans come away from all this thinking the story unfairly maligns Eve but I really, really enjoy her as a villain. There was something so creepy about discovering that everything you knew about a character was wrong, that this part of the backstory which had up until this point been distant and far removed from the rest of the series was actually still relevant the whole time. It was Eve's debut in the novels, you know, not counting her other identities. Revealing that she had deceived not just Elluka but the reader as well.

It's true there are some parts of it that don't 100% work--I don't know what the deal was with Platonic, and she didn't sound particularly like Eve when speaking to Mikulia in her head--but there's so many elements that line up with it, I do truly think it was planned all the way back in the Daughter of Evil series, if not from the start. "Mikulia" being callous enough to murder her own child, the way the Sloth doll has been described as the "mother" of all sins, Irina carving it to look like Eve...It's one of those "the truth was staring you in the face all along" type reveals, but it just hadn't occurred to anyone as the kind of thing that could happen in-universe.

And it's one of those twists that's just. Not as easy to enjoy now that the cat's out of the bag, you know? Everyone takes for granted that Eve is the demon of Sloth, that most of the contracts in the series are unique in how they occur. But the twist completely changed how we (I, at least) viewed the series. The Seven Deadly Sins series frames itself as very formulaic with its first two books; contractor gets a demon vessel, makes contract, bad shit happens, they die and Elluka shows up too late to make any meaningful intervention or retrieve the vessel. The Sloth novel sets itself up as following this same formula. Only, we discover that there was never any demon and there was no contractor either. It was the spirit of a human mage instead, driven mad by living as a demon for centuries. It completely broke the formula.

And this also came at a time when the identities of the demons as a whole were largely unknown to us, so they were viewed as more monstrous beings (because all we knew was their corrupted animal forms). This made it stand out more that Eve was actually human, and thus not one of them. New fans of course know that the demons were all originally Second Period denizens, so Eve no longer feels like as much of an anomaly. I once had an anon ask what the line "false sin" meant in Crimes and Punishments because to their knowledge it was only "revealed" that Eve wasn't part of the original demon lineup in the OSS novels--No!!! it's referring to the twist of the Sloth novel! Argh!!!

Anyway, apologies for the long essay on that one. Another twist that I deeply enjoy and is absolutely ruined for all new fans forever is the reveal that Irina is the red cat, not the mage whose shoulder it perches on. The thing is that her (narratively) first host, Abyss IR, being an old woman gave her a semi-plausible reason to have history with the immortal Elluka, and it played into stereotypes about "evil old crones" besides (even Arkatoir talks smack about her for being old and creepy, which is doubly tragic in hindsight given that this was an innocent woman being controlled for who knows how long). And not knowing that it's actually the cat that's the problem creates a lot of mystery and tension with plot points like Elluka being "possessed" by Abyss, Mikina taking in the red cat later, etc. The beginning of the fourth novel starts with the heroes heading to Marlon to confront a great conspiracy that they believe Abyss IR is at the head of, and then when they get there they discover that she fucking died offscreen! Brilliant! Completely ruined by knowing the truth ahead of time!

[brownsugarcoffy]

The Touch of The Haint Blues |1|

Summary:

After losing his twin brother in a bloody clash with men more monstrous than they seemed, Stack wanders the South as a freshly-turned vampire—alone, hunted by the sun and haunted by regret.

When a ghostly melody pulls him to a lonely house by the sea in South Carolina, he meets Zara—a mysterious and seductive woman who knows his real name, his past, and perhaps... his fate. What Stack doesn’t know is that Zara isn’t human. She’s been waiting in the shadows for something like him.

Characters: Zara(OC) x Stacks" Ellais" Moore (Vampire)

Themes: Gullah Geehee Folklore, Supernatural, Boohag, N-word, Vulgar Language, Sexual Content, Vampire Lore, Violence, Death & more...

NOT EDITED

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

The night sky over Delta, Mississippi, was thick with smoke and silence. The juke joint was a hollow skeleton now, its beams blackened and groaning, fire having eaten its way through the soul of the place. What was once alive with music, laughter, and heat was now a burnt offering to death.

Stack emerged from the shadows just past sundown. The heat still licked the air, and ash drifted around him like slow-moving snow. He hadn’t moved since the light came—hiding inside the cold crawlspace under the juke, away from the sun that threatened to burn him back to hell.

Everything outside was burning.

The bodies were still there. Scattered. Some facedown. Some curled where they'd fallen. Klansmen in regular clothes—no robes, no hoods. Just men. Smoke had known. Knew something was off. Knew tha buying the mill from that white men was a mistake. Stack should have listened.

He stepped over blood, boot prints, and buckshot. And then he saw him.

Smoke.

His twin.

Face turned to the sky, one hand still wrapped around the barrel of a smoking gun, his abdomen soaked red.

Next to his body lay the mojo bag. The one Annie gave him. The one Smoke always wore—never took off. Except now.

Stack dropped to his knees.

He didn’t touch the bag. He couldn’t. The magic burned his flesh now. It warded off evil, and that’s what he was.

“You stubborn nigga,” Stack muttered, voice cracking.

He looked at his brother’s face. Strong jaw, mouth slightly open like he was mid-word when the final breath left him. Smoke fought like hell. Stack could see it in the bodies around him, in the drag marks, in the twisted limbs of every man who tried to kill him.

And they almost did.

But not before Smoke took them all with him.

Including Remmick.

The pond just outside the mill still glistened in the moonlight. That’s where it happened—where Smoke found Sammie screaming, Remmick trying to pull him under like some demon. Smoke didn’t hesitate. He dragged that thing into the water and drove a stake straight through Remmick’s chest.

Remmick didn’t die easy.

But when the sun rose, its light burst over the trees and hit the pond. It caught Remmick mid-scream, flames rushing up his skin like paper catching fire. He went up in a flash, nothing left but ashes in the wind.

And the rest of them—the clan of vampires that had been turned last night—they burned too. Every last one of them. Smoke made sure of it.

Now, everyone was dead.

Annie and Smoke—gone.

The Klansmen silenced by Smoke’s last stand.

Mary vanished into the Delta night, shadows swallowing her whole.

Sammie? He was the last hope. He was probably back home by now, safe…or so he prayed. If praying still worked for him.

Stack sat beside his twin’s body for what felt like hours. Thinking. Remembering. Cursing.

He thought about Annie.

How she looked at him when he bit her—her lips trembling, blood on her neck, her voice whispering Smoke’s name.

She had begged Smoke: “If I ever get bit, kill me. Promise me.”

And Stack had crossed the line.

Not to save her.

But because he was starving.

Because the hunger had taken over.

Because somewhere deep in his rotted heart, he was afraid of being alone.

Remmick knew that.

Remmick fed that fear. Whispered in his mind like a devil.

You’ll be alone forever.

Mary had made the change. Not Remmick. The girl from his youth. The one with laughter like river water and eyes that used to make him feel whole.

She came to the juke joint last night with a soft voice and promises. She claimed she could help the juke survive, but somehow, she came back with gold coins and a sultry grin.

Then she kissed him, and Stack let his old flame ignite the lust in him that he's been keeping down for weeks.

Then she turned him. It was painful and eventually became painless. He didn’t ask. He didn’t want it, but he let her.

Because loneliness is its own kind of hunger.

Now he hated her for it.

Not because she lied—though she did.

Not because she vanished into the night when things went bad, but because she gave him this curse and left him to carry it alone.

Stack rose slowly, gently lifting Smoke’s body into his arms. He took him beyond the ashes, past the ruined mill, into the brush where the earth was soft. There, with a half-bent shovel, he dug until his arms ached and his bones screamed.

He wrapped Smoke in the old dance floor tarp.

Lowered him in.

Didn’t cry.

Just stacked stones after.

No cross. Just a place.

He reached into his coat and pulled out tobacco and paper. Smoke had always smoked Lucky Strikes, but since the war, he couldn’t roll his own. Hands shook too much. Stack always did it for him.

He pinched the tobacco, sealed the paper, lit it with a match.

Brought it to his lips.

The smoke curled in the air like a ghost.

“To my twin,” he whispered. “Hope you find peace… with Annie and your baby girl.”

He took a long drag, eyes on the grave.

“You were right,” he added, voice low. “All money ain’t good money.”

He flicked the match into the dirt.

Turned his back to the grave.

And walked off into the night, smoke trailing behind him like a shadow that would never leave.

Stack wandered.

Through Mississippi. Into Alabama. Down through the swamps of Louisiana. Night after night. State after state. Feeding only when the hunger gripped too tight to ignore.

He learned things.

Learned how to slip into someone’s thoughts like fog under a door. How to pull strings in their minds—twist memory, erase moments, bend wills.

Make them forget he was ever there.

He couldn’t walk in daylight. So he learned to hide. In basements, root cellars, inside hollow trees. Learned to feel the shape of the sun behind his eyelids.

Time blurred. Faces changed.

The guilt didn’t.

One night, after so many miles that his boots had become thin and his soul thinner, he heard it.

The ocean.

A sound different from the rivers and swamps he had wandered through. Bigger. Deeper. Endless.

Waves crashing like slow thunder.

He followed it. Body moving without thinking.

And then he stumbled on a sign, half-hidden behind brush and Spanish moss.

St. Helena Island, South Carolina.

He stood there in the dark, the salt thick in the air, the wind off the water brushing over his skin like a whisper.

For the first time in a long time, Stack didn’t know what he was looking for.

But he knew he had to keep going.

The humid night air of St. Helena Island clung to Stack like a second skin—thick, heavy, and unforgiving. Weeks had passed since he laid Smoke to rest beneath the cracked earth beside the old mill. The weight of loss settled in his chest, colder than the night and sharper than any hunger clawing inside him.

The distant roar of the ocean teased his senses, calling him toward salt air and crashing waves. Drawn by some unseen pull, he stepped through tangled woods until the sand cooled beneath his boots and the scent of jasmine hung heavy in the breeze.

Then—there was the voice.

A slow, haunting melody that slithered through the dark, wrapping around him like smoke. It was soft, seductive, but beneath it lingered something darker—a promise, a warning.

Stack paused, heart pounding, instincts sharp. The song led him to a small white house, bathed in silver moonlight, standing alone near the beach. One window cracked open, letting the music spill out like a dark invitation.

On the porch stood a woman.

Her gown flowed like water, shimmering under the moon’s gaze. A blue scarf wrapped around her hair framed a face both beautiful and dangerous, eyes gleaming like polished stones. Her smile was slow, knowing—like she held secrets meant to unravel him.

“Well, well,” she said, voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp. “What brings a lost soul like you to my little corner of the world?”

Stack’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. Lost? No one was lost who survived what he had. But he played the part, voice low and cautious. “Just passing through. Lookin’ for nothing more than silence.”

Her laughter was a soft wind, teasing but unreadable. “Silence can be the loudest thing of all.”

Stack took a measured step forward, every movement deliberate, his voice slick but guarded. “Maybe. But sometimes the loudest things are best left unheard.”

She cocked her head, curiosity flickering in those dark eyes. “You carry a storm behind those eyes, stranger. What’s your name?”

Stack’s grin was slow, careful—a smirk meant to keep walls intact. “Names don’t mean much in the dark.”

Her smile deepened, playful but edged with something sharp. “Fair enough. But I know you’re no ordinary wanderer.”

Stack’s gaze hardened. “Maybe I’m just a ghost looking for a place to rest.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, the night seeming to hold its breath. “Or maybe you’re the storm itself.”

Stack’s breath hitched, not from fear but from the cold thrill of challenge. He studied her—the way she moved, the way her voice dripped with mystery. He could sense the power beneath the surface, something older, something dangerous.

He didn’t trust her.

Not yet.

But something about her song, her presence, was pulling him in deeper than he wanted to go.

Whatever she was, Stack knew this was no ordinary meeting.

And he wasn’t ready to let her see the man behind the name.

The night stretched quiet between them, the hush of waves brushing against the shore in the distance. Crickets sang low and steady from the brush, but even they seemed to dim in her presence.

Stack stayed in the shadows just beyond the porch’s light, his stance relaxed on the surface—but every muscle beneath his skin was coiled, ready. He knew danger when it wore a pretty face. Knew how temptation often came dressed in silk and soft melodies. And this woman—whatever she was—had the air of someone born to unearth buried things.

Zara leaned against the porch post, folding her arms slowly, eyes never leaving him. She looked amused. Or maybe curious.

"You don’t talk much, Elias Moore," she said, so casually, like she’d plucked his name out of the breeze.

Stack went still.

The porch light flickered behind her, casting her face in shifting shadows, but he didn’t miss the slight upturn of her lips.

That name—his name. His real name. Not the one he'd gone by since he'd started drifting. Not the one he gave strangers in juke joints or to the people he fed on. Elias Moore was a name tied to a life long gone. A name only a few still remembered—most of them dead and buried.

His voice dropped, low and sharp. “I don’t recall givin’ you that name.”

Zara tilted her head, her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “No, you didn’t.”

The air shifted.

Stack took one step back, just enough to show he was no fool. His shoulders stayed square, but the smile was gone. All that was left was a cold, guarded stare and the sharp gleam of someone sizing up a threat.

“You ain’t no regular woman,” he said, voice gruff, edged with warning.

“No,” she admitted, almost like a purr. “But neither are you.”

Stack’s jaw ticked. He hated how calm she was. How much she already seemed to know. He couldn’t feel her thoughts—not like he could with most folks. Her mind was like a locked room with no door.

"Been a long time since somebody called me that," he said. “Longer since I let ‘em walk away after.”

Zara smiled again, unbothered. “You won’t hurt me, Elias.”

"Don’t be too sure."

That made her laugh—not loud, not mocking, just quiet and pleased, like a cat who’d cornered something worth toying with. “I like you,” she said. “You got bite, but you're not nearly as hidden as you think you are. Not from me.”

Stack glanced toward the beach, toward the woods, calculating just how fast he could vanish if he needed to.

“You got a name?” he asked finally, his voice cold as river stones.

She nodded. “Zara.”

He nodded once. No smile. No charm. Just calculation.

Stack might’ve been slick and fast-talking once, a lover of the night and the thrill of the hustle—but that man died the night Smoke did. The one standing here now was something else. Harder. Hungrier. Suspicious of anyone who smiled too pretty and spoke like they already knew where to find the cracks in his armor.

And Zara?

She was smiling like she had already seen every piece of him before he even stepped out the shadows.

Zara could read him. Every inch of him.

He didn’t trust her. And he was right not to.

She was no witch. Not just some Southern spell-slinger with a pocket full of hexes.

She was a boohag. Skinless in her true form, born of nightmares and hunger. And now, after years of boredom, she had something new to study. A vampire who hadn’t even learned the depth of his own curse.

She could taste his sorrow, his rage, and something else—resentment.

Zara smiled again, stepping into the moonlight as the tide pulled in a whisper from the sea.

Yes, she thought. This one would do nicely.

The door creaked open at her gesture, soft and deliberate.

“Come in, if you’re not afraid,” she said.

“I’m not afraid,” he said, but his voice held the careful tone of someone who’d been lied to one too many times.

Zara stepped aside and watched him enter, her eyes never leaving the tense curve of his shoulders.

The air inside smelled like clove, rum, and old secrets. Candles flickered on wooden shelves. Books stacked on every surface. A large mirror sat crooked on the wall—but not one that showed everything.

Stack’s eyes took it in. All of it.

“You always live out here alone?” he asked.

“I like the quiet. Besides, people are noisy. Full of questions they don’t really want the answers to.”

He tilted his head, leaning slightly against the doorframe. “You always invite strange men into your home?”

“I don’t invite men,” Zara said. “I invite chaos.”

Stack almost smiled at that. Almost.

He watched her, waiting. Trying to feel her out. Her magic was quiet—woven into her presence, not flashy or loud. But it was there. In the air. In the weight of her gaze.

And she watched him too, taking in the coiled tension that hadn’t left since he stepped inside. She liked that. He was hungry, but careful. Brave, but broken.

Zara turned her back to him and lit a small brass lantern on the mantle. The light painted her skin with gold and shadow.

“You smell like death,” she said.

Stack’s voice didn’t waver. “So do you.”

She laughed again. “You got sharp teeth. I like that.”

“And you?” he asked. “What is it you got?”

Zara turned slowly, eyes gleaming. “Time.”

A silence passed.

Then she stepped closer, a few inches away now. Her scent was rich, deep, earthy like the moss and bones of the marsh. Her eyes searched his face, studying it like a book she already knew the ending to.

“You gonna stay a while, Elias Moore?” she asked softly.

He looked at her hard. “I didn’t say that was my name.”

“No,” she said, grinning. “But I did.”

Stack didn’t move.

The name Elias Moore still hung heavy in the air like gun smoke.

Zara had returned to her chair by the fireplace, legs crossed, eyes watching him over the rim of a glass filled with dark red liquid. Wine, maybe. Maybe not. She sipped slow, lips stained the color of blood.

The flickering lanterns gave her skin a bronze glow, making her eyes seem older than her face — ancient, in fact. Like something born before names ever mattered.

Stack stayed standing, spine tight, thumb twitching near the hidden knife he still carried more out of memory than need. He didn't know what she was yet, but something in him — something buried deep whispered that she could peel him apart without lifting a hand.

“How you know that name?” he asked at last, his voice low and sharp like a razor dragged slow over skin.

Zara tilted her head, amused. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“That ain’t what I go by no more.”

“No,” she purred. “But it’s the one your mama whispered when she kissed your forehead. It’s the name your brother cried out when he held you in his arms as you bled out.”

Stack stiffened. A flicker of grief, rage, and something close to fear ghosted across his face, then vanished.

Zara smiled wider. She liked poking soft spots.

“Now how the hell would you know that?” he growled.

She didn’t answer right away. She just rose from her chair and walked slowly across the creaking wooden floor, barefoot and graceful like something not entirely tethered to the earth. Her presence pulled at the edges of reality. The air shifted with her movements.

“I know a lot of things, Elias.”

“Stop sayin’ that name,” he snapped.

“Why?” she asked softly, almost sweetly. “Afraid it might make you remember who you are?”

He took a step back, only barely. His lips curled, and that slick charm rose up like an old reflex.

“You tryin’ to get inside my head?” he asked, voice cool and dangerous now. “’Cause you won’t like what’s in there.”

Zara stepped into the edge of moonlight pouring through the open window. Her silhouette was sharp, haloed in silver.

“Already peeked,” she said, her voice velvet. “And you're right—it’s deliciously messy.”

Stack’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t let anyone this close since Smoke. Not since the war, the bite, and the blood-soaked promise he made at the mill.

“I don’t know what you are,” he muttered.

“No,” Zara whispered, “but you will.”

She turned her back to him again, as if trusting he wouldn’t strike. As if daring him to.

And Stack… didn’t move.

Instead, he lit a cigarette — the same way he used to roll them for Smoke. His hands remembered even if his soul didn’t. The tobacco burned slow, and he stared into the ember like it could pull him back in time.

“Hope you found peace,” he muttered under his breath, " because I'm living in hell.”

Zara heard him. Of course she did.

But she said nothing.

She simply watched him in the reflection of the crooked mirror.

And smiled.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

[sturniphone]

how would older!matt react if him & bunny!reader got in a fight in the car,and he was so mad to the point where he left her on the sidewalk and then realized that he shouldn’t have done that?

THIS IS SO SAD !! HE WOULD NEVER

if he ever turned evil..

turns the car around so fast. sees her on the sidewalk all curled up, hugging herself. his gut twists. ❝bunny… fuck. i’m so sorry.❞ runs up, hands shaking, voice low. kisses her forehead, arms, anything.

❝was mad but not like that. never at you. shouldn’t’ve left. won’t ever do that again. swear.❞ holds her close like she’s breakable. like he knows he messed up. spends the rest of the night saying sorry soft into her hair. doesn’t let go once.

[yanderes-galore]

Burning spice (or just any immortal cookie) with a child they raised over the years. Plot twist mc is not immortal and is getting older and older how would they react to that as a platonic Yandere hehehe im so evil

Herald of Change bout to get a crisis.

Yandere! Platonic! Burning Spice with raising a Darling

(FT. Herald of Change)

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Overprotective behavior/Possessive behavior, Fear of loss, Dubious companionship.

Burning Spice taking care of a child just sounds like he's planning to make you child raised in battle.

However... I propose another way to look at this...

You were found by him when he was the Herald of Change.

The Herald of Change is used to watching civilizations rise and fall, life bloom and wither....

He's getting bored, of course, always seeing the same pattern of change.

Then he encounters you.

You're an orphan, a young cookie sent to worship the Herald of Change.

You're dressed in rags, lost and unsure of where to go.

The Herald of Change isn't... a parent.

At least, he's never been one, he hasn't bothered to try making new dough like the cookies and spices under his rule.

But here you are, a new life specifically in his care.

As the Herald of Change, he learns from the civilizations he watched over.

He's seen how to nurture even if it's... foreign to him.

His close followers often help him collect supplies, giving you your own room and giving tips to the Herald of Change.

He's... unsure how to parent.

He's a deity worshipped for change... and later, destruction....

Yet here he is, using two of his six arms to cradle you close as he tends to his duties.

At first he doesn't really care.

You're just like the civilizations he looks after... You'll move on from him eventually.

Yet as the years pass, the Herald of Change finds himself unable to let go.

He keeps you in his temple, claiming you should worship him like his other close followers.

In reality though he's definitely like a dad to you.

He parents you, treats you like his own....

For a long time he may even forget you're mortal.

He's used to seeing change from a distance, it was boring.

But now... Now he's watching you grow up before him, mimicking him, adapting....

For some reason... This change feels... pleasant to him.

It doesn't boil his blood, sure...

Yet... You're just so sweet... So different from his heated exterior.

Part of him nags at him, telling him you'll wither like the rest of the civilizations....

He ignores it, too busy holding you close to his heated chest with two arms as he works.

His followers find it strange... The usually bored Herald of Change coddling a young cookie with a surprising amount of interest.

They never speak on it though, just quietly allowing their lord to play with you to entertain himself.

You grow into an adult way too quickly to him.

He's immortal, time is different to him.

He's so used to babying you, to you looking up at him and calling him dad.

It's weird at first to him... yet now he's used to it.

As a teen you called him father, he taught you the art of weaponry then.

Now, as an adult, you're one of his generals.

Your adulthood is probably when he becomes the Great Destroyer.

Burning Spice fully gives into his destructive tendencies when you grow up, probably no longer distracted by parenting.

In the early days you're his closest general, you're trained by him and are still considered his kin.

Burning Spice, now attached to you, doesn't give you a life of your own.

He knows of your mortality, some followers even say that's one reason he changed.

Perhaps the Herald of Change, fearing the idea of losing his little dough, gives into destruction to cope.

He wants a distraction... Something to keep him from getting bored... Something to keep him from thinking of losing you....

You're used to the destruction, he tells you it was bound to happen at some point.

It's not like you were attached to those cookies and spices, were you?

They didn't want you... They gave you to him....

Which means you belong beside him.

Burning Spice probably doesn't even let you date.

You're made to be a being a violence, to aid him.

Afterwards, when it's time to rest, Burning Spice coddles you and keeps you against his chest like he used to when you were young....

I imagine when you're middle aged is when he loses it.

You're going to start crumbling and withering like the rest... and he's disturbed by it.

Burning Spice often looks you over, now retired from fighting and covered in scars.

You're still his little dough in his mind... still with that fire in you.

You can still lead and fight... but Burning Spice is the one who pulls you out.

He loves you... his little dough... his beloved kin....

No one is going to take you from him.

Honestly, the idea of losing you is one thing that drives him insane.

As he watches you age, he realizes he's going to lose you.

Which makes him more destructive, taking his anger out on those around him (not you).

The spices fear their lord, the Great Destroyer unrelenting as he roars about you.

Many spices and cookies even start looking into immortality, hoping if they can keep you alive that maybe they'll be spared.

There's a few immortal creatures... created by either the Witches or Wizards.

Burning Spice may be intrigued about this.

Maybe he even consulted the Sage of Truth, or Shadow Milk after his corruption... demanding an answer to make you immortal.

Shadow Milk finds this amusing... but mentions he'll 'look into it.'

Things come to a head when the Witches decide to seal the Beasts.

Burning Spice is enraged, putting up a fight.

"YOU! YOU WISH TO TAKE THEM AWAY FROM ME! YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM, THEY'RE MINE!"

Alas... as you grow older... the Beast you saw as your father is sealed in the Silver Tree.

The ending can go a few ways.

You die of old age years after your father was sealed. This is self explanatory... The Silver Kingdom becomes your home as you adapt to a new life until your demise

You find immortality somehow.

The second outcome probably isn't the best for you.

Through Shadow Milk, the Elder Faerie, or the Witches... You're given an elongated lifespan.

Maybe you begged... or maybe you were meant to teach others a lesson once you were reformed out of your father's care....

Either way, you begin to grow close to the new Ancient Heroes, their Soul Jams reminding you of... home.

Or, maybe, instead of Golden Cheese you become the bearer of Burning Spice's Soul Jam for a bit... until you're forced to relinquish it due to the fear of you becoming like your father?

There's different ways to get the same result... You become immortal when Burning Spice is gone.

Years upon years later... The Silver Tree's seal breaks on your father.

Your father thinks you're dead at first.

Of course, if you did then he immediately takes out his rage towards the Witches by slaughtering civilizations while easing his boredom.

However... if you're now immortal?

Burning Spice would find you by accident... no longer quite the Beast you remember appearance-wise.

He... doesn't expect to see you.

When he was dragged away from you, he expected you to die once he was sealed.

Yet here you are... alive and well... no doubt reformed by the Ancient Heroes.

He assumes that when you cower before him, at least...

"My little dough...! You remain... unchanged...."

You're quickly tugged into the Beast's arms with a squeak, the Beast roaring with pleased laughter.

"My fearsome little dough, do not fear your father! I must take you home.... I missed you so much...."

Safe to say, the Great Destroyer would be ecstatic if you were still with him.

He wouldn't EVER let you go afterwards....

Yet if you're dead... His rage will be endless...

Burning Spice doesn't like it when anything takes what's his... not even death...

Death may be a mercy for you... but it only makes life Hell for everyone else due to the Great Destroyer losing the one thing he held dear to change.

[16ferrari]

Lost control

Bob Reynolds x reader

Warnings: dark content, touching without consent, male masturbation.

a/n, anyone want a fully version of this? I’m more than willing to write one.

Everyone had a dark side.

Whether they admit it or not.

Sometimes that side people wanted to hide snaps in them, like an acorn. Once it’s cracked open it’s impossible to put back together.

Those thoughts for some people can be evil, vile, malicious, sick and twisted.

Bob happened to be one of those people who tended to keep those dark and deepest thoughts from you.

He knows if he confesses his sins to you, you’ll judge him, look at him differently, be afraid of him, hide from him, or worse move out of the tower just so you wouldn’t have to face his sinfulness mind.

those vile things he felt were wrong in his head, he very-well knew that and were even more dangerous to play in real-time.

Whenever he would he look at you his hands would bail up in fists in order to control himself from the little devil on his shoulder telling him all the things he didn’t to hear about you, how nice your legs looked when you wore a skirt, to look at your breasts when you leaned over the table to tell him something, to pin you against the wall when you gave him a simple hug and he took in a shale breath smelling your signature shampoo you used.

It got even worse at night when he tossed and turned on his bed body aching for an release, the devil would return telling him to turn go to your room, you wouldn’t mind if he just hopped in the bed with you, pushing up your usual nightgown you wore to bed, spread open your legs and let his cock swim in your sweet juices.

He would scream in his pillow in hopes to silence out those voices, tears of frustration would fill his waterline when He couldn’t shut them out.

Some nights like a puppet on a string somebody moved his body without his will of knowledge and walked him over to your room, he would stand outside your room for hours on end, pacing back and forth between opening your door to face the sweet face he so desperately wanted to ruin, a body he craved to get into, or voice that is yours he desired to hear scream while he was inside you.

Tonight he laid down, faced his ceiling, hands clasped over his chest, fingertips drumming against his chest. He tried and failed that night, he couldn’t sleep yet again and like a puppet, pulled with such force he walked himself to your door.

He lost the game and let his dark side consume him.

When he twisted the knob to your door he tried to pull his arm back, but it was no use, he had lost full control.

Walking into your room his breathing picked up, he panted and panted like a beast locked away from the public eye for its own good and safety.

His feet walked him to the side of the bed where you were laid down at, chest against the sheets, one leg spread out, ass on full display to him in the tiny shorts you decided to wear for the night.

“So beautiful” he absorbed your body in his head, dug deep in there to replay back in time, when it was just him and his hand in the shower alone.

“You’re so asleep” his eyes grew dark, hooded with a cloud of want and desire. “Stay like this please” he begged, hands beginning to twitch at his sides.

His hand reached out, softly creasing your skin which grew goosebumps when his cold hand came in contact. “So soft” he mumbled. He inhaled deeply taking in your smell, vanilla lotion covering your skin, he wanted to taste you. He leaned down licking a Strad of your skin, his tongue leaving a wet trail behind as he licked a good amount of your arm, the vanilla lingered on his tongue making him groan quietly.

“Taste good” he hummed, licking upward getting closer to your neckline, it was like you laid out perfectly for him, he had a good way-line to your neck, he placed kitty licks to the exposed skin. Making sure you didn’t move an inch, otherwise he’d be fucked, if he even cared anymore.

His teeth sunk into your skin, his hand disappearing underneath your big shirt to cup your breasts, tugging and rubbing the nipples. “Feel so good”

To no avail you still didn’t even finch, making a sick happiness fill his stomach.

He pulled down the silk sheets that covered the remaining of your body, he whined in desperation, hand already playing with his cock thought his pants. He was painfully hard and he needed you so badly, sick and twisted thoughts formed in his head as he pulled his cock out and began rocking his hand up and down his length, a mixed of soft, sharp moans left his mouth as he looked at your perfection of an ass, imagining his cock was suffered in-between them.

“Fuck feels good”, he panted, his other hand racking through his hair pulling at it picturing your hands running through it.

You began to stir in your sleep, a groan leaving your lips as you flipped over to lay on your back, now bob was frightened, chest becoming tight and heavy as he looked at your body facing him, chest heaving up and down making your tits pop out, legs spread open even more, so much more that he could see your pussy lips through your shorts.

spitting a few droplets of spit of his hand he ran his hand faster up and down his cock, the sight of of you starting to kill him now, that he didn’t even realize that his quiet moans and groans he kept a secret, were now beginning to spill from his mouth and fill the quiet void in the room.

He Pictured you, saw you in his head bouncing up and down his cock, tits moving with you, head thrown back as you screamed his name, his hand wrapped around your waist as he held you steady so you could milk up his cock.

And then, while he was lost in translation.

“Bob?” Your confused, raspy voice spoke, “what the fuck are you doing” you jumped up, clawing backwards on your bed, back hitting your headboard with a loud thud.

In a evil, malicious way, he could care less he got caught.

He opened his eyes to face your horrified, confused, angry ones.

A smirk spread across his lips, “hey, sweetheart”

[cece693]

Hey so I wonder if you could do a story in the vampire diaries universe like Damon X male about how the reader was evil but he he saves Elena and he tells Elena to tell everyone he is sorry and that he has been avoiding them Kinda but he’s been a avoiding Damon the most because he knows Damon still loves and he wish the reader to talk to him and the rest is up to. By the way I love you vampire diaries story’s.❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

IT'S MY CHOICE TO FORGIVE YOU OR NOT

pairing: damon salvatore x vamp! male reader

The fresh blood in your lungs isn’t human—it’s Katherine’s, hot and metallic on your tongue after she’d tried to slit Elena open like a ripe peach. You still taste her when you push Elena behind the wrought-iron cemetery gate and snarl, “Run.” She does, stumbling over marble angels and dying roses, the moonlight fracturing across her tears. Katherine is already gone. You made sure of it—knocked her half-feral body into a crypt, drove the vervain-laced stake through her clavicle, hissed a warning that even she couldn’t mistake: touch Elena again and you’ll finish what death started in 1864.

You were about to disappear from the cemetery when the thunderous heartbeat of Elena caused you to turn towards the entrance. “Don’t you understand English? Run means get out of here. Danger is nearby. Do you have a death wish?”

Elena freezes halfway down the gravel path, chest heaving, brown eyes glass-bright in the moonlight. You smell fear on her—but also stubborn iron, the same streak that once made her slap Damon across the face and dare him to do better. “I know how to run,” she manages, voice shaking but firm. “I just…I needed to make sure you were okay.”

You huff; half laugh, half snarl. “I’m a century-old vampire who’s been shot, set on fire, and buried alive. I’ll survive a graze from my sister. You, meanwhile, have exactly one fragile heartbeat. Stop treating it like spare change.”

Elena steps closer anyway. “You saved my life. Why?” The word is soft but sharp enough to draw blood. “Last week you helped her lure Caroline into an ambush. The week before you nearly handed Bonnie to Silas on a platter. Now you’re playing guardian angel?”

“I don’t owe you any explanation. Be grateful I’m giving you breath to waste on questions.” The retort leaves your tongue bitten-off and bitter, but you cling to the sting; anger is easier than shame. You turn away, ready to vanish into predawn mist, but Elena’s hand closes around your wrist—a mortal's grip that still arrests you like silver chains.

“I am grateful,” she insists, “But gratitude doesn’t erase the bodies you helped Katherine pile up. If you want redemption, start by owning the why.”

The word redemption lands like holy water on raw flesh. You wrench free, yet you stay—because some small, wretched part of you still hopes she’ll believe the confession you’ve never voiced aloud.

“Fine,” you breathe, shoulders sagging. “Why? Because I finally remembered who taught me mercy before Katherine twisted it out of me. Damon.” His name cracks in your throat. “He once tore out a hunter’s heart because the bastard tried to carve me open, then spent the next week convincing me I still had one worth protecting. I forgot that lesson. Last night I remembered.”

Elena’s eyes soften. “So you saved me for Damon?”

“I saved you because he’d never recover if Katherine gutted you. And because—” your voice hitches “—the look on his face when he realizes I put you in harm’s way would have been worse than any stake. Now that you have your answer, help me by delivering a message. Tell Bonnie, Stefan, Caroline—even Jeremy—that I’m sorry. For everything I did while I was Katherine’s shadow. I know an apology won’t raise the dead or un-break a single bone, but it’s all I have left that’s mine to give. If they never forgive me, I won’t blame them. If they want retribution, tell them to aim for my heart and swing hard.”

Elena opens her mouth—hope, comfort, something blooming behind her eyes—but you raise a hand, halting the kindness before it can bruise you.

“And Damon?” she asks anyway, voice feather-soft.

“Tell him…” You swallow, feeling every century of memory crowd your lungs. “Tell him I’m returning the future he once imagined for us—the one I poisoned. He can keep it, burn it, drink it like bourbon—I just don’t deserve a sip.”

Elena’s eyes narrow—determined, not cruel. “That's not how he sees you. Even when you were working for Katherine and trying to kill us, he was the only one who thought you were worth saving. When we were all screaming for your head, Damon kept saying you were ashamed, not evil. He said the difference matters.”

A bitter laugh rasps out of you. “Shame can’t grow flowers on a grave, Elena.”

“Maybe not.” She folds her arms, chin lifting. “But it can stop you from digging another one. That’s what Damon believes, and—honestly?—he’s stubborn enough to make it true.”

You open your mouth to argue, but a new heartbeat churns through the darkness—steady, familiar, impossible to mistake. Damon steps into the wash of moonlight, leather jacket ghosting the marble angels, blue eyes locked on yours like a verdict already delivered.

“I keep hearing my name in vain,” he drawls, but the crooked smile misfires, too full of nerves to land cocky. “Thought I’d show up and defend my honor. And thank you Elena for texting me where you guys were because I was this close to interrogating every tombstone in Mystic Falls.”

Elena rolls her eyes, though warmth softens the gesture. “You two need to talk—without me playing referee.” With that, she turns and heads down the path, granting you privacy.

You keep your gaze fixed on the ground; meeting Damon’s eyes would make leaving that much harder.

“The least you can do,” he says, voice edged with a hiss, “is look at me.”

Moonlight razors across his cheekbones, sharpening every flicker of emotion you once traced with your lips. Anger smolders there, yes, but regret softens its edges, and hope—hope gleams like wet mercury, impossible to ignore. You force your gaze to hold his, teeth grinding. “Happy?”

“No.” Damon’s laugh is brittle. “I’ll be happy when you stop looking at me like I’m a priest handing down absolution you don’t deserve. You’re not the penitent, I’m not the confessor—we’re just two idiots who keep finding creative ways to break each other.”

“I am the penitent, Damon.” Your voice cracks. “While you were loving me, I was busy ferrying every secret you trusted me with straight to Katherine. I maneuvered you like a chess piece, pressed every button you ever showed me—until you broke. So yes, I’m the penitent. And if you’re smart you’ll let me keep walking before I ruin what’s left of you.”

Damon’s mouth twists—hurt, rueful, exasperated all at once. “Newsflash, Saint Self-Loathing: I was damned long before you swaggered into my eternity.” He moves closer, shadows rippling over the blue of his eyes. “Hell didn’t scare me then, and it sure as hell doesn’t scare me if you’re standing beside me now.”

You shake your head, spine colliding with cold marble. “You keep talking like we’re equal in sin, but you weren’t the one serving Elena up to the wolves. That was me.”

“Right,” he snaps, “the same me who spent a hundred years snapping necks for sport. The same me who once murdered an entire wedding party because the groom spilled my drink.” He spreads his arms. “Congratulations—you corrupted a monster. Gold star.”

“That’s not the point!”

“It is exactly the point.” Damon’s voice drops, rough with something tender. “We’re monsters, both of us. The only time that stops mattering is when one of us decides the other is worth saving anyway.” He steps closer—leather, bourbon, moonlight—until nothing exists outside the radius of his heartbeat. “I made that decision a long time ago. You don’t get to veto it just because it doesn’t fit your martyr narrative.”

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness, Damon.” The words claw out of you, tasting of rust and centuries-old regret. “You can hand it to me on a silver platter, wrap it in velvet, brand it on my skin—I’m still unworthy. I…I sold you for scraps of Katherine’s affection. I knew how badly you feared being abandoned, and I abandoned you anyway.”

Damon’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t flinch. “You were poisoned,” he says evenly. “That’s what Katherine does—she finds the rot and feeds it until it’s the only thing you taste.”

“I swallowed it,” you choke. “I tilted my head back and let her pour it down like communion wine. Who chooses that, Damon? Who looks at someone who loves them—truly loves them—and decides betrayal is better?”

“I did,” he murmurs. The admission hangs between you, thin as frost and just as lethal. “I chose rebellion over Stefan, revenge over Elena, blood over innocence—over and over. You’re not special for falling; you’re special for wanting to climb back out.”

“But I can’t give you certainty.” Shame scalds every syllable. “What if the rot’s still in me? What if one day I wake up and it’s easier to be the villain again?”

“Then I’ll remind you of nights like this,” he says, voice low as thunder over distant hills. “I’ll drag you back kicking and screaming if I have to. Then you’ll apologize again, I’ll punch a wall, we’ll have truly spectacular makeup sex, and life goes on.” He shrugs, but there’s steel under the tease. “I’m not fragile, and neither is what’s between us.”

“But the others—Caroline, Bonnie—”

“Can set me on fire in alphabetical order.” His thumb brushes your cheekbone, wiping a tear. “Do you honestly think I give a damn what they call me as long as you call me yours?”

Your resolve fractures. “I still love you,” you whispered.

“I know. Now say you’re sorry.”

A shaky exhale. “I’m sorry, Damon. For leaving you, for every lie I let Katherine tell through me, for making you wonder if any of it was real.”

“Good.” He tugged you forward until foreheads touched. “Next time, deliver the apology before you try to vanish.”

“Next time?” A huff of self-derision escaped you. “Planning ahead already?”

“Absolutely.” A half-smile crooked his mouth. “Because step two is convincing the Scooby Gang you’re not the devil. Spoiler: they’ll hate it. We’ll bring donuts.”

A startled laugh broke from you—wet, involuntary. Damon’s arms slid around your waist, anchor-steady. You pressed your face against the damp leather of his jacket and let the sound turn into a sob. He held it, held you, until your shoulders stopped shaking.

[rockyteriyaki]

started a bit with my dear sister about the potential ramifications of the disney partnership and it ran so far away from me

Max avoids his driver’s room like the plague.

Money has been put down on him being assigned to be Elsa, and Daniel of course being Anna with the matching Scandinavian braids. At first Max didn’t mind so much, because Daniel would probably actually like a wintery costume very much, since he is always cold everywhere they go, but the idea of being pretend sisters with Daniel has him dragging his feet all the way through the paddock.

Anyways stalling like this gives him time to inspect the rest of the grid’s corporate-sponsored, frilly misery. George has already donned his Belle costume and is banging on Alex’s door with his yellow-gloved fists, because Alex is Jasmine apparently and they have not granted him the same regal modesty. Kimi and Ollie are convened outside of the Haas building and doing something to do with seeing if they can rip their sleeves just by flexing, but both of their princess dresses are too forgiving for it, or they’re too skinny and teenaged for it to work. Their hysterical laughs echo off of the aluminum walls of the motorhomes.

When he passes the Red Bull camp for the third time, he bites the bullet and throws open the door to his room, like the white Elsa braid is going to be flipping around like a snake and lunging at him.

It is not, and there is also no white Elsa braid, or any glittery blue fabric to be seen. All there is is red pants and a black headband with the circle ears on it. Great. He has to be Mickey, the ringleader of this whole twisted operation. Simply perfect.

He puts the ears on cautiously and then, before he can take the rest of his clothes off, a heeled foot stomps over the divider into his room.

“Yoo-hoo!” Daniel says, and then does a weird laugh. “Hello!”

Max’s responding hello gets stuck in his throat a little bit, because Daniel has been put in a polka-dot skirt with matching ears like Max’s, only there is a big bow stuck in-between them. Daniel does a silly little spin, then a curtsy.

“Mickey has a sister?” Max says, once his mouth has stopped being completely dry.

“Nah, actually, I think we’re married,” Daniel says, kicking a leg up to adjust his heel, which also has a bow on it. “Rat married. Also, like, the evil bosses of all of the princesses?”

“Rat married,” Max says, staring at the waves of Daniel’s leg hair being perfunctorily slicked down by the nylon he’s wearing. And then, because he’s still unsure of the Mickey canon beyond his personal vendetta: “are we actually evil?”

“He looked evil in that photo,” Daniel says, referring to a picture of Max with a person in a Mickey costume that had gone viral because of how Max had been caught looking very, very disturbed.

“Well he is of course evil,” Max says. “But the girl one—“

“I have a name,” Daniel says, affronted. “It’s Minnie.”

“Minnie is nice I think,” Max says quickly. His eyes keep getting stuck on the little scallops of white under the hem of Daniel’s skirt, the ones that had flared out when Daniel had done his twirl. He wants him to do it again, but he doesn’t think Daniel will, even if he asks. “Minnie isn’t—she is like, oh, it’s time to stop being evil now.”

“Like,” Daniel says, pitching his voice higher. “You’ve been scaring kids all day, time to come home.”

With the heels, Daniel is just taller than Max. And he knows when the cameras come, Daniel is going to take his big heavy coat and wrap it around the dress and probably also take the heels off, because it is silly in the bad way that makes Daniel so twitchy and awkward. But right now he is standing here, and they’re rat married. Max is staring. Daniel is staring back.

“Do you think,” Daniel says, and his voice is still a little stuck with Minnie’s, hovering between girly mouse and Aussie man. He kicks a leg back again, and then clomps it back down. “Minnie stays home, yeah, while Mickey goes and does his thing? Like a Santa and Mrs. Claus situation?”

Max doesn’t get why Santa is part of it, but he nods. Daniel nods too.

“Yeah. I think she does,” Daniel says. “Stay at home, I mean.”

“In the mouse hole,” Max says.

“In the clubhouse, wow, okay. Have you seriously never seen that? Mate, you have to get dressed. Goofy is waiting to escort you.”

“I don’t know what the fuck that means,” Max seethes, and starts unbuttoning his pants.

[prisvvner]

૮ . . ྀིა⁩ ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴜꜱʜɪᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴏᴍ

"Okay, what the hell is that," Yuji blurts, nearly jumping out of his skin. His arm flails mid-flinch and sends the popcorn bowl teetering on the edge of the coffee table.

You grab it just in time, cradling it like a newborn, then turn to him with raised eyebrows. “Uh… it’s just a video of Labubus.”

Yuji’s eyes are still glued to the screen in full-blown fight-or-flight mode, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. “Just? Just? That—thing—looks like a Furby had an existential crisis, then crawled out of the Mariana Trench with unresolved emotional damage.”

He snatches the remote from the cushion beside him and slams the pause button. On the frozen screen, Labubu—the pastel-colored, drooling puppet-like character with googly eyes and four wobbly limbs—grins directly into the camera. Its felt cheeks are unnaturally rosy, and a glittery trickle of something viscous leaks from the corner of its mouth. It looks like it's about to lurch forward and whisper your Social Security number.

Yuji points dramatically at it. “Why is it smiling like that? What does it want from me?!”

You blink, then stare at him like he’s the one who crawled out of the ocean. “Yuji. It’s a puppet from a children’s show. It teaches kids how to count and share.”

“I don’t care if it teaches calculus, that thing is cursed,” he insists, eyes still wide. “It moves too fast. And it sings in that whispery, echoey voice like it’s standing right behind you.”

You’re already dissolving into giggles, clutching the popcorn bowl to your chest. “Oh my god. I didn’t realize you were scared of cursed plush toys.”

“I’m not scared,” he huffs, sitting up straighter like his pride depends on it. “I’m… appropriately cautious. That’s healthy.”

“Mhm. So you flinched like someone just threw a molotov cocktail because of a singing sock puppet?”

“Yes. Because it’s unholy.” He crosses his arms and nods once, very seriously. “I’ve faced curses that whisper through walls. I’ve never trusted things that smile that much. Not even Gojo.”

You laugh harder. “Okay, fair.”

Two days later, Yuji gets a text from you mid-morning:

Hey, got you something 💕 Hope you’re feeling brave today.

It’s accompanied by a photo of a suspiciously plush-shaped gift bag with sparkly pink tissue paper sticking out like flames.

Which is how Yuji ends up standing in your doorway twenty minutes later, expression grim, like he’s about to defuse a bomb. The gift bag dangles from one hand while he eyes it like it might start singing.

“Babe…” he says, tone low with dread. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“Just open it,” you say sweetly, arms crossed and trying not to giggle.

He sighs like a man on death row and carefully peels back the tissue paper.

And there it is.

A Labubu plushie. About ten inches tall. Same wide, stitched-on grin. Same googly eyes. Its little felt arms are sewn open like it’s begging for a hug—or preparing to latch onto his soul.

Yuji holds it up like it might suddenly sprout legs. “…Is this… what I think it is?”

You beam. “Her name is Trouble. She sings when you hug her.”

He gapes at you in betrayed silence. Then, reluctantly—reluctantly—he brings the plush to his chest.

Trouble immediately emits a garbled, staticky jingle: “Haaaappppy daaaaay! Let’s eat crayons!”

Yuji yelps like he’s been electrocuted and launches it across the room. It bounces harmlessly off the couch cushions, still smiling its twisted little smile.

He scrambles backwards until his spine hits the wall. “WHY does it want to eat crayons?! That’s not normal behavior! Why is that part of the lesson plan?!”

You’re doubled over, gasping for air between snorts of laughter. “Oh my god—I can’t breathe—Yuji!”

He’s pink in the face now, arms flailing. “You brought evil into this house!”

“I brought wholesomeness!”

“That’s not wholesome! That’s a trap!” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m breaking up with you.”

“You say that every time I buy you something cute.”

“Because you keep gifting me possessed objects! First the cursed toaster, now this?!”

Later that night, you tiptoe out of the bedroom to get water. You freeze when you see him passed out on the couch. The TV is playing a muted rerun of a nature documentary. His mouth is slightly open, one hand resting over his stomach.

Tucked under his arm, snuggled into his chest like it belongs there, is Trouble.

Still smiling.

Still smug.

You take a photo in perfect silence.

It becomes your new lockscreen.

i've had this piece sitting in my drafts since january, it's inspired by my best friend hating on labubus with a burning passion (he's scared of it lol)

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not.

[thesgast]

hi guys. i just found out caleb's backstory. thanks for that liam o'brien. i'm traumatized. THATS MY BABY WHY HIMMM WHY 😭😭😭😭 LIAM IS EVIL. MATT IS EVIL. TRENT ITHIKON WATCH OUT WATCH OUT WATCH OUT. I HAVE BEEN SIMMERING WITH THIS ANGER AS I SHOWERED AND BLOW DRIED MY HAIR. I WAS RANTING TO MY FRIEND TO THE POINT I GOT HOT AND RED. I HATE HIM. AND CALEB MY BABY HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN TO HIM.

nott: "wait, there was a false memory? he tricked you?"

beau: "into hearing their talks against the empire, is that what it was?"

caleb: "yes, but it doesn't matter. because i still wanted to do it when i did it."

nott: "but you didn't know what you were doing—"

caleb: "so what?"

nott: "you were brainwashed,"

caleb: "so what?!"

nott: "programmed."

caleb: "doesn't matter, i should have— i'm a disgusting person. it doesn't matter."

just like kill me then? like just stab me with a knife and twist it. i cant even rant because my thoughts are still SCATTERED by this stinky wizard's devastating backstory?????? i will never let anyone hurt you ever again my baby boy please stay close to me. DO NOT GO FAR FROM ME😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[glorioustidalwavedefendor]

As I said Doomsday seems to be relying on the audience kind of knowing who Doctor Doom is, but also only kind of. Doomsday is going to have at least 27 characters, 27. That's going make it a lot harder to introduce and develop his character for this movie.

THIS

But then, I don't think they plan to do that anyway, judging by what they saidd about his relationship with read richards ...

I assume they'll just have one of the fanta4 exposition dump about him, to bring everyone else up to speed

-> See Bruce in IW wenn he exposition dumps about Thanos

I still hope they cut the cast down

with 27 characters you either have the majority just as set dressing/glorefied cameos

Or it gets relly convoluted really quick

That is a massive ensamble cast

-

-

Ultron changed from Hank Pym, to Tony Stark, but the idea behind Ultron was essentially the same. What is Doctor Doom supposed to be in this movie if he has no connection to the heroes?

This

-

-

At this point, why even bother with the Doctor Doom concept. Why not have it be evil Tony Stark. That could be an interesting twist and wouldn't piss off the Fantastic Four/Doctor Doom fans of.

This would actually be interesting

What if Tony had never met the people that curb his darker tendencies?

What if Hydra got their fingers on a young Tony afer his parents death?

What if they molded him?

-

-

It's the sense of using nostalgia, but not understanding how to implemented to make a story meaningful.

Because they ultimately look down on us

For liking stupid embarassing super hero stories

And so they don't give us the dignity of agnowledging that there is something of value we liked about the earlier phases

Just stick attractive actors in funny costumes in front of a green screen, let them say something quipy

PROFIT!

And if it doesen't work it's superhero fatigue and never bad writting fatigue ...

Legit what if we killed ourselves

[twst-aceofhearts]

Sore Loser

a/n: gift for @oya-oya-okay~ words: 567 tw: tickling, Azul being dramatic

Tags: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay @writingattemptsxx +ask if you want to be added

Azul was sulking.

He called it “reflecting.” Shuu called it “pouting like a grumpy octopus.”

“You gonna keep brooding?” she teased, peeking over the board between them. “Or are you going to admit I totally destroyed you?”

Azul huffed, arms crossed. “You got lucky. Again.”

“That’s the fourth game you’ve lost, Azul.”

“I’m aware,” he grumbled, voice sharp and clipped.

Shuu smiled sweetly. “You're so salty. Like the ocean.”

Azul shot her a withering look, which only made her grin harder.

“Aw, don’t be mad. I still think you're cute when you lose,” she added, resting her chin in her hands.

“I am not cute,” Azul snapped. “I am a respectable businessman, not a plush toy for your amusement.”

“Oh? So if I… do this—” she suddenly reached over and jabbed a finger into his side—

“NGHK—! SHUHUU!” Azul jumped a foot in the air.

Her grin turned absolutely feral. “...Was that a squeak?”

“It was a reflex!” he gasped, red blooming across his cheeks.

“Hmmm…” Shuu leaned forward, fingers wiggling ominously. “Are you ticklish, Mr. Ashengrotto?”

Azul immediately began backing away. “Don’t you dare—”

“Oh, I dare.”

She pounced.

“WAHAHAAIT! SHUHUU— NOHOHOHO!!” Azul burst into frantic giggles the moment her fingers dug into his sides. “NOHOHO, STAHAHAHAP IT—!”

Shuu straddled his hips on the soft carpet of the board game clubroom, a huge grin on her face as she wiggled her fingers mercilessly up and down his sides and ribs. Azul squirmed like a fish out of water.

“AHAHAHA! THAHAHAHAT’S NOT FAHAHAIR!!”

“Neither is beating me four times and gloating,” she teased, trailing one hand up to his ribs and the other under his arm.

“NOHOHOHO NOT THAHAHAHAT SPOT—!!” Azul’s voice cracked halfway through and he kicked weakly. “SHUUHUHUHUHU! STAHAHAHAP—! I CAN’T—I CAN’T—!!”

“Awww~ Poor Azul,” she cooed, pinching gently at his tummy. “What’s wrong? Can’t handle a little tickling?”

“I CAHAHAN’T BREHEHEATHE—!!” he squealed, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes from laughing so hard. “STAHAHAHAP I SWEHEHEAR—!!”

“I don’t believe you,” she smirked, now dragging both hands up his sides.

Azul twisted, kicking uselessly. “I’LL GEHEHET YOU BAHAHACK FOR THIHIHIS—!!”

“I’d like to see you try,” she giggled, not letting up.

His laugh grew higher-pitched, breath hitching between snorts and cackles as he twisted under her. “SHUHUUUUU—!! NOHOHOHO MORE—!! AHAHAA I’M DYING—!!”

She finally slowed her fingers, letting him collapse beneath her, panting and red-faced. Azul lay there, glasses askew, chest rising and falling as soft little after-giggles escaped him.

“Hhhuuuuhhhh…” he wheezed. “Y-You’re evil…”

“I’m adorable, actually,” Shuu said, leaning down and poking his cheek. “You okay?”

“Nohohohoho,” he groaned.

“Aww. Wanna admit you're cute now?”

“No. Never.”

Shuu grinned and flicked his side again.

“AHEHE—! SHUU!!”

“I could’ve kept going, you know.”

“Please don’t,” he mumbled, covering his red face with one hand. “I might actually expire.”

“Azul Ashengrotto, defeated by tickles,” Shuu mused dramatically, hands on her hips. “Should I write your eulogy?”

He gave her a flat stare from beneath his bangs. “You are the worst.”

“Still love me?”

“...Tragically.”

Shuu beamed and leaned down to kiss the tip of his nose.

“Eheh…!” Azul flinched slightly at the contact—still jumpy from the tickles. “D-Don’t surprise me like that…”

“You’re too precious, Azul.”

“If you tell anyone—”

“I won’t,” she promised, winking. “Unless you lose again tomorrow.”

Azul groaned into the carpet. “This is blackmail.”

“Love you too.”

[glitter-stained]

Seen mentioned that DC doesn't actually take big swings anymore rn and while I haven't read enough to know for sure I do agree that I feel that vibe, so here are some big swings that I, as candidate for future CEO of DC, would install if I were to be elected:

-bring back permakilling. Everybody dead right now? Dead. Boom, sorry. Note that for those whose dead status is unclear/questionable due to crisis mayhem (i.e. Wendy Jones) this doesn't count. But yeah Alfred is dead and going forward if you kill a character, they're gone. That includes plot-twists about faking one's death, though I might make exceptions for a really good plot idea, but generally, no.

-shut down Arkham Asylum entirely. To me the concept is unsalvageable, I understand the idea behind it being rehabilitation but #1 no you can't fix him it's not a brown haired fictional man who kills people it's a prison that doubles as a mental healthcare facility, #2 the entire justification for the prison/psych ward amalgamation that is Arkham builds on the idea that the root cause of violent crime is mental illness. Either fully make it a prison and make a separate mental healthcare facility in a place that is not severely haunted, or nuke it entirely and start over with two different concepts.

-this one I believe comes from the amazing @paigeoforacle so I will just put the link for the details of that idea but yk how a lot of people look at rebirth Barbara and be like "this isn't my Barbara Gordon"? You're right. It isn't.

-kill the Joker.

-let characters get weird/intense. I'm talking Rose Wilson finding Grant Wilson's preserved corpse and trying to Frankenstein it back to life, Jason Todd building a super intricate death saw trap for himself in an attempt to commit addressed suicide, Mia Dearden going on dates with way older men she met on tinder and immediately using some grand complicated stratageme to escape the date (ie go to the bathroom and climb into the restaurant's vents) just because she's trying to prove something to herself. Dick needs to be having Shakespearen inner monologues on his relationship with Bruce, and Donna needs to be fucking her clone/alternate version of herself based on the genuine belief that this will fix her. This kind of messy.

-epic fight scene where Starfire kicks Superman's ass. Modern DC writers and a lot of fans have ideas of "who could beat who" and power-scaling mixed up and that needs fixing. Also it'd be awesome.

-make more beloved heroes explicitly mentally ill, and a wider panel of mental illnesses. Dick Grayson schizoaffective disorder diagnosis I'm especially rooting for.

-hey speaking of him remember when Superman fought the KKK irl? Let's bring that back. Let's get Superman to help fight the ICE.

-bring back goofy villains. And I don't mean go back to the era of goofy villains only/completely, I'm a horror enjoyed and do love some thrillers/darker themes, and detective stories, but I want them to coexist with goofy villains. No Chuck Dixon cannot convince me that Condiment King is scary, I want Batman to be fighting a villain of that level of goofiness one night and then a demon who turns his victim's flesh inside-out the next. Never let them know your next move!

-give Batman a yellow ring. (Also take advantage of that to remind everyone how powerful the GL actually are.) "but i'm tired of evil batman arcs!" big swings aren't supposed to make everyone happy and i will say, i'm tired of evil Batman arcs with no consequences. He modified a person's dna to strip away their agency through paralyzing fear. He's not getting out of the yellow lantern arc this time. (And I personally vote for Guy Gardner beating his ass).

-make the birds or prey (with the real Barbara Gordon) fight the CIA. And make Green Arrow fight the US-Army.

-Erase Trinity out of existence somehow. Actually collapse that whole future dimension or something. Idk if it's the same universe or not but also erase red haired Lian Harper from the possibility of existence.

-more mix-ups/variations in genre! Oh the GL are magical girls? I wanna see more magical girls tropes in GL stories. DC stands for Detective Comics the bats are all detectives I am not seeing nearly enough agatha cristie types stories anymore. None of that is to say you can't also have epic superhero fights in these stories, I'm saying to mix the genres. We have time travel and spaceships and aliens, go sci-fi with it!!! Make star trek references! Go nuts!!

-make the characters do bdsm (explicitly). As in you don't have to write explicit sex scenes but I want like one character who wears a bdsm collar 24/7, getting interrupted by a phone call while their partner is in the other room and they're struggling to pick up the phone because they're in shibari, have a character kneeling at the feet of another, shit like that. Fuck with platonic bdsm especially. And especially within the batfam.

-bisexual Dinah coming out yes but also Dinahollie discover poly.

-make Barbara 10 years minimum older than Dick.

-I said before no more random resurrections but you can and should definitely put your heroes/characters in time-out for some good time! Get creative with it. Oh that character has a huge healing factor? Get chained to a mountain in the Promethean Eagles dimension buddy (don't worry about the name babe, this plot's about to deliver.)

-kill Tom King.

[femnoah]

femnoah au where she doesn't do the disguise? Mayhaps alenoah?

I've always really liked the original concept for Noah, that's he's the "brains" of heathers initial alliance season one. Maybe post her elimination she teams up with Izzy and eva

See, the fact that she's a girl and everyone knowing it would change the dynamic of her character in the first season quite a bit.

Cause a boy being snarky, insulting people and not putting in any effort then he's just being a class clown. Like yeah he's rude and kind of an a-hole but at least it's funny and clearly he's self-assured and going somewhere.

But a girl doing that? Then she's just acting like that cause she's jealous and insecure and attention seeking.

And we have my favourite brand of Neha/Noah - incredibly petty

Also, this is considering Heather's season one stunts sooo...

Neha joining Heather's alliance would make her Heather's Scapegoat

After all, Beth and Lindsay are both sweet girls and Heather is pretending to be friendly so Neha, who is very outwardly not, being in their group? It makes her look like the manipulator or even the ringleader. She is the brains of the group after all

She would immediately clock Heather as the snake she is but still agree to work for her for the sake of the competition. Her suspicion is further proved when Heather gets them to eliminate Beth in dodgebrawl. Beth. Her own ally.

Neha and Beth's eliminations get swapped.

In 'if you can't take the heat' Leshawna is on to Heather and arguing with her as Gwen as her back-up and Heather immediately puts all the heat on Neha instead, painting herself and Lindsay out as the victims

Neha was just so horrible to the two of them, calling all the shots. And look how she hasn't been participating in any of the physical stuff, getting everyone else to do the work for her.

Gwen's diary was Neha's fault not Heather's. And oh how Heather wanted to speak out against her but she hit her and threatened to eliminate her like she did with poor Beth who had also caught on to Neha's evil ways.

She just spends all her time insulting everyone and not even focusing on the challenge. Like where was she now? clearly just slacking off and leaving all the hard, hard work for them to do. (She was outside trying to stop Owen from eating the food, he had planned a large heist.)

Oh, and of course she just loves using Lindsay as her metaphorical punching bag, the poor girl probably had such low self esteem by now.

Obviously, neither Leshawna or Gwen are happy about this, more so for their own and Lindsay's sake than Heather's. Because this makes it out as if Neha had been practically abusing their poor teammates. If only she got her comeuppance....

It definitely doesn't help that when she comes back in and notices the girls glaring at her, she makes a quip.

Yeah, Neha gets locked in the refrigerator instead and eliminated for 'manipulating' and insulting everyone there

To rub salt in the wound, when she gets back to the playa she's met with cold glares and falls ill the next day.

Having chronic fatigue syndrome and being locked in a refrigerator does not mix well. At all. So she ends up bed bound.

Everyone else takes her absence as an admission of guilt.

Also, the producers are planning a 'twist villain' so they're purposefully cutting out Heather's worse moments so they can montage them together for a surprise for when Heather is officially revealed. This, of course, paints Neha in a terrible light for those watching until the reveal.

Bear-in-mind that her worst crimes that season was literally just being cold to everyone and barely participating in the physical aspects of the challenges. So everyone is just assuming that she's some kind of pathetic manipulative villainess, sulking that she got caught.

Only Eva goes to visit her but that's because everyone else kept whining on about it and she wanted to tell Neha to stop moping and hiding away and face accountability for her actions

Instead of what she expected though, she comes across an incredibly pissed off Neha with a raging fever

Neha rants to Eva about everything- especially Heather- and they become friends with Eva hiding away from the other eliminated contestants when they get too annoying or self righteous by hanging out with Neha

Cause when you have chronic fatigue and get ill, you're essentially ill for the next couple weeks, months or even year.

Neha was annoyed. She had finally got a grip on her illness, had finally managed to get it so she could go her day to day life only experiencing the typical fatigue and pain. She was lucky enough already that it didn't affect her mental cognition most days- only those that were worse or when she hadn't been careful.

She had been so so so careful. She made sure she didn't physically strain herself too much. She purposefully avoided any situation that could get her ill. All so she could compete on the dumb show and not suffer for months afterwards or sent to hospital.

But it was all for nothing.

Heather and the rest of those imbecilic jerks ruined all of her hard work.

Leshawna, Lindsay, Gwen and Heather. They had made an enemy out of someone who shouldn't be crossed.

Eva goes back for the merge and instead of Bridgette being her main target, it's Heather. Unfortunately, she's still eliminated straight away but at least this time she can go back to her... friend?

Izzy is also outcasted after her elimination cause of her crazy and dangerous behaviour and on her journey to pester everyone, she befriends Eva and then Neha. The three rejects of the group officially become friends.

Then, Heather is officially revealed as being the bad guy all along. Instead of apologising to Neha though, they double down on their views. She had it coming for being such a bitch after all, with nothing to back her attitude up with other than her pitiful abilities.

Total drama drama drama drama island pretty much goes the same

So Neha, who is very much driven by spite, plots away during the second season. She's a very patient person. She can have her revenge in a couple of years, that's fine. As long as she gets her revenge.

Neha gets a little 'training montage' as a treat

She plays to her biggest strength- her brain. Her ability to learn quickly, to notice everything around her, her initial gut feeling on a person's true nature.

She uses this to get a job working for Chris as an intern and subtly strokes his ego until he agrees to give her a promotion to his personal assistant.

And because Chris is such an amazing celebrity, imagine if the only person who could come anywhere near his excellence was someone he personally trained- his own protégé. Why, it'd cement just how respectable and famous he is.

That takes away one of Heather's strengths- the fact that Chris favours her over the other contestants because now Chris is in Neha's pocket.

She gains a bit of muscle mass from her job but mainly because of Izzy's shenanigans and Eva's workouts.

Unlike Heather, she has friends that care about her wellbeing and health and Eva practically harps on her like a personal trainer, making sure to work around her condition.

Thanks to Izzy, she becomes more resilient, more open to using unexpected resources and using other's perspectives of her to her advantage

She learns from Chris, how he acts in public vs private. How he comes up with all of his ideas. How he thinks.

The same goes for Chef. She plays his weak spots to get his respect and uses it to poke and prod at his idea of strategy.

Then Neha gets amazing news. A new season of total drama with more money at risk and even more danger? It's simply perfect.

Getting Eva to stay on the bus was simple enough and with Justin asking for another volunteer to help with any possible physical activity, Owen practically jumped at the chance to spend time with his favourite boy.

World tour is essentially Neha's villain arc. She's set the stage for Heather to have an even worse downfall than the past two seasons. And the best part, she's still underestimated as the weak book girl with a bad attitude. Subtly is an art after all

If only the stupid new charmer would stop getting in her way of perfect victory by throwing the stupid game and stealing her prey.

She and Alejandro are kind of butting heads at each other with both of them having very different strategies and apparently the only people to know how much of an actual threat the other is. All while being on the same team.

Alejandro assumes he has the majority in the team, the upper hand. Tyler is firmly in his pocket, Eva clearly is attracted to him, Izzy as well to a lesser extent and Neha following along with them. He learns very quickly that this is not the case when he missteps and Neha is not happy with him.

Eventually, they agree to work together and form probably the most brutal alliance.

[coffinclownery]

Souls and Morality

First off I really like how souls work in tcoaal. Before episode 3 there was the assumption that the darker the soul the more evil you are, that it was objective. But no! Morality is subjective! There's no single definition for what makes a good or bad person! Sure there's some moral obligations and lines to not cross that we generally agree on, (like, say, blackmail, death threats and harassment, desecrating corpses, slaughtering, sacrificing to demons, killings your parents, killing a child/children, smooching your sibling on the mouth, attempting to kill your sibling, cannibalism-) but there's no one set of morals that is objective and correct. It is up to each person to have their own set of morals to follow. By making it so that only the individual's morality affects their soul it's not a simple indicator of how objectively evil they are, and is instead another avenue to study a character and how they view themselves.

That being said since learning that a soul's purity is affected by one's own sense of morals I think some have taken that to mean it's also affected by one's self-esteem, meaning that Ashley is a Tar Soul because she thinks she's evil AND she hates herself. And while it's true her self-loathing could relate to seeing herself as evil, I think self-hatred is more of a byproduct than a cause. Self-hatred can be a symptom of seeing oneself as evil, but it's not a guarantee. Seeing yourself as evil doesn't always mean hating yourself.

An example of this is Surgeon, the other potential Tar Soul. As shown in the vision at the bar the man is shamelessly evil, unafraid to admit his interest in surgery is neither about monetary gain nor for the general good of mankind, but entirely for his own gratification. And while we don't see much of him what we do see is a man who isn't seeped in self-hatred for his evil nature. He's perfectly content being a rotten bastard and I almost respect him for it.

So instead of focusing on the self-esteem aspect, let's focus on exactly how one's morality affects the soul. Here's my interpretation of things:

Morality is about fitting a standard of acceptable behavior. It's the idea the you have to do A, B and C to be a good person and avoid doing D, E and F to not be a bad person. Moral standards are often set or learned systemically, but in regards to souls the only morals that matter are the ones set for yourself. My argument is that in order for a soul to become tainted, the person has to break or fail their own moral standards. It's not simply about how evil you think you are, it's about the downward slop of how many of your own morals you have left to maintain.

Untainted Souls

Let's start with the untainted soul we feed the yarn ball. It was one of the wardens that guarded the siblings' apartment under the guise of "quarantine." We know the warden was aware residents were being starved and not only didn't do anything for them, but actively prevented them from getting help. All the while playing favorites because one of the residents was hot. How can this man think he's morally just? How is he untainted?

It might be because his standards of morality are conveniently set in a way where he doesn't have to be bothered by what he does. After all he's not the one in charge. He's just doing a job. Following orders. And it's not like he's killing the residents directly. They'll die in their apartments anyway! And besides if he doesn't work here someone else will. Hey at least he's not kicking dogs! And so on and so on.

This is how people who do objectively rotten things justify themselves. "I didn't start it, I'm just doing my job, it would've happened even if I wasn't there." Morality here is not about being a good person, it is just something to be shaped and twisted in a convenient manner so that you can continue doing horrible things and still sleep at night.

So for a soul to remain untainted the person has to

Have a set of morals.

Be able to follow that set of morals.

Grime Souls

But not everyone has the capability of shaping their morals so conveniently. Some people never grow out of the morals disciplined into them as kids by the adults in their life. And then told they're always failing to meet up to those morals. Over and over again, until it's ingrained in their mind that they're a failure. A disappointment.

That's where our primary Grime Soul stood at in the flashback start of Decay. The one moral he was taught by his mom was to take care of his sister.

No wait, "take care" is too generous. "Pacify" is the more appropriate word here. Renee wanted her son to pacify her daughter so she'd never have to hear her, see her, think about her or be around her in any capacity. Feed her so she shuts up. Play with her so she doesn't break stuff. Keep an eye on her so she doesn't run off and cause trouble. Just don't let her embarrass Mom. She didn't just parentify her son, she wanted him to be her daughter's handler.

But of course Andy couldn't do that. He was a kid himself! He was still under the bold assumption that he could have a life of his own that wasn't watching over Leyley like she's an untrained dog. So he'd be distracted by such frivolities as "homework" and "studying." Not to mention the constant household chores he was made to do. So he was always one step behind. Look, Leyley threw a tantrum because he didn't keep an eye on her, what a bad brother!

All this to say that the reason little Andy became a Grime Soul was because he failed to fit the moral standard ingrained in him by his mom. If being an Untainted Soul means believing they follow their morals, a Grime Soul means believing they are failing to follow said morals. And what's ironic is that if his dad put any effort in his kids' lives he probably would have been able to share a similar experience disappointing his own family.

It wouldn't be a stretch to suggest that Douglas's dad was always putting him down and making him feel worthless since childhood. Douglas might've always felt like a failure in his house. Then he meets Renee, and his soul is literally purified around her. Because unlike with her son Renee always puts Douglas's wellbeing first and encouraging him.

When Douglas is alone, his morals are affected by his father's expectations that he could never meet.

But when Renee's with him, his morals are shaped by her view of him. And if Renee follows any moral, it's that Douglas will always be a good man no matter what he does or doesn't do. It'd almost be sweet if Renee wasn't doing the polar opposite with her son.

So be a Grime Soul a person

Has a set of morals

Fail to follow those morals

Later Andy began naturally prioritizing Leyley without pressure from his mom. In fact he only started caring about Leyley. So if he stopped caring about meeting his mom's expectations, then that means he can start seeing himself as an alright person right-?

oh

...

Tar Souls To-Be

Well let's save Andrew's downward spiral for another post and move onto tar souls to-be like Renee. As we see in the time capsule, Renee already thought she had a pitch-black heart as a teen.

This is going into speculation, but my theory is that a tar soul to-be is someone who has not only failed the morals they believe, but have begun breaking those morals. I don't mean to say a belief in morals implies that a person agrees with them or wants to follow them. Just that they believe that those morals are what makes a good or bad person. I don't think Renee gives a shit about being a good person. She's aware there's morals she's supposed to follow and in lieu of failing them denies them.

I think the biggest moral she's aware of yet refuses to follow is "care about others." She doesn't care about anyone except herself and Douglas. She was born the same way as Andrew, someone who never liked anyone. That's why meeting Douglas was so impactful. And that might be why she never hatched. Because for as rotten a person she is she at least has one person who sees the good in her.

Too bad Leyley didn't have anyone who saw the good in her. Not the mom and dad who ignore her most days, not the brother forced to take care of her, and especially not herself. If there was one moral she learned, it was this; "Leyley is always bad." Leyley would be bad no matter what. So instead of passively failing morality Leyley actively broke rules. Any moral she was taught by her teachers and brother she refused, because if she's a bad thing anyway what does it matter? If she followed morality, if she behaved like a good little family pet, the best she could hope for is be ignored. She learned from an early age the only way to get attention is to break things, and that attention was more important to her than whatever moral integrity she had left.

Tar Soul

What's really interesting about Ashley is that she wasn't always a Tar Soul. Lord Unknown noted that the little lady hatched into one sometime between before killing Nina and after entering high school, but we don't have a clear evidence of when this hatching happened. For now there's two onscreen possibilities. One when the siblings realized Nina was dead, and when Leyley broke the blood oath.

Gosh which one affected her more do you think...? To be fair I think Ashley's more affected by Nina's death than she realizes, but as far as morality goes her death just confirmed what Leyley already believed: Leyley is bad. Her killing someone and cursing a teacher out are all on the same level of "bad" to her so its whatever.

But that oath? That oath was meant to ensure Andy stays. It was the first time Andy honestly said she had a permanent place in his heart, moldy and rotten as it is, so long as she promised to keep quiet. It was the first and only rule she learned was important. She wasn't scared of the consequences, but she wanted the assurance. Leyley was bad, but she had one moral to keep.

But she couldn't even keep that. Her need for attention ingrained in her overcame that one secret she was supposed to keep. She's broken many promises before, but those didn't matter. She broke those on purpose because they weren't important to her. This one mattered, because it was for her and Andy to stay together. And she broke it without even thinking.

Leyley was not just bad. Leyley was evil.

To hatch into a Tar Soul a person has to break all of their morals completely. Alternatively to hatch into a Tar Soul a person has to break their most important moral, one that can't be recovered. Either way once a soul's hatched the person believes they are fundamentally, irrevocably, and irredeemably evil, and it would take A LOT to change that.

A side affect of this could be self-hatred, but as stated at the beginning I don't think its a guarantee. In fact I don't think Ashley hates herself because she's a bad person, but because she's never feels like she's enough to keep Andrew. She's not pretty enough, she's not smart enough, her brother cares more about appearances, no one likes her. She believes she's unlovable in part because she's evil, but she hates herself because of feeling unlovable and not the evil part...am I making sense? I'm not sure I'm making sense.

Anyways what being a Tar Soul means to present Ashley is that she has no morals. None. She's already broken the one rule that mattered, and there's no going back. She can't be redeemed, nor does she wish for it. She's let go of all morality willingly now. And because of this she's capable of anything. Anything. There's not a question of whether it's right or wrong, whether she should do this or should not do that. It's entirely about what she wants to do or what she needs to do.

This is evident from the very first episode. When witnessing the neighbor's "death" her first thought was "I don't want to be stuck listening to the neighbor's music until I die." Then when seeing the body up close her next thought was "I'm hungry." The only moral justifications she gives are for Andrew's sake. She didn't need any to start chopping, and none to stop her. All that mattered was that she and Andrew were starving, and the body was full of meat.

It's how she's completely fine with having sex the way she did in Shots. (Yes, I know. I know what it is she did, and I don't think it's necessary to say it.) What morals were there to stop her? Taboos? Consent? Even wanting it? Meaningless! She doesn't care about society or appearances, she knew Andrew wanted her that way (though she doesn't know why) she knows Andrew's capable of killing/leaving her (which in her mind might as well be the same thing) and the only thing she could think of to stop him from finishing her off after beating her was oat cookies. This was about survival. The body was full of meat, and they were starving.

Mind you this also goes the other way around, especially with Andrew. For all her complaining and whining about how she's treated, she never once argues she doesn't deserve it, nor that it's somehow morally wrong. Part of this could be low self-esteem issues, that in some ways she thinks she deserves all that's coming to her, but I think it also goes along with how she sees morality; it's never about what's right or wrong, but what she does or doesn't want to happen.

It didn't upset her that she was hit because it was wrong to hit people. What upset her was that it proved he'd never be Andy, who'd never do such a thing. Afterwards she even joked about it like it was nothing, only really reflecting on it in Cliffhanger.

It wasn't wrong of Andrew to try to kill her. Even as she was being chased down she never argued why it'd be wrong to kill, just that he shouldn't want to kill her. What really hurt was that by trying to kill her it proved to her he wanted her gone from his life. What she thought kept Andrew stuck with her, the trinket, has been proved to not matter to him

It wasn't even wrong of Andrew to beat her black and blue. It just hurts. She didn't even think to say it'd be wrong to kill her, only that she could make oat cookies. And again, she makes light of it afterwards.

And clearly Ashley doesn't see anything wrong with how Andrew wants her, so long as its wanting her in some way, so long she can use it as a means to keep him. His consent doesn't matter, and neither does hers. He can do what he wants, no matter how deplorable, so long as he stays with her.

Bottom line is as a Tar Soul Ashley will neither use morality to justify or rationalize her actions, nor will she use morality to argue against how she's treated.

And as a final point, I think she wants Andrew to disregard morality this way too. Not just to further tie them together, but because of what she said to him back when they were teens. They don't really matter, so they should be able to do whatever they want.

tl:dr what effects the souls is the morals they set/learned and how they react to them. Untainted souls remain untainted so as they follow their morals, Grime souls become grime when they fail to follow their morals, Tar souls to-be break their morals, and when all morals are broken or one particular moral is broken a soul hatched into a Tar soul.

Next big post is going to be a continuation of this one that'll discuss Andrew's soul situation in more detail, since...hoo boy. It's a lot.

[theconstantsidekick]

Thunderbolts* ft. Static (4) | b.b

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings), Natasha Romanoff x Stark!Reader (flirtationship)

Genre: pretty fun until the end, honestly

Summary: So they are gonna go help Bob, fine. A team up, or whatever. But considering the people involved in said team up all have some kinda history with Y/n Stark, wife of Bucky Barnes—nothing goes all that well.

(These scenes incorporate y/n, codenamed—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS*, Cursing, mentions of murders and assassinations, mentions of violence, mentions of past trauma, mentions of death, gets pretty dark at the end

a/n: TIME SKIP BABYYY

Thunderbolts* ft. Static (3) | Series Masterlist | Static: Get, Set, Glitch | Captain America: The Winter Soldier (ft. Static) | Static Verse Masterlist

They’re still arguing when they spill out of the abandoned garage—like some ragtag, emotionally repressed conga line of trauma and unresolved issues.

“Of course you are powerful!” Alexie yells, jogging to keep up. “Yo—you can make weapons out of nothing!”

Y/n walks ahead, Bucky beside her—not out of leadership, but pure, shared desperation to get away from the noise behind them.

Yelena and Walker trail just behind, while Ava brings up the rear—quiet, calculating—as Alexei keeps orbiting the group, shouting compliments like they’re insults.

“You can teleport,” Yelena adds, deadpan.

“You’ve logged more field time than most registered superheroes,” Ava chimes in.

“And you can fly,” Walker says, a smile tugging at his voice.

Y/n catches the grin forming on Bucky’s face.

She shoves him.

It does nothing to stop him.

“I’m not saying I’ll come out of this fight crying and pissing myself,” she mutters. “I’m just saying—if we are fighting your friend Bob? Tie your damn shoes.”

Now that they’re out in the open, Y/n tries her best to shift focus to the scorching Utah sun burning down on her skin. It’s a desperate attempt—really—to distract herself from how close Bucky is walking beside her. From the smell of his cologne. The heat radiating off his body. The exact weight of his presence in her peripheral vision.

And the spectacular curve of his goddamn ass.

“You are a soldier of Mother Russia! You can take on Bob!” Alexei declares behind them, like he’s auditioning for a propaganda film.

She wipes the sweat off her forehead. “If by take him on you mean hold my own? Sure. But that’s about it.”

Alexie groans, loud and dramatic. Then he mutters something in Russian that is better left untranslated.

Nobody responds. They’ve all silently agreed that ignoring him is the best tactic.

The group clusters into a loose circle just outside the garage, with Alexei pacing around the outskirts, still muttering.

“Do we know where Val is keeping Bob?” Yelena asks, squinting at the horizon.

Bucky plants his hands on his hips, and passes a short but noticeable glace towards her. “The old Avengers building.”

Ah.

Y/n’s stomach twists.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. Her entire body tenses at the mention. 

That building used to mean home. Family.

But that was a long time ago. Now it’s just another evil lair for the dollar-store Cruella De Vil.

She can feel Bucky trying to look at her, check up on her. She can tell he wants to say something. But she can also tell he doesn’t think he has the right to anymore.

“Then we need transport to New York,” Walker says, before tossing a look at Bucky. “Seeing as you blew up ours.”

Bucky gives him a deadpan stare. No apology. No reaction. Just Bucky.

“And quickly,” Y/n cuts in. “I’m presuming you had backup coming in?” she asks, turning to Bucky.

He exhales. Loudly. Like he forgot that part. “Yeah.”

“Can you tell them not to?” she says, one brow raised.

Another exhale. This one quieter. “... Yeah.”

He steps off to make the call.

And yeah, of course her eyes follow him.

Fucking motherfucker. She can’t help it. Okay? She can’t.

He’s dressed in all black—his favorite goddamn leather jacket, pants that fit like they were stitched by angels, and that walk. That walk that says troubled past, but excellent in bed.

So yes, Y/n takes a moment to savour the view of her ex–not-ex husband walking away.

Sue her.

“You’re checking him out,” Yelena says, grinning.

“He’s my husband. It is my God-given right,” Y/n replies without missing a beat, still not looking away.

“But you’re separated?” Ava says—half-question, half-judgment.

Y/n whips her head around. “Not on paper. So back the fuck off.”

She turns on her heel and stalks toward the back of the garage, in search of anything with wheels.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—!” Ava stammers, following. “I like the two of you together!”

“Oh, come on. You checked him out too,” Walker says with a smirk that begs for a slap.

“I saw it,” Yelena confirms, falling into step beside Y/n.

“It’s the Winter Soldier,” Ava says defensively. “It’s pretty unavoidable!”

“I heard that!” Y/n calls back.

“It doesn’t mean anything!”

Luckily, the universe throws them a bone—they spot a dusty, dented old moving truck parked right behind the garage.

Walker immediately checks the tires. Yelena ducks into the passenger side, looking for keys. Ava uses her intangibility to phase into the cab and pop open the back.

Y/n walks up to the driver’s side, open the door, leans in. She looks around and mutters, “If I hotwire another car this week, I swear I’m charging a fee.”

“It might be your lucky day” Yelena says, pulling the keys out of the glove box with a triumphant smile. 

Yelena throws her keys and she smiles back as they get back out and assemble near the truck.

“They say never meet your heroes,” Alexei says from directly behind her.

She jumps.

Just slightly.

Alexei’s voice is low. Uncharacteristically quiet. Almost like he’s trying to hurt her with it. “The Great Static,” he continues. “Nothing more than a loser and a traitor. You’re a disgrace to the Motherland.” 

Unfortunately for him, it has zero effect other than her face morphing into pure and utter confusion. “Why the fuck does he keep calling me that!?” she says to the rest three, arms flailing.

Yelena shrugs. “He’s got a flair for the dramatic.”

“You were trained by Hydra to be a ruthless warrior and then you betrayed the country that saved you!” Alexie states. “That makes you a traitor!”

“I wasn’t trained by Hydra,” she bites back. “I was tortured.”

Alexie shakes his head, like he’s admonishing a small child. “No,” he says. “No. You were trained by Hydra—you were created by them.”

She pulls a face. “I’m an alien, Alexie. Unless Hydra played intergalactic matchmakers and made my parents fuck—they didn’t create me.”

Walker rolls his eyes.

Ava smirks.

Yelena snorts.

“That is a very nasty way to talk about your parents,” Alexie scolds.

“Well, I don’t think they mind all that much—on account of being dead,” she bites back.

Alexie ignores her completely. “As—as for the matter of your origin—Hydra gave you a home.”

“I had a home—in Madripoor!”

He keeps going, unbothered by her interjection. “They gave you purpose.”

“My life’s purpose cannot be assassinations.”

“And they gave you,” his voice rises now, more and more with every word, “the opportunity to become part of Mother Russia! And we accepted you!” He stares her down, voice lowering, “But you betrayed us.”

There’s a beat. She stares at him, dumbfounded.

“None of what you just said, makes any fucking sense!” She bursts out. “I don’t understand why people make this mistake but Hydra wasn’t Russian. Hydra was a predominantly German organisation—no! Actually, that is not a fair assessment. Hydra was a predominantly Nazi organisation!” She knows she’s kinda losing her shit but at the same time she can’t help it. She’s lost her shit, alright? This is a touchy fucking subject. “An—and yeah! Yeah! Sure. They moved their base to Russia after the war, but that was mostly because what the fuck else were they gonna do? That wasn’t loyalty—it was survival. The only thing Hydra ever cared about was destabilising governments so they could infiltrate said governments!”

Alexie shakes his head, clearly in denial. “No. No.” He says. “No. Not with Russia. Hydra worked for Russia.”

“Sure. Hydra loved Russia so much, they sent me to help the USSR… transition leadership. You know, gently—with a heart attack.”

All heads turn to her immediately.

“Did you—”

“You didn’t—”

“You assassinated Stalin?!” Walker blurts out.

Funnily enough, Alexei seems like the only person not shocked by the reveal.

“Of course it was you,” he says, with the tone of a deeply disappointed dad. “You were the best assassin to ever exist. Hydra made you powerful—and you betrayed us. How could you?”

Y/n wants to scream. “Hydra didn’t create me—they tortured me!”

“No, they did not,” Alexei snaps back, firm in his delusion.

“Yes, they did,” Bucky says, suddenly at her side.

His voice is even. Too even. But Y/n knows him—knows what tension sounds like under that quiet. This isn’t casual for him. Not even close.

“You don’t know that!” Alexei insists, as if sheer denial could make it go away. “How could you know that?”

Bucky looks him square in the eye. “Because I was the one who tortured her.”

Silence. Heavy. Immediate.

He says it like it’s just another fact—but she hears the weight underneath. Feels it. It presses between them like a bruise.

Alexei stares, stunned. “But—that—it can’t be true!”

“It is,” Bucky says, then turns to her. “They used it as a story. Propaganda. Something to keep the rookies in line.” Alexei visibly bristles at the word rookie. Yelena rolls her eyes and shoves him back a step before he can interrupt. “They said they created you, so all your achievements were theirs by proxy… Martyr if you died on the mission and—” 

“A traitor if I escaped,” Y/n surmises while rolling her eyes. 

Bucky nods silently, short and succinct before turning to the rest of the group, “Now that we’re done with that—shall we hit the road?”

There are soft nods from the crew—all apart from Alexie who keeps muttering about how he cannot believe the new revelation he’s been made to face. At least, Y/n can sympathise with that. Hydra always had a way of making you confront realities you never really wanted to. 

“That our ride?” Bucky asks, watching them walk over to the truck, talking amongst themselves. 

She stands next to him, looking at them, wondering how she ended up here. “It’s not much, but it’ll do.”

Bucky nods as she hands over the keys to him. He accepts, their hands brushing only for a second. 

He gulps. “No windows,” he notes. “We put them in the back, you and I can go in the front.”

She’s just about to agree when—

“I call shotgun!” Alexie shouts, getting in the passenger seat.

Bucky and Y/n turn to each instantly.

She smiles.

“No—Y/n! Come on!” Bucky pleads, desperate.

Her smile widens before she schools her features, putting on a fake sort of seriousness. “Look, I know we aren’t exactly the most law-abiding group of superheroes—but we are not heathens, Bucky! We cannot ignore the edict of ‘calling Shotgun’.”

He stares at her, eyes narrowing. 

But then he gives in, lips curving up at the sides a little before he’s flat out smiling. He throws his head back in some sense of defeat. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She looks toward Alexei, who’s grinning like a kid on a rollercoaster. Mischief lights up her face. “He’s gonna talk your damn ear off, Bucky. Bet your perfect little ass, I am.” …Shit!

She didn’t mean to say it. 

Really, she didn’t!

She absolutely did not intend to tell her husband that his ass is perfect. Why would any sane person ever do that? Hush, no. 

It just—it slipped out. Okay? Because, okay, he’s in all black, jacket zipped just right, playing the reluctant hero thing to perfection—and that is, unfortunately, her exact brand of heartbreak.

So fuck! It slips out. For what it’s worth, he doesn’t seem to mind.

He winces in clearly mocking sympathy. “I’d take that over the alternative any day.”

She turns to him instantly. “The alternative being?” He just smiles then jerks his chin toward the back of the truck,“Being trapped in a metal box without any windows… with those two.” 

They look over—Walker and Ava chatting with Yelena, who’s already perched inside like a tired assassin Barbie.

Realization dawns. Y/n groans. “Fuck.”

He’s laughing then. “You forgot about that, didn’t you?”

Y/n smacks his arm lightly. “Don’t be a dick.”

He tries—mostly just pretends to try—to stop, but only seems to manage stifling it into a grin. “You wanna switch places?”

“And be called a traitor the whole ride?” she shoots back. “Nah, I’m good.”

“He’s just… misinformed,” Bucky offers, voice softer now.

She shrugs, not sure how to respond. “Thanks though,” she mumbles, glancing at him briefly. She's referring to the way he stepped in back there—cut through Alexei’s madness and stood by her. Not that she needed it, exactly. But still.

“No,” Bucky dismisses, shaking his head. “You agreed to help out with this... Bob situation—”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice after Yelena pulled the ‘Dead Natasha’ card,” she interjects, voice light even if her heart rips at the words.

He rolls his eyes. “I am trying to thank you, Y/n.”

Oh.

The word lands in her chest with a little thud. She hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not now. “Um… yeah,” she replies, suddenly awkward. “Least I could do.” She shifts her weight from one foot to another. “Besides, like I said—I’m not sure how much help I’m actually gonna be.”

He doesn’t let her deflect. Not this time. Instead, he snorts, disbelieving. “Either way,” he says, “I’ll owe you one.”

One?

Her spine straightens just slightly.

Something about that—that—hits her wrong. Needles her.

She lets out a sharp breath of a laugh. Not amused—not even close. “One?” she echoes, disbelieving.

He turns, a frown tugging at his face. “What—”

“You think you owe me one?” she interrupts, eyes narrowing.

His mouth opens slightly. Confusion written all over him. She’s fully facing him now, and yeah—he looks a little worried. A little terrified. Which, good. Because he should be.

“I don’t—what—what’s happening?” he stammers.

“You owe me more than one, Barnes. Try somewhere in the range of a hundred,” she clarifies, arms folding tight across her chest.

And then he’s catching up. Of course he is. He’s not stupid—just emotionally constipated.

He turns on her, scowling. “God, I’d almost forgotten how much you love to blow everything out of proportion! Thanks for reminding me, Y/n! Real fucking helpful!”

She steps into him, spine straight and fire licking up her throat. “Let me remind you of something else while we’re at it: we had a deal. You get to play the perfect husband in public—smile for the cameras, cash in on that Stark clout, let your approval rating ride our wedding ring—and in return?” Her voice slices through the air. “You were supposed to show up for Morgan.”

He flinches.

Of course he does.

“Y/n—”

“No,” she barrels on. “That was the fucking deal. And surprise, surprise—I’m the only one who kept up their end! You think I like pretending to adore you in front of a bunch of wrinkly-ass senators who want to talk about Tony’s legacy and my powers like they own both? I hate it. I told you I’d hate it. And you dragged me into it anyway. You selfish jerk!”

“That is not fair—”

“What the fuck do you know about fair, Bucky?” Her laugh is cold, sharp, all blade and no safety. “You disappeared on her. You promised once a month, minimum. And what do I get instead? Her sitting on the curb, waiting like she’s Hachiko or something—asking me why Tinman doesn’t come anymore.”

He flinches like she’s slapped him. Hard. But he recovers fast—visibly forces himself to. “Are you being intentionally dense,” he grits out, “or have you actually lost your goddamn mind?” His shoulders are square now, rigid. His fists clench and unclench at his sides. He looks her dead in the eye, his eyes swimming with—fuck—with guilt and pain and rage and hurt and… love? “I am the man who murdered her father’s parents, Y/n. I am the Winter Soldier.” Or maybe she just caught her own reflection? 

Who knows?

Better yet, who cares?!

“Yes,” she says, flat as steel. “And you’re also the man that married her aunt… You’re also James Buchanan Barnes. My husband.” The words land, right where she wanted. His jaw tics. She watches him blink slow, like it might soften the blow. “She’s your niece—whether you like it or not.”

His silence is heavy. He shifts his weight, swipes his palm down his thigh like he needs to ground himself. Her words linger between them like smoke from a blast.

It’s hard for him. She’s hit him a little too hard. She knows that. She can practically see the bruise on his heart, like she’s got x-ray vision.

Finally, he manages, “When she grows up and finds out what I did—”

“She’ll hate you for it.” Y/n says it softly, but it’s a sledgehammer to the gut. Her throat tightens, but she doesn’t let it show. “There’s only two ways this goes—she’ll either forgive you or she’ll hate you… and then forgive you…” He looks at her then, properly, like he might fold. Like he wants to fold. “But,” she presses on, voice shaking just enough to expose her heart, “If you keep doing what you’re doing, you’ll never get to find out. Eventually she will give up waiting on the curb.” Her hands curl into fists at her sides, not out of rage—but restraint. “So, if you’re done—really done—then tell her. Don’t make her wait for you.”

She steps back a fraction. Her chest is heaving and she doesn’t even realise it until she breathes again, voice low and final—

“But if you’re not done? Then stop being a goddamn pussy and grow the fuck up, Congressman.”

She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a parting glance. Just turns and walks off toward the truck.

“You alright?” Yelena asks as she approaches.

Y/n gives her a flat look. “No,” she says, tone painfully obvious. “We were ten steps away. You heard every word. Why are you pretending you didn’t?”

Yelena shifts where she sits, legs swinging awkwardly off the edge of the truck bed. “I thought it’d be the… nice thing to do.”

Y/n snorts. “You suck at nice.”

Yelena pulls a face and shrugs. “Well, you suck at pretending you don’t still love him.”

Just enough for Ava to glance down, nudging a pebble with the toe of her boot like it suddenly needed her full attention.

Walker lets out a low whistle—not loud, not smug. Just… something to fill the space. He crosses his arms and stares out at the desert like he’s the only adult in a room full of drama. He isn’t, but he’ll pretend.

Yelena doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look away either. Just swings her legs off the truck bed, one at a time, eyes fixed somewhere between annoyed and… concerned? Hard to tell with her.

No one speaks. But no one leaves either.

For a moment, they’re all just there, suspended in the kind of silence that isn’t comfortable but isn’t breaking apart either.

Fuck this, she thinks to herself.

Drawing in a breath she straightens her spine. “Alright, okay.” She plants her hands on her hips. “Here’s the deal—if we don’t get this show on the road in the next 30 seconds, you all will have to fight off Val’s Malaysia-made Superman without me.” She looks around. “So… chop, fucking, chop.”

No one rushes. But they move.

Not together. Just... adjacent.

Close enough.

Walker, Ava, Yelena and Y/n in the back, while Bucky drives with Alexie in the passenger seat. 

Lunch is barely edible and painfully awkward. Y/n chews in silence. Ava scrolls nothing. Walker eyes everyone like they’re the problem. And Alexie—Alexie will not shut up. He launches into a relentless monologue about Soviet glory, KGB valor, and how the Winter Soldier once bench-pressed a tank. Yelena, halfway through her fries, finally snaps. 

“Please shut up before I strangle you with this napkin,” she mutters. 

It works.

Later, as the truck rolls forward, Y/n lifts her hand and slices open the air. A portal blooms—pink and luminescent, pulsing like a living bruise. Bucky drives them in without a word. Inside, gravity is an opinion. The skies ripple, peach and lavender, and the roads glow faintly beneath the tires. Ava is the first to crack the back door open, curiosity overriding caution. Yelena and Walker follow. The world outside is staggering—slow-moving islands, upside-down cities, birds with ink-streak wings. Even Alexie can be heard gasping from the front. 

When they finally slide out the other end, somewhere on the outskirts of New York, the group quietly shuts the truck doors again. 

Ava and Walker sit opposite Y/n and Yelena respectively.

“Neat trick,” Walker comments. “You’ve come a long way from not even being able to glitch yourself.”

Y/n doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d ask if the serum made you a bigger asshole,” she replies, “but unfortunately—I knew you before it.”

Walker blinks, flabbergasted. “I meant that as a compliment.”

“That absolutely could not have been a compliment,” Ava says flatly.

“It was!” Walker insists, indignant.

“Then you’re very bad at giving compliments,” Yelena chimes in, wearing a mocking smile.

“Or maybe you’re just, you know—lying?” Y/n offers with a smile, sweet as venom.

Walker groans. “It was a compliment.” He exhales hard, trying to collect himself. “I know I’m not exactly your favorite person ever since Marrakesh—”

“Do not bring up Marrakesh,” she cuts in, sharp and lethal. “Or you’ll be dead before you finish the sentence.”

Point taken.

Walker pivots—barely. “I was in the shit,” he confesses slowly, enunciating every word. “I was in the shit and Valentina told me that sharing intel was the only way to get back in the good graces of the government. She told me it was for recruitment… I—” He pauses, like the words that will come next haunt him day and night. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know that it would lead to what ended up happening in Marrakesh.” He looks at her then, meets her eyes for the first time as he says, “And I am so fucking sorry.” Then he looks away. “I never would’ve said anything if I’d known. I may be a lot of things, but I am not evil.”

Perhaps it’s the broken look in his eyes that she’s seen in the mirror so many times, or maybe it’s just the awfully overt display of inadequacy that gets to her. But get to her, it does.

“I know,” she tells him. “I know—which is probably the only reason why you still get to bitch and moan around like this.”

He turns to her instantly, eyes wide. 

Was that a threat? His face asks with scrunched up eyebrows.

She raises her brow. That was just a fact and you know it, she conveys.

He rolls his eyes, slumps back, accepting the point without argument.

“But that’s not why I think you’re an asshole,” Y/n adds casually, because she’s bored and chaos is her hobby.

Walker perks up immediately. “The Flag Smashers? Look—I know what I did wasn’t right.” He gets a twin glare from Yelena and Ava but keeps going. He carries on regardless. “But that was mostly the serum and this crushing weight of having to live upto the Captain America name, and you know—having to watch my best friend die in front of my eyes! I’m not saying it justifies what I did and I know everyone thinks all these are just excuses but it’s all I’ve got, okay?” He’s pretty red in the face by the time he’s done talking.

“Walker,” she calls out after a beat. “I tried to end the world when my brother sacrificed himself to save it. There are people out there who can judge you for what you did after Lamar died, but I don’t think any of ‘em are on this truck.”

Ava and Yelena raise their brows, curl up their lips in silent but noticeable agreement.

Walker throws up his hands like a frustrated child. “Then why do you hate me?”

“I don’t,” she says plainly. “If I did, you’d know.”

“How?” He asks.

“You’d be dead,” Yelena replies absently, still focused on biting a jagged edge off her nail like this conversation bores her. The deadpan delivery makes Y/n crack a smile.

“Okay then,” Walker sits up straighter. “Why do you think I’m an asshole?” He amends the question.

“Because you said that I could have saved my brother if I had just tried hard enough, which gave me a panic attack.” A beat. And then, “Oh and that was before the serum.”

Walker throws his head back and groans while Yelena and Ava dissolve into cackling laughter.

“You are such an asshole, Walker,” Yelena says between giggles, nudging his boot with hers.

“Absolutely massive,” Ava snorts. “Top ten, easy.”

“I was under a lot of pressure,” Walker tries to defend, hands up, palms out—but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

“All I hear are farts from an asshole,” Yelena sing-songs, biting back a grin as the truck shakes with their collective laughter. Walker sighs deeply, enduring it like a martyr, head bowed in dramatic resignation.

When it quiets down, Ava's voice cuts through the silence—soft this time. “I’m sorry too, by the way.” Y/n looks over, brows knitting slightly. “For Marrakesh,” Ava she clarifies.

Y/n shrugs as replies, “Valentina tricked you as well. You had no clue what you were signing up for.”

Ava looks a little shocked at the revelation that Y/n was privy to this piece of information.

And you know what? Fair. 

Three years ago, Y/n might’ve been offended at the doubt in Ava’s expression. But three years ago, she hadn’t paid the price yet. She’d been soft then—softened by the bliss of falling in love with Bucky fucking Barnes. She’d let herself slip, and Marrakesh had made her pay for it.

Not anymore.

Now? She’s back in the game, sharper than ever. With the kind of intel she’s collected, she probably knows more about this ragtag truckload of misfits than they know about themselves.

“I still want to apologize,” Ava insists. “Not just for the result—which was, obviously, catastrophic—but because it ended up breaking up my favorite superhero it-couple.”

Y/n lets out a short, dry snort. “We didn’t break up over something that simple.”

The laughter cuts off like a switch. Even the hum of the road outside seems to dull. The shift is instant—an invisible fog settling between them. She feels it press against her ribs, heavy and cold.

“We didn’t break up because of Marrakesh.” Her voice is lower now. Stripped of armor. She doesn’t glance toward the front seat, doesn’t need to—she knows he’s listening. Of course he’s listening. Every muscle in her body feels it.

She stares ahead, eyes fixed on nothing. “We didn’t break up because we lost a kid. No, no, no…”

The silence that follows is thick—thicker than grief, thicker than guilt.

Yelena finally breaks the stillness, her voice small, almost a whisper. “Then?”

Sas swallows. Her mouth tastes like rust—like old pennies and something sour that’s lived too long inside her. Guilt sits at the base of her throat, sharp-edged and familiar. She feels it every time she thinks about Marrakesh. Every time she looks at Bucky.

“We broke up, because we lost a kid… and Bucky blames me for it.”

Find the Static Verse Masterlist here.

now that you have some context about the breakup, static x bucky nation, how we feeling?

@mirandastuckinthe80s @rattyfishrock @jeyramarie @yourbane @yikesdrama