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hitlikehammers · 2 months

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party staples

rating: t ♥️ cw: criminal-levels of softness ♥️ tags: established relationship, rockstar husbands, wedding plans, soul-deep love, slice of life, seriously: the softness

for @steddielovemonth day twenty-one: Love is letting him pick the music (@sparklyslug)

look look it's the rockstar husbands' third wedding! ♥️

He wants this for Steve.

Like, it’s all for Steve. Kind of…not in a way that’s, y’know, where Eddie’s not living for himself, but in the way where who and what he is, the life he has: it’s something he’s woven alongside Steve into this tapestry that’s…that’s them and so every breath he takes is from those threads, right, so all of him, all he has and all he feels and all he does: it’s them, because they’re stitched together not so that you can’t tell the difference, but so that you…you can’t unravel them. They’re too entwined.

And it is glorious.

But so, here’s the thing: they’ve exchanged rings? Twice, now. Maybe kinda-more if you want to get technical: they’d asked each other for forever, though, well—

Technically, Eddie thinks they do that every day. So, fine, but—

They have managed two formal-ish proposals. As formal as you can get if one’s the morning after you moved in together and christened the new bed, with a bread-bag twisty-tie, and the other the night after a graduation from community college with an acceptance to the night educators program in hand from IU East, fresh off the most promising label talks Eddie’s had with anybody ever, and they both just felt it, y’know, like they wanted to mark this as always, that they were growing and changing and their lives were moving and the momentum of them both was the momentum of them both, their life together was this beautiful always they were actively taking steps into, and it was just: they were dizzy with it, they were overfull of it, they were so happy and the only thing they could do was stop at a 7-11 and buy goddamn Ring Pops but they’d laughed and they’d kissed so fucking drenched in that feeling and if Eddie’d ripped off Steve’s gown to the point where it was really good they hadn’t rented it?

Eddie’ll forever pretend that was planned in advance.

Point being: Eddie’d worn Steve’s ring—his grandpa’s, who’d loved Steve right and Eddie wished he’d have known him, if only to tell him thank you—and Steve’s worn a cheap ass band Eddie’s tried to upgrade probably every-other-month for a while now but Steve won’t have it, the sentimental bastards still wears the probably-rusting remains of the twisty-tie—but they’re…they’re already married in every way that matters. So the idea of doing it again? Isn’t…isn’t stressful.

It’s kinda…exciting.

Because they’re going to share this with all their friends, their family. They’re going to bring everyone to their little house when the kids are back from school and Robin and Nance can make it in, hell: Jon just left with the intention to spend the next month roadtripping his way from California for the occasion. They’re making real money, now; the band’s doing more than he ever would have expected, Steve’s beloved—of course he is, as he damn well should be—at school, he’s the kind of counselor Eddie might have made it through senior year the first time with, if he’d had someone that invested, showing that much care for him. They’re…they’re in such a good place, and it’s only looking brighter on the horizons to come, all the way into forever: and that isn’t more than Eddie could have expected.

No: that is more than he ever even knew to hope for, it’s…it’s so much bigger than anything he ever knew existed.

But Robin’s going to officiate. Hopper and Joyce, and Claudia too: they nearly squared off for who could stand up for Steve, not to give him away so much as to hold him close and make sure he knows what he means and Eddie could kiss them for it, because the look in Steve’s eyes when they’d asked if they could share the job, it was…

Eddie might just kiss them all for it, when the day comes. Hopper included.

But everybody: Wayne’ll be there, for him, the boys are coming, gonna play requests for a couple hours, which should be fucking hilarious, and then hand it over to a band Steve insisted they hire so everyone could enjoy the evening, and it’s gonna be in their backyard, with the barbecue and a bonfire, just this mastic joyful potluck and—

“You finish the playlist, so we can send it off? I figure we’ll let the three finalists react to the song selection, might make the decision easier if any of them hate it,” Steve’s leaning over his shoulder and he turns, bumps into Steve’s cheek and Steve ducks his head to kiss Eddie’s jaw: because he was supposed to be finalizing the list for the band that would come on to give Jeff, Dougie, and Gareth the rest of the night off. Because Eddie was the musician, here. Eddie would of course pick the songs.

Except…he’s not the only person who loved music, in this relationship. And…he doesn’t know what specifically makes it so strong, and obvious in his chest, but: Eddie…wants this, for Steve.

He wants to dance to the songs Steve picks, he wants his heartbeat to waltz in time with Steve’s, first-and-foremost-and-always, but then find the rhythms Steve likes most to pick up the downbeat, he…

He wants to drown in Steve, in as many ways as he can find.

So he hands the paper over and pops the pen out of his mouth, which Steve only eyes for the movement, doesn’t even bother chastising him for chewing on the plastic cap anymore, knows to pick his battles: but Eddie hands it over, wordless—an offering, and a request at once:

Let me dance to your music, with you in my arms.

Steve look at him for a long stretch of moments, and his lips are plush around the soft smile that settles on his mouth: contented. So wreathed in love.

He leans in and Eddie’s ready this time, tilts his neck so Steve can kiss him full at the neck, wrapping arms around Eddie’s waist so he can squeeze him close and breath against his jaw:

“I’ve got just the thing.”

And then he’s gone, and Eddie stares after him, just…lost in thought except it’s not lost, even inside his head: he knows exactly where he’s at in his thoughts. Same place he always is.

With Steve.

And then the genuine article is back, grinning a little…not nervous exactly, but something, as he walks over to the stereo and pops the cassette into the deck.

And Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, curious, as he reaches an arm out toward Steve, not really an invitation just a knowing, that Steve will come to him and settle in his lap, in his arms.

Which he does. Because that’s who they are.

“Strings?” Eddie asks as the sound fills the room and Steve just grins, a little bashful; huh. “And piano,” because the keys are swelling on the track and it’s pretty, no, it’s kinda beautiful, but Eddie doesn’t know what it…is.

“Seemed appropriate,” Steve mouths next to Eddie’s ear, warm and kinda almost impish.

“It’s perfect,” Eddie whispers close but what is it, I don’t…” but: oh.

Oh: but he does.

That’s…that’s his music. His song. The band, but this is, he’s—

“Stevie?” he asks, a little breathless, a little wondering because, because—

“I’d kinda hoped you might not fill the whole list,” Steve murmurs, lips pressed against his skin so warm, so firm, so…

Perfect.

Perfect, and it sends the most delightful shivers up Eddie’s spine.

“What,” Eddie starts, shakes his head, feels his cheeks start to ache a little as he smiles bigger and bigger because…this is classical, and this is fucking professional, and it’s goddamn Corroded Coffin, in orchestral…splendor.

“Friend of Robin’s is at Berklee, in Boston,” Steve nuzzles against his neck a little as he explains; “studying composition, I asked if she could,” and he sighs a little, the softest little breath and he drags his lips to catch against Eddie’s skin, wanting nothing from it; almost lazy as he exhales: “just if she could arrange some things.”

Some things, he says, like Eddie’s heart—which was already overfull—isn’t trying to burst not just out of Eddie’s chest, but out of its own size and shape, a glorious tender explosion of just, just…

Feeling.

“I thought we could have someone to play, these,” Steve nods toward the speakers; “and then Dustin said he’d play DJ for, you know. Party staples.”

Eddie leans so he can look Steve in the eye to ask the most important question:

“Love Shack?”

He is not ashamed to say he fucking loves when that song comes on at a wedding. Steve huffs.

“Of course, baby.”

“Van Halen?” and Steve grins. “All sorts of Van Halen,” which is as it should be. Steve wooed Eddie too fucking well with Why Can't This Be Love; “also some George Michael,” and that’s perfect, Eddie doesn’t even care, he just loves the sly grin Steve gets when he says it, wants to eat that grin, if he gets to see that mouth look so soft and happy he can sure as hell appreciate some George fucking Michael; “but if I miss anything, you’ll see it before Dustin gets his paws on it, you can add whatever I overlooked,” and he leans in again, this time claiming Eddie’s lips and Eddie gives willingly, gratefully—as always.

And it settles, all around Eddie in that moment: the way he’d wanted Steve to have this thing that’s so him on the outside, but if it is, then it’s them at its core, like all of it is.

And what did this magnificent bastard go and do, but give Eddie his own songs right back as a…a gift; songs that are all Steve, anyway.

He can’t help the laughter, this buoyant thing with its own velocity: he can’t help but let it shake out of him against Steve’s lips as he kisses him harder, deeper, as he tries to get lost in the feeling, in the reality of this man: his husband.

Because wherever he gets lost? Steve’s right there, always and forever.

He’ll be just fine.

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

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btsbabe7 · 4 months

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November Prompt 30: Roadtrip

Words: 491 | Pairing: Golden Trio, Fred & George Weasley x reader

It isn’t until you find yourself walking up to the old, rusted blue Ford Anglia that you realize the two Weasley twins were very serious about this roadtrip. But come to think of it, you can’t remember a time they’d mentioned doing something and not following through.

Walking alongside a yawning Harry, you can make out Fred and George’s hushed argument about who’s to drive the car. You glance over wearily at Harry, but the darkness is enough to shield your slight irritation.

Ron and Hermione join soon enough with the four of you already waiting inside the warmth of the car as they pack their trunks inside the trunk. Thanks to the car’s extension charm there’s enough space for the belongings of more than six. Even your best friend Solora would be tagging along too on the way back from the cozy cottage near the seaside far from here.

You stare out the window, feeling excited once the car finally takes off, courtesy of George. You’re happy you’ll have your best friends by your side for one last adventure before the start of your adult lives and with graduation now behind you all. The sky is painting salmon pinks and golden yellows across periwinkle colored clouds on the early morning horizon and seeing it from the view in the sky makes it much more awe-worthy.

Fred and George had planned the entire thing out. They knew how much you loved the sunrises and sunsets, so everything had to perfect. You can imagine their chuckling as they browsed for snacks, probably even throwing a few prank ones from their shop into the basket for added fun for everyone once you reached the cottage. Their spontaneity is the very reason you agreed to the pair coming.

Laughter floods the front of the car on Fred and George’s behalf and Ron seems to have made himself a makeshift bed against Hermione’s shoulder. His soft snores gaining a giggle from her as she attempts to read a book while occasionally stealing glances of the sunrise from the window. Harry rests against your shoulder as well, watching the sunrise with you and holding your hand underneath the blanket he’d brought along for the ride. It’s fit across the four of you in the backseat, keeping you all warm in the coolness of the frosted morning.

Flying through the air for this trip reminds you of the time Ron had broken Harry out of his aunt’s house in your second year. That was the last story you’d heard of the car. And reminiscing on the old times brings your attention from the sunrise to Harry. He’s so close, you can feel your breath mixing between the two of you and that closeness makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. The closeness makes you think of all you’ve been through together and makes you ecstatic to see where this roadtrip called life will lead you all now.

Please be sure to check out my other latest fics:

⚡︎ November Prompt Challenge (days 1-30)

⚡︎ For You Always - reader x Snape

~ Navi: masterlist (all fandoms) & (bts imagines/drabbles)

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction, but please don’t copy! Written purely for fun :) Please only repost to other socials w/my permission and credit! Reblogging w/credit is fine. Thank you! ♡

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lets-try-some-writing · 4 days

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Hi, i also have some fic recomendations, here some i haven't seen anyone recommend yet and are my absolute favourites - i binge read some in one day and some for a week or few (while being the only thing im reading) when i discovered them to be a few hunderd words long

With a Side of Rust by blueskyscribe (ao3)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/982070/chapters/1934125

Knockout wants to help the new generation of cybertronians and the 3 kids get a free roadtrip

Growing Up Wrecker by jedipati (ao3)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46324633/chapters/116631280

After predacons rising Optimus came back as a sparkling and team have to deal with it

TFP Wheeljack in TFA by @/justawannabearchaeologist here on Tumblr

https://www.tumblr.com/justawannabearchaeologist/683909203654524928/tfp-wheeljack-in-tfa-masterlist?source=share

Stop Me by megadoomingir (fanfiction.net)

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12271253/1/

Starscream gets teleported to the past and tries to fix things

If you liked time frame I'd also recommend 2 more from same author: is a different perspective and 2 alternate endings

A Frame of Time https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12377885/1/A-Frame-of-Time

Framed Time https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12470329/1/Framed-Time

Heh sorry if this Ask is a bit to long, but i had to share these fics with world

OOOOOOOOOH I will take a look at these!! They sound fun!!! Perfect material to indulge in while I ready myself for the pain that is finals.

#fic recs #transformers #maccadam

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venus-haze · 1 year

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Howl (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: It’s almost inevitable, going on a road trip and ending up with car trouble. The nearby town of Ambrose seems like the perfect place to get your friend’s car a new battery without going off schedule too much, except the handsome mechanic at the body shop decides a dead battery will be the least of your worries as the road trip abruptly ends far worse than you could have imagined.

Note: Please read the warnings before deciding to engage with this fic. Reader is a cis woman, but no other descriptors are used. Your age is ambiguous in this, but it was written with a reader in their 20s or older in mind. This is my first slasher fic, but I’d like to write more. I hope Bo isn’t OOC in this (especially the ending, I feel kinda eh about it). I rewatched the movie and read the script right before starting on this but who knows. Please let me know what you think! Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: Murder/death. Descriptions of violence involving weapons (guns and knives). Disturbing and sadistic behavior. Misogyny. Kidnapping and prolonged captivity which involves physical abuse, emotional and psychological manipulation, major Stockholm syndrome, distorted sense of time and self. Duct tape as a gag. Sexually explicit content which involves coercion (non/dubcon), knifeplay, bloodplay, and cigarette burns. Do not interact if you are under 18.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips when you and your small group of roadtripping friends arrived in Ambrose, a charming little town tucked in a forgotten corner of the Louisiana swamplands. You felt comfortable there, safe, even. Disarmed by a nostalgic main street lined with colorful family-owned shops, you thought nothing of it when you all made the trek to reach the town’s gas station and body shop in search of a new battery for Laura’s car. Sure, the detour put a damper on the road trip, but you figured it’d only cost an hour or two of driving time.

Just your luck, the gas station was there, as the strange man along the highway had promised. That didn’t necessarily mean the place was open, as the gas pumps were half-rusted and at the obvious mercy of the elements. You had let your friends argue amongst themselves about whether or not to go inside the shop. You were the only one who noticed a broad-shouldered, handsome man in a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit walk out of the garage that had just started blaring heavy metal from inside. Funny, you would’ve suspected a place like that to play some twangy country classics. The mechanic stood a few feet away from you all, watching the scene in amusement, and you gave him an apologetic smile.

When he gave you a smile in return, one that was more wolf than man, you thought that you’d offer your throat to him without hesitation, let him feast on you as he pleased. As much as you hoped looking a wolf in the mouth would somehow defang him, he seemed famished, in an almost controlled desperation the way one hears howling in the night. You were presented with a blood red flag from the start and willingly ignored it just because you were a bit too curious about the fire behind his eyes and the way he blatantly ogled you, not your friends.

Trying to make polite conversation with him, you had asked him about the music that was playing in the body shop—Anthrax? Megadeth? Korn? You threw out names of metal bands, ones you’d seen on t-shirts or posters. He regarded you with amusement as he answered, though you’d retroactively acknowledge the predatory undertone of his words and actions toward you in the hour or so leading up to your life going to hell. He was always going to devour you.

Like everything in Ambrose, his good ol’ boy charm was nothing more than a facade to keep you in town as long as possible. Introducing himself as Bo, the exact man you all were told to look for, Michelle had cut to the chase and told him that Laura’s car was in need of a new battery. Your guard lowered even more as he threw compliments around like candy, asking all the right questions about the roadtrip you were 347 miles into. He searched for a brand new, more reliable car battery in the shop and the garage, only to muse as he charmingly adjusted his worn-out trucker cap that it might be back up at his house, one of the business deliveries he gets up there, he just hadn’t gotten a chance to unpack it yet.

In hindsight, you weren’t sure why you believed him, or why you let Renee walk up to the house with him by herself. What you couldn’t admit to yourself was that you almost didn’t, feeling jealous at the thought of her alone with Bo. A brief sense of satisfaction had swept over you when, for the second time, Bo’s attention was fixed on your body before he headed off to the house with Renee. You hadn’t seen her since.

The metal door of the basement hovel where you had found yourself trapped for god knows how long slammed open, and you jolted—at the harsh sound and at his unkempt appearance, sweat dripping from his brow, rage in his eyes, his chest heaving as he stalked over to the same spot you’d been in since he dragged you, screaming and crying but with no real fight, as you ashamedly reminded yourself, down there.

“Your friend is gettin’ on my last damn nerve,” he growled.

A foolish hope bubbled warm in your chest at this. Someone was still alive, someone besides you at least. Which one though? You’d seen a looming tower of a man with long black hair stab Laura and drag away her limp form while Bo had wrangled you back into the body shop and down to whatever fucking dungeon you were probably going to die in. Renee was airheaded and shallow; you admittedly didn’t like her much, but damn, if she found a way out of Ambrose, you’d be her best friend. You’d bet anything it was Michelle, though. She was the one who had doubts about stopping in Ambrose in the first place, going so far as to call bullshit when Bo claimed the car battery was up at his house.

It wasn’t like you could ask. He’d slapped duct tape over your mouth, as to his frustration he found he was out of superglue to seal your lips shut. The things that slip your mind. At least you still had your clothes on, though you doubted that would last. Blood, though you weren’t sure whose, stained your shirt beyond salvation anyway.

“Bitch won’t shut the fuck up,” he grumbled, double-checking that the restraints were secured.

You resisted the urge to scoff, as if you hadn’t spent the past twenty minutes exhausting yourself trying to break out of them. The bastard was expertly thorough, to your despair. You had gotten a surge of adrenaline in his earlier absence, a newfound will to escape and survive as you tugged at the leather straps and duct tape holding you in place on the surgical bed, praying for some kind of give. As soon as he stepped foot through that door again, slamming it behind him, you had been no closer to freedom than when he left. The gravity of the situation came crashing down on you, a suffocating hopelessness.

His sleeves had rolled up a bit, and you noticed scarring around his wrists, raised and angry looking despite having healed for some time. You’d never seen scarring like that before, wondering what could have caused such intense trauma to his skin like that.

His eyes followed yours, and he curled his lip, backhanding you across the face. “Ain’t polite to stare.”

The stinging pain in your jaw and the weight of his intense gaze made breathing difficult—that and the duct tape. You began to hyperventilate, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He cooed in mock sympathy, using the pads of his thumbs to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall down your face.

“Save those for later, darlin’,” he said. “I got somethin’ special in mind for you.”

He left your side to begin rifling through a duffel bag in a dark corner of the room. Emerging back into the light moments later, he had a hand-held video camera and a plastic tripod. Despite your lips being sealed, you hoped the noises of protest you made would somehow change his mind. Instead, he seemed amused by them as he set down the tripod and began adjusting the camera on top of it, giving you a wink as the green light near the lens flickered on.

You stared at the cracked cement ceiling while he set up the video camera a few feet away from where he had you restrained, unwilling to acknowledge what was about to happen. You’d rather be dead—though you figured by the end of the night, you would be.

“Anyone ever tell you how fuckin’ pretty you are?” he asked, observing you through the small screen that flipped out from the side of the camera.

No, and you certainly didn’t want this to be the situation in which someone finally did. You wondered how many of your fallen comrades taped up on the dingy wall had heard the same line. It was almost impossible not to look at them, the dozens of polaroids of young women strapped to the same surgical bed as you, all in various states of brutalization, plainly spelling out your fate. None of the photos had captions scrawled beneath them, no dates or names—he probably didn’t know yours, either.

Bo snapped his fingers three times in a row, your startled gaze immediately shooting over to him behind the camera where he was adjusting the settings. At least his tinkering delayed the inevitable. You stared intensely into the camera as if trying to will it to break, put up a fight on your behalf so he’d call the whole thing off.

He grinned at your obedience. “That’s it. Eyes on me, doll.”

You whimpered. Doll, how appropriate, how fucking fitting. The second he got his hands on you, your personhood was dissolved into objectification. You had welcomed the prelude to it, the desire in his eyes when he openly stared at you earlier as he fed your ego so you’d end up right where he wanted you—accessible, vulnerable, defenseless.

“Perfect,” Bo whispered, as the green light turned red, indicating he’d begun recording. He stepped aside and grabbed a nearby knife as he made his way over to you.

The video camera was no longer your ally; it couldn’t buy you any more time from the inevitable. In an instant, it became your voyeur, a guilty bystander in the terrorization that was about to be documented. You wondered where the footage would end up, part of his personal collection, or maybe someone as prolific as him was churning this shit out for sickos online who’d imagine themselves in his place.

He stood angled toward your side, giving the camera a clear view of your body. He took his time drinking in the state of you, bound and terrified as you looked between him and the knife. You relaxed a little when he set the knife to the side, but just as quickly, his hands were on your body.

His big, calloused hand drifted up your skirt—why the fuck did you put on a skirt this morning—to your panties, and you felt your face heat up at the self-satisfied grin that spread across his face as he felt the wet stain on the fabric, slipping his fingers past the elastic to feel your arousal. He toyed with your clit, rubbing and pinching it as you resisted the orgasm you felt creeping up on you. Then, just as you were about to give in and go over the edge, he pulled his hand away, smug at the noise of frustration you made.

Picking up the knife again, he dragged the tip of the blade across the soft skin of your thighs until it rested far too close to your cunt for comfort. Your breathing was ragged, but you tried not to make any sudden movements or do anything to inadvertently provoke him. The bulge in his pants seemed especially pronounced, he certainly wasn’t doing this to you to compensate for something, you could tell that much.

He smirked upon noticing your eyes on the outline of his cock through his clothes.

“How bad d’you want it, darlin’?” he asked, his voice a low, almost velvety purr.

You shook your head furiously, screwing your eyes shut as he moved the blade, only for him to begin shredding through your clothing until they were nothing but rags on the floor. There was nothing to do but watch in horror as he sliced each of your bra straps, pushing down what was left of the undergarment to allow himself access to your tits. He held the knife to your throat while he leaned down, sucking on one of your nipples until it felt sore, like it was going to bruise. He finally pulled back, smacking your other tit for good measure.

The knife in his hand was dull, you realized, to your dismay. It appeared clean enough, all things considered, but with a blade like that, any injury he inflicted on you would take more effort on his part and hurt far more on yours. A sharpened blade would hurt, but it’d be quick and precise. You felt bile rise in your throat with nowhere for it to go as you considered how cruelly deliberate he was about all of this. Asshole.

For a few glorious moments, your mind had drifted elsewhere as he used the knife to cut through your panties—until you heard a scream and a groan from outside, both you and Bo pausing to look up at the grate in the ceiling and listen. Another scream and what surely must have been a body hitting the pavement, perhaps it was your imagination running wild, but you could’ve sworn you heard bones crack upon impact. Michelle. You felt your chest tighten.

Bo grinned, his wild gaze back on you as he tauntingly dragged the blade across your collarbone, far too close to your throat for comfort, “Listen, if you’re good for me, I’ll keep ya. Won’t have to end up like your friends up there.”

Keep you. You hated keep you. Keep you was long-term, turning your current situation into a permanent arrangement. Keep you was a threat, a dark omen hanging over your head like a bolt of lightning about to crack down on you. You wondered if any of the girls on the wall were so lucky as to receive such an offer.

“Whattaya say?” he asked, as if he needed permission.

Another vomit-inducing sound came from above, and you looked at him, nodding wildly.

He pressed a sloppy kiss to your forehead, a praise of “good girl” coming from deep in his chest.

Without warning, he plunged the blade into your forearm, a jagged, brutal cut that split your tender flesh. You screamed through the tape as white hot pain seared through your body, mascara-stained tears streaking down your cheeks as you writhed against your restraints. As soon as he pulled the knife from your arm and leaned down to lick the blood from the wound he inflicted on you, you passed out cold.

Almost to your disappointment, you awoke a few hours later, your injured arm bandaged up, though you could see your fresh blood stains had become the latest addition to the already stained to hell mattress you were laying on. Your pussy felt sore and aching, and you could only hazard a guess as to what else he did to you after you’d passed out. At least you’d gotten an IUD a few months earlier.

Bo was disgustingly chipper when he checked on you about an hour after you woke up, a smile on his face as he walked down the stairs with a TV dinner and a dusty bottle of soda. The scent of over-microwaved corn made your stomach growl, and you didn’t even like corn that much.

When he removed the tape from your mouth, you knew better than to mouth off or try something, not when you were fully aware of what he was capable of, and enjoyed doing nonetheless. Your compliance pleased him, as he praised you for how well you did, that the video he got was the best one yet—like you were made for it. You immediately lost your appetite.

As days went by, he checked on you frequently, though there was no rhythm to his visits, keeping you on edge. He restocked on super glue, but through reasoning unfathomable to you, decided duct tape suited your mouth better. Sometimes he’d bring food for you that wasn’t even fully heated, and there was something especially hellish about having to eat half-frozen mac n’ cheese. You wished he would at least undo your restraints when you ate, but instead he fed you himself, like you were a child—only allowed microwave dinners that made you feel more nauseous than full and having to drink lukewarm tap water or flat soda from a straw.

Your arm was healing to his satisfaction, though where he had stabbed you would undoubtedly scar over horrifically. Astoundingly, you didn’t need stitches, but he assured you that Vincent–you assumed the long-haired man who’d killed Laura–was great at stitching people up. You weren’t sure whether to be comforted by that or not.

Then there was the bed across from the surgical one you were strapped to, its promise of comfort taunted you, but the only time you were in it was when you were restrained as usual, your face buried in the grimy pillows, ass up as he either fucked or belted you until you were crying or bleeding. He preferred both. The TV appeared broken, but you didn’t want to watch anything and be further reminded of the outside world you were missing anyway.

The basement didn’t have a bathroom, and so the only time you were freed from your restraints was when he’d bring you upstairs to the one in the gas station, a knife to your throat the whole ascent up to sunlight, a few taunting yards away from freedom. Though the scummy bathroom had no windows, he went as far to go in with you while you used the toilet, and you knew it was to humiliate you more than it was to make sure you didn’t escape. You couldn’t check what you were sure was your haggard appearance, as the mirror on the wall was covered by brown paper, shards of broken glass poking through the quick cover-up. Maybe it was one of the girls pictured downstairs, seeing an opportunity and taking it, smashing the mirror with an elbow and sheer force of will to put up one last fight. The rust-colored stains on the tile floor told you that while it was a valiant effort, she was not the victor.

You knew you smelled rancid from being down there, anxiously sweating every moment you were in his presence mixed with your own dried blood and his cum that you were sure he’d gotten on every inch of your body at that point. He had presented you with a pack of half-dried, lemon-scented wet wipes on one of your trips up to the bathroom, and you wasted no time in using every one of them to scrub yourself down as he watched intently, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette, the bulge in his pants reminding you that you wouldn’t stay clean for long.

The worst part was, you began looking forward to him checking on you. He was sadistic and deliberately cruel, but isolation did you no favors as your already fragile mental state caused you to crack. Time was absolutely not on your side, you’d lost track of it anyway.

One day, however, you heard another group of unsuspecting travelers speaking to Bo outside the body shop, their voices echoing down the grate that allowed the only natural light in. Your hope for rescue turned into a hope for something that shook you to your core when you acknowledged it—you hoped he wouldn’t replace you.

While you didn’t want to spend the foreseeable future in a dungeon, strapped to a surgical bed for a psychopath’s amusement, you certainly didn’t want to meet the inevitable, brutal death that awaited you so soon. The women who came before you were nowhere to be found, and you could only imagine the worst had happened to them. You didn’t know what Bo did with the photos and videos he frequently took of you, but you sure as hell didn’t want to spend your final moments as the subject of a hardcore snuff film.

You nearly gagged as you heard Bo use the same lines and excuses that he’d given you and your friends. No one in the group even protested, two people volunteering to tag along with Bo up to the house to get the taillight they needed. It wasn’t long before the sound of an all too familiar struggle ensued above. Metal clattered, people cursed and screamed, tires squealed, and you could hear Bo cursing and struggling before a gun shot rang out, bringing the fight to an end. You weren’t sure who had won until you heard, echoed through the grate, Bo asking Vincent if he was okay. Your stomach turned at the sound of his voice and the fact that he was alive, though you didn’t want to think about whether it did so in disappointment or relief.

You were shaking when Bo stormed into the basement, blood splattered across his face and on his clothes. He punched the wall, shouting “Fuck!” upon impact.

Your wide eyes were glued to him, and he turned to you, acknowledging your presence with a momentarily intense gaze that inexplicably softened as he closed the short distance between you.

“You were real good,” he said, sounding almost confused. “Stayed nice and quiet while Vincent and me took care of business up there.”

You awkwardly jerked your head toward his face. He’d gotten to know your quirks and tells, as he answered your unspoken question.

“‘S not mine,” he mumbled, sloppily wiping the blood away with his hand.

The tone in the basement for the next hour or so was almost uncomfortably domestic, like he really cared about you. Perhaps you’d proven your loyalty in his eyes by not making attempts to warn the unsuspecting tourists of what awaited them in Ambrose or trying for some kind of escape amidst the chaos.

Of the dozens of things you hated admitting to yourself about the situation you were in, you almost liked it better when he was mean to you. There was less guessing, less overthinking when he’d simply throw you around, fuck you, and then leave.

Over the following days, your conflicting feelings over the slight intimacy he was displaying, a kiss on the forehead here, a meal that wasn’t microwaved there, only grew. If there was anything you could do to gain his favor in this way, you’d do it, you’d do anything for him to be nice to you more than he was cruel. After all, you’d gotten yourself this far with your mouth duct-taped and your arms and legs strapped to a surgical bed or immobilized by the host of restraints he had in his possession. He realized such when you leaned into his touch at one point, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion briefly before he grinned. Neither of you, it seemed, were particularly experienced with whatever relationship you’d found yourselves in.

“C’mon—“ his thick Louisiana drawl made it difficult for you to discern whether he was calling you doll or darl’. Regardless, he freed you of your restraints and presented you with the first article of clothing you’d seen since he brought you down there. It was yours, and you knew exactly where you had put it in your suitcase. A slinky little satin slip that you’d bought days before the trip as nightwear, hoping you’d get lucky in some city or town along the way. The sight of it made you want to scream.

“We’re goin’ on a little date,” he said jovially.

You shook as you attempted to dress yourself, embarrassed when he had to come over and help you get the slip over your head. The fabric was just as soft and silky as when you’d bought it off the rack, though it was wrinkled and you noticed a white stain near the hem. You supposed you couldn’t have it all.

To make matters worse, your legs were weak from the limited use of them over time, buckling beneath you as you tried to slip your feet into the kitten heels that you didn’t recognize. While Bo made a fuss about having to help you with your shoes as well, easily a size too small anyway, you could tell he relished in how helpless you were.

Finally, he pulled the duct tape off of your mouth. He handed you a tube of chapstick—cherry, though most of the label was worn off, odd, it almost looked like the one Renee had. You could care less, though. It was the first time your mouth was untaped for something other than eating one of the disgusting microwave dinners he brought you or him fucking your throat until you cried. You applied the used chapstick liberally, rubbing your lips together in hopes it would soften them some.

“Gimme a twirl.” He whistled as you did so with the grace of a newborn fawn. “Shit, oughta enter you in the Miss Ambrose pageant. Knock all them other girls outta the park.”

Miss Ambrose. The posters were plastered throughout town when you arrived. You could only imagine what the qualifications for the winner would have to be.

He brought you upstairs, no knife to your throat this time, but you knew better than to try something when he always had that or a gun on him. Besides, you were far too weak to even make an effective escape attempt. You trudged forward through the shop, almost at the door when you stopped suddenly, catching a glimpse of yourself in the small mirror on the wall.

The reflection wasn’t you. It couldn’t be. The woman who stared back at you was worn-out, beat up, pathetic—you couldn’t accept that he’d done that to you in, well, you really didn’t know how long he’d kept you down there. If Bo noticed your shock at your appearance, he didn’t care, as he pressed a kiss to your bruised, bare shoulder before throwing his arm over it and leading you outside, into the cool night air.

A cigarette was nestled between his fingers in his other hand, and you felt yourself start to sweat at the sight of it. Normally, the worst he would do was blow smoke in your face, amused by your evident discomfort. A not so distant memory of him putting one out on your thigh, cigarette in one hand and video camera in the other, nearly made you tense up. It was almost as if being out of the restraints, out in the open, made you feel more vulnerable to his cruelty.

He offered the smoke to you, and for half a moment you considered taking it so as to not upset him, but you allowed yourself to meekly shake your head. To your relief, it was the right move.

“Good, these things’ll kill ya. Hate to see somethin’ like that happen to my pretty girl,” he said, taking a long drag on the cigarette before flicking it aside.

You could barely keep up with his long strides, the prolonged weakness in your legs and impractical, ill-fitting heels doing you no favors as he led you down the deserted streets of Ambrose.

The town lit up like it was taunting you, highlighting all of the things you would have noticed if you weren’t too busy making heart-eyes at the handsome mechanic to let them fade into the background. Flickering street lamps laughed at you as you walked up main street under Bo’s arm, making some grand walk of shame past every red flag you ignored, every chance of escape you fumbled. Then again, you were still alive, and Bo had made no mention of Laura, Renee, or Michelle since the night he brought you to the basement. You hated that you didn’t know how long it’d been since then. It could have been a day, it could have been forever. It felt like both.

You stumbled a bit when Bo stopped in front of a light blue, mid century-style house that had seen better days, but inside seemed to be bustling.

“Little housewarming party for some new neighbors. Thought you might like to see ‘em,” he said.

You couldn’t conceal the shiver that ran through your body at his chipper tone, he only used it when he was going to do something to you. Most of the time, to your frustration, you couldn’t read him, but his tone of voice gave so much away.

As you and Bo walked up the short path to the front door, you noticed vague silhouettes patterned the plain curtain in the window, though you could hear faint feminine laughter and upbeat music from inside. After school specials from the height of the Satanic Panic flashed briefly through your mind as you wondered if the torture you’d experienced at Bo’s hands was an initiation or ritual of sorts. The thought was oddly comforting, the possibility of your suffering being meaningful as opposed to simply for the amusement of a sadistic killer.

Bo knocked on the front door before finding it unlocked and letting the two of you in. He kept up the pretense of the housewarming party, making quips that fell on deaf ears as you tried to mentally prepare yourself for what you were going to walk into. You held out no hope that the women would help you, and upon entering the living room with Bo, found it wasn’t possible anyway.

No one reacted when you and Bo entered the room, his arm tight around your waist. The TV was blaring a Bewitched rerun, cacophonous with the Connie Francis cassette that was playing on the radio sitting atop a dusty bookshelf. You recognized the song as soon as it went into the chorus—Who’s Sorry Now. The unfortunate irony wasn’t lost on you, but it seemed to be lost on the three women in the room, who hadn’t moved an inch since you and Bo walked in.

Despite the chatter and laughter, it sounded like the noise wasn’t coming from the women, but rather echoed in from elsewhere. Bo’s grip on you loosened, and you took it as his unspoken permission to check out the party for yourself. Cautiously, you stepped forward, unsure of what to expect from them. Were they aware Ambrose was some fucked up murder town? Did they know what Bo had been doing to you?

A strangled scream tore from your aching throat as you saw the faces of your gracious party hosts. A woman leaned against a dingy, stained couch, forced laughter etched into her wax face. Laura. Your eyes drifted to the woman sitting on the couch with her hair curled between her fingers in one hand, the other gripped tightly around a retro dial-tone telephone. Renee. In a nearby armchair that looked like it’d been dragged out of your grandmother’s house sat a woman whose face was scrunched in clear annoyance, her arms folded across her chest. Michelle.

The resemblance to all of them was uncanny. It wasn’t until you leaned in to examine the wax figure of Laura’s face that you noticed it was far too real for your liking. In a panic, you scrambled backward, directly into Bo’s strong chest. You were sure if he had fed you before this, you would have thrown up all over the place. His sheer delight at your distress made you sure your suspicions were correct, your friends had been encased in wax, their dynamic preserved as part of Ambrose’s facade. The people in the shops, chattering you could hear coming from buildings, it was all pretend, all except you and Bo. You’d yet to meet Vincent, but you weren’t sure you wanted to, if this was what he did to his victims.

Bo pushed you onto the couch so that you were clumsily seated between Laura and Renee. You knew better than to move, remaining as still as the wax figures around you until he told you otherwise. Tears flowed freely and silently down your face.

Taking a step back, he tilted his head as he regarded you mockingly. “Ya know, Vincent might have a good point—you’d fit into the scene real well.”

Out of the corner of your watery eyes, you could have sworn you saw Michelle’s eye twitch from her spot in the armchair. God, was she still alive in there?

“Well darlin’, I can’t blame ya for wantin’ in on this girls’ night here. Seems like you’re missin’ out on a lot of fun,” he said, grinning as he stood over you. “Me and you have a whole lotta fun too, ain’t that right, Y/N?”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you choked out a sob at the use of your name, him giving you some of your personhood back was almost too much to handle. He didn’t appreciate the significance of the gesture, or maybe he did and just wanted you to get the fuck over it. Regardless, he let out an impatient growl at your lack of response.

“I’m waitin’ on an answer, doll,” he demanded.

“I want—“ your voice was hoarse, the words clawing their way out of your throat. “I want to stay with you.”

“Yeah?” he whispered, eyes black as he leaned over you, using his body to cage you into your spot on the couch.

All you could manage was a weak, “Yeah.”

“Guess it’s time to bring you home to meet the family, then.”

He kissed you on the lips, the first time he’d ever done so. He didn’t seem to care that your lips were woefully chapped and bruised, as he deepened the kiss as soon as you began to kiss him back–when did you start kissing him back? Your brain felt fuzzy. It was nice actually kissing him, even though he seemed like he was more concerned with claiming you. Still the situation was fucked up, making out with the man responsible for you and your friends’ misery right next to their wax-preserved corpses. If this constituted a party in Ambrose, you’d decline the invitation next time.

After a few minutes, he broke from the kiss and pulled you up from the couch. He made a show of announcing your departure to the girls, thanking them for putting on such a great party, adding to his own amusement and your crushing guilt.

The walk back to the gas station was quiet, despair overwhelming you as you neared the building, unsure of how long you’d be stuck in the basement again.

As you began shuffling over to the front door, he grabbed your arm, stopping you in your tracks.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’? Didn’t I say I was bringin’ ya home?”

“Yeah,” you answered.

“Get your pretty ass in the truck, then,” he said, smacking your ass for emphasis.

He opened the passenger door, and you maneuvered to the middle of the bench seat, correctly assuming he’d want you right next to him as he drove. You weren’t sure where his house was or how long the ride would be as he cut on the engine and began driving up the street, past the fake shops and the blue house where your friends would remain, a twisted, parodic form of themselves preserved forever.

The radio was playing the same heavy metal you’d hear playing from above in the gas station, but you were no more familiar with the artists than you were when you first asked him about him, your sad attempt at flirting that the lonely and insecure part of you figured was harmless, not even considering the worst that could happen.

As he drove the truck up the road, toward a house on a hill, he glanced over at you every so often. The light from the dashboard illuminated his features, and you allowed yourself to take him in, frustratingly handsome and charming when he wanted to be. You wondered if it’d be easier not to feel so soft for him if he were some disgusting old man.

Bo’s hand gripped your thigh. “Ya look like a damn dream in that.”

“Thank you,” you said, a small smile appearing on your face.

You’d give him that much, for all the names he called you while putting you through your wildest nightmares, he never said anything negative about your appearance, and if the reflection in the mirror you saw earlier was any indication, you’d been looking rough for a while.

The truck finally stopped, and he helped you out of it, his hand on the small of your back as he led you up to the house. He unlocked the door, and when you walked into the foyer, you were almost surprised that, for the most part, it looked normal and lived-in, clothes strewn about and empty cans of beer on several surfaces. Undoubtedly a mess that smelled of must, cigarettes, and something you couldn’t quite identify.

Still, at least it was a house and not a windowless torture dungeon. You knew to count your blessings and not comment on the state of the place. It wasn’t often women like you moved up in the world of unwilling captivity. Besides, if you played your cards right, maybe he’d let you clean a bit. Jesus Christ, who were you? Wanting to clean up after him, be this psychopath’s housewife? You sighed. You were whoever he wanted you to be.

“Tired?” he asked.

You shook your head. With the exception of your first night in Ambrose, wherein he went easy on you, as a rule, Bo liked you awake and somewhat alert when he was around, and you knew he wasn’t bringing you to his house for a candlelight dinner followed by a romantic slow dance in the kitchen.

There wasn’t an opportunity to inspect much else of the house, as he began leading you upstairs. All of the doors down the long hallway looked more or less the same, off-white as a result of time and tobacco smoke, streaks of what you assumed was blood on each of them. He stopped in front of a door on the far end of the hall and opened it for you, pulling you inside.

Bo’s room, like what you’d seen of the house, was an organizational disaster. You weren’t sure what to focus on first. It wasn’t until you did so that you realized you should have asked, but when you noticed the stack of Polaroids on top of a nearby dresser, you grabbed them. Each one was of you in various states of torture and pain, framed similarly to the other ones in the basement. He scrawled something beneath one of the photos, and you were able to make out the chicken scratch as your name and ‘pretty when she cries’. The gesture was romantic by Bo’s standards, and you set the photos back down, almost overwhelmed.

Bo walked up behind you, pressing his crotch into your ass so you could feel his erection. One of his hands wrapped around your throat, the other playing with the hem of your slip. He gave your throat a light squeeze, and you remained still, waiting to see what he’d do next in the unfamiliar territory.

He turned you around, giving you a rough kiss before shedding you of your slip, still intact as it pooled at your feet. You almost let a giggle escape from your lips, so he really did like how you looked in it. He wasted no time in pushing you back onto the bed, and you gasped, light and airy at how nice it felt. A real bed, messy and unmade nonetheless, but compared to what you’d been strapped to, it felt like you were floating on a cloud.

Bo took off his clothes, fully nude before you for the first time. You noticed similar scars around his ankles as those around his wrists but knew better than to stare. Besides, there was so much more to look at when it came to Bo. He was a lot of things, but you’d never accuse him of not being hot. It was one of the first things you’d noticed when you first saw him, and finally getting to see him on full display made your core feel pleasantly warm.

There was no foreplay, none of the pain or cruelty you’d come to expect as he climbed over you. Instead, he pounded his long, hard cock into you, no more concerned with your pleasure than usual, yet your body betrayed you as you neared orgasm despite how roughly he handled you. It was the first time you weren’t restrained while he fucked you, and you had no idea what to do with your hands.

Hesitantly, you reached up, caressing his cheek. Fazed by the intimacy you initiated, his thrusts became erratic, and he took your hand, kissing your palm before pushing your arm away. Then, as if to remind you who was in charge, not to get too comfortable around him, he, in turn, slapped you across the face, and you came around his cock with a moan that sounded almost foreign. His orgasm soon followed, and he cursed under his breath as his hot cum pumped inside you.

To your disbelief, he didn’t drag the act out any longer, pulling out of you and allowing you to settle into the pillows. He reached over to the nightstand on his side of the bed—was this now your side of the bed? Would he let you sleep in it with him?—and shook a cigarette out from the pack, sticking it in his mouth and lighting it with a rusted Zippo lighter.

“Gonna be tough findin’ another girl to keep down there who’ll do it for me like you,” he mused, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Got real lucky with ya.”

Your heart lurched at the thought of another woman down there. You quickly convinced yourself it was out of empathy, after everything that Bo had put you through, to hell and back until you were a shell of yourself and somehow lucky to be alive, you wouldn’t wish that on any woman.

The part of you that now belonged to him, broken and dependent, seethed with jealousy at the possibility of his attention being divided between you and someone else. He’d spent so much time with you while you were down there, would the other woman get the luxury as he fed and fucked her. Other woman, as if she’d be his mistress, his honey on the side, rather than a captive just like you. You hated yourself, feeling pathetic as ever for having such thoughts.

Despite yourself, you whispered, “No.”

“Whattya mean ‘no’?” he asked, his angered expression quickly dissolving into smugness upon noticing how bashful you were, avoiding his gaze. He couldn’t have that, now.

Gently lifting your face, he forced you to make direct eye contact with him. “You jealous? Want me all to yourself?”

No. Maybe? Yes. You gave a weak nod at his question, hoping he wouldn’t make you confirm such out loud. You were never as lucky as he was.

“Say it to me, darlin’,” he ordered, his voice soft as he pulled the answer from you.

Humiliated, you gave him what he wanted, all the while mentally convincing yourself otherwise as you admitted tearfully, “I want you to myself, Bo.”

Snuffing the cigarette out in the bedside ashtray, he took your face in his hands and kissed you with an uncharacteristic sweetness, before slyly suggesting a shower together, your first one since you’d gotten to Ambrose. Thoughts of him fucking you mercilessly against the shower wall made you squirm, but it meant you could finally use real soap, maybe even wash your hair. You nodded in agreement, to his further delight.

You noticed your bags in the corner of the room, mostly undisturbed except for your suitcase, which he had clearly rifled through to get the slip you had been wearing. At least they were still there, maybe he’d let you wear your clothes from now on, even if it was on his terms. You wasted no time in grabbing the bag that housed your makeup and toiletries before following him into the bathroom.

He woke you up the following morning with your choice of engagement rings in a plastic bin—you shuddered to think of what happened to their previous owners—all glittering boldly and promising eternity with a man who would return to you with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes late at night, the predator finally claiming his prey after the long, drawn out chase. Your head was always going to end up mounted on his wall.

#bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x female reader #slasher x reader #house of wax #slashers #slasher fandom #slasher community #house of wax 2005

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goldenamaranthe-blog · 11 months

Text

The Evolution of Team RWBY

How each member of team RWBY would react when *NSYNC or Backstreet Boys plays over the radio. Buckle up, Buttercups. This is a long one.

Volumes 1 & 2: Think RWBY Chibi roadtrip

Yang: (totally singing and dancing while driving. Not quite full sending yet, but still dancing with at least one hand on the wheel)

Blake: (reading and trying to ignore Yang’s shenanigans, but is lip syncing the words behind her book)

Weiss: (mortified) “Ugh! Seriously? Ruby, do something about your sister!”

Ruby: “Aw, c’mon, Weiss. It isn’t that ba- OH MY GOD!!! THIS IS THE BEST PART!!!” (copies Yang singing and dancing to the chorus)

Volume 3: pt. 1

Yang: same as 1&2 but purposely serenading Blake as much as possible

Blake: smiling and doing little shoulder bobs with her book in her lap

Ruby: Full send! Dancing like a maniac. Seatbelt is unbuckled and she’s shaking the car at stoplights

Weiss: rolling her eyes but smiling

Volume 3 pt. 2 & 4:

Radio silence

Volume 5: post Weiss and Yang finding each other.

Weiss: (on Bumblebee - notices the song first and smiles before pretending to be mortified) “Oh, no! Not this song! Whatever will I do?”

Yang: (finally listens and beams) “You can join in some of the fun!” (drives bumblebee in a way that makes it look like the motorcycle is dancing)

Blake: (hears song over Sun’s scroll as he plays it for Kali, and smiles)

Volume 6: While the party is being pulled on a trailer behind bumblebee

Yang: (plugs scroll into bumblebee audio slot) “Alright! Time to shake off that apathy!” (sings and bobs while driving)

Ruby: “Yes!” (stands up in the trailer and dances like a goon)

Maria: “Would you sit down before you throw us all overboard?”

Blake & Weiss: (roll eyes before laughing and doing a synchronized shoulder shake left and right)

Oscar: (clinging to the trailer for dear life as it bounces) “Are they always like this?”

Volume 7: Fun Atlas Montage

Ruby: Full Send! Jumping up on bunks and dancing like an idiot and singing horribly off-key.

Weiss: Actually dancing along to the music.

Blake: Trying to dance but is only solidifying that she has no rhythm.

Yang: Full dance machine and singing along with the choreography.

Volume 8:

Radio Silence

Volume 9:

Blake: (plays song on scroll to lighten the mood and pulls Yang to her feet) “Still have a dance for me?

Yang: (gay disaster extraordinaire) “Always!”

Weiss: (rolls eyes fondly) “Brothers, you two definitely went from one end of the spectrum to the other, didn’t you? (joins in the dance party after grabbing Rusted Knight Jaune)

Ruby: (sulking in the corner)

Volume 10: Please Greenlight

Bonus!

After The War: Everyone is back in the car. Yang is driving. Blake is shotgun. Weiss and Ruby are in the back.

Yang: Completely losing her mind as she sings and dances in the driver’s seat. Hands aren’t even on the wheel consistently. Serenading Blake at every chance while holding imaginary microphones to Weiss and Ruby in the back.

Blake: Seatbelt? What seatbelt? Girl actually found some rhythm and is doing full body rolls in her seat while singing and winking back at Yang

Weiss: Singing a perfect harmony to the song while dancing. Her window is rolled down and her arm is waving out in the air like she absolutely does not care.

Ruby: Standing on the backseat so she can stand in the open sunroof and hit that choreographic combo 100%. She still can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but she’s doing her best.

Team ORNJ parked next to them at the red light doing the exact thing with Nora in the sunroof, Jaune driving, Ren sitting shotgun calmly, and Oscar flopping around like a chicken having a stroke in an attempt to dance.

#Team RWBY #evolution of team rwby #they're all goobers #rwby volume 1 - 9 #ruby rose #weiss schnee #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #It's gonna be me #incorrect rwby quotes #rwby crack post #rwby shitpost #buckle up y'all this is a long one

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bluest-planet · 8 months

Text

Unfathomable Rage, snippet.

Even if Yoruhua's Heart is no longer made entirely of Darkness, their body still is. And sometimes it feels like they just swapped one steel cage for another made of bone.

Vanitas just wants his keyblade back.

Part of this series of a loosely connected OC and Vanitas' roadtrip snippets. Non chronological. And loose continuity.

Yoruhua honestly has no idea what he was doing anymore.

He is old, and he is tired.

He didn't want to do this again; there's was so much left yet to to do, he felt overwhelmed as to which path to follow next, along with worrying over taking care of both himself and Vanitas from any harm in their weaken states. Be it Light or Darkness.

He has no thought out rescue plan, no supplies, no protection in Quiet Regalia, no idea where he's going in such a vastly unrecognizable realm, one that's moved on without him after all these years.

He's just going, anywhere that'll take him. He has nothing to guide him, except his broken piece of heart. Even then, the mountain of work left ahead of him made him so exhaustively frustrated.

Yet again he was forced to restart his life from nothing. To figure out how to climb that infinite mountain.

First it was being born; created by his mourning sisters' misplaced hope in seeing their brother again- left to assimilate in the night, in the Dark. When he hadn't been what they were expecting.

Then, it was being forgotten in a rushed retreat- abandoned to a hostile foreign Realm. Completely detached from the collective he was apart of, like drifting like broken, dying coral.

At least then he had her to keep him company and teach him about her realm. She who allowed him to graft himself onto, anchored to her shadow.

After that, he returned to an immature collective, regained his crown, his power, his title, and his hour of night. But he didn't want any of it anymore, he couldn't, so he gave it up to be one with her forever; promising to share the same heart and shadow, mind and matter.

I am thou, and thou art I.

He thought that was the end of it, he finally had everything he ever wanted. Even if they weren't accepted in either grace of Night and Day. Now he existed in a state fuller than he's ever felt before, heart unbound by natural law, free to traverse between dawn and dusk. He had nothing left and wanted nothing more. Free to make their own choices.

Until... Well, nothing ever seems to last long enough.

Again it was all taken away again. Grossly ripped apart and without mercy. Unwillingly annullling his promise, left to watch the life he didn't even get to finish building, pass by him through a narrow, unfinished window. Leaving permeant angry claw marks on the sil and cracks in the stained glass.

And now? After all that time? He's free, he was alive, he was here, and he made it. But that wasn't very true was it? He's still waiting for her near the end of the finish line, as he promised. He refused to cross the line without her word. Not when he still has to gather all his pieces up again and again.

Over, and over.

It was grounding those pieces down, into nothing but dust.

And you can't fix dust, can you?

Nor can you get it back when it's been blown away. Lost in the wind.

Ash to dust, left to rust, all time fades away...

...

I'm going insane.

It would be so easy to fall back into that ever present anger that still simmered just under his cold skin. Boiling him alive. It was making him sicker by the minute.

For so long, his anger kept him tethered to this existance, using negativity to recreate his own well gravity where there was none; furious at his imprisonment, he used it to crush his foes and bind other hearts to his own, in an last attempt to drag the one he so desperately wanted back,

Her.

Orichalchemi.

His Heart's Promise.

A shuddered breath escapes him as he walks through the small village. It's barely audible under the humid and heavy, down pouring rain. He briefly looks over his short companion for a distraction. There, Vanitas walks beside him quietly for once.

Was he enjoying it? The heavy, oppressive rain practically flooding the streets, creating small waterfalls falling from old clay rooftops tiles into gushing streams atop gris weathered cobblestone. A loud swirling sound coming from the round drain grate in the middle of the street. And though they were largely protected walking besides the storefronts and under their awnings, the wild wind still manages to land a few droplets on them.

Yoruhua tries to enjoy it; having been stuck in a Keyblade for so long deprived of any sensation- this should feel... Euphoric, shouldn't it? Their anger should be washed away with the rain; they had no use for it, now that they were free- it should've instead burned out to give way for fiery determination only.

But...

Another deep breath escapes them, stealing petrichor rich air immediately after, hoping to extinguish the stubborn fury still burning in their lungs like fire in a coal mine. And they swallow saliva to banish the tight bitterness clogging their throat, the toxic fumes that escaped from the hell underneath.

Yoruhua is unable to stop the way their brows furrow into an unwanted hateful scowl on their face.

Immediately, they feel Vanitas' questioning stare. Always quick to pick up on their mood, likely able to smell the intensifying burnt copal wafting from them, even under all this rain. Regardless of the smell, he's annoyingly perceptive like that; able to read people in an instant, always anticipating for hostility.

They used to be the same; but now, they've lost that too, just like they did everything else upon being freed. Walking, talking, breathing, reading, sleeping. And so much more. All of it digested by gluttonous fury that deemed it unimportant to preserve.

They stifle a deep sigh. Guess they'll just have to relearn that too, they've done so many times before.

Except this time Orichalchemi isn't right there by their side to learn along with them, their mind circles back, entirely intrusive. They shift the tracks on that dreary train of thought to something more positive; on her never wavering support and fun mischief. Gone, but not forgotten.

They longed so deeply to hear another of her dumb jokes and puns, get sidetracked listening to whatever rant about some odd plants she found, or just goofing off while the furnaces smelted iron in the privacy of her forge.

He feels the ghost of Orichalchemi's metal touch on her cheeks. It would be warm, heated up by a day's work blacksmithing, comforting on Yoruhua's cool icy skin. Always trying to keep them warm even if she herself couldn't feel the temperature. Smudgy ash would get on his skin, but he wouldn't mind, not when she'd always wipe it off with that well worn, patchy handkerchief of hers.

What Yoruhua would do just to be able to dance with her one more time, or collaborate on creating a new keyblade, or gardening in peaceful silence.

He wanted her and Vanitas to meet. To show Vanitas that not all hope was lost; there were some Lights that accepted and respected them for what they are. That there was a chance at a normal life for them, he didn't have to walk only at the edges of sunrise; the day was theirs for the taking too.

They just knew she would share the same admiration and love for the Dark in him as she did for them.

But their rose tinted memories and dreams do next to nothing to soothe their pain. It only fans the flames.

If... If she didn't find her, then neither her nor Vanitas would be able to truly stop running. She'd never be able to claim the day for herself again. Yoruhua doesn't think she can do this all on her own, so it's not an option. She must find her.

And instead, she's here. Wasting time.

This time, there's no mistaking it, another frustrated sigh seethes past their increasingly blackening teeth. Their icy breath misting miasma into humid, hot air.

Ironic that their emotions burned them inside out within a frosted shell.

They can barely breath. Charcoal black copal suffocating their lungs.

Another step, keep walking, the rain is never ending. His footsteps next to yours; my footsteps next to his.

They're his, they'll always be his, I can recognize his gait anywhere. I would know, I've watched him since birth. You're irreplaceable, you're me, so I'll never forget what you sound like; but when he walks next to me like that, it's like he's stepping in the footsteps you left behind.

Did you make this desired path for us to take? To make this journey ever so easier for me, just as I tried to support him? I hope it leads back to you. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, where are you? Why am I here at the end of the line, without you? Did you take a branching path I somehow missed? Please wait for me to catch up!

...Will you always be out of reach?

...

Light flashes over the village, a blinding white in less than a second. Lightning. A very old fear plucks at her heartstrings, stopping her in her tracks.

"What's got you so spooked?" Vanitas jeers.

Yoruhua's fingers twitch, and they resist the urge to clench right into a fist. Or to let their claws unsheathe. Ruining their white leather gloves.

Instead, they bring their hands close to their chest and crack their knuckles against their palms. A satisfying string of boney pops and cracks echo between them. Then they twist their atrophied wrists, it's louder, and sounds painful. But it isn't. It snaps instead like pulled rubber.

The space between their joints feel looser, less tight, lest upset.

For now.

Vanitas seems mildly put off by their actions and lack of reply, but puts on a mean smirk, "well, whatever, I'd thought you'd never shut up."

That gets a response.

Yoruhua's miscolored eyes snap to look him directly in the eye. His own red pupils scorned by hers; yellow stained sclera, with birthed red on the right, and adopted blue on the left.

She doesn't say anything, just stares at him as if she's looking right through him. It's... Terrifying. It's not at all what he wanted or expected trying to get another rise out of her.

She shouldn't look at me that, his mind tells him, so vacant but so full of fragile, ancient agony, just waiting to spill out. He feels like he's staring down death.

Maybe he is.

How many lives has Yoruhua taken, as Void Gear? And before that, as a creature of pure Darkness?

In an era where keyblades hadn't been created yet; the first, baby Lights unable to defend themselves against hoards of Darkness.

Her one blue eye has always upset him- how illfitting and horribly familiar it was. It was filled with Light; it made his skin crawl when she looked at him. As if she could find him anywhere and always would. He always expected her to see him for what he really was eventually, like all the other Lights. Just another disgusted, hateful, or scared holy blue added to a growing chest full of ultramarine.

But it never came.

He looks at Vanitas, and his blue eye never averts. Only staring at him with unbridled attention and... Care.

It wasn't pity; just care and attention. It tracks him because it didn't want him out of its loyal sight; Yoruhua was afraid of loosing him. She watches him because it brought her comfort, because she was protecting him.

Not because he needed it, but because she did. Not willing to loose her one connection to the real world in eons.

And then he realized; it wasn't just like the Lights. There was only one other blue eye, recognizable sapphire instead of lapis just as ancient as hers, that he felt- not a fondness, but trust, reliability- when it looked at him. Void Gear.

The realization made him sick to his stomach. He hadn't lost it, his keyblade, he hadn't lost her. His one true companion, and constant since he was brought into this world.

Maybe it wasn't Wayward Wind, and maybe he hated her at first for not being his original keyblade, the one born of his heart and made for his palm. He blamed her, as if she was a symbol of all his failures and proof that he wasn't worthy of reclaiming his old identity. The only keyblade fit for a monster like himself, equally rejected by the Light.

She never belonged to him, but was lent to him. She, a dying keyblade without a wielder, and he a doomed wielder without a keyblade.

A pact made out of survival rather than trust or worthiness.

Haunting sapphire forever forced to silently serve possessed ruby turned tyrant topaz.

Regardless of his vitriol and violence, how he abused the blade in day and night. Refusing to properly maintain the blade as a punishment for the both of them. Waiting for the blade to finally give up on him and break during battle; she stubbornly stuck by him.

Till the bitter end.

And still does now.

She's watching him, like she would when he'd sleep, or when he'd be caught in a fight. Never sparing a look at his opponent, only him. Wondering if he'd make it out unscathed.

But this look, this old, detached rage.

He didn't want to be right this time; all blue eyes would come to hate him eventually.

They always do.

Both of them don't say anything. Vanitas doesn't have the guts, and Yoruhua knew that once she did- she wouldn't be able to stop the floodgates.

Then...

in the distance-

-THUNDER!

"Shit!" Vanitas jumps, turning to see another flash of jagged lightning striking a far off mountain and away from their staring contest.

He doesn't realize his mistakes until it's too late.

The sudden movement, the fact that he looks human, his uniform particularly triggering, the loud thunder and blinding lightning-!

Yoruhua finally snaps, unable to reign in the destructive wildfire festering in their body.

They char within hungry rage, eager to swallow them back in and sink it's teeth into his battered body. Like slipping into an old shoe, he fits in its between its protective fangs perfectly.

Bones snap to relieve the building pressure inside, allowing Darkness to reshape itself into something bigger and meaner.

Vanitas gets the wind knocked outta him, thrown into flooded streets.

"Ahugh-!?"

He twitches on the ground, unable to think straight while so lightheaded. Water soaks into his expose hair and face, the rain has no mercy; filling up his nose and ears.

The shadow cast over his body is what tells him Yoruhua stands above him; hanging oppressively tall and dead silent.

Their sharp golden feet barely make a sound, the ripples following their long strides disrupting the flow of floodwater in front of his face. It gives him a second's reprieve to surface his face to for desperate gulps of humid air.

Uncomfortable cooling droplets fall down from his black hair to his face. He tries to wipe it away to see better, but it's a pointless endeavour while vulnerable in the middle of the storm.

His lungs tremble inside; wracked with exhaustion and heavy pain. A deep bruise settling over his chest where he was struck by pure muscle.

Heaving, he brings a hand to cover his face, about to yell at her for hitting him in the first place, when he finally looks up.

Endless black hollowness.

He stifles a swear. Looking directly at her was a mistake.

As a pure Dark being, Yoruhua has no face and her body was the epitome of her entire existence; Instead it's a hollowed out heart with curled heart shaped horns ending into a sharp point. Long claw like hair tiredly falling down their back. Ending with an upsidedown crown choking their neck. But, with no mouth or nose to breath, her cries have nowhere to go.

The same atrophied, spindly hands- now thin claws- wrap around under their shoulders. A warped mimicry of a hug, or strangulation. Kept in place by white leather belts and golden chains, preventing them from reaching out. Unable to defend a larger heart shaped hollow on their chest, much like an other Darkside. The rain passes through them as if she isn't real; nothing to be concerned about with little impact on the world around them.

Small bat like wings peak from his hips, sharp enough to cut anything trying to get close, but are rendered useless by the long, heavy dragging tail behind them. It almost looks painful to carry, in contrast with the much thinner and weak looking body. It's awkward, really. The sharp halberd point adding unnecessary violence.

The silhouette reminding him of mixture of various monsters made of Darkness, the Heartless, Nightmares, Unversed and the emptiness of a Nobody. But no where did he see a unique mark.

Fitting, considering Vanitas had no idea what Yoruhua really was; she refused to fit into any one definition since he met her.

< When.... When does this end...? >

Vanitas cringes, the sound of Yoruhua's... Voice, grates in his mind. Like it was trying to scrape its meaning into his soft brain with a jagged rock.

But he recovers fast enough, this time, he knew what to expect and could adjust.

His own voice comes out haggard, "you're gonna... 'ave t'be more clear.... 'bout that..."

He couldn't fight back like this, so against his gut instincts he didn't move. Glaring at her gold crown instead.

Wind blows through her hollow face, whipping past to sound like clamoring howl.

< When does it end? > Yoruhua asks.

Vanitas shakes his head annoyed, "I... I don't k-know what you mean!"

One of their hair claws crack like a wip, dredging him up by the neck to force him to look at them.

< WHEN DOES IT ALL END?! >

Vanitas bites down a yell, the loudness pounding against his skull. Angry now, himself, he tries to fight back.

He repeatedly claws at the hair around his throat, even his his fingers just keep slipping through, he doesn't stop trying to break free.

This isn't how he wanted this to play out; he wanted to see the extent of their Darkness, but not with it turned against him like this.

At first he just wanted their power for himself; wanted them to revert back into a sapphire eye caged in black steel for him to wield again. But now he wanted nothing to do with it. Not whole they were possessed by lapis, it looked wrong on them, like they were at its mercy rather than the other way around.

They'd promised to share their shadow with him, but this? This was just their stygian rage.

"I DON'T KNOW! MAYBE IT NEVER WILL!" he spits in their face. Braving the emptiness. He needed to dredge that sapphire out of them instead of endless black.

He manages to wrap a hand around their hair, clutching it tight together hoping it hurt, "it'll never end at this rate, so get yourself together! You don't get to complain to me, of all fucking people, for it to end!"

He pulls on the hair, tugging her head forward by just a bit. He hears and sees nothing; no breathing, no eyes.

Regardless, "I was finished. I was fucking done, Yoruhua! You were the one to bring me back, to drag me with you on this stupid quest, and keep us safe- It's your fault we're both still here!"

He screams in her face, "so don't you dare give up, and finish was you started!"

The monster in front of him recoils, its horns point towards him and graze his cheek as it withers in anguish.

< All of this, was a mistake. >

He barely flinches when blood spills from the cut but her words gut his stomach more painful more than any wound, a horrible sadness and indignation settling.

He used to be jealous of them; of the fact they never seemed to hate themselves as much as he did himself.

He hated being wrong, he hated being wrong so much more than he liked being being right.

He was a mistake. He never should've come back,

And neither, apparently, should've Yoruhua.

No... he thinks, after everything he's done? It can't have been for nothing.

Just like Vanitas; even where everything but the end goal was pointless, it was that one goal that gave him enough to keep going. His was the X-Blade and the peace that came with it, and he failed, so death was his consolation prize.

If Yoruhua refused to give that back to him, they owed it to repay him with something far greater.

Her own quest, to save her Light. To become whole.

Well, maybe he wanted to see the product of that.

And maybe... Maybe that would sustain him, to live through vicariously.

Yoruhua was more like him than he wanted to admit; chasing after the right to exist without pain. And she might just be able to do what he could not. She's done it before, so there was no way he'd believe she'd just stop trying when they've already done the hardest part of doing the impossible. That was just illogical.

Bitterly, he seethes, "Aren't you the one who said... Coming back was yours greatest moment? I thought you reveled in your existance."

< ... >

Vanitas scoffs a humorless laugh, the rain easily drowns it out, but Yoruhua is close enough to hear the mocking sound.

Their grip on Vanitas tightens around his throat, ready to squeeze the life out of him.

This death, could never live up to the first. He was a dying wielder, and they a doomed keyblade.

Well, even in this greatest betrayal, he refused to give her the last laugh.

"So much for your pride, Void Gear." He hissed. Never breaking contact with the shadow of his former sister, even as spots started to fill his vision and his body seized in her traitorous strangle.

What I am is Darkness, so to it I'll always return.

...

......

.........

Faintly, he can hear rain. It's a soft pitter patter against glass; nothing like the aggressive deluge of before.

The air is cool; not humid like before. Brisk, even. He wondered why, but nothing makes sense in the Realm of Darkness.

The wood beneath him is smooth and just as cold. A thin sheet under his body reminding him of the one he kept within his shelter in the Graveyard. Entirely impersonal.

He tries to get a gulp of air, but his throat trembles in weakness. It's scratchy and just shy of turning into a sore throat soon. He regrets it almost immediately. But a whiff of something in the air shakes off his grogginess instantly.

Faint Petrichor... bittersweet, burnt chocolate almost coffee like?... And thick smoky copal...

He almost chokes on it, which thankfully he doesn't; it would have made the tightness in his throat so much worse.

He doesn't have the strength to move his neck, let alone his body, stars, he's light headed...

His eyelids feel so heavy... And the familiar scent so comforting...

Maybe, he can go back and rest.

So he allows his eyes to droop, resting with his eyes closed for a few minutes. Entirely unaware of what conspired before this moment other an exhaustive hate.

Now was his time to rest.

He manages to turns on his side, using his arm to cushion his head, and the other to reach out for-

-Void... Regalia...?

Too tired to ponder if it was the right name, he accepts the summoned keyblade. It fits perfectly in his grasp, and that's enough to ease him back into a dreamless sleep.

The keyblade's resigned sapphire eye faithfully watches over him, quietly. Like it had hundreds of times before.

#kh #kingdom hearts #kh fanfic #kh vanitas #kh oc #starry stories #JESUS CHRIST THIS WAS A BEAST TO DO AND I JUST CUT IT SHORT LOLLLLL #Sorry ive been working on this for a while all on the tumblr app itself that where i usually do #this is not the norm but we were already in deep soooo #anyways please enjoy this angsty mess it was done on pure vibes alone #good night it is 5 am back to ponied #ponies* god mm a mess excuse typos lol #i really do be throwing vanitas against the wall soaked in milk huh #sorry boy ur a ragdoll now my b its just to fun to see him have to be taken care of/manhandled by Yoru cause shes almost 2x his hight #im not kidding. yoru is taller than any other kh character bc i said so #which means hes probably like. 7'5 or smth #allowed tho cause they're a homunculus lol #meanwhile Ori is- *gunshot* sorry no one is allowed to know until we get the Ori chapter actually

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