#found family or bust you fuckin cowards

[sammyloomis]

sometimes i think about how the borderlands 2 vault hunters apparently just went their seperate ways after the game was done and never spoke to each other again despite going on a huge ass world saving quest together and it makes me so unfathomably upset

#ash.txt #the bl1 vault hunters got to bring the band back together #and idk what the plan for the bl3 vault hunters are but they better not pull That shit again #found family or bust you fuckin cowards #borderlands #apparently fkn axton and sal still work together #but i REFUSE to believe it like they all stayed friends fuck you

[pastelgrungewrecker]

Chain[gun] Reaction

Slim Pickens, well he does the right thing And he rides the bomb to hell Yeah, he rides the bomb to hell

He was young, young and full of promise and potential and all those words the recruiter used to soothe the raw wounds left behind by a yellow letter delivered to the front door of a once happy home.

Whirl, young and bright with eyes like sunshine and a crooked smile, signed his name and soul away in memory of his mother- who loved her son more than she ever loved her sky, even thought it was her sky that sealed her fate.

His father watched with dim and dead eyes as his only son, his bluebird boy, packed his bags and hugged him tight.

“I’ll be fine, Pop- don’t worry, I’ll come home, okay?”

He didn’t know, oh he didn’t know how his future would change with this decision- He had no idea the sound of gunfire and the burn of toxic words and liqour would become lullabies as he watched his unfamiliar claws pretend to be gentle.

And it was brutal, and it was cold. And it broke him and remade him and broke him again as he learned to bare his teeth first in a snarl and then in a manic smile he never knew he possessed. And with orders ringing in his ears and bitter apathy brewing in his heart he pushed and pulled and dragged himself over finish lines and end points that seemed to be farther and farther away from him- flagpoles moved once a month, once a week, once every other day.

If he only knew how he’d be betrayed by the system he served, if only he knew how his midday sunshine eyes would be broken and dimmed and warped from their almost childish dubloon wideness into the narrow slices of molten metal sighting down the barrel of a gun.

And his father gave weak smiles with honest joy as his son looked back over his shoulder as he walked with the graduating crowd; looking back with a lopsided grin like an angel with aircraft wings had done once upon a time so long ago and an artisan filigree heart broke when Whirl smiled.

If only the golden son had known he would set with a flash of fire and a comet’s trail.

And then his father couldn’t smile anymore.

Whirl stood solemn in front of the grave, not feeling the pats to his shoulder, the affectionate squeezes to his arm. He refused to look at the pity in officer’s eyes when he declined reenlistment, refused to see the worry in the eyes of his fellow Corps members when he fell silent for hours. Then days.

When he finally could hold his head up, his father’s shop looked back at him  with dusty windows and a door that still creaked if it opened too wide. And so he began to repair- the building or himself, he couldn’t tell.

The feel of gold and silver and platinum between his fingers, the casual catch of his lower lip with his teeth in concentration, the gentle ticktockticktock of seconds and minutes and hours fluttering away like crows from a carcass; a rustle of dark feathers and bluegrey hair in a loose tail down his back.

They called him an artist, they called him a master. They lauded his new work, they cooed over cogs and wheels and carefully designed faces coated in a countdown to the end of days.

He wondered if he would outlive these creations, when his father didn’t outlive his own.

If he only knew he would not only outlive them, but outlive the memory of his father’s legacy as it was laid to rest.

The Dead End, for him, had it’s draws. Dens of debauchery masquerading as bars or ‘spas’ and any kind of company for the right price. Whirl, his hands curled in his pockets, often wondered to himself why the streetlights didn’t glow red like a warning like in all the old holovids his father used to watch from a gilded age.

It was a thrown bottle that let the Devil’s eye turn to him. A thrown bottle, a mocking laugh, the word “coward” slung coldly at him by a face he only half remembered...

And then his knuckles were coated in blood that wasn’t his own. Once again a sneer painted his face, shattered his crooked grin and darkened his sunshine eyes and he released the shirtcollar of his target to watch them hit the floor facedown with a wet sound like old meat on a butcher’s counter. He looked over his shoulder with his eyes on fire.

“Who’s fuckin’ next?”, he drawls out in a voice made rough by silence and mourning in equal measure; a raven’s hiss of Nevermore, a crow’s caw from the gallows.

Something in him gave up on kindness. Something inside of him broke down like clockparts in a housefire and his cogs ground themselves apart as he rebuilt with fistfights and binges, with questionable company of any and all kinds.

“You were an Aerial Corps prodigy.”, mused the Enforcer of the week, “You’d be... useful, to us.”

He spat on the Enforcer’s shoes, squinting through a busted cheek and grinning with a split lip, “Get fucked, fuzzman.”

“It would be wise to show a little respect.”

“Fuckin’ earn it then, pissrag.”

More bruises, more cracked bones and weakened joints. Nineteen and lost, twenty and cracked like church windowglass and he grunted in muted pain as he laid on his back in a bare cell for an overnight in solitary.

He ignored his father’s voice chiming in the back of his mind, asking him what his mother would think.

He ignored the memory of her laughter his mind called forth against his will.

The cell door opened; hours early, at hours questionable, and he turned his head and made a noise of confusion. The medic beside the Enforcer smiled with nothing behind it, empty as Whirl’s eyes had become, and nodded once.

“That’s the one.”

Whirl sat up slowly, curses and vindictive words dancing on his tongue before a heavy fist flashed across his face and slammed his head into the wall the bench-turned-bed was mounted against.

He wouldn’t wake up until he smelled antiseptic- and he’d wish beyond wishing he hadn’t woken up at all.

When he awoke, his vision blurred and swam and his arms burned like hellfire as the numbness in his face flickered like radio static. He tried to speak, to scream, but the medics around him simply frowned and shook their heads as they loosened the straps holding him down.

He was eased up into a sitting position, and told in flat tones he had ten minutes to gather himself and leave the operating theatre.

“Op-erat-ing?”, he rasped out, before he raised his hand to hold his throat; and he froze solid at what answered his movement.

Ragged and matte-dark, hard steel with a three-point claw on the end. Panic rolled over him in tidal waves and threatened to drag him under as he held his new arms out in front of himself and nearly screamed.

They had taken his hands.

He looked frantically around at the passive and disinterested faces around him before he caught his reflection and his raw voice howled out like a hurricane. A blank patch over one eye with heavily stitched lacerations leading out from underneath it. His chest shuddered and hiccuped, and he felt the covered eye burn like fire as the other leaked viscous red in a thin line.

“Do not worry. Once the removal injuries have healed, there will be no more pesky things such as tears or foolish bickering outbursts.”

Whirl looked up. The surgeon smiled as they pulled gloves soaked in blood off their hands. Their functioning, real hands.

“We have fixed you, Whirl- that is your name, correct? We have repaired all of the flaws in your character with science and scalpels.”

That smile unchanging as horror flooded the channels panic had work into Whirl’s soul.

“Once you are healed, of course; then, you will truly be a Model Citizen.”

Whirl flew at him with a snarl, those claws cinched around the surgeon’s throat and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until the screaming stopped and the doctor’s hands dropped to hang at his sides. Limp, and twitching; and the surgeon gurgled as he was dropped.

Whirl looked up at his reflection one more time before security wardens burst into the room and grabbed fresh prosthetics; ignoring Whirl’s screams and howls as they dragged him out of that sanitized white light.

He was thrown out by three Enforcers, tossed out into the back lot among dumpsters of medical waste and they laughed as he struggled to push himself up to his knees. The sun was setting, his sun was setting, and the sluggish red tears from his remaining eye burned as they trickled free.

He’d learn, later, what was severed and taken. His means of expression burned away and sliced free of his mortal coil. Model Citizen. Emotionless wreck. They knew the way to cage a bird was clip his wings- but they didn’t have to take his ability to cry.

He staggered to his feet, his steps uneven and crooked as he tried to operate with only one half of his vision. He sobbed out for help, he reached out for aid and was met with disgusted looks and threats of further violence and those words chased him and chased him until he stumbled onto the streets that would take him home; take him back to safety and seclusion and softness and-

And fire. And brimstone. And nothing left but a burnt family photo and a pocketwatch from a destroyed desk.

One day, it would be found by a young boy with sunshine eyes. And he’d ask where it was from, and call it beautiful; and Whirl would smile weakly like his father once did to a smiling new pilot and be unable to find the words to explain what it was, what it meant.

Whirl sobbed; on his knees and broken in ways he had no way of knowing yet, he sobbed. He sobbed like a lost child, like a scared boy, like a pilot under fire. He sobbed like a mourning husband and a confused son.

His eye leaked viscous red; there was pressure, there was pain.

And then, there was nothing. There was blank days and a back alley apartment. There was a tiny sting and a heady flight. He was a pilot again, without needing a plane as he stared at nothing and bounced from job to job and came closer and closer to giving up.

And then They found him.

“Sounds like you wanna die.”

“Maybe I fuckin’ do- I don’ exactly look the fuckin’ picture of privileged livin’, do I?”, he snapped.

The man who sat down next to him; dressed in the green of militia’s and murder smiled through his laughter and clapped a hand on Whirl’s shoulder.

“Forty two percent chance you’ll get your wish, kid. And at the very least- you get out of this shithole and three square meals a day.”

“Yeah, and forced sobriety.”

“I don’t care how high you fly or how deep you sink in a bottle as long as you know which way to shoot.”

Whirl looked up, the patch over his scarred blank space slipping slightly, “...A’right, I’m interested.”

“Welcome to the Wreckers; lemme call my ride and we’ll get started.”

=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

And now, years and bullet-shells and nightmares in the future, Whirl stands at a kitchen counter and chokes on air as his lungs seize and fall still. He smells it, that too-clean stench of medical tools and antiseptic and just washed floors and the light is too bright.

Ratchet swears, realizing he hadn’t changed clothes after a day spent teaching the new doctors dropped in his lap by the university (good kids, good hearts, but almost too gentle for the job) and he calls for Perceptor, he calls for Drift.

Whirl doubles over; he gasps and hiccups and screws his eye shut as newer, better, safer prosthetic hands cover ears that still ring like a battlefield song is playing on repeat.

He feels Perceptor’s cold hands on his shoulders, hears Drift call for the dining room light to be “Shut off dammit!” and he exhales a sob.

He opens his eye. There is pressure, there is pain, there’s a crimson dot on the floor like a scope’s laser sight.

He still, after everything, after healing, cannot cry.

#pastelwrites #humanformers #ptsd #empurata #whirl #crim is going to actively kick the living shit out of me for this

[pinkpoundcake]

DESERT DEVIL

CH. 1 THE HISS

All Might/ Reader as Female OC

NSFW AU ( Yes there’s smut)

4k+ words

Here’s the first chapter of something I’ve been working on during off time at school. I like writing drastically different AUs, because they give me a lot liberties. I intend for this to be a short series, so maybe two or three more chapters after this one. Hope ya enjoy if you read! 

I’m not sure if FF.net will allow second person, so I’m posting it here. I aint got no AO3. I also apologize for any mistakes! I’ll go back an’ fix as I see em. 

EDIT: Went back and fixed some things. Also, I changed the category of this fic. I’m warning the reader that you’re an OC! Kinda like you’re a preset character in a dating sim? If that makes any sense. Those be my only terms of free service. 

I.

Dusk had gone and night finally draped over the still view of the valley. You were a silly girl, really. No one in their right mind would pick now of all times to draw water from one of the wells. Maybe once upon a time they would have. It wasn't impractical to wait until the sun stopped cracking its infernal whip to get things done, but once upon a time, the valley had nothing to fear.

II.

You were walking quickly. You kept your wooly head low as you neared the crudely built structure. Only one bucket of water. No one would mind. You just couldn't go to bed with a clear conscience without finally giving your poor, overworked horse something to drink. You'd take the risk, because glory knows you hated having cottonmouth. It was cottonmouth season...all year round it felt, except for the few praise inducing weeks the sky would show mercy and weep. Dry mouth, dry eyes, dry coat, dry everything. Such is the way of the desert.

You gave your heavy water bag a hard yank to make sure it was sealed before you hightailed it back to your plot. The locust had stopped gossiping in the weeds, and it was making you nervous.

III.

You were the sort of gal who liked to blend in, but your talents made that hard. You had an ability, A Gift, as folks liked to call these sorts of things, that made you incredibly valuable for trade.

You engaged in it as well, because you had to, to get along, but it made you an easy volun-telling target for other croppers and craftsmen and all manners of citizens with business

“Could you chat with this fellow for me? He speaks...sumfin’. The hell if I know. He owes me money.”

“Tell that eastern cheapskate I won't go any lower on price!”

“Hey, goat girl, tell the front counter dame in the Apothecary she's welcome in my bunk any time of day~”

First of all, you were a sheep. Second of all...fine.

IV.

Your Gift was nice for the most part. You had your own upper hand when it came to sale. You could understand anyone, no matter the spoken language. Absolutely essential for such an oddly diverse patch of scorched Earth. You could even help filter a speaker to an entire audience if you held their hand. You didn't like to advertise that though, otherwise the mayor and sheriff and whoever else, would be breathing down your neck even more than they did now.

If no one around knew you, then they usually assumed your appearance was all there was to your Gift. So, what you loved most was eavesdropping. Conversations were mostly mundane in other languages. That's how talking worked, but there were days when you were served some pretty interesting dirt or juicy news by unknowing hosts.

They're going to start rationing water tomorrow. Some serious limits, I reckon.

I didn't think it would be this bad this year?! It rained just enough in the early season, didn't it? I wonder where it all goes.

You wonder the same. It gets worse and worse every year. Every year it's a point of serious tension. They don't call this valley Struggler for nothing. Struggling was this town's first, middle, and last time. Maybe it's old maiden name, too.

The commonality is, is that if you made it halfway through the desert, you stopped in this crowded, little town and clung to it for dear life. You personally knew what it was like. Everyone knew what it was like, to fear that you weren't going to make it to The Oasis at the end of your journey. After the promenade that chewed you up, and spat you out, you don't even try.

We don't have enough water for all the people we keep letting stay here!

But what kind of person could keep a cold heart here? What would it take to let someone waste away elsewhere, or worse, face the beast this desert had to offer.

The Hiss.

More chilling than a rattlesnake's warning.

V.

This broad blue sky. The hard clay and sand beneath his form, the cacti, the dry bones and evaporated watering holes. Every scavenger to circle overhead belonged to him.

The hard, hot wind. The mirages that danced in nauseating ribbons. They were his. He could lift his head, and think about howling to his old lovers, the stars, if he still had the singing voice. But he lost that a long time ago with one of his lungs.  He was getting old, too, but his bloodlust was getting stronger every year, along with a lot of puzzling urges.

He hated that he could only claim his seared kingdom at night, but it couldn't be helped. He was a partial coward who couldn't hope to understand himself. He still had a deep sense of decency. He was a hypocrite, in a sense. He didn't want to be a bother during the day, if he was such a big bother at night. But being a menace at night was to be a nuisance in the day, regardless.

And nuisance was...too light of a word. Far too light. Crows in his sunflowers were nuisances. Locust in his house were nuisances.

Him?

Oh, he was

VI.

“A killer...A fuckin’ killer!”

You watched as the town sheriff swore and covered the body of a, now former, foreman with a bit of canvas. Splotches of blood bloomed in the fabric over the inclines of the older man's face. From what you saw, he was mauled real good. Or...bad. A big bite right out of his jugular, clavicle, and most of his left shoulder. You weren't the only sick one in the crowd. You would have upchucked your breakfast if this wasn't something you were becoming accustomed to.

First it was Mr. Dandy, gnawed out chest, who used to rally up hunting parties with the German twins who could shoot right out of their fingers, no guns needed. Then it was Eclair, you didn't know her last name, who sold pungent perfume from her own sweat out of her tacky little shop. Y'all never found her head. Big Cat Capri from Cameroon, was torn in two. Though he was a menace with a forgettable Gift that wasn't much missed. Then there was another fellow. Japanese you think, but actually he was still limping around somewhere.

The only one to see The Beast and live… The fella's pretty busted up as far as you know.

Anyway, time for another funeral.

VII.

Speaking of that old Japanese fellow…

You didn't give him much of a glance at any given day, but you could see him  out of the corner of your squared pupils, watching you hand off chunks of unwashed wool to craftsmen who were probably going to fashion saddles or boots. It wasn't quite the right time to start plucking from your melon patch, or any of the desert dates, so you were selling off some old stock of your hair. Everyone knew it was your hair, and no one really cared.

God, you couldn't recall his name. You've never actually heard him speak, but the fella always sat at the posts near the trading square and just watched the street; waiting for someone with their hands full to need help lacing up their boots. Or for someone's goat to go astray so he could bring it back to them. Or to help some kid out on errands tether their family horse. You wonder why he would go through those little efforts on a limp. He walked with a cane, bright red like a dragon, with a yellowing cattle horn handle. He wore a big brimmed, leather hat so that he didn't catch perpetual sunburn, thick slacks, a poor fitting button up that used to be white, and strapped riding boots, too, but no spurs.

He was a strange sight, you noted with slight nervousness as he stood, and then made his way over to your shabby booth. He was a tall, tall, tall fella. Tall and skinny, like he didn't fancy eating much. You knew a couple of people who were like that. He had wild, blonde hair, he obviously didn't comb. And honestly, he had the prettiest blue eyes. At least you assumed they were. He was swallow enough that his eyes were sunk deep beneath his brow, but that blue struck out like an aimed double barrel. It made you wonder what he looked like when he was a colt.

“Afternoon, sir,” You cleared your throat. You watched his face to gauge how much he understood you. You didn't want to be rude. “No food. Just some wool today.”

The older man, squinted, seemingly thinking, and then gestured to your freshly sheared head with the handle of his cane.

“It's all mine, yes.” You laughed and scratched one of your horns to release some of your anxiousness.

“How...How much for it?” His accent was somewhat thick, but you were happy you wouldn't have to reach out and grab one of his massive hands to get on some equal ground.

“Five pieces for a small bundle. Ten for the big bundles there.” You watched the fellow consider which size, and then finally he made a decision. Slowly he lifted one of the large cottony wads, and then absentmindedly brought it to his nose. He gently inhaled the intriguing scent there.

You stared, perplexed, and confused. He seemed to pick up on your confusion, and righted himself. He gave you his own awkward smile, almost an apology for…whatever that was. He counted out ten small pieces for you, politely dipped his head with a thank you, and then moseyed along.

Strange…

VIII.

He was drunk. Absolutely drunk, and he'd never had a drop of liquor in his life. Tequila couldn't have been stronger than this. Your scent, your scent was so...He didn't know.

Good.

It made him hungry for things he'd forgotten the name of, forgotten how to describe. He didn't know what he was doing alone in the shack he called his home. Hiding his shame maybe. He'd locked the door with the big expensive chains and padlocks ( that were decor at this point) from the top shelf hours ago as night began to fall. He was paranoid, and feeling ravenous for a completely different, mysterious reason from what he was used to.

He held your wool in one hand, pressing it flush to his nose as he paced from one side of his home to the other. The misaligned floor groaned and weazed beneath his heavy, bare footsteps. His shadow, flickered from a candle or two, and swept the peach papered walls like a dark, lumbering menace.

What was it that he wanted now?!

He didn't understand himself anymore! There was no one to teach him his purpose.

He inhaled again, deep. His exhale emerged with a low rumble.  It rattled the chains strapping the front and back door, and shifted the glass in the kitchen window.

It was happening again much too soon.

There used to be a time when he could command the other half of himself. Where he could be whoever he wanted, whenever, but now he was stripped to nothing but incomprehensible impulses.

His wrath. His hunger. His pride.

Something new. His lust.

IX.

You just finished putting the blanket on Kissy, your horse, when the stars began to rub the long day from their eyes and glint down at you. Though still warm, the wind rolled over your fuzzy scalp and settled in the cooling sweat beneath your dark hide. You rubbed your arms, figuring you could use a blanket, too. Your draft's loud chewing in the stable cover was a calming background noise as it mingled with your thoughts. The flat distance, with it's mountainous levels was a pretty sight, despite being empty.

You've always wanted to roam at night, finally figure out what that fabled Oasis was on the other side of hell. You hoped it was heaven, or something close.  You wanted to explore more than your town, to see what was out there while the sun wasn't scheduling your funeral. You were bored of being too scared. Stressed with not having enough of the bare minimum essentials. Lonely, too. Kissy kept you company, maybe, but he wasn't all that good with conversation or cooking.

He wasn't good at stopping you from taking 'walks’ either. You found all sorts of excuses for yourself to roam at night. Kissy needed more water, or you needed to find some wild aloe for a wound, or you needed to find sand grubs for your greedy gossip of chickens.

Excuses, excuses.

Mr. Aizawa, was another Japanese fellow (you think), who wasn't the sheriff, but probably could have been. He'd tell you you were full of excuses. The town had a curfew of sorts to 'keep people safe’. Under what authority this curfew came from, you had no clue. If you were caught, the runner up sheriff hogg tied you with a lasso and a warning, and dragged your sorry, law breaking ass back home. Or fined you. Something like that.

He had an annoying Gift that kept others from using their Gifts to get away. You didn't know how he did it. Much to what was probably Deputy Aizawa's disdain, he was plucked out of the crowd the day he arrived. He had a scruffy grifter appearance, but the fellow was awfully strict, perfectly bilingual in relation to you, and knew  exactly what your own Gift entailed, so you couldn't pretend you didn't understand any of his honorary demands.

You didn't even give yourself a chance to consider he might be out and about on patrol. You didn't even consider where the hell you were going. All you knew was that you were:

Literally and figuratively hard headed.

And

Dumb as rocks because it was half past night noon, and anywhere beyond the aloe thicket was Hiss county.

The danger zone.

X.

A scent was a scent was a scent. Something to follow to a target. His prey were rotten. He caught the next foul stench on the hit list floating on the western wind. It filled his flared nostrils and made his mouth water with anticipation. His long, thick fingers were still raw and full of splinters from clawing his way out from his pathetic attempts at shutting himself in.

The night was a blur. He was unbothered by the grit he kicked up in his full run. Adrenaline pumped in his veins with the incredible accumulation of power that drove him. There was a roar in his ears. Something he rushed by sliced him; thin little scratches in several places, but he didn't notice. His heart thrashed beneath his ribs as he sensed himself drawing closer and closer.

Wait.

Suddenly, he came to a halt, giving the surrounding weeds severe whiplash.

Everything aside from his heart and his laboured breathing were still. Not a sound from any creature. Nothing was brave enough to disturb him.

There was something... something else on the wind he wanted much, much more that seemed to be coming from the same direction.

XI.

The last thing you wanted to hear was a voice while you were trying to be sneaky. You kept your body low and tucked your tail close to the full round of your bottom. It was going so nicely, your 'stroll’. You were going to take some notes in one of your books, maybe stuff some natural souvenirs in your pocket, and then head back home.

You held still for a while and used a few big, healthy stragglers of agave as your cover. You were hearing the voice again, now two voices. You didn't know what dialect they were speaking, so you closed your eyes, and used your Gift.

He's been shelling out a lot for this reroute. Keeping a lot of people's mouths shut. It's gonna be a lot harder to get this done without the foreman.

Yeah, I thought that, too. It's strange. I'm sorta...spooked. Mr. Dandy and now him. You’d think this whole thing was cursed.

Or someone knows…

They looked mauled, couldn't have been some poor bastard with a pistol.  What do they call the thing that's been chewing people up?

Depends on who you talk to. Yok... something. Yokay? Yokai? Chupacabra, though it's not gettin’ goats, that's for sure. Werewolf. Howler. Beast. Plain old monster.

I just hope it's a coincidence. I don't want to be next…

Now...what in the world we're these fellers talking about? You frowned while quietly slinking around to another perch. You watched your footing and hoped they would talk more, but now they were getting further and further away. Headed…somewhere.

Somewhere you kept your eye on. Might want to check it out next time you take a stroll.

XII.

The air pressure flipped like a coin  and cut through your moment of reprieve.

Bullseye.

You were so shocked you couldn't even scream. It was caught in your throat with a pinch of desert sand. Something massive and unyielding and menacing had ripped the ground from beneath your feet.

The sky was spinning round and round as the earth teetered wild on its axis. The moon was mocking you. The stars cackled as they danced, blurry streams trailing like faded candle lights behind them.

There was a black patch of sky that didn’t budge, and it only held two stars far above that didn't move either. Because they weren't stars,

they were vivid blue eyes.

XIII.

This was it. This was how you were going to die.

You were already nauseous from hitting you head, and now you were nauseous from hitting reality. You couldn't make a sound, could hardly breathe. Your throat burned like a shot of fireball. Your eyes were wide as you tried to make out the Beast's form. It was hard, with hot tears in your eyes, now shrouding the moon’s pale light. You could hear him, though, the hiss of death. It was high pitched, akin to the sizzle of a hot brand.

Would it have ripping fangs when it bit you? We're those its claws digging into your ankles as it dragged you elsewhere? You were in a bit of pain, and you could sense the stickiness of blood on your back, but you were mentally preparing yourself for a lot more. Images of the sheriff draping canvas over your mangled body caused you to wretch.

You were so stupid!!!!! SO GODDAMN STUPID. HOW COULD YOU PUT YOURSELF IN THIS SITUATION? NO WEAPON. NO NOTHING.  THIS IS WHAT YOU GET. HOW COULD YOU-

It stopped.

You stopped.

Confusion boxed you good over the ears.

You were staring up into the face of a man now, and he was staring right back at you.

Your confusion subsided into renewed fear. He was just a man, but the most unnaturally large man you had ever seen. Large was the wrong word. He was...immaculate. A threadbare shirt was struggling to hold itself together as his massive chest flexed. He had a heavily shadowed face and unreadable, though somewhat tense expression. His golden hair stood upright on his forehead head, like a red bat's ears or jack rabbit. Pure, wild, chaotic energy wafted from the heat of his skin. He shifted slightly while sizing you, and your eyes darted to the massive, bear paw of a calloused hand on the other side of your head.

He could sneeze and snap your neck. You believed he could tear a man in two. Oh God in heaven, he did! And you were next!

The Beast made a sudden movement, and you shut your eyes. You clenched everything from your horned head, to your cleft, hooven toes, and waited.

You had no choice but to hold your breath as his big, otherworldly body pressed into yours. It felt like being pressed between something more solid than a rock, and a really hard place. His breath, that you realized was rushed, cooly ghosted your forehead. Was he going to take your noggin like Eclair and mount it over his fireplace?

Greedily, he was drinking in your scent. So much stronger, so much better right from the source. He had to sample more of you. Sip you. Lap you up.

Where was it?! Where was more?!

You didn't think you could tense beyond how much you were tensed now, but you did as his nose left your head to wedge its way up into your neck. You felt the unnatural rumble of his voice in the hollows of your bones, filling your throat and chest. You prepared for hard, life ending bites, but all you received we're moderately painful nips and what could only be described as sloppy kisses. He received the sensation of kissing your fur with intrigue and almost groomed it with a big, wide tongue.

You didn't know what to say, or what to do. He hadn't said a word. You didn't know if the brute mounting you was really human, or …Something. Was all of this even real? Or were you home, wet dreaming about a good rut in your bunk again?

He needed more! More! More! More! Where was more of you?!

He left you one last bite on your shoulder that you were ashamed made you bellow out like the animal you were similar to. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but it was too late, the sound excited him. His nose grazed you, his rapid breaths through his nose like the pumping steam from a piston, a panting dog, frantically looking for more of your tastes and smells. Your clothes were in his way, but he didn't have the patience or current cognition to remove them.

He rubbed his cheeks against your generous chest, nipped your stomach through your tattered apron, and then zipped straight to your crotch. You were shocked as he unashamedly, obliviously, pressed his face there and very audibly inhaled. There was another rumble, loud enough to buzz through your entire body.

“A-Ah!” You cried out. The sharp, pleasurable tingle and sting from his deep voice, the pressure from his cheeks, and the heat of his breath was sudden. You were so…you were…

You could end this year's drought right here, right now.

You bit your lip, desperately wanting to access the situation. To think! To sort out what in the HELL was happening, but he had ripped through your overalls with his teeth and was lapping at your plump pussy through your knickers. He'd sniffed out the wetness that had slickened the fabric and was eager to taste. You moved closer and hissed out a pathetic Yeeessss!

Whimpering, you tried to push yourself up on your elbows. Your shoulders hit some hard, cool clay and the back of your head scraped more of the rough rock there. He was suckling like a thirsty calf, drawing the fabric of your knickers into the heat of his mouth along with your long, throbbing clit beneath. The suction was strong, unrelenting, almost painful.

“H-hey, hey! Easy, partner!” Your thighs  involuntarily snapped around his head, but he was undeterred. You shoved your hands against his brow, trying to get him to release.

“Please!” You were relieved when he finally did, but it was only for some adjustments. The brute drew his hands beneath your legs and dragged you further into the shadow so he could keep his meal all to himself.

His mouth attacked you again and you wriggled and writhed. Your own breath matched his labored huffs. You bit chunks out of your sense of morality while you bit your lip. With a shaking hand, you brought your clawed fingers to your crotch. His thick tongue grazed your knuckles as you worked to tug the fabric aside and reveal your dark, generous lips, and generously engorged clit beneath. He immediately took what you revealed to him, going from hungry to downright glutenous. You couldn't tell if the additional wetness you felt was from your own cyprine or slobber on his chin.

XIV.

“GOD!! Who are you?! What is your name?” Now was not the time to be asking these sorts of questions, but again, you did say you were a silly woman. You gritted your teeth to attempt to contain your cries. He didn't respond at first. The only reply for several deliciously, agonizing moments was the thick, slurping sound of his attention between your legs. This stranger, no demon,  was trying to shove his tongue as far up your womanhood as he could, and at this point, he had your loud, keening permission.

“AH! AHH!” Your slapped the hand that wasn't buried in his hair over your mouth again. You couldn't contain yourself. You'd never felt something like this before. You were a maiden who could only daydream, and you weren't sure if you could consider this that, or a nightmare.

“I said!” Your voice cracked and your back arched from the ground as you racketed up to an orgasm. Your voice was weary and hoarse. You were shrieking “what is your name?!”

He still had yet to respond, but if he chose now, you wouldn't have heard him. You came for the first time in your little life ( bless your heart); your mouth stretched wide open, waiting to catch flies. But all you caught was a big, wet kiss.

You could taste yourself. Taste his breath. Your legs were shaking. You were high like you'd been huffing gasoline, so you didn't put up a fight when he lifted you to his chest.

Someone was coming…

He had to take you elsewhere.

The open night sky. The owl judging you both from the whole it ate out a cactus. The earth beneath his feet. The howl of the wind as he ran and you both became a blur.

And you, clinging to his chest:

Belonged to him.

--

Chapter 1 End

#all might #toshinori yagi #yagi toshinori #writing #DESERT DEVIL

[b-afterhours]

Sympathy For The Devil (part 9)

summary: Set in 1978, Bill a young yet accomplish cop takes on the crime in New York City. Nervous yet excited to take on his first big task at his new department and prove himself. He soon finds out his partner is everything he had least expected.

warnings: strong language, mentions of sex acts, mentions of drugs, mentions of sexual assault

author’s note: one more chapter and the epilogue and we’re done! this one’s a bit long for the wait, enjoy! thanks for reading!

also if you’re seeing this for the first time you can read part one here and if you need to catch up on previous chapters go here.

tags: @kikilikes @itsbillskarsgard @imaginingyournotsolikelyfuture @billieskars @bskarsgardfilth​

Bill and Star sat in the same interrogation room they first met for hours. Telling and retelling the accounts of Randi’s Thanksgiving party. They were even separated for a moment to be questioned individually. Bill waited right out the door of the room, pacing with his arms crossed until the detective on the case let him back in; looking a little peeved when their story never budged. Having to incriminate colleagues was something no one was happy about doing. Especially, since Stan was the co-director of the Criminal Informant Unit, it was almost unheard of to bust someone if his stature. Though with the information the department had gotten they couldn’t deny that Stan was up to no good and it was in their best interest to reprimand him for his actions.

Bill took a seat on the cold aluminum chair next to Star. She looked a little peeved herself as she smoked her cigarette.

“You alright?” He asked pulling a cig from his pack to join her.

“Yeah… assholes, you know?” She lightly shrugged. “How long are we gonna be here we didn’t do anything?”

“I heard them dispatch some deputies while I was waiting. They’re out looking for St — him.” He took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Jesus Christ…” she rubbed her forehead. “What if they don’t find him? You think… he’s looking for us?”

Bill contemplated that too but not wanting to worry her further he lied. “They’ll find him. He’s got, family… can’t see him leaving them behind?”

“Well, I didn’t see him as a murderer either.”

A loud, urgent knock on the door interrupted them. Jaime, the youngest secretary that worked at the station, peeked her head in. She was always very shy around Bill. So shy she avoided him at all costs if she could help it. And when she couldn’t she never made eye contact with him, instead, she’d timidly stare at her feet.

Jaime nervously cleared her throat. “Detective Simons said you two are free to go,” she said doing her best to lose the childlike tone her voice usually carried. “And also Ms.Patricia wants to see you, uh I mean, Mr. Skarsgård. She said it’s an emergency.”

“Emergency?” Star said softly, worried.

“Let’s see what’s up.” He sighed as he stood up. “Thank you, Jaime.” He said to her before she left.

Star held onto Bill’s arm as he led the way to see Pat. When he turned the corner he bumped right into her almost knocking her over. He steadied her, apologizing.

“Sheesh. What took Jaime so long?” She said patting her ruffled curls down. “It’s your apartment, Bill. A neighbor called about your cat roaming the hall when she noticed your door was wide open.”

“S-someone broke in?” Bill’s face fell.

“I-yes. There are some officers on their way over. Do you want to go to my place?” She leaned in to whisper. “I heard what’s going on… it’s not good hon’.”

“Shit…” Bill rubbed his face. “I have Star with me too.”

Pat glanced over at her and politely smiled. She definitely didn’t have room for an extra body. Especially for someone with such an astounding record as hers. She lived a quiet life and she’d like to keep it that way. Jaime came hustling her short legs towards Pat just then.

“There are officers at the hotel… the one you two were staying. Lieutenant thought quickly to send officers over after the call about your place Mr. Skarsgård. They caught Stan just before he left…”

“Oh thank fuckin’ god!” Star threw her hands up, relief washing over her.

“It wasn’t pretty. Apparently, he packed his car up and his wife and daughters were just a cryin’ mess in the back seat.” Jamie frowned.

“Goodness.” Pat clutched her large bosom. “Well if you still want to stay with me, Bill…” She said pointedly.

“It’s fine, Pat.” He said putting a hand on her shoulder, realizing the invitation wasn’t extending for Star. “But I think we’ll stay a minute. I think we deserve to see him walk in this place with cuffs.” He smiled. …

While they waited they raided the fridge in the break room. Eating the stale donuts from the morning while drinking other people cans of soda.

“You can stay with me,” Bill said with a full mouth. “I mean if you’ve got somewhere else to stay… that’s cool too?”

“Oh… I’ll find somewhere, I’m sure you’re sick of me.” She hopped up to sit on the counter. “Besides these last 24 hours have been a lot for both of us.”

“Sounds like you’re actually sick of me?” He lightly laughed.

Star side eyed him. “Not you. Just the partying and cops and shitty people.”

“I fall into the cop category…” He said leaning his side into the fridge right by her.

“You know what I mean,” she playfully rolled her eyes.

He smirked. “Star, you can stay with me. I have no problem with it.”

“I guess so…” she sighed. She really had nowhere to go anyway. “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can, alright?”

They heard a loud commotion and murmuring outside the break room. And when the yelling began they knew Stan had arrived. They slowly crept out the break room and stood close by the wall. Everyone in the station was visibly and clearly shocked to see Stan cuffed, ushered in by deputies. Jerry stood by his office door shaking his head in disappointment that one of his best men had fallen like this. Though to save his own ass he had no choice but to order his arrest.

Stan nearly walked passed Bill and Star without seeing them. He turned his head at the last second meeting Star’s smug smirk while Bill protectively had half his body in front of her. He lost it. He lunged towards them, his face beat red and twisted in ugly anger. The officers were quick to pull him back, yanking him by his arms.

“Fuck you two!” He spat at them before being roughly pushed along.

Everyone in the station gasped taking judgmental glances their way. After all, they were the cause of the unfolding drama before them. After it had passed everyone went back to their mundane work almost as if nothing had happened. Jerry called Bill and Star to his office before they had the chance to step out. They both wanted desperately to leave after everything but went under obligation.

“You know how fucked you made us look?” Jerry said when Bill closed the door. “Are you happy?”

“Happy? I’m just doing my job?” He argued, folding his arms. “And quite frankly, Stan set his own self up if you ask me? He found the one CI that knew the same people as he did to do it!”

“How was he supposed to know?” Jerry threw his hands out.

“Does it even matter?” Star piped up. “We did the job you asked! What more do you want?”

“Nothing!” Jerry seethed. “Here’s you’re fuckin’ check.” He threw the envelope on his desk.

“Don’t to talk to her like that, okay?” Bill said coming to her defense. “She’s right. We did our job, I don’t understand why we’re at fault? You need to check your own people.”

“I don’t need some Newark transfer tellin’ me how to run my station…” He glowered at Bill. It looked silly since he had to look up at him to do it. The height difference took the menacing edge off it. “Call me after the holidays, Bill.”

“Am I… Are you really firing me?” He said appalled, pointing at his chest.

“Technically, no. But I need some time to think on what I’m gonna have to do with you after this shit storm settles. You’ll still get your checks if you’re worried about that.”

Bill shook his head, the muscles in his jaw flexing. He wanted so desperately to curse at him. He huffed in anger and put a hand on Star’s back leading out. She turned her head to speak for Bill since was too upset to do so.

“You know, once the DEA comes through it’s your ass too! Coward!” She took it upon herself to slam the door behind them. …

Bill and Star didn’t speak another word about the events that happened that day. The sun had set when they stepped out of the station. They left the Pinto behind. Taking a cab, they gathered their things from the hotel. The clerks looking none too pleased with them when they left with their bags in hand. Once at Bill’s apartment they quickly went to work on cleaning. Stan had trashed the place in his insane fit of rage. Minx was safe yet skittish in the corner of his closet when Bill found her. The poor thing, he’d been gone for weeks and she’d even have to suffer in his consequences. Nothing was stolen which meant Stan knew by a hair that he was discovered. Most likely he was trying to off them too. It was an eerie feeling knowing that.

Star was just finishing with putting his records neatly back on his shelf. She swept up some of the broken pieces of records on the floor. Some of Bill’s favorite jazz music now just rubble in the trashcan. She excused herself to dress down in his room.

“Yeah… you hungry or something I can make some sandwiches?” Bill asked her before she shut the door.

“Sounds good,” she gave him a small smile.

Star closed the door behind her and for a minute she was all alone. She sighed loudly. Finally feeling the exhaustion from the past 24 hours settle into her bones. There was a lot to process and quite frankly she would rather forget everything. She stood in front of Bill’s full-length mirror looking at her nude body. The bruises she had gotten the other night darkened on her olive skin. She tilted her head and sighed at her appearance while her hand idly brushed the dark hair of her bush. Thinking about how she didn’t mean much and how she couldn’t get how anyone could really care for her at all. She pushed the thoughts aside and quickly put on her panties and her nightgown. Without thinking about it she slipped into Bill’s bed, her body relaxed in the comfort of the mattress. It felt better than any of the hotel beds she slept in over the weeks.

Bill lightly knocked on his bedroom door effortlessly balancing two plates in his other hand and had two glass coke bottles tucked under his arm. There was no reply on the other end and so he loudly announced he was coming in. He cautiously and slowly pushed the door open, when he peeked his head in Star was soundly asleep under the covers of his full sized bed. He sighed but he didn’t dare wake her. He was tired too. But also agonizingly hungry, at least with her being asleep, it meant he could have her sandwich too.

Bill sat down, his back flush with the headboard, after dressing into sweats and rested the plate on his lap as he sat next to the sleeping girl in his bed. He hadn’t had anyone over in his place like this. After spending so many nights with someone being there when he woke while working his undercover job he worried about when it ended. About how lonely he’d be, he was glad he convinced Star to stay with him. He glanced down at her and lightly pinched her button nose, closing her nostrils enough to annoy her in her sleep. He quickly pulled his hand away when she lightly stirred, incoherently mumbling under her breath. He stifled his laughter by taking a bite of his sandwich, he could easily get used to this. …

Star woke up the next morning alone. She could hear Motown tunes from the record player slithering in through the slightly opened bedroom door. Along with the sizzling of a frying pan from the kitchen. She laid in the warmth of the bed for a moment thinking about how she could still sleep for a few more hours before forcing herself out.

Bill was plating the eggs and bacon he made when Star emerged dressed for the day in a simple white tee shirt with red trim on the collar and sleeves and wide, bell bottom blue jeans. It was one of the outfits she had recently purchased but hadn’t worn yet.

“Good morning…” she said crossing her arms over her chest. She hardly wore bras but for some reason, she was feeling self-conscious about not having one on now.

“It’s almost noon,” Bill slightly chuckled. “But good morning. Just in time for breakfast.” He winked.

“You didn’t have to…” she said taking a seat in the small two-person dining table against the wall.

“You’re a guest in my place so stop while you’re ahead,” he said handing her a fork.

“I’m just sayin',” she rolled her eyes and took a playful chomp of her slice of bacon. “Any news from the station?”

“Nah, nothing,” he lightly shrugged.

“Are you gonna be okay… like with your job and stuff? What if you really do get fired?” She frowned.

“They can’t fire me. And if they make up some bullshit, I’ll just find another station to apply at, I guess. It’s New York City.” He shoveled a helping of scrambled eggs in his mouth.

Star nodded. “There’s always something going on in this town, huh?”

“Um, are you still trying to go to the beaches of Cali?” He raised a brow while he sipped his black coffee.

“That’s the plan… I was paid double in the last check. Should be enough to get there.”

“Just to get there?”

“I’ll find a job or something,” she was now realizing she hadn’t really thought the plan through. For a long time, it was just a motivational pipe dream. Now that it was a possibility it seemed very, unrealistic. “Anyway,” she changed the subject, “since we’re both out of job right now. What’s the plan for the day?”

“Well… I guess we can do whatever the hell we want now,” he smirked. “Got any ideas?”

Star thought for a moment as she chewed. “Mmm, Coney Island?”

“The boardwalk? ‘Cause parks closed after October?”

“Works for me.” …

The Coney Island Boardwalk was an hours travel in from Harlem to Brooklyn on the subway. Even with the theme park closed there was still plenty to do along the seaside. They had just spent hours in the arcade when they left to get some well-deserved coney’s from the iconic Nathan’s. They clutched on to their heavy coats while the chilly ocean breeze nipped at them. Star was looking at the photo booth pictures they took in the arcade laughing at their silly faces, in the last few shots, while Bill ordered.

“You should probably put this in your wallet for now,” she handed the photo strip to him. “I’ll lose it.” Bill smiled at the photos before putting them away.

There was a silent competition between the two on who could chow down on the most chili cheese dogs. Star maxed out at three while Bill beat her by three more. She sipped on her sugary lemonade shaking her head at Bill patting his bloated belly.

“That’s ridiculous,” she lightly laughed.

She looked out towards the beach, the sun was setting, casting a soft orange glow. It was only getting increasingly colder because of it. Bill looked at her profile and how her brown eyes were ablaze in the light. When she turned back to him he glanced away, confused and embarrassed at his thoughts.

“Should we head back to the city? Before it gets dark?” She asked not even noticing how he’d been admiring her.

“Good idea.” …

They stopped by, Otto’s, Bill’s local bar before going home. The night was still fairly young and a few cold beers before bed sounded delicious. Lloyd, the bartender, affectionately greeted Bill when he bent his head forward to walk in through the short front door.

“Where have you been, kid?” He said in a deep raspy voice absent mindedly handing off a few beers.

The place was a jumping little spot. People holding down all four of the quarter pool tables and even a few people were dancing by the jukebox. From what Star gathered everyone was a regular, everyone chatted with whomever in the place like a big party.

“Ah, just working hard Lloyd,” Bill said pulling out a stool for Star before taking a seat himself.

Lloyd’s eyes darted toward her and back at Bill. “And who’s the beauty?”

“Star.” She said for herself.

“Pleasure. You givin’ my boy a hard time?” He winked.

“You can ask him that when I’m not around,” she bantered back, earning a laugh from him.

“I like her,” he said to Bill wagging a finger at her. “So what’s it gonna be, kid? Jack?”

“And a shot of peach schnapps. Two drafts,” Bill said taking his wallet out.

“You come here a lot, huh?” Star said once Lloyd turned his back to get their drinks.

“First place I stopped at when I first moved here,” he smiled.

“I like it,” Star said nodding as she looked around the place.

“Did you have a good time today?” He asked. He was worried she didn’t. She had behaved as her usual self all day but he couldn’t help but notice that when she thought he wasn’t looking her mind was elsewhere. He thought, she must be thinking she’d rather be anywhere else that didn’t involve him. Lloyd quickly set their drinks down and went to help another customer right after.

“Of course! I beat your score on Space Invaders! I know you said you didn’t care but I saw your face,” she laughed. “I had a lovely day, I really did,” she assured patting his knee.

“I’ll toast to that,” he said slightly relieved. He picked his shot up and tapped glasses together. Without prompt, Star followed him in tapping the bottom to the bar and shooting it down in sync with him. “You know, we went through some shit the other day but at least we did the right thing.” He said handing her a cigarette.

“Duh! We did our damn job!” She took a drag.

“Yeah, but shit. I didn’t think I would have to bust my own superior. I wasn’t expecting that when I moved down here.”

“It’s New York City, B’. And your superior deserves to be in fuckin’ jail. Anyway, can we talk about anything else? We’re celebrating.”

“You’re right,” he said blowing smoke from his own cigarette.

“We have forever to think about it. But tonight is about us,” she held her beer up.

Around the time they were good and buzzed Bill was beckoned by a bar buddy, he was just as tall with a wavy blonde shag and a floral silk shirt half unbuttoned. He was wanting Bill to shoot a round of eight-ball, the legal kind he was familiar with. He hesitated, not wanting to leave Star out.

“Go. I can watch,” she nudged him.

She sat by the pool table while Tom – Bill’s bar buddy – racked the balls up and Bill came over with another round of drinks.

“How ‘bout we let the little lady break our balls for us,” Tom playfully joked, holding out his pool stick for her.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she said happily, jumping off her stool.

She passed off her cigarette to Bill which he took a drag from. He watched with Tom as she leaned her body forward on the table, lining the stick and her sight to hit the diamond racked balls.

“Shit, Bill… where’d you find her?” Tom commented under his breath as he checked out her ass in the tight jeans she wore. Bill dismissed the comment and distracted himself from the view by taking a casual sip of his beer.

Star tugged the stick back a few times before pulling all the way back. She hit the cue ball with such force, that it threw Bill off for a second, almost causing him to choke on his beverage.

“Is that good enough?” She said genuinely unsure.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Tom approvingly kissing his fingertips.

In the middle of the game, Bill reached in his pocket for change so that Star could play something on the jukebox. “Play something good.”

“Something less depressing!” Tom hollered.

“Marvin Gaye isn’t depressing, man.”

She heard Bill say as she walked away. She sauntered over, weaving between bar patrons to the brightly lit jukebox. She stood there flipping through options being indecisive and picky. Finally, he settled on Rich Girl by Hall & Oats. Luckily, the box was just playing on its own, so the tune came on immediately to her delighted surprise. She walked back nodding her head along to the beat.

Tom began singing along loudly as he hit the seven ball in a pocket. “’Bout to get your ass kicked, Billie Boy.” He said missing the eight ball shot which made Star giggle. “Yeah, yeah,” he said slightly embarrassed. “He’s still gotta make it in to beat me.”

Bill picked the pocket for the eight-ball and swiftly sunk it, flashing a winning smile at Tom. Star clapped proudly. They had a few more beers on Tom’s losing dime before taking off. Bill walked in the apartment with Star holding onto him for balance, laughing loudly. She hugged him tightly in the middle of the living room, settling her body into his. She wanted to stay still with him. She pictured her in his arms, vines growing up their legs, weaving around their bodies locking them close. Still. Together. To just be with him if nothing else was a nice thought to her but she knew it wasn’t realistic. She quickly let go of him parting to get dressed for bed. She hadn’t had a nice day like this with good company in quite literally forever. It was nice. She could get used to many more days like it if she’d let herself.

PART TEN: finale

#bill skarsgard #my bill writings #70s bill