#Village of Rib Mountain

[wausaupilot]

Woodman's eyes Rib Mountain location

Also under discussion Wednesday is proposed zoning changes that would pave the way for two proposed restaurants in Rib Mountain: Chick-fil-A and Chipotle Mexican Grill.

Wausau Pilot & Review A Janesville-based regional supermarket chain is eyeing Rib Mountain as a potential location for a new store, according to materials posted on a Plan Commission agenda. Woodman’s Markets was founded in 1919 as a produce stand and has grown to operate 19 stores in Wisconsin and northern Illinois. Woodman’s appeared on an annual Supermarket News Top 50 Small Chains and…

[miguelhugger2099]

Snowfall

Summary: You, the Goddess of Life, visit the God of Death in the forest during a snowstorm. Next Miguel x Fem!Reader, Proofread but I was half-asleep, Fluff, A smidge of angst, Word Count: 1,458 This song is what caused this fic to form in my brain.

A blizzard had made its way to the village, its cold and harsh winds slamming against wooden cabins and tiny snowflakes that only piled up into mountains by the hour.

However, by his lonesome, stood a man in the forest. A forest that had once been flourishing with soft green grass, and a gentle blue lake in the middle with the sun's warm rays peeking through the leaves of the giant pine trees.

His black coat and black shawl around his head was a stark contrast to the pure white snow on the ground and in the sky. But it matched perfectly with the splatter of blood that tainted said purity.

He bent down, kneeling before the creature that had spilled blood: a baby deer wounded by its ribs. It was shot for food by hunters right before the blizzard hit, leaving them to abandon the animal.

The fawn wheezed softly, its beady black eyes staring up at the man. It weakly twitched, its hind legs failing to push itself up. The baby had squirmed the closer the man approached it with a gentle hand. Despite the cold weather, the man never shivered when a particular gust of wind blew through the branches, making his shawl slip off his head.

He gently caressed its head, rubbing his thumb comfortingly under its eye. He felt an ache for the poor baby, lost and alone in the bitter cold.

The baby had bleated softly, perhaps a cry to its mother before falling limp–marking the end of its life. His frown deepened, flinching his hand back to his chest and standing up again. The soul of the animal ripped itself from the confinements of mortality, stretching its limbs. He watched it flail around in small hops, before staring at him for a moment, its nose twitching and scurrying away to the afterlife.

He then turned his head down to glare at the dead body until a kind voice interrupted him.

“I apologize for the intrusion, Miguel.” He turned around with his eyes widening slightly. He saw you stand a few feet away from him, your usual soft smile on your face. Quietly, he whispered your name.

You wore a white cloak over a warm thick white cotton dress–he assumed with many layers underneath– and a crown made of branches atop of your head. You seamlessly fit into the background of the snow with your outfit. Your hair was the same, perfect as ever, free and let down from any hairstyle. The cold had gotten to you, snowflakes on your eyelashes and you held yourself close to keep a bit of warmth.

You approached him, the crunch of the snow underneath following you. When you met with him face to face, you gingerly reached over to place his shawl back over his head to protect him from the cold even though you both knew he didn't really need it.

“You shouldn't be here.” Miguel worried, fussing over you as he held you by your forearms. “You're supposed to be resting.”

Every year for a few weeks, you would take the time to sleep after a couple of months caring for Mother Earth. Miguel, the God of Death, offered to help you by taking care of Mother Earth while you slept. So instead of flourishing crops, warm sun and bright scenery, Miguel's cold hands left trees dying, more opportunities for illness, and an even bigger chance of death–the season many humans know as winter.

“I wanted to see you.” You smiled at him which made Miguel scoff at your ridiculousness. He took off his shawl and placed it around you to keep you warmer. Miguel stopped you before you could protest.

“You and I both know that I wear these just so the mortals don't ask questions,” He grumbled, successfully wrapping the fabric in a snug manner. Since you were the Goddess of Life, you were more used to the warmth of the sun shining down on you and the blood pumping through your veins and to your beating heart. For Miguel, all he knows is the coldest feeling there is, so a storm like this could never harm him. You stared up at him with adoration before yawning. Miguel pointed it out. “I knew it. Go back to bed.”

Despite his warning you slip past him to stare at the deer that had fallen into Miguel's care. Your eyes glazed over its body, resting a moment longer on the gunshot wound that was still seeping red into the plush snow, the blizzard slowly covering its body in a white blanket.

He stands behind you as you bend down on your knees to kneel beside the deer, nervously awaiting your reaction. “You tried saving its life, didn't you?” You asked, never turning away from the animal. You began petting it gently as if it were still alive.

Miguel frowned, looking off to the side. “I was putting it out of its misery.” You huffed a small laugh through your nose and got up again on your feet. You turned to him again and reached up to cup his cheek. He melted into your hand, the only source of warmth he could ever get the chance to feel. His eyes softened down at you.

“Thank you.” You whispered. Miguel's face hardened again but he did not stray from your palm.

“For what? For killing your creations?”

You sighed. No matter how many times you've had this conversation with him, he always seemed to put himself down. “You don't kill, Miguel.” You assure him.

“My life's work is to kill. It's my duty.” He retaliated, his eyes glancing at the fawn before looking back down at you.

“You think lowly of yourself.” You slip your hand down to his chest. “Your work is beautiful.”

“There's no beauty in death, my lady.” Miguel placed his hand over yours on his chest. You don't feel a heartbeat drumming inside. “It's grotesque and heartless.”

You scrunch your nose, not believing a word he's said. “And who has told you this? The mortals?” You ask. His jaw clenches.

“They adore you and not me.” He says.

“Are you saying you're jealous, my lord?”

“I'm saying what is true,” He says firmly, not wanting to amuse your upcoming antics. “You are beauty. You are perfection. You are divine,” He cups your cheek and you shiver from the coolness of his fingers.

“Look around you. Mortals are struggling to stay warm, to find food and shelter. I've caused this. They…they curse my name,” He comes closer to you, tilting your head up to meet his ruby eyes. “I fear you shine too brightly, my lady.” Your breath hitches as you look up at him. You shake, not knowing if it's from the puff of wind passing by or your heart stuttering in your chest when he inches closer.

“What are you saying, Miguel?” You whisper.

His eyes dart to your lips, stopping the urge to kiss you. “I want to shine with you. But I'm not worthy. Not with the acts I've done. Not with the blood I've spilled alongside mortals and destroying your works of art.”

“Miguel,” Your heart speeds up, quick to calm the self destructive thoughts he's producing.

“My life has no meaning without you. What good is appreciating life if there is no death? You make living precious. You make it sacred. And when the time comes, you make it merciful,” Your other hand comes up to his hair, running your cold fingertips through his strands. “That is your true nature. Whatever humans do to abuse your power is not a part of you.”

Miguel leans his forehead against you, closing his eyes. You mirror his actions, pressing against him and simply feeling him. His hands move around you, bringing you closer by the waist. The wind passes by with a high pitched whistle. “So…warm.” He breathes out softly.

He pulls away from you, bending at the waist to pick up your hand and kiss your knuckles. You feel your cheeks heat up while he looks up at you through his eyelashes. “You must be tired, mi reina. I'll take you home.”

Miguel reaches down to pick you up bridal style. You wrapped your arms around his neck and nuzzled closer to him despite his freezing exterior. You feel him hold you tightly to his chest protectively as he walks out of the forest to bring you home.

The fawn's dead body lies underneath a pile of snow now, hidden from the world. Its remains will seep into the ground, nurturing the future plants that will grow in its place once the winter is gone and spring returns– the cycle of life and death– an eternal harmony.

A/N: man i fucking love anything to do with gods and goddesses. i might make this a mini series of just snippets of their relationship but ahhhh i dunno if anyone will even like this tbh. i did have fun writing it though

[sweetheart4you]

I got an ask for Muichiro, who fought a demon and got injured. When he woke up, he was taken care of by a pretty male reader, so here's that fic! Sorry I've been so slow, I'll post another fic today! ( ´ー`)

When he got there, he was surprised to be fighting a lower moon demon. It was lower moon 7, so it wasn't too strong. Though he did get pretty injured.

Muichiro was told to fight a demon in a small town, though it was more of a village. It was out of the way at the base of a mountain, so not many demon slayers, especially hashira, went there.

Muichiro passed out from blood loss after he killed the demon. When he woke up, he saw a beautiful boy.

He had (y/hl), (y/hc) hair, and (y/ec) eyes. His skin was also a beautiful (y/sc) color. Muichiro had no idea his cheeks were flushed.

That's when he noticed he was bandaged well, and his wounds didn't hurt either. He was surprised that he was patched up.

After a minute, you noticed he was awake. You went up to him with a smile that made his heart thump loudly against his ribs.

“Are you okay? You were laying injured in the snow, I tried my best to patch you up.. You may want to get to a more civil area to get healed better..”

Safe to say, he was stunned. Your voice was beautiful. He couldn't respond. He felt frozen, and his mind was going a mile a minute.

All he could think about was you in different romantic situations, such as:

Laying his head on your lap while you sing to him as he dozes off.

You standing on a hill with a flower field, looking back at him with such a happy smile.

You playing with children in the middle of the village, encouraging him to join in.

You trying on his kimono.

And many, many more.

When he finally came back to, you were worried and panicking a bit.

“S-Sorry.. I was... Thinking.”

A couple months went past, and he refused to leave. He's practically moved in with you.

He got a job and kept slaying demons in the area. All you had to do was stay home, clean his wounds, and take care of the house.

You were basically his (house) boy-wife. The only thing missing was the actual certificate that said you two were married.

Otherwise, you were already all his, and he'd kill anyone that got in between you two.

Safe to say, you won't be escaping Muichiro. Though, he treats you really well and you eat well.

“My sweet, beautiful boy.. All mine.. Only mine..”

[tiyawnyana]

Kinktober: Day 26

Overstimulation

A/N: I'm sorry this is a weak one :( I haven't done much writing on this prompt so I may do another later just for funsies once I get the gist of it

Pairing: Roxto x (fem) Omiticaya Sully sibling

Warnings: heat, riding, p in v, creampie, multiple orgasms, overstimulation

¤¤¤

Your patience to be with Roxto proved to be worthwile. You'd mated above the tree of souls, retreated to a marui by the mountains, away from everyone else, where you had spent 3 days together.

Goodness, the amount of times you mated with him would make Eywa blush.

And as soon as the honeymoon was over, you and your new mate returned to the village.

Only to return back to that marui due to your heat a few days later.

Wet slapping can be heard, just slightly muffled outside of the marui, but inside was loud.

You'd managed to get him to fuck you a few times, but those few were not enough to stop the hunger, even for a few hours.

"Mmmph, so good, so good," you babble, hands holding around Rotxo's ribs as you ride him.

There's a light sheen of sweat and a blush across your body, you've managed to cum quite a few times, and made your mate do so too many times to really care.

He's a whining mess beneath you, body slumped into the floor as you ride him for the umpteenth time. He gazes at you in awe, thoroughly surprised and impressed by your tenacity and need for him. His cock remains hard, even when he's cum inside you so many times.

And goodness, the mess. His seed leaks out of you as you ride him, and it's dripping down your chest from when you'd taken him down your throat. There's a ring of it around the base of his cock and your heat fogged brain has no plans of stopping yet.

You ride his length, pulling up until just the tip is in, then slam down.

"Great mother-" He whines, hands coming to weakly cling to your hips,"Please- too much, I'm sorry-"

"No it's not," your voice is firm as you ignore his pleas, moaning as his cock grinds perfectly inside. You grind your hips down on him, walls still tight around his length and nearly pulsing as a means to milk him dry.

He groans, head tilting back. You cup his jaw, admiring his teary eyes, swollen lips and blush filled cheeks. He pants hard, whimpering as your cunt clenches around him.

"Please, tahni," he pleads, gazing up at you, his hands coming up to cling to your arms.

But you're too far gone in this heat, rolling your hips at an increasing speed, bucking against him while leaning down to bite over his neck.

"Mine, all mine," you scent him,"Want to be full, want to carry your babies."

"You- you wanted to wait," he whines out, shaking his head.

"Changed my mind," your voice is sultry, it has his body shivering.

You speed up before shrieking out a moan, pussy tightening up hard around him as you cum.

"Oh, eywa," he whines, biting his lower lip as he cums deep inside of you, but it inevitably spills out around his cock.

You continue to buck your hips, your heat stopping for a mere moment before you lift, grinding up and down his length. He groans, head rolling back as his length begins to harden up again.

"No, wait, yawne," he whimpers, eyes tearing up more from exhaustion,"let me take a break, please."

You only grin, a glint in your eyes that has him swallowing thickly, heart stuttering in his chest. You begin the pace, albeit slowly, and cup his jaw tenderly.

"Be good for me, yeah?"

¤¤¤

A/N: going drinking tonight aaaaa

Taglist:

@akoyaxs @vee1728

[sengardet]

Guarded Heart

Two women are caught in a high stakes battle for a peaceful village

Gertrude stood amidst the rocky outcrops of the mountaintop village, her breath labored but determined. Her old nemesis, the imposing magical Queen Valyria, stood across from her, the two locked in a fierce struggle. Valyria’s stamina was legendary—her movements quick, fluid, and full of a relentless energy that rivaled Gertrude's own strength.

"Valyria," Gertrude called out, her voice carrying over the howling gusts. "We need not do this. Surely there is another way."

Valyria let out a melodic laugh that echoed between the clearing of trees. "Oh Gertrude, still trying to avoid the inevitable? You know as well as I that our paths have been destined to cross in glorious battle."

The two circled each other, their eyes locked in a battle of wills as much as of bodies. Gertrude swung her large sword. Valyria dodged swiftly, delivering powerful electric bolts to Gertrude’s ribs and arms with the grace of someone untouchable. Each hit made Gertrude grit her teeth as her massive heart fluttered, but she beat her chest demandingly and held her ground, waiting for the right moment.

Then, with a fierce roar, Gertrude lunged forward. Valyria tried to twist away, but Gertrude anticipated the move. She caught Valyria on the back swing, the hilt connecting with Valyria’s side in a sickening thud. The impact knocked Valyria off her feet, and she tumbled to the ground, her breath escaping her in a harsh gasp. Gertrude followed through, the heavy weapon smashing into the metal ring on Valyria’s chest with a brutal force, knocking the wind out of her completely. The queen lay sprawled on the cold, unforgiving earth, gasping for air, her stamina faltering as Gertrude loomed over her, finally seizing the upper hand.

"I know your weakness now, Valyria. It’s the same as mine but even more vulnerable," Gertrude whispered, her voice thick with satisfaction.

Gertrude's eyes gleamed as she loomed over Valyria's crumpled form. The dark queen lay gasping on the ground, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. Gertrude’s heart shook her delicate frame with anticipation. This was her moment—the moment she had craved for so long, to finally break the woman who had haunted her for years.

Raising her sword high above her head, Gertrude brought it crashing down, not upon Valyria’s body as the witch anticipated with a magic shield around her neck, but on the shimmering portal generator embedded in the queen’s armor. The sword struck the device with a crack of magical energy, sparks flying as Gertrude's strikes grew more furious. Each blow and stomp sent shudders through Valyria’s body and robbing her of breath, and Gertrude could see the fear creeping into her opponent's once-steely gaze. The magical shield flickered, then sputtered, and finally, with a sharp hiss, it shattered under the relentless assault. “The witch’s shield can protect everything but its source.” Gertrude taunted.

Valyria gasped, her eyes wide with horror as her most vulnerable secret was revealed. There, hanging between her breasts, pulsed her exposed and oversized heart, previously hidden in a dimension of its own behind the magical device. It hung unnaturally, helpless and feeble in its exposure, every frantic beat visible in the cold light of the mountain basin. The once-mighty queen, feared for her unyielding strength and magic, was now utterly vulnerable. Her heart, beating wildly and exposed for Gertrude to see, flopped against her chest with each erratic pulse, the veins and arteries distending taut with each contraction in the organ’s desperate movements.

Gertrude’s lips curled into a smile. She had never seen anything so pathetic—so glorious. She stepped closer, watching the heart beat helplessly, knowing that Valyria’s life now lay in her hands.

Valyria, rolling onto her hands and knees, trembled with exhaustion and fear. Her dark skin glistened with sweat, her heart still exposed, dangling from her chest. The supple pink organ, connected by thick vessels, writhed frantically, almost as if it were trying to flee from its precarious position. Gertrude stood tall before her fallen foe, eyes narrowing with cruel intent as she surveyed the woman who had once been untouchable. Now, Valyria's strength was gone, and the very core of her life hung vulnerable, defenseless.

Gertrude’s boot hovered over Valyria’s heart for a moment, as if savoring the power she held. Then, with a sudden, deliberate motion, she kicked the large, pulsating organ. A wet, sickening squelch echoed in the cold air as the pink bulbous chambers yielded beneath the impact. The heart spasmed violently from the trauma, blood forced through the connected arteries as Valyria’s body convulsed from the sudden shock. The force of the blow sent the heart into chaotic fibrillations, its erratic beating unable to maintain the rhythm it so desperately needed.

Valyria let out a strangled gasp, her arms giving out beneath her as she collapsed to her elbows. Her entire body shuddered with each irregular beat, her head hanging low, her breath coming in ragged, broken wheezes. Gertrude tilted her head, watching with amusement as Valyria’s heart continued to twitch in its exposed state, flailing uselessly in the open air. Gertrude nudged the soft organ with her foot again, just to feel its weakness against her as the woman slowly crawled away.

"Pathetic," Gertrude hissed, her voice filled with disdain, yet there was a spark of empathy that she felt as a knight for anyone in such a perilous situation. Valyria’s once indomitable form was now reduced to a trembling, pitiful creature.

Valyria’s body trembled in a frantic attempt to crawl away, her hands and knees scraping the rocky ground as her oversized, exposed heart hung from her chest, struggling to beat. The once-proud queen was a hollow shell of her former self, now reduced to a trembling figure, too weak to stand, too shocked to comprehend her dire situation. She wheezed, her breath shallow, unaware that her heart had stopped beating, her body running on the remnants of her strength.

Gertrude stalked forward. With a swift, calculated motion, Gertrude placed a boot on the woman’s shoulder and pushed Valyria onto her back. The queen barely had time to react before Gertrude knelt beside her, reaching down to seize her wet and supple prize. Gertrude’s fingers closed around the slick, smooth surface of Valyria’s heart, her grip firm as she began to squeeze.

The organ squirmed under her touch, the veins and arteries writhing as if trying to escape. Gertrude’s grip tightened, the heart yielding to her strength, its flesh smooth and slick as it pulsed weakly in her hands. Valyria gasped, her eyes fluttering in a mix of pain and shock, her body barely clinging to life. Gertrude reveled in the feeling, her fingers probing the heart’s surface, feeling every ridge, every vein as the organ struggled feebly in her grasp.

With each calculated squeeze, Gertrude forced the heart to pump blood through Valyria’s faltering body. She knew that she should end this once and for all, but both her fury and mercy prevented her from making an irreversible move. Gertrude’s movements were slow, deliberate, savoring the control she had over Valyria’s life. The heart throbbed pathetically between her fingers, its movements erratic and weak. Gertrude leaned in; her voice soft but menacing.

"You're mine now," she whispered, her tone filled with satisfaction as she continued to manipulate the heart, keeping Valyria alive but helpless, her once-great nemesis reduced to a living toy in her grasp.

Valyria’s body was helpless before her greatest enemy, yet she lived. Her eyes rolling back as her consciousness faded, yet Gertrude’s control remained firm, the heart quivering between her fingers, fragile and utterly at her mercy. Gertrude didn’t know how to end it, but she didn’t feel any pressure to make a decision with Valyria in such a harmless state. Maybe this was her fate all-along, a life of amusement for a usurper unwilling to kill.

[miyosei]

GODS DO NOT LONG FOR LIQUID GOLD.

premise. he will bring you the universe. all you need, is to ask ( a quiet moment in your embrace ) — ft. wanderer

gn reader implied nonhuman, timeline is a little weird… basically during the sumeru storyline, lowercase

the sea between sumeru and inazuma extends seven thousand kilometers further than the largest mountain in liyue. the sun rises over the horizon in the lavish city, bathing the marbled walls in its golden warmth and casting a shadow onto the hidden corners of the world. his eyes are the first to open, and yours are the last to close.

and if the universe would allow it, he would cradle the globe in his arms until it was the size of a glass marble—quietly kept under the promise of a kiss and held carefully in the palm of your hand, dancing delicately between your thumb and index finger and held tightly near your beating chest. a gift for you and only you, the first, and only one, to embrace him in his raw vulnerability.

sleep has never been a necessity, but in the quiet moments of slumber’s final solitude, you’re there—waiting for him in the same light in which he’d left.

you greet him with extended arms, and it's like he is meeting you for the first time all over again—stumbling over his words and tripping on his feet like a fool on the run. draped in pearly silks and a golden pendant that held more weight than the world itself, hushed voices and gentle laughter and eyes that could still sparkle with all the love and innocence he still had to offer. here, he takes your hands in his own and is more than willing to be scorched by your light.

it is what used to be a home shared for two, just on the outskirts of a wavering village. the garden is beginning to bloom. he knows this because you send him a letter at the end of every month—you promised.

to you, it is a journal entry of your collective thoughts. to him, it is the only promise he has ever known to have been kept.

his hands are cold when you return his touch, they always have been—something that he never used to think about until you brought it up one day, until he felt how warm yours were in comparison.

“do you know the distance between the moon and the sun?” you muse absentmindedly and play with his fingers. he raises a brow, and answers no.

when he learns that it’s three hundred and eighty four thousand kilometers, being across the sea doesn’t seem so far away. and your rare instances of meeting like this are likened to a solar eclipse. if not now, then never.

now, he is the moon. scooping up light that is not his own and cramming it into the cracks between his ribs, eating your brightness whole. he has survived this far on a staple diet of fear, leeching off each knock that falls against his door and commanding those beneath him to bend over at his will.

the moon is a thief and a liar. no wonder he would be the one to fulfill that role.

but ‘i love you,’ still slips from your tongue in the form of a whisper, dancing through the air and following the evening songbirds. the words settle in the silent atmosphere, and for a moment that lasts shorter than your next breath, scaramouche freezes.

he goes quiet, holding his thoughts for the first time since he can remember. and you can tell, from the way his eyes search yours with an expression that edges a little too close to sadness, there is a part of him that doesn't quite believe you.

a hand hesitantly reaches to grab at the fabric surrounding his chest, almost hoping to feel what should have been the erratic beating of his unstable heart — but, as usual, he finds nothing.

“why?” he asks in a clumsy blunder and as the first thing he can force out of his drying throat. his expression twists into one of disbelief, sorrow, and the quietest shine of hope, and he searches your own for any sign of doubt or insincerity.

you’ve only said three words, but it’s enough to make his world shift at its axes. he tells himself that you don’t mean it. that this is only a projection of his innermost feelings. that there is no way someone like you could ever feel anything but hatred and disgust for something like him.

still, there is a part of him wants to believe.

“say it again,” he pleads, his voice cracking at the edges. his chest aches and expands with the gust of wind. “please, say that again.”

the titles of a broken character are left in his wake. in one moment he was hooked up to a robotic mechanism—held together by wires attached to his joints and extracted knowledge that were injected into the veins he never quite had. in the next he stood before divine knowledge with an empty heart.

‘it will be better this way,’ he thinks to himself. for everyone, for you. a lifetime of forever in a world without him to dirty your light. a lifetime that you deserved.

this time, no one will get in his way, he will make sure of it.

he only hopes, that should you ever meet again, it will be in a better time.

[slippinmickeys]

POL Prompt for you: would love to know more about Mulder’s experiences embedded with the army, and I bet Scully would too…

No beta. Just vibes. Thanks for the ask!

He presses his lips to the tight drum of her stomach, breathes in through his nose. The air is thick with the sour smell of human bodies in a warm, enclosed space, under which hovers the smell of sex and somehow, the linen and eucalyptus scent of Scully herself.  

He’d like to make love to her again, but they’re both lightheaded with hunger, so he rolls over instead, leaning his forehead and nose against the arching slats of her ribs. He reaches down and puts his hand around her knee. Her body hair has grown out, and while the copper hair on her legs is wiry and stiff, the growth on her knee is wispy and blonde. He strokes it, like he’s calming a skittish filly.

Outside the hotel they can hear bullets ripping through air nearby. The fighting is close and the sounds unnerving. 

“Tell me about your embed,” Scully says in a rough voice. He flicks his eyes to hers; they’re round and wet, blue as the Sargasso. 

“Which one?” 

“Any of them,” she says with a shaky breath. “Can you talk to me? I want to listen to you and not the sounds outside.”

“I hate to tell you this, but my embeds involved scenes pretty similar to what’s happening outside.” 

“Talk to me, Mulder,” she says. “I just want to hear your voice. Please.”

He runs his nose up the soft skin of her side, pulls her in close to his body.

“We were in the mountains,” he mumbles into her. “And it was cold.” 

Under his lips, her skin pebbles in sympathy. 

***

He’d had to leap out of a Black Hawk hovering above a rugged mountainside, hugging his camera bag to his chest in an effort to protect his camera and equipment. It had seemed to work, to the detriment of his left shoulder. The ground under the chopper was a chaotic mess of disheveled humans and gear, the rotor wash whipping dust and debris into everyone’s eyes. 

Mulder was the photographer half of a two-man team, working an article for the Times, but in the chaos and roar of their ingress, he couldn’t see Gary, the journalist who’d be doing the writing. He only hoped he’d fallen successfully, a metric applied in the loosest sense of the word – Gary was over forty and overweight – so long as he didn’t need a medic immediately and was on the ground, Captain Franklin would be happy.

The moment the last trooper hit the earth, the Black Hawk tipped backward and roared away into the night. The soldiers around him were up and on their feet immediately, Franklin barking quiet orders to hustle the men along – the chopper had given away their location. 

Operation Saber Tooth was a battalion-wide mission to root out senior rebel fighters that were hiding in and around the mountains. Franklin would hang back from the fighting with what was called the overwatch team, but First and Second Platoons would be on the front line, entering villages and searching homes, going on the offensive if attacked. 

Franklin had given Mulder and Gary the option of staying back with him and the overwatch team– who would position themselves behind the platoons’ fighting in order to monitor and command the operation–or accompanying one of the two Platoons. Mulder thought they’d get a better story and certainly better pictures if they went with the fighting forces, but it would also mean walking through the mountains at night carrying all of their gear; food, water, clothing, work equipment and sleeping bags. Each patrol would be gone for a week, patrolling, camping and trekking in the mountains. Mulder wanted to go with First Platoon, but one look at Gary’s face and he told Franklin they’d hang back with overwatch. 

Mulder had no idea what they were supposed to do next, so he followed the line of troops up a ridge and onto a small flat crest of rock thousands of feet up that abutted the mountain on one side and had a clear view of the valley on the other. The area would serve as the Tactical Operation Center for the mission. There were no tents, walls or roofs – just bare patches of rock and a few gnarled trees. As Mulder watched, the overwatch team unpacked cumbersome machines that looked like they had been airlifted from Vietnam. 

Gary came shuffling over the ridge and to Mulder’s side, breathing hard. 

“We should get some sleep,” Mulder said, unrolling his sleeping bag while Franklin and the JTACs communicated with airpower. 

A small group of rebel fighters had been spotted by the retreating Black Hawks moving towards their position, and Mulder and Gary fumbled with their equipment and tried to stay out of the way while an air attack wiped out the small force. 

When Mulder woke in the morning, First and Second Platoons were gone, but the overwatch team were still working, hunched over a speaker that was spitting out insurgent chatter from a radio intercept. 

“Bring the Dushka,” the interpreter said, repeating what he was hearing in a language no one else understood. “We can see them on the mountainside.”

The overwatch team was tense. The nearby rebels knew where they were, but not the location of either First or Second Platoon. A Dushka, Franklin explained, was a giant Russian machine gun that spit out .50 caliber bullets that could effortlessly slice through a brick wall. If the two platoons didn’t find the rebels before the rebels got the gun into position, Mulder and the men around him would be rendered to pulp and Operation Saber Tooth would be over before it began.

“Didn’t Franklin say overwatch would be the safer option?” Gary said, hunched up in his sleeping bag and looking miserable.

Mulder reached into the brown plastic of the MRE one of the soldiers had handed him and pulled out a small pack of M&Ms. 

“I think he just said there’d be less walking,” Mulder replied, popping a handful of candy into his mouth and pulling the black knit cap he was wearing lower over his ears. 

Gary began taking notes and speaking with some of the overwatch soldiers, getting down interviews, but Mulder could do nothing but take a few photos of the team against the backdrop of rock and dirt; mostly guys blowing hot air into their fists and hunching around the radio speaker.  

As dawn gave way to full daylight, Mulder’s attention strayed from the chatter of the TOC detailing the progress of the First and Second Platoons to the increasingly pressing needs of his own body; he really had to pee. 

Most of the soldiers had been relieving themselves at a rocky outcropping at the edge of the ridge upon which their small camp sat, but a gusty wind had picked up from along the valley and was now blowing up the crest of the hillside. If he peed off the side as the other soldiers had done, he would probably end up covered in his own piss courtesy of the wind. 

He decided to amble a little further off, down a short slope upon which laid the remains of a fallen tree. The area was probably too far from what Franklin had said were the boundaries of where he felt comfortable letting them go, but it was sheltered from the wind and it would only take Mulder 30 seconds to relieve himself. 

He was just zipping up when he caught a flash of movement from 40 yards away across the small valley between the mountain they were perched on and the next. When he looked up he connected eyes with a man peeking out behind a boulder, Kalashnikovs bristling up around the rock like needles in a pincushion. A group of rebel fighters. And they had seen him. 

He dove behind the single fallen tree on the slippery bit of scree behind him as the rebels opened fire. Bullets whizzed past the tree and thunked into it, spraying the air around him with bits of desiccated wood, and he could hear the shouting from the TOC and the garbled sound of the rebels yelling at each other and into their own radios. It took only moments for the Americans to begin returning fire and Mulder was absolutely pinned down, unable to do so much as move his arms up to protect his face, so close were the bullets in the air above him. And he had left his flak jacket and helmet next to his sleeping bag. 

He laid prone, eyes squeezed close as the guttural sound of combat erupted from everywhere  around him. An AC-130 circled overhead and he could hear the roar of a fighter jet scream low over the mountain. But the air support would not be able to help them, he knew; the rebels were too close to their own position and an attack on them would likely be deadly to Mulder and the rest of the overwatch team. 

Suddenly, the sounds of gunfire from the TOC position went into overdrive, and a moment later two soldiers slid onto the ground on either side of him, their comrades above laying down cover fire. 

“Let’s go, bud!” said a soldier named Martinez, who plunked a too-large army helmet onto Mulder’s head and grabbed him by the arm. 

On his other side, a private named Smyth said “We’re running in three-two-GO GO GO!” And the two soldiers hauled him up and all three of them ran all out, scrambling back up and over the ridge to the meager protection of the TOC. 

***

“Not three minutes later,” Mulder mumbles, “the rock above our heads started exploding.” 

Her fingers brush through the hair growing long down his neck. “The Dushka?” she asks.

He nods. “The Dushka. Luckily Second Platoon was almost on top of them by the time they were in position to fire and took them out before any person or any equipment was hurt. Five minutes later it was dead silence and we spent the rest of the afternoon using baby wipes to get the dust off our skin and equipment. My Canon Mark IV was never the same.”

On the street outside the hotel, the gunfire similarly halts. 

Scully inhales expansively and turns so she’s facing him. “How was Gary?” she asks. 

“A true professional,” he says, leaning forward to kiss the skin above her breast. “He grabbed my camera and took some damn fine pictures.”

“I’d like to see them someday.” Her voice is fading, sleepy. “If we ever get out of here.”

Mulder pulls the tatty sheet up and over them both. 

“You will,” he says. He’s gotten out of worse. 

[johannestevans]

thinking about a king who is travelling from his capital city to a grand event in another kingdom and like... magic for the past while has been quite tightly controlled and only available through certain approved academic routes

but there's an accident and his caravan is hit

like the whole caravan just scattered across the side of a cliffside, his court wizard dead, but crucially, his physician dead too

and he's pretty severely injured, he's in a lot of pain, and he's not used to NOT having a healer to hand

and so like, the remainder of the caravan coming together and changing their route, going to a nearby village and like... being in the middle of fucking NOWHERE, it's a tiny dot of a village on the map

but one of the guards basically saying, do you have a healer?

and the bartender who says, "er, well, sir, we've got a healer, yeah. he's a midwife, sir - a witch." and this guy going

well we have a severe injury, we need you to call for him

doesn't say it's for the king

and so this witch comes in and he's this severe, pale looking man who has the same mountain accent all these village people have. he's not academically educated. he's not rich enough to afford it - he's obviously learned a fringe, cultural magic

and the witch is brought into the hall where the king is reclining, guards and attendants also in various states of injury

and the king's guard who says, "you will heal them."

and the witch who blinks, sort of placidly. "you're the king," he says.

"your king," the king's guard reminds him.

"no," the witch disagrees. "not mine. and i won't heal him, either."

and the king is taken aback, but is in pain, is groggy, and also, is genuinely too curious to be immediately angry? like, what the fuck is this about?

"you will," says the guard, stepping forward.

"he isn't dying very fast," says the witch. "carry him to the next town. there's a healer five days travel from here. he should survive."

"you'll heal him if you value your life."

"i do value it. i don't value yours."

the witch is cold, his expression cool and utterly unmoved by the guard's threatening manner, by the way he's towering over him.

the king says, "young man, he's threatening you with execution."

"mm, i heard him. there's a wheeze in your voice - i expect your lungs are impacted by your broken ribs. you shouldn't dally here - you should get to a healer."

"aren't you a healer?"

"not for you."

"why's that?"

the witch laughs, and moves to leave

he stops, expression flat, as two crossed blades stop his departure, two guards keeping him in place.

"heal him," one of them says.

"no," says the witch. "you do it, if you see fit to."

"none of us has the skill."

"and whose fault is that?"

"didn't you make an oath?" asks the king softly - he's always prided himself on his diplomacy. the witch turns back toward him, his head tilting to one side. "to heal where and what you could?"

the witch's eyes narrow.

"you want me to heal you?" he asks.

the king gestures, although moving hurts, to his retinue. "i think we've made that clear."

"very well," says the witch. "renounce your crown, and i will."

the king stares at him. "beg pardon?"

"give up your throne, declare an end to your rule. i'll heal you, then."

"you really don't value your life, do you?" he asks in a hiss, losing patience. "you would really choose this obstinate refusal of authority over your own life?"

"why not?"

"you'd rather die than put aside this petty resistance."

"you'd rather die than put aside your petty little jewels and your nonsense title," says the witch. "it doesn't seem you value your life any more than I do mine."

the king, speechless, stares at him aghast.

"which is it, then?" he asks. "your life or your crown?"

"get out," growls the king.

the witch, suddenly smiling, gives a deep bow. "good luck," he says insincerely before he departs. "you'll need it."

[sinisterexaggerator]

Stars Above! | Cad Bane

Chapter 14

Explicit: Semi-slow burn, gratuitous smut /pwp, canon-typical violence, mildly dubious consent, angst, Tatooine Slave Culture.

This chapter: Flashbacks / nightmares, whump, mild-medical procedure involving a needle/dispenser and sedatives.

Word count: 5.3k+

Notes: It only took me TWO YEARS TO UPDATE. SORRY ABOUT THAT. I promise that I will try to update more regularly from now on.

[ Ao3 ] - [ Masterpost ]

《 Previous chapter || Next chapter 》

“Supposin’ us bein’ partners don’ mean nothin’,” Bane flippantly offered. Though feeling despondent, he masked it well. The two men were a lot alike in that respect; Bane hardly knew what went on inside the Mando’s over-complicated mind.

“You’ve learned everything there is to know, Cad. And what you don’t know, you don’t want to learn, even if given the opportunity.”

“What’s dhat even mean,” the Duros asked bitingly, throwing down the butt of his cigarra on the cold, hard ground. The two began to make their way, Jango sighing under the beskar helmet that hid his face, Bane trudging along behind, albeit slowly; he was freezing.

Vandor was an icy planet, located in the Sloo Sector of the Mid Rim, currently home to a target that had made his home in Fort Ypso, a snowy village that lay sequestered in the foothills of the Iridium mountains, only crossable by bridge. The wooden planks groaned under their feet as the pair of hunters ventured onward, Slave I left beyond its borders so as not to attract attention and give the game away.

“It means you are stubborn,” Fett returned, his voice carrying over the blistering wind. “Perhaps it is time for you to branch out on your own; be your own man. I am beginning to think I cramp your style.”

The Duros sneered, offended in more ways than one, fangs chattering even though he wore specialized gear meant to curtail the cold from leeching through to his very bones. “Says de man who don’ know when te turn down a job; if Ah had nips, dhey’d already be frozen off.”

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Jango informed him, his joke lost on the dour man. He wasn’t in the mood for Bane’s attitude, much less his complaints.

“As fer style, Ah got plenty,  naht countin’ dhis ridiculous ‘fit ye’ made me wear.”

Bane frowned despite himself, feeling each minor movement of his facial muscles; they were stiff from the frigid temperature, the younger man desiring to find a place of warmth. At least his body glove was able to retain some heat, otherwise he was sure to succumb to this positively ridiculous weather within mere minutes, seconds.

“Fine; maybe Ah should leave ye te it dhen; wait in de ship, if yer so keen on gettin’ rid of me.”

Then, his sour expression deepened, Bane’s footfalls ceasing as he came to a full stop. “It’s ‘cause Ah don’ agree with ye, ain’t it.”

“It’s not your life, nor your decision,” the Mandalorian shot back without delay, unable to hide his bitterness. “I know what I want, even if you don’t.”

Bane braced himself, realizing this was about to become more personal than he had bargained for, Fett having never bothered to explain his motives. All Bane knew was he had won some contest, proving he was the best bounty hunter in all the galaxy—a title he assumed might one day rightfully be his.

Fett had trained him, after all. More than that; he had become his friend, his confidant. Bane might go so far as to think he even loved the man, though never voicing those sentiments out loud; he buried them, like everything else he felt.

Perhaps it was fear that kept him quiet. Fear, or maybe anxiety. They both lived in the same place—inside his chest. The chest that currently housed a heart beating furiously behind a wall of ribs, even as Bane reached out to touched Fett’s shoulder.

What he couldn’t understand was why he needed a million of himself; Jango would be tasked to train an army for an unknown benefactor, an army of clones.

The idea sent shivers down Bane’s scales. He understood there were credits to be made, and lots of them. But even so, this was a line Bane himself would never cross—playing God by ignoring ethics, by ignoring quandaries he thought might only come about in science labs. Not in the field; not in the relatively short life of a bounty hunter.

“Ah know what Ah want,” he muttered softly, “de one of ye.”

The Mando whisked around, batting his companion’s hand away. He could not see his face, but Fett’s annoyance easily radiated out beyond his suit of armor. He thought Bane would never understand his hatred for the Jedi; the duty he had assigned himself that consumed half his personality. “Come off it.”

Bane hesitated. The sky began to darken; he thought he had been to this place before.

“You’re a fool,”Fett’s voice, a low baritone, seeped into Bane’s ears, in turn causing the Duros to tremble. It was not out of the coldness of the weather, but the coldness of his words, that Bane’s body involuntarily shuddered, wide, red eyes blinking away flecks of snowflakes as they floated toward the ground; they were gossamer, each one intricate by its own design.

“But Fett-”

“Shut up,” the Mando cut him off. Something wasn’t right. Bane gazed around himself, even as Fett continued. “You really think I care about what you think?”

Bane stared at him, a wounded look taking over his already glum face. Even so, he thought to follow-up, wondering if he had said these words before. “Just dhat-”

Flames were birthed from blankets of white snow, shooting up as pillars of an all-consuming heat, Bane taking a step back as he watched the fire cast a shadow on Jango’s beskar helmet. Those little flecks, those tiny snowflakes, were now tendrils of hot ash, the icy ground nearby the bridge they stood on a carpet of dirt and soot.

“Ja-Jango?” Bane stuttered out; the man approached, deliberate, even as his voice rose in his anger.

“You are nothing to me, Cad. You are nothing.”

The fire blazed more luminous than a main-sequence star; the heavens were black as pitch and no sun shone; Bane heard another sound, this one the creak of weakening ropes as the Duros realized the bridge they stood upon was near to collapse. It was old, rickety, and the only way into town.

“You are not my friend, and you will never be my family,” Fett assured, his vehemence laced with mockery. The Mando laughed, dry, and borderline sadistic; it was out of character for him. Bane grimaced.

“Fett, we gotta go back!” Bane ignored his hurtful remarks, noticing the bridge was starting to sink and give beneath their weight and the onslaught of the flames. The youth would peer over the side, eyes set to broaden as he realized the mountain valley was now nothing but a pit of hellfire.

“You are weak; pathetic; worthless-”

“-stop it!”

“-just a frightened little boy.”

“Enough!” the Duros shouted; he could hear the panic in his voice. He cursed himself, wanting to be brave; wanting to prove to Fett that everything he said was erroneous, inaccurate – but he was right; Bane was frightened.

Suddenly, Bane had nothing below his feet, just a gaping hole and a river of bright flames. Fett was hovering; he had activated the thrusters of his jetpack; Bane aimed to do the same, pressing a button on his wrist gauntlet, except his boots wouldn’t fire; they sputtered and died out.

He kept on falling.

“Jango!” He heard his voice crack, Bane reaching out and up toward the Mando. The man only laughed that wry, cruel laugh, even as Bane fell to what he knew would be his death.

With hands grasping, arms flailing, and legs kicking erratically, Bane yelled one last time as his body was engulfed, swallowed by the void.

“Ah’m sorry!”

---

“Oh, no!” Todo 360 articulated. “I was afraid this might happen!” the droid verbalized in a mild state of panic. He began zooming around the room, peeking into cabinets and pulling out various tools, utensils, and medical implements. It appeared to Zulara that he might be looking for something in particular, so hurried were his movements in his haste.

“Can I help?” she asked quietly, though eager, not sure what was even wrong or what it was she would be looking for. The girl had been seated on the floor, tinkering with one of Bane’s fancy vambraces; it was sparking.

The girl glanced to the bacta pod where Cad Bane slumbered, but something was amiss; his eyelids twitched. She stood, then approached with caution, peering down into the coffin-like contrivance – that’s when she noticed.

The Duros trembled, the muscles of his face distorting into what looked like fear, then pain. His head shifted back and forth from side to side, though not awake. Zulara’s heart ached for the man.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, turning to stare at the frantic Todo. He was too busy in his search to hear her, muttering his many grievances and even a few expletives.

“Todo?” she asked again, the concern apparent in her voice. She stepped forward toward the little droid, tapping him gently on his tiny shoulder.

Todo whirled on her, having forgotten momentarily that she was even aboard the ship, Zulara noting she had startled him by the widening of his citrine eyes.

“Do not do that!” he proclaimed, immediately taking back up the search. Zulara’s lower lip quivered as she turned on her heel, refacing the injured man; he at least seemed calmer now, which Zulara pointed out.

“He’s stopped moving,” she whispered.

Todo zipped on by, a cool rush of air tickling her arm. He observed his master through the glass, a pane of two-inch thick transparisteel.

The droid sighed a human sigh, then rounded on his thrusters. He stared up at the girl, finally managing to find the time to give her a halfhearted story of some kind.

“When in the bacta pod, Bane’s subconscious is left totally unguarded! He is vulnerable to whatever it is his mind can conjure up, and I will have you know these things are not pleasant.”

“He had a nightmare,” Zulara stated, though the end of her phrase had a questioning lilt to it.

Todo nodded in assent, then added: “He has a lot of those, I am afraid.” He wondered if he should be telling all Bane’s secrets. Was this a secret? Nightmares were common among organics. He was unsure.

Zulara frowned at him, then looked down at her boots. She often had nightmares herself, a reoccurring one; the one where she was stripped from her mother’s arms by her drunken father; the one where she was ushered off like chattel into a life of slavery.

Her gaze returned to Todo once she had repressed that bit of sordid memory. “Will he be all right?” she questioned anxiously.

“You are humorous, human. Mister Bane has endured much worse. But I must find this pneumatic dispenser! It holds a sedative we may need; it is only a precaution.”

“You are going to sedate him?” Zulara asked, perplexed.

“Well, it is better than what Bane would do!” Todo scolded, continuing his rummaging. “I, for one, do not wish to suppress my memories, but in all likelihood Bane will hurt himself in this state, and he is already wounded.”

Zulara seemed confused. “What do you mean?”

Todo was becoming irritated. If this woman was not present, he could work in peace! Just who did Boba think he was, leaving her with him! Granted, she seemed to care about his master, but she was still a nuisance! Perhaps the droid was now beginning to understand why Bane called him that on limitless occasions - and when he meant well.

He started to have a change of heart, though his metal shell was empty besides his circuitry; his own thought process set him straight. Todo simply sighed again, though trying to be patient. “Mister Bane seems to think that libations will solve his problems. Why, ever since Boba Fett shot him in the head, he has never been the same!”

Zulara’s frown remained fixated, though deepening. She had heard this mentioned once before as they had dragged Bane inside his ship. Why would the man that had helped to rescue him want him dead instead? It made no sense. She thought to ask, but wondered if the droid would answer her.

Todo seemed two things: high-strung and untrusting, though Zulara’s interest was not self-serving, she was only curious. It was hard not to want to learn all she could about the Duros, his history, and those things that made him tick.

“What happened?” she finally managed, fingers trailing a path down the outside of the convex, transparent glass. “Boba would not tell me how he knew Bane,” she added, studying the curves and angles of the hunter’s face despite the mask he wore that fed him oxygen.

“Because then Boba would be admitting to attempted murder!” the incensed droid piped up, rounding on her. He was flustered by the question, and even more so aggravated by the answer he was about to give. Young Fett was a traitor and a deserter in his opinion; a fly-by-night, disreputable scoundrel to say the very least!

“When one commits to a job, or when one is given a home and specialized training - for free might I add – with only the expectancy of loyalty, and then for that person to defect, to try Mister Bane’s patience after all he did for him!”

Todo scoffed, turning back around. He opened up a lower cabinet, somehow sticking his large head inside, so his words were muffled. “To question his authority is one thing, but to shoot him?!” Todo’s voice was elevated, despite being dampened within the cupboard he was scouring. “Simply because you do not agree with his methods!?”

Zulara watched Todo’s metal chassis shift back and forth as his upper half continued with its plundering, tossing things haphazardly behind him. The girl would lift one leg, dodging something sharp that vibrated—a sonic scalpel? What did Cad Bane need that for?

Zulara bent down to pick it up; she switched it off. Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought about the head plate Bane always sported. “So, then Boba betrayed him? He shot him at point-blank range?”

Her thoughts drifted to the man whose comlink was in her pocket. The youthful face, the curly hair, the deep brown eyes – so soft and rich – she could not imagine him to be a killer, yet he was another bounty hunter. A bounty hunter like the Duros she had feelings for, the one who left her, the one who desired her dead for the sand she had thrown into his stark garnet eyes.

“Well, no,” Todo admitted. He had been there, after all, observing it all unfold. “There was a duel. It was a tie-” the little droid emerged to swivel toward her once again, “-but Boba cheated! A Mandalorian’s helmet is made of beskar! And while Boba is no Mandalorian, his -er- father was.”

Todo 360 made an irritated harumph. “A solitary clone should have been grateful to have Mister Bane mentor him! I know I  would be. Of course, he did owe Jango many favors, or so Mister Bane has said…”

His voice trailed off; Zulara realized something. It was no matter that this droid was comprised of ones and zeros, or its many servos. Something clicked inside her brain—Todo had no bolt, no way in which he was restrained. He loved his master, and to some extent, Cad Bane must love him.

She could only imagine this Fett harbored some kind of guilt, as well he should. If she ever saw him, if he ever commed her…yet it was not her business.

Zulara refocused her attention, “a pneumatic dispenser, no?” Her inquiry was soft, calming. Todo perceptibly unwound, as the organic’s voice was somehow soothing.

He was not used to women hanging around; he had only known those that Bane kept on retainer for one reason or another, namely Aurra Sing; she had not one gentle bone in her whole body. In fact, he might blame her for the way young Boba had turned out. While Mister Bane had a hand in it, it was not until he had been abandoned and thrown in prison thanks to the Palliduvan that his master had offered Fett his guidance.

“Yes,” the exhausted droid replied, returning to his work. He kept one eye on her, but he was thankful for the girl’s assistance, however wary. One could never be too careful.

---

“Boba?” Bane had heard the name, floating out in empty space, inside his mind, or spoken by a God. It lingered, the two syllables leeching their way into his cerebral cortex, even as pure darkness surrounded him, enveloping his cold flesh like a thickset, heavy blanket of unease.

His stomach lurched; he felt like throwing up. Instead, he sat upright and was faced with a nearly obscene brightness. Someone had unveiled the stars, but one shown more luminous than all the others; the one that warmed the desert planet he was now stationed on.

“Bane!”

The Duros’ eyes rolled to his left, spying within his hand a bottle of dark liquor, Bane ascertaining this might be the reason for his sickness; the empty feeling that tarried in his guts. But still, nothing was making sense.

Bane dropped the bottle, glancing up. Some distance away was a teenaged Boba Fett.

How many times would the kid shout his name in anger? How many times would he have to remember his father’s face when looking into his? That armor, that helmet – all a cruel reminder.

“You should have been there.”  That’s what the boy had said that fateful day.

Bane stood, gazing out. He was supposed to say something, words that had been repeated time and time again. The outcome would never be any different, he suspected, but the hunter was caught in a web of his own delusions. Maybe this time he could make it right; maybe this time Bane would not lose his self-respect or his dignity to a fourteen-year-old brat.

“Ah wouldn’ be so-” Bane’s voice dropped; he said the rest quietly and to himself, “-hasty now, boy…”

No. This wasn’t at all accurate. This had happened once before. Bane studied his surroundings, noting the placement of the buildings, a fire that burned in the distance, wisps of dark-colored smoke emanating in tight curls.

Fire.

There was a fire.

He had fallen.

Boba turned his head; Bane followed his lead, spying C-21 Highsinger and his faithful droid companion. Held prisoner in their grasp was a white-haired old man. The child - Fett’s offspring - demanded that he be released along with all the other hostages.

What hostages.

“Let them go, Bane.”

What had he done? He could not remember, the Duros craning his hat and head to stare down at both of his blue hands.

“This isn’t their fight anymore.”

Bane knit his brow in thought, his gaze returning to the boy. He took a new approach, or at least he thought. He was unsure, second-guessing, caught in a place that resembled reality, yet Bane was positive none of this was real.

“Yer daddy ain’t here, boy. Ah knowit. But ye gonna go ‘head an’ bite de hand dhat feeds?”

Bane took two steps forward, somehow knowing what came next. He had always wondered if there was some other way than this, something he could have done to change Fett’s mind. But in the end, he had it out for him; it was a part of history that could never be rewritten. Boba had got it in his head that Cad Bane was his enemy, and the sole executioner of the people here, as if he was the only one who was unscrupulous among those present.

“Yer gonna wind up poor, or dead, out on yer own – dhis galaxy is harsh. Ye think Jango was perfect? Ye think he wouldn’ do whateva’ it takes te get de job done?”

“Shut up! I am not my father!” Boba scolded beneath his helmet; Bane ground his teeth as he glared at him, his expression full of venom. Always such an impudent, brazen child.  He hated Jango then – all of them – and his clone army; his poor decision.

“No more innocent people are going to die, or be locked up, or live in fear,” Fett reiterated, brandishing a finger. It was ironic, all this talk, when Boba Fett was supposed to be a bounty hunter.

“Did ye ferget what profession ye’s in? We’re hunters, Boba. Unless ye ain’t one. Maybe yer just soft.”

A poor choice of words, considering the circumstances. Bane was sure he had only made things worse. He did not have the time to contemplate anything beyond that, for Bossk and Embo had arrived.

At least they were fairly trustworthy, the Kyuzo only second to Bane himself. Bossk knew how to take directions, even though he had connections, strong ones, to the Guild. Bane had thought, incorrectly, that they might back him up and take his side, but the blood that ran through Boba’s veins was a testament to his skill and to his mounting leadership, despite his age and stature.

Bane smiled a crooked smile. “Looks like yer lil’ insurrection has failed.”

Boba looked behind himself and to the others; Bane’s smile faltered. He glanced around as the thin shroud separating this world from the next shimmered and disjoined. He saw stars; realspace; a depthless abyss of nothing, like a curtain had been pulled back to reveal the stage, and he was the main character.

“I say we give the kid his shot,” he heard the Trandoshan rasp.

Bane dug his boots into the sandy earth. There was a suction pulling him, like a vacuum, toward a gaping hole that now stretched so wide the entire town was gone. The only thing that remained were the other hunters; Bossk and Embo had stood down, and Boba was rounding on him.

Bane realized they did not seem to be affected; it was like none of this was happening. He knew what he was supposed to say, as if only reciting his own name.

“So, dhat’s it – just ye and me dhen, Boba Fett.”

“I guess it is,”the boy would reply.

Their eyes met, or at least he thought they did. That damned bucket was in the way, Bane mentally cursing its utility – it’s why he hated them – it was a place to hide.

And kark the others; their loyalty was forfeit, Bane reminded of a most important lesson: he was alone, and he always had been. Always would be, save his droid for company.

A sharp wind picked up, yet Bane’s hat did not fly off—not yet. He fought with all his might against an invisible adversary, even as his fingers danced above one LL-30 BlasTech pistol. If he could only be a fraction faster, if he could only put this disgruntled adolescent in his rightful place, his anger, his heartache, his headaches—they all might vanish.

His quick draw was the cause of his notoriety. To be outdone - to lose to a snot-nosed kid - it would be an embarrassment, though highly understated. The only thing he had left to him was his reputation, and Fett was out to steal it from him, albeit fair and square. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – let that happen.

Bane pulled his weapon; he squeezed the trigger. Simultaneously, another shot was fired. Superheated plasma - imbued with an explosive quality - transferred kinetic and thermal force to the armor plating that lined his signature bolero.

It was not enough to stay the bolt; he felt a searing pain on the left side of his head, radiating across his brow and the upper part of his domed skull. He fell back flat, staring up at a now starless, barren sky. He was out of breath, and he thought this is where he ought to die.

Bane would close his eyes, legs stretched out and arms taut at his sides. He had no idea the outcome; that it had been a tie; that Boba Fett had saved himself from his demise by wearing that accursed beskar, yet the young hunter’s aim had not betrayed him.

“Mister Bane!” he would hear his droid call aloud in a worried tone. He had repeated it three times now, though the Duros found he could not move. The only thing he could perceive in this state was a scathing ache; an excruciating, endless throbbing, right where the bolt made contact with his hat and ricocheted.

The plasma had been so hot, so volatile, it had dissolved his scales clean off and scorched him to the bone—the durasteel panel had dented inward before his hat rebounded off his head and fluttered to the ground, molten metal boring easily through flesh and osseous tissue, slowed only partially.

Tears welled behind shut eyelids, as in that moment, he wished the boy had killed him.

---

Zulara, hours later, had traversed Mos Eisley’s streets. She had been looking for something, something good to eat. While she was not hungry, she imagined Bane would be the moment he awoke. The girl had not strayed far in her search for the right ingredients.

She aimed to concoct a Twi’lek dish, though she would modify it. Her palette did not enjoy the fungi that accompanied the rycrit meat. She would add carrots and potatoes, along with various other root vegetables, to cook a hearty stew, a thing to keep Bane’s strength up and paid for with her own meager credits.

Todo had confirmed there was nothing much edible aboard Bane’s ship; she had found out shortly that its name was the Justifier; curious, though she would not mention it. Once they had found the lost dispenser, Zulara made it her new objective to prepare a home-cooked meal for the healing Duros. Perhaps he would be appreciative and would not mind that she was here, doing her best to look out for him.

To think, she could still be napping in Ohnaka’s arms if Fett had not sounded the alarm. It was something more complicated than a mere regret; she did not feel that way. In fact, it pleased her. It had scratched an itch Cad Bane had left behind. Still, she had been hurt, a stupid thing, as the youth had asked how long she had known this man; her answer proved unsatisfactory, even to herself.

Why? Why care? As if his attempt to free her was not enough, though Bane had made her feel things she had never felt before. Maybe Zulara has naïve, a woman with no sense, but what sense could she have considering her circumstances? Some might call it a learning curve, though that did not mean she was not harboring intelligence.  In this case, she was thinking with her heart and not her head, but she could not help it; all she cared for was Bane’s good health.

Zulara absentmindedly stirred a pot; it was something she had located in a cabinet by the conservator. It barely appeared used; she wondered if Bane ever liked to cook, or if his starship had come equipped with those things he needed, whether utilized or not.

Once the rycrit stew was at a simmer, she lowered its heat setting and placed a lid on top of it. With this accomplished, she thought to find Todo and pose another question: where was there a workroom, a space with tools? She had it in her mind to fix Bane’s gauntlet, wanting to feel useful.

Now, just where had that droid gone off to?

---

Glowing embers of crimson red bothered to open up again as Cad’s body began to move of its own volition.

No – it was the wind, that suction. It had gained momentum; it was stronger, rolling him like a tumbleweed toward the open maw of nothing!

The hat went first, vanishing beyond the veil. Bane grimaced as he dug his fingers into the pliant earth. There was no stopping it, head pounding as his legs thrashed violently. He was like a fish out of water, surrounded by only grit and sand. Death, once more, seemed imminent.

The Duros panicked.

---

Zulara heard a crash, like something falling. She rushed back to where Bane rested, Todo’s mental state in a disarray as he had dropped something. Her eyes traveled toward the pod; Bane was seizing. The girl would gasp as she ran for the tank at lightspeed.

It wasn’t that the droid was clumsy, he had simply moved too quickly. Seeing his master at the mercy of his nightmares had drawn out all his worry; it must have been preprogrammed, but by who was an unsolved mystery—unless it was Vertseth Automata. Surely, Bane would have preferred a model with more strengths than weaknesses, but he had his purpose. Currently, it was to act as nurse, though he was not one; he had been built for techo-service.

By the time Todo arrived, Zulara had already pried open the bacta pod. Bane was coughing, sputtering, even while unconscious. The girl tried lifting him, cupping his upper back as he broached the surface; the sticky gel still held him, her face strained with the effort, though Zulara kept him aloft, fighting the weakness of her arms—Bane was too heavy for her alone.

“Todo, do something!” she pleaded, though she needn’t ask. The droid had readied the dispenser that housed the sedative mid-dash.

“I am sorry, Bane, but this will only hurt a moment!” he said in warning, still somehow afraid of incurring his master’s wrath, no matter that he was incapacitated. He aligned the needle and pressed with all his might; the medicine was injected directly into the site; it would disperse and travel throughout his bloodstream, suppressing his dark memories to the best of its ability.

Todo sighed, dropping his hand and arm. He let the empty dispenser fall onto the floor. Bane had noticeably relaxed; his breathing evened out. Zulara finally felt convinced enough to lie him back down within the healing gel.

“Is-is that it? Will he settle now?” the girl asked fretfully, adjusting Bane’s breathing mask for him; it had become somewhat crooked.

“I do believe so, yes,” Todo stated, though his confidence was shaken. He backed up a foot to let her work, watching how Zulara tended to his master carefully.

It was then Todo wobbled on his axis, believing himself to be tuckered out. For a droid to feel this way was like when organics suffered from lack of sleep. He could not remember the last time he had plugged in, knowing that his power supply was finally dwindling. “I do not feel so good,” he reluctantly admitted.

“What?” Zulara appeared alarmed, turning now upon the droid. He placed his feet down on the ground - too much time spent hovering was another drain on his internal generator – knowing he had only a few minutes left.

“It is not..hi..ng…to worry a..bo..ut,” Todo’s speech came out garbled and slowed down, “I am in need of a re..ch..ar..ge…There is a sta..tion…do..wn the ha.ll.”

Bane’s companion’s eyes flickered, like two glowing yellow fireflies, flashing her at intervals. What would she do without him? What if Bane woke up again? She ran to his aid as he began a make his way, albeit awkwardly.

“You can’t leave me! What if the tank malfunctions, or what if Bane has another nightmare!” Zulara begged of him.

“Bane will most likely be remain un..con..scious for se..veral hours n..ow,” he tried to reassure, his tiny, robotic hands trailing the wall to his right side; his eyesight was no longer reliable, and he had to feel for it: the door that would lead him to his charging bay where he would gladly sit and wait to be replenished. “Do not wor..ry, he is safe. You can always ca..ll… Bo…ba.” He could not believe he was saying this.

“Are you sure? But I don’t want to call him!” Zulara argued, watching as Todo ambulated toward another room. It was the place with all their tools, the one she had been searching for. Todo had nearly made it to his recharge station when he stopped dead.

“Todo?” Zulara whimpered.

There was no response; he had lost all power.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

First Meetings (Hero’s Shadow backstory!)

The highlands were particularly chilly today as Link looked out into the dunes of Gerudo territory. It was strange how he could be so close to barren heat while also freezing his butt off.

Trilling his lips, the half-Sheikah warrior stretched lazily, gaze drifting from spot to the next. He had been transferred to guard duty along the Hyrulian-Gerudo border for his new assignment. It was his first time truly far from home, and it was honestly pretty thrilling. Link loved to see and learn new things, and the Gerudo Highlands were so vastly different from the lush, wet valleys and mountains of home. Kakariko Village was tucked away near Lake Hylia, and Link had spent most of his youth swimming and rushing to the large Cracked Mountain - legend said an earthquake had caused the large split along its center, and it held mystical treasures within its belly, but all Link had managed to do as a child was get stuck halfway through and give his elders a heart attack.

Either way, he loved exploring, and this place was all entirely new. The Highlands were visible from the capital on the Royal Plateau, but he’d never really known what to expect of any of it. Now that he was assigned here, he wanted nothing more than to explore every inch of the place.

But at the moment he was on duty, and so he stayed in his position.

It wasn’t as if the Gerudo were particularly hostile. They were not part of the kingdom and needed to be watched, and they were a warrior people, making them more threatening than others, but still… they hadn’t really caused problems for Hyrule, nor vice versa. There was definitely a wariness between the factions, though, and it created tension.

Movement caught Link’s eye, and he turned, wondering if maybe it was another lizard (he had already collected three), when he realized it was a person. Small, far in the distance, but someone nonetheless. Curious and a little wary, Link crept closer, hand slowly resting atop his katana, and then he got a closer look.

It was a Gerudo. A teenager, from the looks of it - maybe even around his age. She had twin scimitars, and she was practicing with them, slicing hydromelons with ease. Link watched her a little while, watched the way she moved so fluidly, the way her muscles rippled with each twist and turn, the way her hair reflected the sun far more than the sands did. He felt himself staring a little too long, his heart fluttering a little, and he stepped back, a little overwhelmed. The girl seemed to sense his scrutiny, stopping and looking around before glancing upward at him. Link swallowed, throat dry.

She—she was—she was beautiful.

Link heard a sandal on stone, and his adrenaline immediately spiked, every nerve on high alert, just in time to see a shadow cast over him. He looked up and saw a large figure seemingly falling out of the sky towards him, large mace in hand, and Link gasped a little, rolling out of the way as the weapon slammed into the earth.

Grabbing the hilt of his katana with his left hand, the thirteen-year-old immediately went into action. The initial removal from the scabbard was a wide slash, pushing the figure—a man who bore Gerudo traits (but weren’t all the Gerudo women? That’s what he’d heard)—back a little to avoid getting eviscerated. The sun shone behind the man, blinding Link a little, and he changed his position, breaking the kata in order to get a better view. It gave his opponent an opening, and he took a large step forward, swinging the mace horizontally. Link ducked, thankful for his small stature, and jabbed his blade directly forward. His enemy twisted to the side to dodge, and Link’s flank was wide open, giving the man an opportunity to do a one-handed swing with his weapon.

It hit true, slamming Link in the ribs.

The young warrior went flying, hitting the cliffside and falling to the ground, trying desperately to catch his breath. He heard the person walk towards him, and then heard under his breath, in a bemused tone, “A child?”

Link gasped life back into himself, ignoring how his ribs protested, and he sprang back to his feet, gripping his blade with both hands as he did another sweeping cut to drive his enemy back. He jerked a little at the end of the fluid motion, hissing in pain. His ribs were definitely broken.

Did he have a fairy? An elixir? He didn’t remember packing anything, but—

Link’s eyes widened as the man strode forward purposefully, both hands around the leather handle of the enormous mace, and he swept it right where Link’s head was. Clapping his hands together, the teenager channeled his magic, feeling the air sucked out of his lungs as he disappeared before the weapon could land a hit.

Ganondorf stared, blinking at the blank space where the child had just been. Despite being caught off guard by the Hylian’s age, he was still armed and he’d still been watching his daughter, which merited a swift response. The Gerudo king looked around a moment, confused, before hearing clothes fluttering. He turned around wildly, still seeing nothing, and then the sun reflected off something bright just above him, and he looked up and—

The child was about to stab him in the head.

Hissing, Ganondorf pushed hard with his right leg, jerking his body to the side just in time for the Hylian to slice his blade across his shoulder and part of his chest. Ganondorf bit back a yell, his blood pumping faster than it had in ages, and when he’d finished dodging, he’d almost had to laugh.

He didn’t know how this child was actually managing to put up a fight, but this was actually kind of invigorating. The boy had even landed a blow!

Ganondorf knew he’d won, though, based on how the boy struggled to breathe, so he paused before continuing the fight. “Who are you, child?”

The boy immediately hesitated, clearly caught off guard by his change in tone, and he stood hesitantly in a ready stance. “My name is Link.”

“Link,” Ganondorf repeated, humming and putting the mace on a strap on his back. The Hylian hesitated, red eyes curious and hopeful and far too trusting. In an instant, Ganondorf pulled out his spear, slamming the boy’s abdomen with the blunt end. The child gasped, falling to his back, and the fight was over. Ganondorf approached him slowly, watching his chest heave as he struggled to breathe. He pulled out a red potion, plopping it on the ground next to the boy, and dug the sharp end of his spear into the earth beside the child’s light blonde hair. “Don’t watch my daughter again.”

With that, the Gerudo king walked away, wondering what in the world Hyrule Kingdom was doing sending children to its borders anyway. But he had to admit… he was impressed by the boy’s fighting prowess.

Link grimaced, turning enough to grab the potion and chug it, wondering what in the world just happened.

Despite reporting the incident to his superiors, not much was really done. Apparently, there was concern that this was the actual King of the Gerudo himself, and no one would dare cause problems by claiming the king had attacked a lowly Hyrulian guard. Link wasn’t important enough to merit a war. He also felt immensely guilty he’d even managed to bring about any concern for one.

Sighing, the teenager resumed his post the next day, a little more wary and more than a little put out.

When he heard a foot scuff on stone, he immediately drew his blade, wondering what kind of insanity he was going to deal with now.

Instead, he saw the girl he recognized from yesterday, carrying a basket and looking apologetic.

“Hey,” she said softly, holding her hands up to appease him. “I don’t mean any harm.”

“This is the Hyrule border,” Link warned, not moving.

“Yeah. I know.” The teenager replied dully, as if it were obvious. Well… it was, but still. What else was he going to say?

“That means you can’t be here,” he explained, though there was less force in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” the girl replied dismissively. “Technically I can’t cross the line. That’s somewhere between you and me. I’m still in Gerudo territory.”

Link lowered his sword, growing confused. “Yeah, but… what do you want?”

“I wanted to say sorry,” the girl replied, lowering her arms and gripping the basket with both hands. “My dad is… overly protective. But… yeah. You want food?”

Link blinked. Blinked again. “Uh… sure?”

The girl smiled, trotting over and grabbing a stick. She traced a line in the dry earth, easily creating a division between them. “There. There’s the border. I won’t cross this line. But we can have a picnic in the meantime.”

Link stared at her, then at the line, then back at her. And then he giggled. “A picnic sounds nice.”

The two sat across from each other, the center of the basket placed directly over the line, and slowly they started to eat and chat. And if they stayed there for hours until the sun started to set, neither really commented on it.

And if they saw each other the next day for another picnic, neither complained.

And if a King and Queen of the Gerudo stood exasperatedly at the bottom of the cliff the tenth time it happened, neither of them noticed.

[wausaupilot]

County rejects reappointment to local sewerage board again

During the debate, Straub even offered himself to be the commissioner in place of Mortensen on at least two occasions.

Damakant Jayshi The Marathon County Board of Supervisors on Tuesday rejected once again the nomination of a commissioner for reappointment to the Rib Mountain Metropolitan Sewerage District. The commissioner, Craig Mortensen, was recommended unanimously twice by the sewerage district board. The second time was earlier this month, after the county board voted it down due to Supervisor Joel…

[strawberryys-stuff]

HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF

aged-up!Neteyam x Tawkami!reader

genre: angst, a lot of angst

warnings: mentions of death, blood, weapons and heartbreak

summary: Toruk Makto sought refuge with Tawkami clan instead of Metkayina and brought destruction into your home

originally Tawkami Na'vi live in a village called Greenhome, but i believe some clans would move underground or somewhere less approachable - so their home in this story is a ravine

i thought Neteyam was 17 at first so we're sticking with that - it also makes the romance better for some reason

Seyvaro - the Olo'eyktan, your father + his f!Ikran Ijaya

Vineya - the Tsahìk, your mother + your unborn sibling

Tsu'mong - the Olo'eyktan-in-training, your older brother

possible grammar mistakes! too tired to check tbh

some parts hurt to write and i can't recover

buckle up and ENJOY :D

His pumping heart ached, his bleeding hands shook, his tears smeared his warpaint, his gaze traced the damage his arrival brought to the Tawkami clan, his tail swayed in the air full of ashes and grieving cries, his knees weakened and forced him to kneel in front of the crumbling village. Direhorses darted past the wailing firstborn of Toruk Makto - some with wounded hunters, some with aflame skin - desperately searching for an escape from the battlefield.

Mountain banshees shrieked as their heaving chests got pierced with bullets and spread their wings moments before their watering eyes fluttered shut, planning on never opening again. Their lifeless bodies landed harshly on the chanting blades of grass with their panicking riders and engulfed their trembling frames in their vanishing warmth, saving the young boy from an unforgettable sight.

The limbs of his decorated bow were trapped in his clenched fists, gasping for air, as Neteyam released a scream drenched in hatred and guilt. He refused to believe when Tsu'mong, your older brother, accused his father of carrying destruction and sorrow, stating that JakeSully was innocent and pure. He defended his father when you voiced your worry about the upcoming war sky people reawakened, he shouted at you, he argued with you, he blamed you for the disgust your brother had for Toruk Makto, he abandoned you on the bottom of the ravine your clan claimed as their new residence in anger and betrayal.

Your aching muscles begged you for mercy, but your arms worked their way through the injured lush jungle and weren't losing determination. Your painted chest was rising and falling rapidly along with your concern, your beating heart striking its shield; the rib cage with newfound strength. You hoped the turquoise banshee of your Olo'eyktan was still hovering in the air and didn't fold its beautiful wings to lose the height they had above the ground - you hoped your eyes caught completely different Ikran and your father was seeking hideaway among the clouds.

"No," you breathed out when your tangerine gaze lingered on a barely breathing banshee, whose consciousness was drifting away. You quickly slung your bow over your shoulder, knowing that the bowstring will leave deep cuts and scratches, and leaped over a fallen branch towards the creature. "Ijaya," your sensitive palm caressed her cooling skin with worry, searching for her rider. "Ma Ijaya, where is my father?" your desperation dripped from your words.

Your gazes interlocked - one longing for freedom, the other overflowing with panic anxiety. The banshee released an apologetic roar, permitting an unknown entity to consume her soul unbeknown to you. Her eyelids began to fall, losing their fight against the upcoming terrifying darkness. Your uncontrollable sobs and radiating heat accompanied her retreat.

"No," you shook your head, stifling your painful cries. You believed that banshees were some sort of a spirit sibling to your people and Ijaya managed to create a secure bond with the daughter of her rider. "No, no, no!" you pressed your wrinkled forehead to her cheek, fighting the urge to claw at your dividing soul - you felt your shared bond shatter. "Oeru txoa livu," [Forgive me].

A cough travelled through your pointed ears and alarmed your senses. Your glistened eyes hurriedly scanned your surroundings and spotted an outstretched arm with a trail of crimson liquid tracing its pigment pattern. With a vocal yell, you stumbled towards the vulnerable lying figure in urgency. You grasped your father's trembling hand and were quick to kneel beside his wounded body. While the Olo'eyktan was gasping for air, you were learning the number of injuries that dotted his blue skin.

"Ma daughter," Seyvaro whispered, voice hoarse and faint. You stroked his bleeding knuckles with your thumb and cleared his vision of loosened braids. His bow got detached from his side and pushed towards your sobbing form, showcasing the wood of your former home. Seyvaro struggled to find his words, losing track of his actions. "Take," he spat out and handed you his ceremonial weapon, unable to move his toes - first sign of attracting Eywa's attention. "Tsu'mong," you freed his grasp of the bow and placed it between the sharp blades of grass, refusing to release his hand.

"Papa," you muttered with tears running down your flushed cheeks, watching him fight his own consciousness with defeat.

He pressed his palm into your skin and wiped the mixture of salty water and yellow paint away, acknowledging Great Mother's arrival. "Rutxe," [Please] his thumb caressed your cheekbone as yours continued to soothe the pain in his clenched knuckles. "Protect Tsu'mong," his finger tapped your chest, impinging the stronghold of your feelings and emotions.

His thumb brushed against your shoulder as it began to abandon the spot he was attacking with his gentle rubs, his arm retreating to its original place; by his side. The one you were cosseting with your warmth and care went limp in your hold and triggered your tears.

Your scream of agony echoed through the pitying jungle and painted frightened creatures native to Pandora with distress. Your suffering could be heard in the humid air, but nobody in particular caught your mourning.

You were left in the middle of a war with void and unpleasant ache in your chest.

"Neteyam!" Neytiri called out to her thunderstruck son, quickly disconnecting her queue from her new banshee. She dropped to her knees beside her firstborn in worry and began searching for any signs of fatal injuries.

Neteyam didn't acknowledge her sudden arrival until his father, the Toruk Makto, landed nearby on his Ikran. With a throbbing headache, he noticed the urgent skip in his pace and the lack of chopping sounds. He lifted his sparkling gaze towards the sky to find thick clouds of smoke flowing across the endless sea of blue, but no gunships.

"Thank you, Great Mother," Neytiri muttered under her breath and cradled the face of her oldest son in her arms, sending a nod of assurance to her approaching mate.

The Tawkami clan formed circles around the wounded and desperately tried to gain your mother's, the Tsahìk's, medical attention for their loved ones sky people managed to strike with their rifles and pistols. The healers Vineya has taught were running out of remedies and herbal concoctions along with composure, fighting the urge to pull on their locks of hair.

"Where is Tsu'mong?" Vineya questioned the absence of her firstborn after the hunters capable of survival were drowning in apologies and love of their families, but all she received was a shrug from the oldest daughter of JakeSully and Neytiri. She approached several circles of her people to ask for her child, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes when Lo'ak appeared in her vision with an unmoving body in his arms.

"Ngaytxoa," [I'm sorry] the youngest son of Toruk Makto choked on his sobs when his banshee buried its claws into the ground, tears trailing down his painted cheeks. "I couldn't save him.."

Neteyam nibbled at his chapped bottom lip as your mother brushed your brother's curls out of his relaxed face and prayed for his peace.

"Where is Y/n?" Tuktirey voiced her concern for you in the arms of her older sister, seeking comfort and warmth in her embrace.

The world crumbled underneath his feet when the realization struck his exhausted frame.

"I thought she was with you," Lo'ak gestured towards Kiri, replaying the picture of you and her protecting their little sister his eyes took before he soared into the battle. Kiri shook her head and stated that you disappeared after their safety was secured, awakening panic in some members of her family, "Shit."

Neteyam was quick to leave his mother's arms to stand up, new unwanted wave of salty water assembling in his golden eyes. His fingers began to tingle as anxiety clawed at his insides and forced his heartbeat to pick up its pace.

He couldn't lose you, not after you started to tolerate the other.

With branches snapping in half beneath your heels, you emerged from the depths of the jungle with stained cheeks and numbness seeping through your tangerine gaze. Your mother released a sigh of relief when she spotted you but, as if a Hammerhead Titanothere stepped on her chest, a lump clogged her throat and oxygen abandoned her lungs.

The bow of her beloved mate was held by your hands.

With a heartbreaking wail from the Tsahìk and your clan, you fell down on your scraped knees in despair, releasing a cry of your own.

The Tawkami Olo'eyktan was defeated, murdered in cold blood.

Neteyam walked up to your sobbing frame and placed his hand on your shoulder to create some kind of comfort and assurance. "Get away," you shrugged it off, your words turning into a howl of agony.

"I'm sorry," Neteyam mumbled and lowered himself to your level, his fingertips touching your scratched skin, his eyes dripping with sympathy.

"Get away!" you shouted at the firstborn of Toruk Makto and stood up to push his rising chest with force, making him stumble backwards. "Get away from here!"

"Y/n--"

"Kehe!" [No!] the upper limb of your father's bow struck his breast and awoken unfamiliar ache in the middle of his beating heart. "Rä'ä si!" [Don't!] you hissed through clenched teeth and watched Neteyam's gaze travel from your scowling face to the ground, his ears turning downwards. "Set hivum! [leave now!] And never come back!"

"Tsakem rä'ä si," [Don't do that,] The boy took a step forward with outstretched hands in front of him, refusing to accept your venomous words. "Please, do not," you tilted your head away from his pained expression, capturing the reactions of your families - comprehension, "Tìng mikyun--" [Listen]

"Kawkrr! Ke slayu nga Na'viyä hapxì!" [you will never be one of the people!] you growled at Neteyam, pushing him repeatedly until he seized your forearms, pleading you with his glistening eyes. "You do not belong with the Tawkami!"

"No," he shook his head, swallowing his urge to sob and fall apart in front of you. "We-- I belong here, with you."

"Kehe!" [No!] you wiggled out of his grasp and gestured to the flaming huts of Greenhome surrounded by ignited jungle trees. "Your fault! This is all your fault!"

Neteyam exhaled deeply, your words piercing through his blue skin at lighting speed, "I know," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his flat nose. "I know, but--"

"Kä!" [Go] you cut him off, preparing to hit his side with the upper limb of your father's ceremonial bow once more but Neteyam caught it before it made contact with his skin.

"Don't force me to leave," he whispered with a single tear rolling down his cheek and watched your head shake frantically. "Please.."

"You are breaking my heart," you breathed out, glancing up at the firstborn of Toruk Makto with enormous amount of tears pooling in your defeated eyes.

Neteyam captured your stained cheeks with his trembling hands and gazed into your dilated pupils, "I'm so, so sorry," he massaged your skin tenderly, letting your whimpers travel through his pointed ears. "Breaking your heart wasn't my intention, believe me."

With your father's bow landing near your feet, you wrapped your fingers around his wrists to pull them away, tears disappearing from your vision. "It hurts," you confessed and shielded your crumbling heart with your palms. "You hurt."

His knees buckled and forced the sobbing boy to kneel in front of you, his soul shattering. Neteyam lowered his throbbing head and stared into his bloody palms, tracing every curve they possessed. He asked Great Mother for forgiveness and grace when you began to back away from his quivering frame, bow in hand. He begged for the unbearable pain within his rib cage to come to a halt.

His mother rubbed his upper back soothingly and tried to overpower his suffering with her assuring words as his youngest sister nuzzled the tip of her running nose into his bicep.

Jake couldn't believe his ears.

His strict attitude towards his firstborn was hiding his true goal; to prevent him from experiencing the untreatable pain of a breaking heart. His son's weeping engraved familiar pattern on the back of his mind and stirred his thoughts.

He seized your arm when you were passing by and narrowed his eyes at Neteyam, refusing to look at you. "Why?" he demanded an explanation, observing Neteyam's body language. His gaze locked with yours and showcased his confusion. "Why, Y/n? Why?"

He wanted to understand your choice of words but all he managed to do was intimidate you. Your frightened facial expression awoken guilt on the bottom of his stomach and forced him to release your arm with a sigh.

"I am not worthy of his love," you replied, your tone faint and interwoven with sadness.

"No," the former avatar disagreed with you and pointed to his son, ears facing the ground. "You are far more than worthy, darling. That boy is shedding tears for you, he is tearing himself apart for you, he is willing to sacrifice his life for you--"

"Why?" you sniffled and looked up at the mighty warrior through your lashes, begging for an genuine answer. "Why is he wasting his time on me? I have been cruel to him, I-I.. I cut his skin with my words.." you trailed off, glancing over your shoulder at Neteyam who was wiping his flushed cheeks.

"You casted a spell on him," you absorbed his swelling eyes and smeared warpaint on his cheeks, your ears flickering. "An unbreakable spell at that," Jake chuckled and placed his hand on your shoulder to steal your attention, but to no avail. "He sees your flaws," you tilted your head aside and narrowed your gaze at the man, "And still chooses to love you for them - you should appreciate that."

[aziraphales-library]

hi! do you know any fics with she/her crowley?

You can check our #female crowley and #ineffable wives tags for she/her Crowley! Here are a few more...

Blind Dates and Fancy Snakes by witchy_teacup (G)

Azira Fell and Antonia Crowley have one thing in common: a meddling friend named Anathema Device. Anathema sets the shy bookshop owner and the glamorous lounge singer up on a blind date.

The nights were as dark as my baby, and half as beautiful too by IneffableDemon (T)

Aziraphale has been assigned to keep an eye on the humans partying in Venice during Carnival. All he wants to do is enjoy the festival, drink some wine and taste the food, but work is work. Until a flash of red hair amongst the crowd makes the party much more enjoyable.

Stoned by flatfelledyetstillundone (M)

The first rock struck Crawley in the torso, bruising her ribs and making her sway leftward slightly. The second hit her in the arm; it had a rough edge that caught the fabric of her robe, doing a small amount of damage to the black cloth. The third impacted solidly in her middle, knocking the wind right out of her. It had been thrown particularly hard. She lost count after that, as the stones rained in hard and fast, most of them fist-sized. “Stoning” was such a mild term, Crawley thought. It made it sound like it was done and dusted -- an execution over quickly. But it wasn’t. ----- Or: Crawley is stoned by humans for being a demon. Aziraphale happens to be there to help Crawley while she heals.

Climb Every Mountain by NaroMoreau (E)

It's perhaps terrible that this came to happen, but Aziraphale can't help to have fallen head over heels in love with the Nanny, Crowley. When Aziraphale's son goes to summer camp, leaving him to share a space with Crowley, he almost despairs. Luckily for him, she's also going away, otherwise he fears the week would have been unbearable. Because, she is leaving... Isn't she?

As Sweet As This by vantablck (G)

One moment, Crowley had a high position at a top Michelin rated restaurant. The next, her career was taking a metaphorical million light-year dive into a lake of boiling sulfur and she was moving back into her small childhood town. Cue Aziraphale, the childhood best friend she’s been pining over since time immemorial. Cue Crowley’s oh so brilliant idea of co-owning a restaurant with her.

The blesséd language of flowers by elf_on_the_shelf (E)

Crowley has given up on her life in the big city and decided to retire early to the lovely village of Tadfield. She expected a run-off-the-mill early retirement. Maybe playing bridge with a couple of old ladies and maybe taking a part in organising some of the village fetes. What she did not expect was actually competing against the woman she had developed a crush on in the village floral competitions and hence that particular woman instantly taking a dislike to her. She also did not expect that for the sake of the village's reputation they would have to band together and participate as a couple for nationals, because why not...

- Mod D

[chemdisaster]

last life scar accidentally curses everyone and deals with the fallout ft. some desert duo. based on this and this

your pain is eased (but you'll never be free)

Last Life ends with a perfectly fired arrow and a body spread out atop bloodstained grass. 

Scar wakes up alone in his base, thousands of blocks away from snow and his enemies friends enemies' dimming voices. He wakes up alone, safe, and feels hands run up and down his back, and feels anything but. 

It's only natural, then, that he stays inside, stays for himself, when jagged edges and dark cloaks have proven that no one else ever would. He stays and fancies that there is no world beyond the walls of his self-constructed prison, where fear and resentment make a fool of him over, and over, and over once more. 

They don't come to see him. He revels in it, the fulfilment of his own prophecy, as he peers out from behind rib-shaped bars and listens to them talk of coughing and cramps and blood. 

(He's bled more for them than they could ever drink, he thinks as he looks up from his communicator and drags his hand along his dry, bare neck.) 

One day, he crosses paths with Grian, carried by the ubiquitous chill of a meritless mountain and his musings on the meaning of the word curse when in relation to himself. 

Grian greets him, perhaps, or maybe he just stares until his eyes start from their orbits, comprehending, full of rightful bliss. Meaning is wrenched from his raw, claw-marked depths, and it would not matter had he swallowed all the sounds down and held them as a prize kept only for the jocund and the worthy. 

Affliction with cause but little outward sense speaks where words never do. 

Scar walks the length of the village that night and thinks about the invisible gash on the inner side of his chest, the needles that trickle incessantly down his arms. Compared to the anger and betrayal and hate and hurt and why did they leave what did he do why wasn't he enough why is he never enough—

It doesn't really stick out, compared to everything else.

(Nothing.) 

.

.

.

.

.

He observes his responsibility to try to rebuild anew before he realises the gravity of his gloom.

When Scar looks past the veil settled over everything he used to know to be true, it's his expression that stares back at him, his tongue that speaks into his ears, mixing with the fumes and white noise and every sentence of stark reason that his melancholy bids he ignore.  

There is maybe one thing worse than being completely alone, and it's being his own sole companion in an empty house. Something has to change. 

He tries, after that. Takes slow, measured steps down the beaten, dirt-strewn paths, lifts his lips at each edge and does not look down when his peers' exhausted gazes set his smouldering ashes alight. He touches upon their sightlines, boundless, draws a comparison where one is due—

He almost believes in the self-created fantasy. 

When his silence struggles to cast out the surfeit of unwanted unneeded unwelcome noise, when he bumps shoulders with them only to avert his eyes, when they fall to their knees before him, frail, worse each day, every day—

Never before has the impact paled in comparison to the torment of picking himself back up. 

Last Life is but a speck on the boundaries of his fragile conscious; there is little reason why it should continue to affect him so. But he is greeted with proof of his own sickness shining through in every pallid glare, and once again all he knows is vindictive pleasure and lonely, bitter hurt. 

Scar misses his friends, but they cough in front of him and he thinks, why should he care. 

And he thinks, good.

Let them suffer. 

.

.

.

.

.

The indistinct thrumming in his capillaries reaches the crook of his elbow before he feels it. 

The use of his magic is not anything new—except when there's crevices lining his muddy roads and ravines growing in the interstices between the crumbling walls. It only takes a man capable of the world to figure out what he can do. 

At some point, it becomes difficult to separate desire from intent. 

At some point, it becomes difficult to separate suspicion from dread. 

And at some point dread and desire meld into one, and Scar watches them bend over in pain whenever he's near and stays with the dread-desire-despair-satisfaction coursing through his unblemished, acheless veins, and Grian says, "Hey, Scar," and his voice is coarse, and he opens his mouth to reply—

A bout of hacking, raw coughs steals the air out of his counterpart, but Scar can't help but feel that his lungs are the more bereft. 

He goes back to his base that day and screams. 

Screams and seizes his stomach and sees every sword pierce his back as ever-encompassing silence dances its deranged melody, and detects nothing but the stumbling press of his own fingers. 

Scar grabs his hair and pulls and revels in the sensation, the burning as icy mountain wind dampens his cheeks. They might be dying, but it's okay because he might be dying, too, and he wants them to live, and he wants his magic to rip them apart from the inside, and he wants, he wants—

Three weeks later, the moon collides with the ground. 

He builds a rocket aimed at the void and wishes that if they would crash, his powers would disappear along with his scattered remains. 

.

.

.

.

.

It does not take him long in the new world to figure out two truths. 

One—the curse, his curse, is gone. 

Two—he'll come back to Last Life and live in the snow forever, if it means the others get left alone. 

There is only one thing left to do, after that. So he packs up his meagre freshly-collected resources and goes as far as he can, and does not stop for more than a breath because what he knows as well as his list of sins is that he cannot let this happen again. 

Scar has always been intimately acquainted with sadness—as he would with a trusted old friend, if he had any left to speak of. Less familiar, he now finds, to be afraid, of himself and of what he can do. 

Afraid that all the blocks he traverses in his quest to put half a universe between them will mean nothing when his existence remains a malediction upon the very grains of the earth under his feet. 

It's all too easy, then, to pretend that the air tearing up his throat in staggering pants is but a product of his hard-earned terror, that the daggers jabbing at his abdomen from the inside are the ever-spreading roots of panic and the blood he spits into his shaking palms is another word for senseless, agonising fright.

He has a better word for it, one he won't let himself think. Comeuppance. 

Scar curls up on the floor and his hands stray towards his upper arms, never touching, never granting him even that small mercy that he no longer deserves. 

If distance is a sham, then he hopes he's bleeding oceans for what the others gave in drying, infinitesimal ponds.

.

.

.

.

.

He's still on the floor when Grian finds him. He wouldn't know how long he's been there; long enough that the sweat has glanced off his forehead and seeped down to rest between the cracks, and that's the only metric of time Scar has—his own pain. 

He lifts his eyes for no more than a second before dropping them back down to where strong, steady knees have met the dusty wooden planks. 

"Scar," a single uttering of his name, the most beautiful lie. "Scar, what's going on?"

Scar raises his head again, and he doesn't meet Grian's gaze now, either, but he carries his chin forward and something in the crimson pattern must reveal the third truth—this blood and this cross are his to bear and to weep. 

He fixes upon a single point, the gentle heat of the witness to his undoing, the silence interrupted only by his coughing—his own, always his own. His bones jut around his knuckles; he thinks that if he wasted away, he'd be content as long as they all got every last scrap of his thorn-pricked flesh. 

"Can I stay with you?"

At last, Scar finds his voice. 

"No, you won't." 

He grips his upper arms tighter, with all the absence of warmth his fingernails provide. He lost that battle yesterday, or the day before that, when he realised that his own touch was not a comfort, but a cage snapping shut around what remains of his soul. 

(Not much, now.)

Grian's fingers run down the side of his face, "Scar."

Scar does not look at him. The hand on his cheek pierces his thin, petal-like skin the way fire glances off black wool, and he says nothing. Because they both know that nothing he says can fix this. Not anymore. 

Grian sits there holding his face for hours, or maybe days, or maybe a mere moment that echoes over a lifetime of regret. 

When he finally leaves, it feels like coming home. 

.

.

.

.

.

Scar lets Grian know that he's too far gone. He expects, begs him to drop it, to leave him to sit on the floor in silence, surrounded by spilt ink and cruor and every mistake he ever made. 

The next day, Grian comes back.

And the next one. And the one after that. 

After that, others start coming over, too. Mumbo comes over and fumbles through an apology for everything that happened, and it's as awkward as it is real. Cub comes over and does not touch him, but sits beside him as Scar shakes and screams and gives up on disguising the evidence of every way in which he's messed up. 

No one ever talks. But they stay there next to Scar, watch as he writhes in agony on the floor, in enough pain that he finally truly lets himself feel—all the betrayal and hurt and guilt and why are they here, after it all, after what he did and what they did to him. 

He might demand of them, or he might plead in his grief-strung delirium, and awaken to find nothing but wisps of remembrance evanesced with the liquid rising from his scalding hot face. 

In a moment of clarity, he finds release dangling by a thread but for his own clenched hands refusing to grant it, and finds that false distance has made him the joke, after all. 

.

.

.

.

.

It's through days embraced by the sun and infused with gentle zephyr that it eases up. 

He barely notices, at first. When no one around him falls ill. When he can look upon the others, unkissed by the cold of a lonely mountain, the burning of a pool of lava. When he can breathe and not be tripping and stumbling over every inhale. 

His magic notices. 

With his willingly relinquished control, it starts to spread outward again, and when Scar finally feels it, his knees hit the damp grass and he has to try to breathe past every oh stars, not again racing through his mind. 

But he wipes his face, and he lifts his head. And he thinks of everyone who hurt him, imagines thick liquid dragging itself out of their throats. And he touches his hands to the soil and feels the flowers sprout from under his fingers—soft and pretty and fresh. And he thinks, this is healing. 

"Scar, are you okay?"

Scar looks up. For the first time, he meets Grian's eyes. In his hand, he holds out a bouquet of red and purple.

"Can we still be friends?"

Grian blinks. And blinks again, and again. And he nods, and his lips spread into something resembling the rawest smile Scar has ever seen.

Scar returns it. 

Not everything can be fixed. But this—this can. 

[pompomqt]

Journey to the West Chapter 24

Tripitaka being offered three day old infants the Ginseng fruit:

This chapter of Journey to the West with @journeythroughjourneytothewest we get to see the sequel to Sun Wukong Steals some Important Fruit, so lets get into it shall we?

So we start this chapter where we left off last time, with Pigsy tied to a tree screaming while Monkey laughs at him. Luckily for Pigsy, Sandy decides to take pity on Pigsy and untie him. Monkey then clues Pigsy in on the fact that the ladies of that house were all actually Bodhisattva's, and even Sandy gets in on ribbing on Pigsy saying how lucky he is that four Bodhisattva's came here to be his wife. While Pigsy begs them to never mention this again and in exchange he will carry the luggage without complaint. Tripitaka decides to take him up on this deal and they all move on.

So the group continues their travel through a beautiful mountain that is so wonderful Tripitaka wonders if they are getting close to the Thunderclap Monastery. Monkey however says they aren't even close to Thunderclap Monastery but does agree that some immortal or something probably lives here.

So we make a scene cut for some exposition and learn that this place is called Long Life Mountain and that an immortal Daoist Master named Zhenyuan runs an abbey called Five Villages Abbey. And that they have a fancy tree that takes 3000 years to grow, another 3000 years to bear fruit, and yet another 3000 years for that fruit to ripen. There were only 30 of these fruits and they happen to be shaped like 3 day old infants. And that even smelling one make a person live for 360 years and eating one would grant them forty seven thousand years. We also learn that Zhenyuan is out on business, but that he remembers being friends with Tripitaka in his previous incarnation as the Golden Cicada. So he tells his two disciples, Clear Breeze and Bright Moon to offer Tripitaka hospitality when he passes through here, and also to give him two ginseng fruit, but no more then two. He also warns them that Tripitaka's disciples might be unruly so they shouldn't tell them about the fruit.

So we cut back to the adventuring party who have just arrived at the Abby and are greeted by Clear Breeze and Bright Moon. So Tripitaka gives each of his disciples a task while he settles down and has some tea with Clear Breeze and Bright Moon. After the two confirm that Tripitaka is indeed the person their master told them to be on the look out for the two leave to go fetch the ginseng fruit. They do this by striking the tree with a golden hammer and catching the fruit on a wooden tray that is covered in silk handkerchiefs. They then offer the fruit to Tripitaka.

Tripitaka however is horrified by the fact that they look like three day old infants and doesn't believe them when they tell him they are ginseng fruit and absolutely refuses to eat them. So the two take it away, and since the fruit goes bad quickly, eats the two fruits themselves.

Pigsy however overhears this exchange and becomes desperate to try a fruit for himself. And he decides that the best way to accomplish this will be to rope in professional fruit thief Sun Wukong into his scheme. So Pigsy tells Monkey that there is some ginseng fruit here, and Monkey agrees to steal some for all of them. Pigsy also mentions that they used a gold mallet to knock the fruit down.

So Monkey sneaks into the Daoists room and steals the mallet easily since the two Daoists had returned to Tripitaka, he then makes his way to their very impressive garden. So Monkey makes his way to the ginseng tree and climbs up it before using the golden hammer to make one of the fruits drop. Monkey climbs down to look for it, but the fruit has completely vanished. Thinking that the local garden spirit must have stolen it, Monkey makes a magic sign to summon them.

The spirit greets Sun Wukong, and Sun Wukong accuses them of stealing the fruit from him. The Spirit however claims he didn't take it and explains that the fruit is resistant to the five phases. Meaning that the fruit will fall when it encounters gold, will wither when it encounters wood, will melt when it encounters water, will dry up if it encounters fire and will be assimilated when it encounters earth. So when the fruit touched the ground when Sun Wukong knocked it down, it was assimilated into the ground and that's why they need the tray to be cushioned by silk handkerchiefs. The spirit also points to the spot where the fruit was absorbed and says that that part of the garden will now last 47000 years. He even invites Sun Wukong to strike at the ground to see for himself. Which Sun Wukong does so, striking it with his staff, and does no damage at all. Sun Wukong then admits he was mistaken in blaming the spirit and lets them go.

Now that Monkey knows the trick to it, he uses the golden hammer to knock the fruit down once again, but this time he catches it using his silk shirt. Once he's collected three fruits, he goes back to Pigsy, they also call Sandy over to have a fruit to. Sadly the horse isn't invited and doesn't get any fruit. Sandy is actually able to recognize the fruit for what it is since he's seen it before while he was working for the Jade Emperor and someone gave some to the Queen Mother as a birthday gift, but of course he's never eaten one before. So the three of them settle down to eat their fruit, and Pigsy being a glutton, eats his in one bite. Which then leads to him trying to get Monkey and Sandy to share their fruits with him or get him another one. Monkey tells him to be grateful he even got the one, and casually tosses the golden mallet into the adjacent room.

Pigsy is still complaining however when the two Daoist's happen to be passing by to fetch more tea for Tripitaka. Hearing Pigsy mention the Ginseng fruit the two immediately become suspicious that he might have stolen one. They also notice the golden mallet has been moved. So the two rush out to the tree and discover that four fruits are missing.

So the two rush back to Tripitaka and immediately start berating him and hurling all sorts of abusive language at him before he can even get a word in edgewise. Finally Tripitaka manages to get them to say more clearly that they think he stole the Ginseng Fruit. Tripitaka however points out that he was horrified by that fruit earlier, so why would he steal it? So the two point out that while he might not have stolen them, his disciples might have, which Tripitaka concedes is a fair point.

So Tripitaka calls his disciples out in order to get to the truth to the matter to see if they need to repay these guys or at the very least apologize to them. The three of them hear Tripitaka calling and all decide to get their stories straight- by denying everything. Guess we'll see how that works out for them next chapter.

Current Sun Wukong Stats: Names/Titles: Monkey, The Stone Monkey, The Handsome Monkey King, Sun Wukong (Monkey awakened to the void), Bimawen (Banhorseplague), The Great Sage Equal To Heaven and Pilgrim Sun. Immortality: 5 + 47,000 years. Weapon: The Compliant Golden Hooped Rod Abilities: 72 Transformations, Cloud-Somersault, Ability to transform his individual hairs, super strength, Ability to Summon Wind, Water restriction charm, and the ability to change into a huge war form, ability to duplicate his staff, ability to immobilize others, the ability to put others to sleep, and the Fiery eyes and Diamond Pupils, intimidating horses, churning large bodies of water, sleeplessness, seizing the wind, enhanced smell, discerning good and evil within a thousand miles and Spirit Summoning. Demon Kill Count: 4+ Unknown Number of Minions Human Kill Count: 6 God's Defeated: 19 + Unknown number Defeats: 3 Crime List: Robbery, Murder, Mass Murder, Arson, Theft, Coercion, Threatening a Government Official, Resisting Arrest, Assault, Forgery, Employee Theft, False Imprisonment, Impersonating a Government Official, Treason, attempted murder, failure to control or report a dangerous fire, desecrating a corpse, breaking and entering and trespassing. Cry Count: 3 Mountains Trapped Under: 1

Current Tang Sanzang stats: Names/Titles: River Float, Xuanzang, Tang Sanzang, Tripitaka Abilities: Curing Blindness, making branches point a certain direction (allegedly), reciting sutras, pretty privilege, memorization and Heart Sutra. Cry Count: 14 Tight Fillet Spell Uses: 5 Paralyzed by fear: 4 Bandit Problems: 2 Kidnapped by demons: 2 Falling Off Horses: 5

Current Bai Long Ma Stats: Names/Titles: Bai Long Ma (White Dragon Horse), Prince of the Western Ocean, and third prince jade dragon of the dragon king Aorun Abilities: Transforming into a human, a water snake, and a horse, eating a horse in one bite, and flight. Crime List: Arson, and Grave Disobedience. Contributions to the plot: 1

Current Zhu Wuneng Stats: Names/Titles: The Marshal of the Heavenly Reeds, Zhu Wuneng (Pig who is aware of ability), Zhu Ganglie, Pigsy, Idiot and Eight Rules. Weapon: Rake Abilities: 36 Transformations, parting water, fighting underwater and cloud soaring. Demon Kill Count/Kill steals: 1 Failed Flirtation/romances Attempts: 3 Cry Count: 1 Crime List: Sexual Harassment, Murder, Kidnapping and arson.

Current Sha Wujing Stats: Names/Titles: The Curtain-Raising General, Sha Wujing (Sand Aware of Purity), Sandy and Sha Monk Weapon: Monster Taming Staff Abilities: Fighting underwater Crime List: Breaking a Crystal Cup, murder, and desecration of a human corpse.

[lewmagoo]

before the devil comes for you | robert "bob" floyd

chapter one

next chapter

summary: the year is 1975. robert floyd is a young reverend haunted by demons from his past. fresh out of seminary, he is led to take up a backwoods church in a small mining town. there, he meets a woman who is in the midst of questioning the very foundation of her faith. as their worlds collide, robert soon finds himself tangled in a web of temptation and lies. with the past he’s spent so long trying to outrun quickly closing in, he is faced with a decision, in which he must either condemn the woman he loves, or turn his back on his faith.

listen to the playlist here

pairing: robert "bob" floyd x oc (fairlight mackall)

warnings: 18+ ONLY, this story will contain heavy religious themes, poverty, eventual smut, violence, mentions of death, religious trauma, mentions and/or depictions of abuse. specific warnings will be added to each part accordingly

note: i am no longer able to add anymore blogs to my taglist, as i've hit a tagging limit. please follow my tag #before the devil comes for you if you would like to keep up with this story

series masterlist

It was an unseasonably warm day in late May when Reverend Robert Floyd arrived in the backwoods village of Backforty Gap, smack dab in the middle of Preston County, West Virginia.

The heat of the day had already gotten to him, leaving his fair brow wet with sweat, and his cotton shirt, the one his mother had made him, soaked through. 

He was seated in the passenger’s seat of a rusty old Ford pickup, likely from the 1940s. The seats were worn and cracked. A pair of dirty, old fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror. The cab smelled like cigarettes and motor oil. The engine was loud. 

Bob tugged at the collar of his shirt, trying futilely to ease the heat around his neck.

The man driving, who’d introduced himself as Cricket, said nothing for most of the ride, except to make comments about certain landmarks they’d pass by. Bob wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he pictured Backforty Gap, but it certainly wasn’t this. 

There were seemingly unending stretches of highway, flanked by dense woods. Occasionally, they would pass by a dilapidated home that he was certain was abandoned, but Cricket would inform him that someone actually lived there.

“That’s the Renner place,” he gruffly informed Bob as they passed by what looked to be nothing more than a little shack.

Bob’s eyes widened. “Someone actually lives there?”

He hadn’t meant it to come across like he was casting judgment, but Cricket took it that way. “Don’t go dogging the way people live here, Reverend. It’ll do you well to keep them thoughts to yourself.”

“Oh, I-I wasn’t-” He tried, but suddenly, the truck took a sharp turn, and the words died on his lips as he lurched to the side, arms shooting out to steady himself. Suddenly, they were on a winding gravel road, and the truck rocked and rattled as they went. Bob was sure the ride knocked a rib or two loose.

Along that winding road, he caught sight of the church that would soon be his responsibility. A run-down country church, white paint peeling around the edges, arched windows furnished with stained glass. 

He almost opened his mouth to ask Cricket to stop for a moment to allow himself to get acquainted with the sanctuary, but thought better of it. The man seemed like he wanted to get this over with, so Bob remained quiet and instead let his eyes flicker away from the small church and onto the road ahead.

They passed by a few houses on the way up the mountain. A few that were just as dilapidated as the one he’d seen along the main road. Others were in better condition. Some were mere cabins. Others were actual houses. 

Many of the houses were littered with wandering chickens in the front yards. Hunting dogs howled as the truck passed. Cats dozed in the shade of old oak trees. Children played barefoot in their yards. 

Bob was a little stunned. This place seemed stuck in time, as if it was a time capsule from seventy years prior. The area was clearly very poor. If the poorly kept houses weren’t a dead giveaway, then the children’s tattered clothes and gaunt faces were. He was quickly beginning to realize why the Almighty had led him here.

He was hopeful about his mission here, but he wasn’t quite sure how the community would react to him. He’d been told numerous times that small-town, backwoods folks like this did not take well to drastic changes like this. He would surely have his work cut out for him.

“Mackall place is up here a ways,” Cricket’s gruff voice startled Bob from his reverie. “I’m gon’ drop you off at the end of their drive, because it’s a real bitch to turn this truck around up there.” Then, he cast a sheepish glance at the young reverend. “Excusin’ the language, Reverend.”

Bob waved a dismissive hand. “It’s quite alright.” He’d certainly been known to utter worse things during his own time away from the Lord.

As promised, Cricket pulled the truck to a stop at the end of a long, dirt driveway. Bob thanked the man and made a move to place money in his hand. But he refused to take it. “S’ the least I could do for the man of God.”

With a shrug, Bob climbed out of the truck and onto the dirt and gravel below. He thanked Cricket once more before he retrieved his tattered old suitcase from the truck bed, and turned to face the seemingly unending driveway.

Here goes nothing, he thought to himself. And away he went.

As he walked beneath the beating sun, guaranteed to turn his fair skin pink, he marveled at the circumstances that had brought him here. He had only just finished seminary, when an offer to take up a church in Backforty Gap had dropped into his lap.

He’d barely given it a second thought before accepting the offer. Admittedly, he probably should have whispered a prayer to ask for wisdom, but he was just so eager to get to work that he assumed this was a sign from God.

A week later, he was boarding a greyhound bus headed for Morgantown, West Virginia. From there, a man from Backforty Gap would be waiting at the station to drive him up to the village. Or, holler, as the locals called it.

That’s where he’d been greeted by Cricket, a man of few words. When Bob had asked if that was his given name, or a nickname, the only answer he’d received was a grunt. 

Cricket had driven thirty-five minutes to get to Backforty Gap. And that’s where Robert Floyd found himself now. 

He was brimming with anticipation over being in a new place. It was a chance for him to have a fresh start and make something out of himself. A chance to make his momma proud, for once. A chance to finally shed all those demons from his past and walk into the light. 

But before he could get on with his mission, he had to settle into the place he’d be living for the time being.

The church property did not have a pastor’s quarters. Instead, Bob would be staying up the road a ways, on the property of the church’s head deacon, Montgomery Mackall. 

He had no idea what to expect as he trod the dirt path. Would he come upon a home as poor and dilapidated as all the others? 

His questions were soon answered when he caught sight of a farmhouse in the distance. It was not grand, but it was no sunken shack, either. It looked big enough to house an entire family comfortably. 

The paint on the outside was sun-bleached and peeling. The screen on the front door was falling off. But that seemed to be the only cosmetic disrepair on the house. Other than that it was much nicer than all the other places he’d seen on the drive up here. 

Inside the house was a young woman of twenty-one, humming a dreamy tune to herself as she set about doing her daily chores. She was in the kitchen, the windows open to let in the warm spring air as she swept the worn, wooden floor. 

When she glanced up from her work, eyes flickering to the open window over the sink, she caught sight of a figure approaching.

She didn’t recognize whoever it was, which led realization to dawn on her. She hastily shoved her broom against the nearest wall, rushing to untie her hand-sewn apron. 

“Daddy! The new preacher’s here!” She called to her father, who was in the back of the house, in the small shoebox of a room he called his study. 

She heard shuffling, and a moment later, Montgomery Mackall stepped into the hall. Standing at over six feet tall, he was a steady mountain of a man. Hard set jaw, striking blue eyes that had seen many things, and a handsome, ruddy face that was slightly weathered from years in the sun.

Montgomery, or, Mont, as his friends called him, walked steadily to the front door, pushing the screen open, but catching it before it could slam against the side of the house. His daughter followed close behind, brimming with curiosity as she tried to peer around his broad shoulders to catch a better glimpse of the reverend.

Down the path, Bob saw two people step out onto the front porch of the old farmhouse, and he lifted his hand in greeting. The cotton of his shirt shifted against his skin as he did so, reminding him of just how hot and sticky he really was, thanks to the warmth of the weather.

He might have preferred to wash up before he met his host family, but there would be time for that later. Instead, he squared his shoulders and walked determinedly. He wanted to make a good impression. Wanted these people to see him in a good light.

He supposed thinking that way was sinful. It wasn’t about him, after all. It was about showing the love of Christ to others. He had to remind himself of that as he finally caught up to the man and woman who’d just stepped off of the porch.

Bob came face to face with a man who stood at eye level with him. The man’s brow was set in a scowl, only because of the sun that shone on his face. Even so, he looked rather intimidating, but Bob tried not to let it bother him.

“Reverend Floyd,” Montgomery spoke, reaching out a firm, work-calloused hand.

Bob shook his hand, a little jarred by the rough grip, but he recovered quickly and returned the handshake with renewed enthusiasm. “You must be Mr. Mackall,” he mused.

Mont nodded. “Sure am. You can call me Mont, though. Don’t need to go by formalities.” Then, he turned, revealing the girl who’d been standing just behind him. “This here’s my daughter, Fairlight.”

As his eyes fell upon the young woman, Robert’s breath caught in his chest. There she stood, flaxen hair glimmering in the sun, the kindest smile he’d ever seen lighting up her face. But it was her eyes that stopped him dead in his tracks. They were unlike anything he’d ever seen before. A stormy, gray-blue that made him feel like he was staring into the sky in anticipation of a summer thunderstorm.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, sir.” She held her hand out, and he took it, gently shaking it.

She didn’t miss the way his hand quite literally swallowed her smaller one. He was not what she’d been expecting in the least. When her father told her of a new reverend by the name of Robert Floyd taking over Backforty Church of God, she’d imagined a much older man. Graying hair. Hunched shoulders. Belly rounded from the evidence of his own gluttony.

Her mind had never imagined him to look like this. Tall and lithe. Chestnut hair, the edges of which were curled around his forehead, glimmering with perspiration. His eyes were the clearest blue, even more so than her own father’s. His features were soft, but striking all at once. Little did she know that this very moment, this first meeting, would change the trajectory of her life forever.

But all too soon, the spell was broken, and Reverend Floyd pulled his hand from hers quickly. She noticed that he flexed his fingers, as if trying to rid himself of the feel of her touch. 

Her father started speaking again. “We got a lot to talk about. You’re gon’ need to be prepared before you walk through them church doors on Sunday morning. But first, I reckon you’re eager to get freshened up.” Mont motioned to his daughter. “Faitlight’ll show you where you’re staying.”

There it was again, that warm smile of hers. If Bob stared too long, his eyes burned. He thanked Mont, and quickly moved to follow the girl. When he looked down, he realized that her feet were bare. She walked surely, so familiar with every inch of land that she was not afraid of where her feet might fall. 

“You’ll be staying in our guest house,” she spoke up, her voice soft, “but don’t expect anything luxurious. It’s just an old shack my daddy fixed up.”

“Oh, I’m not picky. Just thankful the Lord provided a place for me to rest my head while I’m here,” Bob replied with a smile. 

Fairlight glanced over her shoulder at him and mirrored that smile. She moved her focus back to the path ahead, and Bob watched her, pretty floral dress swishing around her bare legs. But he quickly averted his gaze. What on earth was wrong with him? He’d been here all of five minutes and his mind was already wandering.

Father, forgive me.

Instead, he rehearsed Scripture in his mind. Verses he’d had to commit to memory in seminary. He was so wrapped up in repeating those verses that he didn’t even realized they’d reached the guest house. Fairlight stopped, but his head was so far in the clouds that he didn’t see, and he collided with her.

With a gasp of surprise, she stumbled forward from the force, and Bob’s arm shot out, catching her before she could fall. “Sorry! I’m sorry, I-I wasn’t paying attention,” he profusely apologized. 

But when she turned, there was laughter on her lips, flowing like sweet communion wine. “It’s okay,” she assured him. 

His hand was clasped around her forearm, and he quickly released her, posture straightening. He looked beyond her and took in the sight of the house. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she said it was a shack. It was rather small, built from simple wooden planks. But it appeared sturdy enough that the weather would not get to it.

Fairlight stepped forward to open the door, and she motioned for him to step inside. As he did, his eyes explored the space. The floor was also wooden. A twin bed was placed in the corner, furnished with a wooden frame. There was a small nightstand beside it. At its foot, a small chest for storing clothing.

On the other side, there was a small writing desk. In the middle of the room, there was a modest, well-worn couch. 

“Well, this is it. It’s not much, but…”

Bob shook his head. “No, it’s just right. Thank you, really. I appreciate that your father was willing to take me in like this.”

“Oh, he’s happy to do it. He’s just relieved we found a pastor to take on the church. He’s been preaching all the messages lately and it’s really wearing on him.”

Bob paused after he set his bag on the bed. “Can I ask what happened to the last reverend?”

Her face darkened slightly. “We had an outbreak of scarlet fever a while back. He visited all the families that were suffering from it. Then, he came down with it, and it killed him.”

Bob’s eyes widened. “O-oh. I had no idea. No one told me any details. Just that there was a congregation in need of a reverend.” Then, “but, surely he could've gotten help, right? There’s a hospital in Morgantown.”

Fairlight shook her head. “You don’t understand. People in this community don’t trust doctors. We have a local doctor, Doctor McHone. Our people barely even trust him as it is. Hospitals are out of the question.”

He was a little floored at her statement. People were still behaving like this, in 1975? He hadn’t realized just how stuck in time this place actually was. “Wow,” was all he could murmur.

“They don’t take well to new people, either. Some of them might give you a hard time. But with my daddy backing you, you should be fine. They trust his judgment. Besides, I’m glad you’re here. We could use someone to breathe new life into the church.”

Bob dipped his head forward. “I hope I can do that, then.”

Fairlight hummed, folding her arms across her middle. Tendrils of pale hair fell from her plait as she regarded him. “I’ve gotta say, you aren’t what I was expecting.”

He raised his brow. “Is that a good thing?”

“It is. I thought you’d be an old man with gray hair and wrinkles. But you’re not. I like the look of you. You have a kind face.”

Bob couldn’t ignore the odd feeling that spread through his chest. A prickling discomfort. His mind flickered to a moment from his past. A time in which he would never have thought of himself as kind. A time in which he was so entrenched in the pits of sin he thought he’d never escape.

But here he was, a new man, living a new life. A man who’d been given a second chance. He thanked Fairlight for her compliment, though he was certain his neck had turned pink from her words. 

“Well, I’ll let you get settled in. I’m sure you’re used to having running water in the city, but out here, you’d be hard-pressed to find a house with running water. We use an outhouse to do our business, it’s just behind the main house. There’s a tub we use for baths, but I usually just bathe in the river up the road, so it’s up to you as to what you’d like to do.”

“Thank you,” Bob said.

“I make all the meals ‘round here. Breakfast is at seven. Lunch is usually at noon. Dinner is at five.” She paused, as if going over something in her mind. “I think that’s all. Daddy will fill you in on the rest, I suppose. If you need anything, let me know.” She’d inched toward the door, but her body was still turned toward him, like she didn’t want to go.

“Thank you,” he said again, dumbly. Could he not think of a more creative thing to say? But his irritation at himself was forgotten as she turned to go, and he called out to her, his worry getting the best of him. “What…what should I expect, taking on this church?”

Fairlight hesitated, as if considering just how much she should tell him. But she didn’t think she was the right person to do so. Not when in her heart of hearts, she cared nothing for the church, and wanted to see it rot. But that was a story for another time, one she would not dare breathe to a man of God such as the one before her.

Instead, she put forth the all-too-familiar persona of the obedient little church mouse. She smiled and shook her head at the young reverend. “That’s something you should ask my daddy.”

Bob nodded. “You’re right. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrogate ya.”

But she shook her head. “It’s okay. You’re just curious, is all. I would be too. There’s lots to learn about this place. But you’ll come along just fine, I’m sure.” Finally, moved to step back outside.

He followed her, standing in the doorway while she stood on the earth. The sun hit her just right, and she appeared to be glowing. “It was nice to meet you, Reverend Floyd.”

“You as well, Miss Mackall,” he answered.

She waved him off. “Call me Fairlight, please.”

“Fairlight, then.”

She nodded, eyes soft. Lingering but for a moment, she turned away, making her way back to the main house. Bob watched her go, and he tried to push aside the strange sensation blooming to life within him. He wasn’t quite sure what it was. He blamed it on nerves.

Once the woman was out of sight, he turned around, scanning his surroundings again. It wasn’t much, but it was adequate for what he needed. It was time to get settled in. So, he set about unpacking his minimal belongings. 

Bob had gotten rid of many of his old possessions. At seminary, they had taught him that worldly possessions held little to no value. It was vitally important to lay up heavenly treasures, instead. 

So, he kept only what was necessary, and gave the rest away to charity. It had been freeing to do so, because many of his things reminded him of the man he was before. He didn’t want any reminders of him. 

Now, all he owned were some toiletries, a few changes of clothes, pajamas, the watch his grandfather had given him when he was seventeen, a moleskin journal and few pens, two pairs of shoes, a winter coat, a Sunday suit, underclothes, and, his most prized possession, his leatherbound Bible.

Those items were all he had in the world. But he was not in want of anything. He found that, in his travels, he was always taken care of somehow. A kind stranger offered him a place to lay his head. A church held a love offering for him. A sweet elderly woman made him a home-cooked meal. The Lord always took care of His own.

Bob was grateful for His provision.

As he set about unpacking, he was soon interrupted by a knock at the door. He stepped across the room, opening it to reveal Montgomery.

“All settled?” The man asked.

“Getting there,” Bob responded with a smile.

Mont nodded. “Don’t mean to pull you away, but I imagine you would like to see the church.”

Bob nodded. “I would, actually. Give me a moment to get freshened up, I’ve been sweating like a sinner in church.”

Mont didn’t seem to find that funny. “Don’t bother, you’ll just start sweatin’ again as soon as you come outside.”

Sensing he didn’t want to wait, Bob complied, stepping outside and closing the door behind him. He followed Mont back toward the house, where he was led to an old pickup truck. Those seemed to be all anyone drove around here.

The two men climbed into the cab of the truck, and soon, they were off. Mont drove back the way Bob had come from, taking the winding, rough, gravel road. It took about ten minutes to get to the church, and finally, the truck came to a stop, breaks squeaking as it did so.

Bob followed Mont’s lead, climbing out of the truck and onto the dirt. As the pair approached the small church, Bob marveled at its appearance. It was more run-down than he’d realized. It clearly had not been updated in quite some time. 

“Needs some work, as you can see for yourself,” Mont spoke up as he stepped up to the front doors, fishing a key out of his pocket and unlocking them. “Been meanin’ to work on it, but funds are tight, and these people are hurting. Haven’t had the heart to ask them to contribute more than they already do for Sunday offerings.”

“Just how bad off is this community?” Bob questioned. “So I know what I’m dealing with.”

Mont sighed as he led the young reverend into the building. “I’m afraid you ain’t been prepared properly for this, Reverend. This is one of the poorest communities in the area.” 

“And nobody has started a mission to help them?” 

“Nobody cares about backwoods folks like these. They’d rather let ‘em rot.” Mont stopped at one of the old, worn benches, knocking his fingers against the wood. “People ‘round here are dirt poor. They won’t accept charity. Their livelihood is coal mining. Most of the men here are miners. They take providing for their families very seriously. And since the fighting in Vietnam started, there have been a lot of mining spots needing filled, with some of our boys off fighting. The people are hurting from the loss”

The war was over. At least, that’s what had been announced a month ago. But Bob figured most of the boys weren’t home yet. And, it was likely that many of them had died in action and would not return to their families in Backforty Gap. He didn’t ask more questions about it, however. He would learn what he needed to know once he got familiar with the community. 

“I didn’t realize how…stuck in time this place would be. I wasn’t expecting something like this in America, of all places. When you think of poor areas like this, you picture a village in Africa somewhere.”

Mont raised a brow. “Shows how privileged a life you’ve led, Reverend. No disrespect.”

“None taken,” Bob replied.

“These people, they don’t do well with change. They like things the way they are. It took a mighty bit of convincing for them to agree to bring on a new pastor.” His eyes held a serious stare as he stepped closer to Bob. “You’d best not let them down.”

The weight of this responsibility hit Robert like a ton of bricks. How was he going to shepherd and care for this impoverished community? Was he cut out for such a thing? Could he be the pastor they needed? Worry bubbled to life within his chest, but he forced himself to swallow it down.

This was what God had called him to do. He had to trust His plan. Bob had been led to Backforty Gap for a reason. It would do him well to get to work and quit worrying about all the little details. Everything would fall into place soon enough.

“So what do you say, Reverend? Think you’re cut out for this?” 

Bob pulled his shoulders back confidently and smiled. “These people need me. I can’t turn my back on them.”

Montgomery returned his smile. “That’s what I was hopin’ you’d say.” Then, he turned. “Follow me. There’s lots for you to see.”

And so it began. 

Although the task at hand seemed overwhelming, Bob knew this was where he was meant to be. He was grateful he’d even been considered for this opportunity. 

He had worked hard to clean his life up, and it was finally paying off. But past demons always have a way of rearing their ugly heads when one least expects it, and those demons were about to give Reverend Robert Floyd a run for his money. 

next chapter ⮕

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