#behold: the roach

[outer-stars]

i'm the bad guy (duh)

[empydoc]

a thought

hush begging to be kissed

[the-dust-jacket]

Queer YA for spooky season!

Pictured: A Vile Season, Everything Glittered, Spells to Forget Us, Compound Fracture, A Darker Mischief, Beholder, Better Left Buried

[felsicveins]

I think I sprained my finger killing a roach last night

[fortunegnome]

Oh Cassandra

Extra:

Hello Mr. Gunther

I get that you're angry but don't take it out on my trash

So many ghosts

[cherubfae]

𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔥𝔯𝔲𝔫𝔨! || {𝔥𝔞𝔷𝔟𝔦𝔫 𝔥𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔩}

tags: gn!reader, ftm!reader for angie, fluff, comedy, established relationships

Alastor

He is quite amused by the whole ordeal, if not a touch worried for your wellbeing. You're utterly tiny, capable of sitting in the palm of his hand like a tiny doll. His claw gently nudges your cheek, tilting your chin up. Using his own magic proves to be futile. After several attempts he's still unable to change you back to your normal self. He isn't sure why his powers don't seem to be taking effect.

Alastor doesn't let anyone else touch or hold you. Legit will hold you in his hand above his head should Vaggie or Charlie try to get a better look at you.

"No, no, no," Alastor clicks his tongue. "I'm afraid I'm not comfortable in letting my dearest love be held by anyone but me. Surely, you understand." He gives you a little smile, his thumb gently stroking your head.

You aren't a little toy and the last thing he wants happening if Niffty mistaking you for a roach, so he prefers to have you sitting atop his shoulder, his head, or safely tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat with your tiny little head poking out to watch the world around you. As much as he finds you adorable and vulnerable in this state, he does prefer you as yourself. He'll probably head to Rosie first, he wants nothing to do with Lucifer. She always has her ear to the ground and he's certain he'll get you returned to normal soon.

Lucifer

Well, that's new. Lucifer is easily able to turn you back to yourself but he wants to have a little fun first. He lifts you up and presses little kisses all over your face, giggling to himself when you press your hands to his rosy cheeks.

"Can't help it, sweetheart! You're too cute!" He gently nuzzles your cheek, placing a loving kiss to the top of your head. He'll shapeshift himself into a mouse and pretend that you're a little fairy about to battle for Narnia.

When he finally turns you back, he is relieved. He much prefers you as your lovely self where you're able to snuggle into his side and hold you properly to his chest, sharing many kisses between you two.

Husk

Shit, this ain't good, but at least yer havin' fun, baby. Husk sighs, leaning his chin against his paws. His yellow eyes flick back and forth in amusement as you treat the bar counter like your own slip-and-slide, watching as you spin around on the shiny wood with a small squeak.

Husk catches you with his tail before you can slide off, lightly placing you back on your feet mirroring the grin you give him. "I'm glad you're having a good time but we gotta figure out how to turn ya back, hun." He leans back against the stool, hoping Charlie has found something or someone who may be able to offer some help.

Charlie, on queue, comes rushing down the stairs holding a light pink pearlescent vial in her hands. "Let's try this!" She stands triumphantly, proudly holding out the vial in her hands. "A drop or two on their head should bring them back to normal height. I have a feeling this will work, but as Plan B we can go to my Dad!" She beams.

Husk nods, giving you a tiny peck on top of your head that only serves to make Charlie coo. Placing you on the floor, Charlie uncaps the vial. A shimmery fuschia-purple liquid smelling of sweet berries oozes out and gently drops onto your head.

A whoosh of pink and yellow unfurls out and soon you're standing before them as mostly yourself. Your hair is now a dyed vibrant pink. Across the room, Alastor who is casually reading the newspaper, snaps his fingers and poof! Your hair is back to normal!

"You could've helped them this whole time?!" Husk hisses, fur bristling. Alastor hums, taking a sip of his black coffee, "Hmm no, just their hair. Good thing they're back in one piece, yes?" He grins. "Too bad you didn't play a little cat and mouse with them. That would have been a sight to behold!"

Angel Dust

As adorable as you are, Angel is fuckin panicking. He's not quite sure what to do and he's terrified of someone accidentally stepping on you. "Okay, baby, I've got ya, hang on!" Angel places you on his chest fluff, his hand holding you in place. Upon returning to his room, Angel begins to pace, wracking his brain for some sort of quick fix.

Depending on how long this magic lasts, Angel will 100% want to play dress up with you and have you try on cute outfits or perhaps make a cute little dollhouse for you. He's too scared of crushing you in his sleep so until this wears off, he doesn't want to risk anything happening to you. He's also worried about Niffty mistaking you for a bug, so when he's out and about, he keeps you close to him at all times. If he has to leave and can't take you with, he instructs Vaggie and Charlie to look after you.

"Do not let Niffty or the Egg Bois around them, got it?" His stern eyes are narrowed, making an expression that he's watching Sir Pentious. "Keep the Eggies in line."

Vox

What the fuck? He blinks, a jolt of electricity nearly short-circuiting himself. "Babe, what the fuck happened to you?" Vox scoops you into his hands, holding you to his chest. He's doing his best not to panic, convinced this is another one of Alastor's stupid fucking pranks. (Alastor has done absolutely nothing. However, Vox swears any inconvenience that happens to him is caused by Alastor's hands.)

Thankfully whatever has happened wasn't permanent. A tiny explosion of sparkles and a poof blue dust has the futuristic demon stumbling back, sighing when you're standing there at your normal height with a hand pressed to your head.

"Holy shit, what the fuck happened?" Vox presses, grasping your hand and pulling you into his lap. He's cupping your face between clawed hands checking for any sign of injury. "Was it Alastor?" You shake your head, coughing out some blue sparkly dust.

"Nah, got caught under some pollen demon's magic on my way to HQ." You grumble, leaning your head onto your boyfriend's shoulder. Vox sighs, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Ok, ok, well, you're back," he grumbles. "Don't do that to me again."

|| ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ, ʀᴇᴜꜱᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴀʏ! ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱɪᴛᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ. ᴀʟʟ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ © ᴄʜᴇʀᴜʙꜰᴀᴇ 2024 ||

[jungle-angel]

While He Was Sleeping (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: Bob's parents have been together for close to 30 years, but there's a little secret to how they met

Warnings: Weed smoking, concert shenanigans, Bob's uncles all being complete morons etc.

Notes: For @sorchathered for the RomCom prompts!!! I did kinda deviate a little bit from the story, but my darling, please enjoy (lol).

30 years........30 years to that day Bob's family had been together and you and him could hardly believe it.

The whole Floyd family had convened en masse to the ranch in Montana to celebrate, but at the end of the day it was just you, Bob and his parents, the four of you sitting out by the firepit in the waning evening light, the haze of late spring having set fully over Bozeman and the bright red disk of the sun fully visible in the sky.

"Holy hell what a day," Joe sighed as he pulled Irene close to him.

"Good day, Dad?" Bob asked him.

"Yeah, just exhausting," he said. "Wasn't expecting that many people to show up."

"I'm surprised your brother's brain still works," Irene chuckled as the flames crackled.

"What do you mean?" you asked, laughing a little.

"Bobby never told you?" Joe asked. "Jeez, I thought that story ran rife in the family."

You looked at your husband who in turn grew sheepish. "What happened with your uncle?"

"Um......I.....I don't remember......" Bob said, trying to hide the laugh that was threatening to come out.

"Oh I do," Joe chuckled. "Eyeballs, you remember this one?"

"Oh indeed I do," Irene laughed. "Because that's the story about how we met."

Your eyes went wide, yourself smiling as your jaw hung open.

"Alright, my guess is it's storytime," Joe said, making himself comfortable in the Budweiser camp chair. "Back in the late 70s, me and my brothers decided we were gonna sneak into a Doobie Brothers concert with a few friends of ours."

"Summer of '79 right?" Irene queried.

"Yep," Joe replied. "Us five idiots had piled into the back of our friend's Vista Cruiser and headed off to the stadium to go see'em in Oklahoma City. Concert was great, until Chris decided he was gonna actually smoke a doobie."

You and Bob laughed a little bit. Bob's uncle, Chris, had always been the straight laced one in the family, a very well respected police officer just like Bob's brother, Michael.

"Anywho....." Irene said, giving her husband 'the look'.

"Anywho," Joe continued. "Chris is high out of his mind by the time the concert gets out and walks himself right into a fuckin lamp-post on the way back to the car. He's not moving of course, so we've gotta book it right to the hospital. We get there and the nurses completely freak so they test him and fin out he's concussed."

You and Bob both grimaced at the image.

"So us idiots are waiting," Joe explained. "When lo and behold I see this gorgeous lady coming in because a friend of theirs was so loaded that she ended up eating shit on the pavement."

You and Bob shouldn't have laughed, but you were, the two of you letting out a piggish snort.

"Oh my God," Irene laughed. "Cheryl Anne was more than loaded. She was giving the nurses a hard time and I needed some air."

"So she goes out and I'm thinking that maybe I should talk her up a little bit," Joe chuckled.

"Yeah, Chief Running-Of-The-Mouth is hitting on me while his partner, Afraid-Of-Crotch-Hair is near the dumpster and has just lit his pants on fire," Irene remarked.

"Nobody knew he had a lit roach in his pocket, dear," Joe reminded her.

By this time, you and Bob could barely breathe, let alone stop laughing. "Dad what the hell.....?" Bob squeaked in between laughing fits.

"Do you even remember what we were talking about that night?" Irene asked Joe.

"I think it had something to do with the furniture," Joe theorized. "You were leaning kinda funny on it."

"There was something else too," Irene added.

"What was that?" Joe asked her.

"Chris asked me when it was the two of us fell in love," Irene told him. "I told him it was while you were sleeping."

Joe's forehead came to rest against Irene's, and yours against Bob's. Who would have thought, that his father had found the same romance that the two of you had found all those years ago.

[venisontransmission]

@voxxcd

The day starts out as any other - a rather normal morning in Pentagram City. Alastor completes his morning broadcast, finally fully awake with three cups of coffee.

The hotel is abuzz with conversation as the deer demon makes his way back inside. Charlie has another one of her trust exercises. Something about a scavenger hunt, though she seems to be spending a lot of time reminding Niffty that dead roaches are not on her list. Meanwhile, poor Husker is forced to deal with Angel Dust, who is currently leaning over the bar counter, attempting to convince Husk that vodka is on his list.

As normal as a morning in Hell could be. Alastor enjoys himself watching them flounder about when he hears the clink of chains.

Ice settles in his veins as his head shoots up - there's nothing around his neck, but he did not imagine that sound. He never could - it's unmistakable. Lo and behold, that ice in his body is offset by the feeling of embers in his lungs. Reflexively, he wants to cough but also knows that he will draw potential eyes on him. Without a word, the radio demon steps into the shadows, away from prying eyes.

And something changes.

Because Alastor's signal is gone.

It's not noticeable unless one was in tune to the radiowaves - a missing blip on the radar. Alastor's constant presence has vanished without a single trace.

The hotel doesn't figure out something is wrong until day four. And it's three more weeks until the radiowaves are claimed once more. Alastor's signal had returned as quickly as it had disappeared.

He's exhausted, but being alone sounds terrible right now, so he takes his leave and teleports to Vox's apartment. He takes one step into the room and startles when a sudden shrieking alarm sounds, hair standing on end.

[0dde11eth]

Geralts still not participating in conversations or letting jaskier ride on roach. (Rude).

So to keep himself occupied jaskier has been practicing new mottos for geralt:

"Behold the white wolf! He's young, dumb and full of cum!"

[stoutguts]

A Pint of Comfort (💀🧼) PART 1

(first time rlly writing a full length fic like this, so be nice okay?)

Tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, the definition of hurt/comfort, mutual pining (kind of?????/just barely (idk, I'm kind of bad with tropes), lots of crying (and suggestive kissing), Ghost has Astraphobia,—Johnny helps Simon through a PTSD episode, while also finally getting a much needed point across 💖

possible CW/TW for PTSD, flashbacks, Ghost's canon backstory, very subtly implied NSFW at the very end lmao, and implied parental/child ab*se

It’s a stormy Saturday evening, and all seems well.

The quiet swooshing and howling of the wind, the symphony of raindrops pelting down on the streets,—on the roofs of houses. Only interrupted by the occasional low rumbling, with lightning dancing across and lighting up the dark sky.

The only downside is the slightly gloomy and depressing atmosphere. Caused by those nasty gray, dark storm clouds clogging up the sky like a fatty artery.

Rearing their ugly heads.

Soap has always enjoyed weather like this,—in his youth he’d always found it peaceful. He doesn’t know exactly why, but he’s always thought Mother Nature was something behold.

He just takes a minute to watch the rain underneath the shitty awning outside the tavern. Somewhat entranced.

He had met up with Price, Nikolai, Gaz, and Roach for drinks earlier that afternoon. (Having nothing better to do). (After all, he already had visited his sisters and family up in Scotland, and all of them still happened to be on leave,—so why not)? Though he hadn’t drank all that much, as,—according to him,—he “just wasn’t feeling it today”. (In actuality, he was worried about Ghost).

Johnny only having just wrapped up, and parted ways with everyone.

Nik and Price left together, while Kyle and Gary were joined at the hip as they walked out of the bar—as was customary. Usually he would be going home with Simon,—but today he was by himself.

Ghost was gonna tag along and go, but ultimately (and reluctantly) decided against it.

It wasn’t because they were feeling antisocial or that he didn’t want to go, (as that’s typical). (Though then again, Simon had stopped being such a recluse long ago, and it wouldn’t have bailed on them just for that). They were just sick with a 102.9 fever, and some nasty flu-like symptoms.

In fact, Ghost was bummed out about not being able to go.

“Ye need to get sum rest, I dinnae want ye to die on mae here”, Soap says firmly, though half-joking on that last part.

“I’m perfectly aw’righttttt,—seriously,—pleaseee?“, Simon replies deliriously, attempting to sit up in bed. Slurring it’s words, with it’s accent as thick as tar. Though equally exaggerating their tone and voice playfully, to sound exasperated.

*HA-choo!*

“Ye most certainly are naw—Just please,—*sigh*—get sum rest for mae sake…please?”, Johnny pleads, already exhausted, as he lays Ghost back down. Wringing out the washcloth, having dipped it into the bucket of ice water next to their bed, before placing it back over his forehead.

“…..Fine…”, Simon grumbles tiredly, finally giving up, (after half an hour of whining and insisting that they’re okay to go). Completely defeated, it turns on it’s side away from Soap, (the wash cloth sliding off his forehead, and now resting on his pillow). Pouting like a child.

“I promise, mo chridhe, ah’ll be back soon. Dinnae get up or annae’thang, just rest", Johnny coos, leaning over to kiss Ghost on the cheek and bury his face in their neck. Slowly moving his hand down his body to cup one side of his waist.

Simon shudders a little at the touch, the smallest, almost inaudible, groan leaving it's throat at fingers digging into their skin.

"Do'ya know when you'll be home exactly? Ya'know…I get lonely...", Ghost says, his vulnerability in that moment hurts Soap, though still (quite literally) refusing to face Johnny. The sultry manner in which they said it too,—made Soap blush profusely…

He pauses for a moment to get his bearings—

“Ah’ll be home as soon as I can, ye know how the boys are…or can be—he (lovingly) rolls his eyes at the thought—Ah’ll be home by 8 or 9 at the latest,—mae thinks”, Johnny answers.—Now feeling like he also kinda doesn’t feel up to it anymore,—but ignores it. As he won’t hear the end of it of neither of them show up.

He then goes to lift off of Simon,—before his partner’s sitting up, and he’s pulled into an abrupt kiss.

It was passionate, and as the pair’s lips part, a small trail of spit remained before breaking off.

“I’ll be waiting for you,—please,—stay safe. I love you”, Ghost says gazing up at him with half-lidded heterochromatic eyes, before moving it’s gaze elsewhere and laying back down.

“Aye, I will. Love ye too”, Soap says with a chuckle, briefly brushing his hand through the tiny blonde hairs of their buzzed head.

Johnny could have sworn he heard him snoring, fast asleep, just before walking out the door.

“Poor thang. Tha’ bug’s really taking a lot out of ‘em”, he thinks to himself as he leaves.

Stay tuned for the other parts! (Breaking this up into parts, as it's kind of a long one).

Part 2 will probably be up by tomorrow!

[lefttoesucker]

BEHOLD, more Ghost, Roach and Soap from my AU

I'll hopefully do a short comic about them sometime but school is starting so I don't know how much time I'll have :')

Emo Ghost, skater boy Roach and a few years older raggedy punk Soap, my beloved <3

[toshidou]

The 141, except it's a Tattoo and Piercing studio, owned and ran by John Price. He bought the shop when he was 20, taking the dilapidated building from an eyesore, to one of the most reputable and famous tattoo parlours in the UK.

His team is small, but curated by John himself, and he prides himself on the talent he's secured over the nearly 20 years he's owned his shop. People don't just flock to the 141 for his longstanding passion and expertise in tattooing, nor for his flawless execution of designing perfect thought out sleeves. They come for his team, too.

There's his longest working, and most popular artist, Ghost. Known for his mysterious appearance and personality just as much as his work. A master of both the new school tattoo style, and more modern takes on needlework, he'll tirelessly work to make sure every piece of work he tattoos is unique. His art focuses more on the macabre, often showcasing the weird and the wonderful on his socials, when he does eventually post.

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish got his name because of his clean lines and flawless technique, a master of fine line and delicate tattoos, not that his appearance gives that away. Covered in both ink and piercings, topped off with an electric blue mohawk, he's a sight to behold, but don't let his looks distract you from his sheer talent. He's known for being the most energetic artist in the 141, more than happy to chin wag with his clients for the full duration of their tattoo. Yet despite talking non-stop, his work remains entirely flawless.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick started out as Price's apprentice, struggling through college and debilitating art block when Price found his art displayed at his university's gallery. John took him under his wing, and with his help, he mastered the art of hyper-realistic tattoos. Some of his clients travel across the globe just to get his work on their skin, trusting no one but him to give them the perfect tattoo.

Farah Karim is the most recent addition, but a valuable one at that. Specialising in mandala, and geometric designs, Farah creates works of art that border on spiritual. She prides herself on her precision needle work, and steady hand, known for more often than not free-handing her tattoos with no stencil. Her dot shading and line work is pixel perfect, and she'll stand for nothing less than the very best for each and every one of her clients.

Gary "Roach" Sanderson is the studio's resident piercer. He might be quiet, but he has a long list of loyal customers who come to him, and only him to get pierced. He makes his own jewellery, spending hours fashioning unique and gorgeous designs out of titanium and gems. No one creates jewellery like him, meaning his books are full years to come.

Between them all, they create a studio full to the brim with creative ideas and inspiration, never running dry of the passion they hold for the work they do. Which is a good thing, considering their list of clientele only continues to skyrocket higher and higher.

[mayflora-18]

I have announcement to make! Behold ~

Me: I’m a Roach girl!

Also me: I have joined the Roach Nation!

Me later, gushing over fanfics featuring Gaz x reader and soft Gaz headcanons: C-can I apply for dual citizenship?

@ghouljams is partially to blame. Not all to blame, but a significant amount.

The end.

Sorry I don’t know how else to end this. 😐

[inexplicifics]

26 for the domestic ask meme, if it strikes your fancy? <3

“Geralt,” Jaskier says gently. “Buy it.”

Geralt grimaces and turns away from the jam-seller’s stall. “It’s too expensive.”

“My purse is currently very full,” Jaskier points out. He’s just come from a month-long engagement at a count’s manor, entertaining a series of house-parties, and though he had cuckolded the count, repeatedly and with great gusto, the count had actively encouraged the affair, and had therefore not had Jaskier turned out without his due earnings when the festivities were over.

“Your purse,” Geralt says pointedly. Jaskier knows the witcher’s purse is rather leaner, on account of the local alderman being somewhat less generous than his liege lord.

“And what’s mine is yours, and has been for years now, darling,” Jaskier says. “Besides. You know if you don’t use it, I will, and I’m doubtless going to buy far too much wine and then you’ll be irritated at making Roach carry it, or I’ll be far too tempted to buy that doublet in the window back there - yes, the green and yellow one with lavender trim. Isn’t it striking?”

“It ought to be struck,” Geralt says, giving the magnificent doublet a look of extraordinary disgust. Or, well, to anyone else it would doubtless appear to be no more than a slight twitch of the lip, but Jaskier knows it’s pure disgust, and that’s what matters.

He wouldn’t actually buy the doublet. The yellow is a shade which is quite wrong for his skin. But he has no qualms about using it to tease Geralt into being nice to himself for once. “There, you see? You ought to save me from myself, and your eyes from having to behold its glorious extravagance.”

“By buying myself jam.”

“Precisely.” Jaskier beams. “And then you will have jam, and I will not have that doublet!”

Really, coaxing Geralt to do nice things for himself is a better use for his rhetoric training than Jaskier ever expected to find out in the world.

“Hm,” Geralt says, eyeing Jaskier dubiously. Jaskier grins brightly back at him. “I saw a pair of absolutely tremendous trousers, too,” he says helpfully. “They’ve got ribbons!”

Geralt glowers at him very impressively and turns back to the jam-seller, who has been watching the whole exchange with obvious interest. “The strawberry,” he grits out. “One jar.”

“Two!” Jaskier says, draping an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. “One is hardly going to put enough of a dent in my purse, darling.”

Geralt eyes him dubiously. “One. And one pot of the raspberry,” he says.

Raspberry is Jaskier’s favorite, and for some inexplicable reason Geralt loathes it. Jaskier’s witcher is so damn sweet sometimes; Jaskier doesn’t know how the whole world can fail to see it. He’ll fix that, he swears. He’s made them see his White Wolf is more than a Butcher; by the time he’s done, Geralt will be beloved, or Jaskier isn’t a master bard. Which, of course, he very much is.

The jam-seller hands over two wax-sealed pots with a cheerful smile, and Jaskier watches Geralt put them very carefully in his pack, and thinks that he isn’t going to regret leaving the doublet behind at all.

[amuseoffyre]

Having a thought I’ve probably had before, but I have the memory of a goldfish, so behold, have it again.

Ed told Izzy that he killed Lucius. He told him to come and meet him, much to be done but then Ed is nowhere in sight when Izzy is giving the orders to clear the room. No one is wondering where Lucius is at that point.

The next time we see Fang, he’s playing back-up to kraken!Ed in the cabin while Ivan and Izzy are busy marooning the majority of the crew. Fang is drinking from a bottle of rum and staggers a bit when he knocks Jim down. While this wouldn’t be out of character for pirates to be drinking, there’s a recurring motif of people taking refuge in alcohol when they have lost someone in the show:

Fang, by this point, has probably been told “our beloved Lucius” is dead since he and Ivan must be in the loop about what’s going on.

Given how upset he got when Roach was talking about amputating Lucius’s infected finger and how much care he took of him when he was sleeping, Fang drinking to drown his misery over Lucius’s death wouldn’t be a stretch.

(I was going to say he looks a bit chiller at the wheel at the end of the episode, which made me think he’s maybe picked up a Lucius out the water, but frankly, everyone looks a bit chill compared to Ed and Iz in that scene)

[thewickedspinster]

Death of the Fighter (Ruhn Danaan x Reader)

warnings: language, fluff, nothing else

a/n: had a glass of wine and wrote this. just cute ruhn fluff ig.

You'd thought things could not possibly go worse.

You'd been wrong.

Your month-long deployment with the Aux to the Eternal City had been one fucking disaster after another. Between Celestina breathing down your neck, the rebels trying to kill you at every given opportunity, and the Asteri glowering down from their thrones each morning as you briefed them, you weren't sure how much more your frayed nerves could take.

It wasn't supposed to be that difficult. When Naomi had pitched it to you - a month-long sojourn across the sea to root out a violent criminal cell operating in some of the most inaccessible holes in the city - you'd thought it would be a decent trip. You were known for tracking criminals, terrorists, and monsters; your magic had been honed for it, and your ability to fight was renowned, earning you a place high in the ranks of the Aux. Cake walk, right?

Nope.

This was Celestina's first task as Governor of Lunathion; to send the city's best to aid an issue that had grown out of control across the sea. And to do it entirely under the radar, so the people would never know that the Asteri were struggling to control crime in their own city.

In your first few days, however, you realized that the conspiracy ran deeper than you'd ever thought; the criminal underground was deeply connected to the city's elite. Through a convoluted web of connections, it was also linked to the rebels, who were using funds earned on the black market to fund their violent activities in the north.

Basically, without back-up, you were fucked. And Celestina flat-out refused to send more than Naomi for help, paranoid that the Asteri would punish her for it.

Much worse than punishing the Governor, Sirius decided to send his Hammer to your aid. As one would assume, someone dubbed "The Hammer" is not exactly the most covert individual. Besides that, he was a complete alphahole, and in more serious ways than you had experienced in quite some time.

His advances were bold and aggressive. You'd earned a reputation in Lunathion for your own violent attitude towards unwanted males, but clearly, Pollux Antonius didn't give two fucks about your reputation. Or what you wanted. And it was getting out of hand - the taunts, the suggestive language, the misogyny. The groping.

Unfortunately, punching him in the face for it was a death wish. You'd done it; one time, you had struck him for his hand wandering to your ass, and you had paid the price for it.

All this, and now, you were cornered in an alley, about to fight your way out of a group of these criminals you were trying to hunt down. Tonight was meant to be the last raid; the one that would take out their leader and blow up their main holdfast. You were in a far southern part of the Eternal City, far from the view of the Asteri, and thank Cthona that was the case, because you were cursing them straight to Hel for getting you into this.

"This is stupid," you panted to Naomi, drawing your weapons. "I'm never leaving Valbara again."

"You and me both," she muttered. "These fuckers are so annoying, like roaches."

"Rats," you agreed. You spoke louder, so they could hear you. They jeered from behind their gilded masks. "Too scared to show your faces. Sad."

You and Naomi had been fighting together for decades. When you struck, it was in unison, with fluid, fatal precision. Within minutes, you had worked through a dozen of them, but they continued to flow into the alley. If you could just get past them, you could round the corner and drop the dirty bomb into the grate above their headquarters. It would be too easy, too simple.

Then, lo and behold, the angelic motherfucker himself slammed into the narrow space from above, splitting the crowd and crushing one unfortunate soul's trachea beneath his boot. The Hammer fell, and the goons went scattering.

Unfortunately, his landing had been so violent that debris went exploding outward from the ground around him, sending a broken bit of stone straight at your head. It struck you, blinding you momentarily with the force. When your awareness returned to you, your enemies were gone, but the bomb had flung from your tac belt. You squinted across the narrow space between the buildings, and you had a split second to experience the horror of seeing the pulled pin lying on the ground next to you before everything went white, then soundless, then black.

~~~

The infirmary was quiet, aside from a gentle beeping. You had been awake some time, staring at the wall. It was far too sterile in here, and it made your head pound worse than it already did.

You wanted to be home.

Thank Urd, you had been taken straight back to Valbara after the Hammer nearly killed you. You wouldn't have been able to stand the thought of him being on the same continent as you for a second longer. You were convinced he'd done it on purpose. And even if he hadn't, he'd sure as hell been smug about the whole incident when reporting to the Asteri, according to Naomi. She had, somehow, escaped the blast mostly unscathed, aside from some shrapnel-related injuries. She had been handling the fallout back in the Eternal City, and though you felt somewhat bad about it, you were too exhausted to really care.

When word had gotten back to Celestina about your critical injury, she had summoned the only healer she knew she could trust - Hypaxia. Your half-sister.

You and Hypaxia had been close since she abandoned her people. Your people, you supposed, but the witches had never cared to claim you as Hecuba's daughter. When you began showing signs of precocious power at thirteen, they had come knocking, but you denied them your membership in their legions. You belonged to Blood and Earth, and that was final.

She healed you with care, and with commitment to your desire for secrecy. You wanted no one to see you, no one to even know you were back in the city. For all intents and purposed, you were still on-mission across the sea.

In truth, you couldn't yet face the pity that the boys would surely greet you with, much less the anger that would erupt from Ruhn Danaan when he discovered just what had delayed your return home. Dec, Tristan, and Ruhn had been your roommates for years, and they were unequivocally your best friends. And their reactions to this incident would be... devastating.

But now, it was almost impossible to push the homecoming off any longer. Your sister had healed you, and you looked as good as you ever would again.

"You should get going, before they start partying for the night." Hypaxia's gentle voice came from the doorway. I sat, fully dressed and ready to go, but unable to stand up. "You know they'll want to see you."

"I know they will," you grumbled. "I just am so not ready to deal with them."

"It's not so bad, truly, (Y/N)." She entered the room and went about undoing the IV drip, unclipping the heart monitors. "You have new scars, yes, but those have never bothered you."

"Their reactions are what worry me." You rubbed at your face self-consciously, the burns and pockmarks smarting beneath your fingers. They covered the right half of your face, twisting the flesh and mottling it dark. "They'll be pissed."

"They have a right to be. I'm pissed too."

"Yeah, well, get in line, folks." You sighed, eyes downcast. "I don't know why. Just... the thought of their anger makes me so nervous. I don't know if I can deal with that."

When you glanced up, uncertain, you saw Hypaxia's expression soften. "I can warn them, if you think it would help."

You swallowed. You'd never had this problem before. Maybe you were vain and that was it; you'd come home with injuries plenty of times. But this time... it just felt too real. Too close to death, too close to a hatred that Ruhn already nursed.

And, in truth, you wanted his softness, not his fury. You just wanted him.

You took a deep breath, and nodded. "I think that might be good."

Hypaxia gave a nod, peeling off her gloves. "Right then, let's go."

She grasped your hands and helped you upright. After two weeks of intensive healing, you were able to walk with barely a limp. Still, you didn't know how long it would be until you could report back for duty. The thought also made you quail.

The ride in the cab across the city to the house was quiet. Your sister did not let go of your hand once, and you held tightly to her. Things didn't need to be spoken; you were grateful to have each other, and though this one had been a close thing, she was thanking Urd that you were still alive. You'd spent far too long apart to squander a single moment together.

When the taxi pulled up to the house, you were relieved to find it still quiet, despite the setting sun and the Friday night. Usually, the boys partied hard on the weekends, mirthroot and booze and harder things included. Sometimes, you enjoyed mingling. Others, you went to bed early. The boys respected it either way, and loved you the same.

They must have been tracking your phone, for when the car stopped, the front door swung open, and the three males came spilling out of the house, Ruhn bringing up the rear. They were shoving each other around, not expecting what was about to greet them.

Hypaxia squeezed your hand, caught your eye, and then ducked out of the car, leaving you in a moment's silence. You saw Ruhn draw up short when it was her, not you, who appeared, and you saw their expressions drop as Hypaxia explained your condition.

You took a deep breath, blew it out, and stepped out your own side of the car, rising to face them over the top of it.

Declan was shocked, his eyes wide and mouth open. Tristan's voice was getting louder as he demanded answers from Hypaxia. And Ruhn... he was looking straight at you, vibrant eyes searching. And he wasn't calm. The rage was palpable, like ice against your skin. You schooled yourself into stepping around the car, expression neutral, shoulders straight.

Tristan fell quiet when he noticed you, coming to stand beside your sister. With a short chuckle, you said, "Reckon I have the coolest scar now, losers."

In an instant, they were crowded around you, Tristan crushing you to his chest. Dec wrapped an arm around the both of you, keeping you close.

"Love you, sunshine," one of them whispered.

Tears sprung to your eyes, unbidden. "Love you too, boys."

When they let you go, Ruhn hadn't moved from the spot. Cautiously, you turned, embraced your sister, and let Dec and Flynn guide you up the walk. They talked quietly while they lifted your jacket from your shoulders and moved into the living room, offering you a drink or a smoke or a water. They babbled about how they'd been planning on throwing a party, but that now they weren't in the mood.

Eventually, though you had managed a couple of quiet answers, they got too involved in bickering about whether they should bake cookies or just heat up some pizza. You hadn't sat down, still waiting with more than half your attention for Ruhn.

He startled you so badly you yelped. He just appeared beside you. Then, he took your hand and led you from the living room, up the stairs. The sounds of the other two arguing faded as the door to his room shut behind the two of you.

You stared at him in the low light. He stared at you.

Uncertainty.

"Ruhn?"

"I will rip out his throat."

The statement startled you, though it shouldn't have. You'd seen it coming from a mile away. But the way it had been delivered, in a snarl you hardly recognized from the male you called your best... everything... Well, it was shocking.

"Ruhn," you whispered. "Please, don't."

"How can I not?" He demanded loudly. You winced. Your head began to pound once more. "He nearly killed you, (Y/N)."

"He's not worth our breath."

"He could have ripped you from me in an instant. And he wouldn't have even cared."

"But I'm here, I'm-"

"Don't you dare say you're fine." He thrust an accusing finger at you. "You're not fine."

"You don't get to tell me whether I'm fine or not," you snapped back, heat flaring to life. "I don't need this shit from you, Ruhn. Not now."

He paused.

"I just need-" You pressed a fist to your chest, trying to knead the pressure away. "This is precisely why I didn't want to come home, and I just need-"

"What?" His entire demeanor had changed in an instant from accusing to worried, brows furrowed and frowning.

You could hardly produce a sentence. Your breath was coming too fast, and tears made your throat swell. Panicked, you tried to push past him, to sidestep him and make it to the door. But he blocked your attempts, finally taking you by the elbows.

You managed a half-whimper of his name before he took you in his arms properly, pulling you in close.

"I'm sorry, (Y/N)," he murmured into your hair. "I'm so sorry, shh, I've got you."

You sank into him, giving yourself the grace to accept this. He was warm, and his shirt was soft, and he smelled like he always had - gunpowder, faint vetiver cologne that had been applied that morning, and soft, sweet mirthroot. And he held you like you actually meant something.

It felt pathetic to let someone else to give you meaning. But gods, did it have a way of molding you whole.

"I don't want to fight anymore," you whispered into his tear-stained chest. "I'm so sick of all this bullshit. I'm so sick of hurting."

"You're so strong," he whispered back. "And you don't have to fight anymore. You can do whatever you want."

You sniffled, sliding your hands under his shirt, feeling the life beneath.

"Who am I if not that?"

Ruhn smiled, pulling back to cradle your face in his palms. His gaze was full of fondness, of pride, his earlier fury gone without a trace. "Whatever you want to be. Anything. Everything."

He pressed his lips to your brow, tracing new scars and old.

"I'll be right here the whole way."