Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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The midday sun burned hot overhead, casting long shadows across the dusty terrain of the Ring of Wrath. Perched high on a rocky ledge, Striker lay prone, his custom rifle, crafted from the finest Angelic Steel, balanced on a sturdy tripod. The rifle was his pride, an intricate masterpiece of craftsmanship and deadliness, a perfect compliment to his sharp, no-nonsense demeanor. It pressed against his shoulder like an extension of himself.

Far in the distance, a black van crept across the desert floor, its tires kicking up twin trails of dust. In the vast nothing, it stuck out like a fresh scab.

Striker adjusted the scope, his breathing steady. But he was anything but calm.

He was being relentlessly pestered.

“Wouldya get off me,” he growled, voice taut with irritation. “I’m tryna work here.”

Chaz loomed over the gunman, chin resting atop his hat. 

“But I’m so bored .” He stretched the word out with a dramatic whine, his tail swishing lazily behind him, his body slumped like he would simply dissolve without stimulation. 

Striker let out a sharp sigh. “Then go find somethin’ to do that don’t involve pissin’ me off.”

“You’re no fun, cowboy.” Chaz groaned, leaning back. 

He resorted to kicking rocks, huffing and puffing in annoyance. But then, a mischievous grin curled at his lips then. Why shouldn’t he make things interesting? 

“Betcha can’t hit the target while I’m distracting you.”

Striker didn’t respond, his eyes locked through the scope, but sighed in a way that only encouraged Chaz further.

The finned demon reached to flick the brim of Striker’s hat, just hard enough to tip it over his eyes.

The gunman’s finger twitched on the trigger, and for a split second, Chaz thought he might actually fire off a round. The tension hung thick between them. Instead, Striker let out a low growl, twisting around to shove the nuisance away with one sharp motion.

“You wanna lose that pretty face of yours?” he warned, his southern drawl dripping with menace, the weight of his words heavier than the revolver he now clutched in his hands.

Chaz laughed, loud and carefree, planting his hands on his hips like he owned the situation. “Oh? You think I’m pretty , huh?”

“Quit fuckin’ around,” Striker hissed, his patience wearing thin. “I got an easy shot up here, and I don’t wanna waste more bullets than I need.”

A string of muttered curses slipped between his teeth as he adjusted his hat back into place and returned to the scope. 

But Chaz wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. 

He sauntered closer, his smirk practically dripping with provocation. “Y’know, you got a lot of pent-up frustration there, cowboy. I think we should ease it with a good ol’ fight.” He cracked his knuckles, daring Striker to take the bait. “Or…maybe another thing that starts with the letter F.”

Striker didn’t flinch, hardly eager to entertain Chaz’s antics. “Why? Ya wanna end up in a full-body cast?”

“Ha! You wish! You think I’d go easy on you?” Chaz teased, leaning down to get into Striker’s line of sight.

“I’m not lookin’ to get my hands dirty, so I’ll pass,” Striker replied coolly, though the stiffness in his voice betrayed his mounting irritation.

“Maybe you’re too chicken ,” Chaz remarked, his voice infuriatingly smug.

Striker remained silent that time.

The sharkman rolled his eyes, but decided to push just a little harder. He leaned in even closer, his rancid breath landing on Striker's skin now.

“Go on. Shoot ‘em already. You’ve had the gun pointed right at them for a hot minute now. What’s the holdup?” 

Striker still said nothing. 

“Maybe you’re not as good as you claim. Shoulda known.”

Slowly, Silas turned to face him, his tail lashing violently behind him, belaying his rising temper. His golden tooth caught a sunbeam like a signal flare. He scoffed, low and dangerous. The man’s audacity was remarkable.

“You must have a death wish, fishboy.” His words were a slow, warning roll.

Before Niccolo could fire off another quip, Striker put him on his back with a forceful shove, the parched earth puffing up beneath him. He towered over Chaz, casting a long shadow across his chest. 

“If it’s a fight ya want, then c’mon! Let’s see what that loud mouth ‘a yers is worth.”

Chaz stood with a start, a wide grin plastered across his lips like he’d already won. He had—this was a victory in itself. 

He shoved Striker right back before they came face to face, fists clutching clothes.

“I’ve just bout had it with yer fuckin’ games!”

“Yeah?! Go on and shoot me then. I dare you!” Chaz barked.

With no more room for words, Silas swung first, fast and brutal. His fist collided with the shark’s jaw—a punch he let land. With countless years of brawling with mafia men under his belt, he could have easily dodged. But he was eager to begin. 

They fought like wild demon dogs, grappling fiercely, kicking up a storm around them, their curses ringing out across the plateau like gunfire.

Chaz laughed the entire time—short, sharp bursts of amusement between jabs and parries, clearly reveling in the chaos. This was a game to him.

But Striker wasn’t playing. Every punch he threw was loaded with fury, a festering need to put the bastard in his place. His knuckles cracked against flesh, his breathing ragged with rage, until something inside him snapped. With a growl, he yanked a knife from his belt and lunged. The glint of the blade was sudden, vicious like a flash of lightning. 

Chaz’s eyes widened, but his reflexes were faster. He caught Striker’s wrist mid-swing, just in time to stop the blade from burying itself in his face. It hovered inches above his eye, the sharp tip trembling as Silas pushed down with everything he had. Chaz’s arm shook under the force, straining to keep it back. He pleaded for mercy through clenched teeth, but the man’s expression was wild as he pressed down with both hands. They remained locked—a heartbeat away from a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

“ Shit! Okay, I give up! ” the sharkman yelped, arms trembling, yet he still choked on his laughter.

Striker only saw red.

Chaz jerked his head to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade, then slammed his palm against Striker’s chin, sending him sprawling to the ground. Finally free, he scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender as he backed off, breathless. 

Striker jumped to his feet in an instant.

“I’m done, okay?! Fuck…” Chaz huffed.

A toothy, victorious grin flashed on his face. “Next time, I’ll be sure to pluck out both them pretty emeralds,” he growled before reaching for his hat and fixing it back on.

Chaz groaned, rubbing his arm as he straightened up, his smirk still in place despite the loss. Scoffing he admitted, “Didn’t think you had that in ya.”

Striker ignored the comment, already walking away with a triumphant swagger. “Shoulda stayed curious,” he muttered, settling behind the rifle once more.

“Gotta admit, you’ve really got some muscle on you.” Chaz admitted, rolling his shoulder. His eyes were low as he added, “Kinda sexy .” 

Striker froze, his content expression replaced with a look of utter disbelief as he glared at Chaz. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” he replied, beaming with confidence. “Didn’t think you’d be so surprised by a simple compliment.”

Striker’s face turned an interesting shade of red, but he averted his gaze before the sharkman caught sight of it. “Yer unbelievable,” he muttered, grabbing his rifle as he got back in position.

Chaz laughed, his voice cutting through the tension. “Aw, don’t be like that! You know you love me.”

Striker didn’t bother to respond, his focus back on their target in the far distance. But the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, hidden beneath the brim of his hat. For all his bluster and gall, maybe, just maybe, Chaz was right. Perhaps, Striker considered, he wasn’t as unbearable now as he was when they first formally met.

***

It was a typical night in Hell—a murky haze of smoke and chaos coated the air as Striker made his way to his favorite drive bar in the heart of Wrath. He’d just finished a job and decided to unwind with a drink. 

It was typically dim—the bar illuminated in by a strip of neon, the tables by low hanging lamps—but unusually quiet save for a few lingering patrons and the bartender cleaning up for the night. 

Striker walked in with a commanding presence, it alone enough to clear a seat for himself at the counter. He eased into the ambiance, his hat tipped low over his eyes, sipping on whiskey as he relished in the rare moment of peace. 

Until he walked in. A snarky fellow, loud, brash, and oozing a chaotic energy. He entered like he owned the place, his cocky grin flashing as he greeted waitresses and friends, sauntering to the bar. Striker didn’t bother looking up, hoping to avoid whatever nonsense was bound to follow. 

Unfortunately, the assassin had other plans.

“Oh, look who it is!” he called out, knowing Striker was there all along. Plopping himself into the seat beside him, he added, “What’s a guy like you doin’ here all alone?”

Striker didn’t blink, but his tail snaked behind him. “I travel light,” he drawled, his tone flat. 

Chaz laughed, throwing his head back like he had just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Of course you do.”

“Whaddya want?”

“Relax, big guy. I’m just makin’ conversation. No need to get your spurs in a twist.”

Striker’s gaze flicked to the side, finally meeting the other man’s. Chaz was still grinning—wide, toothy, and unbothered—his teeth catching the dim light like a shark who’d just caught the scent of something fun to chase. The look wasn’t threatening so much as taunting. It set Striker’s nerves on edge. Not from fear—he’d stared down the barrel of worse men—but from a deep, crawling irritation, like a fly buzzing too close to his ear that wouldn’t swat clean.

“Yer damn persistent for a stranger,” the hitman muttered, looking away. “There somethin’ ya need?”

The tension between them was thick now, drawing the eyes of a few patrons. But before things could escalate, Chaz’s expression softened into something almost genuine.

“ Stranger ?” he chirped. “We met before, remember?” 

That got Striker thinking. He wasn’t one to remember a passing face, but Chaz seemed to treat him like a familiar. 

“We both work for the big little guy, Crimson. I saw you at the last meeting,” he went on. 

Striker blinked, the memory manifesting in his mind. They had met, even before then, but he never paid much attention to the finned creature. Chaz was nothing but a whiny brat who only followed orders because he was paid to. 

“He sent me to tell you about the next assignment,” the shark added.

Striker let out a low groan. He’d just completed his previous one, no more than 2 hours ago. ‘No rest for the wicked, it seems.’

“Well, whatcha waitin’ for? An invitation? Spit it out.”

Pulling out a file folder from his leather jacket, Chaz placed it before the wrangler. “It’s a tough one, so I’ll be joining you.”

Striker glared daggers at the other demon. “Like Hell you are!”

“Boss’ orders,” Chaz shrugged. “Nothing personal.” Scanning the wrangler’s physique, he suavely added, “Trust me, you look like the type’a guy who can handle himself.”

Striker growled again, his tail whipping behind him, the rattle of a snake buzzing in the air. He took a generous swing from his glass, running it dry. 

Finally taking interest in the assignment, he flipped open the folded paper. The photo of their target seemed familiar, causing a memory Silas had long buried to surface. His eyes narrowed, then widened, quickly recognizing the man they were after. His stomach dropped.

“Ya know, I gotta admit, rancher,” Chaz began again, his tone taking on a softer lilt. “You’re the most interesting person in this dump. The least I can do is buy you another round.”

The remark was enough to pull Silas from his thoughts. He raised a brow, studying the man with a reserved gaze, like he was a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. 

“Fine,” he finally agreed, tipping his hat. “But don’t go thinkin’ this makes us chumps.”

Chaz smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, partner.” 

Ordering the drinks for himself and his assigned companion, he leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated air of ease. He began rambling on about his day, giving Striker an earful. 

The faint clinking of glass and distant laughter left him overwhelmed, his ears buzzing and head spinning. Striker was in no mood to entertain, his eyes remaining fixed on his drink, claws idly tapping against the glass. 

Finally, he cut in. “Is there anythin’ else?”

Chaz blinked, blinked, his grin faltering. “What?”

“If y’ain’t got nothin’ useful to say,” Striker snapped, his tone sharp as the edge of a blade, “then spare me yer bullshit. My ears been ringin’ all damn day, and I don’t need ya to make ‘em bleed.”

Chaz leaned closer. “Oh, c’mon, rancher. Don’t be like that.” His tone was light, though his smile carried a hint of something more calculated. His spiky teeth gleamed in the low light, the predator in him enjoying the tension. “You’re always so serious. Maybe you just need someone to…loosen you up.”

Striker stiffened, refusing to meet the demon’s gaze. “Piss off.”

Chaz chuckled, undeterred by the venom in Striker’s words. He rested his chin in his hand, his eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“Why would I do that when you’re right here? Besides,” he added, leaning closer still, “you caught my interest. I like my men rugged and dangerous.” His voice dipped into a purr. “And you are the whole damn package.”

Striker’s head snapped up, glowing yellow eyes narrowing into a fierce glare, tail twitching behind him.

Chaz crooned, edging even closer until their faces were mere inches apart. 

“I’ve seen the way you handle those guns. You’re a real skilled sharpshooter…”  His voice was a mix of mockery and allure, each word a deliberate poke at Striker’s fraying composure. “Bet you’re just as good with your hands off the battlefield.”

Striker froze, his brain scrambling to process the blatant innuendo. He snarled in disgust. “Shut yer damn mouth before I shut it for you,” he snapped, grabbing Chaz by the collar.

The scaled demon laughed, more breath than bite. “Go ahead. I meant everything I said.” The words were just loud enough for Silas to hear.

The hitman’s jaw tightened as he shoved Chaz away with a rumbling hiss, his tail rattling in warning. ‘Of course I get paired with a dipshit like him,’ he thought bitterly, taking a final swig. The whiskey burned, but it was a welcome distraction from the shark’s relentless taunts. 

Without another word, Striker pulled out his wallet and dropped enough bills to cover his tab. Standing abruptly, he adjusted his hat and turned toward the door, his boots clicking against the floorboards. He didn’t bother looking back.

Chaz downed the last of his drink, throwing his own money before scrambling after Silas. He easily caught up, his stride long, leaning in just close enough to make the gunman’s temper flare again. 

“Listen. Whaddya say we grab a bite somewhere? You pick. I’ll pay.”

Striker rolled his eyes. “I’ve had enough ‘a you for one night.”

“C’mon, don’t be like that. We still gotta make a plan of action.”

Striker let out a long, audible sigh, his tail flicking sharply behind him in irritation. “You just don’t give up, do ya?” he muttered, finally glancing at Chaz.

“It's sorta my specialty,” the shark demon shrugged. “So, what’re you in the mood for?” He casually placed a hand on Striker’s shoulder. “I know this great seafood joint on—”

The demon stopped cold, shoving Chaz’s hand off and pushing him against a wall. “ Don’t fuckin’ touch me, ” he hissed, voice dangerously low.

Chaz smirked, unaffected. If anything, the push got him going. “Just sayin’ I’m flexible.”

Striker’s brow twitched as he walked off. “Definitely not seafood. Yer breath reeks enough as it is.”

The other man chuckled, keeping pace with his assigned companion as they wandered through the streets. He was going to have more fun with this assignment than he’d anticipated.

Chapter Text

Striker quickly discerned the van to be out of the rifle’s range now. He groaned. Peering through his scope one last time, he followed the road to the only building in sight: a small wooden saloon. 

With a scoff and a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, he muttered, “Looks like we needa pay our little buddy a visit.”

Folding the tripod with practiced ease, he secured it and his rifle on his back. A sharp whistle cut through the air, summoning his horse who grazed nearby. The creature trotted over, its fiery mane flickering like sunlight.

Chaz began whining again. “Can we take my car this time? Riding on your horse bruises my ass.” He reached back, rubbing away the phantom pain. “I need to keep it pretty for the ladies.”

Striker’s gaze snapped to him, his eyes narrowing. “It’s your fault I lost my opening, so don’t go thinkin’ you can call the shots,” he pointed.

“C’mon, man, the ride’s more comfortable in a vehicle.”

“You take yer cruiser, and I’ll take my horse. Just like before.” Striker exasperated. ‘Anythin’ to get away from you.’ 

“That’s inefficient. I’ll get there first and be forced to wait on you. My car is more discreet,” the sharkman reasoned. “If we pull up on your flaming pony, all the heads will be turning our way!”

“Quit yer yappin’ and get on!” Striker demanded, tightening the straps on his rifle. “We’ll come back for yer piece ‘a shit later.”

Chaz groaned as he slumped over, but complied. Pulling himself up, he quickly became distracted by their size difference and the shape of his body like always. 

His voice took on a teasing lilt. “Maybe you just like the feeling of my big ol’ hands around your tiny little waist.”

Striker stiffened, a shiver snaking down his spine as he felt Chaz’s oversized hands on him.

“ Fine! ”  He shoved the nuisance off. “We’ll take yer shitty fuckin’ beater!” Hopping down, he tied the reins to a nearby post, cursing to himself.

“I knew you’d see things my way,” Chaz said with a smug grin, dusting himself off.

With that, they trailed down to the sedan at the bottom of the rocky hill. As the engine sputtered to life, he wasted no time in cranking up the volume on his pop mixtape, the cassette already rolling. The music blared as they drove off. The driver—oblivious to Striker’s discomfort—bobbed his head and belted out lyrics, his hands drumming on the wheel to the beat. 

Chaz glanced at his comrade then, noticing how stiffly he sat. “C’mon, Strikey! Live a little!” he cheered, nudging Striker.

“ Don’t touch me, ” he hissed, glaring out the window with his arms crossed. 

The smell of old fast food wrappers and the crunch of garbage at his feet made him sick. Every swerve of Chaz’s erratic driving only caused his frustration to grow, the man practically thrown around in his seat.

The sharkman remained blissfully ignorant. 

“Drive straight, dammit!” Striker snapped, throwing a hand up in warning. “Or I’ll pop a bullet in yer tires and we’ll have to drag ourselves the rest ‘a the way!”

Before Chaz could retort, Striker’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out, turning off the radio with a sharp jab to the power button, much to Chaz’s dismay.

“Striker speaking,” he answered, his tone clipped.

Crimson’s voice crackled on the other end, laced with irritation. “What the hell’s takin’ yous so long? It’s nearly been 36 hours! I expected results by now from my top boys.”

“My sincerest apologies, sir. I had the shot, but fishboy over here fucked it up,” Striker replied, glaring pointedly at Chaz. 

His expression twisted as he scoffed, raising his hand in question, mouthing, “Really?”

“I’m tired of excuses, Southerner,” Crimson growled. “I’ll give you two another 24 hours, but that’s final . I can’t afford any more misses.”

“Understood, sir. We appreciate your generosity.” Striker’s voice dripped with reluctant courtesy. 

The line went dead before he could say anything more. Snapping his phone shut, he turned to Chaz with a look that could melt steel.

Ever the oblivious man, the shark began to whine again. “Why’d you tell him that? You started that fight—”

“You think this is some kinda joke?!” the gunman roared.

His words were slow and stinging, like lava trailing down a mountainside. He pulled out his dagger again, the blade glinting, his spiked tail snaking in the air. 

“Hell, I don’t even know why we got paired up in the first place!”

Chaz glanced at his passenger, trying to delegate his focus between him and the road. He tried to retort with something playfully witty, but the darkness in Striker’s voice was unsettling.

“Let me spell it out for ya,” he went on, his claws gripping Chaz’s overly-gelled hair. Pulling him to eye-level, the edge of Striker’s knife threatened to cut his throat. 

The car swerved at the sudden shift. 

“If we screw this up again, we’ll be served on a silver fuckin’ platter! I’ve been pullin’ my weight all damn day while you had yer dick in yer hand! Unlike you, some of us do these jobs to survive! Not for the damn fun of it!” 

Striker’s words seemed to blister Chaz’s very soul. Though he enjoyed the manhandling, he knew this was no time to crack another joke. “Alright, alright,” he pleaded, holding up his hands in true surrender now. 

“Keep yer head on straight! I ain’t gon’ tell ya again!” 

Glancing at him as he nodded in understanding, Chaz noticed a glint of anxiety mixed with the fury in his comrade’s eye. It was unmistakable, the sight catching him off guard.

Pushing him away with a gruff groan, Striker returned the knife to its sheath and resumed his former position staring out the window, working to douse the flames of his rage.

Chaz cast another glance at him, the last trace of levity draining from his features. He had only meant to ease the tension—inject a bit of light into the otherwise grim cadence of their work. The spoils of what they did left little space for laughter, and he’d hoped that slipping in a moment of humor might draw even the faintest smile from Striker. In all the time they'd spent together, he'd never seen the man crack a genuine one. 

And somehow, Chaz wanted to be the reason he did.

The rest of the drive passed wordlessly, the poorly maintained car rattling over the gravel.

The saloon door creaked open as the pair stepped inside. Their boots thudded against the warped wooden floor, the sound echoing faintly throughout the space. Smoke hung thick in the air, mingling with the dust and the murmur of conversation. 

Striker’s eyes scanned the room, his gaze sharp, but their target wasn’t there. ‘Great.’

Chaz swaggered in with his usual air of nonchalance, hands in his pockets and eyes darting to the nearest female. He tipped his head at a demoness, offering a wink and a cheeky smile.

Striker continued on, his hat low over his eyes, his mind racing suddenly. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to spiral out of control. 

“C’mon,” he called to Chaz, leading them to the bar counter. Sliding onto a stool, he motioned for two drinks while pulling out a small notepad and pen from his cropped jacket. 

Chaz plopped down beside him, idly spinning a coaster on his finger. “So… What’s the plan, boss?” he dragged, his tone lighter than the situation warranted.

Striker didn’t answer, instead preoccupying himself with scribbling in the pad. The rough outline of the saloon’s underground began to take shape—a labyrinth of hallways and hidden rooms. Chaz leaned in curiously, tipping his head to see past Striker’s hat. 

“This place ain’t just a stop for weary travelers,” he began. “People ‘a power come here to make deals all the time. There’s a series of rooms hidden below. I been there once or twice, so I’ll lead the way.”

As Striker spoke, his leg bounced under the bar, the motion small but insistent. His pen hovered mid-air as his hand twitched, belaying his mounting anxiety. 

“We’ll head down this way and check the rooms,” he added, drawing out their path. “I’m guessin’ the target’s on the last floor somewhere. It only makes sense given his status.” 

As Striker spoke, Chaz noticed his leg bounce under the bar, the motion small but insistent. His hand twitched, belaying his mounting anxiety. He knew the hitman was a long-range specialist, not trained for the kind of close combat they were about to walk into—their target was masterful at it. And worse, Striker didn’t trust him.

Rather than teasing, Chaz straightened up and offered a rare note of reassurance. “Hey, I won’t let ya down.” Striker met his gaze, the statement unexpected. “I gotcha back,” he chirped.

Striker clicked his tongue, brushing the comment off. “Sure, whatever. Let’s just move.” he prompted, throwing back his drink in one go.

The pair entered through a door falsely labeled as the closet, descending down the hidden, creaky hallway. The air grew cooler, heavier with a kind of tension that seeped into their bones. Their weapons were drawn, Striker’s rifle shaking slightly in his grip. His tail whipped behind him, but differently than before, the motion slower, almost meeker. It was clear to Chaz that his partner was frightened, but he said nothing, though his hand twitched with the urge to steady him. He knew calling attention to it would only make things worse. 

The underground labyrinth was a network of dimly lit corridors, each hallway stretching into shadowy obscurity. The walls were old stone, cracked and damp, with the faint scent of mildew and something metallic that hinted at blood. Each hallway harbored a series of doors, plain and unmarked, a narrow staircase zigzagging downward into the next floor at the end. 

The assassins moved with purpose, their footfalls echoing faintly. They checked each room with meticulous precision, every creak of the hinges and groan of old wood wound their nerves tighter. Striker’s golden eyes darted over the dim spaces they searched, finding only overturned furniture and the lingering evidence of hurried retreats. His breathing quickened with every empty room, the tension curling like a spring in his chest. Sweat dampened his brow, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, cursing under his breath. 

Assassination assignments were his forte, something he excelled at. Only this job wasn’t just another hit—it was about survival. 

The details of their mission were chaotic. It was clear from the beginning that this wasn’t just business; it was personal, an operation born from animosity and spite. At the heart of it all was Crimson, the ruthless Mob Boss whose fury burned hotter than Hellfire itself. He had been pushed to his limit when Asmodeus, one of the Seven Deadly Sins, crossed a line no one dared to before. 

The spark was a threat made by the bold Imp—a declaration of death aimed at Fizzarolli, the Sin’s favored partner and performer. After regaining possession of him, Asmodeus retaliated, hungry for revenge. He sent one of his most cunning and trusted henchmen to infiltrate Crimson's heavily fortified manor. The robbery was precise, leaving Crimson’s vaults lighter and his reputation tarnished. It wasn’t just about the money stolen—it was the message, the insult. 

From that moment, Crimson unleashed his wrath. His warpath was relentless, spanning across the Rings of Hell as he hunted for the elusive henchman. Every step of the way, the Sin’s operative remained one step ahead, protected by a fortress of heavily armed bodyguards. These weren’t ordinary mercenaries—they were soldiers wielding Angelic weapons, a rarity in Hell and a death sentence for most who crossed their path. The stakes weren’t just high; they were fatal. 

Chaz entered the picture during the fallout, a wildcard who quickly earned Crimson’s trust with his lethal efficiency and penchant for chaos. He possessed skills that set him apart—dexterity, brute strength, and a knack for turning the odds in his favor. His methods were unorthodox, often flashy, but they worked, and Crimson valued results above all else. 

Striker was already a staple in Crimson’s inner circle. The Boss placed confidence in the hybrid Imp’s abilities, but knew his defensive instincts were lacking—a dangerous weakness against enemies armed with the silver weapons. That was where Chaz came in.

Crimson deliberately paired the unlikely duo together for this reason, knowing full well that the assignment wasn’t another mere job; it was a battle of pride and power in the unrelenting chaos of Hell. 

On the third floor, they finally reached the last door at the end of the dimly lit hall. This was it. Striker knew their target was on the other side. He paused, his hands tightly gripping his weapon. His breathing was shallow, the weight of the task ahead pressing down on him. 

“Let’s give ‘em a show.” Chaz whispered, his grin unnerving in the low light. 

Glancing back at him, Striker gave a terse nod, his focus sharpening. With one swift motion, he kicked the door open, the force sending it slamming against the wall with a deafening crack. 

The tension felt like a taut wire about to snap.

Inside, a group of men sat around a battered table, previously discussing a business deal. The single hanging light above them cast long shadows across their faces, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air, mixing with the heavy scent of liquor. Weapons rested casually within reach on the table’s surface, their owners clearly prepared for trouble. 

At the center of it all was their target—Asmodeus’ henchman, a hulking demon draped in an immaculate three-piece suit, a zigzag scar over one eye. He lounged in his chair with a calmness that bordered on arrogance, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of his seat. His sharp, red eyes glinted with a predatory gleam.

His gaze jumped between Striker and Chaz the moment the door burst open, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. It was evident he had been waiting for this. 

“Well, well,” the henchman drawled, his voice smooth and mocking. “If it ain’t Crimson’s lap dogs. The cowboy and the clownfish.” he remarked, gesturing broadly. “I’ve heard so much about you two. Especially you , Striker.” he growled. “Shame you’re not as grand in person.” 

The gunman’s jaw clenched as he tried to suppress the wave of panic rising in his chest. His usual bravado shattered, his grip on the rifle white-knuckled. The memories clawed their way to the forefront of his mind: the nights he had worked for this monster’s many clients, the things he had been forced to do under his command, the twisted games of dominance that left scars far deeper than any superficial ones he bore. 

The job file Chaz handed him at the bar made his stomach churn. The target’s name alone was enough to send a shiver down his spine, but refusing the assignment wasn’t an option. Crimson’s steady paycheck was the only thing keeping him afloat. Yet the nagging suspicion that Crimson knew about his history with this demon made bile rise in his throat. 

Was this a test? A punishment? He wasn’t sure, but the weight of the implication threatened to crush him.

Before he could steady his aim, the henchman snapped his fingers. Movement erupted as his bodyguards surged forward, weapons gleaming with Angelic runes. 

Chaz swiftly stepped in front of him. Teeth grit, his twin pistols roared to life, spitting fire with unerring precision. 

“Come get some, motherfuckers!” he baited, his voice ringing out over the cacophony of gunfire. 

Each shot landed true, taking out the first wave of attackers before they could close the distance. Chaz moved like a force of nature, his normally cocky demeanor replaced with grim determination. 

Despite his efforts, it only took two guards to overwhelm him. They were tall and brawny, easily tackling Chaz to the ground, pinning him in a brutal grapple as he fought tooth and nail. He managed to land a punch on one before the other struck him in the stomach, driving the wind from his lungs.

Gasping, Chaz looked back at his partner. “Striker, take the shot!” he shouted, desperation creeping into his tone. 

The gunman jumped at the sound of his name but didn’t move, frozen in place. Striker’s wide eyes locked on the smirking demon who now rose from his chair. The rifle in his hands dipped slightly as his muscles refused to respond. His heart thumped in his throat, choking him as the henchman took a slow step closer, then another and another. 

The sight of the paralyzed Imp only seemed to amuse the henchman, chuckling darkly. “You won’t kill me,” he growled, striding toward him. The man’s eyes glowed as he clasped Striker’s neck, pulling him closer. “You don’t have it in you. Do you, half-breed mut?” 

Reflexively, Striker lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger, but the demon brushed it to the side with practiced grace. The blast of the round lit up the room, the bullet splintering the floorboards. Ripping the gun from Striker’s grasp with a quick pull, it clattered to the floor as though it were a mere toy. 

“We should have some fun before your demise. I’ve heard countless tales about the things you’re really good at.” the demon sneered.

With sudden force, he slammed Striker against the wall, forearm pinning hard against his throat. The pressure cut his breath, a choked gasp escaping as his back hit the stone. His hat tumbled from his head as he struggled against the man, clawing at his arm. 

The henchman’s free hand fumbled in his pocket, retrieving a syringe filled with a murky liquid, the solution shimmering eerily beneath the dull light.

Flicking off the needle cover, the monster exposed the vulnerable line of Striker’s throat. He pressed him harder into the wall as he thrashed violently, panic flaring in his eyes. The man’s strength was unyielding. The instant burn of the drug spread like fire through his veins. 

It was all too familiar. 

Striker cried out, the sound fractured. The edges of the room warped and dimmed as darkness curled at the corners of his consciousness, slowly dragging him under. Laughing, the wicked man tossed the syringe aside, kneeing Striker in the groin. Pain shot through him as he fell to the ground.

“Striker!” Chaz cried, struggling violently against his captors. He managed to land a kick against one, but the other struck him across the jaw with the butt of their pistol, dazing him. Pinning him down, they bound him with thick ropes before dragging him into the hallway.

Chaz and Striker locked gazes, a silent, anguished plea flashing in the gunman’s eyes before he disappeared from his comrade’s line of sight.

The tension in the room was suffocating, every breath heavy with dread. Backing away into a darkened corner, the once-brave wrangler now cowered in fear, his hands trembling as they rose in a futile shield. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and the palms of his hands, mixing with the grime of the floor. 

"Please, I’ll do anything!" he whimpered, voice cracking. 

The monster tilted his head, a slow, menacing chuckle rolling from his throat, each note dripping with malice. His grin widened unnaturally, the sharp edges of his teeth glinting in the dim light as he strode forward, unhurried, savoring the fear saturating the air.

“No, no, wait. Please!” Striker begged, his boots scuffing against the floorboards as he scrambled further into the wall’s unyielding embrace. His hands clawed for an escape that wasn’t there, the walls closing in as the demon loomed over him like a dark storm.

The vile being looming over him like a dark storm. “I should’ve done this a long time ago,” he growled, his voice a guttural snarl. He drew out a dagger from his coat then, the edge glinting in the light. 

The guards moved with brutish efficiency, dragging Chaz across the floor and tossing him like a broken doll. The sharp pain did nothing to dampen the surge of adrenaline that coursed through him to his feet. His instincts screamed at him to run, to fight, to do anything—but he froze as the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his head. 

“Don’t even try it, shrimpy,” the guard sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. 

The faint metallic click of the safety disengaging was deafening in the silence. 

 Chaz’s jaw clenched, his fists balling tight. Though he didn’t dare move. 

“Why not just kill us?” he gritted. 

His narrowed eyes bore into the guard’s, though his resolve began to falter as he caught the faintest glint in the other man’s gaze—something cruel and unhinged, a promise of horrors yet to come.

“Oh, we will,” the guard replied with a dark chuckle. “But Boss has gotta satisfy his craving first.” His voice was almost gleeful, his words lingering like a cruel joke.

Chaz’s stomach twisted at the implication. His confusion showed for a moment, but dread quickly replaced it. “What’s he gonna do to him?” he demanded.

“Shut it!” the guard barked, shoving the gun harder against Chaz’s temple. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Sure enough, Striker’s pleas pierced the air inside the room, his struggle evident. 

Chaz’s breath caught in his throat as he listened to the guttural cries reverberating through the door, muffled but no less harrowing. The sounds crawled under his skin: screaming, gagging, choking. He could hear Striker’s claws digging into the wood, his torment unrelenting against the barked commands of the monster.

Realization slammed into Chaz like a freight train, a surge of white-hot fury igniting in his chest. 

His eyes snapped back to the guard, locking on with a glare so cold it could freeze fire.

“ How dare you? ”

A second row of teeth grew from his gums, his eyes glowing with fury. With terrifying speed, he bit down on the barrel of the Angelic pistol pointed at him, snapping it clean off. The guard blinked in disbelief, examining it for only a fraction of time before razor-sharp teeth ripped at his jugular. The demon let out a shrill cry, blood spraying from his neck and across Chaz’s face.

“What the fuck?!” the second guard cried, scrambling for his gun.

Chaz’s attention jumped to him, the man still in his teeth. Releasing his jaw, he fell to the ground with a sickening splat as the other demon opened fire. Chaz easily dodged the bullets, his body twisting and slithering through the air like an eel. He closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye, sinking his teeth into the man’s leg. Blood splattered the walls as the guard collapsed, screaming. 

Spitting the appendage out, Chaz finished him off with a mirrored bite to his throat, ripping the demon to shreds in a fit of rage.

Panting, he freed himself and snatched a guard’s pistol.

Gun in hand, Chaz burst through the door—and froze. What he saw hit harder than any punch. 

Striker lay choking on the floor, turning purple, the demon’s hands constricted around his throat, stripped of his dignity, legs up, blood trailing down his chest from a fresh wound, clawing weakly at the monster who freely used him for his personal pleasure.

The henchman’s grin dripped with wild ecstasy as he turned over his shoulder, drool stringing from his chin. He reached into his blazer and cocked back the hammer, aiming at Chaz’s head.

But to him, the monster seemed to move in slow motion. Time stretched unbearably thin, each second an eternity. 

Striker’s disdain for his jokes, his earlier anxiety, the haunted look in his eyes—it all made sense now.

Chaz’s expression darkened, seething with hatred. His voice dripped with venom as he spat, “ Bastard. ” 

The word tore from his throat as he raised the pistol. The shot rang out, piercing through the man’s skull and dropping him instantly.

Striker’s ragged, gasping breaths filled the brief moment of silence that followed. He coughed violently, struggling to inhale as he held his throat. Then a sound tore from him—a wail so raw and broken it sent a chill down Chaz’s spine. His eyes darted around the room, wide and unseeing, his body trembling uncontrollably as he shook his head, uttering a broken “no” over and over.

Chaz was at Striker’s side in an instant. He worked to get Striker’s attention, his hands hovering over him, unsure of what to do. His gaze fell on the wrangler’s chest, the Z that was carved into the skin over his heart. It matched the formation on the henchman’s eye.

Striker recoiled instantly, his terror snapping to Chaz. Blood painted the sharkman’s face and neck, glistening in the light as it lit him from behind, giving him the appearance of a monstrous figure dredged from Striker’s past, a waking nightmare.

Panic surged through his blurry mind as he scrambled backward. But Striker’s body betrayed him, falling limp with each movement, debilitated by the sedative. He let out another terrified cry, wedging himself into the corner.

“Hey, it’s okay, it's okay. You’re safe now,” Chaz assured him tenderly, desperation thick in his voice. He shrugged off his jacket, trying to drape it over Striker’s body. But he pushed Chaz’s hands away, his movements frantic despite his lack of strength. 

“ Don’t touch me! ” he barked, the words choking on sobs that tore painfully from his throat. 

“Striker, look, it’s me. It’s fishboy ,” the shark demon pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion. “We’ll getcha right in no time.”

The humor fell flat as Chaz’s hands trembled. Frantically, he tore through pockets. Each time he came up empty. Another blow to his dwindling hope. Doubt mounted in his chest like a suffocating weight. He moved from one corpse to the next, staining his hands with blood as he cursed to himself. 

Finally giving up, he ran back to Striker’s side, slumping in defeat. 

The wounded man’s voice broke through the chaos, utterly destroyed. “Kill me,” he choked out, his face contorted in anguish. 

He couldn’t bear to relive the experience a moment longer.

The words cut through Chaz. "No, no, no. Don’t say that. You’re gonna be just fine. I’ve got you," he reassured him. "Listen, you’re bleeding and I need to stop it. I have to help you, okay?"

Striker only wept now, shaking his head weakly.

Chaz’s eyes stung as he removed his shirt and tore the fabric. “I’m sorry, Striker.” 

He gently shifted his comrade to wrap the makeshift bandage around his chest, his hands quivering all the while. He moved with a tenderness that felt foreign, afraid of causing more pain to the man that now seemed so fragile. With the fabric secured, Chaz draped his jacket over Striker, shielding his frame as best he could. 

With trembling care, he scooped him into his arms, moving to stand with all his effort. The limpness of him was wrong—unnerving. Striker felt like a stone. It hollowed something out in Chaz.

Urgency surged through him as he tore down the hallways, each step a desperate beat in time with the hammering of his heart. Tears burned as they welled up, causing his throat to constrict, but he didn’t slow. He slammed his back against the back exit of the saloon, the scorching air hitting into him like a wall.

After fumbling with his keys to unlock the car doors, he laid Striker across the backseat. His breathing was staggered and heavy, a storm raging in his stomach, his vision blurring at the edges, his hands still trembling—but he managed to move with a careful reverence as he handled Striker, fastening the seat belts around him and keeping him covered with his jacket. 

He hated seeing Striker like that, surrounded by the piles of trash and filth. 

He deserved better than this.

Chapter Text

The engine roared to life as he reached for his phone. Impatiently sifting through his contacts, he tapped the screen and waited as the line rang, the sound drowning beneath the scream of his own thoughts. The person on the other end finally answered after what felt like an eternity.

“ Crimson! It’s Chaz— I dunno what to do. Striker is hurt, and— It’s bad! Real bad!” 

He stomped on the gas and sped off. 

“Woah, slow down! What the hell you talkin’ bout?!” Crimson barked through the phone, urgency instantly flaring.

“I don’t know!” Chaz’s breath hitched. “The target! He had this syringe—something strong—and he stuck Striker with it. I think it was some sort of…a sedative or something. But it could’ve been anything.”

“ What?! You were supposed to shoot him at long range! What happened to Striker’s rifle?”

“It's a long story…” he exasperated. “I’ll fill you in later, I swear.”

“Lord…” Crimson grumbled, shifting in his seat. “Is he bleeding or what?”

“He is, but I have that under control. He’s just—really out of it. Real weak. Honestly…he’s barely conscious,” he reluctantly admitted, glancing back at Striker through the rearview mirror.

“Alright, calm down.” The edge in Crimson’s voice betrayed his concern. “Where yous at?”

Chaz swiped the back of his hand over his eyes, forcing down a sob as he relayed their location. “We just left a Crimsonoon.” He glanced back again. “We— we’re in my car now. I’m gonna see if there’s a hospital nearby. I’m—” he paused, sighing. He wasn’t one to give out or disobey orders, but the severity of the situation called for it. “I’m sorry, but I can’t wait around.”

“It's fine,” the Boss assured him. “Just stay on the line.”

Chaz heard muffled voices through the speaker as Crimson whipped up a plan with someone. 

“I got a couple guys nearby. They were stationed there in case you two needed backup. I’m gettin’ a hold of ‘em now. They’ll meet ya at the hospital and handle the paperwork and formalities.”

“Okay, great.” 

“Wait in the car until they get there.” Crimson paused to exchange brief conversation with the men on another call. “They’re in town and should be there in ten.” 

Chaz voiced his understanding, glancing in the mirror again. He rolled up the windows, cutting off the roar of the wind so he could listen to Striker’s breathing. It was shallow, uneven, terrifyingly faint.

“Striker, you awake back there?” he called. No answer came. “How you holding up, buddy?”

The blonde managed a small groan, his head lolling to the side to face Chaz as his eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open. The driver kept talking to him, his voice wavering but persistent, trying to anchor Striker to consciousness. 

“Just hang tight, alright?”

As time dragged on, the blue glow of a road sign suddenly caught his attention—hospital signage rising like a beacon of hope. The crunch of gravel gradually gave way to the smoother rumble of pavement as they crossed into civilization, the town materializing in the distance.

Chaz gave his last update to Crimson, the call finally ending. He fully delegated his attention to Striker, blindly reaching back and locking their hands together, squeezing tight, as if that alone could keep him tethered to the world. 

But Striker didn’t return the gesture.

“Chaz…” he gasped weakly, a tremor in his voice. His eyes were wet with tears that streamed down to his ears. “I can’t move…”

“I know. You don’t have to. Just stay awake, alright?” Chaz pleaded, barely able to speak through the knot in his throat. “You’re gonna be fine. I got you. We’re almost there, okay? Just hang on. Hang on.”

Chaz drove like a mad man, weaving between vehicles. His grip on Striker’s hand tightened, feeling it grow colder by the minute. 

“C’mon, stay with me.”

His pleas became a whispered mantra, the tears finally spilling over as the dam broke. Still, he refused to give in, a new resolve burning in his chest. No one, he swore right then, would ever do this to Striker again.

The sterile hum of the hospital enveloped the fluorescent waiting room, a monotonous sound that only deepened the oppressive stillness. Faint beeps from distant monitors echoed through the halls, blending with the occasional murmur of passing staff and the muffled shuffle of rubber-soled shoes. 

Chaz sat alone, hunched over in a rigid plastic chair. He flipped his phone in his hands, a silent war playing out in his restless grip. His leg bounced with an erratic rhythm—nerves he couldn't control. The self-assured swagger he usually carried was nowhere to be found, replaced by the jittery energy of someone desperate for answers but terrified of what they might be.

The moment he pulled up to the hospital replayed in his mind like a horror film, each frame carved into memory. 

***

He parked beside the Emergency Room, promptly cutting the engine and taking a steadying breath before casting a glance into the back seat.

He froze, his heart dropping.

He dared to look again, slower this time.

Striker laid eerily still. His skin was pale and clammy. His lips were blue. So were his fingers.

Chaz called his name, his voice barely more than a gasp. He reached back, shaking him gently. “Striker— hey. Hey! ”

He leaned down. No breath. No rise or fall of his chest. Just silence. Chaz’s entire body locked up, eyes wide, a scream caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

Don’t think. Don’t panic. Don’t.

With numb fingers, he fumbled with his phone out and hit the call.

“Hey, uh…” he said the moment it connected, trying and failing to keep his voice even. “How long until the guys get here?”

“Should be there in five.”

“Okay, well— We can’t wait that long.” The words spilled out, jagged and fast.

“Look, just—”

“Striker doesn’t have that long, okay?! He’s not breathing, Crimson!”

“What?!”

“ I’m going inside! I’m sorry…”

The tears returned, hot and blinding as he kicked the door open. The heat of the afternoon slapped his skin again, burning and sharp. But he barely felt it that time. He reached for Striker, unfastening him with frantic hands, muttering pleas under his breath, caught in a storm of panic and denial.

He clutched Striker to his chest and ran. 

The world felt heavier with every step—an unbearable weight. Chaz’s arms trembled beneath the burden, his legs barely holding as he burst through the doors. Every eye turned to him as he shouted for help. The staff rushed to his aid in an instant. He did his best to explain the situation and answer their questions, but he could hardly hear himself.

After Striker was wheeled away, a nurse gently guided Chaz into a separate room. Her voice was soft and measured as she spoke—assurances that Striker was in good hands, that the team would stabilize him, that the damage would be stitched. But her words passed over him like smoke, unable to reach through the wall of dread.

The tremor remained in his hands as she cleaned them, her touch careful and grounding. It wasn’t until the cloth turned red that he even noticed the blood—Striker’s blood—caked into the lines of his palms and beneath his nails. It clung to him, warm and sticky, a stark contrast to the cold air that now graced his skin.

The woman moved to wipe his chest and face, speaking all the while. Unknown to Chaz, she worked to piece together the story behind the circumstances. He made up something believable: they got caught in a bar fight. Chaz tried to break it up. Striker got drugged with a syringe of something and cut up. Now they were here.

The nurse nodded along in understanding, but her eyes still searched his face. Then, without a word, she moved to drape a gown over his shoulders, a simple gesture of comfort. He blinked, confused until he realized he was shirtless. He remembered it all then: his shirt was wrapped around Striker, his leather jacket bundled around his body. He had torn them off without thinking, instinct moving his hands.

The adrenaline, once a raging fire, now dulled into a slow, aching throb. The room suddenly felt too quiet, too still.

***

The sudden vibration of Chaz’s phone startled him, causing him to drop it. Cursing under his breath, he scrambled to answer. 

“H- hello?” he croaked.

“How’s it goin’?” Crimson quipped, his tone almost too casual given the circumstances. “The boys filled me in a tad. Told me yous finished off the target and all his goons,” he began, speaking through a pleased grin.

The men Crimson had sent over arrived shortly after Striker was taken away. They handled the paperwork and formalities as promised, later speaking with Chaz in the parking lot about what had gone down. He asked them to go back to the saloon to retrieve Striker’s rifle and pick up a change of clothes on the way. They obliged with a sympathetic nod, advising Chaz to rest, still clearly distraught.

“Yes, sir. The job’s done,” Chaz replied quickly, though his voice still lacked bravado.

The Boss was quick to notice. There was a pause before he inquired, “Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Chaz Thurman, sir.”

“I’m not buyin’ it. What’d ya do with the real Thurman?”

“It’s me. I’m just… not myself right now.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I knew it!”

“No— That’s not what I meant,” Chaz stammered. “Look, a lot’s happened, and… I— If it’s okay, I swear to fill you in on everything later. I just…can’t right now.” 

The Boss let out a dragged sigh. “Alright.” There was a softness in his compliance. “I shoulda known one ‘a yous would get hurt,” he muttered to himself.

Chaz swallowed hard, his throat dry. There was something he had been meaning to ask Crimson for weeks, but every time the opportunity arose, his nerves got the best of him. Maybe it was the rawness of the moment, or maybe the Boss’s unexpected subtlety, but Chaz finally worked up the courage to speak.

“Sir,” he began, voice wavering. “With all due respect, I— I wanted to ask if—”

Crimson cut him off. “Listen, kid… Take a vacation. You and Striker. I’ll give ya both three weeks, paid. Yous earned it.” 

Chaz froze, stunned. He had barely been able to muster the nerve to ask for a few days off, much less expect a concession of this stature. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. 

The Boss continued. “I’ll need yous back at ya posts promptly after. No ifs, ands, or butts.”

“Y-yes, sir,” he stammered, finally finding his voice. “That’s more than generous. I’ll get the message over to Striker when I can see him.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Crimson leaned back in his chair. “Now, paint me a picture, dammit! I’m dyin’ ta know what happened,” he boomed, his gruff bravado returning.

With a faint grin, Chaz finally obliged, recounting the series of events.

Striker stirred in the hospital bed, his eyes fluttering open as the world came into focus. The room was dim, the overhead lights off, leaving only the faint glow of medical monitors. Blurry streaks solidified into a reality he wasn’t quite ready to face. 

Why the hell was he here?

A dull ache throbbed at his neck. He reached up instinctively, fingers brushing the tender muscles. A weak cough tore from his chest, rattling and raw, his throat scorched. They must have stuck that tube down his throat again. Something tickled under his nose. A steady stream of oxygen fed into him, gentle as a whisper. He ripped it off with a grimace and flung it aside. 

“Dramatic bastards.” 

He was fine. Just fine.

Drawing a deeper breath, he found his lungs stiff, the expansion strained and limited. His gaze dropped, lifting the hem of the thin hospital gown. Fresh bandages stretched taut across his ribs. The area was still numb, but the drag of stitches tugged beneath the gauze as his fingers skimmed it.

His head dropped back to the pillow, vision swimming as snippets of the incident played in his mind—the chaos, the cries, the white-hot sting of injury. A ragged sigh escaped him, struggling to piece the fragments together. 

His gaze drifted to the source of the irksome noise that pulled him from his thoughts then. Across from him, a sleeping Chaz lay sprawled out on a recliner, jaw slackened. A loud, obnoxious snore, broke through the stillness like a poorly tuned instrument. The sound grated on his nerves. 

His lips curled into a sneer. ‘Why the hell is he here?’

His eyes shifted to the bedside table, searching for something to throw. He found his phone, and with a weak but determined effort, reached to grab it with his tail before flinging it toward Chaz.

The phone hit its mark with a satisfying thunk before clattering to the floor. The man jolted awake, his hand immediately flying to the sore spot as he blinked in disoriented confusion.

Chaz gasped, his eyes wide as he sat up. But his initial joy faltered as Striker shifted away, burying his face into the pillow. 

"Get out," he grumbled, the words edged with resistance. But there was no real bite to them—just a fragile defense, a feeble attempt to conceal the raw vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide.

“What?” Chaz muttered.

“Y’ain’t gotta be here,” Striker told him firmly. He curled into himself as he pulled the sheets, working to shield himself from Chaz’s gaze.

“But I want to be.” 

There was a soft sincerity in Chaz’s tone that made Striker’s stomach flip. He hated it—the tenderness, the pity, the reminder of how far he’d fallen. 

He tried injecting some levity. “I mean…where else would I go? We’re in the middle of bumblefuck.” 

Striker remained still.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional beep of distant monitors. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered, reminding Striker where he was. He refused to look at the other man, burying further into the plush.

Chaz remained at his bedside, knowing he sought comfort, no matter how hard he tried to fight it. 

“How you feeling?” he finally asked, the question softer than a down feather.

Striker didn’t respond, pulling the sheet tighter. Why couldn't he get the message? Leave. Just go.

The tension between them was choking. He let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging as he slumped into the chair beside the bed. “Listen— I know I’m the last person you wanna see right now… But I didn’t know what to do, or if you’d be okay… I couldn’t just leave you here.” 

Striker let out a sigh of his own. “Look… I’m sorry.” The words hardly made it out.

“For what?” 

“I shouldn’t’ve froze up,” he admitted, so reluctantly it was barely audible. “He was right in front of me, but…everything he put me through came back up, and…” Striker let out a ragged breath. “I just couldn’t do it. Sorry I’m so pathetic.” 

Chaz leaned forward. “Are you serious ? The last thing you are is pathetic.”

Striker’s gaze wandered at the sudden shift, but he remained motionless.

“Look, I’m the one that fucked up. I shouldn’t have thrown you off your game, especially not when we had that shot on the cliffside.” He paused, the memory of Striker’s broken state flashing in his mind. “I— I never meant to put you in that position.”

Striker shifted slightly, the motion slow and almost cautious. His amber eyes flicked toward the other man, dulled and glossed over, lingering on his face. 

Chaz barreled on. “And I’m sorry for all those stupid fucking jokes I made…the way I treated you like some circus act. I apologize for all that shit, too, if it’s any consolation,” he stammered. “You deserved better than me screwing around.”

Striker could feel Chaz’s sincerity, but the burden of his own inadequacy lingered, coiling tightly in his chest. He shook his head in denial. 

“I shouldn’t have taken the job in the first place. I thought I’d outgrown him…thought I could face him again after all these years.” He hesitated. “Sorry ya had to see me like that.”

Chaz straightened in his chair, frustration spilling over. “Quit apologizing, dammit!” he hissed.

Striker’s eyes widened. 

Chaz softened his tone immediately. “Look, you don’t gotta carry all this on your own, alright?” He placed a hand on the side rail. “ I’m at fault, and I know that. You don’t need to play it down.”

Silence settled over the room, heavy and contemplative. Striker shifted again to lay on his back. The word was raspy but carried a flicker of warmth as he croaked, “No…” 

Chaz’s gaze drifted back to him, his expression unraveling. 

“I’m glad you were there. Thanks…for getting me out,” he said quietly, growing bashful. “No one’s ever…done that before.”

The tension between them lingered like the buzz of a distant storm, heavy yet somehow comforting. Chaz just stared, Striker’s words replaying in his mind. He couldn’t help but find it disarming, almost surreal, to see him like this. 

Blinking, Chaz straightened in his chair. “I’d never leave you behind.” 

Striker’s exhaustion gave way for a split second, his eyes shimmering with something he had always found dangerous. It lingered on the edge of endearment. Yes, that’s what it was. Endearment. 

Chaz felt his cheeks flush, a shy grin curling at his lips. He quickly broke their eye contact, snickering nervously. “I— I mean, no one’s ever had to put up with me this long. Had to make it up to you somehow, right?”

The faintest hint of a smirk graced Striker’s lips. Working to ease the tension, he asked, “What—happened?” He took note of Chaz’s hair, usually spiked up in his signature style that now sat flat and damp. He still wore a hospital gown over his shoulders, the front loosely tied, exposing the bare skin of his chest marred by fresh scrapes and bruises. “There’s gotta be a good story behind why you look like that.”

Chaz glanced down at himself, scoffing as he ran a hand through his hair. “Trust me, there is.” A spark lit up his eyes as he launched into the story, not just recounting but performing it. He added dramatic pauses, wild gestures, and exaggerated details that twisted the grim reality into something almost cinematic.

Striker’s brows knit together, his face caught between awe and amusement as he tried to keep up with the embellished retelling.

“Oh, you shoulda seen me,” Chaz mused. “It was sick ! I never felt more alive.”

“What the fuck?” Striker muttered through a breathy laugh.

Chaz’s grin stretched wider, warmth blooming in his chest. He did it. He got a smile out of him. 

“Oh, yeah, and the target’s dead. I shot him straight in the head,” he declared then, pointing a finger gun. “You’ll never have to see that bastard again.” His tone was nonchalant, but the underlying pride was unmistakable. “I guess that makes me your hero.”

Striker scoffed, “Sure…” rolling his eyes.

For that moment, the room didn’t feel so heavy. The tightness in his chest eased just enough for him to take a full breath. His gaze drifted upward, lost in thought. He let Chaz’s rambling words wash over him, the chatter filling the room with a semblance of comfort.

“Sal called earlier,” he continued, leaning closer. “Get this: he gave us three weeks paid vacation.” His brows raised, as if expecting applause.

Striker blinked. “Huh… Thought I was awake.”

“No, you are ,” Chaz laughed. “Trust me, I had the same reaction.”

“Ya sure he said three weeks ?”

“Yep,” he nodded, supporting his head with his hand. “He felt bad for putting us through that shit.”

Striker’s face twisted with skepticism. “You think he’s tryna get rid of us? Let us down easy?”

“ Nah , no way. He practically thanked us for killing that guy. That’s big for a mafia Boss.”

Striker’s initial anxiety subsided. But the question still stood—what was he supposed to do with that much time? The idea of a vacation felt more like a sentence. Chaz, thoughtful as ever, tossed out a few possibilities. He mentioned cleaning out his car and finally getting it fixed, catching Striker’s attention. The faintest hint of light gleamed in his weary eyes. It turned out all his previous nagging hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.

His gaze lingered on Chaz as he rambled off other neglected tasks. There was something disarming about how animated he suddenly became, how unguarded he looked, softer, untouched by the world. Striker relished the moment. It had been far too long since someone let their walls down so completely.

Their conversation drifted again, Striker deciding to voice his own plans. “I’m thinkin’ about gettin’ another tattoo… Maybe I’ll enter a rodeo for some extra cash… Been meanin’ to compete at a shootin’ range, too.”

Chaz couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up, slapping the rail. “Wow, totally not cliché, cowboy. You gonna write a country song about it, too?”

“Yeah, yeah. Go get a fuckin’ manicure, city boy ,” Striker drawled. Chaz laughed harder. The blonde’s tone shifted back to thoughtful as he recalled, “Come to think of it, there’s a festival comin’ up. Harvest Moon, if I ain’t mistaken.”

“Oh, yeah? I’ve heard of that.” Chaz twirled a finger in the air as if conjuring the memory. 

“The locals throw a block party every year,” Striker explained. “And trust me, we know how to fuckin’ celebrate.”

Chaz nodded with a hum, attempting to mask his curiosity. “You should go, then.”

Striker glanced his way. “Yeah, we will.”

“Huh?”

“I said we will . Ya deaf?”

“What, you mean like…together?” The other man’s voice rose an octave.

“Yeah, why not? How you gon’ find yer way ‘round otherwise? Ain’t like ya know the first thing bout a Western festival.”

Chaz’s cheeks flushed faintly. “Yeah, I guess not.”

“ Exactly …” Striker sighed. Exhaustion began to creep back up, his eyelids drooping. 

Chaz scoffed, but the warmth in Striker’s tone wasn’t lost on him. It had been a long while since someone had invited him anywhere—let alone someone like the maverick.

“It’ll be fun,” he murmured. “I’ll show ya all the good stuff…” 

His gaze lingered on Striker for a moment, a pang of something unfamiliar pulsing in his chest. It was enough to keep the grin on his face as he leaned back in his chair.

It was genuine, the kind he rarely allowed himself to show. He could finally feel the weight of the day lift from his shoulders. The three-week break that initially shocked him suddenly felt a lot more welcome.

Pulling out his phone, Chaz hummed absently as he opened a food delivery app and scrolled through the options. His thoughts were fixed on what Striker would enjoy, recalling his choice for last night’s dinner. Searching up the restaurant, Chaz placed an order, his grin widening at the thought of surprising Striker with comfort food. 

Chaz stood and slipped into the hallway then, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Seating himself on a chair against the wall, he moved to the next thing on his checklist. He scrolled through the reviews of the best mechanics and auto body shops in the Seven Rings. Striker deserved to enjoy a smooth ride, Chaz refusing to settle for anything less.

He dialed both shops, arranging appointments at both for later that week.

This wasn’t just about keeping busy. It was about making sure Striker woke up to find the world running smoother than he’d left it. It was care disguised as action—a quiet way of showing his comrade that his concerns hadn't gone unheard. He knew the road to recovery wouldn’t be easy for Striker, but the sharkman was determined to be there every step of the way. 

Chapter Text

The faint aroma of something rich and savory wafted into the hospital room, slipping through the cracks of Striker’s fading dreams like smoke curling beneath a door. It tugged at him with growing insistence. He groaned, stretching with a wince as a sharp ache lanced through his chest. The pain was still there, but now something else cut through louder: hunger, insistent and rumbling.

The door creaked open. Chaz stepped in with his usual swagger, holding two clinking beers in one hand and plastic bags swinging from the other. He looked out of place in the sterility of the room, like a shot of color on a faded canvas.

“Rise and shine, cowboy,” he called.

Striker blinked hard and pushed himself up, nose twitching as the scent grew stronger. “What’s that?” he croaked.

Chaz smirked. “Oh, you’ll see.”

He set one of the bags on the tray that hovered over the bed and unpacked it slowly, dramatically, like he was revealing treasure. Inside the white plastic box sat a meal too beautiful to be real in a place like this—heaping portions of golden-brown fried chicken, creamy mashed potatoes swirled with gravy, collard greens that still held their vibrancy, and a biscuit so fluffy it might have been plucked from his dream. Against the monotony of the room, it looked like a gift from the heavens.

For a second, Striker could only stare.

“Figured you’d prefer this over radioactive mystery mush.” Chaz slid the tray closer, cracking open a beer with a sharp hiss. 

Striker looked at him as if he’d just delivered salvation. 

“Go on,” he urged.

His hand hovered over the fork, hesitant to disturb the beauty of the food. The first bite was everything he remembered and more. Crispy, seasoned batter gave way to tender meat, each mouthful of the meal grounding him more than the last. The ache in his body quieted. The air felt warmer. His expression softened, lips parting around a muted sigh.

Chaz took a swig of his beer, watching him with quiet satisfaction. Now seated with his own box, he gestured casually to the other bag. 

“I also gotcha a change of clothes.” He rummaged through it, pulling out a black shirt. “And this for myself,” he mused, changing into it as he added, “I didn’t know what size you wore, so the fit might be a bit baggy. Beats wearing these horrible gowns, though.”

Striker nodded absently, too engrossed in his meal to respond. As he took another bite, his chest tightened with emotion he couldn’t suppress. His eyes welled up, and before he could stop them, the tears escaped.

Still chatting, Chaz flipped on the outdated TV mounted on the wall. Skipping through channels, he glanced over and asked, “Know anything worth watching?” 

He paused when he noticed the tears streaking his friend’s face. Striker shoveled more food into his mouth, his expression crumpled.

“Woah, hey!” His voice pitched with alarm. “What’s wrong? Does it taste bad?”

Striker shook his head. “No. Shut up.”

Chaz blinked, quickly realizing the cause of his tears. He handed Striker a napkin, a small grin reappearing. “C’mon, man, it’s just takeout.”

He swiped the tissue with a playful aggression. “That’s enough.”

“What?” he chuckled.

“I’m a man and yer makin’ me cry like a bitch . What the fuck? Enough already.” He wiped at his eyes but found himself crying harder, the emotions too strong to suppress.

Chaz laughed warmly.

Striker's heart clenched. The simple act of sharing a meal with Chaz hit him harder than he’d expected. He truly believed he wouldn’t make it out. He took another bite, the taste of gratitude potent. For the first time in a long time, he felt something close to peace.

The parking lot was a desolate sprawl of cracked asphalt, its faded lines barely visible under the pale glow of the overhead lamps. The sky was a darker shade of burnt orange, the color never truly fading from such. Like all Rings, Wrath was never blessed with the grace of the sun or moon.

Chaz leaned into his battered car. His grimace deepened as he dug through the chaos of the interior. Wrappers crinkled in his hands, the sour aroma of stale soda and forgotten leftovers almost making him sick. 

He sighed, the weight of his negligence becoming more apparent with each handful. He paused to glare at the sticky, fossilized remains of a french fry clinging to the seat belt buckle, muttering, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He spat a slew of curses under his breath. 

From the depths of his glove compartment, he pulled out a new-car scented air freshener. The chemical-laden smell felt comically out of place amidst the swampy aroma, but he hung the little tree on the rearview mirror anyway.

Stepping back, he surveyed his work. It wasn’t perfect but at least it no longer looked like a mobile garbage dump. He brushed his hands off on his pants with a satisfied smirk before making his way back inside.

Across the lot, a demon dressed in a bowler hat and trench coat sat in his car parked under the shadows of a streetlamp. He’d been watching the shark all the while, his gaze never wavering.

A phone was pressed to his ear. 

“He’s heading back inside now. But I’m telling you, he’s with the one that did this to us.” he insisted. “Those other two goons just stopped by to drop off a couple bags.”

A crackling response came through the line, followed by an authoritative voice. “Excellent work. Plant the tracker and get outta there.”

Chaz returned to Striker’s hospital room, finding him sitting on the edge of the bed, now dressed in the outfit that was bought for him. The clothes were slightly baggy but still a decent fit, leaving the sharkman satisfied with his selection. A fabric sling supported his left arm, a clear reminder to avoid straining his stitches. 

His amber eyes flicked to Chaz as he entered, a faint smirk pulling at his lips as he slid off the bed to his feet. “Doc came by for a checkup. They gave me some cream and antibiotics. I’m good to go.” 

With a nod, Chaz grabbed the plastic shopping bag from the chair, now filled with Striker’s medication and a few hospital-supplied odds and ends.

However calm he appeared, Striker still felt uneasy. The halls seemed to stretch endlessly, the inconsistent beeps making his skin crawl. He hated hospitals. But Chaz’s chatter helped to drown out the buzz of noise in his head. He kept pace beside the Imp, noting the caution in his movements, like he didn’t trust his feet.

Just as they crossed through the main entrance, Striker’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out. 

“Crimson,” he grumbled, shooting Chaz an annoyed look. 

Chaz rolled his eyes playfully.

Stepping ahead to open the passenger door, he welcomed Striker in with a theatrical bow, lashes fluttering. The man shook his head, slipping inside as he relayed his status to their Boss. He noticed the sudden cleanliness, hit by the scent of the air freshener.

Chaz rounded the car, tossing the plastic bag into the backseat before slipping behind the wheel. He started the engine and pulled onto the dirt road, keeping the windows up to minimize distractions. 

The Boss’s voice was faintly audible as he filled Striker in on the chaos that ensued. His expression sharpened at the news as he absorbed it all. He glanced at Chaz every now and again.

When the conversation ended, Chaz handed his phone over to Striker, the music app already open. “Here. Play whatever you like.”

Tucking his own phone away, Striker raised a brow as he took the device.

Chaz noticed his puzzled expression. “You know how to use it, right?”

“Shut up,” he muttered, his fingers hovering over the touch screen. 

“Oh, I’ll also need you to type in your address. I have no idea where to go,” Chaz added.

“I live off the grid. I’ll just direct ya,” the gunman told him, his focus on the unfamiliar interface. 

He managed to find a rock playlist, the car filling with the gritty sound of distorted guitars and a steady drumbeat.

Rolling down the windows, Chaz tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm as they cruised down the empty highway. The road stretched endlessly ahead, a dark ribbon slicing through the arid desert. Shadows of towering cacti loomed like silent sentinels, their gnarled shapes scattered across the barren landscape. 

Striker breathed the faint scent of sagebrush as it wafted in. The hum of the engine blended seamlessly with the strains of music, creating a soothing backdrop to the stillness of the desert night. He hung his arm against the door, his eyes staring blankly, expression unreadable. His thoughts churned, a tangled mess of doubts and unanswered questions. 

Then, without a word, Striker’s hand shot out. 

Click.  

The music died, strangled mid-chorus, the abrupt quiet stiff. 

Chaz’s fingers froze on the wheel. He glanced over—but Striker didn’t return it. “What’s up, man?”

He hesitated, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. When he finally spoke, his tone was low, almost hesitant. “What you doin’ all this for?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“ This ,” Striker gestured vaguely, listing with a sharp edge to his voice, “the food, the clothes, cleanin’ yer damn beater… Is Crimson payin’ ya extra?”

Chaz shook his head, his expression earnest. “No, of course not.” 

“So what, yer just doin’ it outta the goodness ‘a yer heart?”

“M- maybe I am,” the other man countered, a hint of bashfulness slipping through. “Is that such a crime?”

Striker scoffed. “Don’t go thinkin’ yer gonna get lucky.”

Chaz didn’t miss a beat. “ No , it’s nothing like that.”

For a moment, the air between them hung heavy, quiet but charged. His voice grew thoughtful, measured. 

“Look, I’m not doing this to get anything out of it. I just… I wanna try this thing where I do stuff for people without expecting something back. Apparently, that makes you a ‘ good person ,’ or whatever,” he grimaced. “I used to think that was stupid, but… I don’t know.”

Striker studied the other man. This wasn’t the insufferable Chaz he had grown accustomed to. There was a frightening sincerity in his tone. 

Crimson had told him everything. About how shaken the man had been, how desperate he was to save him. Striker couldn’t wrap his head around it. Why did he waste his energy on someone like him? Just moments before the shootout, they were at each other’s throats.

“Even if Crimson had paid me double, I wouldn’t have taken it and done everything anyway,” Chaz continued, his voice quieter now. “You got hurt because of me. The least I can do is try to make it up to you.”

The Imp remained stiff, his gaze drifting back to the passing scenery.

“I’ll drop you off and be on my way if that’s what you want,” he said with a shrug, fingers splaying on the wheel. “But I meant what I said.”

Striker finally spoke, the words catching in his throat. “That’s not—” He paused, swallowing. “I… I appreciate it,” he forced out.

Chaz smirked, the edges of his expression softening as the tension unraveled. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he said with a lilt.

Striker threw him a glare. 

He flicked his chin at the console. “Put the music back on. That was a good song.”

The corners of Striker’s mouth twitched upward. With a quiet sigh, he reached forward and hit play. He watched Chaz from the corner of his eye as he tapped the wheel to the beat, singing along to lyrics. He was surprised to find that he knew the song. Maybe the playlist he chose was already part of his library.

“Left here,” Striker pointed, his tone settled now. 

The fluttering feeling in his chest lingered. If anything, it had deepened—grown roots. 

He didn’t fight it this time, didn’t try to smother it with logic or doubt. He just let it be.

After a long drive, the car rolled to a stop before an abandoned train tunnel, barricaded by crooked wooden planks and rusted chains. Faded NO TRESPASSING signs stood on either end, their warnings worn by time and weather. AREA UNSTABLE clung barely to the remnants of a post, half-buried in scrub and dust. A demon coyote howled somewhere far off, its cry echoing through the stillness.

Chaz leaned forward, eyes narrowing at a glowing creature in the distance. Striker’s horse stood grazing in the weeds, lifting its head to regard the car with mild interest. “Aw, he found his way home.”

The Imp cracked the door open and crossed to it with an outstretched hand. The animal whined softly, nudging against his chest.

Chaz climbed out behind him, letting his door slam with a bit too much enthusiasm. “You live in there ?” He gestured with both hands like the notion was absurd.

Striker shot him a flat look, unimpressed. “No, moron. My place is at the other end.” He reached into the brush and handed the shark a worn brass key and nodded toward the padlock chaining the entrance shut. “Unlock it.”

Chaz smirked, working at it. “That’s so cool , dude. It’s like a secret hideout.”

“Almost like it’s exactly that,” Striker quipped with a smirk. 

Reaching down, he grabbed the planks and lifted them with a heave. They slid up on hidden rails, screeching faintly like an old garage door. 

“When yer the most wanted criminal in all of Wrath, ya get a bit creative.”

The engine hummed softly as he rolled into the tunnel, the headlights cutting through the oppressive darkness and dancing off jagged rock walls. It opened on the other side to reveal an entirely different world. A modest wooden cottage sat nestled in the small valley of a mesa formation. The house was quaint and surprisingly new, its fresh, sturdy wood and metal roofing defying Chaz’s expectations of a weathered building with peeling shutters.

In the distance, a small field of grass surrounded by a farm-style fence housed a handful of grazing animals: a demon cow and several chickens and goats. Above the property, abandoned railway tracks clung to the rugged terrain, winding toward mine caves lost to time.

Chaz’s gaze lingered on the cottage as the car rolled to a stop, its engine fading into the reverent stillness of the mesa. “Huh,” he muttered. “Didn’t think you’d go for a ‘charming rustic’ kind of vibe.”

He stepped out, the other man following as he grabbed the bag from the backseat. Their shoes thudded softly against the wooden porch steps, the sound muted under the buzz of night. 

Striker reached into a hidden compartment in the siding, fishing out another key. With a soft click, the door creaked open.

Chaz stiffened then, the air between them growing awkward. He extended the bag almost robotically. 

“G’night. Call me if you need anything,” he said with a crooked smile. Turning on his heel, he trailed back to the car.

Striker paused in the doorway, his gaze following Chaz. The bag suddenly felt heavier than it should’ve, a pang of guilt tugging in his chest. Letting the man leave after all he’d done didn’t sit right. 

Drawing in a deep breath, he muttered, “C’mon, Striker, don’t be an ass.” His jaw tightened as he debated his impending decision. “Oh, I’m gunna fuckin’ regret this…”

Finally, he called, “Wait…”

Chaz stopped cold.

Striker shifted on his feet, swinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’ll…need help round the house till I heal some.”

The other man’s face lit up. “Oh. Sure! I’ll, uh, sleep in my car. Just— so it’s not weird.”

Striker scoffed. “You sleep out there, and the hogs and coyotes will eat ya alive. I can smell the blood on ya from here.” 

Chaz blinked, sniffing his turtleneck. The faint, metallic scent of it was unmistakable. 

“Now quit makin’ it weird and get inside,” Striker ordered, stepping in and leaving the door open. “Lock up behind ya.”

Chaz snickered, striding eagerly back toward the house, his steps lighter than before. Once inside, his eyes widened again as he took in the space.

The cottage was cleanly kept and surprisingly cozy. Rustic furniture filled the open living area—a plush leather couch faced a stone fireplace, a soft woven rug sprawled beneath it. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with trinkets ranging from worn-out cowboy hats to intricate carvings of desert creatures. The skull of a bull mounted above the mantel added a touch of the expected wildness. Chaz's gaze landed on a digital thermostat glowing softly on a nearby wall. He was grateful the place had air conditioning.

He let out a nasall y hum, genuinely impressed. “This is actually really nice.

“Built it with my own two hands,” the Imp remarked, puffing his chest as his tail curled with pride. “With a little help from contractors, of course. But I sourced all the parts and designed the place myself.”

“No shit?” Chaz chirped. “I’m honestly surprised it's not falling apart,” he joked.

Striker scoffed, trailing toward a liquor cabinet tucked in the corner. "I'm Wrathian , not uncivilized." 

The shark’s eyes drifted to a watercolor rendition of the cabin mounted to the wall. “Oh, lookie here!” he gasped. “You painted this?”

(Image AI Generated)

“I might’ve…” Striker shrugged bashfully. He pulled out a gleaming bottle of whiskey and a glass, the amber liquid catching the light as he filled it halfway. 

Stepping back to Chaz, he handed him the drink. "I brewed this m'self, too, ya know. Down in the basement." he added.

“Oh, so you’re a gunman, a handyman, and an alcoholic?”

“ And someone that can whoop yer ass, single handed or not.”

“No, no, I was just— pointing that out.” Chaz laughed, holding his hands up.

“Uh-huh,” Striker nodded, sarcasm lacing his tone as he swirled the liquor. "Don’t worry. I'll write ya a nice long list of responsibilities for tomorrow. I can't do much single-handed, anyhow."

Chaz agreed with a shrug, still laughing to himself. Lifting the glass to his lips, the smooth whiskey warmed him from the inside. Complimenting the brew, his gaze traveled around the house as he commented on the decor.  

Passively listening, Striker tipped the bottle up and took a generous swig, shutting his eyes as he savored the flavor. 

The other man’s chatter quickly drifted to a halt, finding himself transfixed by Striker’s blissful expression, the way his Adam’s apple jumped with each gulp.

Smacking his lips, the Imp exhaled with satisfaction. "Much better," he hummed, admiring the bottle. A brow arched at his comrade’s expression. "Ya good?"

"Y-yeah, good. I'm great," Chaz stammered, his gaze darting away. "You should… show me that sometime. The, uh, brewing process. Yeah. Sounds- interesting."

A hint of amusement flickered in Striker's eyes as he snickered. He turned on his heel, gesturing for Chaz to follow. "C'mon, I'll show ya 'round."

Chaz chuckled awkwardly, taking a long drag from his glass as he trailed after Striker. His attention was caught again by a small photo on a nearby table—a simple frame holding a snapshot of an unmistakable young Striker beside his trusted steed. 

(Artist: piyat_tidaaaa)

"Holy shit ! Is this you and your pony?" Chaz exclaimed, picking up the photo. “Aw… You two were so tiny!”

Striker glanced over his shoulder, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "Put that down…" he sighed, though his tone lacked real annoyance.

"Baby Striker rockin’ overalls? Oh my Luci, you were such a cute kid," Chaz continued, grinning widely as he examined the photo. 

"Shut up and c'mere," Striker muttered, shaking his head as he led the way into the next room.

They walked through the cottage, Striker pointing out the features with a mix of pride and nonchalance. It was a single-story home with an open floor plan. The living room flowed into a modest kitchen, where rustic charm met modern convenience. Striker opened cabinets to show where everything was stored—plates neatly stacked, glasses lined up with precision. He opened the fridge, the cool air wafting out as he surveyed its sparse contents with a contemplative expression.

"Guess I'll needa make a list of groceries, too," he mused aloud. His eyes flicked to Chaz, scanning him from head to toe. "Satan knows ya need some muscle on them bones."

"Hey! I have muscle," the shark demon defended, flexing his exposed arm. The effort revealed a hint of definition, but it was modest at best.

Striker chuckled softly. "If ya turned to the side and stuck out yer tongue, you'd look like a zipper."

Chaz laughed, a mix of amusement and faux offense. "You're one to talk, lizard ."

Striker whipped around. "Come again?"

Realizing he'd overstepped, Chaz threw his hands up in surrender again. "Kidding! Just kidding."

A slow smirk spread across Striker's face. "Ya can still sleep outside, by all means ," he teased, gesturing toward the door.

As they walked through the house, they passed two bedrooms and a bathroom. An attic hatch loomed in the hallway ceiling, while a door off the kitchen suggested stairs descending to the basement. 

Chaz followed Striker to another door down the hall. He swung it open to reveal a room that emanated the rustic charm the sharkman teased about earlier.

"It’s all yours," the rancher said, his tone bordering on genuine as he gestured expansively towards the interior. 

The room, bathed in the soft glow of the evening light, showcased a bed frame made entirely of small logs, their bark stripped away to reveal the smooth, underlying wood. The bed was dressed with a quilted topper, an eclectic patchwork of fabric in earthy tones of browns, beiges, and muted reds. The geometric patterns textile-printed along the edges of the comforter complemented the rugged style, while the area rug beneath echoed the same design, anchoring the room in a cozy, welcoming vibe.

Beside the window stood a small bedside table with its matching chair, the window frames adorned with white, V-shaped lace curtains, softening the natural light that streamed through. A sturdy wooden dresser leaned against the wall by the door, its surface free of clutter except for a couple of books and the skull of an animal. 

He led him back to the living room, flipping on the TV to keep him entertained while he went to bathe. 

The Imp stood alone before the vanity now, cold water rushing over his hands while the shower hissed in the background. His gaze was locked on the mirror, unblinking, drawn to the vivid purple bruises coiled around his neck like fingerprints frozen in time. His breath caught. 

No. It was more than bruising—it was a brand. 

He leaned in closer, eyes burning as he traced the edges of the damage, the skin too tender to touch. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. He didn’t recognize himself. Not like this. 

The water grounded him, barely. He needed it to stay present, to keep from slipping under. His body trembled anyway.

As he scrubbed away the grime of the day, the memories came in fractured bursts—the tension, the gunfire, the blood. Chaz. Each image flickered in and out like a broken reel, so fast it left him dizzy. The tears slipped freely now, blending with the steady stream of water, his face contorting and eyes squeezing tight.

With the other man in the shower, Striker took the time to refresh his bandages. He sat on the edge of his bed, carefully peeling back the damp gauze from his chest. The skin around the stitching was pulled and angry, the local anesthetic long since worn off. 

He caught his reflection in a mirror on the wall, the scar taking center stage. His heart twisted at the sight. He knew he had nothing to fear now. The man was dead. Chaz said so. But a wave of emotion surged through him anyway, heavy tears falling before he could stop them. He wiped at his face as he reapplied fresh bandages, muttering curses until they ebbed. 

The water stopped in the bathroom then, Striker’s gaze whipping to the door. He shot up and locked it before moving to clean the mess of first aid. He couldn’t let Chaz see him so ruined. Not again. 

Striker worked to steady his breath as he heard the other man wander into his room, humming to himself without a care in the world.

Chaz laid his clothes atop the dresser, wearing nothing more than a borrowed pair of boxers and the new shirt. 

A knock came at his door then. He looked up, calling Striker in.

He cracked the door open, the light from the hallway outlining his frame. “We’ll…get on that list bright and early tomorrow,” he said lightly, but the sound of his tears still lingered.

“Sounds good,” Chaz chirped, tugging back the edge of the quilted comforter. 

But Striker remained in the doorway. 

Something still sat heavy on his chest. “I, uh…” he muttered, shifting on his feet. The words got lodged in his throat again. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Chaz shrugged with a bashful grin. “Don’t mention it, man.”

They locked eyes for a tense moment. 

“Look, I… I shouldn’t’ve tried to kill you earlier. I’ll make it right.”

Chaz blinked in confusion until he remembered their fight on the cliffside.

“Dude…it’s fine,” he waved. “Water under the bridge.”

Striker’s eyes still wandered, but he gave a small nod. “G'night.”

“Night.”

The door shut with a final click. Chaz snickered as he settled in, the coziness of the bed a stark contrast to the couch he had initially expected to sleep on. He dozed off almost instantly, his soft snores breaking through the silence of the cottage, creating a soothing melody. 

In his bedroom, Striker laid staring at the ceiling. The incident still weighed heavy on his heart, but the sound of Chaz’s snores was an odd comfort, a reminder that he wasn't alone for once.

The cloaked man sat tensely in his car, the rumbling of his engine surrounding him. He held his phone to his ear like before, his other hand clutching a tracking device that intermittently emitted a soft beep. Its dimly glowing screen cast an eerie light on his face, intensifying the furrows of frustration etched across his brow.

“I think this tracker’s busted,” he grumbled into the phone. “It led me to the entrance of a blocked-off train tunnel, and it claims that that asshole’s car is inside.”

From the other end of the line, a voice laced with impatience demanded, “Okay? So get in there and find out what’s on the other end.”

“I can’t, sir. It doesn’t let out anywhere. I drove around the entire mesa. It’s nothing but solid rock,” the hitman replied, his tone a mix of defiance and disbelief.

Asmodeus, normally a master of composure, let frustration seep through his usual stoic demeanor. The sudden shift in his flames from a soothing blue to a violent red was a visual echo of the chaos the news had brought. His curse had reverberated through the phone like a thunderclap, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

The Sin had spent months on a fruitless vendetta against Crimson, but with the death of his henchman, a stark realization had clawed its way into his mind. It wasn't Crimson who needed to pay; it was Striker, the elusive figure whose actions had unknowingly thwarted Asmodeus's plans time and again. But lost in his single-minded pursuit, the King of Lust had overlooked the growing threat of a trafficking ring that had slowly been undermining his operations. Now, with his empire wobbling on unstable foundations, his directives had changed.

"Alright, just forget it," Asmodeus had finally said, his voice a mixture of defeat and simmering anger. "Wherever that vermin is hiding, he can’t stay hidden forever. Keep your eyes on Wrath and wait till he shows his face again. Question everyone and anyone that’s seen him until then."

“Understood,” the hitman replied tersely. The call ended with a click, leaving the demon alone with his thoughts and a growing sense of opportunity. With a grunt of frustration, he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

Though a loyal servant, the cloaked man was driven by his own complex motives. Striker had crossed him personally by killing the leader of their ring—a mentor and guide in the brutal world they navigated. His plan now was to bring the Imp back into the institution as a form of twisted retribution, ensuring he suffered every step of the way back to the dark depths from which he had once risen.

They might have lost the lead, but the hitman felt the winds of change shifting his way. The sense of imminent retribution, the quiet assurance that justice—or what passed for it in his world—would soon be served fueled his resolve. He pulled away from the tunnel, the car's taillights a pair of fading red eyes swallowed by the night, a silent promise that the hunt was far from over.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Striker woke squinting against sunlight that poured through the gauzy curtains, the warmth kissing his face with an almost obnoxious gentleness. A comforting smell hung in the air, rich and familiar. It mingled with the crisp breeze wafting in from an open window.

His gaze drifted to the door—already ajar—as Chaz eased through it, balancing a plate and a glass of water.

“Made you breakfast,” he announced with a casual pride as he approached the bedside.

Deja vu hit Striker like a slap. He shifted, attempting to sit up, but Chaz shook his head and waved him off. 

“No, no, take your time. I’ll be chilling in the living room,” he said briskly, already backing toward the hallway. “We’ll run out and grab those groceries when you’re ready. Oh, and don’t forget to take your meds.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Striker blinked, still adjusting to the light. His eyes dropped to the plate on the nightstand—scrambled eggs, toast gleaming with melted butter, and a pile of fresh berries, probably picked from the garden. 

He finally straightened up. “That boy’s some else…” he muttered, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

Despite the dull ache that still lingered in his arm, he dug in, savoring every bite. It tasted better than anything he remembered.

Over the next several days, Chaz proved himself more than just a helpful hand around the small farm; he became an unexpected spark of energy in its quiet rhythm. Each morning began with him preparing a hearty breakfast, the rich aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee wafting through the modest kitchen. The shark, despite his inexperience, approached every task with enthusiasm that bordered on reckless determination. Striker often found himself chuckling at the chaotic efficiency of Chaz’s methods—the way he chopped vegetables with a speed that sent onion skins flying or flipped pancakes high enough to graze the ceiling.

His first attempts at gathering eggs from the chicken coop were nothing short of a comedy sketch.

"You ain’t gotta fight ‘em, city boy," Striker teased, leaning against the fence with one arm cradled in its sling. His grin widened as Chaz muttered curses under his breath, finally managing to gather the eggs without breaking more than a few. 

Despite the initial mishaps, his care for the animals was genuine. Striker even entrusted him with the milking of his cow. The sharkman worked at the animal awkwardly, fighting back sexual remarks as he focused on the task. The wrangler stood idly by, watching with amusement all the while.

Later that morning, Chaz tackled a section of the chicken coop in need of repair. His efforts were valiant, if not a little misguided. 

"No, not like that," Striker grunted, stepping in with the air of a patient teacher. 

Despite the sling, his movements were precise as he steadied the new board with his free hand, demonstrating the technique with practiced ease. Chaz’s crooked ponytail bobbed as he leaned closer, determined to learn. Loose strands of hair obscured his view, and with a frustrated huff, he blew them away.

“Got it,” Chaz murmured, gripping the hammer with renewed focus. He mimicked Striker’s instructions, nailing the board in place with surprising finesse. When he looked up, searching for approval, the Imp offered a rare warm smile and a nod. 

“That’s better,” he praised, his voice softer now. Chaz grinned, a hint of pride lighting up his features.

The undercurrent of camaraderie between them grew with every passing hour. Striker guided Chaz through mending fences, preparing feed, cleaning the barn, and pruning the garden beside the cabin. The tasks were simple enough, yet they required a level of focus and care that seemed to suit the quiet rhythm of their temporary partnership. Even so, Chaz found himself spending most of that day wrangling a particularly stubborn demon goat that seemed determined to escape at every opportunity.

Carrying a bucket of water he’d retrieved from the well, Striker paused to watch, chewing absently on a dried branch of barley. His sharp eyes followed the shark as he clumsily chased the goat back into its pen, arms flailing and curses muttered under his breath.

Though he stuck to lighter duties like supervising and tending to odd repairs, Striker often found himself pausing just to watch Chaz at work. Only to ensure he performed his tasks properly, of course. 

By the second day, Striker had eased into a more relaxed routine. He’d guide Chaz through the morning chores before retreating inside the cabin to cook lunches and dinners or bake breads, the comforting scent wafting into the yard. When the oven was in use, he’d kick back on his well-worn couch, flipping through classic Wrathian movies and letting the sounds of gritty dialogue and occasional gunfights spill into the quiet of the homestead.

From time to time, he’d glance out the window, watching Chaz wrestle with farm tools or coax the same troublesome goat back into its pen yet again. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing the shark—usually brash and cocky—reduced to a frustrated heap by the simple trials of rural life. 

The days felt lighter with Chaz around. He made life out here feel less solitary. That much, he couldn’t deny.

In the evenings, the farm’s laborious tasks gave way to the warmth of shared stories on the porch. A bottle of whiskey sat between them, catching the amber glow of the porch light. Striker’s voice carried in the air as he recounted wild tales from his past, his gestures grand and exaggerated as he paced the length of the porch. Chaz leaned back in his chair, his laughter ringing out as he took a drag from his hand-rolled cigarette, stuffed with dried tobacco straight from the garden. 

When Striker finally ceded the floor, his wry smile softened as Chaz dove into his own tales of misadventures on the road. The shark’s energy seemed inexhaustible, his hands moving animatedly as he painted scenes of chaos and triumph. 

Striker listened, his frame relaxing into his chair as their knees brushed beneath the table—neither noticing, or perhaps choosing not to. The smoke curled lazily around them, mingling with the scent of the freshly tilled earth and the distant hum of demon cicadas, creating a soothing atmosphere.

One evening, as the melody of an electric guitar cut through the calm, a freshly showered Chaz followed the sound to find Striker at the source of the sound. His fingers danced skillfully along the strings as he mimicked a guitar solo emitting from the radio on the table beside him.

"Whoa, what the fuck?" Chaz gasped, his admiration evident. Striker looked up and smirked, his eyes lighting up. "That's so badass."

"Yeah, I know. Been practicin' for years," he remarked, his voice tinged with playful pride. "You play, Fins?"

"I dabble here and there, but I can't do that ," Chaz admitted, moving to sit.

"Well then, grab the strings," Striker prompted, nodding toward an acoustic guitar propped up nearby. "It's high time ya learned. How else ya gonna lasso the ladies?” 

Across from him, Striker lounged with a lazy kind of ease, arms slung over his own guitar as he watched. A quiet grin tugged at his mouth—not mocking, but something softer, steadier. Admiring, maybe. He leaned in and offered a correction in a low voice and molasses-thick drawl. His words weren’t always helpful—half the time they were teasing, barbed with humor—but Chaz took them all the same, hanging on every note of that slow, Southern cadence.

The chairs found their way to sit beside the table as they nudged them closer. Their knees brushed now, again and again, but neither dared to move away, neither spoke of it. The moment was delicate, strung taut like a live wire, and the smallest shift might send it toppling.

“Y’ain’t half bad,” Striker said finally, the words simple but sincere. “Quick learner, too.”

Chaz flushed at the praise, quickly ducking his head. Strands of hair fell in front of his eyes. “Stop being so flirty, dammit,” he muttered, fidgeting with the tuning pegs. “I like you better when you’re an asshole.”

Striker chuckled—low, breathy. “Y’ain’t gotta tell me twice.”

But his breath faltered then. Because now, he couldn’t ignore it. The growing pressure in his jeans had gone from mildly distracting to unbearable. It was pulsing with heat, and no amount of mental gymnastics could will it away. He shifted in his seat, legs parting slightly, but it only made the friction worse.

‘Shit.’

He cleared his throat, abruptly setting down the guitar. “Think I’m gon’ turn in,” he said, voice tight at the edges. “Ain’t feelin’ too hot all ‘a sudden.”

Chaz blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. You, uh—you okay?”

“Yeah, just…in pain.” Striker gestured broadly to his wound, already standing.

He nodded, glancing at the mess on the table. “I’ll…clean this up.”

“Yeah, thanks. Just— Leave the guitars,” Striker added quickly, already halfway to the door.

“You sure?” 

“Leave ‘em.”

And just like that, he disappeared inside.

He walked as steady as he could until he was sure Chaz couldn’t see him—then bolted the rest of the way down the hall. He shut his bedroom door carefully, but locked it with shaking hands before tearing off the sling and peeling off his shirt and fumbling with his belt and yanking his jeans down, all with sharp sighs, all while his knees buckled.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped, his heart slamming against his ribs, breath sucked in through grit teeth. 

He couldn't believe what was happening.

He ripped the covers back and dove beneath them like a man chasing absolution. One hand slipped past the waistband trapping his arousal, fingers wrapping around himself with a kind of urgency that bordered on frantic. The first stroke punched a moan from his throat, raw and helpless. He rolled onto his knees, burying himself deeper into the cocoon of fabric. The comforter cloaked him like a shield, muffling the sounds—but not enough. His tail rattled against his will, loud in his ear like nails on a chalkboard. He bit down hard on his pillow, trying to silence the cries that broke free, ragged and rhythmic.

Each movement sent a tremor through him. The heat. The pressure. The frustration. He slammed a fist against the mattress, jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his pride warring against the mounting pleasure, struggling—desperately—to keep him from unraveling too soon.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not when the image of Chaz burned behind his eyelids. 

He knew he drank too much, but he couldn’t help it. Not with the man distracting him. Not when his emerald eyes shimmered in the lamplight, not when his smile shone like the sun, not when his hair fell just messily enough to look perfect, not when he smelled like smoke and liquor and something delectable, not when he listened to his stories with an attention a bomb couldn’t break, not when he made him laugh something genuine.

He told himself it was the alcohol that got him so worked up. It was it that caused the burn in his veins, the haze in his head. But really it was his desire to drink up Chaz in his entirety. His attraction stemmed far deeper than the physical. It was the way he made him feel seen, understood, like the world wasn’t so heavy. He didn’t care to untangle what any of it meant, but he wasn’t going to fight it either.

The pleasure crested too quickly to brace for, an all-consuming rush that surged through him like a storm. His back arched, muscles locking as the air left his lungs in ragged moans, vibrating into the fabric. For a long second, all he could do was hold on—white-knuckled and breathless—until the crash finally came. He was on his back now, his body dropping boneless into the mattress, sweat slicking his skin, sticking him to the sheets.

He blinked up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, lips parted, trying to breathe through the weight of what he’d just given in to. A single curse hissed between his teeth then, biting and bitter but no less dripping with satisfaction.

“ Fuck …”

By the fifth day, Striker moved around the property with more ease, his winces now rare. The quiet confidence in his stride returned, though he’d occasionally stretch his shoulder or rub at his chest when he thought his comrade wasn’t looking. 

Chaz noticed but kept it to himself. He was glad to see Striker healing, though his own mind had grown heavy with the thought of leaving. He didn’t want to go. The days had settled into a comfortable rhythm he hadn’t expected to enjoy so much. Yet, as much as he disliked the idea, Chaz knew he couldn’t stay indefinitely. His apartment needed attention, and his cat had surely reached the point of staging its own rebellion. 

But the deeper reasons—the ones that sat like stones in his chest—he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.

Late that afternoon, Chaz leaned against the edge of the porch, watching the golden light of the setting sun bathe the horizon in a warm glow. Striker stood beside him, arms crossed and his cowboy hat pulled low, looking out over the property they’d both worked to bring back into order.

“I’ve really enjoyed this... more than I thought I would,” Chaz admitted, his voice quieter than usual, catching slightly at the end.

Striker glanced at him, his expression softening. He tilted his hat back just enough for the shark to see the glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “Don’t feel bad for leavin’, Thurman,” he said. “I’m feelin’ spry as a rabbit now. But yer always welcome back here. Ya know that.”

Chaz nodded, but his heart felt heavy all the same. “I know. And I’ll definitely come back. Just…need to sort some stuff out first.”

Striker nodded slowly, then smirked. “Here, how ‘bout I go with ya?”

Chaz blinked, startled by the suggestion. “What? No,” he said lightly, shaking his head.

“Listen, it’s only fair after all you’ve done around here,” Striker pressed, his voice easy but with a stubborn edge.

They went back and forth, both trying to convince the other until Chaz settled the debate. “I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been neglecting a lot of shit in my life and I’m not proud of it. I’d hate for you to see the state my place is in.”

Striker hummed thoughtfully, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Chaz. “Well, don’t be too hard on yer’self for it. From what I seen, yer a damn hard worker.”

Chaz thanked him softly, his lips twitching into a small, grateful smile. “I honestly need to move the fuck outta there. But…one thing at a time.” he shrugged, straightening up. “Once I spruce up, I’ll invite you over. Deal?”

Striker leaned back against the porch railing, dragging out his response in a mock-dramatic drawl. “ Fine , whatever, Fins.”

Chaz couldn’t help but laugh. A bit of the heaviness lifted from his chest, replaced by something warm and fleeting.

The next morning, the sharkman packed up his things, his to-do list at the forefront of his mind. Striker leaned against the doorframe of the open entrance, watching Chaz with arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He wanted to say something more—to acknowledge the help, the company—but the words felt heavy in his throat, out of place somehow. He stayed silent as his mind raced, hoping his hospitality had spoken for him.

“Thanks for everythin’,” Striker said finally, his voice low and sincere, though the words were rough like they’d been pulled from somewhere deep.

Chaz slung a bag over his shoulder and smiled, a flicker of his usual charm cutting through the quiet. “Don’t mention it. Take it easy, man.” He paused, his hand landing on Striker’s shoulder—a warm, grounding touch—before he stepped toward the waiting car.

The engine roared to life, its sound tearing through the ranch. Exchanging small waves and grins of farewell, Striker watched him go, his lips pulling to the side as he chewed on them. The cross of his arms tightened as he shifted against the doorframe. That sensation crept into his chest again, just as unwelcome as before.

As the car disappeared into the shadowed mouth of the tunnel and the last traces of its growl faded, Striker remained rooted in place. He stared at the spot where the taillights had vanished, as if he could will them back. His arms crossed tighter, his mind dragging through memory after memory like a film reel on loop. 

Chaz filled the space so effortlessly, like he’d always belonged there.

Eventually, like a man coming out of a trance, he turned and stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him with a hollow thud. The stillness swallowed him whole. The cabin, once a haven of solitude, now felt cavernous. Even the ticking of the clock seemed louder, intrusive. 

He sank onto the loveseat, his eyes climbing the ceiling as if it might offer answers. The minutes passed, uncounted. Then—suddenly—he blinked and sat up straight. Something snapped inside him.

No. No way. There was no chance that loud-mouthed, fast-talking, infuriatingly charming man had gotten to him. Not in just seven days. He couldn’t afford this, not in his line of work. 

He slapped sense against his cheek, the pain stinging sharp. But with the ghost of Chaz lingering over his shoulder, the truth was undeniable. 

He had been touching himself to the man for crying out loud, just three nights ago. Then the next, and the next. Drunk or not.

‘Goddammit.’

He leaned back into the couch with a deep sigh, eyes slipping shut.

Yes—he finally admitted—he was in trouble.

Chaz's day started with a practical agenda, ticking off the items on his list with a sense of determination. His first stop was the auto shop in Pride, where he had previously scheduled a tune-up for his car. While the mechanics got to work, the shark slipped into the barber shop next door, finally cleaning up his increasingly scruffy appearance. 

As his usual barber expertly trimmed his hair, Chaz took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror. A grin tugged at his lips as he noted the significant reduction in the bags under his eyes—almost gone now. He felt a wave of quiet satisfaction wash over him; he was doing something good, making strides in the right direction. He was reclaiming control of his life.

The barber paused mid-snip when Chaz abruptly raised a hand. "Everything alright?" the demon asked, his brow furrowing.

The shark’s lips curved into a thoughtful smile. “Yeah, no, you’re good. I just…wanna try something different.” He gestured at the catalogue on the counter. “Mind if I take a look?”

With a nod, the barber handed him the book and stepped aside to clean his equipment. Chaz flipped through the pages, his fingers pausing over a sharp, clean-cut style that felt like a fresh start. His smile brightened. “This one,” he declared, tapping the page.

The barber chuckled. “Good choice. It’ll fit you nicely.”

Afterward, Chaz returned to the auto shop to pick up his car. One of the mechanics approached him, holding something small and metallic. “Found this underneath,” the demon said grimly. "It’s a tracker—magnetically attached to the underbody. We disabled it with an EMP, but… you might wanna figure out who’s been keeping tabs on you.”

Chaz froze, the blood draining from his face. His mind raced, piecing together how long it might have been there and who could have planted it. He nodded his thanks, paid quickly, and stepped outside, fumbling for his phone with trembling hands.

His first instinct was to call Striker, to make sure the imp was safe. But as his thumb hovered over the name in his contacts, Chaz hesitated. Striker didn’t need to know—not yet. Instead, he pressed the call button and feigned a casual laugh when the line connected. 

“Oh, hey, man. Sorry, meant to call someone else. Got a buddy with a name close to yours,” he lied.

Striker’s voice came through light and amused. “You idiot. What’s up?”

Chaz relaxed, if only slightly, as they chatted briefly about nothing in particular. Striker reminded him of the upcoming festival, and Chaz rolled his eyes, his tone playful. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve only mentioned it, like, a million times.”

After hanging up, the tension returned full-force. Chaz immediately dialed Crimson, updating him on the tracker. “We’ll send some guys to pick it up and double-check it,” the Boss assured him, his voice sharp and commanding. “Don’t go anywhere. Stay put until it’s handled.”

Chaz nodded, even though the line had already gone dead. Pacing outside the shop, he waited for the mechanics to bring his car around. When it finally appeared, Chaz thanked him and climbed in, his movements stiff and quick. 

He drove to an open spot down the street and sat behind the wheel, his leg bounced uncontrollably, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. 

He debated calling Striker again, his thoughts spiraling. What if whoever was tracking him waited for him to leave? Now they had the perfect opening. He knew Striker could defend himself, but Chaz didn’t want him risking reopening his wound. He wanted to drive back to his cabin, but he wasn’t sure he could play it cool, keep the situation under wraps.

Across the street, several spaces down, the cloaked hitman sat in his own car. “I got eyes on him,” he muttered into his phone. “He’s just sitting there. The Imp’s not with him.”

Asmodeus’ voice on the other end replied coldly, “So the tracker wasn’t busted?”

His gaze drifted away from his target as he admitted, “No. Apologies, sir.”

“Whatever. Detain him and find out where that half-breed is hiding.”

The line promptly went dead, and the hitman sighed, adjusting his seat as he prepared to approach. But when he looked back up, the sharkman was gone. Confused, the demon scanned the street. His breath hitched as his gaze landed on Chaz standing beside his car, tapping sharply on the glass. His grin was wide and toothy, gums exposed in a feral display of amusement.

“Hey,” Chaz drawled, his voice light and mocking. “This yours?” he quipped, holding up the tracker.

Before the hitman could react, the shark shattered his window with the butt of the gun he held in his other hand. He fired point-blank into the demon’s skull, the shot eerily silent. His gun was equipped with the very device that kept prying eyes away.

 The interior of the car splattered with the man’s blood and brains, his body slumping forward.

Chaz fired off additional rounds to ensure he wouldn’t get up before lowering the weapon. His breathing was ragged, his hand shaking with a fury he worked to keep control over. 

He didn’t care for an explanation, didn’t want to hear his pleas. The pieces were clear—this man was after Striker, using Chaz to find him. He had seen the man before, in the hospital parking lot, but didn’t offer him more than a sideways glance. Seeing him again was no coincidence. 

The thought of anyone daring to harm his partner ignited a cold lividity in Chaz that left no room for hesitation. 

Finally, he switched on the safety and returned the gun to his belt line. Unlocking the door from the inside, he swung it open and pulled the demon’s body out, carelessly throwing him to the ground. 

This was greed. Dead bodies lingered all over the place, the same way crumpled up trash did.

“Let’s see what we have here.” Chaz muttered to himself, bending down. 

In the passenger seat rested the homing device for the tracker, an error code illuminating the screen. Fiddling with the interface, he checked to see if there were any other trackers active, but happily found there were none. Reaching into the glove compartment, he found a file folder with Striker’s name and photo inside, a detailed description of him spelled out on the pages within. 

With a scoff, Chaz shook his head and grabbed the evidence. Trailing back to his car, he tossed the useless, former tracker up in the air, as if it were a ball to play catch with. Back in the safety of his vehicle, he pulled out his phone and dialed Crimson again. 

“You’ll never guess what I just learned,” he began grimly.

With the device and his stalker taken care of, Chaz returned to his apartment. The day was far from over, and there was much to be done. He started with the essentials, tending to his slightly neglected cat. He cooed apologies as he refilled the gravity food dispenser and the water fountain, both of which had run dry. 

"I’m sorry, buddy. Bet you managed just fine though, huh?" he murmured, scratching the cat's head affectionately.

Next, he moved onto the litter box, grimacing and gagging as he dumped the old litter into a trash bag and scrubbed the box clean in the bathtub. The task was less than pleasant, but it needed to be done.

His apartment was next on the list. Chaz decluttered first, then cleaned from top to bottom, a method Striker had taught him that he recalled fondly. He was methodical, only pausing to down bottle after bottle of water and to order food to keep him going. Once everything was spotless, he dropped his cat off at a nearby groomer for a well-deserved pampering session.

Finally, back in his freshly cleaned home, Chaz collapsed onto his well-worn and ripped up couch, letting out a heavy sigh. The hum of the washing machine provided a comforting backdrop as it tumbled his clothes, bedsheets, and curtains clean. He reached for his phone, scrolling through social media without really seeing it. 

Striker danced at the forefront of his thoughts, a persistent presence. Should he call him again? No, he had no real reason to. Yet the desire was there, gnawing at him. 

Maybe he should plan a day out, something special just for the two of them. Surely after everything he had done, Striker would happily agree to it. 

That thought brought a smile to Chaz's face as he imagined their next encounter, his thumbs tapping away with a newfound determination.

Chapter Text

A week had slipped by since Chaz last saw Striker, and he had been busy. Among his checklist of accomplishments was the procurement of a new outfit that had cost him more than he usually spent—ensuring he'd look just right for their evening together. Today was the day, and as he drove, the buoyant tune of pop music filled his car, creating a stark contrast with the serene, pastoral landscape that rolled past his windows.

As Chaz approached Striker's place, the unexpected blare of the music caught the rancher’s attention, pulling him from the domestic tranquility of cooking. He leaned toward the window, a puzzled frown knitting his brow. 

"Is that…pop music?" he grumbled to himself, his tone mingling with disbelief with a hint of amusement. Spotting the familiar car barreling out of the tunnel, Striker couldn't suppress the groan that escaped him. 

"Chazwick Thurman, turn that racket down!" His booming voice cut through the air as he stormed outside, an apron snug around his waist and a rag casually thrown over his shoulder, humorously anointing him the role of a makeshift housewife.

Chaz couldn't contain his laughter at the sight, promptly silencing the music. "Howdy, cowboy!" he greeted with a mock salute, leaning out of his window as Striker clomped down the steps with exaggerated irritation.

"What the hell you doin' rippin' up dirt ‘round these parts?" he barked. Despite his gruff tone, a playful grin was beginning to spread across his face. His gaze lingered on the sharkman suspiciously, noting the unusual crispness of his outfit and his change in hairstyle.

"Damn, your accent’s especially thick today," Chaz observed, amusement dancing in his eyes. "What’s the occasion?"

"I could ask ya the same thang." He closed the gap between them and tousled Chaz's hair. "Got a fresh cut, I see," he remarked, planting his other hand on his belt line.

"Hey, don’t fuck it up!" Chaz protested with a grin, swatting playfully at Striker's hand before fixing it in the mirror. He clicked his tongue and whined, “I spent ten minutes doing it. C’mon, man…”

"What you dressed in yer Sunday best on a Tuesday for?" Striker went on, cocking his hip. His nose twitched as he caught a new scent. "And is that… cologne?" he inquired, almost accusingly as he leaned in.

“Why do you think? Get in! We’re going out!” Chaz declared with a confident grin, his mood clearly elevated by his meticulous preparations.

“No, we ain’t,” Striker retorted, his attention shifting to the car’s body and interior. “This a new car?”

“ Nope , same one! I fixed her up nice , huh?” Chaz’s pride was palpable as he gestured towards the vehicle, which looked remarkably different from its former dilapidated state. “Added some upgrades and replaced basically everything. Ride’s smooth as butter now.”

Striker leaned against the sill of Chaz’s window, peering inside with a mix of admiration and surprise. “Huh. Well, paint me purple.” He noted the seats had been meticulously mended of their previous rips and holes, and the carpeting looked as if it had been deep cleaned to restore its original vibrant color. 

Chaz rambled on about the car, trying not to dwell on how close they came to be. But his eyes lingered on Striker’s face and the way his tail swirled curiously behind him.

The Imp seemed lost in thought, his expression one of twisted confusion. It was clear he was pondering the depth of the renovations. The thoroughness of the repairs suggested a motivation beyond mere maintenance. Surely, Chaz had gone through the trouble of fixing his car for more reason than just his nagging.

Finally, cutting through the flow of technical details, Striker waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, sounds like gibberish. This is why I have a horse.” Turning back toward the house, he added, “Come inside. I got food on the stove.”

“But—” Chaz started, his plan for a day filled with shopping, a nice dinner and a visit to the casino momentarily thwarted.

“Come on! ‘Fore I change my mind.”

Reluctantly, Chaz shut off the engine. His gaze fell on the sway of the other man’s hips and the flick of his tail. Any semblance of an argument melted away as he was caught up in the mesmerizing movement. “Yes, ma’am,” he remarked under his breath, a resigned yet amused smile playing on his lips as he stood from his car.

Inside, the cozy kitchen was filled with the aroma of cooking chili. Striker handed the shark a spoon. “Needs more salt, right?” he asked, a bit unsure as he returned to his culinary duties. Chaz tasted the stew and nodded, agreeing heartily. Together, they experimented with a few more spices to round out the flavor, the casual banter flowing easily between them.

“So… I been thinkin’ ‘bout certain things lately,” Striker then began hesitantly, avoiding Chaz’s gaze as he stirred the pot.

“Like what?” Chaz asked, licking his lips of sauce, intrigued by the sudden shift in Striker’s tone.

“Well… I think a bit of exposure therapy would be good for me, since it's affecting my work.”

“What is?” the other man quipped, leaning against the countertop as he scooped another spoon of chilli.

Striker’s cheeks colored slightly, his tail snaking in the air, betraying his discomfort. “The topic ‘a sex.”

Chaz nearly choked on the food, surprised. “O- oh? What kinda…exposure are you looking for?” he asked stiffly, a spark of hope that he would finally get lucky flitting in his chest.

“Maybe we could go down to Lust and just…walk around.” the chef shrugged.

“Lust?” he repeated, his voice laden with concern. “Are you sure? You been there before?”

“Yes, I been there, asshole. I been to every ring.” Striker remarked, a sourness in his voice. “What, ya think I can't handle m’self in Lust?”

“N- no… Of course not.” Chaz lied, his gaze wandering. “I just think it might be too much too soon after…what happened, ya know?” he reasoned gently.

Striker's face contorted with irritation, his voice suddenly carrying a sharp edge. "I'm fine," he snapped, the words slicing through the air. Then, as if catching himself, he exhaled deeply, his features softening. "I needa get out of the house, anyway. Been locked in here like a damn criminal."

Chaz, leaning against the counter with his usual casual grace, felt his grin falter slightly. Worry still shadowed his features, but Striker’s next words sparked a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. 

"Besides, I’m feeling great ," Striker declared, his eyes catching the light and glinting almost seductively. "Doncha wanna take this face around town?"

Caught off guard, Chaz scanned Striker’s expression, his response stuttering into existence. "Y-yeah! Sure I do. That’s actually what I came by to ask you.”

"Well, look at that . Everythin’ worked out in yer favor," Striker cooed, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he patted Chaz on the shoulder.

"So… It's a date then?" Chaz ventured, a hopeful note threading through his words.

Striker rolled his eyes as he untied his apron, the fabric falling away from his frame. "Don’t push yer luck," he teased, his tone light but firm. With a dismissive wave, he walked past the sharkman toward his bathroom to bathe.

'Gonna make me work for it, huh?' Chaz mused inwardly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes followed the rancher as he retreated down the hallway, a mischievous glint in his gaze. "Dude, we can’t go to Lust as just bros . It has to be a date." He trailed after Striker, his hands gesturing as he spoke.

"Says fuckin’ who ?" Striker’s shot back over his shoulder.

"The locals! Everyone's gonna think we’re a couple anyway, so we might as well—"

"No." The Imp quickly shut him out, the door closing with a definitive thud between them. 

"C’mon, don’t play hard to get. You just said you wanted me to take you out."

"What I want is for you to go watch the chili."

Chaz clicked his tongue, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he mimicked Striker’s accent, " Watch tha chill-ee ." Leaning against the doorframe, he added with a purr, "I’d rather watch you undress."

Striker pulled the door open just enough to glare out before slamming it shut again, snuffing out  the light of excitement in his partner’s eye. With a heavy sigh, Chaz begged, "Oh, c’mon… please ?" his voice thick with unashamed pleading as he leaned his head against the wooden slab. “I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

"Good. Keep 'em with yer eyes," Striker sharply retorted.

Chaz groaned, dragging his body along the wall in a dramatic display of defeat as he retreated back to the kitchen. "You’re so evil ." he whined.

Straightening up, the sharkman crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, his gaze fixed on the bubbling stew. A determined look settled over his features, his jaw set firm. 'Well, I’ve come this far. A little more patience can’t hurt.'

The vibrant streets of Lust teemed with life, neon lights flashing overhead as Striker and Chaz wandered into what the locals affectionately called a “Sall”—a ten-story sex-mall dedicated to every conceivable kink and niche. Each floor was an eclectic showcase, from lavish displays of feathers and leathers to the more exotic and mysterious contraptions that dared the mind to ponder their use.

Striker, ever the stoic observer, followed Chaz's lead with a mix of amusement and reluctance. Buzzing with excitement, he gestured towards various stores that caught Striker's eye, but the Imp shook his head each time, declining to explore. Deciding to let him breathe through the experience, Chaz offered winks to every passerby who caught his gaze, echoing the playful bravado he displayed back at the bar when the pair first met.

Their meandering took a turn when they reached a particularly audacious shop. The sign overhead flickered ominously as Striker stopped dead in his tracks, staring at it with resolve. His gaze was stiff, eyes wide with a hint of horror. Drawing a deep, bolstering breath, he growled to himself, “I’m goin’ in,” before stepping through the threshold. “I’m a man . I’m a fuckin’ man.” 

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of latex and a sweet, floral air freshener. Striker grimaced and flinched at each new display of daunting devices and toys. He occasionally shot a questioning look at Chaz who explained their uses in detail with an air of nonchalance and expertise. Despite his extreme discomfort, Striker’s curiosity kept him from running out of the store.

As they wandered to the back, they encountered an array of bondage gear and knives with delicate heart-shaped engravings. Striker’s interest piqued as he ran his fingers over the soft silk of the ropes. Meanwhile, Chaz bit his tongue, fighting back the flood of sexual innuendos and remarks, instead choosing to imagine all the things he wished Striker would do to him. His silence didn’t go unnoticed.

“Yer awfully quiet all ‘a sudden. Thought you’d walked off.” The Imp’s voice was a teasing purr as he played with a length of rope, wrapping it around his hand and pulling it through his fingers. Chaz remained silent, merely snickering at his partner’s remark. “Cat got yer tongue?”

“Something like that,” Chaz admitted, his breath catching in his throat.

“Man, I love this shit,” Striker chuckled, his eyes lighting up with a mischievous gleam. “Never felt rope so soft. But I couldn’t wrangle nothin’ with this. They’d just slip right through.”

“It's not for wrangling,” Chaz told him, winding part of the rope around his fingers. His voice was smooth, his gaze heavy with unspoken desire as he explained its many uses. “And let me tell you. I’d love to get tangled up in this.”

Chaz didn’t need to say it. It was evident in his expression. He knew exactly what he was doing, but for once, Striker thought to entertain it. His grin widened, his gold tooth glinting as he remarked, “I know what it's used for, cretin. I’m sayin’ you’d just slip right out. We need ta find something rougher.” Putting the rope back, he resumed his perusal.

Chaz’s gaze widened, his heart racing as his brain short circuited. Did he hear him right? Really, truly? He never thought Striker was interested in him in that way, but maybe that was exactly the reason he never caught it.

Blinking himself from his thoughts, he chuckled, “Oh-ho-ho, yeah ?” leaning close with a hand on Striker’s shoulder. “Ya know… We can always book a room and get outta here.” Chaz insisted, his voice falling low as he traced a finger down the Imp’s back.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Striker purred, the playful challenge clear in his eyes. “A little tension never hurt nobody.” Brushing his hand off, he resumed peering through the glass case.

“Oh, c’mon , Strikey,” Chaz whined, his voice a mix of frustration and anticipation as he spun the Imp around and pulled him close. “I’ve been waiting so long. Won’t you cut me some slack?”

Striker scoffed, tracing a line under Chaz’s chin with the sample knife he had been inspecting. “If you don’t behave, neither of us will get what we want,” he warned, the blade too dull to cause any harm but enough to send a delicious shiver down the shark’s spine. “Now play nice, Fins. We’re in public.”

Striker, with a provocative flair, pushed Chaz away gently and turned his attention back to the display of play knives. He felt the brush of the Imp’s spaded tail against his leg, sending another shiver through his body. It swished through the air, a clear sign of his intrigued yet teasing demeanor. 

Chaz groaned again, his lips pursed as he fought to contain the rush of desire that surged through him. His eyes followed Striker's every move. Despite his eagerness, the demon knew he needed to give the other man space, to wait for him to be ready to take their flirtatious banter to the next level. With a heavy sigh, the sharkman slumped, his shoulders drooping as he conceded defeat once more. 

His expression hardened into a narrow-eyed glare as he glanced at the store employee at the counter. "You got stress balls?" Chaz pressed, his voice a mix of irritation and forced calm.

"Of course!" the succubus replied cheerfully as she reached behind. She presented a pair of life-like, silicone testicles, filled with soft beads designed for squeezing. "Here you go!"

"Thanks," Chaz responded, his tone curt as he swiped them into his hand. He immediately began kneading, the beads inside providing a satisfying resistance. Each press of his fingers helped to siphon off some of his mounting frustration. He stood there like this, his gaze locked onto Striker who continued to peruse the shop with an oblivious delight.

Leaving the excitement of the store, Chaz and Striker found themselves in the soothing ambiance of a café. The space was bathed in the warm glow of overhead lamps, casting soft shadows on the quaint tables. The hum of subdued conversations mingled with the clink of cutlery, setting a tranquil backdrop as they settled into their seats. The adventure had roused their appetites, not just for the hearty meals laid before them, but for a deeper understanding of each other.

"Ya know, you didn’t seem to be too out of your element at that last shop. What changed?" Chaz inquired, breaking apart a piece of flakey bread, his eyes flicking up with a hint of curiosity.

Striker gave a half-smile, his gaze lingering on the steam rising from his plate. "I got a knack for the dangerous," he shrugged nonchalantly. "But... This ain’t my first rodeo neither."

"No?" Chaz leaned in, the soft glow of the table lamp highlighting his intrigued expression. "Could’ve fooled me the way your skin was crawling when we first got here."

"Hey, ta be fair, some ‘a that shit was gnarly ." Striker pointed out, teasing as he defended his earlier discomfort.

Chaz chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "I guess… But, no, for real, I'm curious," he admitted earnestly, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. "We’ve been hanging out so much and I feel like I barely know you."

Striker paused, his fork hovering mid-air. He glared at Chaz before glancing around the softly lit café. “Ya know that’s not true.”

The other man noticed his discomfort. “Hey, you don’t gotta tell me. I don't mean to expose your secret identity.” Chaz teased, holding his hands up.

The gunman took a deep breath, leaning back in his seat before he began, his voice low, "To make a long story short: I met a shifty guy at a bar one night… took a bad job… ended up somewhere I shouldn’t ‘a been… and did a lotta things I didn’t wanna do." 

His sigh was heavy, laden with regret, his eyes clouded with the shadows of past ghosts. "That asshole sold me a dream that turned out ta be a nightmare. He showed me to the curs’ed monster that later became our target.” Striker paused, reluctant to reveal that aspect of his life. “And before I knew it…I was being trafficked. I worked for him for years as a…” he paused again, as though just realizing the fact. “Well, as a sex slave." His eyes darkened, his voice tinged with both anger and pain. "Bosses, Overlords, Royalty…you name it. The bigger the paycheck, the worse the treatment. There were no limits."

Chaz’s expression softened, the playful demeanor fading as he absorbed the gravity of Striker’s words. "Oh, man…"

"Finally, one day, I got brave. I refused a job and ran away back home… But when I got there, it was in flames. My whole village burned down.”

His partner’s eyes widened at the revelation.

“I lost everyone I ever cared about… That photo of me and Bombproof was all I could salvage." Striker's voice broke slightly, a faraway look in his eyes. "That’s why I aim at head honchos…why I do what I do."

Chaz hummed thoughtfully, the weight of his comrade’s story hanging heavy in the air between them. “I’m so sorry…”

“Eh, it’s fine. Made me the man I am today.” he shrugged off, feigning nonchalance as he sipped his drink.

Chaz knew Striker was wounded by the past, but he was no limping soldier. After hearing that, he finally understood why the rancher wanted to visit Lust. It wasn’t to prove a point or make a statement. He needed to reclaim the part of his life that haunted him for so long.

After a brief silence, the shark’s lighter side surfaced with a wry smile. "Damn, you really are the whole package,” he remarked, leaning onto his elbows. The other demon met his gaze. “Good looks, talent, and a tragic backstory."

Striker scoffed, his bashfully smug grin returning. "Shut the hell up," he chuckled. Pushing his tray aside, he leaned on his hand and asked, "What’s yer story, big guy?"

The man in question hesitated, laughing awkwardly as he leaned back in his chair, the tension evident in his posture. "I— It's not important."

"No, no, go on," Striker insisted, his tone both playful and earnest. "Fair trade."

Chaz glanced away, his gaze wandering through the café, the weight of his own past suddenly heavy upon his shoulders. “I uh…” He wasn’t looking for sympathy or pity, but obliged to Striker’s prompt. He was right. It was only fair.

“I was an orphan. My parents couldn’t afford to feed me so they dropped me off at the foster home when I was a kid. A mafia family picked me up a few days later, and they raised me until I was 18. But I ran away from them before they inducted me and… I was homeless before Crimson took me in." He spoke slowly, his voice dropping to a murmur, filled with a dawning realization of his former and current life. 

Striker’s expression softened as he listened, his playful grin vanishing.

"I’d always been surrounded by people who were shallow and superficial, never thinking anything of it. All I knew was- sex and killing and…using people for personal gain.” He hung his head, seemingly forcing the words out. “I was never truly happy. I only got good at pretending like I was. But…after spending so much time with you, I realized I never wanted that kind of life. I didn’t want status and recognition by those means." Chaz paused, his face shadowed by remorse. "And after seeing you so…ruined that day, I knew I didn’t want to become like that demon we were after."

The admission lingered between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. His comrade’s eyes were heavy with empathy as he searched for the right thing to say. He knew exactly where Chaz was coming from. 

“Anyway… It's whatever. I’m fine now,” Chaz brushed off, fiddling with a plastic bag on the table, avoiding Striker’s steady gaze.

Reassurance shone in Striker's eyes as he voiced, "Well, ya don’t gotta worry about becoming him. Yer nothin’ like that dickhead," he told the shark sincerely. Meeting his gaze, a hint of vulnerability flickered across Chaz's face. "Ya got heart, Fins."

Blushing, he glanced around again, sinking deeper into his chair. "Geez, relax. We’re in public," he muttered, his tone tinged with embarrassment.

As t hey continued their conversation, the tension between them dissipated. They chatted about everything, laughing and sharing lighthearted stories. 

Eventually, they finished their meals and headed back to the car. Chaz urged Striker to join him for a few more stops around town, eager to carry out the rest of the plans he’d made. With little resistance, Striker agreed, if only to spare himself of the sharkman’s begging .

They found themselves at a lively casino, immersed in the vibrant atmosphere and the thrill of the games, drinking themselves to filth.

Amidst the bustling game room, Chaz became consumed by his attraction to Striker. The ambiance—thick with the scent of alcohol and excitement—only amplified his desires. He worked his charm on the wrangler, singing lyrics into his ear and tracing his fingers along the Imp’s shoulders with a practiced grace to no avail. He quickly lost interest in the games, opting instead to watch Striker as he won round after round. Celebrating his victories became a secondary joy, his imagination running wild with thoughts of intimacy that seemed inevitable yet distant.

Striker found himself drawn to another game. Standing between Chaz’s parted legs, he leaned onto the billiards table, his attention fixed on the play but acutely aware of the shark’s presence behind him. Chaz watched him intently, his gaze heavy and piercing, undressing the man with his eyes. The air between them was charged with a silent, electric anticipation that Striker seemed to revel in. Chaz’s leg bounced uncontrollably—a visible sign of the inner turmoil he struggled to contain.

Striker played both games with a drunken grace, his tail playfully brushing against Chaz’s legs and running through his hands. Every now and then, the spade of his appendage glided over Chaz’s groin, making him throb. Each time, it left the man breathless as a low moan escaped him, the motion a teasing torment.

“Fuck…” Chaz huffed, biting his lip in frustration.

He excused himself to the restroom more times than he cared to count, each trip a desperate attempt to quell the burning desire that clung to him. Yet, any relief found was fleeting; upon returning, the flames of desire were only fanned further by Striker’s provocations.

Lost in a haze of daydreams, Chaz barely registered the other man’s playful glances until, with a snicker, Striker stepped closer. Draping an arm casually around Chaz’s shoulders and twirling a strand of his hair, he bridged the gap between them.

The unexpected intimacy startled Chaz, surprise flickering across his face as he met Striker’s gaze. Almost reflexively, his hand found the man’s hip, pulling him close as he whispered, “What are you doing?”

“If you keep undressin’ me with yer eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” Striker hummed back, his voice a rolling purr as he continued to play with Chaz’s hair. “I gotta keep warm somehow.”

“Stop…” Chaz breathed out, the word barely a whisper, his plea undercut by the longing in his voice. Overwhelmed with embarrassment, he buried his face against Striker’s back, shaking his head as his fingers nervously played with the hem of the Imp’s pants. The dim lighting concealed his flushed cheeks from the surrounding crowd, something he was grateful for.

As the game continued, Chaz’s heart raced, his leg still bouncing. The swirling mix of desire and frustration was unbearable, the tightness in his pants leaving him on edge. He’d never been denied like this before, much less for so long. Right then, he thought the tension would truly be his demise.

Finally, unable to bear the stress any longer, Chaz murmured, his voice strained against the background noise, “C’mon, man. Let’s get outta here. You’re killing me.”

Striker shook his head, his focus still on the game. Despite the alcohol loosening his demeanor, he maintained a playful yet firm boundary, allowing Chaz the closeness he craved but carefully not crossing the line he had set.

“You’re so e—vil,” Chaz groaned, dragging out the words. Yet, he was grateful for any form of contact, clinging to the comfort with a small grin. Striker was worth the wait—if only Chaz knew how to convince his body of that.

After an evenin g rich with unspoken words and heightened emotions, Chaz and a thoroughly inebriated Striker took a taxicab back to the shark’s apartment. The night had taken its toll on the Imp, leaving him giggling and wobbly. He quickly became fascinated by Chaz’s cat, playing with the demonic feline with an uncharacteristic childlike joy, chasing it around the living room.

The shark demon felt a twinge of embarrassment about the state of his apartment—it was small with eclectic decorations that didn’t quite mask the peeling wallpaper or the old furniture. But Striker, sprawled on the floor with the cat now curled up on his chest, didn’t seem to mind.

“Dude, this place is like a fuckin’ palace compared to some ‘a the spots I’ve crashed,” he said plainly, scratching the cat behind its ears. He looked up at Chaz with a smirk and continued, his words a slur.  “Ya know, they kept me in a cage when I was in that nasty sex gig. And after I got out, all I had to my name was Bombproof and a fuckin’ tent ‘cause my house burned down.” 

Striker recounted his experiences with a casual tone, as if they were tales of adventures long past. Chaz listened, his initial embarrassment fading into a deep sense of respect and compassion for his companion’s resilience.

Chaz allowed Striker to play with his cat, providing a moment of light-hearted distraction. Seizing the opportunity for a brief respite, the shark slipped away to the bathroom to freshen up. Gazing into the mirror, his reflection stared back, blurred and distorted—a clear indication of his inebriated state. The man who looked back at him was disheveled, his mind foggy.

Returning to the living area, Chaz donned his most comfortable, albeit worn, pajamas. The fabric, soft from years of use, hung loosely around him. Throughout the night, despite the magnetic pull between them, Chaz had remained acutely aware of Striker's boundaries. The understanding tempered his actions. Instead of pursuing his usual advances, he offered Striker the bed, insisting that he himself would be fine on the couch.

In the living room, Chaz set about preparing his makeshift bed. He spread an old blanket across the couch, its fabric threadbare from age, and fluffed a pillow that had seen better days. The setup was humble but sufficient for a night's rest.

Striker, visibly baffled by the offer yet too inebriated to articulate much protest, nodded slowly and staggered toward the bedroom. His movements were unsteady, a stark contrast to the confident, playful demeanor he had maintained throughout the night. Chaz watched him disappear into the other room, a mixture of concern and contemplation shadowing his expression.

Settling onto the couch, he tucked the old blanket around him and sank into the cushions. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside—a constant backdrop to the life he led. Beside him, the cat curled up close, breathing a soft, rhythmic whisper in the stillness. As he lay there, Chaz contemplated the twist their friendship had taken. His thoughts drifted back to Striker's stories, the casual recounting of past hardships. The unexpected depth of their conversation lingered in his mind, stirring a mix of emotions and a budding sense of connection that went beyond the flirtation of the night.

Chapter Text

The warm glow of paper lanterns bathed Striker’s home in a golden hue, their soft light flickering against the wooden walls and ceiling. Delicate shadows danced across the room, cast by the intricate cutouts of the lanterns. The entire day had been spent in preparation—sweeping away dust, arranging decorations with care, ensuring that every detail was in place for the Harvest Moon festival. Now, with the final moments of daylight slipping away, Striker stood before his vanity mirror, meticulously applying the finishing strokes of his face paint.

Outside, the air was rich with the scent of roasting meats and warm spices, mingling with the familiar aroma of the earth. The hum of demon cicadas wove through the night, harmonizing with the occasional burst of laughter and chatter. Even though the festival was some distance away, the celebration was loud. Tonight was sacred—a time to remember those who had passed and celebrate the bonds that tied the living together.

Leaning back from the mirror, Striker tilted his head slightly, inspecting his handiwork with a critical eye. The skull design was precise, each line delicately carved into place with patience and skill. A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as he reached for his wide-brimmed sombrero, its edge adorned with small crimson beads that shimmered in the lantern light. 

As he settled it atop his head, the final touch to his ensemble, his gaze dropped to the traditional charro jacket draped over his frame. The deep black fabric was crisp and immaculately pressed, its gold  embroidery catching the dim light. A bold red bow tie sat neatly at his collar, adding a striking contrast to the dark tones of his attire. He meticulously adjusted his outfit, ensuring everything was perfect. It had taken him nearly an hour to finish the look, but the effort was well worth it. 

(Artist: lizsketches)

Striker glanced at the clock just as he heard the front door open. He perked up at the sound and peeked his head out, a slow grin tugging at the corners of his lips as his gaze landed on Chaz stepping inside. Instead of the usual cocky demeanor, he wore a surprisingly sheepish expression, a paper bag of clothes in one hand, a large, beaded sombrero that mimicked Striker’s in the other.

“ Well , look who finally pulled up,” he drawled, stepping toward him with his arms wide. “I was startin’ to think you’d be a no-show.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your spurs in a twist…” Chaz muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes lingered hungrily on Striker, absorbing his appearance. “ Damn , you’re looking sexy.”

“I know,” the rancher quipped back, grabbing the bag. “Ya got these tailored?” he pressed playfully, rifling through the articles of clothing.

“I did.” Chaz nodded with a hint of pride.

“Ya know yer cuttin’ it a bit close.” Striker scolded then, handing the bag back. “The festivities already started.” Carefully taking hold of the sombrero, he examined it under the dim light, impressed with the craftsmanship.

All the while, his partner spoke with his shoulders slumped. “I know… I just… honestly wasn’t sure about going. I feel like the locals are gonna call me slurs or something.”

Striker let out a low chuckle, his grin gleaming from beneath the shadow of his hat. “You’re lookin’ at it all wrong, Thurman,” he assured, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey. With an easy confidence, he reached for Chaz’s free hand, guiding him toward the kitchen table. 

The sharkman blushed reflexively, the warmth creeping up his neck as it dusted his cheeks. He told himself it was nothing, just a casual gesture. But no matter how many times it happened—the quiet sincerity in Striker’s touch, the way his calloused fingers curled around his own—it always managed to catch him off guard.

Their outings had been frequent since their night in Lust, moments spent between drinks and stolen glances, laughter exchanged under neon lights. But it was the unspoken bond between them that caused the unfamiliar warmth to spread through Chaz, one he still wasn’t sure how to name.

Striker went on to explain that the Festival wasn’t just an excuse to get drunk. That would certainly be part of it, but beneath all the rowdiness was a time-honored tradition, an obligation to remember those that made sacrifices to build the world they found themselves in. Even someone as rough around the edges as him, Striker noted, had old ghosts to remember.

Chaz nodded as he sat down, placing his hat and the bag on the table. “Yeah, I know what it's about,” he said, sighing softly. “I just… never felt like I’d fit in at these things.”

Striker’s gaze sharpened, but his voice came out softer than usual. “You’ll fit in just fine. Nobody’s gonna call you a slur. If they try, I'll put one between their eyes.” he told Chaz playfully. “Now, lemme work my magic. You ain’t goin’ out lookin’ like that.”

“What’s wrong with how I look?” the shark remarked audaciously, but his partner walked off with a smirk. Chaz scoffed, leaning an arm against the table. “Rude…” 

Striker returned with a sturdy box in his hands. Chaz raised a brow, watching curiously as the Imp flipped open the lid to reveal rows of well-used brushes and tubes of brightly colored paint. After removing his hat, he knocked Chaz’s knee aside to stand between his legs. Holding his chin gently, Striker studied his face from different angles. 

At the warmth of the rancher’s touch, Chaz’s cheeks flared pink again, his stomach flipping. “Are…we gonna make out, or what?” he managed to mutter, He clamped down the urge to wrap his arms around Striker right then and there.

“I’m tryin’ to figure out what to do,” Striker returned smoothly, tilting his own head side to side. “M’kay, sit still.” 

After preparing the paint, he dipped a brush into the white and began applying it in even strokes. Chaz squirmed and giggled at the sensation, making Striker click his tongue in annoyance. 

“Relax, will ya? Pull up the photo of yer outfit. I wanna match some details,” he instructed, keeping a firm hold on the shark demon’s head now.

Chaz snickered and fished out his phone, making sure to move slowly. The bristles of the brush still tickled his skin, but he fought the urge to move. Pulling up the image, he placed his phone on the table before returning his attention to Striker.

“So, what’s the plan, cowboy?” he asked then, voice low. “We hit the festival, drink a little, and then come back here to fuck?”

Striker flicked his gaze pointedly, speaking right after Chaz finished his question. “One thing at a time,” he drawled, continuing to layer elegant designs on top of the white base, swirling lines and flicks of color reminiscent of the patterns on Chaz’s outfit. Striker licked his lips and swayed his tail in concentration, entertaining the shark demon as he watched him work.

They traded banter all the while, the tension between them crackling under the constant brush of fingertips and paint. Finally, after some time, Striker leaned back and surveyed his work with a proud nod. 

“There. Now ya look halfway decent.” Grabbing a small hand mirror from the box, he held it out. 

Chaz examined himself in his reflection, letting out a low whistle at the intricacy of the design. The swirling motifs traced around his eyes and down his cheeks, almost like he wore a mask. “Wow,” he murmured. “Who the fuck is this handsome fella? Holy shit…” He turned his head side to side, clearly pleased with the artistry.

“Oh, shut up, Fins,” Striker scoffed, but the fondness behind his tone was unmistakable.

“I think you missed your calling as an artist,” Chaz teased, still eyeing the reflection.

Striker scoffed with a wry grin, reaching into the box for a rag to clean off the brushes. “Maybe,” he drawled. “Now quit your yappin’ and get dressed. We only get to see the moon once a year.”

As they drove into town, the distant hum of the festival swelled into a lively symphony of laughter, music, and the occasional crackle of poppers. Strings of glowing lanterns painted the streets in warm hues, flickering like fireflies against the darkening sky. 

After parking the car, Chaz paused and glanced at Striker as he reached for the door handle. “Hey, listen…” he began, halting him. The gunman met his gaze. A beat passed before Chaz realized he was hesitating. “Thanks for this,” he finally said, his voice softer than he intended.

Striker grinned at that, his gaze steady. “Don’t mention it,” he shrugged, adding with a teasing lilt as he stepped out, “Just try to blend in and not embarrass me out there.”

Chaz chuckled, shaking his head as he joined him. The weight of his earlier hesitation melted away as Striker led, his stride cutting effortlessly through the bustling crowd. The shark demon stood out starkly against the backdrop of jubilant Imps, some less than half his size, like a fish on dry land. But drawn into Striker’s energy, he found his confidence quickly returning.

The festival had reached its peak, a vibrant, living thing pulsing with energy and color. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling meats, roasted peppers, and sweet fried dough, mingling with the crisp bite of autumn. Music—frenetic and wild—swirled through the streets, beckoning festival-goers to dance, to laugh, to forget their worries beneath the intoxicating spell of celebration.

Chaz and Striker moved with the crowd, indulging in the sheer joy of the moment. They danced when the mood struck, Striker’s movements fluid and sure, Chaz’s a mix of cocky bravado and genuine enthusiasm. They sang along with the revelers, even when they didn’t know the words, their laughter lost in the cacophony. They sampled dish after dish from street vendors, the spice and grease coating their fingers, the heat lingering on their tongues.

Eventually, they ended up at the public shrines, where Imps placed picture frames of their loved ones. Offerings were set beside them—fresh flowers, warm bread, vials of liquor, and other tokens of love and remembrance.

“Gimme a sec,” Striker told Chaz gruffly. The sharkman nodded, staying back as he watched his partner step toward one of them. 

His usual smirk was gone, replaced with something softer, something Chaz had never seen before. Reaching into his blazer, Striker pulled out a small picture frame that housed a family photo. He traced his thumb over the glass, reminiscing their days together before finding a spot for them on the shrine. Reaching back into his blazer, he revealed a small bottle labeled “moonshine for the family” and placed it beside the photograph.

His golden eyes reflected the candlelight as he stared at the collection of faces, his fingers brushing against the petals of a carefully placed flower. It rested beside a friend he used to know. 

Chaz found himself in awe, his usual teasing remarks dying in his throat. He had known Striker to be brash, proud, driven—but reverent? That was new. It made something tighten in his chest. He swallowed and gave Striker his moment, allowing the rare quiet between them to stretch without interruption.

Amidst the revelry, they made several trips back to Chaz’s car, stuffing the trunk full of an assortment of goods—bottles of imported liquor, spiced nuts, handmade trinkets, and whatever else caught their fancy. Striker was especially fond of the dried meats, tossing them into the trunk with a self-satisfied grin each time. It was easy to lose themselves in the festival, enjoying the night as if nothing beyond it mattered.

But for Chaz, the weight of his secret pressed against the edges of his enjoyment, stubborn and gnawing. He still hadn’t told Striker about the tracker on his car. He should have, but every time he thought about it, the words withered on his tongue. Now wasn’t the time either. Striker deserved this night, this moment, without the shadow of danger creeping in.

As they wandered through the bustling streets, Chaz's sharp eyes caught sight of familiar men with guns weaving through the crowd, their intent clear. Each time their eyes met, he shot them cold, calculating glares, pointing his blessed pistol at them, halting them in their tracks. Despite the tension, Chaz maintained his laid-back demeanor, his vigilance cloaked beneath a veneer of enjoyment.

The evening wore on, and the pair found themselves drawn into a magician’s act, sharing a bag of popcorn between them. The makeshift stage was nothing grande—just a wooden platform set up under strings of lights—but the performer had the crowd captivated with his sleight of hand and theatrical flourishes.

Striker, scanning the audience, noticed that all the benches had already been claimed. With a nudge of his head, he motioned for Chaz to follow him over to a stack of hay bales, offering an alternative perch. He stood beside him with poised ease, leaning against the straw as they settled in.

The two watched in allure, their laughter blending seamlessly with the delighted chuckles of the crowd. The magician conjured silk scarves from thin air, pulled a live demon bird from his sleeve, and made an entire deck of cards vanish before their eyes. The show was entrancing, but Striker’s attention eventually drifted from the stage.

With a firm yet easy grip, he pulled Chaz down slightly by the shoulder, his voice lowering to something more intimate. 

“I used to know this guy,” he mused, eyes flickering toward the performer. “Back when I was a kid, he’d do his act just the same. My folks were close with him—real good with kids, this one. He’d always make balloon animals for my siblings at the end of his show.” 

There was a faint, almost wistful smile on Striker’s lips as he allowed Chaz the rare glimpse into his past. The sharkman listened intently, though at some point, his focus began to stray—not from Striker himself, but his words. The lamplight caught on his golden tooth as he spoke, drawing Chaz’s gaze to his lips. His voice was low and warm, and with the closeness between them, the shark found himself utterly caught in the moment.

Striker, sensing the shift, glanced up at him over the brim of his hat. His amber eyes were large and curious, searching Chaz’s face with mild confusion. “What?” he asked, his tone softer now.

“I, uh…” Chaz faltered, his words failing him. He quickly looked away, swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat. “N-nothing. Nevermind. Let’s just— keep watching the show.”

But Striker wasn’t fooled. His gaze lingered, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were piecing together a puzzle. The hesitation, the way Chaz had looked at him—it was obvious now. The realization sent a rush through him. He adjusted his hat to hide his expression, his eyes searching thoughtfully. Was he really going to do it? Here and now? Was Chaz really worth a genuine showing of affection—something Striker hardly ever gave away so freely?

Yes, he decided. And if he regretted it later, he could always blame it on the alcohol they’d been sipping on.

Casually, he placed the popcorn aside and let his fingers brush against Chaz’s hand, squeezing just slightly to draw his attention back. The sharkman turned, looking at him with expectant eyes. Striker removed his hat, tilting it to shield them from the crowd as he leaned in. 

For the first time, their lips met. The kiss was soft, almost reverent, the heat between them sparking to life like a fire catching on dry grass.

Chaz froze, his eyes still open in shock. He could hardly grasp the moment, his hands sprawled open. Striker kissed him so carefully, as if savoring something fragile, yet tugged on his collar with a yearning. Finally relaxing into it, he returned a kiss of his own. Then another and another. 

Striker smirked when they finally parted, watching with amusement as a deep flush graced Chaz’s cheeks, prominent even under the facepaint. Adjusting his hat back onto his head, he prepared to step away—but before he could, Chaz reacted on impulse.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he murmured playfully, pulling Striker right back into his arms. Their bodies pressed together as he sealed their lips again, this time with more certainty. Chaz’s own sombrero was the thing that allotted them a hint of privacy now.

Striker barely resisted, a breathy chuckle slipping between them before he melted into the kiss, his hands coming up to cradle Chaz’s face. The warmth of the moment, the way the sharkman held him as if he were something to be treasured—it was almost enough to make Striker forget where they were.

Almost. However romantic their moment was, it would soon be shattered. 

A bitter mercenary lurked in the distance, focusing his scope on the pair. “Aw, how cute,” he swooned mockingly, his voice dripping with malice. “I’d hate to ruin the moment…but you’ve got our blood on your hands. And I can’t let you get away with that.” His grip tightened on the rifle, and with a steady exhale, he fired.

As they pulled away a second time, the world seemed to move in slow motion, both men gazing at one another with true endearment. The sound of a gunshot cracked through the air then, reverberating through the canyon. Striker’s eyes widened ever so slightly, just as the bullet made contact with the hay bails beside them. Strings of wheat stems flew up like confetti from the impact, the crowd scattering and screaming in a frenzy of panic and desperate shuffling. 

“Dammit!” the gunman hissed under his breath, quickly relocating to another window in the building he hid in.

Striker’s gaze snapped toward the sound, his instincts kicking in as he traced the path of the bullet. Without hesitation, he yanked a compact pistol from his jacket, his grip firm despite knowing the weapon’s limited range. It wouldn’t do much against their distant target, but it was better than nothing.

Letting out a low growl, he barked, “Get down!” as he grabbed Chaz by the arm and pulled him behind the bales. 

He pressed against their cover, his heart hammering as his sharp eyes scanned the surrounding buildings, knowing the gunman would be perched somewhere above the crowd. His tail twitched, a low rattle displaying his aggravation.

“What the fuck?!” Chaz shrieked with a groan, thrown off by the sudden shift. He scrambled for his own pistol as his eyes darted toward the source of the attack. He quickly caught sight of the shooter—a familiar face. He had been among the group of men that had been tailing them earlier. Chaz bared his teeth in a snarl. “Fucking bastard thinks he can ruin our moment!” 

His pupils shrank to dangerous slits as he took aim and fired. The shot went wide, shattering a grimy window pane instead of hitting its mark. 

Striker shot down a few heads that rushed toward them, cursing under his breath as he held onto his gun anxiously. “Why are they shootin’ at us?” he demanded as they crouched behind cover again, dodging another spray of bullets.

“They’re working for that guy we were after—our target,” Chaz spat, keeping his head low as he reloaded. “They wanna kill me.”

Striker’s jaw clenched. “What? How do you—”

“Look, I’ll explain everything later. I swear,” Chaz cut in, his voice unusually steady despite the chaos around them. His gaze locked onto Striker’s, a fleeting moment of softness passing between them. “But we gotta take care of them first. They’re ganging up on us.” he added, nodding toward the sound of boots stomping their way.

Striker groaned, his tail rattling again. He didn’t like being kept in the dark, but knew now wasn’t the time to argue. “Fine… Just— be careful.”

Chaz glanced back at him, his eyes flicking over his partner’s tense form. Then, with a wink and a cocky smirk, he added, “You too.”

Another slew of shots rang out, forcing them both to duck lower. Striker exhaled sharply, gripping his gun and preparing to fire back. 

But Chaz moved first. Just like before. 

Deja vu slammed into him, twisting through his veins with a familiar rush of rage. It was the same as last time—the chaos, the bullets whizzing past, the weight of bodies lunging for them. And just like last time, Chaz leaped in front of Striker without hesitation. But now, the Imp was able to see how it all went down.

A gunman aimed at the rancher, but Chaz was faster. He seized the demon’s weapon, twisting his arm back until a sickening snap echoed from it. The howl of agony barely had time to leave the bastard’s throat before Chaz shoved the barrel of his own gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Blood and bone splattered the dirt as the demon keeled over.

Another shooter advanced from the side, eyes locked on Striker’s turned back. Chaz was already on him, shooting the gun out of his hand. Closing the distance between them, his pointed teeth sank into the demon’s neck, ripping deep into his flesh. A gurgling scream erupted from the villain before he met his demise. Chaz tossed the body to the side, as if discarding trash.

Striker found himself frozen, watching it all happen. He had never seen Chaz fight—hell, he didn’t think he had it in him to do more than fire off a few rounds. But he was wild, his rage raw and unbridled. Striker felt something stir in his chest, but he shook it off, grounding himself back in the fight.

More were closing in on Chaz, but he handled them with swift, brutal efficiency. Striker, moving to perch atop a food stand, took shots from above, covering him while his eyes searched for the rifle operator—the one that truly posed an issue.

Another sharp crack split the air. A bullet grazed past Chaz, missing by a hair. Striker's eyes snapped to the source. He caught a flicker of movement from a second-floor window of the plaza’s upper residences.

“Gotcha, bastard,” he muttered through a grin, finally gaining the advantage.

Chaz was holding his ground, so Striker jumped down from his perch and weaved around the fray, slipping into the building that housed the shooter. Stepping slowly and meticulously, he stalked his target, his boots barely making a sound against the creaky wooden floors. The rifleman remained oblivious to his presence, even as Striker rounded the corner and got behind him.

“How dare you ruin our moment?” he growled gruffly, his gun aimed at the demon’s head.

The bastard froze at the voice. He slowly turned to look behind him, just enough to get a glance at Striker out of the corner of his eye.

“Huh…” he scoffed. “So you’re the one he wanted.”

“Yeah… Too bad he never got me,” Striker said dryly, inching closer until the barrel met the demon’s head. He glanced down at the rifle, unimpressed. “By the way. Yer aim sucks.”

The shot rang out before the demon could react. He collapsed with a dull thud, lifeless.

Kicking the body aside, Striker peered out the window. The dust was beginning to settle, the bodies of their attackers now littering the ground. In the middle of it all stood Chaz, bloodied, panting, his teeth still buried in the throat of his latest victim. 

Striker’s grip on his gun tightened. He bit his lip, that feeling in his chest flaring up again. This time, it was impossible to ignore. Glancing down, he scolded himself for his reaction. After clearing his throat, he tucked away his gun and jumped out the window, making his way to Chaz.

The shark demon threw the Imp aside and sucked in a deep breath, crimson still dripping down his chin. He snapped his head, scanning his surroundings through glowing eyes for more of them. But they had all been bested. Silence followed, an off putting moment of stillness in the aftermath of the chaos. 

Then, the crowd stirred. A roar of cheers erupted.

Before Chaz could react, hands hoisted him up, lifting him above the crowd in a wave of celebration. He flailed for a second, eyes wide in shock as he realized he was crowd surfing. 

The townsfolk chanted, “Let’s go cowboy shark!” showering him with praise and gratitude for being their hero.

Still dazed by the turn of events, Chaz scanned the sea of faces for Striker, his heartbeat a frantic rhythm in his chest. His eyes finally locked onto him in the distance, catching the moment he threw his head back in laughter, his golden tooth glinting in the light.

A breathless chuckle escaped Chaz as relief washed over him, though his body felt sluggish, weighed down by the lingering adrenaline. 

Striker weaved through the crowd, and upon reaching Chaz, helped him down to the ground, his amber eyes still alight with the high of their escape.

“Dude, that was insane !” the sharkman chirped, his chest still heaving. His voice carried the lingering rush of the shootout.

“Yeah, yer tellin’ me !” Striker huffed, shaking his head. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled napkin—one he’d saved from earlier—and pressed it into Chaz’s hands. “Here, wipe yer face.”

Chaz blinked, confused for a moment, but when he brought the napkin to his mouth, he felt the tacky warmth of blood smearing onto the fabric. His fingers came away slick with it, and only then did he notice the faint metallic taste still lingering on his tongue. But in all the chaos, he’d hardly even felt it.

Striker’s expression darkened slightly as he eyed the mess, but his voice was even when he prompted, “Alright, now spill it. What the hell was all that about?”

Chaz exhaled, dragging the napkin over his hands as he gathered his thoughts. There was no use in keeping secrets now.

“Well… It all started with the tracker on my car,” Chaz began, voice low but steady. He scrubbed the last of the blood from his chin before tossing the stained napkin aside. “Found out about it, like, 2 weeks ago. Some detective was stalking us, watching our every move. The bitch thought he was being clever, but I caught on.” His fingers flexed, the phantom weight of the fight still in his muscles. “So, I handled it.”

Striker’s brows furrowed. “Handled it?” he echoed.

“I killed him,” Chaz said simply, his tone flat, almost detached. “I felt like I didn’t have a choice. Couldn’t risk him reporting back to whoever sent him.” He sucked in a slow breath before continuing, explaining all the rest.

Striker stared at him, his jaw tightening as he processed the weight of those words. Chaz barely noticed, his focus still lingering on the memory. He had meant to tell Striker sooner. Really, he had, he admitted. But every time he’d opened his mouth, the words had stalled.

Striker let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head in obvious disapproval. But there was something else in his expression too—reluctant understanding, maybe even a sliver of admiration. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before shooting Chaz a lopsided smirk.

“Well,” he drawled, amusement flickering in his gaze despite himself. “at least it’s over with. Now the whole damn town loves ya.” he added, gesturing to the crowd.

Chaz let out a short laugh, finally looking around at the festival-goers who still sent him grins and nods of approval.

“Huh,” he mused, finally letting himself breathe. “I guess that’s something.”

The Imp working a stand nearby noticed their smudged face paint and Chaz’s blood-stained skin, graciously offering them two damp towels. They accepted them with a nod of thanks, wiping away the evidence of the fight.

The man, a wiry little Imp with cracked horns and an apron stained from years of cooking, sized them up with a knowing smirk. "Looks like you boys are havin’ one hell of a night," he remarked, already pulling two frosty mugs from beneath the counter. "Here, on the house.”

Striker and Chaz exchanged a glance before accepting the beers. The first sip was like a balm, cool and crisp against their still-burning adrenaline. Chaz let out a deep, satisfied sigh while Striker nodded appreciatively. “Now that’s a damn fine drink,” he declared, smacking the counter. "Shit, I needed that."

The Imp chuckled. "Ain't nothin’ like a cold one after a scrap. How you enjoyin’ the festival?"

Chaz laughed, glancing at Striker. "Well, it's my first one and… it’s been a bit of a rollercoaster."

They lingered for a while, swapping stories with the local, trading jabs and laughter that settled the tension from the earlier gunfire. Striker had the mind to drag Chaz off somewhere quiet, to finish what had started between them earlier. But as his eyes flickered skyward, he realized they had yet to see the Moon. And that, he supposed, was worth waiting for.

The festival shifted again after some time, the music fading.

Stolas, regal and towering in his ornate robes, made his entrance. The royal Ars Goetia surveyed the gathering Imps with a gaze both imperious and strangely gentle, raising a hand for silence. His voice carried over the crowd, weaving a familiar speech about tradition, about the honor of the celestial moment to come. Then, with a graceful sweep of his talons over his spellbook, the ritual began. He conjured the portal—a swirling, cosmic window that peeled back the fabric of their world to reveal the Earth’s Moon in its universe.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd at the sight. The sphere glowed hues of crimson and silver, bathing the land in ethereal light. Stars wove through its orbit, glimmering against the eternal blackness beyond.

Striker, however, was hardly interested. He had seen the celestial view countless times before. His gaze drifted to Chaz instead. The way the starlight twinkled in his eye, the red-tinted luminescence tracing the lines of his face—it captivated Striker more than any heavenly spectacle. His fingers twitched at his side, itching to reach out, to pull Chaz close and kiss him again, right then and there.

The sharkman exhaled wistfully, tipping his head. "Man… What a sight," he mused, his voice hushed with sincerity. His hands were comfortably tucked into his pockets as he stood as still as a statue, enthralled by the spectacle.

Striker chuckled, his smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He shifted slightly, just enough for his shoulder to brush against Chaz’s arm, the touch lingering with a comfortable ease. "Ya know… I hate to leave so soon, but I got somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to show ya," he drawled playfully, his voice laced with something mischievous.

“Oh, yeah?” Chaz quipped with an arched brow, finally pulling his gaze from the stars to meet the rancher’s eyes. “Something better than this?”

“I would say so." His voice was low, almost teasing, as he took hold of the sharkman's hand with an effortless tug, leading him back toward the car.

“Well, now you got me itching to know.”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Can’t you at least tell me where we’re going?”

Striker cast him a sidelong glance, amused by his persistence. "Back to my place."

“ Oh …” Chaz dragged out with a wide, knowing grin. “So we are gonna fuck!”

Striker groaned in annoyance, a smirk playing at his lips as he shot Chaz a sharp glare. "Yer yappin’ again…" he drawled, his tone carrying a mock exasperation.

Undeterred, Chaz continued pestering him as they made their way to the car, tossing out colorful predictions about what awaited them. Striker rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth to his expression. He quite liked the way Chaz rambled.

“Anyway…” he interjected smoothly then, steering the conversation elsewhere as he slid into the passenger’s seat. “I take it ya had fun?”

The ride back was lively, their voices filling the car as they recounted the night’s events. Chaz animatedly raved about his favorite foods, the music, and the impromptu dances he had pulled Striker into. The rancher, in turn, added his own dry commentary, his drawl edged with amusement as he teased Chaz about his excitement. 

Yet, as they traveled down the beaten path, Striker found his thoughts drifting, his hands bawling into loose fists. The festival’s lingering warmth clung to his skin, but his mind was elsewhere, turning over the decision ahead like a coin between his fingers.

Bringing Chaz home wasn’t anything new, but this time felt different. Now, the prospect carried a weight he couldn’t shake. Was he ready for what came next, for the shift in whatever it was they had? Was it too soon to even think about it? Was it worth the risk? Would things change between them if they took that step? Would Chaz still be around when the dust settled?

Striker exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders to shake the creeping tension. His gaze flicked to the sharkman beside him again.

Chaz sat comfortably in the driver’s seat, one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping an easy rhythm against his thigh. He grinned to himself as he bobbed his head, the beads on his sombrero clacking together as he hummed along to the tune bumping from the speakers. Every so often, he glanced over, tossing Striker a knowing smirk between snatches of conversation. 

He didn’t have a care in the world. There wasn’t an ounce of worry on his face—just that same easy confidence that had drawn Striker in from the start.

No, the rancher knew better. It was evident now. Chaz would stay.

He wouldn’t just bolt, not when he was this invested. The bastard had sunk his teeth into this—into them —and held on tight. Just as fiercely as Striker did. Any time they spent apart was almost painful. They needed each other now.

The thought tugged a quiet snicker from his throat. He never thought their unlikely pairing would turn into everything they now had. Yet here they were, with a trunk full of festival spoils and a road leading them back to something that felt like home.

Chapter Text

By the time they pulled up to Striker’s house, the night had settled deep, the festival’s glow still lingering in the back of Chaz’s mind like a dream. Striker prompted his partner to help him bring the goods from the trunk inside. With an exaggerated groan, Chaz stretched before hopping out, still rambling about this and that, his words tumbling over each other in his post-adrenaline high.

“—I mean, did you see the way that one Imp tried to climb the damn archway just to get a better view of the Moon? Like, buddy, you’re three seconds from eating pavement—”

Striker chuckled as he grabbed a few bags, shaking his head. “Yeah, I saw. But that idiot had some guts. Can’t deny that.”

Chaz snorted, hauling an armful of items toward the house. “That doesn’t mean much when you're about to bust your ass in front of the whole town.”

Striker hummed in agreement but let him ramble on, the corners of his mouth twitching into a warm smile as they made their way inside. Once in the kitchen, they piled everything onto the table, the space quickly filling with the scent of sweet pastries and dried meats. Chaz was still chattering away, recounting every ridiculous moment of the festival, but Striker had gone quiet, halfheartedly listening now as his mind wandered.

With the last of their haul brought in, Striker reached up and casually pulled his hat off, setting it aside. His fingers lingered at the brim for a second, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. He bit his lip, his amber eyes flickering with something unreadable at first—then the glint sharpened, mischief bleeding into his gaze.

Chaz, mid-sentence, finally picked up on the shift. “Hey, are you even listening?” he asked lightly, his brow arching.

Striker didn’t answer right away. Instead, his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk, something undeniably suggestive playing at the edges. He stepped closer, the smooth roll of his shoulders deliberate as he turned to face Chaz fully.

“Follow me,” he murmured, his voice dipping low, like the start of some wicked secret. “And leave yer hat.” He shot Chaz a glance over his shoulder, a slow, sultry look that sent an unexpected shiver down the shark demon’s spine.

Chaz swallowed, his heart giving an odd little skip. “O- Okay.” And just like that, the festival was the last thing on his mind.

He trailed behind Striker, his curiosity piqued as the Imp led him to the stable where his horse stood. Without a word, Striker secured the saddle atop the beast with practiced ease, his movements slow and fluid.

“Where are we going now?” Chaz finally asked, his voice filled with intrigue.

Striker shot him a teasing grin as he straddled his horse. “Get on and hold tight.”

They rode up the mountainside to an abandoned tunnel, the journey an adventure in itself. The path wound and twisted, eventually leading to Striker’s second secret hideout—a sprawling cavernous lair complete with molten lava pits, jagged rock formations, and dramatic neon lighting. Chaz’s jaw dropped as he took in the sight, marveling at the sheer theatricality of the place.

“Woah, what the fuck? Holy shit, this is sick!” he cheered, his eyes wide as he took it all in. “ Wow ,” he breathed.

Striker guided his horse to the living area, its hooves clicking softly against the stone floor. “I usually keep this place reserved for work…” he began, his voice low. As his horse came to a halt, Striker turned to look at Chaz over his shoulder. “But I gotta say… Somethin’ about the way ya mangled those fuckers got me goin’.” 

Chaz’s breath hitched at the confession, the bravado he usually wore so proudly suddenly faltering under Striker’s intense gaze. “Yeah?”

“Didn’t think ya had that in ya.” Striker admitted, his voice a deep rumble as he turned and grabbed hold of his collar. Pulling Chaz down, he licked the length of his neck, enjoying the remnant metallic tang of blood. Flicking his forked tongue, he added, “I think we should get into those goodies we got from the shop.”

Striker’s hot, liquor-laden breath sent a delicious shiver down Chaz’s spine. “Oh-ho-ho shit ,” he exhaled, his usual wit completely failing him. “You serious about this?”

Striker only smirked, dismounting his horse and pulling Chaz down with him. Without preamble, he led Chaz to a bedroom nestled in an abandoned train car, marked with a glowing neon sign: “Striker’s Saloon.”

Chaz chuckled with glee, excitement blossoming in his chest like a desert flower. Striker threw him onto the bed, the neon around the space flicking off with a single snap of his tail on the switch. The cavern was cast into darkness, save for the ethereal glow of their eyes and the fiery flow of lava. The sharkman’s pulse quickened as his gaze landed on the assortment of items sprawled with him on the bed—condoms, bondage gear, and dull knives from the shop they’d visited in Lust. 

‘So that’s where they’d gone.’ Chaz mused inwardly. He eagerly reached to unbutton his blazer, but Striker pounced atop him, pinning his arms down with a playful but warning growl.

"Allow me," he croaked, his tail coiling and rattling behind him, a clear sign of his excitement. He pressed Chaz’s arms against his body, holding them there with his legs as he began to slowly unbutton. Each flick of his fingers was deliberately measured, drawing out the anticipation between them.

Chaz, unable to contain his delight, bit his lip and giggled, his eyes heavy. He watched every movement with rapt attention, his heart thumping in its cage. 

A thought crossed his mind then. "Be honest,” he began, his voice a playful challenge mixed with genuine curiosity. “Why’d ya wait until now to lay me down?"

Striker paused, his hands falling still on the fabric of the blazer. He met Chaz's gaze, a serious undertone forming beneath his playful exterior. 

"Well, I obviously couldn’t do much with those damned stitches in me.” he remarked before his demeanor shifted. “And not only that…but I had to be sure you’d keep yer word." Striker confessed, his voice low and earnest. “Didn’t want ya running off before the Festival.” It was important to him, this moment, more than Chaz knew.

The warmth of realization spread through Chaz’s heart as he understood the depth of Striker's words. All along, he just wanted someone to share his world with, someone he could rely on and spend quality time with. This was more than just passion; it was the beginning of something deep and lasting. Striker had shown him who he really was, and Chaz showed that he loved every part of him. The thought brought a deeper smile to his face, one mixed with yearning anticipation and a newfound affection for the man who had finally, fully let him in. This was his reward for all he’d done.

“Now listen, and listen good,” Striker began again, shifting topics. “I’m gonna lay down some ground rules: you will do what yer told, and only what yer told. Don’t think ‘a tryin’ anything funny without my go-ahead. And one last thing…” His hands trailed to Chaz’s beltline as his voice dropped even lower. “We won’t be usin’ a safe word. But don’t worry. I’ll only hurt ya a little.”

“Oh, fuck…” Chaz breathed, his voice breathy and quivering.

“Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Striker chuckled. “Not one complaint?” He scoffed, raising his brows. “You really have changed, Thurman.”

“Hey, I’m fine with whatever as long as you lemme feel you up,” the shark quipped, sneaking a hand to caress Striker’s leg.

The Imp raised his brows. “Who said anything about that?” he dragged teasingly, pushing his hand back beneath the control of his leg.

“ What ?” Chaz exclaimed, his voice climbing with disbelief. “ No , c’mon,” he whined, pitching his tone to be intentionally annoying. “I’ve been nothing but good to you.”

Striker’s laugh was deep and rumbling. “ Exactly . Don’t give it up now. I trust ya can hold on a little longer.”

Chaz squirmed beneath him, his tail flicking with impatience. “No, c’mon … You can’t do this to me… I’ve waited so fucking long . I can’t possibly hold back any longer, c’mon, man.”

“I know, fishboy. But I love how needy you are,” the wrangler teased, his grin wicked.

“ Please ?” he begged, his voice dripping with desperation. “I just wanna make you feel good. I swear I won’t disappoint.”

Striker, ever the tease, shook his head. “Nope.”

Chaz groaned, throwing his head back in frustration. He wasn’t going down without a fight. “Here, how about this: you tangle me up and fuck me to your heart’s content, then untie me and let me do the same to you.” Striker scoffed, but Chaz quickly added, “ Otherwise , I’ll be the most annoying brat you’ve ever wrangled.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what I want,” Striker countered with a smirk, their faces inches apart.

Chaz groaned again, louder this time. “No, c’mon , cowboy. Please, please, please? Pretty please?” he shamelessly begged again, wiggling under him.

Striker silenced him with a firm hand over his mouth, hissing lowly as he pushed Chaz’s head into the pillow. “If you don’t pipe down, neither of us will get what we want. You think yer the only one who’s been miserable?” He scoffed. “I’ve wanted you for a good while m’self.” Striker admitted, causing Chaz’s eyes to widen. “Now shut up and enjoy the show.”

Leaning back, the gunman began unbuttoning his own blazer with the same tantalizing slowness, each movement calculated to torment. 

Chaz still struggled against the weight atop him, his pupils enlarged and eyes glossed over. “Dammit. You’re strong as fuck,” he grumbled with exasperation. Striker’s laugh was low and throaty, fully aware of the effect he had. “That’s kinda hot,” Chaz admitted with a huffed laugh.

A teasing glint in his eyes, Striker began to shimmy out of his blazer, the beaded decorations on it rattling at the motion. Their gaze pulled on one another as if magnetically charged, Striker keeping contact the entire time. The garment slipped from his shoulders and fell to the floor with a soft thud, leaving the Imp’s upper body exposed. 

His scars and several small tattoos were on display now, Chaz’s eyes drawn to the imperfection over his heart—a stark reminder of past torments. His expression softened at the sight, his heart twisting with a blend of pain and desire for the man before him. His gaze flicked from the scar back up to Striker's face, the rugged imperfections on his body only heightening his allure.

"C'mere," Chaz cooed, his voice thick with emotion. "Lemme kiss you."

Striker playfully denied as he traced the grooves of Chaz’s chest. "Yeah, you wish." He stood with a deliberate slowness to loom above Chaz, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. 

“Mmm… You’re so mean,” Chaz groaned, frustration tinting his voice again. 

“And yer impatient as hell,” Striker retorted with a growl, his tail lashing through the air, curling and uncurling in rhythm with his deepening voice. “All good things to those who wait, darlin’.”

Maintaining his dominance in the dimly lit room, Striker placed a foot firmly on Chaz’s broad chest. “Take off them shoes,” he commanded, his voice a deep rumble of authority. 

Chaz hesitated, the defiant spark in his eyes bright as ever, embodying the brat within. As he reluctantly began to untie his shoes, his fingers danced along Striker’s muscular calves, playfully tracing the contours.

In response, Striker’s tail whipped sharply at Chaz's hands, his movements precise and swift. He unbuckled his belt, pulling it through the loops with a single fluid motion before folding it and pulling it taut. The leather cracked sharply, the sound echoing off the walls, a stark reminder of his unyielding control. “You want some ‘a this?” Striker snarled, brandishing the belt towards Chaz.

“What if I do?” Chaz declared bravely, throwing the shoes aside with a thud.

Striker licked his golden tooth, a smirk playing on his lips at Chaz's audacity. He opened the belt to its full length and whipped it across Chaz’s arm, eliciting a cry of pained pleasure from the sharkman. His hand flew to his stinging arm, yet the blush on his cheeks deepened. When he reached for Striker again, he earned himself another sharp whip. The cycle continued, each crack of the belt punctuating the thick, charged air, Striker chuckling darkly with enjoyment. 

“I could keep on until I see blood, fishboy!” he warned grimly. “Don’t test me.”

“Go ahead,” Chaz urged, his voice laced with challenge.

Narrowing his eyes, Striker breathed, “Nah,” his tone shifting as he tossed the belt aside with a clatter. “I got bigger plans.” 

He sank down towards Chaz, pulling him up by the blazer. Their faces came within inches of one another as Striker ripped it off and tossed it aside, revealing the shark’s broad shoulders and shapely torso.

Shoving him back, Striker reached for a coil of red jute rope, his hands moving with practiced ease. He began binding Chaz, his technique fluid. Each loop and pull of the rope was precise, weaving an intricate pattern of knots across his chest and down his limbs. Striker’s fingers lingered intentionally over the scars and imperfections marking Chaz’s body and fins, exploring each ridge and dip with a curious, almost reverent touch, drawing hums of pleasure from the bound shark. 

Chaz watched through heavy-lidded eyes all the while, his breathing deep and erratic under the intensity of Striker’s handling. The rough texture of the rope seemed to almost compliment the firmness of his grasp.

“There. That should keep ya down,” Striker declared, his voice thick with pride as he secured the final knot with a sharp tug.

“Maybe for a little while,” Chaz countered, his tone breathy yet brimming with playful defiance. Even bound, his spirit was untamed, his eyes alight with challenge and anticipation.

Just then, Chaz’s gaze flickered to the side, catching the ominous gleam of a knife’s edge held dangerously close. His heart skipped a beat, a cocktail of fear and thrill coursing through him as the blade hovered a mere whisper away from his eye, reflecting the room’s dim light menacingly.

Striker’s voice dropped to a predatory growl. “You were sayin’?” The knife twirled expertly in his grasp, controlled entirely by the sinuous movement of his tail. “Wouldn’t wanna lose one a’ them pretty emeralds, now would we?” he taunted, his tone teasing yet threatening.

Chaz couldn’t help but chuckle at the compliment.

The tension in the room thickened palpably, the dangerous dance of the blade adding a visceral edge to their encounter. As Striker maintained his unyielding control, he began to work at Chaz’s restrictive pants, his actions still torturously slow, unzipping and sliding them off with an ease that underscored his complete dominance.

Caught in their intense power play, Chaz’s earlier bravado melted away, replaced by a deep, exhilarating submission to the game they played.

Striker's fingers teased the waistline of his own trousers now as he began unbuttoning them, the blade still dancing on Chaz’s skin. His gaze, thoroughly ensnared in the moment, was drawn to Striker’s bulge trapped beneath the fabric, a tantalizing promise of what was to come. 

"Now, let’s see what that mouth of yers is really worth," the gunman teased, his voice thick with desire and face red hot. 

Chaz's eyes darted up at the remark. But before he could respond, he felt the sharp grip of the Imp’s claws on his hair, pulling him into position. The sudden tug sent a jolt through him that only heightened his arousal. 

"Open up," Striker commanded, finally revealing himself. He held his shaft in place, lining it up with Chaz’s mouth as he stroked it with a sensual motion. 

The shark marveled at it, his eyes dripping with yearning as his lips parted. The size of it almost overwhelmed him; it seemed too large for Striker's stature. But his eagerness was no less palpable. 

“Holy fuck …” Chaz hummed appreciatively. He welcomed Striker, his tongue swirling with expertise as he took him deep into his throat. 

His moans were unrestrained, the vibrations sending shivers through Striker, goosebumps erupting across his skin at the intoxicating sensation. He couldn't help but be mesmerized by the sight, his fingers still tangled up in Chaz’s hair. The snarky demon bestowed him with such a skillful display that he failed to notice the knife fall from his grasp. He didn’t even hear it as it clattered to the ground. Yet, pride prevented him from voicing his enjoyment. 

Suddenly, he felt a pinch—a minor slip that made his irritation flare. "Watch those teeth, bastard ," he spat harshly, giving Chaz a corrective slap on the head. 

The shark winced, his eyes cracking open to meet Striker’s intense gaze, quickly adjusting his technique and pulling Striker back in closer. 

"There ya go. Atta boy," Striker grunted, his voice a deep, rolling rumble as he rocked his hips.

Striker knew he needed to maintain control, but it was challenging. It had been too long since he had been this close, this intimate with anyone, and his sensitivity was a testament to his prolonged abstention. His stamina wasn't what it once was, and he felt himself nearing the edge faster than anticipated. 

Struggling for words to maintain his dominant façade, he found himself caught off guard by Chaz's fervent craving, the way he slurped him up like the most decadent of desserts. His breath hitched as he steadied himself with his hands against the wall. He let his pooling drool string from his lips and fall onto Chaz's face in a moment of unguarded vulnerability. 

"Ah, shit… Take it easy," he gasped, the intensity almost too much. Yet his hips continued to rock in time with Chaz’s pull, belaying his enjoyment.

The shark demon responded with a defiant shake of his head, his glowing turquoise eyes shimmering mischievously as a grin spread at his lips. His teeth gently but firmly held Striker in place, ensuring he couldn't pull away before taking him back in.

Striker groaned, a grin breaking through his stern demeanor. "That’s plenty," he declared, finally managing to free himself as he forcefully yanked on one of Chaz's horns. "Don’t get too overzealous now," he growled, both a warning and an acknowledgment of his partner’s prowess.

A string of saliva stretched from Chaz's lips to the tip of Striker’s shaft. “C’mon, cowboy, paint my face,” he begged, his voice breathy with desire. “You know you want to.”

“Oh, I wanna do much more than that, Fins,” Striker hummed with a wicked grin, his voice thick with intent. “Now get yer ass up.” he ordered, his accent heavy.

He reached down, grabbing the ropes that bound Chaz, and forcefully turned him over. The shark offered no resistance, instead arching his back and presenting himself as Striker had commanded.

The Imp’s gaze swept over his exposed skin, his eyes appreciating the smoothness and the enticing view. “Yer so pretty like this,” he complimented, his voice low and husky.

A deep blush crept over Chaz’s cheeks as he giggled, hiding his face in the sheets. He was utterly breathless with excitement. 

The atmosphere in the room was dense with anticipation as Striker's breathing turned hot and labored. He pooled saliva in his mouth before spitting it onto his hand. His fingers worked at Chaz’s hole with a gentle, teasing touch. He explored the soft, sensitive edges sensually before pushing deeper, more purposefully into the warmth.

Simultaneously, Striker managed another task. He bit the wrapper of a nearby condom, tearing it open and rolling it onto himself, each movement betraying his growing need. Pulling off his pants, he finally liberated himself of any and all fabric, kicking it away in a hurry.

“Mmm… Stop teasing me and put it in already,” Chaz groaned, his voice rough with need. “I can take you.”

“Oh, yeah ?” Striker chuckled, his expression shifting into one of amused challenge. “Well, if you insist.”

The wrangler quickly adjusted his position, pulling Chaz’s tail up and draping it over his shoulder, securing a hold that ensured he couldn’t pull away. With both hands on the shark’s hips, Striker carefully stretched him to make room for himself. He entered slowly and deliberately, the same way he had prepared him. As Striker crept deeper, Chaz tensed up, his shoulders rising to his ears as his dominator filled him with his girth. 

“C’mon, sunshine, ease up,” the Imp cooed softly, caressing the shark’s tail. “I gotcha.”

Chaz snickered through a smile. “Sorry. You’re just so big.” he admitted over his shoulder.

“Looks like ya spoke too soon then, huh?” Striker then committed with a strong, deep thrust, fully embedding himself.

A sharp intake of breath and a high-pitched squeal broke from Chaz as his hands balled into fists. The room echoed with the sounds of their heavy breathing and the rhythmic creaking of the bed. With each of Striker’s thrusts, Chaz’s moans grew louder, his body trembling under the onslaught of pleasure.

“ Fuck ! Ah, yes …” he moaned wantingly, his voice tinged with a craving for more. “Oh, Striker…Striker!”

“Dance for me,” Striker ordered with a stinging slap. A smirk played on his lips as he watched Chaz’s hips swirl, pushing back against him in perfect rhythm. “Yeah, that’s it. Good boy.”

The sight of his partner responding so eagerly, his body so in tune with his own, brought a wave of exhilaration crashing over Striker. His thrusts targeted Chaz’s prostate with frightening accuracy, each hit sending waves of pleasure that made his toes curl and cock throb with unreleased tension.

Striker slid a hand along the shark’s skin, down to his groin to stroke his lover’s swaying erection. He felt it jump at his touch. His fingers glided to Chaz’s tip where he found precum oozing out. 

“Oh, yer lovin’ this, aren’t ya? You damn slut…” the Imp purred, his eyes glowing with the heat of the moment as he delivered a powerful slap to Chaz’s ass. 

The sharkman yelped, the sting mingling with pleasure, his voice breaking as he pleaded, “I’m your slut.”

“Yeah you are…” he growled in a husky tone, issuing another fierce slap.

“Oh my- Ah, Striker, don’t stop!”

The Imp drew sharp breaths between his teeth, his claws digging into Chaz’s supple skin as their bodies became dotted with sweat. “ Fuck ! Ya feel so good, baby…” His tail rattled loudly with thrill as he plunged himself in and out relentlessly.

Suddenly, Chaz’s movements became more frantic, his voice whimpering Striker’s name in a way that sounded almost questioning. 

“What is it, sugar?” he huffed, easing up. “Go on, use your words.”

“I… I wanna…” he huffed.

“What? You wanna cum already?” Striker remarked playfully.

Chaz shook his head, looking at his lover over his shoulder. “I wanna see you.” His eyes brimmed with tears, sparkling with pleasure. “Please? Pretty please?”

Striker’s demeanor softened, his heart melting at the sight of Chaz so undone. “Oh, alright,” he cooed, tipping his head as he gently pulled out. “Who could say no to a face like that?”

“Quit flirting and plow me into the mattress,” Chaz huffed, his legs wrapping around Striker to pull him close, his eyes now alight with mischief.

The wrangler let out a gruff moan. “Yer an eager one, huh?” he chuckled through a toothy grin, his gums showing. “Just what I like.” He wrapped his fingers around the ropes, capturing Chaz’s lips in a deep, fervent kiss. Their breathy grunts mingled as their tongues tangled, lost in each other. 

Pulling away, Striker seated himself back in and let loose, his claws gripping the sheets as he clapped against Chaz with unrelenting force, watching his face twist and eyes roll back in pure ecstasy. Striker felt himself throb at the sight. 

“Fuckin’ hell… Yer so damn sexy, Thurman,” he breathed, his gaze intense.

In the sultry air of their secluded room, their passion reached a fever pitch. As they moved together, Chaz's fingers worked silently, his claws slicing through the restrictive web of ropes that Striker had so meticulously tied around him. With each snap of the strands, the feeling of liberation mounted.

Finally free, Chaz wasted no time. He wrapped his arms tightly around Striker, pulling him close enough that their energies mixed. The heat of their breaths became suffocating as it enveloped them, but Chaz liked it that way. He craved an intimate moment. Pressing his lips against Striker’s skin, he licked and kissed the rugged terrain with a tenderness that contrasted their fierce sex. Each kiss was a wordless poem, every touch a gentle song of gratitude and affection. He lingered over the deep scar etched across Striker’s chest, giving it special attention. 

Though he was typically averse to such things, Striker didn’t make an effort to pull away this time. Instead, he reached to cradle the back of Chaz’s neck, nuzzling their heads together, a silent gesture of thanks that spoke volumes. Their connection transcended the physical; it was an intimate understanding, a mutual surrender, far from the flings fueled by alcohol Chaz had grown used to. He gave himself to Striker, an offering of his vulnerability and trust. For Striker, it was an unexpected gift, far more than he had hoped to receive, and it stirred something within him that had been dormant for too long.

Their climax arrived almost simultaneously, a crescendo of sensations that left them moaning without restraint. Chaz painted his torso with his cum, his erection dancing. He held onto Striker tightly, as though he would float away otherwise, his body light as a feather. The Imp pressed their foreheads together, reveling in their suffocating breaths. He reached down and pumped Chaz dry, squeezing out the last bit of his release.

Finally pulling himself away, Striker sat back on his heels, his breath heaving in his chest. His fingers combed through his dampened hair, pushing it back as he let out a deep, satisfied sigh.

“Shit…” he murmured, his amber eyes scanning the radiant, disheveled mess beneath him. Chaz was sprawled out, his body glowing in the aftermath of their pleasure. Striker hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t planned on letting the words slip—but they tumbled from his lips anyway, raw and honest. “Yer fuckin’ gorgeous, Fins…”

Chaz let out a breathless chuckle, his cheeks already flushed but deepening at the praise. His smile was soft, lazy, but utterly genuine as he gazed up at Striker through half-lidded eyes. “You should see yourself,” he mused, voice hoarse yet warm with affection.

Striker swallowed, licking his lips as he savored the afterglow, his pulse still thrumming in his veins. His gaze lingered, drinking Chaz in before he finally exhaled and muttered, “Lemme getcha a rag.”

Chaz hummed in response, his body pliant as Striker slipped from the bed. He moved to grab a clean cloth, dampening it with warm water before returning to his lover’s side. With a tenderness that might’ve surprised even himself, Striker ran the cloth over Chaz’s skin, wiping him clean. He pressed soft kisses along the way—over his hips, across his stomach, along the curve of his collarbone and up his neck. Chaz let out a contented sigh, his body melting under Striker’s care. The Imps tail flicked behind him, the spade occasionally gliding over Chaz’s legs, tracing absentminded patterns along his body. 

A breathless shiver escaped Chaz at the sensation, his body still humming from their time together. His fingers lazily combed through Striker’s hair, the strands soft yet unruly beneath his touch. A smirk tugged at his lips as he tried to catch his breath. “You keep that up and we’re gonna have to go again,” he teased, voice low and playful.

Striker hummed in amusement, the corner of his mouth quirking as he shot Chaz a knowing look. “I don’t see nothin’ wrong with that,” he drawled, his tail flicking with anticipation.

Chaz let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “No, no. I was just kidding. I’m spent.” He stretched at that, his muscles pleasantly sore, sinking further into the mattress. His lids felt heavy, but he fought the pull of sleep just to savor the moment a little longer.

Striker let out a low chuckle, warm and knowing. “There ya go, baby.” Tossing the cloth aside, he leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to Chaz’s forehead. When he pulled back, his teasing tone was gone, replaced by something softer. “Ya need anything?”

Chaz let out a hum of satisfaction, his arms lazily wrapping around Striker’s neck to pull him down into the sheets beside him. “Mmm…no. Just you.” His lips brushed against Striker’s jaw in a lazy kiss before he nuzzled in, letting their warmth settle between them.

Striker shifted, pulling Chaz against him fully, their bodies molding together in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His tail coiled around the shark’s, holding him in a possessive embrace.

“Ya know… I think I quite like you,” Striker muttered against his skin. 

Chaz chuckled, his fingers finding their way back to his hair, lazily combing through the strands. The touch was soothing, grounding. “Love you too,” he mumbled through a grin.

The transition back to business had been smoother than either of them expected. After the chaos of their previous assignment and the attack at the Festival, being sent on lower-risk missions—like heists, robberies, and a bit of muscle work—felt almost like a second vacation. No high-stakes assassinations, no complex operations. Just good, old-fashioned crime. Chaz didn’t mind it, and neither did Striker.

Still, something was different about them, and Crimson caught onto it rather quickly.

One afternoon, after a successful bank job, the Boss clapped a heavy hand on Chaz’s back, making him stumble forward. “Look at you ! Finally learnin’ to keep ya damn head on straight.” He let out a short laugh, the kind that had just enough of a bite to make Chaz laugh uncomfortably, but not enough to be outright insulting. “Thanks, Crim.”

Sending him on his way, Crimson turned his attention to Striker and nodded for him to follow. “C’mere, cowboy. Walk with me.”

Striker exchanged a glance with Chaz before trailing after Crimson. They walked a few paces from the others before Crimson smirked and elbowed Striker lightly in the ribs. “I dunno how ya did it, but damn, I owe ya. I was workin’ on him for months . He was a fuckin’ handful .” he began, shaking his head. “But I guess that assignment really did a number on him, huh?” 

Striker chuckled with a shrug. “I reckon it did. I think it just took a bit of time in the countryside, really.”

“Oh yeah?” he mused, listening as Striker recounted their time at his small farmstead. With a thoughtful scoff, Crimson added, “Well, I’m just glad someone finally got through to him.” He shook his head in disbelief, clearly amused. “Maybe I shoulda sent you sooner.”

Striker laughed along with him, his smile holding a hint of pride as their conversation continued. 

As the weeks rolled by, Crimson kept a keen eye. The way Chaz and Striker operated together was clean, efficient. They worked almost too well as a team. There was something else there that wasn’t just professionalism. There were no blatant displays of affection, but the familiarity between them spoke louder than any words. The way they leaned into each other without thinking, the quiet, knowing looks exchanged in meetings, the rare moments they smirked just a little too wide at an inside joke no one else was in on.

Crimson wasn’t an idiot.

So, when their latest meeting wrapped up, he leaned back in his chair. He nodded toward Alessio, his right hand man, to shut the door behind the others. “You two. C’mere.” Crimson called, halting them as he curled a finger toward them. 

Chaz and Striker glanced at each other before stepping forward.

To their surprise, the Boss wasn’t wearing the usual scowl that came with bad news. Instead, he rubbed his jaw, as if mulling something over. Then, with a casual shrug, he said, “I been thinkin’ ‘bout bringing you two into the Family. Whaddya say?”

The room felt heavier in the silence that followed. It was no small thing to be brought in by Crimson—it was a commitment, a step up from simply working under his thumb.

Chaz and Striker straightened at that, nodding after a brief pause. “We’d be honored,” Striker said evenly.

“Yeah, absolutely.” Chaz added. 

Crimson waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome. I’ll get the ceremony situated.” Then, after a moment’s pause, his gaze flicked between them, the hint of a grin curling his lips. “Anoth’a thing. You two are uh… together now, aye?” 

Just as he finished the question, their voices overlapped in a tangle of rushed denials and half-baked explanations.

“Wha—nah… This guy?”
“ Please . We’re just—”
“C’mon, boss, we just work well together.”
“Close friends, nothin’ crazy.”
“Good partners, y’know?”

Crimson raised a brow, his expression laced with amusement and judgment, like a father watching two teenagers fumble through an obvious lie. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make them sweat. Then, to their surprise, he snorted. “Eh, fuck it. What do I care?” he shrugged, then waved a finger, adding, “So long as it doesn’t affect your work … I suppose I’ll allow it.”

Chaz exhaled, shoulders relaxing.

Striker nodded. “Of course, sir.”

Their voices overlapped again, eager to assure him, though Crimson just shook his head, looking more entertained than anything. “Yeah, yeah. Get outta here.”

They didn’t need to be told twice.

As they left the mansion, stepping into the cool, fumigated air of Greed, neither of them spoke. The weight of the conversation, the offer—it was a lot to process. Chaz shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at Striker with a small, barely-contained smirk. Striker exhaled a short laugh, eyes glinting in the low light. 

The doors clicked shut as they slipped into the car, the air between them still charged from the conversation. They sat there in silence, staring out at the cityscape stretching ahead, the distant glow of the towering skyline illuminating the dark streets. The weight of what had just happened settled in, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t a heavy feeling. It was anticipation.

After a long beat, Chaz finally spoke. “Do yo know what this means?”

Striker, still lost in his thoughts, tilted his head. “No…” he told him truthfully.

Chaz turned toward him, a wild grin breaking across his face. “It means we’re gonna be fucking rich! ” he exclaimed. “You don’t have to live in the middle of nowhere anymore!”

Striker scoffed with a smirk. “Hey! I like where I live, thank you very much.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Chaz waved him off. “You don’t have to live in hiding anymore. Crim’s gonna change our names, set us up somewhere nice. We’ll have normal lives!”

Striker blinked, taken aback. ‘Normal lives?’ 

The words didn’t quite register at first. His whole life had been running, surviving, living in the shadows, scraping by however he could. The idea of stability—of a life where he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder—felt unreal. He stared at Chaz, searching his face for any sign that he was messing with him, but all he found was unwavering certainty.

“Well, that sounds nice and all…” Striker hesitated, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But I don’t wanna have to give up my house and livestock…”

Chaz chuckled, shaking his head. “No, no, you won’t have to. We’ll just need to stay at our place in Greed when we’re working. But otherwise, we still have free reign.”

Striker mulled it over in his head. The thought of having a home, a place to return to instead of somewhere to disappear—it was…tempting. “I’ll still be wanted in Wrath,” he admitted after a moment. “A name change won’t do me much good there.”

Chaz dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about that. Everything will fall into place.” His voice carried an assurance that was hard to argue with. He reached over, placing a firm yet comforting hand on Striker’s shoulder. “We gotta celebrate. This is our big break!”

Striker let out a small chuckle, the excitement in Chaz’s voice infectious. He glanced down at the hand on his shoulder, then placed his own over it, giving it a light squeeze. “Yeah, I guess yer right.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them moved. It was one of those rare pauses that felt like the whole world had slowed just for them. Chaz broke the silence again, leaning in and pressing a quick, warm kiss to the top of Striker’s head, humming in quiet affection.

Then, with a renewed fire in his eyes, he grinned and growled with determination, “Now let’s go take ass and kick names . ” Flicking on the radio, Chaz kicked the car into gear, tires screeching as they sped off toward their next assignment.

Registering what his partner said, Striker threw his head back with a laugh, shaking it in amusement. “Ya got it backwards, dumbass.”

As the city lights flickered past, his gaze lingered on Chaz. The cocky bastard had a way of getting under his skin, but somehow, someway, they worked . They shouldn’t have—by all accounts, they were too different, too reckless, too unpredictable—but against all odds, they had found a rhythm together. 

Striker thought back to the first time they met, the brawls, the schemes, the way they fought against each other. And now, here they were, partners in every sense of the word, standing on the precipice of something bigger than either of them had ever dared to imagine. He wasn’t sure what the future had in store, but for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid to find out.