''❞ striker x reader ━
your existence feels like an endless cycle of boredom, sadness, and a sense of being lost. but everything changes when you stumble upon the harvest moon festival, a rare glimmer of excitement in you...
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the moon hung low in the dark, starless sky as striker and you rode on bombproof, leaving the chaotic scene of the cavern behind. the air was thick with tension, but the adrenaline of the battle had begun to ebb away, leaving you exhausted and shaken. striker's injuries were evident, his bandana tattered and his clothes stained with blood and dirt. you held onto him tightly, your fingers trembling.
as you rode through the desolate landscape of hell, striker finally broke the silence. his voice was rough, strained from the recent events. "we needa find a place to lay low for a while," he said, his gaze scanning the eerie, otherworldly terrain.
you nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. the motel seemed like a distant memory, and the thought of finding shelter in this hostile realm was both daunting and necessary.
after what felt like an eternity of riding, you came across a decrepit motel that seemed to materialize out of the darkness. the neon sign flickered with a faint, eerie glow, and the building itself looked like it had seen better days.
striker reined in bombproof, the gravel crunching beneath the horse's hooves. he dismounted with a graceful ease, his boots thudding against the ground. you followed suit, legs wobbling from exhaustion.
"we'll take a room," striker announced to the bored-looking imp behind the front desk, who lazily glanced up from a magazine. "don't care which one, as long as it's got a bed."
the imp nodded and handed striker a key with a numbered tag that seemed to have seen better days. "room 6," the imp muttered, returning to his magazine without much interest.
striker led you down a dimly lit hallway, the faded wallpaper peeling off in places. the air was stale, and the sound of distant murmurs and muffled laughter filled the corridors. you couldn't help but shudder, feeling the oppressive weight of hell pressing down on you.
room 6 was a small, dimly lit space with worn-out furnishings. the bed, covered in faded, scratchy sheets, dominated the room. a flickering television in the corner offered a distorted view of a hellish game show, and the curtains were drawn tightly, blocking out the eerie glow of hell's landscape.
striker closed the door behind you with a heavy sigh, the tension of the night finally catching up to him. he sauntered towards a chair by the window, his form casting a long, distorted shadow in the dim light. his ivory white hair seemed to shimmer in the faint glow.
you stood in the center of the room, feeling the weight of the night's events pressing down on you. the adrenaline had faded completely, you didn't know what to do.
with a casual grace that contrasted his earlier exhaustion, striker began to shed his attire. he took off his hat, revealing messed up ivory hair. he took off his jacket revealing his black turtleneck shirt that clung to his form, accentuating his physique.
