Chaz x Striker

Pregnant pt3

The words hung heavy in the air. For a heartbeat, the battlefield went still—no gunfire, no shouting—just stunned silence.

Blitz froze mid-step, his mouth falling open, his eyes darting from Chaz to Striker. "Wait—what?" he muttered, the cocky grin slipping from his face.

Moxxie's jaw practically hit the ground. "He's... pregnant?" he sputtered, ears flicking as he tried to process. His pistol lowered instinctively, hands trembling. "But—that's—"

Millie's eyes softened, her grip still tight on Blitz's arm. "Oh, sugar..." she breathed, looking at Striker with a sudden pang of sympathy.

Crimson, on the other hand, barked out a laugh—low, mean, and laced with disbelief. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, staring at Chaz like he'd lost his mind. "You're tellin' me... somebody actually wanted a kid with you?" he scoffed, his voice dripping with mockery. "Hell must be freezin' over."

Striker's body shook harder, his breaths sharp and uneven as tears slipped down his cheeks. He buried his face against Chaz's shoulder, but his anger sparked even through the pain. A guttural hiss tore from him, his rattling tail echoing across the clearing like a warning drum. His hand clenched tight over his stomach, protectively shielding the life inside.

Chaz pulled him closer, his arm firm around Striker's back, whispering softly against his hair. "Shhh, it's okay... I've got you. I've got both of you." His other hand gripped his pistol, keeping it aimed steady at Crimson's crew even as his heart raced.

Crimson's smirk faltered for just a moment, seeing the way Striker clung to Chaz—weak, trembling, but fierce all the same. For once, the old mob boss was stunned into silence, unable to mask the disbelief that anyone would fight tooth and nail to protect a future with Chaz.

The air trembled with tension—Blitz and his crew staring, Crimson sneering but unsettled, Striker hissing through tears, and Chaz holding him like the only thing that mattered in the world.

Crimson's smirk returned as he flicked ash off his cigarette, snapping his fingers sharply. The sound cracked through the air like a whip, and instantly, the few men he still had standing raised their guns. The barrels pointed square at Chaz and Striker.

"Enough of this pathetic cryin' show," Crimson snarled, his eyes cold and predatory. "Chaz... let go of him. Hand him over. You don't got the spine to protect him anyway."

Chaz froze, every muscle in his body tense. His arms tightened around Striker instinctively, but his mind raced. His finger twitched near the trigger of his pistol, but with guns aimed at them both—and Striker weakened in his arms—he didn't know if he could draw fast enough. His heart hammered in his chest.

Striker hissed low, tail rattling weakly, pressing a shaking hand against his stomach. He bared his fangs despite the tears streaking his face. "You... ain't touchin' me... or them," he spat, voice strained but sharp.

"Shut your mouth, rattler," Crimson barked. "You're in no condition to fight. And Chaz—" his sneer widened—"you ain't never been one for loyalty. Don't start pretendin' now."

Chaz's teeth clenched. His grip on Striker tightened as he whispered fiercely against his hair, "I'm not lettin' him take you. I swear it."

And then, out of nowhere, a voice rang out. Firm. Clear.

"Back off."

Crimson turned, eyes narrowing. It was Millie—axes in hand, standing her ground with fire in her eyes. "He's carryin' a baby. You got no damn right."

Moxxie stood at her side, his pistol raised, voice steadier than usual despite the tremor in his hands. "You heard her. If you want to get to them, you're going through us."