Chaz x Striker

Assassin's blood pt1

The neon flicker of the motel sign buzzed faintly through the thin curtains, throwing pale red and blue streaks across the dark room. The place smelled faintly of old cigarettes and cheap floor cleaner, the kind of scent that lingered no matter how long you stayed. Chazwick Thurman was sprawled across the bed, one leg dangling off the edge, scrolling through his phone with a grin that was all too cocky for someone who hadn't paid the week's rent yet. He had a video playing, some half-drunk imps trying to rap over distorted beats, and he was snorting with laughter when he heard the door click open.

Chaz's grin widened before he even looked up.

There he was—Striker.

The cowboy imp filled the doorway like a shadow, tall and wiry, his hat in hand and his coat hanging heavier than usual over his shoulders. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, sharp but... drained. The kind of exhaustion that clung to a body like a second skin. He shut the door with a careful motion, the metallic click echoing, and set his bag by the frame. His hat followed, then the jacket—each piece peeled away like armor shed after battle.

Chaz pushed himself upright, tail flicking behind him with a lazy rhythm before he bounded across the room. "Well, look who finally decided to grace my evening with his rugged presence," he teased, voice rough but playful.

Striker glared at him, just for a second, that trademark cold stare that could curdle blood if you didn't know better. But Chaz had long since learned that the glare wasn't for him. It was habit. A mask Striker wore when the world pressed too close.

Then, without a word, Striker stepped forward.

The imp's body moved with a predator's grace, but his head dipped—slowly, carefully—until it rested against Chaz's broad chest. His arms wrapped around Chaz's torso with a tightness that surprised even the shark demon, as if Striker was afraid that letting go might mean collapsing entirely.

Chaz let out a soft laugh, lowering his phone onto the dresser. He hooked an arm around Striker's back, patting between his shoulders. "Tough job, huh?"

Striker just nodded, silver eyes dull with fatigue. His voice was low, gravel rubbed raw. "Got paid, though. Another powerful one down. Bastard was hungry for blood."

"Hungry demon, huh? Sounds like half my exes," Chaz chuckled, guiding the smaller man by the shoulders. "C'mon, cowboy, let's get that tough ass of yours off your feet before you drop."

Striker followed, silent, his tail dragging faintly behind him as Chaz steered him to the bed. He moved like someone who'd spent too long on the battlefield—body still taut, mind unwilling to admit it was safe to rest. When he sat, the mattress dipped but Striker didn't fight the pull. He sank, boots still on, shoulders hunched forward as if weighed down by invisible chains.

Chaz crouched in front of him, flashing a grin that tried to mask his concern. "You look like hell, babe. Lucky thing you're still gorgeous even when you're dead on your feet."

Striker huffed through his nose, something between a laugh and a scoff. He leaned back slightly, letting his arms fall limp at his sides.

For a moment, silence settled between them, filled only by the motel's ancient air unit humming like a broken lullaby. Chaz studied him carefully, the scars over Striker's eye catching the glow from the neon outside. He traced the line with his gaze, thinking of how many more scars must lie beneath that shirt, hidden from sight.

"You know," Chaz murmured, leaning closer, "you don't gotta carry all this alone. You could tell me what's eating you."

Striker tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Ain't nothing to say. Job's done."