Chaz x Striker

Assassin's blood pt2

Morning crept slowly into the room, soft rays of dim Wrath-ring light filtering through the slats of the blinds. The faint smell of scorched earth carried on the wind outside, but inside the room it was quiet, warm, safe. Chaz was already awake—he had been awake for hours—but he didn't move, not wanting to disturb the man wrapped so tightly around him.

Striker hadn't let go all night. His arms were locked around Chaz's torso like chains, his claws digging into the back of Chaz's jacket before eventually loosening just enough so he didn't pierce through the leather. His tail was coiled tight around Chaz's leg, rattle twitching every so often as if echoing whatever storm still raged in his head. And though Striker had stilled hours ago, Chaz could tell by the uneven rhythm of his breathing that his little snake wasn't truly asleep.

Chaz stared up at the ceiling, his hand absently stroking Striker's white hair, fingers running through strands that always seemed a little too wild, even when tied back. He knew better than to ask questions too early. Striker wasn't the type to spill his guts, not when pressed. But Chaz also knew Striker well enough to see through the act—the stiff shoulders, the way he buried his face into Chaz's chest as if trying to hide, the way he had trembled in the beginning before forcing stillness back into his body.

"Y'know," Chaz muttered softly, voice barely more than a whisper, "you're the worst faker I ever met."

Striker didn't answer. His claws flexed slightly against Chaz's side, and his tail's rattle gave a weak shake, but still he said nothing. Chaz smirked faintly, tilting his head down to look at the pale-haired imp clutching him like the world would end if he let go.

"You think you're all stone and steel, sugarfangs, but I can feel it," Chaz continued, running his hand slowly down Striker's back in soothing circles. "Ain't no shame in hurtin'. You don't gotta hide it from me."

For a long while, silence lingered between them. Striker's breath hitched once, almost imperceptible, and he shifted closer, burying himself deeper against Chaz as if trying to disappear. Chaz didn't press further. He just held him, rubbing the knots of tension in his shoulders, combing his hair gently like one might do to calm a child after a nightmare.

Chaz's mind drifted back to the years he'd known Striker—the sharp-tongued mercenary with that venomous wit, the rattling tail that always gave him away when he was on edge, the way he could command fear with a single glare. To most of Hell, Striker was a killer, cold-blooded and untouchable. But Chaz had seen the cracks, the flashes of something raw buried deep under all that armor. He'd seen it in the way Striker sometimes stared too long into the fire, like it held ghosts only he could see. He'd seen it in the way Striker would go quiet when certain topics brushed too close to home.

And now, holding him like this, Chaz could feel every fracture in that wall Striker worked so hard to keep up.

Striker's breathing shifted, a sharp inhale that betrayed he was still awake. Chaz didn't call him out on it—just let his hand trace idle lines down the length of his back. "I don't need the story," Chaz said softly. "Not 'til you're ready. But I want you to know I'm here. Nothin' you dream, nothin' that happened back then... none of it's gonna change that."

The words seemed to hang heavy in the air. Striker's chest rose and fell against him, breaths uneven, almost shaky. Chaz felt the subtle tremor running through the other demon's body, and it broke his heart just a little more.

He leaned down, pressing his lips against Striker's forehead. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent, and he felt the slightest flinch from Striker before the imp stilled again, his grip tightening around Chaz like he couldn't help it.

"You don't gotta fight alone anymore, baby," Chaz murmured, letting his thumb brush over Striker's cheek where the skin felt just a little cooler than most. "Let me carry some of it with you."