Chaz x Striker

Assassin's blood pt4

The Wrath Ring sun beat down hot and merciless, painting the dirt road in bleached tones of gold and red. The market stretched ahead, scattered stands with goods stacked high: smoked meats, cracked bottles of liquor, dusty tools, and charms carved out of bone. Wrath demons bustled about, bartering loudly, slinging curses, the smell of sweat and gunpowder hanging in the air like perfume.

Striker moved like he always did—straight-backed, alert, pale hair tied back, eyes cutting left and right like a predator scanning for prey. His hand rested habitually near the holster at his hip, tail swaying with subtle rattles. He hated the press of crowds, hated being boxed in by noise and bodies.

But there was Chaz.

The shark demon strolled at his side, all six-foot-seven of him, grinning like he owned the damn street. His neon-blue eyes sparkled, his finned hair catching the light as he leaned down to murmur in Striker's ear.

"Y'know, sugarfangs, holdin' my hand like this? You're gonna start rumors. Folks'll think we're serious."

Striker's grip tightened reflexively on Chaz's hand, and his ears twitched hot with embarrassment. "Shut the hell up," he muttered.

Chaz barked a laugh, sharp teeth flashing. "Oh, I dunno. I kinda like it. My handsome little cowboy struttin' beside me, lookin' all mean but blushin' like a schoolboy."

"Chaz..." Striker hissed under his breath, trying to tug his hand free. Chaz didn't let go—in fact, he squeezed tighter, swinging their hands exaggeratedly as if to make a point. A few passersby turned to stare, curious, amused, or both.

Striker's tail rattled low, warning, though not truly in anger. "You're gonna get us shot."

"Worth it," Chaz teased, pulling Striker against his side as they walked. He pressed a kiss to his temple before Striker could dodge, grinning wide at the scowl it earned. "C'mon, darlin'. It's just a market. Nobody's gonna care."

Striker's glare was sharp enough to kill, but beneath it, his chest tightened in a way he couldn't quite fight off. As much as he wanted to snap, wanted to shove Chaz off, there was something in the way the shark's voice curled around him—playful, warm, unashamed—that dug under his armor.

"Y'know," Chaz continued, lowering his voice just enough to make Striker's ears heat again, "we could duck into one of these stalls. Maybe find somethin' nice for you. A new belt, maybe a little trinket. Somethin' to remind you of me when you're all broody and alone."

Striker huffed, trying to ignore the flutter that stirred in his gut. "The only thing I want remindin' me of you is when you shut your damn mouth."

"Ouch," Chaz said dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. "But I can work with that. Maybe I'll just keep talkin' till you finally kiss me quiet."

Striker's jaw tightened. His tail swayed once, brushing against Chaz's leg, and Chaz smirked knowingly. He'd won this little round, and both of them knew it.

They moved through the rows of stalls, Chaz pointing out everything and anything just to get a rise out of him. "Look at that hat! Nah, yours is better. Those boots, though—I can see you struttin' in those, darlin'. Or maybe..." he trailed off suggestively, leaning down close, "...nothin' but those boots."

Striker stopped dead in the street, pale cheeks coloring. "Chaz."

"What? I'm just sayin'—"

Striker shoved his elbow hard into Chaz's ribs, cutting him off. The shark only laughed louder, unbothered, throwing an arm casually around his shoulders as if they were the most normal couple in Wrath.