helluvaoutlaw

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker gave her a genuine smile, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on the table as he listened.

“That’s a nice hobby. Sounds like it takes a steady hand and a whole lotta patience.”

He let the compliment settle for a beat, his gaze warm and sincere.

“Not everyone’s got the precision for somethin’ like that. Bet it feels good to see somethin’ you made from scratch come together.”

He straightened up as the waitress returned with their desserts, placing his coffee and slice of cherry pie in front of him.

“Thanks, sugar.”

He said with a quick nod to the maid before turning his attention back to Coronis.

Taking a sip of his coffee, he watched her as she nervously nibbled on her cake.

“Y’know, you shouldn’t sell yourself short. Bein’ able to make somethin’ like that? Not everyone’s got that kind of talent.”

He smirked, cutting into his pie with his fork.

“I’d wager it says a lot about you—patience, attention to detail, maybe a little bit of perfectionism, huh?”

He took a bite of his pie, chewing slowly as if giving her space to gather her thoughts, his eyes flicking to hers with quiet interest.

“What’s the best thing you’ve made so far?”

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker’s tail rattled against the floor, his irritation rippling through every muscle in his body.

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he spoke, his voice cutting but quiet enough not to draw attention.

“You think this is about blamin’ you? About pointin’ fingers? No, Coronis. This is about survivin’. You either do, or you don’t. That’s it. Life’s no fairy tale where someone swoops in to save the day. You make it out alive, or you get eaten alive. Predator or prey.”

He scoffed, his tone laced with disdain.

“But I wouldn’t expect a Goetia to get that. Your kind never had to fight for nothin’. Spoiled, pampered, and weak. You give up at the first sign of trouble and call it fate.”

Striker’s eyes glinted with sharpness, the words dripping venom as he continued.

“And savin’ everyone? You think that’s my plan? What am I supposed to be, a hero? A damn babysitter?”

He spat the words out like they left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Ya know what? Fuck that. I’m gettin’ outta here. With or without you. You can sit there, cryin’ about how bad it gets, or you can decide you’re worth more than this cell. But don’t think for one second I’m waitin’ around for someone too scared to fight back.”

He stood, the chains pulling taut against his wrists as he paced.

“No one’s comin’ to save us. So either you learn how to stand, or you’ll just be another one who breaks.”

He turned away, the harsh clink of his chains punctuating his final words.

“Your choice.”

Deliver Us from Evil

((A closed RP thread for @second-wife-playbook ))

Warning! NSFW content (namely torture and violence)

((the dialogues are all in English, aside for a few exceptions, but whenever you see a sentence with a * it means they are speaking Italian.))

––––––––

Vatican City, Italy, 9:00 p.m.

The flickering glow of candlelight cast long shadows along the towering walls of St. Peter’s Basilica, illuminating the gilded arches and intricate mosaics with a warm, ethereal glow. The haunting melody of Gregorian chants filled the sacred space, echoing from the Altare della Confessione and filling every corridor with its solemn resonance. The faithful gathered near the altar, their voices melding into a single, haunting wave of prayer.

Cardinal Graziano Malaspina moved quietly down one of the lesser-used hallways, the sound of his footsteps almost swallowed by the vast silence of the basilica. For once, he did not join the chants, choosing instead to observe from the edges, shrouded in the quiet solitude of the basilica's shadows. Tonight, he felt an odd sense of disquiet—a subtle, unspoken tension that seemed woven into the very air.

He paused at a window, glancing out at the nearly empty square below. The marble and stone, so familiar to him, seemed to almost breathe in the stillness of the night.

Cardinal Malaspina was a striking figure, his presence commanding yet refined.

Standing tall with a lean, dignified frame, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had risen swiftly through the Church’s ranks.

His Italian heritage showed in his dark, deep-set eyes, which held an intense gaze that could both soothe and unsettle in equal measure.

His hair, thick and precisely combed back, was a distinguished blend of salt and pepper, echoing the silver that flecked his well-groomed beard. The beard itself was neatly trimmed to accentuate the strong, angular lines of his face, adding an air of wisdom to his appearance. His nose, prominent and finely shaped, gave him a slightly aristocratic look, one that complemented his quiet, reserved demeanor.

Despite his relatively young age among the cardinals, having just reached sixty, he bore the wisdom and experience of a man who had seen much in his time with the Church. His crimson cassock fell in sharp lines around him, pristine and orderly, each detail carefully attended to—a testament to his meticulous nature and devotion to his duties.

He cast a wary glance over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dim hallway for any sign of movement. Satisfied that he was alone, he reached out to the statue of Archangel Michael, knelt down, made the sign of the cross and pressed a small lever concealed along its back.

With a low, almost imperceptible rumble, the statue shifted, rotating on its pedestal to reveal a hidden doorway nestled behind it. The faint hum of machinery stirred, as if acknowledging a secret it had kept for centuries. Beyond the doorway lay a narrow elevator and a spiraling set of marble stairs, both leading downward into the unknown.

Without hesitation, Cardinal Malaspina slipped inside, feeling the air cool and thicken with a sense of sacred secrecy. Once he crossed the threshold, the statue resumed its original position, cloaking the hidden passageway from view. To any passerby, it appeared as though nothing had changed, the Archangel Michael standing steadfast in his silent vigil.

As Cardinal Malaspina descended deeper into the hidden chambers of St. Peter’s Basilica, the echo of his footsteps was joined by those of Guido, his loyal aide and confidant.

Dressed impeccably in a black suit, Guido inclined his head in a respectful bow, murmuring:

*“Your Eminence.”*

He fell into step beside the Cardinal, his tone low but crisp as he relayed the latest report.

*"Our Hunters returned from the United States. They found the hotel but...the demon was already dead. By electrocution, in a swimming pool."*

Guido's tone conveyed his disappointment, though he continued smoothly, *“The Infestor had been haunting the hotel, taking human lives one by one. But by the time they arrived, someone had gotten there first.”*

The Cardinal sighed, a brief flicker of frustration crossing his face.

*"A pity. Such a rare specimen could have proven useful to us in Project Divine Justice. There’s always something new to learn from their nature—if only we can get to them first.”*

They walked past sleek, reinforced doors, which opened into a series of rooms unlike anything one would expect beneath Vatican City. Hidden behind the walls of faith and tradition, the Order of Saint Michael the Archangel’s underground headquarters resembled a modern, highly-equipped facility. Laboratories buzzed with scientists in white coats, analyzing samples and conducting experiments on demon blood, bone, and essence.

In a separate room, instructors led young initiates in the arts of demonology, each student pouring over ancient texts bound in leather, annotated with both Latin prayers and weapon schematics. Further down, hardened agents trained with exorcism rituals and weapon drills, preparing for their next assignment.

Cardinal Malaspina felt a surge of satisfaction as he moved through the corridors, taking in the power and purpose of OSMA’s sprawling network. He had dedicated his life to making the Order one of the most formidable forces the Church had ever sanctioned, one that could confront Hell itself.

In recent years, however, Project Divine Justice had brought his ambitions to a new peak, aiming to capture demons directly from Hell to ensure no secrets were left undiscovered.

*"Of course, it’s more difficult than ever to secure our...acquisitions,"* he mused aloud, glancing at Guido.

*"Few demons are allowed on Earth, and those that do break through are often killed on sight.”*

Guido nodded.

*"That’s why Crimson remains indispensable. With his network, he can bring us exactly what we need, directly from Hell itself.”*

A sly smile tugged at the corner of the Cardinal’s mouth.

Crimson, the demon mafia boss who commanded such power within Hell’s underworld, was a key ally.

For the right price—and perhaps a few thinly veiled promises—Crimson delivered the demonic specimens they needed, hand-delivered to OSMA’s agents, allowing their experiments and training to proceed in earnest.

Their path led to a heavily secured door, marked only with a cross etched into blackened metal. Cardinal Malaspina paused for a moment, laying his hand on the door.

*“When we unlock the true nature of these demons, Guido, the world will be prepared. Humanity will finally be safe from these creatures.”*

"Dio è con noi, Eminenza."

"E noi siamo con Dio."

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker sat on the edge of his cot, his sharp eyes catching glimpses of Coronis through the faint light that seeped into their cells.

He hadn’t pushed her since their last conversation, giving her the space she seemed to need. But now, watching her tremble and seeing the toll the place was taking on her and her friend Vivian, he couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.

“They’re breakin’ her,” he said, his voice low but carrying an edge of restrained anger. “Vivian. She ain’t gonna last much longer if she don’t eat.”

He leaned forward, his chains rattling softly.

“You know that as much as I do, Coronis. And if she goes, you’re just gonna let it happen? Let ‘em take another one of us like that?”

Striker’s voice dropped, quieter, more deliberate.

“I ain’t tellin’ you to pick up a blade or start a fight. But you see what this place does. If we don’t look after each other, they win. Every damn time.”

He paused, the faintest flicker of pain crossing his features before his resolve hardened again.

“I’ll keep playin’ along with their tests for now. But if we just sit back, watch her fade away, what’s that say about us? About you?”

His snake eyes locked on hers through the bars.

“Think on it, Coronis. While we still got a chance to do somethin’.”

He leaned back, his chains clinking as he settled into the shadows, letting his words hang in the silence.

Deliver Us from Evil

((A closed RP thread for @second-wife-playbook ))

Warning! NSFW content (namely torture and violence)

((the dialogues are all in English, aside for a few exceptions, but whenever you see a sentence with a * it means they are speaking Italian.))

––––––––

Vatican City, Italy, 9:00 p.m.

The flickering glow of candlelight cast long shadows along the towering walls of St. Peter’s Basilica, illuminating the gilded arches and intricate mosaics with a warm, ethereal glow. The haunting melody of Gregorian chants filled the sacred space, echoing from the Altare della Confessione and filling every corridor with its solemn resonance. The faithful gathered near the altar, their voices melding into a single, haunting wave of prayer.

Cardinal Graziano Malaspina moved quietly down one of the lesser-used hallways, the sound of his footsteps almost swallowed by the vast silence of the basilica. For once, he did not join the chants, choosing instead to observe from the edges, shrouded in the quiet solitude of the basilica's shadows. Tonight, he felt an odd sense of disquiet—a subtle, unspoken tension that seemed woven into the very air.

He paused at a window, glancing out at the nearly empty square below. The marble and stone, so familiar to him, seemed to almost breathe in the stillness of the night.

Cardinal Malaspina was a striking figure, his presence commanding yet refined.

Standing tall with a lean, dignified frame, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had risen swiftly through the Church’s ranks.

His Italian heritage showed in his dark, deep-set eyes, which held an intense gaze that could both soothe and unsettle in equal measure.

His hair, thick and precisely combed back, was a distinguished blend of salt and pepper, echoing the silver that flecked his well-groomed beard. The beard itself was neatly trimmed to accentuate the strong, angular lines of his face, adding an air of wisdom to his appearance. His nose, prominent and finely shaped, gave him a slightly aristocratic look, one that complemented his quiet, reserved demeanor.

Despite his relatively young age among the cardinals, having just reached sixty, he bore the wisdom and experience of a man who had seen much in his time with the Church. His crimson cassock fell in sharp lines around him, pristine and orderly, each detail carefully attended to—a testament to his meticulous nature and devotion to his duties.

He cast a wary glance over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dim hallway for any sign of movement. Satisfied that he was alone, he reached out to the statue of Archangel Michael, knelt down, made the sign of the cross and pressed a small lever concealed along its back.

With a low, almost imperceptible rumble, the statue shifted, rotating on its pedestal to reveal a hidden doorway nestled behind it. The faint hum of machinery stirred, as if acknowledging a secret it had kept for centuries. Beyond the doorway lay a narrow elevator and a spiraling set of marble stairs, both leading downward into the unknown.

Without hesitation, Cardinal Malaspina slipped inside, feeling the air cool and thicken with a sense of sacred secrecy. Once he crossed the threshold, the statue resumed its original position, cloaking the hidden passageway from view. To any passerby, it appeared as though nothing had changed, the Archangel Michael standing steadfast in his silent vigil.

As Cardinal Malaspina descended deeper into the hidden chambers of St. Peter’s Basilica, the echo of his footsteps was joined by those of Guido, his loyal aide and confidant.

Dressed impeccably in a black suit, Guido inclined his head in a respectful bow, murmuring:

*“Your Eminence.”*

He fell into step beside the Cardinal, his tone low but crisp as he relayed the latest report.

*"Our Hunters returned from the United States. They found the hotel but...the demon was already dead. By electrocution, in a swimming pool."*

Guido's tone conveyed his disappointment, though he continued smoothly, *“The Infestor had been haunting the hotel, taking human lives one by one. But by the time they arrived, someone had gotten there first.”*

The Cardinal sighed, a brief flicker of frustration crossing his face.

*"A pity. Such a rare specimen could have proven useful to us in Project Divine Justice. There’s always something new to learn from their nature—if only we can get to them first.”*

They walked past sleek, reinforced doors, which opened into a series of rooms unlike anything one would expect beneath Vatican City. Hidden behind the walls of faith and tradition, the Order of Saint Michael the Archangel’s underground headquarters resembled a modern, highly-equipped facility. Laboratories buzzed with scientists in white coats, analyzing samples and conducting experiments on demon blood, bone, and essence.

In a separate room, instructors led young initiates in the arts of demonology, each student pouring over ancient texts bound in leather, annotated with both Latin prayers and weapon schematics. Further down, hardened agents trained with exorcism rituals and weapon drills, preparing for their next assignment.

Cardinal Malaspina felt a surge of satisfaction as he moved through the corridors, taking in the power and purpose of OSMA’s sprawling network. He had dedicated his life to making the Order one of the most formidable forces the Church had ever sanctioned, one that could confront Hell itself.

In recent years, however, Project Divine Justice had brought his ambitions to a new peak, aiming to capture demons directly from Hell to ensure no secrets were left undiscovered.

*"Of course, it’s more difficult than ever to secure our...acquisitions,"* he mused aloud, glancing at Guido.

*"Few demons are allowed on Earth, and those that do break through are often killed on sight.”*

Guido nodded.

*"That’s why Crimson remains indispensable. With his network, he can bring us exactly what we need, directly from Hell itself.”*

A sly smile tugged at the corner of the Cardinal’s mouth.

Crimson, the demon mafia boss who commanded such power within Hell’s underworld, was a key ally.

For the right price—and perhaps a few thinly veiled promises—Crimson delivered the demonic specimens they needed, hand-delivered to OSMA’s agents, allowing their experiments and training to proceed in earnest.

Their path led to a heavily secured door, marked only with a cross etched into blackened metal. Cardinal Malaspina paused for a moment, laying his hand on the door.

*“When we unlock the true nature of these demons, Guido, the world will be prepared. Humanity will finally be safe from these creatures.”*

"Dio è con noi, Eminenza."

"E noi siamo con Dio."

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker chuckled softly, leaning back in his seat as he rested an arm along the top of the booth, his fingers tapping idly against the wood. He watched Coronis with a touch of amusement, catching the way her face turned red.

“Bombproof’s fine, darlin’. Tough as hell, that one. Just takin’ him in for a routine check-up, y’know, makin’ sure he’s in peak shape. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little extra care.”

He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Anyway, what’s this about embroiderin’? Didn’t know you had a knack for that.”

He let his hand slide down to rest on the edge of the table, his fingers idly tracing the grooves in the wood as he studied her.

“What kinda stuff do you make?”

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.

[helluvaoutlaw]

Coming soon: a Christmas-themed Striker standee! 🎄✨ I’m planning to have it ready by the end of the year.

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker leaned back in his seat, resting one arm casually along the back of the booth.

His grin softened into something more easygoing as he answered.

"Nothin’ too excitin’. Just a normal day, really. Scheduled a vet appointment for Bombproof—gotta keep the big guy in top shape. Just a routine check-up."

He tilted his head slightly, yellow eyes locking on hers with genuine curiosity.

"What about you, darlin'? What’ve you been up to?"

Striker glanced up as a demon maid approached their booth, her uniform crisp and neat, a notebook in hand. She smiled warmly.

"Good evening. Can I get anything for you, sir?"

Striker leaned forward slightly, giving her a polite nod.

"Evenin’. Yeah, I’ll take a black Lust coffee—hot—and whatever pie you got fresh outta the oven."

The maid jotted it down with quick precision, then turned to Coronis.

"And for you, ma’am? Anything else beside the iced tea?"

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.

[helluvaoutlaw]

The bell above the door jingled as it swung open, and there he was. Striker stepped inside, his dark blue jeans snug and well-fitted, paired with his usual scuffed boots.

His ivory hair was neatly groomed, and his polished black-and-white striped horns curved sharply, catching the light. The absence of his usual hat made him look more casual but no less commanding.

He scanned the room, his reptile eyes landing on her almost instantly.

A confident grin tugged at his lips as he strode toward her booth, his demeanor relaxed but purposeful. His hands were tucked casually into his jeans' pockets, and his stride had the air of someone who owned every room he walked into.

"Evenin', Cori," he said, his voice smooth and easy as he slid into the seat across from her. "Hope I didn’t keep you waitin’ too long."

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker let out a quiet sigh, leaning back against the cold wall of his cell, the chain at his wrist clinking softly.

“All right, Coronis. All right. I ain’t pushin’ you no more tonight.”

His voice was calm, measured, a subtle undercurrent of understanding in his tone.

“You’re scared. I get it. They’ve worn you down. But you don’t need to say nothin’. You don’t need to do nothin’ right now.”

He paused, glancing at the darkened ceiling above him, the faintest flicker of determination crossing his face.

I ain’t stupid enough to try anythin’ yet anyway. They’re watchin’ me too close. New blood always draws attention. This ain’t the time.

He rested his head back against the wall.

I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. But I’ll get us out of here. One way or another.

With that, Striker let the silence take over, giving her space and himself time to think.

Patience, he reminded himself. This game required patience.

Deliver Us from Evil

((A closed RP thread for @second-wife-playbook ))

Warning! NSFW content (namely torture and violence)

((the dialogues are all in English, aside for a few exceptions, but whenever you see a sentence with a * it means they are speaking Italian.))

––––––––

Vatican City, Italy, 9:00 p.m.

The flickering glow of candlelight cast long shadows along the towering walls of St. Peter’s Basilica, illuminating the gilded arches and intricate mosaics with a warm, ethereal glow. The haunting melody of Gregorian chants filled the sacred space, echoing from the Altare della Confessione and filling every corridor with its solemn resonance. The faithful gathered near the altar, their voices melding into a single, haunting wave of prayer.

Cardinal Graziano Malaspina moved quietly down one of the lesser-used hallways, the sound of his footsteps almost swallowed by the vast silence of the basilica. For once, he did not join the chants, choosing instead to observe from the edges, shrouded in the quiet solitude of the basilica's shadows. Tonight, he felt an odd sense of disquiet—a subtle, unspoken tension that seemed woven into the very air.

He paused at a window, glancing out at the nearly empty square below. The marble and stone, so familiar to him, seemed to almost breathe in the stillness of the night.

Cardinal Malaspina was a striking figure, his presence commanding yet refined.

Standing tall with a lean, dignified frame, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had risen swiftly through the Church’s ranks.

His Italian heritage showed in his dark, deep-set eyes, which held an intense gaze that could both soothe and unsettle in equal measure.

His hair, thick and precisely combed back, was a distinguished blend of salt and pepper, echoing the silver that flecked his well-groomed beard. The beard itself was neatly trimmed to accentuate the strong, angular lines of his face, adding an air of wisdom to his appearance. His nose, prominent and finely shaped, gave him a slightly aristocratic look, one that complemented his quiet, reserved demeanor.

Despite his relatively young age among the cardinals, having just reached sixty, he bore the wisdom and experience of a man who had seen much in his time with the Church. His crimson cassock fell in sharp lines around him, pristine and orderly, each detail carefully attended to—a testament to his meticulous nature and devotion to his duties.

He cast a wary glance over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dim hallway for any sign of movement. Satisfied that he was alone, he reached out to the statue of Archangel Michael, knelt down, made the sign of the cross and pressed a small lever concealed along its back.

With a low, almost imperceptible rumble, the statue shifted, rotating on its pedestal to reveal a hidden doorway nestled behind it. The faint hum of machinery stirred, as if acknowledging a secret it had kept for centuries. Beyond the doorway lay a narrow elevator and a spiraling set of marble stairs, both leading downward into the unknown.

Without hesitation, Cardinal Malaspina slipped inside, feeling the air cool and thicken with a sense of sacred secrecy. Once he crossed the threshold, the statue resumed its original position, cloaking the hidden passageway from view. To any passerby, it appeared as though nothing had changed, the Archangel Michael standing steadfast in his silent vigil.

As Cardinal Malaspina descended deeper into the hidden chambers of St. Peter’s Basilica, the echo of his footsteps was joined by those of Guido, his loyal aide and confidant.

Dressed impeccably in a black suit, Guido inclined his head in a respectful bow, murmuring:

*“Your Eminence.”*

He fell into step beside the Cardinal, his tone low but crisp as he relayed the latest report.

*"Our Hunters returned from the United States. They found the hotel but...the demon was already dead. By electrocution, in a swimming pool."*

Guido's tone conveyed his disappointment, though he continued smoothly, *“The Infestor had been haunting the hotel, taking human lives one by one. But by the time they arrived, someone had gotten there first.”*

The Cardinal sighed, a brief flicker of frustration crossing his face.

*"A pity. Such a rare specimen could have proven useful to us in Project Divine Justice. There’s always something new to learn from their nature—if only we can get to them first.”*

They walked past sleek, reinforced doors, which opened into a series of rooms unlike anything one would expect beneath Vatican City. Hidden behind the walls of faith and tradition, the Order of Saint Michael the Archangel’s underground headquarters resembled a modern, highly-equipped facility. Laboratories buzzed with scientists in white coats, analyzing samples and conducting experiments on demon blood, bone, and essence.

In a separate room, instructors led young initiates in the arts of demonology, each student pouring over ancient texts bound in leather, annotated with both Latin prayers and weapon schematics. Further down, hardened agents trained with exorcism rituals and weapon drills, preparing for their next assignment.

Cardinal Malaspina felt a surge of satisfaction as he moved through the corridors, taking in the power and purpose of OSMA’s sprawling network. He had dedicated his life to making the Order one of the most formidable forces the Church had ever sanctioned, one that could confront Hell itself.

In recent years, however, Project Divine Justice had brought his ambitions to a new peak, aiming to capture demons directly from Hell to ensure no secrets were left undiscovered.

*"Of course, it’s more difficult than ever to secure our...acquisitions,"* he mused aloud, glancing at Guido.

*"Few demons are allowed on Earth, and those that do break through are often killed on sight.”*

Guido nodded.

*"That’s why Crimson remains indispensable. With his network, he can bring us exactly what we need, directly from Hell itself.”*

A sly smile tugged at the corner of the Cardinal’s mouth.

Crimson, the demon mafia boss who commanded such power within Hell’s underworld, was a key ally.

For the right price—and perhaps a few thinly veiled promises—Crimson delivered the demonic specimens they needed, hand-delivered to OSMA’s agents, allowing their experiments and training to proceed in earnest.

Their path led to a heavily secured door, marked only with a cross etched into blackened metal. Cardinal Malaspina paused for a moment, laying his hand on the door.

*“When we unlock the true nature of these demons, Guido, the world will be prepared. Humanity will finally be safe from these creatures.”*

"Dio è con noi, Eminenza."

"E noi siamo con Dio."

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker tilted his hat back slightly, his grin softening.

"Yeah, a bit earlier sounds good. Gives us more time to talk, and you won’t have to rush home after."

He folded his arms, leaning casually against the lamppost as he watched her.

"But hey, it’s up to you. Whenever you prefer, Cori."

He straightened up, adding with a slight shrug:

"Just let me know what works, and I’ll be there. Here."

The Wrathian quickly scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper from his personal small notebook (the one where he signed all the names of his targets) and gave it to Coronis.

"Lemme know. Now I better get back inside, see ya tomorrow, darlin'."

With a playful wink, Striker jogged back to the club and entered.

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker’s grin widened as he leaned forward slightly, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Sure I’m sure, Cori,” he said smoothly. “Ain’t got another gig till Thursday, and I know just the spot. Little diner not too far from here—cozy place, real quiet. They do the best coffee and baked goods in Gluttony, I swear by it. Midweek in the evening, it’s practically empty. Just us. Sound like a plan?”

He blinked as the bouncer chimed in, turning his gaze toward him with a raised brow.

“C'mon Axel, leave the lady be,” he said, his tone light but firm. “Whatever she’s got back there, that’s her business. Don’t go stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong.”

Striker turned back to Coronis, his grin softening into something warmer.

“Don’t mind him. Now, what d’you say? Tomorrow evening, I’ll meet ya there? The place is called The Craving Corner, 'bout twenty minutes on foot from here.”

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker's voice stayed low and steady, a sharp contrast to Coronis's trembling panic.

"Shit–Coronis–Coron–Cori!"

He leaned closer to the window, speaking with calm conviction.

“Cori, listen to me. I get it, you’re scared. Hell, you’ve got every right to be after what they’ve done to you. But I ain’t no sucker.”

His tone hardened, a quiet confidence creeping into his words.

“I’m a professional assassin, darlin’. A hitman. I’ve taken down demons twice my size and twice as powerful. Things that’d make these humans piss themselves just thinkin’ about.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“They ain’t nothin’ to me. I’ve made a livin’ takin’ on worse.”

He shifted slightly, his chains rattling faintly.

“All I need is somethin’ sharp and one of them key cards. The rest? That’s on me. I'm gonna free the both of us.”

His voice softened, but the intensity never wavered.

“You ain’t gotta trust me. But think about it, Cori. Every day we sit here, they’re breakin’ us bit by bit. You think they’re gonna stop? They won’t. Not until we’re dead, or worse.”

He leaned back slightly, giving her space, his voice almost a whisper now.

“You help me with this, and I’ll get us outta here. I ain’t just talkin’. I mean it.”

Deliver Us from Evil

((A closed RP thread for @second-wife-playbook ))

Warning! NSFW content (namely torture and violence)

((the dialogues are all in English, aside for a few exceptions, but whenever you see a sentence with a * it means they are speaking Italian.))

––––––––

Vatican City, Italy, 9:00 p.m.

The flickering glow of candlelight cast long shadows along the towering walls of St. Peter’s Basilica, illuminating the gilded arches and intricate mosaics with a warm, ethereal glow. The haunting melody of Gregorian chants filled the sacred space, echoing from the Altare della Confessione and filling every corridor with its solemn resonance. The faithful gathered near the altar, their voices melding into a single, haunting wave of prayer.

Cardinal Graziano Malaspina moved quietly down one of the lesser-used hallways, the sound of his footsteps almost swallowed by the vast silence of the basilica. For once, he did not join the chants, choosing instead to observe from the edges, shrouded in the quiet solitude of the basilica's shadows. Tonight, he felt an odd sense of disquiet—a subtle, unspoken tension that seemed woven into the very air.

He paused at a window, glancing out at the nearly empty square below. The marble and stone, so familiar to him, seemed to almost breathe in the stillness of the night.

Cardinal Malaspina was a striking figure, his presence commanding yet refined.

Standing tall with a lean, dignified frame, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had risen swiftly through the Church’s ranks.

His Italian heritage showed in his dark, deep-set eyes, which held an intense gaze that could both soothe and unsettle in equal measure.

His hair, thick and precisely combed back, was a distinguished blend of salt and pepper, echoing the silver that flecked his well-groomed beard. The beard itself was neatly trimmed to accentuate the strong, angular lines of his face, adding an air of wisdom to his appearance. His nose, prominent and finely shaped, gave him a slightly aristocratic look, one that complemented his quiet, reserved demeanor.

Despite his relatively young age among the cardinals, having just reached sixty, he bore the wisdom and experience of a man who had seen much in his time with the Church. His crimson cassock fell in sharp lines around him, pristine and orderly, each detail carefully attended to—a testament to his meticulous nature and devotion to his duties.

He cast a wary glance over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dim hallway for any sign of movement. Satisfied that he was alone, he reached out to the statue of Archangel Michael, knelt down, made the sign of the cross and pressed a small lever concealed along its back.

With a low, almost imperceptible rumble, the statue shifted, rotating on its pedestal to reveal a hidden doorway nestled behind it. The faint hum of machinery stirred, as if acknowledging a secret it had kept for centuries. Beyond the doorway lay a narrow elevator and a spiraling set of marble stairs, both leading downward into the unknown.

Without hesitation, Cardinal Malaspina slipped inside, feeling the air cool and thicken with a sense of sacred secrecy. Once he crossed the threshold, the statue resumed its original position, cloaking the hidden passageway from view. To any passerby, it appeared as though nothing had changed, the Archangel Michael standing steadfast in his silent vigil.

As Cardinal Malaspina descended deeper into the hidden chambers of St. Peter’s Basilica, the echo of his footsteps was joined by those of Guido, his loyal aide and confidant.

Dressed impeccably in a black suit, Guido inclined his head in a respectful bow, murmuring:

*“Your Eminence.”*

He fell into step beside the Cardinal, his tone low but crisp as he relayed the latest report.

*"Our Hunters returned from the United States. They found the hotel but...the demon was already dead. By electrocution, in a swimming pool."*

Guido's tone conveyed his disappointment, though he continued smoothly, *“The Infestor had been haunting the hotel, taking human lives one by one. But by the time they arrived, someone had gotten there first.”*

The Cardinal sighed, a brief flicker of frustration crossing his face.

*"A pity. Such a rare specimen could have proven useful to us in Project Divine Justice. There’s always something new to learn from their nature—if only we can get to them first.”*

They walked past sleek, reinforced doors, which opened into a series of rooms unlike anything one would expect beneath Vatican City. Hidden behind the walls of faith and tradition, the Order of Saint Michael the Archangel’s underground headquarters resembled a modern, highly-equipped facility. Laboratories buzzed with scientists in white coats, analyzing samples and conducting experiments on demon blood, bone, and essence.

In a separate room, instructors led young initiates in the arts of demonology, each student pouring over ancient texts bound in leather, annotated with both Latin prayers and weapon schematics. Further down, hardened agents trained with exorcism rituals and weapon drills, preparing for their next assignment.

Cardinal Malaspina felt a surge of satisfaction as he moved through the corridors, taking in the power and purpose of OSMA’s sprawling network. He had dedicated his life to making the Order one of the most formidable forces the Church had ever sanctioned, one that could confront Hell itself.

In recent years, however, Project Divine Justice had brought his ambitions to a new peak, aiming to capture demons directly from Hell to ensure no secrets were left undiscovered.

*"Of course, it’s more difficult than ever to secure our...acquisitions,"* he mused aloud, glancing at Guido.

*"Few demons are allowed on Earth, and those that do break through are often killed on sight.”*

Guido nodded.

*"That’s why Crimson remains indispensable. With his network, he can bring us exactly what we need, directly from Hell itself.”*

A sly smile tugged at the corner of the Cardinal’s mouth.

Crimson, the demon mafia boss who commanded such power within Hell’s underworld, was a key ally.

For the right price—and perhaps a few thinly veiled promises—Crimson delivered the demonic specimens they needed, hand-delivered to OSMA’s agents, allowing their experiments and training to proceed in earnest.

Their path led to a heavily secured door, marked only with a cross etched into blackened metal. Cardinal Malaspina paused for a moment, laying his hand on the door.

*“When we unlock the true nature of these demons, Guido, the world will be prepared. Humanity will finally be safe from these creatures.”*

"Dio è con noi, Eminenza."

"E noi siamo con Dio."

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker’s smirk disappeared for a split second, replaced by a flicker of disappointment that he quickly masked. He shifted his weight, resting a hand on his hip while his tail swayed absently behind him.

“Oh...well, that's a shame.”

He said, his voice quieter now, with just a hint of regret.

“Kinda got used to seein’ your face in the crowd, y’know?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing back toward the club for a moment.

“Yeah, the band’s settin’ up, but…”

He shrugged.

“Guess I figured I’d catch you before you slipped out. Don’t happen often that I get a chance to talk to you without a million eyes on us.”

Striker hesitated, then took a small step closer, his voice softening even more.

“Tell ya what, Cori. Since you’re cuttin’ out early tonight...how ‘bout we catch up tomorrow? Just us. Find a quiet spot, grab a coffee, and talk.”

He tilted his head, his smirk returning, though this time it felt less performative.

“Been wantin’ to anyway. Sound good to you?”

He waited, eyes fixed on her despite the commotion still spilling from the club behind him.

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker had barely managed to escape the frenzied mob inside the club, slipping through a back exit while his fans clawed at him like starving hellcats.

His hair was tousled from too many grasping hands, the neckline of his shirt was torn, and his belt hung loosely, undone in the chaos. Muttering to himself as he fastened it, he stepped into the humid night air and scanned the street.

There she was, standing under the dim glow of a streetlamp, clutching something to her chest like it was her lifeline. Her figure was tense, and her eyes darted nervously down the road as if willing a taxi to appear.

Striker frowned, adjusting his shirt as he strode toward her.

“Cori! Hey, darlin'!”

He called out, his voice cutting through the thick, muggy air.

He stopped a few paces away, running a hand through his disheveled hair and fixing her with a curious look.

“Leavin’ already? Show’s not even over. What’s the rush?”

Striker raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something a little less devilish.

“Did somethin’ happen? Or am I just losin’ my touch tonight?”

He took another step closer, his golden eyes locking onto hers.

“C'mon, Cori. You never duck out this early...”

His tail flicked behind him, betraying a flicker of genuine concern despite his usual cocky tone.

“What’s goin’ on?”

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.

[helluvaoutlaw]

"You make me nervous baby, don't keep me waiting.

Is there some secret you ain't articulatin'?

I've got to ask baby, I've got to know,

Is there something in your past

Or is there someone back home?

You're into mystery baby, but I can do without it.

Tonight is history lady, if we can't talk about it.

You call the signals, maybe

It's time to pass, kick or run.

Well honey I ain't hard of hearing.

Come and whisper in my ear and

Talk some."

As he moved, he could feel the heat of the crowd's attention—their admiration, their infatuation. But as he sang, his focus drifted to one person.

Coronis.

She wasn’t the loudest or most obvious admirer, but her presence was steady, a constant in the chaos. Tonight, though, she looked...different. There was a flush to her cheeks, a nervous energy in the way she gripped her drink.

"You think it's strange baby, I deem it necessary.

I've got to have some of your vocabulary.

I'm getting tired of this game of Tom and Jerry.

Dictate your thoughts baby, I'll be your secretary."

Striker owned the stage like a predator in his element, pacing with deliberate, sinuous steps that oozed confidence. The spotlights highlighted the curve of his muscles, the sharp angles of his face, and the way his fitted shirt clung just right. His tail swayed behind him with a calculated rhythm, flicking now and then to tease the crowd. At one point, he paused mid-verse, turning to glance over his shoulder, a devilish smirk spreading across his face as his tail lightly brushed along the edge of the microphone stand, drawing a few gasps from the audience.

"Are you from Envy?

Are you from Downtown Lust?

I can't believe you ain't got something

To tell or ask me.

Don't think it's crazy baby.

It's just my rule of thumb."

The crowd was eating it up, their cheers growing louder as he tilted his hat slightly, letting his golden eyes gleam under the stage lights. He prowled closer to the edge of the stage, leaning forward just enough to give those in the front row an up-close view. His tail curled and flicked provocatively, practically begging for attention, and the crowd’s energy surged in response.

One particularly bold patron—a burly demon with more liquid courage than sense—reached out from the front row, hand extended toward Striker's ass.

Big mistake.

Without missing a beat in the song, Striker turned smoothly, his boot flashing in the light as it connected squarely with the demon’s face.

The impact sent the would-be groper sprawling back into the crowd, their drink spilling everywhere.

Striker didn’t break stride, his voice never faltering as he transitioned into the next verse. He flicked his tail once more as if dusting off the incident, smirking slyly at the cheering crowd. If anything, the reaction only added to the performance’s energy.

The other patrons barely batted an eye, some even laughing and clapping at the display.

Striker shot a wink at the audience as he prowled to the opposite side of the stage, his tail coiling playfully before flicking out again. He was untouchable, and he made sure everyone knew it.

"How will we know where we're going

If we don't know where we're from

Talk some.

Well honey

I'm here to listen, we got coffee in the kitchen.

Talk some.

Well you've done proved you ain't shy

Honey look me in the eye and talk some.

Talk some

Talk some

Talk some..."

He finished the song, bowing to the applause and winking at a few faces in the crowd. The bar erupted with cheers as he stepped off stage, leaving the band to take over for the next set. He made his rounds, shaking hands, accepting compliments, brushing off flirtations with practiced ease.

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker let out a low, humorless chuckle, the sound gravelly as it scraped through the heavy air.

"I was a bad boy, yer Majesty."

He shifted slightly, the chains rattling with the motion, his weight resting carefully to avoid straining his injured ankle. His good eye fixed on her, steady but far from submissive.

“Reason’s simple,” he said, voice edged with dry amusement.

“I don’t take too kindly to bein’ cornered. Cops didn’t either, far as I could tell. Kicked, bit, fought tooth an’ claw, gave ‘em hell—and they gave it right back. One of ‘em even got lucky enough to break my damn ankle with a baton.”

He paused, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth despite the pain etched into his body.

“All that trouble over a job. I get paid to kill Goetia demons, see. The real kicker? It’s usually their own kind footin’ the bill. Brothers killin’ brothers. Ain’t that somethin’?”

His tone shifted, a dark irony coloring his words as he gestured faintly toward his battered state.

“But I think what REALLY pisses 'em off...is the fact that I'm an imp. An imp dared doin' all that. And that was enough for them to order my arrest.”

Striker hesitated for a moment, the quiet of the cell settling back into place after her words. Her tone wasn’t exactly a request, and he knew he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

With a quiet grunt, he took a step forward, the stiffness from his days in the cell slowing him down. A slight limp followed him as he moved, the bruises and aches making themselves known with each step. Chains clinked softly, a sound that gnawed at him, but he ignored it, straightening as much as he could under the weight of her gaze.

The torchlight cut across his face, illuminating the rough, scarred line where the burn had taken its toll. He kept his good eye on her, steady, unreadable, letting her take in every mark and bruise as he stood there, shoulders squared as best he could manage. He said nothing, simply met her gaze and let the silence speak for him.

[helluvaoutlaw]

🤠

[helluvaoutlaw]

The changing room was too small, as always.

Striker adjusted his hat and the cuffs on his shirt, glancing at his reflection. He’d worn this outfit a hundred times before, but tonight it felt...different.

Maybe it was the lighting, or maybe he was just feeling the weight of another performance.

"Too old for this?" he muttered to himself, lips twitching into a smirk. "Nah, still got it."

Beelzebub's paycheck always made it worth the hassle. Plus, there was something satisfying about stepping on stage and watching the crowd eat it up. He slung the guitar strap over his shoulder, shook out his mane, and headed for the door.

–––––

The stage lights hit him like a spotlight from Heaven—ironic, given the venue. He grinned wide, sharp teeth flashing as he greeted the crowd.

"Y'all ready for a good time tonight?!"

The cheers were deafening, just the way he liked it.

As the other musicians prepped, Striker let his gaze wander. Same crowd as usual—some new faces, some regulars. His eyes briefly landed on Coronis in her corner. She always sat there, didn’t she? Quiet, polite, never over the top like the others.

He appreciated that about her.

She was as sweet as a honeycomb.

The first strum of his guitar silenced the chatter. His voice filled the room, raw and magnetic, drawing every pair of eyes his way.

"Well, hold on baby, something's happenin' here.

I read your body language perfectly clear.

But, something's fishy baby,

It's like the cat got your tongue.

Well you done proved you ain't shy.

Honey look me in the eye,

Talk some.

I know you're there baby,

I hear you breathin'.

Let's use some caution baby

Before proceedin', talk some.

Tell me what's your game, talk some.

Girl I don't even know your name.

Honey, I'm here to listen,

We got coffee in the kitchen.

Talk some."

As Striker sang and moved on the stage, the crowd erupted in cheers, but none louder than the cluster of girls near the front.

A petite Imp with glittery horns grabbed her friend’s arm, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Oh my Satan, there he is! Look at him! He’s so—he’s so perfect! I think I’m gonna die!"

Her friend, a Succubus with a heart-shaped tail, fanned herself dramatically.

"I told you, didn’t I? He’s even hotter in person. Look at that smirk—he knows he’s killing us!"

A third girl, a Hellhound with fiery red fur, clutched her chest.

"That voice! He could sing the phone book, and I’d still swoon. Ugh, why does he have to be so far away?"

She leaned against the bar, pretending to steady herself.

As Striker started his song, a fourth girl—a young demon with neon-pink hair—squealed so loudly it almost drowned out the first verse.

"He’s looking this way! Did you see? He looked right at me! I swear!"

"He wasn’t looking at you!" another Imp nearby hissed, crossing her arms. "He was looking at me! We had a moment."

Before anyone could argue further, one of the girls in the crowd—a Succubus with black wings—let out a dramatic sigh and fainted, her friends scrambling to catch her.

"Someone get her some water! Or better yet, get him to give her mouth-to-mouth!"

@helluvaoutlaw

Since becoming a regular at Sugar Buzzed, Coronis had a secret to keep.

No one else would find it a secret worth keeping. People had what she was hiding all the time, and out in the open. Many more than one! It was had by the young and old, men and women, and none knew the importance of keeping it to oneself.

Coronis did. She had a crush.

There was only one person who she came to see at Sugar Buzzed. The staff knew her faces and were kind and polite, and the service therefore was reliably good. The drinks too. But one person had made her a regular, and thus occupied the soft spot in her heart with all his deeds thus far.

Their reoccurring headliner, Striker.

He was playing again tonight. Many nights would pass before, where Coronis would congratulate him on a job well done, politely ask how his week had gone, and wish him a better week to follow. Pure manners. And if the other patrons flirted with him, sending him flowers-

.....

.......well she tried not to look.

But this time was different. A lot of liquid courage had gone into writing it, and she was still downing more of it just to give herself strength to give it to him when his set was over. He reliably came to greet her each time his song set was over.

And if she didn't have a heart attack in the middle....she would have a love letter for him.

......

.....What? There was no way she could ask him out to his face.

Coronis sat, in her corner of the bar. She was three drinks in, strong stuff, whole grade Beelzjuice. The letter was in her best stationary, as honest and artful as possible. And she waited.