sslitherslither

[sslitherslither]

-Perdition's Web

Summary:

An unexpected death drops you headfirst into the shit-stained bowels of Hell, a charming slice of the afterlife called Imp City. Waking up as a sinner with zero recollection of how you got here, you’re promptly thrown into the Underworld’s shady Mafia dealings, where backstabbing is practically a competitive sport. Salvation, or something close to it, comes in the form of a snake slithering through shark-infested waters, but time’s running out before they chum the waters. Better keep afloat cause greed’s slick hands never stop clawing for a chance to drag you below the waves.

Pairing: Striker x GN!Reader

Word Count: 4.3k+

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61773163/chapters/159120214#workskin

Chapter 3: Red Tide Rising

Out of all the damn ways they’d imagined reaching the rendezvous point, it certainly wasn’t by fucking submarine. But there it was, Nero’s commissioned beast, a rare piece of machinery imported from Imp City for some extravagant job he’d bragged about in the Envy Ring. Nero had babbled on incessantly during the journey, proudly recounting every twisted ordeal he’d endured to retrieve this tricked-out sub, as if it were a prized trophy.

Cipher’s patience had worn thin-each utterance a brass knuckle to their temples until a raging migraine threatened to shatter their resolve. Who gave a shit about a slick little getaway vehicle? All they wanted was for this stupid meeting to be over so they could finally deal with Nero’s bullshit and then go to bed.

Hopefully...

At long last, the incessant chatter faded into a dull, background hum as the submarine began its ascent through Hell’s watery depths. The vessel groaned and shuddered with mechanical protest as it started its slow, deliberate climb toward the surface. Outside, the heavy, dark water pressed in on all sides, a suffocating, claustrophobic force that made the hull creak like an old coffin in the grip of a relentless undertow.

As the sub broke through the pressure, a thick, brine-tinged mist enveloped the portholes, and the once-opaque water gradually gave way to a sickly, greenish luminescence. Cipher, seated uncomfortably in a cramped cabin, felt the sudden release of pressure surge through their body like an icy shock.

Their stomach lurched violently with a nausea that was as brutal as a tidal wave crashing over them.

“Cripes!” they muttered under their breath, clenching the armrests as their vision blurred. They weren’t like the sharks,creatures built for the crushing depths-who reveled in the pressure and darkness. No, Cipher was a reluctant newcomer to this watery hell, every inch of the ascent was a battle against dizziness and queasiness, an assault on their already frayed nerves.

The submarine’s ascent was a slow, torturous crawl, the rising water pressure and shifting gravity making every movement seem as if it were underwater in more ways than one. The murmurs of the crew, low and mechanical, barely registered over the roar of their pounding heart. Cipher’s thoughts swirled with the same relentless chaos that seemed to define their fate in Hell, even as the sub crept closer to the surface.

As the vessel finally broke through into a dim, polluted twilight-a murky horizon of industrial decay and failing neon-the relieved sigh of the escaping pressure mingled with a bitter reminder of their captivity. Cipher’s stomach churned anew, a visceral reminder that this ascent, however necessary, came at a steep personal cost as dinner was practically knocking for a dramatic exit.

All they could think was that once this damned meeting was over, they’d never set foot in a submarine again.

Which, in itself, was a lie, since they'd be leaving the exact way they got here.

Shit, shit, shit...

They glanced across the cabin, eyes settling upon their shark of a boss. Nero had shed his usual ensemble, decked in a sleek, crimson number tailored to suit his more powerful frame, his jaw adorned by an expression of smug superiority—no doubt the standard for meetings like these.

One by one, they climbed out of the interior onto the hull of the submarine. A narrow catwalk ran parallel to the edge, bobbing next to the frothing edges of a dockyard. On either side of a rotting, concrete dock sat empty cargo containers and rusting scaffolding, illuminated by a couple of massive floodlights hung from a nearby gantry like two giant, bright eyes.

Not so far off was a warehouse, painted in an assortment of graffiti and boarded-up doors.

A lone figure walked over with a gun in hand, but his stance and saunter reflected the opposite of danger. Lackadaisical and aloof, he shot them both a crooked smirk.

“Evenin’, your magnificence!” the greeter called out. That perked Nero’s attention right up.

Finally, the greeter stepped before them, eyeing up their guests. “Brought the whole entourage, have we? And some new meat too, huh?”

He chuckled, his gaze flickering to Cipher. They didn’t reply but drew their mouth into a tight grimace.

With a swift spin on his heel, the greeter jerked his thumb back to the warehouse with a toothy smile. “No problem here, come on, I’ll take ya to the boss.”

Immaculate. Simply fucking immaculate.

Cipher blinked their eyes upon coming to the heart of the warehouse. From every conceivable angle, their senses were assaulted.

The exterior screamed low profile, empty, and perhaps most importantly, scarce-and yet, the interior was an ostentatious showing of a completely different side.

Fucking rich people, huh?

Like everything else in the Greed ring, a subtle green tint seemed to hug the edges of the furniture and light fixtures. Even through the darker shades, the flickering candlelight cast uneven shadows upon the walls.

Racks of what looked to be shark teeth, horns, and other symbols of bestial dominance were propped in the middle of the room, surrounded by a mass assortment of armchairs set at a long black table. Cipher focused on the shark teeth and various horns. Clearly, this Crimson guy made a statement-and a display-of exactly who they were and what they were capable of.

And it was honest-to-god terrifying.

A dark thought flitted through their mind. Should they become a trophy, what would be displayed? Would they, too, hang upon the wall as a celebration of their destruction? Another kill, another casualty of war?

A sense of dread and unease settled heavily in their gut.

From the opposite end of the table, a voice broke through the silence, each word dripping with a casual, yet cutting authority.

“Nero, lovely to see you.” The statement came from what Cipher had learned wasn’t a demon, but an imp-and a very imposing one at that. His claw tapped slowly on the wood. Even without much interaction, Cipher knew this man was someone not to be fucked with. Or, rather, someone they’d rather not meet on the street after this meeting, lest they meet their untimely doom. “And guests, too, I see.”

The chair screeched against the floorboards as the imp stood, smoothing out his jacket. Crimson gestured for Nero to join him. Nero took the bait and walked forward, swatting Cipher with his tail as he passed. While the strike looked playful enough, Cipher knew better. It was a warning.

You’d better behave-or else

In Cipher’s peripheral vision, one of Nero’s sharks flanked them. A familiar presence.

Purl-some odd mishmash between a shark and one of those succubi Nero loved to entertain so much. Just another reminder, huh? What were they going to do—pitch a bitchfit in front of Mister Fancy Pants? Steal his fancy sub and book it to Imp City?

Because that’s so easy and possible.

Fucking prick.

Seemed the two at the head of the table were having a nice little chat-perhaps catching up before the actual business breakdown began.

Purl came up beside Cipher, nudging them softly.

“I’m having a smoke. Come on,” she grunted, rolling her shoulders.

Cipher hesitated, then nodded and followed.

She didn’t give a second glance to her fellow sharks, just made a gesture that she’d be back before things got started.

Purl exhaled, flicking away the ashes to the wind. She leaned against the dampened edge of the building, looking quite at home within the surroundings.

A couple of other sharks had joined her, equally as relaxed.

One of the sharks-a huge guy with red skin, sharp teeth, black eyes, and an impish tail-eyed up Purl, then Cipher. Another hybrid, maybe? He hooked an arm around Purl, chuckling something Cipher couldn’t make out.

Cipher rolled their eyes, turning away and shielding their eyes with a hand.

Great. They might as well get even further away from that whole situation before seeing something they’d definitely regret. “It’ll be real quick,” Purl drawled, curling into the arm of the red shark. “Don’t go too far.”

Cipher happily took the exit.

And just like that, the building swallowed them.

Without the noisy chatter of sharks-the underlying need for bickering, snarky banter, and barking orders-the warehouse felt serene in its ambiance. Cipher’s mind went blissfully blank as they entered the expanse-a rare phenomenon caused by the peace of the setting. Their regularly overactive brain fell into an idle state. Without the usual din, Cipher felt grounded for the first time in a while. For a moment, they could hear their thoughts without the roar of overlapping voices.

Cipher’s moment of peace didn’t last long.

A soft metallic click cut through the stillness.

Pausing, they traced the sound to a narrow catwalk high above the main gathering area.

They made their way up a twisting flight of stairs, stepping carefully around splintered beams and corroded railings. Below, the darkness pressed closer with each step until the stairs opened onto the walkway that stretched across the center of the warehouse. Despite the obvious dizzying height, they walked onward. Slow. Careful. It wasn’t until they crept onto the catwalk that the flicker resolved itself.

A rifle.

It perched at the edge, its scope pointed with ominous precision. A neat row of bullets glinted beside it like a silvered promise of death. In that moment, they knew someone was watching.

Someone who hadn’t been expecting company.

Then-click.

The scrape of boots to their left, and suddenly, a figure was upon them.

A clawed hand snaked around their mouth, muffling the scream just beginning to tear through their throat. The body behind pressed closer, cornering them, keeping both their respective weight balanced carefully on their toes—careful not to disturb the rifle that had previously been left abandoned, like a lover’s touch.

“Shhh, shh,” came a distinctly male voice, cooing close to their ear in a faux comforting manner. As if silence was going to save them.

The figure pulled them flush to his chest, the grip impossibly tight, clawed hands seemingly digging straight past their flesh and brushing against the bone. The unrelenting force caused them to stagger. They struggled against the figure’s grip.

He tutted, as if unimpressed, before knocking their legs out from underneath them and swiftly mounting them.

Using his thighs, he pinned down their legs before straddling them. Their hands flailed futilely, trying to pry his hands off their face.

He moved his free hand up to Cipher’s throat, “You sure picked a bad time for sightseeing,” he drawled.

Too-long fingers tapped at their throat, as if considering. 'Considering their fate' they thought cynically.

With no place to run or hide, nor the strength to fight, all Cipher could do was wait. Helpless in the hold.

The man-Striker, they would come to know him-leaned over them.

He angled his head down, locking them in his crimson gaze.

Through the panic, Cipher managed to note a pair of distinct pointed canines as he spoke, one golden and glinting in the faint light.

“Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be up here,” he murmured. His tone darkening. “No tellin’ what kinda hooligans is lurkin’ about on these kinds of walks.” He chuckled softly, the thumb on their neck picking up rhythm and tapping faster.

Cipher fought a cough bubbling up in their throat. The lack of oxygen made everything sharper and dreamlike at once. Yet the world spun.

Their whole body ached-desperate, strained-now held almost entirely by Striker’s arms.

How much pressure until they cracked?

'Just let me go, god damn it.' Cipher fought to breathe, nausea rising. The catwalk’s height, the darkness below, and Striker’s crushing grip fused into a claustrophobic swirl. Their vision started to dance at the edges from lack of air.

Striker’s mouth curled into a humorless smirk at their futile scrabbling, “Yer in the wrong place at the worst possible time, sugar,” he spoke softly, voice carrying a cruel edge. “And I don’t much appreciate snoops.”

Cipher wheezed, voice shredded by the vise on their neck. “I’m… not… snooping,” they managed, though it came out as a strangled hiss. “I swear-just… saw… a light-”

“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced, “So you came up here, uninvited, while I set up my little vantage?” A teasing edge laced his tone. “You look too bright-eyed to be stupid… or are ya just suicidal?"

Their lungs burned, heart slamming double-time. They mustered a trembling whisper, “I-didn’t know who… who was up here.”

His eyes flicked in irritation, “Well now you do.” He pressed down a fraction more, enough for Cipher to see splotches of color swirl across their vision.

Then he seemed to reconsider, though the threat in his gaze didn’t lessen, “Keep talkin’, and I snap that neck. Easy as breathin’.”

Cipher stared back-hopeless but defiant-too stubborn to resign their life into the hands of a stranger.

Somewhere below, footsteps echoed-a voice drifting up:

“Cipher? Hey, you around here?”

The call bounced off the corrugated walls, amplifying in the hush.

Striker froze and eased up. Grudgingly. Reluctantly.

He let go-not entirely, merely slacking his grip

A glorious rush of air filled their bruised lungs.

'Oh god-fresh air!'

How underrated oxygen was until it was in short supply. For one dizzying moment, the thought drifted across their mind like wisps of smoke that if they sucked in too sharply, that brief freedom could end.

Then reality slammed back.

His grip tightened, but no longer crushed their windpipe. His free hand slid to his belt, retrieving a wickedly curved knife. The blade glinted in the dismal light, a silent promise of unholy consequences. Striker’s grip tightened, claws dimpling their flesh, but not enough to draw blood. His gaze, a molten golden, flickered in warning: Lie.

Cipher swallowed, desperation fueling the lie that might save their hide. “I’m just checking out the place.” They spoke, faking a peppy tone.

Footsteps lingered for half a heartbeat.

“Well, get your ass back downstairs. Nero wants you front and center.”

'Let me go, let me go, fucking, let me go…'

Keeping the smile in their voice, they yelled back, “Sorry, Purl, be down in a second.”

When she left, apparently satisfied with their answer, the footsteps receded into silence. Cipher exhaled, half in relief. But Striker’s knife stayed firmly against their throat, the assassin’s presence a crackling static that prickled at the edges of their senses. It was enough-just enough-to remind them of the proximity between them, as well as the sharp point hovering just under their chin.

A careless movement, and that blade would dance wickedly across their neck, splintering their windpipe.

And even if they were immortal, a split windpipe was not on their list of priorities.

He hissed in their ear, his breath hot on their neck, voice a rasped whisper, “Good. You’re learnin’ fast. I like that.”

Cipher tried not to think about his tone; the raspy timbre had threads of something distinctly carnal weaving within it.

“Now listen carefully, Cipher... If the boss hears a squeak about any little fly takin’ a sniff around these parts, I know a few nice, deep Hellpits in the dead-ends of Wrath—places keep you roastin’ alive for eternity. If you don’t fancy spendin’ forever on a spit, you’d better keep that pretty mouth of yours shut. N I know you'll be screamin' like a virgin all the way. Real painful.” Striker tipped his head, grinning hungrily, “We'll have some proper fun then, ya and I.”

“Okay, fuck, got it.” Cipher shuddered, trying to quell the wave of nausea rolling through them. “I’m not here to stop you. Didn’t even know you were here.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart. Best memory’s a liar sometimes. Don’t forget our little conversation…” He flashed a devastating smile, “Not just anyone gets to cross me.”

“Thanks for the chat, I learned sooo much.” The sarcasm rolled effortlessly off their tongue, despite the sharpness in their throat. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, but now it felt good to shoot daggers at the bastard threatening their life.

Maybe it was a touch reckless, but so was living with an obnoxious, sadistic mobster. Hell, it was even worse when that same mobster was also their boss.

Why stop the gallows humor?

Striker snorted, shoving them free, “Real cute. Careful, sugar. My trigger-finger's especially itchy 'round pretty faces. Sure ya look real pretty screamin' my name.”

“Do not.” Cipher rolled their eyes.

Yeah, okay, a dangerous snake-devil-whatever that was definitely capable of pinning them beneath him and not letting them escape… That made things real personal.

Still, the sheer nerve of this asshole.

Did Nero know he had a hitman stalking the grounds?

The way his lips curled into a rictus grin was borderline nightmarish. The expression was unsettling as fuck, but also strangely amusing.

The hitman laughed-unrestrained, as if Cipher had finally cracked a joke worth saying.

It was a great laugh: gravelly and just a shade too close to villainous.

Sure as hell, he wasn’t someone they wanted to mess with-and yet they wanted to hear that laugh again.

They squinted, trying to fit the pieces together: a crazy, high-strung gunman, who wore cowboy boots. Mafia sharks and lonestar snakes-what a mishmash.

Once upon a time, life may have made sense. Now it was a clusterfuck of insanity. Not much else for it.

However, this snake had caused quite the stir for an otherwise mundane day. Cipher couldn’t pass on the chance. Besides, giving the snake his dues was a lot more entertaining than continuing this standoff.

They raised their hands slowly in a gesture of, hey, gonna start moving now.

Striker acknowledged their exit, with a, 'Try anything, bitch-' He swiped his knife through the air. Cipher wisely moved their hand away before they lost a finger. '-and you’ll be burning for eternity.'

Fuck, fucking asshole.

They really hoped he was the lesser devil of the two.

“Word of advice,” drawled the hitman, his stare glacial, “Duck, if you catch the glint.”

With that, the snake stalked back to his sniper. Cipher gave him a wide berth and slunk out through the door.

It wasn’t much further before they were stumbling down the stairs, limbs thrumming with excess energy, every instinct warring to push forward and escape or to linger behind and catch every damn detail.

Their brain, no doubt picked up by the adrenaline rush, was processing information like a fiend, jumping from every little thing that registered, even more than usual.

Shit was about to hit the fan, and fast.

Cipher entered the main fray, spotting Purl lounging across from the group. She narrowed her eyes at their flustered appearance but seemed unperturbed.

Nero's men were sat at the table, chattering among themselves, seemingly at ease. Crimson's men stood at attention, lining the walls like menacing guard dogs, ready to tear them to shreds should they make the slightest wrong move.

Shark against Imp. And snake… they thought to themselves, eyes struggling not to linger on the assassin shrouded in shadow.

Fuck, a hitman here.

They wouldn’t die, but it sure as shit would hurt like a bitch, even if only for a time. And if that hitman was here for who they assumed was Nero or Crimson, then they had to play along and pretend to be blissfully oblivious to the imminent future bloodbath.

Not that they owed anything to either of these bastards or these mafia twats. But there was a grimy little part of them, fueled by spite and their own selfish means, that just wanted to see how things would unfold—the pieces set like a grotesque theatre play.

No going back, for any of them.

Cipher had been lucky once and got caught by the wrong prick. Could lightning strike twice, or did Lady Luck bail the moment she could?

Nero waved them over with a clawed hand, grinning as he plucked another cigar out of the decorative cigar box left in the center of the table, “Seats open…”

It wasn’t an invitation-it was an order.

Cipher approached and sat across from Nero, who was left of Crimson, a few paces off.

“Glad you decided to show yer face. Gave us quite a scare, baby,” the shark chuckled, popping the cigar between his lips and lighting the tip. He inhaled deeply and puffed out the smoke, leaning forward on the table, “You don’t disappear like that.”

“Got sidetracked,” they replied shortly.

“Mmhm, sure, sweetheart. Don’t do that again. Almost had us thinkin’ somethin’ mighta happened to you.” Nero shot them a glare, “Wouldn’t want anything happenin’ to my ace in the hole, would I?”

Bright side, you’re valuable to them.

Downside, you’re valuable to them.

Good as a hostage to extract more money.

“Crimson, this is Cipher. Cipher, Crimson.” Nero gestured to the imp wearing a black-and-red striped suit and fedora.

Cipher turned to face the imp and smiled tightly, immediately taking in all the details about the man. Sharp suit. White hair. Sharp white-and-black horns. Sharp eyes and an even sharper expression. This was a man you had to watch out for and steer clear of his way. Good as an assassin should be. Like a feral beast waiting to leap for the throat.

Crimson extended a hand to them, a glint in his eyes flashing momentarily in the low light, “A pleasure.”

Cipher awkwardly reached their hand out to shake his and grasped it firmly. Despite the sharp claws digging into their wrist, Cipher resisted pulling away, “…Yeah, likewise.”

Nero grinned darkly, “Great. See? Nice to see ya both gettin’ acquainted.”

The tension could’ve been cut with a blunt knife. It was suffocating, as if time had stopped to watch the events of this dreaded meeting unfold. And the clock ticking in their head was counting down until this was either a triumphant kill or a massacre. Maybe even both. Or nothing at all.

Crimson’s presence was overwhelming, though Cipher knew the importance of maintaining a cool expression. If they looked panicked, they’d lose their leverage against these bastards.

A stagnant heaviness loomed in the warehouse. Cipher’s heart thudded, senses on high alert.

Crimson exuded the presence of some kingly demon at the apex of Hell’s underbelly, and Nero—an alpha shark too fond of brandishing his clout—hovered, brimming with smug delight at having them all under his watchful gaze.

An unholy duo.

Crimson turned, flicking his eyes to Nero, “I trust you’ve arranged matters… discreetly?”

His question, though mild, held lethal potential, “I’d hate for pryin’ eyes to spoil our little enterprise.”

Nero’s smile sharpened, “But of course. A special arrangement, new contraband routes, plenty of Sinners just dyin’ to be… redistributed.”

His grin deepened, "Takes a skilled partner to handle that volume, yeah?”

Crimson nodded absently, crossing his arms. His gaze slid to Cipher, “Guess your code-breaker there’ll be crucial, hmm?”

He spoke the question to Nero, but his piercing gaze settled on Cipher’s face, “All sorts of transmissions to decode, if we’re expandin’ routes the way we planned.”

Cipher swallowed, forcing a polite cough. “Just let me know which messages need decrypting. I, uh-” They hesitated, keenly aware of the precarious line between looking confident and overstepping, “I won’t… let you down.” The words felt hollow, especially when pinned beneath Crimson’s scrutinizing stare.

“Good,” Crimson said simply, though something vicious danced behind his yellow eyes, “We’re counting on that.”

Nero shifted restlessly, “Right. So, friend,” he drawled, addressing Crimson with an oily warmth, “we talkin’ half the usual cut or…?”

Crimson tilted his head, brow arching, “We’ll handle the specifics soon." For a heartbeat, he hesitated, then a faint smile curved across his lips. “But it seems our ledger’s overdrawn—time to balance the books.” His tone wavered between irony and a mocking sense of finality.

Before Nero could respond, a gunshot broke loose.

With a splutter and a crunch, Nero slumped into the table, cracking the wood down the center.

Cipher reeled backward, scrambling to their feet, tipping their chair over. To each side, more death as Crimson’s men painted the room red. A quick cut from end to end rendered each of Nero’s men a fountain of sanguine gristle.

Crimson spared Cipher a single glance as a familiar knife was pressed back to their throat, familiar clawed hands dragging them closer, pressed against an overly familiar chest.

“Guess you didn’t catch the glint, did ya, pretty thing?”, Striker’s purred hiss was a velvety soft melody.

A hot rush of anxiety swept through their veins, and Cipher’s mouth went dry, fight or flight screeching in their ear.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, Cipher.” Crimson stood, brushing off his suit and moving around the table, standing beside them and Striker. A smirk played across his face, “Good to see you know your place. Sit and watch as your world turns red.”

[sslitherslither]

-Perdition's Web

Summary:

An unexpected death drops you headfirst into the shit-stained bowels of Hell, a charming slice of the afterlife called Imp City. Waking up as a sinner with zero recollection of how you got here, you’re promptly thrown into the Underworld’s shady Mafia dealings, where backstabbing is practically a competitive sport. Salvation, or something close to it, comes in the form of a snake slithering through shark-infested waters, but time’s running out before they chum the waters. Better keep afloat cause greed’s slick hands never stop clawing for a chance to drag you below the waves.

Pairing: Striker x GN!Reader

Word Count: 3.0k+

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61773163/chapters/158585836

Chapter 2: Cipher in the Dark

The days that followed were pure hell-an apt phrase, considering the fact they were literally in Hell. Their memories were muddled, stitched together by the faint recollection of some shocking ordeal. Whatever punishment they’d suffered had been mercifully brief, ending before it could burrow too deeply into their flesh. The scars, however-both mental and physical-would linger far longer than any fleeting respite. If nothing else, they served as stark reminders of the predators lurking at every turn in this horrid place.

Oddly enough, the torment they’d already endured seemed almost preferable to another round of whipping, though that didn’t make the cramped cages any less unsettling. They’d been locked up and hauled off to who knows where-a miserable first stop after that wretched shark incident. For someone who prided themselves on always knowing their place in the world, the perpetual disorientation and loss of autonomy gnawed at every shred of stability in their mind. And yet, amid all this confusion, a curious sense of shared trauma took root, threading through the cramped van full of anxious, fuming Sinners who had been on the move since what felt like the beginning.

Before the ragtag group could even think of speaking, voices barked orders from the shadows, forcing them to line up like cattle. One vehicle to another, down pitch-black alleys, up through equally dark hallways-they trudged in tense silence. Flickering lights offered jarring glimpses of red-stained floors, while doors slid open and shut with a steady metallic hiss. Each squelching footstep in some unidentifiable sticky liquid ratcheted up their collective anxiety.

Eventually, they found themselves in a corridor that seemed to stretch into infinity-eerily quiet, cloaked in a dim, murky haze that defied any attempt to discern what was real from what might be an elaborate illusion. They stared into the gloom, straining to see whether a violent surprise lay in wait. Part of them clung to the desperate idea that this might be one colossal, twisted prank 'Welcome to Hell, surprise!' like some really fucked up version of Punk’d or those equally cringe-inducing Prank Gone Wrong videos.. But as each second dragged into eternity, as the silence pressed down, the futility of that hope grew painfully obvious. No laughter, no sly confessions of a ruse from some Youtube bro, only the unspoken dread of what lurked behind those sealed doors.

Time felt like it ticked past in slow, excruciating intervals-seconds, minutes, hours? None of the gathered group knew. All eyes remained fixed in one direction; no one dared speak. That silence weighed on them like a tomb, crushing any fleeting hope of a joke at their expense. Then, with a whispering hiss, the doors finally slid open. A sudden bloom of too-bright light assaulted their vision, and a guttural voice roared a single command: March. Chaos unfurled like a whip crack. The newcomer or captive-none of them quite sure which category they occupied-blinked against the harsh glare, stinging tears gathering at the corners of their eyes. Even so, relief prickled across their skin-anything surpassed the unnerving darkness that had let their imagination run wild.

But the new sight was hardly comforting. A sickly, putrid green seemed to coat everything-akin to mold-infested garbage or rancid milk afloat on a pond of scum. Adjacent windows offered an equally joyless view-an industrial skyline choked by smog and buried under pollution thick enough to make even a Captain Planet villain cry uncle. No peace awaited them here. That realization slammed home the instant their forced march came to a halt. Rumblings of discontent swelled from the throng, mingling fury with a resigned sadness. In that moment, it was obvious-no daylight or normalcy would be found within these walls-the fleeting illusions of hope lay in jagged ruin at their feet.

They could only guess what lay in store. The procession’s stop, the battered Sinners, the collective rage and despair-every sign pointed to one cruel truth: Hell’s mercies were seldom, and they certainly weren’t in the business of handing out happy endings. They took a fortifying breath-a motion quickly suppressed by the Sinners flanking them as a massive shark demon brushed past his way into the room from some adjacent door off to the side. At either side of the mammoth demon stood his smaller underlings. All presented themselves in the guise of some 1950's gangsters complete with suits, crisp hat's, and even cigars. They even had the funny little mustaches to boot. But they clearly weren't funny men, far from it in fact. Their very postures screamed no nonsense and that they weren't to be fucked with.

They tried adjusting their position amongst the throng of sinners, but the heavy chains restricting their movement clinked together, stopping them dead in their tracks as the bite of a too tight collar cut like a blade to the throat, making even the very sensation of swallowing or breathing ragged. None the less they swallowed hard, wincing as the sharp bite tightened fractionally. Looking about the group, they realized they weren't the only one.

The shark demon stood front and center, clapping his hands in a gesture for all the captured to cease their rumbling, the sound more of a 'slam' than clap, the resounding noise both startled the crowd and making them go still. Now was as good a time as any to observe.

"Welcome fucks, names Nero," the shark drawled, his gaze tracing over the gathered sinners, "So. I suppose yer all expecting a fun an informative tour of the beautiful Pride Ring, huh? Laugh now, cry later. 'Cause I can guarantee ya that you're never going home."

Amongst the noise of complaints and cries for help were sounds of sinners pleading to be let go, but the shark looked unimpressed, shaking his head at the pathetic attempts to get attention. "All right, give me yer complete attention! I know I'm a handsome demon, but now ain't the time t'crowd me! It's so... Unprofessional." And with that Nero opened his arms wide, taking in a breath before he started, "Now then, let's discuss some important information! You already know your stay is permanent, but I'll tell ya just what you can expect."

"Some of you will be transported to farms or factories, where you'll get worked to the bone, earning us some quick bucks! Remember when you were on earth, and y'all was all fancy-schmancy an' eating caviar an' drinkin' champagne! Now you can pull yerselves up, through the mud, and become muck too! Depending on yer buyer, you'll be sex slaves, organ donors, farmhand workers, or bait fish!" He was interrupted by more cries, "WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY!" He yelled in an outburst, before jerking his hand forward and grabbing the first sinner in his reach. 

They felt his claws dig deeply into the sides of their neck as he dragged them forwards. A yelp escaped them, as they stumbled over their own chained feet, struggling against the collar, feeling the burn of it constrict their every attempt to breathe and inhale until the blackness fringing their vision began to pulse.

Nero's gaze was dark and the menacing aura rolling off him terrified the crowd, as his hand squeezed at their throat, "Now you see this little fruit here, hmm?" A whimper escaped them as their claws dug helplessly at the Nero's fingers, but the shark just continued, "Sinners, like yerselves, are all but immortal. If I did this," his squeeze intensified. Their legs kicked and struggled as he hissed between razor-sharp teeth, "I could literally drag your ass forever without ya dying from blood loss, strangulation or suffocation. An' the thing is, we could keep slaughterin' ya, and ya'll just pop right up like a daisy!" He growled before throwing them to the ground and snapping his fingers, his men coming in brandishing knives, "Demonstration time~"

Knives plunged, drew screams of horror and pain, and with each plunge, the cries would come back, and their body would reform the holes the blades had cleaved out with hell's healing. It was a gruesome cycle. After some more prolonged agony, Nero snapped his fingers again and his men relented, dragging them off to the side, "See? No matter how we might abuse ya, sinners don't die. So, my associates and I are here t'help ya properly adapt to a lifetime of servitude."

Looking over the assembly, an insane grin spread across his face at the looks of abominable horror he'd ripped from the crowd, "You belong to us now, 'kay? No fuckin' escape! NONE! AN' as much as I would love to sit down an' pop open a cold one with all y'all, an' just play some poker an' bet on who's gonna die and scream first, I do have a quota to fill an' a money to earn. So let's make this shit simple, shall we? Ya will follow your handler or be put to sleep, for good. Lucifer ain't savin' no one, 'cause Lucifer doesn't care, and the quicker you accept that, the better you'll fare. If I hear a word from yer lip," he brought a clawed finger to his mouth, "We will rip 'em out! Do exactly as your told and just maybe," he shrugged his broad shoulders in a way to emphasize, "Maybe we'll be just a tad nicer to ya. Hell's economy depends on survival o' the fittest, an' our business, like all others, exist to cater to the strong." His predator's grin grew at his own speech, loving every moment of it and his little power trip.

And with a clap of his hands, he threw a gesture to his entourage, "Alright fucks, lights, cameras, let's go!"

Needless to say, they were reeling in pain. Learning you were immortal but not immune to the pain of hell's torture was, well, distressing to say the least. Blood, pain, it was all a reminder, and though their wounds slowly healed, they wouldn't forget.

They felt themselves shuddering in the after-effects from the jarring reminder of Hell's harsh and ruthless laws of survival. With shaking knees, they pushed to stand. Once again, their collar tightened, drawing them up short-right next one of the very men that had been shanking them moments before. They blearily made out the crowd of sinners being lead away in chains by the sharks towards what looked to be a large audience chamber, probably to auction them off. 

Struggling to stand, they fell back against the unforgiving floor with a gasp, the pain overwhelming. A gloved hand came to rest around their wrist, cold as ice. They shuddered, catching a glimpse of a white tie trailing from a dark trench coat and then...nothing.

Their dreams were plagued by strange nightmares, shadowy figures, pain, and loss. Trapped in the realm of sleep, their mind ran rampant, their subconscious replaying whatever torment their waking body had suffered. And that wasn't the first nightmare either. Night after night, the terrors overwhelmed them, slowly building up into a crescendo. With each day spent fighting, suffering, and persevering in a brutal struggle to survive, their tired heart crumpled just a little further in, the faintest part of their hope still clinging on despite the many blows.

They were convinced the dreams would pass, that the fog would thin, that they'd break free from these wretched binds tying them down. But as the time passed, their nightmares and reality seemed to blend together into an ugly mess. But at the heart of it, despite the long harsh hours, the heavy bags under their bloodshot eyes, and the weight they'd lost to their fatigue, a fire burned. And like a flickering candle, it raged, trying desperately to stay lit, no matter the cost. Human resilience, in all its forms, was hard to curb.

They had no control, just like in those dreams, always trapped. The disorientation reminded them just how uncertain their future was, and where their place might be. But what troubled them more than anything was the attention Nero had on them.  Broken goods weren't the marketable merchandise the shark wanted to display to his buyers after his much needed 'demonstration' to scare the fresh shipment of newly arrived sinners into place. So they'd been carted off and kept amongst his personal stocks like a dog or hen. And for some reason, Nero found them entertaining. They were never free of his eyes, his orders.

They hadn't had any roles specifically demanded of them. They hadn't been turned organ donor, sex slave, farm hand or bait. Their presence remained largely unexploited, much to their relief. Instead, they were treated as Nero's own personal pet, or a punching bag, or just an added body to his company, depending on his mood. Chew toy, stress ball, whatever need be, they were a prisoner of circumstance. Just unlucky enough to fall into the shark's trap, or more accurately, kidnapped. So their time had been divided evenly between Nero and his men whenever they found spare time to pay Nero a visit. It was certainly unpleasant but they didn't want to spend too much time contemplating how worse their fate could've been.

But circumstances changed one day, his chew toy had proved useful, moreso than his own personal men. They'd been standing at attention in his office, zoning out and staring off at some paperwork sat upon his desk. His men had failed at cracking a code he'd been trying to decipher, an encryption on some high tech shipments and Nero found his frustrations piling higher and higher by the minute. An offhand remark from them, casual really, had been his saving grace, and he'd taken a moment to work out that his favorite chew toy had succeeded where his entire team had failed. What the fuck did he pay them for? 

Loathe as he was to admit, he was impressed. There was potential hidden behind the blank stare they carried. He liked potential. Good help was hard to find, and the shark's interests sparked, catching that unassuming fire, nursing it to a stronger flame. Taking what scraps of energy and motivation was left in their bones, dragging them along in a lethargic march of exhaustion as he threw their abilities to the test. Much to his delight, they excelled. Codes and tricks became a regular routine between them and Nero, the shark beginning to rely on them during larger heists and operations. 

"Fucking hell, you're a damn cipher!" Nero had laughed, slamming his office door with a triumphant cry. He'd gotten himself a good haul, and without too much work thanks to more of their code cracking genius! He'd really appreciated them, finally satisfied that one of his 'chew toys' had some actual use and merit. By now, their exhaustion had diminished to a dull hum, knowing they could keep up with Nero's brutal pace. "Shit, wait, that'sa good name for ya, you little shit," he rumbled. Cipher. It sounded right. After all, they felt like their code breaking skills would be a top asset to this madman. Their new nickname seemed to have snagged, sticking with the shark in mind. Even Nero's men began to toss their new moniker around, and between the crew, it felt like the nickname had become cemented. Cipher was their name now.

"Cipher, why don't'cha help fix us another drink? An' I need yer bright eyes tonight, 'kay?" He had winked at them playfully. Without complaint, they nodded their head, sliding easily over to the bar that took up the far wall and reaching up to take down the scotch. The scotch, it seemed, was off limits. For now, they set to rummaging through Nero's cabinets, rooting around until they found something appropriately celebratory. All the while, he watched them with steady yellow eyes-the hunger of a shark lingering there, waiting, waiting, always waiting. "Nah, here Cip, that'sa good kid," Nero grunted after a moment, gesturing them closer, "We've got business t'discuss."

Business they did. Cipher began work on Nero's little moneymaking exploits. Something he was calling 'de-encryption', where they would send decoded messages to various gangs and criminals and see what information Nero's various prying eyes could gather. Shark's had always appreciated little gifts and the data was the largest and easiest meals yet. However, that came with the major risk of the bigger fish snapping up the code breaker themselves-an outcome none of them would enjoy, which is why it was under wraps. Nero seemed to have grown mighty fond of his little employee, determined to keep their efforts hidden.

"So t'night," Nero paused to sip at his beverage, teeth bared as the bitter taste spread, "Got a meetin' with a friend a'mine, n' I've gotta feeling y'could come in handy." What a joke, a friend? If the shark had friends, they thought Nero would end them up in the abyss before they could threaten his territory. So this 'meeting' of his must've been pretty important for him to bring them along. They gave a nod and he continued, "Name's Crimson," his fingers curled and flexed about the glass in his hands, "Known him a long fuckin' time, good pal a'mine, a loyal lad like myself." He lifted his gaze, "We do dealings here an' there, and just might be in need o'yer skills. An well, it's a big meetin' an' I'd want my best wit me."

His claws closed and drew a grunt, "Course yer best, Cip," his grin curled wickedly, "Ya can hold yer own, can't'cha, babe?" All they could do was nod. It made sense why he would request their assistance. "Perfect," Nero grinned, slipping their glass back from their grasp. The glimmer in his cold, yellowed eyes told them just how much he enjoyed holding that amount of power over his helpless subordinates. His tongue darted past sharp teeth, wetting his grinning mouth, before retreating again. "Meetin's today, at eight," Nero hummed, leaning to one side and cracking his neck, "Take a few winks while ya can," a knock came to the door, shushing the conversation as he waved them off with a flick of his wrist, dismissing them. 

It was fine by them, given the opportunity to go. Whatever this meeting was about, Cipher wanted no part in it, but had no choice if they wanted to avoid Nero's less pleasant punishment's. They already knew well enough how deep their leash was wrapped around his claws. They followed his instruction without question, listening to his murmured words as his sharp smile melted away into a scowl, turning their back and exiting quietly, mentally preparing for the night to come. 

[sslitherslither]

-Perdition's Web

Summary:

An unexpected death drops you headfirst into the shit-stained bowels of Hell, a charming slice of the afterlife called Imp City. Waking up as a sinner with zero recollection of how you got here, you’re promptly thrown into the Underworld’s shady Mafia dealings, where backstabbing is practically a competitive sport. Salvation, or something close to it, comes in the form of a snake slithering through shark-infested waters, but time’s running out before they chum the waters. Better keep afloat cause greed’s slick hands never stop clawing for a chance to drag you below the waves.

Pairing: Striker x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2.9k+

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61773163/chapters/157923916

Chapter 1: Pride's Descent

Death had always been a constant in the world, much like the breath of air they might take just before sinking into unconscious darkness. Sometimes it came swiftly, other times it dragged on in agonizing slowness. It was a mystery to most who dwelled in the mortal realm- though a select few claimed to hold the answers- but even so, Death itself had no known origin. It had no gender, no true name; it simply was. Regardless of whatever Death might be, it was one force no one could evade. Time was finite; Death was infinite. And on this particular day, the Reaper’s hour had finally come for them.

They had heard all sorts of talk about what might follow after the final heartbeat. Some insisted only a god could know. Faith, science, and every manner of theory each tried to explain the unknown. It was an understandable curiosity, given how rarely anyone returned from Death’s doorstep to tell the tale- yet stories still abounded, persistent as ever despite a lack of proof, fueled by conspiracy or the supernatural. In a sense, Death was like an ancient ghost story: retold time and again, shaped by whoever whispered it next. Still, it was natural for mortals to fear the end. A few welcomed it with open arms, while most clung to life until the final moment. One way or another, though, everyone arrived at the same conclusion.

Yet there was one thing that turned out to be true beyond any doubt: there was a light. They had no clue where it came from, but they followed it anyway. What else could they do? It offered the only glimmer of hope, however ironic- this idea that a soft, guiding glow might deliver them from the darkness of life’s end. In the limbo they found themself occupying, time felt frozen, yet somehow they also moved closer to that radiance. They noticed the cold more than anything else: a silent, frigid stillness, as though warmth had never existed in the first place. In that place, it felt as if the entirety of time had collapsed into nothingness.

Death seemed an immeasurable distance away, yet as the light neared, time reversed course. Their body shuddered with the uncanny sense of going backward. Then, everything they had ever known- every kindness, every cruelty, every pure or ugly truth- burst inside their head, colliding in a catastrophic heap of memories that threatened to unmoor their sense of self. They felt caught between two overlapping realities, flickering in and out of coherence. Nothing made sense, their mind a whirlpool of haphazard thoughts that piled into their heart, sowing confusion at every turn. If they had to describe it, they might have compared it to being yanked out of a vivid, surreal dream, the kind that feels real until someone forces you to wake.

The gentle, inviting light now twisted into a flicker of something more ominous, shifting into the deeper hues of hellfire. Rich oranges, reds, yellows, and soot-dark charcoals swirled in the starry void that trapped them. A final vision shimmered across their consciousness: a shadowy shape blotting out whatever heavenly glow might have been there. They spiraled down, down, down. That was the last thing they saw before all went black.

“C’mon...”

A swat- scratchy and insistent.

“Wake up already.”

Another swat, rougher this time.

“You’re blocking the door! Get. UP!”

Smack.

They jolted awake, eyes snapping open as if someone had jammed a rod beneath each eyelid. A pained grunt escaped their lips as they recoiled, more annoyed than alarmed. The sting of the hit only fueled their irritation. Then the memory of where they were came flooding back. Still groggy, they peered up at a figure whose skin was a deep, ruddy red complete with... horns? Yup, horns perched atop a lean, lanky frame that was now glaring down at them, broom in hand.

Had they just mistaken an awful bender for death and passed out in front of some convention? Definitely wasn’t Halloween anymore, no sir. LARPing maybe? Over-the-top dungeon master? Okay, no use fretting about it. Just figure out who these folks were, then find a way back home. Piece of cake, really. Probably. Maybe. Okay, calm down, just start simple.

They staggered upward, propping themself against a wall. All the while, the crimson imp was eyeing them warily, head tilted in annoyance.

Well, that certainly looked real. Not a rubber mask and a contact lens in sight. Damn, they thought, some LARP groups got intense nowadays. How hard was it to just paint your skin, tack on some temporary horns, and slap some hair on top? Seriously, the craftsmanship was top-notch. Must’ve cost a small fortune to look so realistic. But then the tail came into view.

Swoosh. Swoosh.

So articulate. Damn. Even that one actor at the Renaissance faire didn’t have a tail quite so expressive. A good deal of fake tails looked limp, rubber-like or ratty; the costume maker probably went all out with this. So damn expensive and lifelike-looking. Whoever got this commission had skills. And must be rolling in bank right now.

They shook their head to clear it of these rambling thoughts, forcing a pleasant smile. Time to make amends with whoever was manning the place- if the person could be nice, anyway.

“Well hey there!” They flashed another smile, attempting to shrug off the whole scenario. “Nice uh... cosplay, or whatever?” They hoped this didn’t come off too rude.

“Cosplay?” the imp repeated, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah!” Their voice cracked as a hint of nerves crept into their reply, causing a grimace. “...Sorry ’bout falling asleep there. Guess I drank a little too much or uh-” Their brow crinkled. “Shit.” How’d they even get here, wherever here was? Couldn’t remember a goddamn thing. Great. Wonderful. Super cool.

“Look, don’t know or care what you have to say. You’re just getting in the fucking way here and now you’re not. So you can fuck off, c’mon now. Go.” He hissed, baring pointed teeth. “Off you get, sinner.”

Sinner...? They barely managed a half-hearted chuckle in an attempt to keep themself from openly reacting to this odd use of terminology.

“Ohhhkaaaayyy...?” It was clearly a warning and one they’d best listen to, for now at least.

They stepped aside and then walked past as he let the broom down. Their jaw was clenching from frustration; they couldn’t hide their stiff steps, miffed and begrudging, giving the demon-dressed man a wide berth. Though a weird feeling was forming. This wasn’t a show, a prank, or a joke.

They reached out to steady themself and touched a cool, smooth surface. Their gaze lingered on the sleek metal, examining its quality before they noticed their hand. Unnatural skin, clawed nails, no wonder their feet had felt strange, and there were scales... or was that fur? Their heart froze... not...

“What the fuck!” Their mind rebelled at what was staring them in the face- or at the reflection, rather. They pulled back to take a full body examination in the window of the store. The realization slammed into their skull; there was no concealing it, the facts were indisputable.

This was impossible, they told themself; people didn’t just become monsters. But despite this logical line of reasoning, reality continued to crawl toward a conclusion. Refusing to dismiss their instincts, it was clear that what lay in front of them, staring in horrified wonder, was a demon. Is this what that demon had meant when he said sinner?

Shaky hands trembled as they passed over their face, noting the addition of any new appendages or eyes that might have spontaneously appeared overnight. “The fuck?!”

It took a couple seconds for their legs to work properly; their wobbly state of shock having taken the wind out of them. Their brain was still trying to process the information that they looked nothing like they were accustomed to. Yet, no matter which way they turned or looked, no matter how much they pulled, there was no hiding their new set of... everything. Horns, ears, teeth, tail...

“Yep. They’re real. Well, that’s cool and terrifying, what a combo,” they muttered, not overly unkind but in a ‘resigned to your fate’ kind of way.

Sure they’d enjoyed a creature feature or two. Always a fan of the creepy and unusual, but still, waking up as one of the cast had not been on the cards. How was that even possible? And why? No time for existential crises. Later. They needed to figure out what had happened before they could fix it. Or get an explanation for this. Either worked.

“Are you just going to stand there all day gawking?” came the voice of the imp again.

“Okay. Cool it,” they hissed through clenched teeth as they turned around to face him, annoyance clear on their face.

“Look, I can see you’re still reeling from all of this, but how’s about ya go bother someone who cares.”

“And where might one of those be?” they quipped.

“Anywhere else! You’re just in the way standing here doing nothin’ but botherin’ the folk.”

A quick cursory look around showed that there were in fact no “folk” around, aside from the grumpy one in front of them.

“Pretty sure I’m the only other one standing around.” They rolled their eyes at the clearly rude imp.

“Don’t matter!” he snapped, flustered, waving his hand about, nearly smacking them in the nose. “Day in, day out, I gots to watch people like you gawkin’ ’round the streets, actin’ all confused- which ain’t my problem- and ya got no business buggin’ me! What’a I gotta do, show you the rounds?” He pinched the bridge of his snout and heaved out a loud groan, unable to help rolling his own eyes back at them. “Damn sinners,” he growled beneath his breath.

“Just where exactly am I?” they asked.

“You’re in hell! Sheesh, new to being dead, are ya? Better start gettin’ used to it and fast. Or learn how to use them ears. Don’t reckon the streets here’ll tolerate ya bumbling around if ya can’t even manage to pick that up.”

Their mouth opened but promptly closed, as did their eyes, in a pathetic attempt not to facepalm. As soon as their brain had processed the response, though, the comment that slipped from their mouth could not have been avoided.

“Of course I’m in hell. I’m a fucking demon now,” came the incredulous reply. What the fuck!

Strike me down dead and it’s all fire and brimstone? Cute. They huffed. Whatever. Something about that just... well, there must be a God, they’d have to concede that much. Must be having a kick at their expense. A big fat, fucking cosmic laugh, that’s what it was. At least their head had stopped spinning so violently.

“So... where do I go?” they asked tentatively.

“Do I look like a tourist center to you?” he bit back.

Their mouth dropped open. What a fucking shit personality! Rude. They had tried being nice. Twice! They groaned, swiping a hand across their face.

“Listen. Can you please, please tell me the nearest place that could help me? It’s clear you want me outta here. The sooner I figure out where to go, the sooner you can be rid of me!”

The imp tilted his chin back as if deliberating their suggestion, his narrow gaze moving side to side as he chewed on his words, then gave a loud sigh and folded his arms, giving the barest of nods.

“Thank you!”

He growled under his breath before gesturing with his broom. “Take that path,” the imp grumbled, jerking his horned head down the road, “Big black building, big red letters, reads S.I.N.”

“Sin?”

Another sigh. “Systematic In-processing of the Newly-damned.”

“Ah,” they nodded their head sagely. “So it’s a government thing.”

He rolled his eyes again.

“Got it. Big, black building, ‘S.I.N’- straight ahead.”

They cast a backward glance to the shopkeeper demon and offered the most grateful nod they could. “Thanks. So much. I won’t forget this.”

They hurried off before the prick could complain some more. They knew this couldn’t fix their problems yet, but it was better than being tossed into an inferno of flames or tolerating the presence of that beautiful man for much longer.

Following their guide’s direction, they picked up the pace, now far more self-conscious of their new physical presence than they’d have preferred. Yet despite their awkward shuffling and nerves, it did not stop the desire to discover more, to explore this odd place.

Every few steps, the glimmer of colorful things beyond the dirty windows drew their gaze and kept their heart beating faster, lured to these displays- advertisements, demons, and dank darkness shrouded in the flashy glow. Despite everything, curiosity proved too strong; they simply had to investigate this hellscape.

Nothing could stop the rush of a new world opening. They drew nearer, forgetting caution and just eager to get a glimpse at what Hell actually had on offer. Their nimble fingers trailed along the cracked stone wall to find out the story behind it; every word scrawled into the stone begged for their curiosity.

Was that real blood painted on that one? Oh shit, was that an eye? Ugh... or worse.

Having gotten far more preoccupied with the sights and sounds that bombarded them, it was difficult not to have gotten lost at this rate. With every step, it seemed to have shifted- another garish sight just there beyond a narrow passage, or perhaps the faint sound of someone yelling a sales pitch could be heard?

But now the marvel had worn off just a bit, and their sense of direction kicked back into gear. The street they’d originally started on was different. Wherever the SIN center was, they’d veered off course, distracted by their new surroundings.

Well, crap, how to retrace my steps? Did this place even have street names? Probably not. Well, time to ask for help again. Another demon would be just as helpful as the last.

The closest one they managed to spot was a rather tall, teal shark-looking demon. It kind of looked like someone made a fursuit out of Jaws or the Dagonian from Lovecraft. The sharp teeth weren’t very comforting either. They shuddered at the sight but still approached, praying for the best.

“Excuse me. But can you point me in the right direction?” They waved with a sheepish smile.

“The what?” The shark stumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Where’s the SIN building?” They repeated.

“SIN?”

“The black building? The-” They paused for a second and peered a little closer.

The shark interrupted before they could continue, “Wait, are you lost?”

“Yeah.” Came a more than helpless tone.

A toothy grin appeared across his maw, “Need help finding your way?”

“Yeah,” Came the dejected sigh.

“Hey, not a big deal.” The shark patted them on the back, maybe a little hard but probably best not to think too much on that. “All new here?”

“That obvious?”

The shark chuckled. “So, we are on the main stretch. Basically the entrance to Imp City. Looootta streets though. Everything here kinda moves,” the shark demon scratched the side of his head, giving a brief shrug. “Huge maze with no exit.”

“Hoping you can point the right direction and help me out.”

The stranger thought on it for a moment, then flicked his tail, his swirling yellow-and-green striped eyes bright with danger. “Ohhh right, I think I know the place you’re looking for.” His shark-tooth smile grew wider, showing more of those jagged teeth. “C’mon, I’ll take you there.”

“Oh, thank you! So much! Would’ve been lost otherwise.”

“No worries!” the shark threw an arm around their shoulder. “So what’a ya doing down here? Aren’t you a tad young to have fucked up already?” He winked.

“Not quite, uh, sorta...” It was an innocent enough question, though the manner of delivery seemed... more crude.

The conversation lulled as the shark seemed to get more curious, his striped eyes wide as he sized them up. The questions seemed innocent enough- most of them revolved around their previous life topside, what they did for a living, if they’d come to know anyone so far. All in all, they didn’t mind; his demeanor and energy felt a little awkward, but in general, the two talked relatively freely.

Though his other hand had strayed a little too low- near their hips and backside- as he walked a tad too close to be decent. It felt... gross. Greasy, like he’d bathed in Crisco. By the time they had reached the building, however, it became readily apparent why he’d felt the need to walk so close. The closer the building got, the more the pair attracted unwanted attention- mainly from other demons who kept giving both the same dark looks- not that the stranger took notice or really cared; he kept too close, was too touchy for their liking.

When they finally arrived at their intended destination, it appeared deserted, silent as the grave in the dead of night. No, not a good time for such morbid humor, they quickly decided. This building looked anything but inviting and was completely the wrong colo-

The thwack came hard and fast. The pain barely registered as they lost consciousness and collapsed into the shark’s arms. He laughed. That fucker!

[sslitherslither]

-Before The Final Chime

Art credit to my friend on discord!

Summary:

An Ancient Overlord’s death leaves the Envy Ring spiraling into ceaseless conflict. Uneasy alliances form under blood-stained skies, while in the far shadows, regret-filled eyes linger. A silent pocket watch ticks away old promises and lost names, waiting for truths long buried to fracture what remains.

Pairing: None atm ( eventual Striker x OC )

Word Count: 5.8k+

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61472455/chapters/157144654

Chapter 1: The Choice of Fire

Location: Scorchwater, Wrath Ring

Dusty gray receded to blood red, the horizon line swallowing what little had remained of the world, eclipsing all remnants of an ashen ocean. Blood orange seeped outward toward the edges of a sinking sun and red-orange ribbons stretched upward into a crimson-drenched sky. Waves and billows of marigold and fire rolled outward and upward to blend with the colors above, melting into the color of lava. For all the Wrath Ring had to offer—for all the screaming, cursing, crying, and killing he had watched—its beauty, while damning, was not wholly unexpected. It was always that same slow burn. The glowing remains of embers from a dying fire in a forgotten hearth; charcoals from a lover left on a breeze long gone; the ash and dust of lives wasted under the feet of another. The pain was raw and powerful and scorched just as easily as the infernal flames this domain seemed to so proudly display.

An old sinner sat on his haunches, the familiar creak of the wooden chair beneath him as old as the devil himself, a lit cigarette dangling lazily from his parted teeth. He was weary. But he felt, above all things, acceptance. For all the fucking up he did. For every crime that piled up. Every victim. Every goddamn time he’d nearly gotten someone else killed. His claws tensed, squeezing a little too hard onto the fragile wood armrests. He could feel the roughness on the pads of his paws, a satisfying texture against skin he swore was going numb. If only numb were so easy a fix.

His body sagged, shifting to rest his elbows atop his knees as his claws scraped the coarse wooden surface beneath. His eyes closed as his lips pressed tighter, taking in more of the tobacco to which he clung like his life depended on it. When his lungs filled he could have laughed, but the sound was hollow, so he settled on an equally quiet release and looked up again to stare at the vast abyss he was now a part of.

He extended a clawed hand of his own and watched a small tendril of shadow emerge and twirl around the digits he slowly extended out to catch it. The soft, sensuous curves teased and flowed through his grasp with the cool ease of silk running against his furred body. Focus sharpened as he tried forcing it to become something else, solid, sharper, familiar. He lost his breath when it became too much and the wisps fell away, receding back into the ever-present emptiness surrounding his being. He grit his teeth, frustrated. What little energy he had left was so damn spent, barely a few embers holding steady within him.

Reno plucked the cigarette from his lips and watched as the lit tip fell away into a smoldering trail before it went dark, then, nothing. The rest was left dangling between his knuckles. Then his ears perked. If there was one thing not failing him today it was that damned keen hearing of his.

In the distance he heard yips of triumph, the sound of five pairs of hooves striking cracked earth with heavy impact. He felt his guts twist again in that familiar fashion of joyful, stupid worry. “Damn fools... They should be more careful. This place eats and spits out dumbasses on the daily.” Still, he smiled, more so in the subtle twitch in the corners of his eyes. It was almost as though a moment in that long ago, fucked up past had manifested here, as an echo. A constant reminder of how things were—how they could have been—were he someone better. He’d miss this. Even though the path his protege lead them was in nothing but a downward spiral.

A long exhale carried with it some measure of tension as he focused to stand, giving an extra oomph as he shoved the rest of his smoke between his teeth and out.

The coyote stretched, picking up his hat, and slicking his fur as smooth as the hand trailing through could get it. The riders’ silhouettes began to appear, kicking up a mighty ruckus. As the motley crew made themselves more and more visible, he saw that the fat saddlebags were nearly bursting, the spoils of a successful heist no doubt. Not like these morons needed any extra supplies anyway, or maybe they did?

As they grew closer, the faces of the posse came into focus. Striker rode shotgun followed by Syrin, with her sharp grin and confident posture, flanked by Kidd and Lottie, the imp siblings who were always up for a fight. Draven followed close behind, his eyes darting nervously despite the smile on his face.

He’d barely moved a toe in their direction before a familiar, irritatingly arrogant voice cut across the expanse as the horses came to a stop some ways off.

“Oi Reno!! We got a celebration tonight! These spoils ride with us until Satan takes us!” Striker crowed, his tail whipping sharply at his comrades.

They didn’t need a spoken answer as all four fired up their war cries into a cacophony of almost drunken, ass-backwards howling. The posse began splitting the loot evenly and chucking as much as they could into their packs. Kidd and Lottie took off in a hurry, while Draven dragged his feet, giving a “’sup” nod to Reno and leading his horse in the direction the twins had raced off to. Syrin lagged behind just long enough to catch a solo moment with Striker. She thumped her fist against the barrel chest she so obviously had adoration for, and Striker was grinning like a fool—something the coyote sinner rolled his eyes at while simultaneously knowing he may not see again. Something like the special mix between a burning regret and relief washed over him.

The two exchanged some jabs and a rough kiss that promised to be continued in private. Then the eel demon was racing off after the others, urging them to wait up for her.

Striker sauntered over, spurs grinding pebbles and dust and kicking up hellfire as his hands tucked up into the loops in front of his belt.

“Should’a seen ’em, Reno. ’s a total damn mess the way we came bustin’ through those gates. It was all screamin’ and blood ’nd laughter and I didn’t hafta lift a damn thing! Just walked right out with the goods while they was all gunned up over us. Kidd ’n’ Lottie even snagged us somethin’ to keep that beast of yours fed. Ha! You should’ve joined us, Reno!”

Reno didn’t react to the remark at the expense of his horse, Bombproof. Instead, choosing to light up another cigarette and taking a long, slow drag, he said, “That right?” His own gravelly voice tumbled forth just above a low rumble.

Striker nodded, tossing his dagger in the air as a taunt, the metal glinting in the hellish light that surrounded them. He caught it expertly between two fingers. “Sure as shit.”

Reno took a few steps past Striker and down the steps of the old porch until his paws were in the scorching sands. “Sounds like yer buildin’ a reputation of your own.” The coyote tilted the brim of his hat while looking back over his shoulder.

A jagged-tooth smile broke across Striker’s face. “Damn right, and a fuckin’ good one at that. Y’know what I ain’t about is bein’ anyone else’s lap dog or takin’ orders. I know what you said, Reno, but these bastards don’t know what they’ve got comin’.”

Reno didn’t respond immediately, his eyes narrowing against the fading light. Though the red and orange had faded, a strange yellow glow remained. He tipped his hat back, letting the final rays fall into his face as he brought up one paw to shield his view, scanning the expanse surrounding the property. An empty void. Ethereal waves, as if underwater, cast the landscape into a shadowy haze. He knew there’d be nothing to see—he’d taken care of the problem for now, but old instincts die hard.

The weight of his silence eventually drew Striker’s attention. “What’s eatin’ you?” he asked, frowning.

Reno’s eyes closed and the weight of fatigue and pain flooded his thoughts, breaking his calm. He gritted his teeth. All these emotions, these memories—that goddamned pitying heart. Shit, he was ready for this to be done with. It was done. They were fucking dead. No, not were... would be. Not yet. Not again.

“You ever think about what you’re chasin’, Striker? Or are you just runnin’ on instinct?” Reno turned back to face him. His only good eye opened to show a glinting feral orange, contrasting sharply against the growing night. The other was a sunken, scarred pit. A few shallow, uneven scars streaked across the coyote sinner’s brow. Long, sharp nicks decorated a heavily battered muzzle, and a short tear cut its way down the outside of one of his lips, giving him a permanent smirk.

Striker’s brow furrowed. “Now and again, yeah. Got a bit of both goin’ on. Why the interest, and more importantly, why now?” he growled, following him down the stairs and into the sandy front lot. The question held more menace than it would have a day ago, as if to ward off bad luck.

The coyote crossed the distance to tower over the imp. “You worry me.”

“There’s no damn need. You can see fer yerself, I can take care of shit just fine,” Striker bit back, an edge to his tone.

Reno, uncowed, looked off toward the skyline as his ears flattened and tail drooped. He swallowed an entirely different response. There were more important things than sassing the brat he’d nearly raised. Striker joined him in this brief interlude. They both stared hard, knowing a shift in the balance of power was coming. It was merely a matter of when and where and why. They both sensed the end was approaching. As always, the most violent would be the most sudden, unpredictable. Neither could hold stock in anything now, not really. Not fully. At best they had the assurance of one another at their backs, and the chaos surrounding them.

Striker toyed with his knife idly, breaking the silence once more. “Place sure knows how to put on a sunset.”

“Mhm,” Reno grunted and inhaled deeply, dropping the now butt of a second cigarette to the dusty terrain under his paws. “Pretty don’t mean much when you’ve seen enough of ’em.”

Silence and sunset could do many things. Draw two rivals closer or widen the gap. Expose an opening or cause a mistake, distract. Reno could almost sense Striker’s mind was on their situation. Both men in their own heads, taking in the same view of the Wrath Ring with entirely different sentiments.

Then the idle knifeplay stopped and Striker squared himself, staring up at Reno. He’d seen the man brood, but this was different. “If ya ain’t got anythin’ constructive ta say, Reno, then spit out what’s goin’ on,” he prompted, not one for a heavy emotional load. “Stop all this doom an’ gloom mumblin’ and just tell me if you’ve lost yer damned mind.”

Reno didn’t answer right away, preferring the warmth of the acrid cigarette smoke clinging to his nostrils to the stifled breath between the imp and himself. It gave him a moment longer to let the ache settle out, but soon the tightness in his stomach overrode the discomfort of heartache. He eventually spoke, meeting those gleaming serpentine eyes of his. “You ever hear the story of the rattlesnake and the campfire?”

Striker didn’t like this at all. The sly motherfucker could come out with the dumbest fucking questions and still deliver a lesson, especially as a last-ditch effort. What the hell was the coyote not saying?

Quirking a rather unimpressed brow, Striker entertained the old man’s ramblings. “Another one’a yer ‘life lessons’ wrapped up in some backwater fairytale?”

Reno growled. “There’s a rattler out in the cold, wanderin’ through the desert. It’s tired, hungry, and the night’s colder than hell’s mercy. Comes across a campfire—bright and warm. It knows better. Knows it’s too close to people. But the cold bites deeper than caution. So it creeps closer. It wants that warmth. Badly. Snuggles up, gets what it came for.”

“But what does that hafta do with—” The words died as suddenly as Reno’s stare landed on Striker and he went quiet with a huff.

“Fire keeps it warm for a while. But the snake don’t know when to stop, and it gets too close. The flames lick its scales, burn it to ash. Sometimes, a rattler don’t see that the thing it wants most is the thing that’ll kill it.”

“What’s with the damn snake allegories?” the imp finally quipped, irritated at his mentor, not understanding the point. “I get it. Stay away from people or you’ll fuckin’ die.”

“No, you’re missing the point.” Reno sighed, taking in a lungful. “I think you’ve got choices. I think it’s easy to think the fire’s yours to control. Easy to tell yourself you’re stronger than it, that you can have it all without payin’ the price.” He lifted his head to stare straight down the barrel of what could be called their demise.

“Fuck’s the point, Reno?” Striker countered, eyes slitting dangerously. “You bringin’ up fire and all the sudden we’re supposed ta make sense o’ what you mean, when ya just go back an’ talk about a damned rattlesnake?? Ya oughtta get some rest. This ain’t doin’ any favors on yer head. I mean if there’s a fire you can just sit far enough not to get charred an’ it’ll work out just fine.”

“You’re missin’ the point,” Reno began flatly, but a small growl beneath it was rising with the tone of his voice. “It’s not about stayin’ away from fire. It’s about thinkin’ you’re strong enough to control it. About tellin’ yourself you can take what you need and walk away unscathed.”

Striker huffed, folding his arms stubbornly. “We are strong, damn it. And we do take shit. That’s what this ring’s about.”

“Doesn’t mean the fire can’t still hurt you. That it won’t kill you. Sometimes a person needs a kick in the head to realize the blaze before their feet is gettin’ too damned big. Remember what it does to a corpse.”

“Thought a stiff like yourself wouldn’t be worried ’bout losin’ none o’ their wit and will. Hah, just pissin’ yer pants o’er nothin’ as usual,” Striker said mockingly and chucked the blade he was tossing in his hand up. But Reno intervened fast, catching the blade and suddenly pinning Striker to the closest pillar, blade pressed to his throat. The tip was bleeding but not enough for anything serious. The imp bared his teeth but kept silent and stared the old dog in the face.

“Now you listen good, y’little prick, and listen real fuckin’ well,” the old dog hissed.

“Ah, listen now to the real lesson, right old man?” he teased despite the circumstances. The imp hissed in protest as his face twisted and contorted back from the strain he was putting on his neck, tail snapping out in a sudden arc, nearly making contact with the coyote. Reno just barely kept his distance and stomped it down with his foot, his own tail bristling.

He grit his teeth harder, making the tear at the side of his mouth begin to pull into a sneer. “I didn’t work my ass off helpin’ you grow into what you are right now, so you can act like a dick all you want. I got enough on my conscience without bein’ made an accomplice ta whatever the fuck this is gonna turn inta’.”

The air crackled with energy as Striker struggled with all his strength against the weight of the older sinner. He was nearly blind with fury as he began trying to force himself away, palms pressing on the coyote’s shoulders and arm. His claws left streaks and little lines as his palms slid for purchase and came away, fighting the grip that tightened and burned.

“You better damn well get it through your thick skull that this world ain’t gonna play by your rules. You’re runnin’ yer headlong inta somethin’ ya might not be prepared ta fight,” His voice dropped to a low snarl. “You think it’s clever and ambitious takin’ the world at a head-on rush? Take what you want an’ burn anyone who stands in yer way. It’s a sure fire way’a endin’ up the most hated fuckin’ sonuvabitch the seven rings ever knew! It ain’t survival when the shit you leave behind—the lives you ruin or the souls you take without reason—is the legacy you leave.”

His temper flared and Striker hissed, tail thwacking the earth. “Yer wrong old man. When I take what’s mine an’ fight fer it—when I rise on the pile of shitheads I took down and revel in the blood and carnage, that’s me. I did the work and no one’s gonna fuckin’ tell me how and where I earned it. This is Hell! This is Wrath! The only way to come out ahead is through fightin’ and fuckin’ the pain! And leavin’ all the wimps and lily-livered shits to their weak ways!” His tail shot out from under the coyote’s paw like a whipcrack. “I’ll be feared and I’ll be known. It’s better than letting people take more from me than I can take from ’em.” He spat, “So you do you and I’ll do me.”

Both their eyes lit with equal outrage and intensity.

“Y’know... There’s always the chance to choose something else,” he offered after a long moment of silent snarling. He knew better. You can’t save someone from their own ignorance. “I’m not askin’ ya to be a saint. I just... want you to be something other than—”

Striker went absolutely rigid, lips pulled into a razor’s edge grin, his forked tongue darting out menacingly. “Other than what, Reno? Y’best tell me. What the fuck. Am I.”

The older sinner lifted his head a bit to watch Striker’s eyes flare defiantly. He saw the bravado, the promise of a brawl if he kept poking, and it broke his goddamned heart. Was there anything more pathetic than having to stop the son you’d never had from tearing his own life apart? Or more ironic to see a younger version of himself refusing help just as the darkness crept in to steal every ounce of hope? It was enough.

There were no other words to be had. And like always the lessons learned would sink in and become clearer. Whether a day or ten years would bring Striker into clarity was just another lesson. Just another reminder of how hell itself could break even the strongest wills and trample hope until nothing was left to be considered but an aching blackened void.

Reno stepped away, dropping the knife from the imp’s jugular and pointing it in the direction the posse went. “They’re followin’ you, Striker. And you’re draggin’ ’em right into the goddamn pit with you. You’re too blind to see that the only thing you’re teachin’ ’em is how to burn out faster.” His ears pinned back. “That if they keep followin’ you, the hell of their lives is going to start. Soon. If you don’t snap the hell outta whatever this is. Stop bein’ a dick to folk, an’ I’d suggest you start fuckin’ carin’ about this band of misfits, this town, your ma—”

“Don’t fuckin’ go there. Ma ain’t part of this!” Striker snapped sharply. “And if that was true ya wouldn’t still be here,” the words were spoken harshly.

“Not for long,” the coyote’s head lowered as he looked off to the side, knowing full well they were finally meeting their fruition. Everything that had been pushed away was catching up fast. It had been too long and it wouldn’t wait any longer.

This earned a cocky and frankly concerning laugh. The imp straightened, regarding him, and scoffed. A full blown rictus grin spread across his face, teeth clenched and gleaming. “Pf, Riiight.” He was calling his bluff. Where was he gonna go? The poor man was at least a few decades out from his prime. He was wearing the pain of time and experience. His body had begun to age him and the toll of his life was starting to take its due. In a ring that’s hell on a healthy soul, let alone one who’d grown this close to death. Even though sinners of his kind were ageless, their forms remained static, there was still a lifetime to show. “Nuff with the damn theatrics, an’ just spill already. What’cha doin’ walkin’ out when the fun ain’t even started? Think yer makin’ one of them epic exits y’see in them soap operas Ma loves?”

The coyote wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of a fight nor did he acknowledge the insults being flung at him. “I know this is an ugly sight to behold, but it has ta’ happen sooner or later.”

“N’why’s that? Y’pissed cuz y’ain’t the top dog here?” The imp wasn’t making it easy. Striker just couldn’t let Reno off easily. After the bullshit he’d been forced to go through in the last month with everyone, it felt good to be pushing someone’s buttons again. He felt his own brand of comfort seeing the stress rolling off the older coyote sinner’s shoulders and knew it wouldn’t take too much more. He’d heard it in Reno’s tone. This wasn’t a trip to the bar to blow off some steam. This wasn’t about one of the goons he’d pulled out of trouble one time or another. “Maybe yer tired o’ bein’ dragged down by yer liabilities?” he laughed, shaking his head.

He kept walking away and then looked over his shoulder. A wordless statement that wouldn’t change a damn thing, but a lingering plea to think. And god if that look didn’t speak a thousand more. Reno spoke before his instincts to brawl and demand some respect won over. “Try and live yer own damn life without everyone else gettin’ tangled in the bullshit, kid. Keep ’em outta trouble. Gonna need you around after all this.” He sounded almost paternal then. “I know you’ve had the short end of the stick more times than you’re willin’ ta remember but it won’t always be like this.”

Then it dawned upon him, this was real. The words, the implications. He looked to the sand, face scrunching a bit. And when he looked back up, that wolfish visage held none of the laughter and cynicism that often led to trouble following these bouts. Instead, there was just concern, acceptance, finality. This wasn’t a bad trip, nor an elaborate trick or ploy to make him repent. His tail snapped in several arcs, a sign of his anger rising, as his jaw clicked tightly.

No. The bastard couldn’t just leave like this. No, no—hell no, he was NOT just leaving. Striker could feel the rush of emotion. The rising heat from deep inside that forced a stammer as he tried to speak. What the fuck. The fuck. How dare he say that and walk away. Fuck the feeling boiling inside that started at his gut and tore through his veins, engulfing his mind as his feet kicked up sand, forcing himself forward and away from the fear—away from his thoughts and towards the man he’d considered something almost fatherly. Someone who’d shown him there were reasons worth living, when his own self-destruction had nearly won.

What, and just abandon him?? Nah. No way. It didn’t work that way and never did. So why did the fucking old fool think that walking off was gonna make things right? ’Cause Striker didn’t agree. Not by a mile. In fact, it pissed him off even more, made the fury return. The sharp sting that could break through even the numbness. He grabbed at the man’s arm hard. Hard enough to pull him back. The familiar rattlesnake hiss filled the air.

“Reno. The FUCK are you even talkin’ ’bout! N’here I thought this was a night for kickin’ back, celebratin’! What’s this about? The hell was that look ’bout?” It’s hard not to bite back when everything you were trying to hold onto wanted nothing more than to scatter. But it was okay. It’d be alright. Right? “Spit it the fuck out or so help me, I’m not givin’ two shits that you practically raised me, ’cause right now I feel a whole lot like fuckin’ deckin’ ya and ya better damned well tell me before I do just that! You. Ain’t. Goin’. ANYWHERE!”

He tightened his grip and was prepared to throttle him to shut him up and make him give him answers. To make him stay. Needed him to stay. To explain.

Reno snarled, suddenly twisting his arm free with a jerk and a growl that reverberated through his chest. Just as Striker lashed forward, the older coyote dipped low and pivoted, putting his shoulder into the imp’s gut and tossing him aside in one fluid motion. The force was enough that Striker fell hard onto his back, momentarily dazed, but he pushed himself back on all fours instantly, backpedaling to get distance. The heat of frustration was beginning to take over. Sand and ash kicked into the humid air, coiling around them as if drawn to the violence.

Striker rose with a hiss, wiping spittle and dust from his lips. They took stances that crackled with tension—Reno’s knees bent, shoulders forward, ready to absorb impact; Striker’s tail whipping behind him, spur-ready boots digging into scorched earth. The world narrowed to a single heated collision of wills under the twinkling embers of a hellish sky.

For a moment, Reno couldn’t help but worry that he’d gone a step too far. Striker wasn’t a child anymore and even as a teenager, when the imp didn’t get his way, he became ruthless. Violence wasn’t new between the two of them. Hell, a fight between them was often good-natured and a great stress-reliever. But the look of blind rage he could see now on the imp’s features was something different and gave him pause. Striker was a formidable opponent, despite his smaller size, and Reno didn’t want to hurt him.

“Think you can just throw me on my ass ’n leave?” Striker challenged. “Big mistake. Don’t you turn yer damn back on me. Not to me. Not like this!”

The imp feinted left, then came in low with a blistering punch aimed at Reno’s ribs. Reno caught the blow against the meat of his forearm, the impact jolting through his bones, but he showed no sign of pain. Instead, he capitalized on Striker’s overreach: a swift elbow to the jaw. The sound was a dull crack beneath the roar of distant hellfire. Striker retaliated instantly, lunging with feral speed, coiled muscles erupting in a flurry of jabs and hooks that forced Reno to stagger back.

“Spit it the fuck out before I lay your ass out!” Striker growled, refusing to relent. He had his mentor backed into a corner; now it was a matter of pushing him harder. The old dog managed to shove his way past the imp’s furious blows, but Striker was faster on his feet. The coyote ducked and weaved, barely avoiding a brutal uppercut that would have shattered his muzzle. Claws scraped against Reno’s jacket, leaving tiny rips that matched the ragged scars on his face. The dance was vicious and elegant—sparks of old training and feral cunning meeting head-on.

“This ain’t about you!” Reno barked as he struggled to gain a semblance of control, a sigh that sounded closer to a sob tearing from his throat as he brought a knee up into his opponent’s stomach hard. “Ain’t my story ta’ tell you! All ya gotta know, is it’s gotta happen soon.” He turned his head, shaking it angrily, trying not to give in to his desire to unleash all his pain on him, because then the line would be crossed.

Striker snarled, his tail snapping violently in the air. “Bullshit! Damn near raised me! An’ NOW it ain’t about me? You either fuckin’ talk or I take the silence from you, damn it.” He jabbed a finger right into Reno’s chest, an attack from hell in his voice. He wanted to make this mean something, force it into something tangible. And every ounce of him believed this was just another obstacle. Another trial to overcome.

The next blow Reno landed sent him staggering with blood dripping from his nose and a tooth flying. “Last. Thing. I need. From you right now. IS a damn fight, Striker,” Reno rasped, his eyes no longer narrowed in anger. Instead there was only a quiet solemn look and something hidden beneath the surface, which he seemed to give way to for only a heartbeat, allowing Striker a window into his soul. Then for just a second, Reno saw a flash of another. As if a reflection from another time. Of all the souls lost from his path. There was so much regret.

Then Striker managed to find Reno’s midsection with a sharp knee. The older sinner grunted and dropped to one hand, instinct forcing him to roll clear of a stomp meant to break his spine. Dust plumed around him as he rose, pressing forward, every fiber of his sinewy form honed by decades of survival, a lifetime of scraping by on bloodied knuckles.

He caught Striker’s wrist in a vice grip and slammed it into a nearby post. The wood splintered, cutting into the imp’s knuckles, and Striker bellowed a curse. Before the imp could recoil, Reno delivered a savage headbutt—forehead colliding with Striker’s brow ridge, staggering him. Freed by a brief second of dazed uncertainty, Reno lashed out with a kick that caught Striker’s thigh, buckling the imp’s stance. They were two rabid beasts, circling, trading blows beneath a swirling sky that had seen too many deaths.

“Then why!!” Striker roared, voice cracking. “We’re fine. We’re happy. Ma’s even more a hoot than usual. EVERYONE’S happy, ya smug sack of shit. Why does ANY o’this hafta change? Tell me why?!”

“It’s about settlin’ a score that should’ve been buried long before either of us got stuck here!” Reno shot back with equal passion. They fought their way across the courtyard, both fighters taking a beating. Anger, resentment, and raw emotions bled from their muscles and bones as they wrestled and clashed. “Ghosts don’t rest, Striker.”

“YOUR ghosts can wait until we sort the one hangin’ over us!! Ya got us, ya got me, and yer throwin’ it all away for some ghost in yer head?!” Striker charged forward and leapt, spinning to deliver a brutal drop kick. Reno slapped away his foe’s leg, throwing the imp off balance and slamming a heel into Striker’s jaw, sending him skidding on his back. He groaned and rolled over, spitting blood and curses before the sand settled.

“It’s real, Striker,” Reno tried not to get dragged into the pace again. “I can’t sit this one out and pretend it’ll work itself out. They won’t stop until they get what they want.”

“Shove off,” Striker was panting now, winded but not finished, “who cares! They’ll come, and we’ll kick their fuckin’ teeth in. Taught me all this stuff about standin’ yer ground an’ bein’ a survivor, now I know how to bust skulls an’ bash a few eyes in!”

Reno felt a shudder run through him as he heaved to catch his breath. There wasn’t going to be any easy way about this. Just like there’d never been an easy way for anything in life. “Been around... for a real long time, Striker... Gonna have to trust me. This isn’t like a coupla sinners holdin’ a grudge and givin’ a visit. They ain’t sinners, kid. These ones are demons with power to change things. Enough power to change this... to kill everyone.”

Striker wiped the dirt and soot from his face. That last hit had left him seeing stars. Was Reno lying to make an excuse? A shitty excuse to cover up a pathetic past and escape something more? Was he running out on them? The old coyote’s eyes met Striker’s. Not even a twinge of deception. Nothing. No shadow of guilt. His gaze was unreadable. Even though a lifetime of trusting him screamed to keep pushing for facts, something deeper tugged at his instincts to trust him.

“I’m scared it’ll take you, your ma, the kids, this town, all a what we have goin’.”

The confession was not what Striker expected. The fear and helplessness in Reno’s voice made Striker’s skin crawl.

Reno walked to Striker and offered his hand. There wasn’t an apology or another excuse. It was the kind of gesture that said they didn’t have the time nor words to discuss it. There was a lot that could be read by simply accepting the offered gesture. Without a word, Striker looked from his hand back to Reno’s eyes, and finally he stood, slapping his hand aside.

He was looking the coyote straight in the eyes, and at that moment the truth was undeniable. Reno was walking away, and perhaps that’s what was hurting the most. The question Striker should ask—why not take him—was burning on his tongue. But at the same time it was pointless. There was nothing more he could say or do to make him stay. Striker wasn’t exactly keen on groveling, nor the idea of getting beaten up more than he already was. His forked tongue lapped at the new gap in his teeth and the blood coating his split lip.

After a beat of silence, Striker stepped into Reno’s personal space. This was always the hardest part—saying goodbye. His fists tightened, his lips pulled back as a snarl fell over his words, “You fuckin’ better come back.”

They glared, each daring the other to admit the futility of it all. Any word from either would be a death-blow to an old foundation that neither could rebuild alone. There would be no sweet words. Only cold reality, because in the end, it would only matter what he did.

Then the old coyote dipped his head, closed his eyes, and strode off toward the dunes and shadows of the burning sunset, knowing without a doubt that whatever decision awaited him at the end of his path would damn well leave an indelible mark on every single part of him. For the world is unmerciful, and his survival was not owed.

The clock was ticking.

[sslitherslither]

-Have Yourself a Fiery Little Sinsmas

Summary:

Hell’s still a relatively new concept for a sinner like you, but when Sinsmas rolls around, it’s nothing like the Christmases you knew topside. In Wrath, “happy Sinsmas” comes with a punch to the face, a kiss under the mistletoe, and just the right amount of fiery destruction to make it a holiday to remember.

Pairing: Striker x GN!Reader

Word Count: 6k+

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61644778

'Fa-la-la, the sin is calling, Fa-la-la, the sinners brawling, Raise your fists and join the fray, Angry hearts on Sinsmas Day!'~

Striker gripped the brim of his hat as if the very action would save his ears from this...he dared not call it music. But his partner in crime, his bo, however, seemed to disagree.

You threw your head back, beaming with enjoyment at his expense. Striker quirked a brow, "Yer actually enjoying this?"

You would've been lying if you'd said yes, or no, really. It was somewhere in between. You didn't prefer the music, but there was an odd novelty to it, like nostalgia from a memory never made or long since forgotten. Maybe in this case you'd hit the nail on the head for both instances, it was familiar but foreign all at once.

Perhaps that was the fate of all Sinners once they'd been down here too long. The wonders and terrors of Hell became the new normal, a life long lived in the world of man dulled to the mundane, while that of the Underworld burned through the soul.

"I wouldn't say 'enjoyment,'" a grin broke across your face. "Maybe more like nostalgic. I dunno why, but something about it feels weirdly familiar."

You tipped your head back and grinned, eyes cast upwards toward the many ornaments hanging above. "You know, now that I think about it..." Your gaze fell downwards to meet the narrowed expression of the imp next to you. "This... Sinsmas stuff sorta reminds me of Christmas."

"Christmas? Is that what they call this kinda crap topside?" Striker snorted. He released a humorless chuckle and threw his hand out, motioning to all the tacky glitter and garland around. "S'funny, 'cause to me it looks and sounds like someone died and vomited all over this place."

You laughed hard, the pleasant sound bubbling up over the screech of the jukebox. Striker, the jaded asshole that he was, smirked just so when hearing the mirth he was able to rip from that pretty little mouth.

You put a hand over it in a poor attempt to quell your laughter. It was entertaining to see Striker so riled up over something as mundane as holiday music and trappings and his irritation was entertaining in all the ways he most definitely didn't intend. But the action didn't fool either of you; both of you knew his behavior and distasteful comments were the product of his own frustrations more than anything. It had always been so with the two of you.

Striker grumbled, "Far as I know, and it ain't much when it comes to topside holidays, 'Christmas' seems kinda similar. Not that I know a'ton but Sinsmas looks like someone rolled down Santa Claus' chimney and shoved a big wad of dynamite up his ass."

The words would've been amusing if you hadn't pictured it in graphic detail; thankfully, a new tune on the jukebox broke that thought before it could get any worse.

"Down here, it's about embracin' your sin. Every ring's got its own way of doin' it." Striker pushed back from the table, right hand tapping against the surface while he crossed his ankle over his knee. His back straightened ever so as he allowed himself to lean against the booth's padded backrest.

"Lust’s probably throwin’ an orgy big enough to collapse a town, Gluttony’s eatin’ their weight in Hellfruit pies, and Wrath? Wrath knows what it’s about." There was almost a sparkle to his eyes at that last line; the deadly gleam you adored in your assassin.

“Let me guess,” you said, smirking. “Blowing stuff up?”

“Close,” he said with a toothy grin, the glow of the light glinting off his golden tooth. “Wrath’s about good ol’-fashioned violence. Friendly, of course. Families sparrin’, neighbors brawlin’, whole towns tearin’ themselves apart just for fun.”

You raised a brow. “That’s your idea of friendly?”

“Damn right it is,” he said, tipping his hat. “Ain’t nothin’ like throwin’ a punch at someone you care about to say ‘happy Sinsmas.’”

The picture Striker painted was becoming clear, hellfire and ash, the scent of gunpowder and burning flesh; all the things you knew in this new life with him, but with a spritz of holiday flare and what was likely an array of terrifying looking knitted sweaters.

Your response came after a few seconds. "Not gonna lie, I can see the appeal. I wouldn’t mind tearing off someone's leg, hell, even yours, if it meant I could get rid of this shitty music."

Striker feigned offense, bringing his hand over his heart and leaning into the plush seat. "Ah, but bo," he said, flashing that toothy grin, "that's precisely why we ain't staying around to hear more."

Striker took one, and only one, moment to savor your bewildered expression before slowly rising up from the table. He whipped a couple bills onto the surface, and with all the flare of a performer, Striker snatched you from your seat with his clawed one and tugged you up and away from the booth.

“C’mon, sugar,” he said, gleaming in the Hellfire glow. “Time to show ya how Wrath really celebrates Sinsmas.”

Your smile couldn't be kept at bay any more than the red that crept across your cheeks as you two exited the bar.

Striker glanced back. You knew in that second all was as it should be when his mischievous smile appeared, this would end either in a good show or a riot.

With a sharp whistle that cut through the night air, Striker swung you up onto Bombproof’s saddle in one fluid motion, climbing up and leaning in with that wicked gleam in his eye as he hissed against your ear, "We're gonna make this one to remember."

His lashing tail curled around your leg; he clung tight to the reins in one hand, the other curling around your waist as the three of you tore out into the night. You held tight as Bombproof surged forward, the fiery night swallowing you whole. This was madness, wild, reckless madness, and yet, with Striker grinning down at you, it felt like exactly where you were meant to be.

He let out a whoop as he spurred Bombproof along, his laugh blending with yours as you streaked through the countryside with the Devil's bells tolling behind you and the stench of the Wrath ring's sulfur in your lungs. The very air reeked of gunsmoke, like fireworks erupting along your nerves and flooding you with a strange euphoria that felt downright holy.

The road stretching across the Wrath Ring was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic clank of Bombproof’s hooves against scorched ground. The distant glow of Hellfire flickered on the horizon, like a crimson aurora that refused to die. You settled comfortably against Striker, his arm clutching your waist as the two of you made your way to who knows where. This was his spur of the moment idea after all.

You'd learned fairly quickly not to press him for more than he would willingly give, knowing that if he wanted you to know everything, he'd tell you without resistance or resentment. However, curiosity was never so easily dissuaded, and although he'd given you a few little tidbits here and there regarding his past, the finer details continued to elude you. But it seemed tonight he was in the mood to share.

“Y’know,” he began, voice carrying easily over the crackle of distant embers, “back when I ran with my old posse, we’d spend Sinsmas raisin’ all kinds of hell.” His tail flicked lazily behind him, a sure sign he was drifting into memory. “We’d meet up in some dusty town or on the outskirts of a ranch, didn’t matter where, an’ go at each other ‘til we were bloody, bruised, and laughin’ like idiots. T’was the best way to bond, really. Nothin’ says trust like a fist in your face followed by a good bottle o’ Snakebite whiskey.”

A smile flitted across your face as the scene was set, Striker, a lot younger, not nearly as grizzled and dangerous as he was now, surrounded by a band of kids just looking for a good time and someone's teeth to knock loose. It was oddly pleasant to envision, your mind providing a grainy, wild West-type ambiance like something off of an old radio drama.

He cleared his throat as he went on, "Families in the ring got a knack for holdin’ grudges, so we figure it’s best to just punch it out. That way you know who’s serious about lookin’ after you, an’ who’s only talkin’ big.”

There was another pause then, a moment of quiet except for Bombproof’s steady stride. You found yourself thinking of your own past, of cold December nights back on Earth, hot cocoa warming your hands, gaudy sweaters and candy canes, pine trees decked in ornaments and lights that blinked all through the long winter darkness. Compared to Wrath’s infernal backdrop, it felt like a half-remembered dream.

It made you sad, a little, but you tried not to dwell, choosing instead to lean back and nestle against Striker until all the earthly pain felt a little farther away. "I had a different experience growing up. For humans, Christmas can get a little...family-centric."

Remembering back to yours was a jumbled mishmash of colors, sounds, and scents that were fumbled about like the scattered pieces of a puzzle. It was hard to recollect and organize into an image of what was once a cherished time. Even harder when you tried to explain it to an Imp who's known nothing but turmoil and heartache most of his own life. And it wasn't comparable to your own. You two were two terribly different beasts of burden, one a Sinner, the other hellborn. And you didn't even want to bother going down that rabbit hole of issues and consequences.

"On Earth, it's celebrated differently around the world, but some stuff stays the same. It's about family, friends, sharing and celebrating, singing, sometimes snow. At least I think. It was pretty great last I checked."

Striker gave a low snort, somewhere between amusement and skepticism. “Heh, sounds soft to me. But if it worked for you, guess it can’t be all bad.”

He said it dismissively, but his tone wasn’t unkind. In fact, the faint shift of his tail, thumping gently against your leg, suggested he was more interested than he let on. You allowed yourself a small smile, recognizing that in his own way, he was listening. For a man of few outward affections, that was enough.

"So when can I expect your fist flying my way?" you asked jokingly, squeezing the tail around your leg and adding, "Maybe sometime after I kick yours if the opportunity arises."

There came that laugh you enjoyed so much. "Somethin' tells me, ya ain't got the stones fer that, darlin’." He patted Bombproof. "Nah, I got somethin' more your speed planned. A lil' surprise for the ya, to take the edge off."

"Surprises are your way of taking the edge off?" you laughed. "Are you trying to put me through the damn wall, Strikey?"

He cringed at the nickname. "Guess it depends on yer definition." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your hair before the both of you could continue. He pointed far off into the distance ahead and grinned. "Look alive. These poor bastards don’t even know they’re about to get a real Sinsmas show.”

The town's annual holiday fight was well on its way to starting without the two of you. What an honor.

Several various sized homes and buildings, of the barbwire, dust, and cow town aesthetic common to this region of Wrath crowded the stretch ahead. And in their midst sat one of those vaquero-styled bars, illuminated by lantern light and ruddy flames, and filled to the rafters with folks too entangled in their rowdy antics to notice your arrival. The streets carried various people two and fro, none to keen to look towards their towns newest cowpokes. Oh, only if they knew...

It would change shortly, you assumed, and judging by the twitch in Striker's tail and the hand clutching your hip, you gathered he was already brimming with excitement. He tipped the brim of his hat to you, mouth spreading into an impish grin.

"Guess we’re late to the party.” Striker called.

You raised an eyebrow, surveying the scene. “Late, huh? Or just in time to make it a lot worse?”

Striker’s grin widened. “Oh, sugar, you know me too well.”

The chaos started almost instantly, in perfect coordination as Striker whirled around and popped off several shots in quick succession. Windows shattered under the onslaught; screams erupted; folks raced in random directions while others sought the source of the commotion, namely the two of you.

Ornaments popped off from where the bullets made impact. Ribbons lit ablaze; a giant, festive rendition of Satan himself went up in a shower of fiery bits. You winced. Looks like this might be Wrath's only gray Sinsmas with all the ash that would surely rain. A chipped sign reading Satan's Little Helper flew straight up into the air.

All hell broke loose in the nearby bar as a hoard of people ran outside with the same tenacity of a group of rampaging hellbeasts, men, women, and a smattering of children whooping it up in their drunken stupor.

Striker reloaded with practiced ease, spinning his revolver before holstering it and surveying the destruction with a satisfied smirk. “Now that’s how you kick off a celebration,” he drawled, tipping his hat at you. “What d’ya say, sugar? Ready to help me take this town down in style?”

"Like I'd refuse?" you said, matching his crazy with your own, teeth nearly glinting with the same impish intent. "What's your poison?"

“My poison? I reckon it’s a little bit of everything.”

Striker laughed low in his throat, almost a purr, as his tail looped around your mid-section again, tight enough that you couldn’t move but soft enough that the sensation wasn't painful. It felt nice. Dominant in an adoring sort of way. He reached for the lasso coiled at his belt. With one fluid motion, he spun it through the air and caught a small loose board from a broken fence. The wood snapped free with a satisfying crack as he reeled it in and handed it to you.

The smile he gifted you was anything but subtle. "For ya, darlin'. Your first proper beatin'."

You stared back at him a moment before shaking your head, lips parting with your silent laughter as you took the board. It was weighty in your grip, it'd certainly leave one hell of a bruise, but somehow, you relished the thought.

He watched you test the board’s weight. “Don’t be shy now. Swing it like ya mean it. Ain't no time for half-measures.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Now listen here,” he said, spinning his gun with a flourish, prepping to dismount. “You take the high ground and smash whatever’s in reach, decorations, windows, heads if ya feel inclined. I’ll stay low and handle the rest. Sound like a plan?”

Your grip tightened on the board as he slipped off in a graceful tumble. “I’ll leave nothing standing. Better hope you can keep up.”

"Show me whatcha got, gorgeous. I've gotta see you put your money where that sweet little mouth of yers is."

That was a promise.

Fired up and itching for violence, you urged the Hellsteed forward, readied your weapon, and charged ahead. It was not the most noble form of battle-not a battle at all but rather a riot. Not at all what you expected, but not a second later, you decided you didn't care.

There was something in the air, thick and sharp and electric. It crackled around you like a blanket and fueled the adrenaline surge that raced through your body, pumped through the muscles of your arms, your legs. You were wide-eyed and wild, and the rush of freedom, of true and utter liberty, felt euphoric.

What had Striker unleashed within you? Was it a darkness of some sort, maybe? It hardly mattered because the ecstasy that swept over you in this moment was palpable, making every nerve tingle. And you never wanted to give this up.

Destruction was your name, and Wrath was your king.

The night was a typhoon of glitter and grit, shards of glass and broken bulbs that flashed white, red, and purple; splashes of paint and flame; the clang and bang and splash of tinsel; and above it all, your cry, triumphant and a little hoarse.

This was, quite simply, the greatest thing you'd ever experienced. Somewhere in the background, the clipping tune of Sinsmas music could still be heard from the beat of an old jukebox.

You tore across the main drag with the frenzy of a bat out of Hell, shouting obscenities and delighting in each explosive blast that tore through the old town as Striker laid waste to what you hadn't.

You never knew you could feel so free, like a dam of pent-up rage and chaos finally set loose upon an undeserving public. Maybe in another life, another time, in any reality, your actions here would have been the devilish sins that kept you confined in a place like this.

Here, right now, it felt more holy. Like finally discovering yourself in the middle of Hell's anarchist festivities.

This was you. This was your time.

It was insane, manic, deranged, and a part of you could finally claim it as your own. Perhaps you'd feel bad later, but right now? Right now, there were no repercussions, no judgmental stares, and no demands that held you back. You were drunk on it, on all the hedonistic hell-raising your impish suitor had turned you into.

And boy, did it feel fantastic.

There was a single instant, less than a second, in which the dust and debris began to settle. You managed to steal a glimpse of Striker, panting, wild-eyed and exultant amidst the rubble. He turned toward you with an expression that was half manic, all approval, and everything in between. His body tensed, the muscles beneath his clothes coiling in anticipation, a cat prepared to spring. And just when the world slowed to a near-stop, you let yourself go-

To say Striker's pulse was racing would be the understatement of the century. Watching you ride like some valkyrie and sock the townsfolk upside the head as if they were little more than props? It felt like his heart was caught in a fiery grip. As the pandemonium took root and he saw your dark power start to grow, his lust surged tenfold-to a point where he couldn’t simply watch his partner get their kicks anymore.

No, this wasn’t some fling of a few months or a hot night of sinful indulgence.

You were a star in your own right, and the way you’d grown and shone brightly within such a short time sent thrills of raw heat through his system. Sure, you had your issues to work through, and perhaps a psycho or two's influence had paved part of this new path, but you’d gotten here through your own agency.

And boy, was he happy to have been along for the ride and the havoc it caused.

Seeing you go buck wild? He found it rather addicting.

And once again, he was back under the spell.

One minute, he was watching with a level of pride and pleasure that no other Imp could offer; the next minute, he was falling face-first into the chaos he had birthed in your wake, desperate to be in the fray. You weren’t the only one looking for a good old-fashioned show.

Gunshots rang out like the twinkling bells on the holiday trees he tore through like tissue paper. You couldn’t be caught so long as the world was tinted in a lovely crimson haze. Neither would you remain stationary much longer, not as soon as you heard those sweet bells chime across the streets and found Striker weaving through the mayhem.

A piece of the Sinsmas puzzle you’d needed was staring right at you with his dashing grin, racing for his satchel full of Hell's finest explosives.

To others, he was simply a wanted criminal, a thug, a vicious murderer, and the one to make anyone shake in their boots. To you? He was a goddamn treasure, someone worth his weight and beyond.

And with a way of ending the night that would keep you singing his praises for days, you wouldn’t refuse his company any chance you were given.

The world was a haze of rubble and heat, shattered ornaments and drunken jeers. A swirling, throbbing heartbeat seemed to pulse through the streets, emanating from the two of you, like you were the epicenter of Hell’s greatest quake. Even the sky seemed to quiver under the onslaught of your mutual ecstasy.

Although the townspeople would rebuild and continue their way of life (as, according to Striker, these little battles were par for the course), for a moment you shared something together that no one else in Hell would.

Striker gleamed. Flashing an insane sort of smile that rivaled anything you'd ever seen, he leaned forward, tail swishing as though physically drawn to you by invisible strings. You could feel his approval, his need, his unyielding lust surging through you and setting off your nerve endings with enough energy to power all of Wrath.

Your lungs burned from shouting, your muscles humming in sweet exhaustion. Yet none of that mattered as he closed the distance to your side and climbed back up in the saddle like he’d never left. Your eyes met, and in them was a message without words.

It was time to leave.

But not without a grand finale.

As if to emphasize this unspoken communication, he reached down into his back pocket and slowly drew out the most spectacular stick of dynamite you’d ever seen.

"Now I ain't one to showboat my stash, darlin'," he drawled, running a hand across it. The look on his face was purely lecherous as he added, "but sometimes... well, you deserve to see the kind of pleasure I carry on the job."

Without further explanation, he struck a match across a claw-like nail, grinning wickedly as he held it to the fuse and gave the ignition a swift puff of breath.

"Consider this... a taste."

You weren’t sure why your breath caught the way it did, why such a tiny wisp of fire was having such a drastic effect on you, but your heart seemed to tremble. Or perhaps you were imagining the feeling. Either way, in that moment, your focus was solely on Striker. His arm wound firmly around you as Bombproof carried the two of you a fair distance from the mayhem.

You watched as his tail began to lash excitedly, your gaze fixed intently on the slow-burning fuse of the lit bomb. For the first time since you’d embarked on your date tonight, a hush fell over the chaotic streets.

The citizens watched in anticipation as the flames closed in, their breath held and eyes wide. Everyone seemed to know instinctively that things were coming to a head-this was going to be the finale.

The dynamite flew into the branches of a rather grandiose, Sinsmas-themed fir tree that loomed proudly in the town center-just seconds before detonating. Brilliant sparks and embers, followed by an earsplitting boom, split the sky and cast it aflame. The night came alive for one dazzling, awe-stricken moment.

The wind left your chest as the fireworks blazed, casting a red shadow that loomed over the city and bathed the world in the same crimson color that stained your vision during the earlier festivities. It was perfect and so damn fitting, it was impossible to tear your eyes away.

Striker took the reins from your hands, his own tucked tightly around your waist, and spurred Bombproof to a gallop. The thundering ember hooves sounded louder than usual under the rumbling echoes of the explosion. Soon, the lights faded to pinpricks of glowing color in the far distance, and you were the last thing people saw as your new, hellish paradise raced past and swept you away in an inky wave, swallowing your exit into its darkness and obscurity.

The adrenaline from the night’s chaos gradually ebbed, leaving a pleasant hum in its wake. The cool night air, juxtaposed with the warmth of Striker’s embrace, created a cocoon of comfort as Bombproof’s pace slowed. Finally, you came to a halt miles out of town.

In front of you sat an old, abandoned saloon, its sign creaking low in the evening air. As you gazed at it, Striker gently cupped your chin, turning your eyes to meet his. A soft smile and glinting, hungry eyes greeted you.

“Can I tempt ya?”

His lips parted just slightly to reveal his forked, serpent’s tongue. The sight was always welcome, but when mixed with the emotion glowing just beneath the surface of his smolder, it was even more tantalizing.

And you hadn’t the resolve to resist it tonight.

Not that you’d even try.

“It’s almost hard to believe,” you started, pressing your forehead to his and basking in his closeness, “I was scared of you once. A pretty funny picture, I think.”

“Scared? Hm, it seems your tastes run in quite the opposite direction now. And lucky for you,” his fingers nudged your chin up, your lips scarcely a breath apart now, “they happen to align with mine.”

There was a moment of pause, a shared inhale before..

Finally, a kiss. Warm and soothing, sharpened by Striker’s teeth as they grazed your lips, promising you something deeper. Fully aware, fully prepared, and more eager than ever to allow it.

But not here. In a little while.

As though reading your mind, Striker broke away with an uncharacteristically soft grunt. “As much as I’d love to carry on, this fine weather ain’t good for the skin.” He nodded his head at the sky, the wind whistling as a sudden change began to seep in. “Rain’s comin’, and those clouds’re telling me I best get a roof over yer head, lest a stiff wind tear it from yer shoulders.”

And as if the weather were toying with Striker’s idea, there was a rumble of thunder. Before you knew it, the two of you made your way to the ramshackle entrance of the nearby establishment, finding a suitable place for Bombproof to call home for the night.

Once inside, it took only a moment for your eyes to adjust and observe the condition. Everything looked fairly dusted-over and a bit barren, but not bad enough for the place to have seen frequent foot traffic.

It was as quiet as the dead, save for the occasional creak of floorboards, rough from age, as you took care to maneuver your steps.

In all, the place looked more like an inn than a bar, with a stairway leading up to what you assumed were once bedrooms for passing guests. To one side was an immaculately dusty bar; on the far left, a fireplace sat long-dead and without a trace of soot or embers.

There was another exit off to the side of the room, perhaps a kitchen, a broom closet, or a cellar. Anything was possible. Still, there was a serene aura here, the promise of rest and shelter from the brewing storm.

“Eh, not the Ritz, but it’ll do for tonight,” Striker broke the silence, moving through the room and beelining for the bar. “Let’s see if the hooch here’s still passable.”

His tail flicked and rattled curiously behind the counter as he rummaged around. Meanwhile, you scanned the room, picturing what adjustments could be made to turn this from a dusty hellhole into something resembling a comfortable refuge.

There were some cons that came with seeing a wanted man, and sometimes that meant abandoning the luxuries of civilized society for something less impressive. But as far as you were concerned? This might as well have been a five-star resort compared to the nothing you’d had initially when dropping into Hell.

“Haha! Well, lookie here.” Striker reeled back with a few bottles of uncorked whiskey and rum. “Found us some aged spirits. Might even be vintage.”

“Aged or forgotten?” you quipped, arms full of anything that vaguely resembled a pillow or blanket as you made a nest near the fireplace.

“Some would argue a little of both.” Striker walked up and set the bottles on the mantel of the fireplace, giving you a look. “Gonna go check the perimeter and gather some kindlin’ for a fire. Won’t be gone long.”

You nodded. “I’ll see what I can do about making this place a bit more hospitable.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, giving an appreciative whip of his tail to your ass before sauntering toward the entrance.

“Mmm,” you hummed, shifting with a subtle heat creeping through your features from where he’d touched you. Then, you went back to fluffing your pile of cushioned treasures.

A little while later, with a few extra scavenged blankets, you stood back to appreciate your handiwork. Surrounded by a cozy, comfy little nook to snuggle into, the rest of the room seemed dull in comparison, though definitely a lot less dusty. Striker joined you shortly after, the crackle of dry twigs in hand and the scent of rainfall wafting in behind him. He looked satisfied, confident with his inspection.

“Nice job on cleanin’ this place up. This is probably the nicest shithole I’ve ever been in.” His tone was half jest, but the look in his eyes revealed pride at how quickly you had managed to adapt and fix a less-than-pleasing situation. It was admiration for a skill many wouldn’t consider valuable but was a necessity of life in Hell. Another reason for him to fall further down the rabbit hole of affection for you.

“Had to make sure you had a reason to come back,” you quipped playfully.

Quick work was made of the fire, and soon your temporary safe haven was bathed in the flickering light and comforting warmth that drove the chill from the old saloon. Silence hung in the air, not oppressive, but rather restful. You didn’t realize how exhausted the night had left you until the calming quiet descended, bringing with it a pleasant heaviness that sank into your bones. Your body relaxed into the pile of cushions beneath you as you felt Striker curl up beside you while the embers began to settle. Your eyes flicked over him, noting that he’d stripped free of his usual ensemble in favor of ripped white pants, a black sweater, and his bandana. No jacket tonight, not even a hat. Simply Striker.

The distinct pop of a cork being pulled free broke the silence. Striker passed you the bottle of whiskey with an amused grin.

“Cheers,” you offered before taking a swig. The burning liquid slid down your throat, leaving a familiar fiery sensation in its wake.

Minutes or maybe hours passed in a pleasant haze. One conversation drifted into another, shared ideas, dreams, memories, and experiences. Yet the memory of the earlier dance and the destruction that followed was a recurring theme. The magic of it hadn’t yet faded. You were still high on it, and Striker’s expression revealed he was just as captivated, reliving the intense pride and wild lust he’d felt seeing you so unapologetically free. Just as unhinged. His little hellcat.

One look led to a smile, which led to a laugh, a touch... and then, a kiss.

Oh, what a kiss!

You could get lost in these kisses of his, like the slide of a well-aimed bullet, his softness in a moment of sharp intensity and, after the night's earlier chase, a bone deep kind of ache that you relished.

His hands were quick to slide themselves in the contours of your body, warm and firm and exploring, always careful to discover the curves and edges of each valley and peak they met, marking your topography like a man possessed. It wouldn't be long until you were as well, fully prepared and receptive to whatever else he was in the mood to explore, paying a particular amount of attention to a sweet spot between the junction of your throat and shoulder. The more you responded to him, the harder his lips pressed.

"Wanna keep ridin', sugar? Show me how you swing."

He was breathless, voice gravelly and eager as he curled his tongue around your earlobe, feeling you quiver, gooseflesh rising. He chuckled and sent a fresh flood of warmth through you as you reached forward, grabbing the hem of his shirt, dragging him with you and sealing it all with a firm, promising tug. It was a very unsubtle motion, one that told him everything without words.

"Don't hold back."

His smile grew devilish at your command, his grip firm on your hips, and every ounce of your trust laid out bare before him. It was so, so easy to melt in the haze of passion, especially as he rolled the black sweater up and over his shoulders, discarding it, revealing a path of sinewy muscle and scars along his chest and abdomen. The gentle orange of the fireplace seemed to lick up along his body like the hot blood running through your veins and his yellow eyes flared as if lit by the sun. There was a voracious spark hidden behind them, an undercurrent that seemed to glow every time your hips ground into his own, eliciting a shudder to surge down his spine and you couldn't help but relish it, because knowing he reacted to your body the same way it did to his?

There wasn't a Hell you'd want to be in other than this.

Your world seemed to spin as he grabbed the backs of your knees, pushing upward as he pressed you to your backside. In an instant he was hovering above, a slender figure against the darkened ceiling of the saloon. Each movement was full of intention, precise and planned and sent a heady, excited pulse to throb through your veins and between your legs as his hips slid and thrust just a few tantalizing inches from yours. With practiced, clever hands, Striker caressed every inch of you and even through your clothing he'd managed to turn you into putty between those well-calloused claws of his. The taste of alcohol and ash had become an indescribable delicacy. Like the very flavor of passion made solid form. And how wonderfully he treated it. Treated you.

Your clothes joined his in an ever-growing pile near the fire's edge, and when finally you had nothing more to separate the both of you, Striker gave a purr of delight as you both fell, and tangled, and thrashed. Heat poured off him in waves, your lips sucking and tasting. Your name had never sounded more satisfying on his tongue as he plunged into you with some preparation. But even as the two of you tumbled back to that mountain of blankets and cushions and pillows, hands greedily roamed. Hungrily pawed and took everything each was willing to give and take, and you were both oh so willing tonight.

Mercifully, there were no barriers now, there'd been so much on display tonight, had already shown yourselves to one another without hesitation but now there were no games or hidden agendas or layers of dress or thick denim to tease. This was the night, and all its pleasures would come to bear in all its fullness.

You were lost to the throes of passion as you surrendered, to each other and the chaos, to that unbridled impulse. It was freeing. An intimate release you never realized you'd craved; and now that it was yours, all you could think about was the searing taste of his skin against yours, the noises he made between gritted fangs. Your bodies connected like a perfect machine, not one missed beat as the tempo began to pick up.

The beat he set was reaching its finality in the way his breath hitched, the way his tail spasmed between his legs and curled around yours. The desperation of a man in the throes of unbidden temptation. How the pressure built and pooled and throbbed with a steadily building rush. The pace was getting to a head and you both were too hungry to resist the bite of it. This delicious, wild and reckless song you'd been playing all along that no words or instruments could've captured better than your gasps, his growls and moans, your entwined limbs and soon there was an explosion of pleasure that rocked through you. Every nerve screamed in ecstasy and you reveled in it, calling his name as though it were the name of a god.

Beneath your fingers his back flexed and shuddered, his powerful body losing that focused edge as he buried himself as deeply in you as he could get. Stars popped behind your eyes as he gave a drawn-out growl of bliss, the heat of his seed hitting deep within. For a moment, there was no feeling at all.

Utter bliss. Pure, blinding rapture as he pounded relentlessly, chasing that high until the sensitivity was all but too powerful.

“Now that’s what I call Sinsmas cheer,” he breathed, moving off to the side to allow you to catch your breath before settling next to you in a firm embrace. It was his silent signal that he was finished. “Could use a repeat though. Or ten. I’ve got quite the stocking.”

“For now,” you responded between heaves, “we should save the cheer.”

“Smart, sugar,” he acknowledged, smiling warmly as he brushed a clawed hand down your face.

“With time?”

“I’ll see what else I can fill up,” he mumbled back, nipping playfully at your neck before tucking his arms around you, spooning into your body from the side as you faced the warm fireplace.

The sound of your sighing breaths matched his, his muscles winding down with yours. Now, together, lying on a cushion of fleece and warmth, the day was finally beginning to feel complete. Your hand ghosted across his as the sky outside continued to fall, the tell-tale signs of a deluge evident even from inside. The tinkling sound of raindrops against the windowsills lulled the two of you further into one another, hands intertwined and breathing synced.

“Sometimes I wish days like these lasted a little longer, you know? That way, the nights like this can last, too,” you mused.

“Heh, well, I wouldn’t get my hopes up on that, darlin’,” he replied in a husky drawl, the reverberations in his chest becoming more noticeable the closer your head drew to his sternum. “Sides, you’ve got plenty’a nights left to spare. We can start again at sunrise if you’d like.”

“Would you like that? Just you and me… watching the sunset together before tearing the night a new one and dancing until sunrise?”

“Hell yes.”

“Thought so. After all, we haven’t shown Hell who’s boss yet.”

“I ain’t heard such a tantalizin’ proposal since we met, doll.”

“So…?”

“Count me in, sweet thing,” he trailed off, lost to the melody of the raindrops. “Guess you’re stuck with me, sugar. Not that I’m givin’ you a choice.”

You shifted, drawing your face upward toward his and planting a quick peck on his lips. You whispered sweetly in response, “Won't here me complaining.”

As his arms embraced you tighter and sleep began to beckon you closer with each passing blink, your thoughts raced and excitement began to build. You’d finally done it. Found yourself in Hell. Got a man worth more to you than any paltry Heaven or mortal afterlife combined. And all thanks to the delectable devil sitting next to you, eyeing you with his own pride and love.

And next Sinsmas, it’d be your turn to return the favor and spread the sin with him.