Strife tilts your chin up to get a better look at your face and the evidence of the fight. He delicately thumbs away the streak of blood streaming down from your mouth, saying nothing as he examines it. The wound is not as serious as it appears; the bruising turning your jaw a colorful purple hurts more than the cut on your lip, but head injuries always seem to bleed more anyway. Strife is in no state of mind to accept that, regardless. After a brief pause, your heart skips a nervous beat as Strife looks you dead in the eyes. His voice is quiet and tense, his anger barely restrained.
He’s uncharacteristically serious; the joking, carefree Strife you know and love dearly is gone now, replaced by this deadly calm. His golden eyes are aflame with murderous ire, tumultuous winds fueling the flame and making them swirl with protective rage and indecision.
Your answer is the only thing holding him back.
Despite that, there is worry in his eyes, as well as the slightest spark of shame that belies your true Strife beneath the inner chaos. Why shame? You’ll have to ask him —once you’ve gotten him calmed down. But there is mostly rage, covering his worry with indignation and wrath on your behalf.
You can practically see what he has planned, pictures of the poor soul soon to be on the bad end of his anger flashing through your mind. Blood everywhere, Strife towering tense and dissatisfied over a body mauled by otherworldly bullets, metal claws, and heavy boots stained red. Silence broken only by the Nephilim’s growling breath and the clink of armor as his fists clench.
“(Y/n),” you flinch back to attention, Strife’s growling breaths rumbling through you as he lifts you off the ground and up to his face, your legs dangling in your surprise and unease; his claws hook into your clothes, ever-mindful of your human softness and fragility he claims to love so much. His pupils expand and eyes brighten with dark promise as he repeats his question,
Despite his rage, despite his dangerous eyes and Hellish strength, you reach up with a fearless smile and comb your fingers through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. As you expected, his shoulders lose some of their tension and fall just a fraction, even as he snarls, frustrated by your silence.
“Strife,” his rumbling lessens some at your soft, calm voice, your fingers still stroking through his hair as you speak, “I don’t have a name to give you. But it doesn’t matter. I’m ok—“
Instead of calming him as you’d wished, his body abruptly tightens again, his shoulders taut as he brings you close, tucking you under his jaw and molding you to his form with firmness and care. He cages you in his arms with a desperate fury.
“They hurt you,” he rumbles, his voice now a strained, almost-animalistic growl, “They dared to touch you, and I wasn’t there—“
And suddenly you understand. The worry. His shame. He and his siblings have been training you to defend yourself, determined to see you safely through the rest of your natural life, but despite their teachings, you still received a glancing blow. He believes he’s failed you.
“Strife, listen to me,” you wriggle to sit up in his arms, cupping his face and bringing his gaze down to meet yours. “This,” referring to your busted lip, “is not your fault. If anyone should feel guilty, it’s me. I got cocky, boasted that I’d been trained by the best.”
You lean closer and plant a kiss to his hidden cheek, touching your forehead to his, closing your eyes in the moment of stunned quiet; he doesn’t even blink, searching your eyes for even the slightest hint of deception.
“The guy started the fight and I ended it. Sure, I caught a little punch,” you grin, both triumphant and reassuring, “He got far worse, I promise. You don’t have to go after anyone. You can relax now. I’m right here. You’re here. I’m safe. And I’m not going anywhere.”
With every word, the tension gradually drains from his body, his eyes losing their glaring shine, until finally, his shoulders drop, his eyes close, and he breathes out a long, exhausted sigh. Neither of you move, simply waiting in the silence and basking in how perfectly you mold to his body, feeling secure and content. Eventually, he breathes out, calm once more.
“Alright. Alright, yeah,” he sighs, and starts walking. His grip on you is firm and gentle, uninclined to set you down on the way back home. “Let’s get you cleaned up, doll.”
You lean into him with an acceding hum, reaching up again to wrap your arms around his neck and play with his hair some more. There’s quiet between you two for a little while until Strife begins to laugh, his chest bouncing with mischievous chuckles.
You go stiff, then slump in his hold with a reluctant groan, earning yet more laughter.
