#helluva bombproof

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @nixxy298 @the1cardsion @victorian-frog @mae-dice-edits @luna-kait @lilsleepybear1029 @wishesupon @vivacious-wallflower @a-puppy13 @takedakatsuro @fruttiextra @catsandcannolis @mushythemushroom04 @kiyoko18 @luna-kait @fruttiextra @c-u-p-i-d-f-e-a-t-h-e-r-s @bealiagia @kittenlover614 @radiok1lledthevideostar @littleozworld @tyrjiora

Warnings ⚠️: its hell ... so hellish stuff, lecherous demons, canon‑typical violence, cussing, eventual smut, alcohol consumption, angst, blood, fluff, horse, torture, outlaw culture, criminal underworld, revenge‑driven behavior, emotional breakdowns, grief, morally grey characters, power imbalance, canon typical religious overtones, Wrath Ring wildlife danger, forced separation, witnessing a loved one’s moral decline, x reader.

Part 9 | Part 11

Rescued Under Duress 🐎 P.10

The kitchen was warm and bustling with activity—Lin at the stove, Sallie May setting out plates, the smell of breakfast making your stomach rumble despite your protests that you weren't hungry.

"Hand me that pan, would you sweetheart?" Lin called over her shoulder.

You grabbed it from the counter, passing it over while Sallie May assembled what looked like enough food to feed a small army.

"Ma's convinced everyone's gonna starve if she doesn't cook for twice as many people as we got," Sallie May commented, stealing a piece of bacon from a plate. "Been that way since Millie left."

"I just like making sure everyone's fed properly," Lin defended, swatting at Sallie May's hand. "And you hush about your sister. She's doing important work up in Pride."

"Didn't say she wasn't." Sallie May grinned at you. "Just saying Ma goes overboard on the food front."

You helped plate up the breakfast—biscuits, eggs, some kind of hell-meat that you'd learned not to ask too many questions about. The farmhands would eat inside with Joe and the boys, but Striker and Chet were already out in the far field working on something.

"Someone should bring them plates," Lin mused, loading up two generous portions.

"I can do it," you offered quickly.

Both women looked at you with knowing smiles.

"Of course you can," Sallie May said, far too innocently. "Make sure Striker actually stops to eat. Man works himself half to death if you don't make him take breaks."

You felt your face heat but took the plates anyway, balancing them carefully as you headed out toward the dry field where you'd seen them working earlier.

The Wrath sun was already climbing, promising another scorching day.

You found them near the fence line—Striker and Chet working on repairs, shirts already sticking to them with sweat despite the early hour. Tools were scattered around, and Bombproof was grazing nearby, keeping a lazy eye on the proceedings.

"Breakfast!" you called out.

Striker looked up, and something in his expression softened when he saw you picking your way across the field toward them.

"You're a wonder," Chet groaned, immediately abandoning his work. "Been up since dawn and my stomach's been complainin' the whole time."

He took his plate with a grateful nod and settled onto the ground in the shade, shoveling food into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in days.

Striker took his plate more slowly, eyes tracking over you like he was checking for... something. Making sure you were okay, maybe.

"You eat yet?" he asked.

"I picked while we were cooking. I'm fine."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "That ain't the same as eatin' a proper breakfast."

"I'm really not that hungry—"

"Uh-huh." He didn't look convinced.

You looked around for somewhere to sit that wasn't the dusty ground and spotted the fence—round posts thick enough to perch on. You climbed up carefully, settling onto one with your legs dangling.

Striker moved closer without being asked, positioning himself between your knees. At this height, you were almost eye-to-eye with him—a novel experience when he was usually looking down at you.

"Better view from up there?" he asked, mouth twitching.

"Better than staring at your belt buckle all the time."

He huffed a laugh and started eating, using his hands in that efficient way people did when utensils weren't worth the trouble. It was a little gross—grease on his fingers, crumbs in his mustache—but undeniably him.

He wiped his hands on his bandana between bites, tail swishing contentedly.

You were watching him eat when you realized you were squinting against the sun—it had shifted just enough to be directly in your eyes now.

Before you could move or adjust, Striker reached up and pulled his hat off, settling it on your head in one smooth motion.

The hat was too big, sliding down slightly, but it blocked the sun perfectly. And it smelled like him—leather and smoke and something sharper.

"Striker—"

"You were squintin'." He adjusted it slightly, tilting it back so you could see properly. "Can't have you goin' blind on my watch."

"But now you don't have a hat."

"I'll survive." He went back to eating, seemingly unconcerned.

You touched the brim self-consciously, hyperaware of wearing something of his. Something he wore every single day.

He glanced up at you, and something warm flickered in his expression. "Looks good on you."

Your face heated. "It's too big."

"Didn't say it fit. Said it looks good." He broke off a piece of biscuit, held it up. "Now open up."

You blinked. "What?"

"You said you ain't hungry, but you also said you didn't eat a proper breakfast. So I'm makin' sure you eat somethin'." He waved the biscuit slightly. "Open."

"I can feed myself—"

"I know you can. But my hands are already dirty and you're sittin' there lookin' all clean. So humor me." His eyes were steady on yours. "Please?"

The please got you.

You opened your mouth, feeling ridiculous. He popped the biscuit in, fingers barely brushing your lips before pulling back.

"Good girl," he murmured, going back to his own food.

You nearly choked.

He fed you three more bites before you insisted you were actually full, and he finished the rest himself with obvious satisfaction. When he was done, he wiped his hands one more time and tipped his head back to look at you.

"Farmhands are headin' into town later. There's a faire—whole thing with events and such."

"A faire?"

"Yeah. Animals, food stalls, competitions. Gets pretty rowdy but it's fun. Whole ranch going apparently." He rested his hands on the fence on either side of your legs—casual, but effectively caging you in. "We should go"

"Okay," you agreed, very aware of how close he was. "I'd like that."

"Good." He didn't move back. Just looked at you with those yellow eyes, hat still sitting on your head, the morning sun painting everything gold.

"Uh, boss?" Chet called from his spot in the shade. "We gonna finish this fence or you gonna keep makin' eyes at your girl?"

Striker's tail rattled in warning, but he stepped back, giving you space. "Get back to work, Chet."

"Yes, sir," Chet laughed, clearly not intimidated in the slightest.

You climbed down from the fence, reaching up to take off the hat.

"Keep it on," Striker said. "I'll grab it back once I get to the cabin."

"Are you sure?"

"Darlin', if you don't stop askin' me if I'm sure about things, I'm gonna start thinkin' you don't trust my judgment." But he was smiling. "Keep the hat on."

You ran your fingers over the brim and headed back toward the house with the empty plates.

Behind you, you heard Chet say something too quiet to catch, followed by Striker's sharp retort and the sound of good-natured scuffling.

The faire was loud, crowded, and completely overwhelming in the best possible way.

Stalls lined the main street of the settlement, selling everything from food to weapons to things you couldn't identify. Demons of all kinds moved through the crowds—imps mostly, but other species too. Music played from somewhere, mixing with the general din of conversation and laughter.

"Stay close," Sallie May instructed, linking her arm through yours. "It's easy to get separated in this mess."

Rusty walked on your other side, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed. "First faire?"

"First one I can remember," you admitted.

"Oh, you're in for a treat. They do these a few times a year—usually someone dies, but it's all in good fun."

"Someone dies?"

"Rusty, quit scarin' her," Sallie May scolded, but she was grinning. "He's exaggerating. Mostly."

They led you through the crowds, pointing out interesting stalls and explaining the various competitions. There was going to be horse racing later, some kind of roping contest, and—

"Rodeo!" Rusty announced excitedly. "Bull riding. Always the main event."

"With actual bulls?"

"Hell-bulls, yeah. Mean bastards, every one of 'em. Takes real skill to stay on for more than a few seconds."

You thought about the cattle Striker worked with every day—the massive, aggressive creatures with horns like weapons. The idea of someone voluntarily climbing onto one made your stomach turn.

"Come on," Sallie May tugged you toward a section with pens and enclosures. "Let's check out the animal yards."

The yards were full of creatures in various stages of adorable and terrifying. Baby hell-chicks—fluffy despite the small flames along their wings—chirped and tumbled over each other in one pen. You couldn't help but smile at them.

"They're cute now," Sallie May commented. "Wait till they grow up. Mean as hell and twice as loud."

There were other animals too—hell-pigs, some kind of lizard thing with too many legs, a pen of what looked like rabbits if rabbits had horns and glowing eyes.

And then you saw them.

The hell-bulls.

Massive didn't begin to cover it. They were the size of small buildings, all muscle and rage, with horns that could gore a person without trying. Their eyes glowed red, and when they snorted, actual flames came out. One of them slammed against the reinforced fence, making the whole structure shake.

You took an involuntary step back.

"Terrifying, right?" Rusty said cheerfully. "Those are the ones they use for the rodeo. Meanest of the mean."

"People ride those?" Your voice came out higher than intended.

"The crazy ones do. For glory, prize money, bragging rights." He grinned. "Your cowboy's ridin' in it later, actually."

Your blood went cold. "What?"

"Oh yeah. Striker and Chet both signed up. Should be a hell of a show."

You stared at the bulls, watching them ram the fences and breathe fire, and felt sick.

Striker was going to ride one of those?

A arm settled around your shoulders—warm, familiar. You turned to find Striker himself, looking amused.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, darlin'."

"They said you're riding in the rodeo." You gestured at the bulls. "Riding those in the rodeo?"

"That's the one." He didn't look concerned. If anything, he looked excited.

"Striker, those things are monsters."

"They're just animals. Angry ones, sure, but still just animals." He squeezed your shoulder gently. "I've handled worse."

"You could get hurt—"

"I'll be fine." He tipped his hat back. "Done this kinda thing before. I know what I'm doin'."

"But—"

"Hey." He turned you to face him fully, hands on both shoulders now. "I promise, I'll be fine. Gonna win that competition and make the whole ranch proud. Including you."

"I'd rather you just be safe," you muttered.

Something soft flickered across his face. "I'll be both. You'll see." He glanced past you at the stalls. "Now come on. Let's enjoy the faire before the events start. I wanna show you around properly."

He offered his arm, and after a moment's hesitation, you took it.

Sallie May and Rusty exchanged knowing looks behind your back.

Striker walked you through the stalls, pointing out interesting things, handing you a skewer of something sweet and spiced that was better than it had any right to be. He was relaxed, happy even, in a way you'd rarely seen.

You tried to enjoy it. Tried to focus on the here and now instead of worrying about what was coming later.

But every time you saw those bulls in the distance, your stomach twisted.

The stands were packed—rough wooden bleachers overlooking a dirt track that circled the main faire grounds. You'd found spots near the middle, giving you a good view of the whole course.

The atmosphere was electric. Demons shouted and laughed, placing bets with each other, passing around drinks in clear violation of several safety rules. It felt alive, chaotic, dangerous in the way Wrath always felt.

"First race is starting!" Rusty announced, pointing toward the starting line where hell-horses were being wrangled into position.

You watched the first race with mounting excitement—the horses were beautiful and fast, flames streaming behind them as they tore around the track. The crowd roared with every turn, every near-collision.

The second race started.

You were cheering for a horse Sallie May had pointed out when something caught your eye. There, at the starting line for the race—

Bombproof and Striker, both looking perfectly at ease—

"He's racing!" You grabbed Sallie May's arm, pointing. "Look!"

"Oh yeah, did I forgot to mention that ?" she said casually. "Reckon your cowboy'll do pretty well."

The starting bell clanged.

The horses exploded forward.

You were on your feet immediately, leaning over the railing, screaming Striker's name like your voice could somehow make them go faster.

Bombproof was in the middle of the pack at first—letting the other horses tire themselves out in the early sprint. But as they rounded the first turn, you saw the strategy unfold.

Striker leaned low over Bombproof's neck, and the horse surged forward. Flames blazed brighter, hooves barely touching the ground. They passed one horse. Then another. Striker was grinning—you could see it even from here—looking like he was having the time of his life.

They came around the final turn in second place, neck-and-neck with a massive black stallion. The crowd was deafening. You were screaming yourself hoarse.

Bombproof's flames flared one last time, and he pulled ahead—just barely—crossing the finish line half a length ahead of the stallion.

The crowd erupted.

"HE WON!" You were jumping now, shaking Sallie May's shoulder. "DID YOU SEE THAT? HE WON!"

"I saw, I saw!" Sallie May was laughing at your enthusiasm. "You can congratulate him yourself—he's comin' this way."

Indeed, Striker was walking Bombproof toward the stands, cooling the horse down. He was covered in dirt and sweat, grinning wider than you'd ever seen.

You didn't think. Just leaned way too far over the railing, waving frantically. "STRIKER! THAT WAS AMAZING!"

He looked up, spotted you, and that grin somehow got bigger. He guided Bombproof closer, stopping just below where you were leaning.

"Hey darlin'," he called up. "Havin fun?"

You reached down to scratch Bombproof's neck "That was incredible! You were so fast Pretty boy! And that was—" You stopped, nose wrinkling. "Oh my fuck, Striker you stink."

He laughed—full and genuine. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when you work up a sweat."

"It's so bad—"

"I'll clean up after the rodeo." He patted Bombproof's neck, and the horse preened, absolutely basking in the attention. "You proud of us?"

"So proud," you said immediately. "Even if you smell terrible."

"I'll take it." He started to turn away, then paused. "Oh, by the way—me and Chet are up for the rodeo next. Should be startin' in about twenty minutes."

Your smile froze. "The... rodeo."

"Yep! Bull riding. Should be fun." He said it so casually, like he wasn't about to climb onto a literal monster.

Sallie May leaned over beside you. "Can't wait to watch! Try not to get trampled!"

"I'll do my best," he called back, already leading Bombproof away.

Sallie May saw your expression "Aw, he'll be fine." She patted your arm. "Besides, even if he does get thrown, they got medics standing by. Probably."

"Probably?"

Rusty leaned around Sallie May, grinning. "The trick is not to think about all the ways it could go wrong. Just enjoy the show!"

You were definitely going to be sick.

The rodeo arena was smaller, more contained—a circular pen with reinforced fencing and what looked like an escape route for riders who got thrown.

Which, based on what you'd seen so far, was everyone.

The first few riders didn't last more than a couple seconds before being violently launched from the bulls. The crowd loved it—cheering when riders got thrown, groaning when they didn't get trampled, treating the whole thing like entertainment instead of the life-threatening event it clearly was.

"Chet's up next," Sallie May announced.

You watched with your heart in your throat as Chet lowered himself onto a massive gray bull. The creature was already bucking in the chute, clearly furious about having something on its back.

The gate opened.

The bull exploded into the arena like a natural disaster—twisting, bucking, trying to scrape Chet off on the fence. Chet held on with grim determination, one hand in the air, the other death-gripping the rope.

He lasted maybe six seconds before the bull gave a particularly vicious twist and sent him flying.

He hit the dirt hard, rolled, and scrambled toward the fence as the bull turned to charge. The safety riders—imps on fast horses—cut in front of the bull, giving Chet time to climb to safety.

The crowd cheered anyway. Six seconds was apparently decent.

Chet limped out of the arena, waving to acknowledge the applause. He was going to be bruised tomorrow.

"And now," the announcer's voice boomed, "we got Striker on Hellfire! Let's see if he can beat the current leader!"

Your hands clenched on the railing.

Striker appeared at the chute, settling onto a massive red bull that looked even meaner than the others. The bull's eyes glowed like coals, steam rising from its nostrils.

Striker looked calm. Confident. He adjusted his grip, nodded to the gate operator—

The gate opened.

The bull launched itself into the arena with a roar that you felt in your chest.

Striker moved with it—anticipating every twist, every buck, staying centered even when the bull tried to scrape him off. His free hand was high, his body loose but controlled.

It was terrifying to watch.

The bull spun, whipped its head back trying to gore him. Striker leaned away at exactly the right moment.

Five seconds.

Six.

Seven.

You couldn't watch. You turned, burying your face in Rusty's shoulder, hands clutching his shirt.

"What's happening?" you asked, voice muffled.

"He's still on! Holy shit, he's still—DAMN! What a move!"

The crowd was going absolutely wild.

"Is he okay?"

"He's—wait—"

A bell clanged.

Eight seconds. The required time.

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers.

"He did it!" Rusty shook your shoulders. "He stayed on! He won!"

You looked up just in time to see Striker leap from the bull, landing in a crouch and sprinting for the fence as the safety riders corralled the enraged animal. He climbed the fence with easy grace, then turned to the crowd and raised both arms in victory.

The cheering somehow got louder.

Your knees felt weak with relief.

He was okay. He was alive. He'd won.

Striker's eyes found you in the stands, and even from here you could see his grin—wild and triumphant and so alive it made your chest ache.

He tipped his hat to you.

And you burst into tears.

Not sad tears—overwhelmed tears. Tears of relief.

Sallie May pulled you into a hug, laughing. "He's fine! Look at him—he's more than fine!"

"I know," you hiccupped. "I know, I just—that was fucking terrifying."

"But he won! That's what matters!"

You watched through blurry eyes as Striker collected his prize—some kind of token or certificate—and made his way toward the stands, still grinning like a fool.

When he reached you, sweaty and dirty and victorious, you wanted to hug him and hit him in equal measure.

"You're insane," you informed him.

"But I won." He was practically vibrating with adrenaline. "Did you see that? Eight seconds! New personal record!"

"You could have died!"

"But I didn't." He reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Hey hey. I'm okay. See? Not even a scratch."

"This time," you muttered.

"You really were that worried ?" He was still touching your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"Of course I was worried! You were riding a monster!"

Something in his expression went soft. "Well, I'm sorry for scarin' you. But I meant what I said—I know what I'm doin'. Trust me?"

You did. That was the problem.

"I trust you," you said quietly. "Doesn't mean I have to like watching you putting yourself at risk."

"Fair enough." He stepped back, looking at the group. "So! Prize for winnin' is a bar tab at The Rusted Pitchfork. Enough for all of us, if you're interested."

Sallie May's eyes lit up. "Hell yeah! Drinks on the champion!"

Rusty whooped agreement.

Striker looked at you, raising an eyebrow in question.

After everything—the races, the rodeo, the emotional rollercoaster—you needed a drink.

"Okay," you agreed. "Let's go to the bar."

His grin was blinding. "That's my girl."

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

The faire was winding down as evening settled over Wrath. The crowds had thinned, stalls were packing up, and the music had shifted to something slower, more contemplative.

Someone had built a large firepit at the edge of the faire grounds—a gathering spot for people to decompress after the chaos of the day. Your group had claimed a section of log benches, sprawling in comfortable exhaustion.

Chet was complaining about his bruises. Sallie May was recounting the rodeo with enthusiastic exaggeration. Rusty was half-asleep, hat tipped over his face.

You sat between Striker and Sallie May, shoulder pressed against Striker's, watching the flames dance and crackle.

"Today was..." You trailed off, not sure how to finish.

"Overwhelming? Terrifying?" Striker supplied helpfully.

"All of that. But also... fun. Really fun." You smiled up at him. "Thank you for bringing us."

"Anytime, darlin'." His arm was stretched along the back of the bench behind you—not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth. "You did good today. Handled the crowds, didn't panic when things got wild."

"I definitely panicked during the rodeo."

"That's different. That's acceptable panic." His mouth twitched. "Can't believe you really cried?"

Your face heated. "Shut up."

"Ain't makin' fun. It was..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "It was nice. Knowin' someone gave a damn whether I made it out of that ring."

"Of course I give a damn—"

"I know." He squeezed your shoulder briefly. "I know you do."

The fire popped and crackled. Around you, the others chatted and laughed, but it felt distant somehow. Like you and Striker were in your own little bubble.

"So," he said eventually, voice carefully casual. "About that bar tab."

You looked up at him.

"Prize for winnin' was enough to cover drinks for all of us, plus probably some food." He glanced at the group, then back to you. "What do you say? Feel like celebratin' with some proper drinkin'?"

You thought about the bar—rowdy and probably dangerous, but also new. An experience. Something normal people did in Hell.

"Okay," you decided. "Let's go."

Striker's grin was immediate. He raised his voice, addressing the group. "Alright you degenerates! Who's ready to drink my winnings?"

The response was immediate and enthusiastic.

Sallie May whooped. "Finally! Been waitin' for this!"

Rusty sat up so fast his hat fell off. "You're serious? We're actually goin'?"

"I'm serious." Striker stood, offering you his hand to help you up. "But there's rules. We stick together, nobody wanders off alone, and if things get rowdy we leave. Clear?"

A chorus of agreement.

"Then let's go." He pulled you to your feet, hand lingering in yours just a moment longer than necessary. "Time to show you what a proper bar is like, darlin'."

You weren't sure if that was a promise or a threat.

But as you walked toward the settlement with Striker beside you, the others trailing behind, still riding high on the day's excitement—

[drama-glob]

I was doing screenshots this morning for another post and I'm like: HOW ON EARTH DID I MISS THIS AMAZING LOOK SO MANY TIMES?! XD XD XD

I didn't miss this one though when I previously watched the episode. ;)

[nebulabunnyarts]

Cowboys need nuggies too

[hellaversepolls]

Poll suggestion: Best / cutest pet in Hell?

- Keekee

- Razzle

- Dazzle

- Fat Nuggets

- Fizzarolli’s dogs

- Bombproof (Striker’s horse)

- Shock.wav

- Vox’s other sharks (if they have canon names)

Or some combination of these. Include any in case I missed some.

A wonderful suggestion!

Best/Cutest Pet in the Hellaverse

Bombproof (Striker's Horse)

Dazzle & Razzle (Charlie's Goats/Dragons)

Fat Nuggets (Angel's Pig)

Fizzarolli's Quieves

Keekee (Charlie's Cat)

Queef (Valentino's Quieve from the non-canon Voxstagram stories)

Shok.wav (Vox's Shark)

Vark (Vox's Shark from non-canon Voxstagram)

Mysterious 9th Answer (specify in comments/tags/reblogs)

Voting ended onJan 19

[reposhillo]

That's one hell of a horse

[reptilian-angel]

Day 18: Saddle

You can tell a lot about a rider from what he hangs on his saddle

(PS MY FIRST TIME DRAWING A EFFIING HORSE)

[tinyshyteacup]

Warnings ⚠️: its hell ... so hellish stuff, lecherous demons, canon‑typical violence, cussing, eventual smut, alcohol consumption, angst, blood, fluff, horse, torture, outlaw culture, criminal underworld, revenge‑driven behavior, emotional breakdowns, grief, morally grey characters, power imbalance, canon typical religious overtones, Wrath Ring wildlife danger, forced separation, witnessing a loved one’s moral decline.

Part 2 | Part 3 - Coming Soon

Rescued Under Duress 🐎 P.1

The sun in burned like a forge gone wrong—orange sky heavy with heat haze, the ground cracked red dirt and volcanic rock that radiated warmth even through the soles of your shoes. You'd woken up here somehow, phone shattered in your pocket, screen spiderwebbed, no signal, no nothing, clothes sticking to your skin from sweat and dust. No memories of how you'd fallen—just the disorienting drop, the wind screaming past, then sand in your mouth and the world tilting sideways.

You'd walked. Or tried to. Legs shaking, throat raw, vision blurring at the edges until everything went soft and black.

Now the world was rocking gently. Something warm and solid nudged your side—once, twice—insistent. A low, rumbling snort blew hot air across your face, smelling faintly of smoke and charred earth.

You cracked your eyes open just enough to see flames. Not fire consuming you, but a mane of flickering orange licking up from a horse's neck. The creature was massive, dark gray hide striped black like cooled lava, lower body glowing with that same molten underglow. Four orange eyes stared down at you—two sets, unblinking, curious rather than hungry. It nudged again, muzzle gentle but firm against your shoulder, as if trying to say get up, stupid.

You managed a weak whimper. The horse huffed, tail swishing flaming tail, actually—how was that not setting the sand on fire?, then turned its head and whinnied—sharp, demanding.

Somewhere distant, a voice answered—raspy, low, edged with irritation.

"Bombproof! Where the hell you at, boy? I ain't got all mornin' to chase your sorry hide!"

The horse ignored the call, instead lowering its head to nose at your arm again, almost protective. You tried to push yourself up—arms trembling, head spinning—but managed only to roll onto your side. The movement sent fresh pain through your cracked lips and sunburned skin.

Hooves approached—slow, deliberate, spurs jingling faintly. A shadow fell over you, tall and lean.

"Well, shit."

The voice was closer now—deep, drawling, with a Western twang that carried over the empty desert like a whip crack. You forced your eyes open wider.

He was not a person—pale skin stretched over lean muscle, ivory hair messy under a wide brimmed hat. Horns striped black and white, jagged like lightning. Yellow eyes with green-ringed slits narrowed down at you, one golden fang glinting as his lip curled. Black mustache, sharp teeth, red bandana loose around his neck. Cowboy looking creature—vest, boots, the whole damn look—but something predatory in the way he tilted his head, sizing you up like meat left out too long.

You were dead—dead adjacent? High or drunk, possibly just crazy—that must be it your addled brain decided in the heated haze as you blink at this cowboy looking... thing ?

The horse, 'Bombproof' apparently—let out a satisfied snort and stepped aside just enough to let the cowboy get a better look.

Striker crouched slowly, elbows on his knees, tail rattling faintly like a warning. His serpentine face tilted, eyes flicking over your form—clothes torn and dusty, no weapons, no hellborn features. Nothing that belonged here.

"What in the seven rings are you?" he muttered, more to himself than you. His voice dropped lower, raspy drawl thickening with disbelief. "Ain't no imp, that's for damn sure. Too soft. Too... breakable-lookin'."

Bombproof nudged him then—hard—right in the shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. The horse circled back to you, lowering his flaming head to lip gently at your hair, as if checking you were still breathing.

Striker hissed through his teeth. "Quit it, you overgrown spark plug. Whatever this thing is, it ain't our problem."

The horse didn't budge. Instead, he planted his hooves and stared Striker down—four glowing eyes unyielding. Tail flicked once, embers scattering across the sand.

Striker stared back for a long beat, jaw working. Then he let out a long, put-upon sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Satandamn it. Fine. You win this one, you sentimental bastard."

He straightened to his full height—and reached down. One clawed hand closed around your upper arm—not rough, but firm. The other slid under your knees. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, cradling you against his chest with surprising care for someone who looked like he'd sooner shoot than help.

Your head lolled against his shoulder; you caught the faint scent of gun oil, leather, and something sharper. His bandana brushed your cheek as he adjusted his grip.

"Don't get any ideas," he muttered, voice low near your ear. "I'm only doin' this 'cause Bombproof's got a soft spot and I ain't in the mood to drag a corpse around my property. You die on the way, that's on you."

Bombproof nickered—almost smug—and fell into step beside him as Striker started walking. The horse's flaming mane flickered in time with his strides, casting shifting orange light across the sand.

You were too exhausted to protest, too dazed to do more than let your eyes drift half-closed. The sway of being carried, the steady thud of hooves, the low rumble of Striker's occasional grumbling under his breath—it all blurred together.

His lair came into view eventually—a low, rugged structure carved into a volcanic outcrop, half-hidden by rock and scrub. Door heavy and reinforced with iron, a small corral off to the side. Striker kicked the door open with one boot, ducking inside without breaking stride.

The interior was sparse—cot in the corner, table cluttered with weapons parts, a few lanterns flickering. Cooler than outside, at least. He carried you straight to the cot and set you down with more gentleness than his tone suggested, propping your head on a rolled-up blanket.

Bombproof stuck his head through the doorway—too tall to fit fully—watching with those four glowing eyes.

Striker shot him a glare. "Happy now? Got your stray inside. Now git before you set my damn roof on fire—again."

The horse huffed once, then backed out—but not far. You could still hear him pacing just outside, tail swishing.

Striker turned back to you, arms crossed, tail rattling softly. His yellow eyes studied your face—searching, calculating.

"Alright, little lost...thing," he drawled, voice dropping to a husky, dangerous murmur. "You gonna wake up and explain what the fuck a soft whateva you are is doin' passed out in my backyard? Or am I gonna have to start guessin'?"

You managed a weak, raspy breath—barely a whisper.

"...your...werid looking."

He blinked. Then snorted, one corner of his mouth twitching up in something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Ain’t never seen a critter shaped like you, either."

But he didn't walk away. Instead, he grabbed a canteen from the table, unscrewed the cap, and held it to your lips—careful, almost reluctant.

"Drink slow," he muttered. "Ain't got time to nurse you back from dehydration."

Outside, Bombproof snorted approval.

And the cowboy holding the canteen looked like he'd rather shoot the problem than solve it.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @nixxy298 @the1cardsion @victorian-frog @mae-dice-edits @luna-kait @lilsleepybear1029 @wishesupon @vivacious-wallflower @a-puppy13 @takedakatsuro @fruttiextra @catsandcannolis @mushythemushroom04 @kiyoko18 @luna-kait @fruttiextra @c-u-p-i-d-f-e-a-t-h-e-r-s @bealiagia @kittenlover614 @radiok1lledthevideostar @littleozworld @tyrjiora

Warnings ⚠️: its hell ... so hellish stuff, lecherous demons, canon‑typical violence, cussing, eventual smut, alcohol consumption, angst, blood, fluff, horse, torture, outlaw culture, criminal underworld, revenge‑driven behavior, emotional breakdowns, grief, morally grey characters, power imbalance, canon typical religious overtones, Wrath Ring wildlife danger, forced separation, witnessing a loved one’s moral decline, x reader.

Part 6 | Part 8

Rescued Under Duress 🐎 P.7

The Rough'N'Tumbleweed Ranch sprawled across the Wrath landscape like it had been carved out of the volcanic rock itself—fences stretching toward the horizon, corrals filled with various hell-beasts, a main house that looked sturdy enough to weather anything the ring could throw at it. Striker sat astride Bombproof at the property line, taking it all in with a practiced eye.

Something in his expression hardened. "Just need to not screw this up." He adjusted his hat and headed toward the main house, spurs jingling with each step.

An imp was already waiting on the porch—broad-shouldered, weathered, with horns that curved back from his head, a moutache bigger then a broom balanced on his lip and a genuine smile that reached his eyes. He wore work clothes that had seen better days and had the look of someone who'd spent his whole life working the land.

"You must be Striker!" The imp—Joe, presumably—came down the steps with his hand extended. "Got your message. Appreciate you comin' out."

Striker shook his hand. Firm grip. Callused palms. This was someone who knew hard work. "Appreciate you seein' me on short notice, sir."

"Hell, we need the help. Ranch this size don't run itself." Joe gestured toward the house. "C'mon in. Lin's got coffee on, and we can talk details."

The interior of the house was lived-in and comfortable—nothing fancy, but clean and clearly loved. A female imp emerged from what looked like the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. She had kind eyes and a warm smile that immediately made Striker think you'd like her.

"Lin, this is Striker. Striker, my wife Lin."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Striker said, accepting the offered seat at the worn wooden table.

"Coffee?" Lin asked, already pouring.

"That'd be kind, thank you."

They settled in, and Joe launched into the details. The ranch ran several hundred head of hell-cattle, plus horses, some pigs, chickens—the works. They needed help with daily feeding, fence maintenance, general upkeep. The work was hard but straightforward. Pay was fair, lodging included.

"You got experience with livestock?" Joe asked.

"Know my way around most hell-beasts," Striker said, which was true enough. " Good with a rope, better with my hands. Can fix just about anything that breaks."

Joe nodded, clearly pleased. "That's what I like to hear. We got three boys who help out, plus our daughter Sallie May when she ain't busy with her own projects. And we got another farmhand, Rusty—good kid, works hard. Though I gotta say, we could use someone with your level of experience."

"Sounds like a full operation."

"It is," Lin laughed, refilling coffee cups. "We keep busy, that's for sure."

Striker took a breath. This was the tricky part. "Before we go further, I should mention—I got a companion. She'd be comin' with me. That gonna be a problem?"

Joe and Lin exchanged a look—one of those married-couple communications that happened without words.

"Your wife?" Joe asked, not unkindly.

"No. Just..." Striker's tail rattled once. "Someone I'm lookin' after. She needs a safe place to be, and I ain't leavin' her behind."

"She gonna cause trouble?" Joe asked bluntly.

"No. She's quiet. Keeps to herself. Helps out where she can." Striker met Joe's eyes steadily. "She ain't gonna be a problem. You got my word on that."

Another exchanged look. Then Lin smiled—warm and genuine. "Well, that's just fine then. Satan knows I could use another woman around here. This place is drowning in testosterone." She laughed. "It'll be nice, actually. Our daughter Mildred moved away couple years back—works freelance up in Pride now—and I do miss having another girl to talk to. Sallie May's wonderful, but she's usually off doing... well, whatever it is Sallie May does."

"Blowin' things to heaven, most days." Joe added with fond exasperation.

"She's creative," Lin corrected primly. "Anyway, your companion is more than welcome."

"I also got a hell-horse," Striker added. "Bombproof. He's been with me for years. Goes where I go."

"That's no problem at all—we got plenty of pasture," Joe said. "Actually, that's perfect. Always good to have another strong mount around for the heavy work."

"About the lodging," Joe continued, pulling out a rough map of the property. "We got a cabin out back of the main house—used to be for seasonal workers, but it's been empty for a bit. One room, small kitchenette, bathroom. Ain't fancy, but it's clean and it's private." He looked at Striker. "That work for you and your companion? You'd be sharin' the space."

Striker hadn't really thought about the sleeping arrangements. At the lair, you'd had the cot and he'd taken the floor most nights. A cabin with actual beds would be amazing after that.

"Cabin sounds perfect," he said. "Long as it's got a roof and walls, we'll make it work."

"Excellent!" Joe stood, offering his hand again. "You got the job, Striker. Welcome to the Rough'N'Tumbleweed. You can start Monday—that give you enough time to get settled?"

Striker shook his hand firmly. "More than enough. Thank you, sir."

"And please," Lin said, standing as well, "join us for supper tonight if you're able? It's always chaos with the whole family, but the food's good and we'd love to meet your companion properly."

"We'd be honored, ma'am," Striker said.

"Lin, please. None of that ma'am business." She smiled warmly. "Supper's at six. Come hungry—I always make too much."

As Striker walked back to Bombproof, he felt something settle in his chest. This could work. This could actually work.

"Got the job, boy" he said, swinging up onto Bombproof. "We got a place to stay, steady work, and an invite to supper tonight."

You didn't own much. That became painfully obvious as you looked around the lair, trying to figure out what to pack.

The clothes Striker had quietly acquired for you over the weeks, folded neatly. The blanket he'd given you. A few personal items—Your entire life fit in a single canvas bag.

Striker had more, but not by much. Weapons, mostly—rifles and knives and things you tried not to think too hard about. Clothes. His bedroll. Practical items accumulated over years of solitary living. But he was efficient, packing only what was essential and leaving the rest secured in hidden caches throughout the lair.

"You're really okay with this?" he asked, pausing in his work to look at you. "Leavin' the lair? Movin' to the ranch?"

"Are you?"

"Asked you first."

You considered the question seriously. The lair had been... not safe, exactly. The break-in had proven that. But it had been the first place you'd woken up in Hell. The first place that had felt like anything resembling shelter.

Still.

"I think it'll be good," you said finally. "Being around people. Having... structure. And you'll have steady work instead of—" You stopped yourself.

"Instead of what?" His eyes were sharp, curious.

"Instead of having to leave all the time," you finished carefully. You still didn't know what his jobs were, and he'd never offered to explain. "This way you'll be around more. Won't you?"

Something in his expression softened. "Yeah. I will." He went back to packing, tail swishing thoughtfully. "Might still take the occasional job on the side, but nothin' like before. Gonna be around a lot more. That... that okay with you?"

"Yes," you said immediately, then felt your face heat. "I mean—it's fine. Good. It'll be good."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Right. Good."

He finished securing the lair with meticulous care—covering windows, reinforcing the door, setting traps for anything that might try to break in again while it was empty. Making sure that if—when—he came back, everything would be as he left it.

"You think we'll come back here?" you asked, watching him work.

"Maybe. Someday." He tested the door one final time, satisfied with the result. "Nice to have a backup. Just in case."

Just in case the ranch didn't work out. Just in case something went wrong. Just in case you needed to disappear.

Always planning for contingencies. That was Striker.

He loaded everything onto Bombproof—which wasn't much, all told. The horse barely seemed to notice the extra weight, too busy trying to get your attention by nudging your shoulder.

"Yes, yes, you're a good boy," you murmured, scratching behind his ears. "Such a pretty boy. We're going to a ranch! You'll have so much space to run!"

Bombproof's tail swished happily, leaving ember trails in the dirt.

Striker watched the two of you with an expression that was almost fond. "He's gonna be impossible to handle once he's got a whole pasture to himself. Spoiled bastard."

"He deserves to be spoiled," you said loyally, and Bombproof preened.

"You both deserve to—," Striker muttered, then caught himself. Cleared his throat. "Right. We ready?"

You took one last look at the lair—at this place that had sheltered you when you had nothing, kept you alive when you should have died, became the first home you could remember.

"Ready," you said.

Striker helped you up onto Bombproof, then swung up behind you. His arm came around your waist—automatic now, natural, safe.

"Then let's go home," he said quietly.

And Bombproof started forward, carrying you away from the lair and toward something new.

The journey to the ranch took most of the afternoon. You'd asked Striker to tell you about the family, wanting to be prepared, and he'd obliged—though his descriptions were characteristically blunt.

"Joe and Lin run the place," he said, his chin resting on top of your head as Bombproof maintained a steady pace. "Been married longer than I've been alive, probably. They're good people—salt of the earth types. Won't give you trouble long as you're respectful and pull your weight."

"Okay," you said, trying to memorize everything.

"They got three boys—didn't catch all their names yet, but they're young. Energetic. Probably gonna be underfoot constantly."

"That's okay. I like kids."

"You ain't met these kids yet," he said dryly. "But yeah, they're harmless. Then there's Sallie May—their daughter. Lin says she's creative, which I'm pretty sure is code for causes trouble regular-like.'"

You giggled despite yourself. "That's very specific code."

"You'll see what I mean when you meet her. And there's another farmhand already workin' there—Rusty. Don't know much about him yet, but Joe says he's a good worker."

"How many animals did they say they had?"

"Couple hundred head of hell-cattle—nasty bastards, all horns and attitude. Then there's the horses—Wrath breeds mostly, some hellfire stallions like Bombproof, few mares for breedin'. They got pigs, chickens, maybe some goats. Standard ranch setup."

Your head spun with the numbers. "That's... a lot of animals."

"Yeah. Means lots of work." His arm was solid around your waist, steadying. "But that's my job, not yours. You just gotta help Lin in the house—cookin', cleanin', that kind of thing. Nothin' too hard."

"What if I want to learn? About the ranch work, I mean."

"You don't gotta do that."

"But what if I want to?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Darlin', ranch work is hard. Physical. Dangerous sometimes. You don't need to—"

"I know I don't need to. But maybe I want to." You turned your head slightly, trying to see his face. "Would that be okay?"

His tail did that soft rattle that meant he was thinking. "We'll see. Maybe I'll show you the basics—how to stay safe around the animals, what to watch out for. But you ain't muckin' stalls or wrestlin' cattle. I can provide for both of us just fine."

The certainty in his voice made something warm bloom in your chest. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah okay," you confirmed, settling back against him. "I trust you."

His arm tightened slightly around you, and you felt him exhale—long and slow.

"Good," he said quietly. "That's good."

You leaned back into his chest, watching the landscape roll by. The ranch came into view eventually—bigger than you'd imagined during the interview, sprawling and alive with activity even from a distance.

"That's it," Striker murmured. "The Rough'N'Tumbleweed. Our new home."

Lin met you at the main house with the energy of someone who'd been watching for your arrival. She was all smiles and warm welcomes, immediately pulling you into a quick hug that surprised you.

"You made it! Wonderful! Come on, let me show you to your cabin—you must be exhausted from the ride."

She led you around the back of the main house, chattering the whole way about the ranch, the animals, her children. Striker followed with the bags, spurs jingling with each step, while Bombproof trailing behind like a loyal shadow, his flames dimmed to a comfortable glow in the fading light.

The cabin sat maybe fifty yards from the main house—small and neat, with a little porch and an honest-to-goodness porch light hanging beside the door. It looked like something out of a storybook, incongruous and perfect against Wrath's harsh landscape.

"It ain't much," Lin said, unlocking the door, "but it's clean and it's yours for as long as you're with us."

She pushed the door open, and you stepped inside.

One room—cozy, not cramped. A small kitchenette with a two-burner stove and a sink. A door leading to what must be the bathroom. Windows with actual curtains. A rug on the floor. A small table with two chairs.

And in the corner—one bed. Not huge, but definitely meant for two people. With an actual mattress and pillows and blankets.

You stopped. Stared at it.

Striker stopped behind you. Also stared at it.

"Oh," you said quietly.

"Huh," Striker said, just as quietly.

Lin, oblivious to the sudden tension, was already moving around the cabin, pointing things out. "Changed the linens this morning, stocked the kitchenette with some basics. There's a chair in the corner there if you need extra seating, and—oh!" She paused, looking between you both. "Is the bed going to be a problem? I just assumed—"

"No," Striker said quickly. Too quickly. "No, it's—it's fine. Perfect. Thank you, ma'am—"

"You're sure? It's no trouble—"

"We're sure," you managed, tearing your eyes away from the bed. "It's wonderful. Really."

Lin beamed. "I'm so glad! Well, I'll let you get settled. Supper's at six—just come on over to the main house when you're ready. Fair warning, it's gonna be loud and chaotic."

"We'll be there," Striker promised.

Lin left with a final smile, and suddenly you were alone with Striker in your new cabin.

With one bed.

The silence stretched.

"Right," Striker said finally, setting the bags down with deliberate care. "So. The bed."

"There's only one," you said, because apparently your brain had decided to state the obvious.

"I noticed." He moved to the corner, examining the chair Lin had mentioned—sturdy, wooden, with arms. "This'll work."

"Work for what?"

"For me. To sleep in." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You take the bed."

"Striker, that's—you can't sleep in a chair."

"Sure I can. Done it plenty of times."

"That's not—we could share. The bed. It's big enough for both of us." The words came out in a rush, your face heating. "I mean, if you're comfortable with that. We've been sharing space for weeks anyway, so—"

"No."

You blinked at the flatness of his tone. "No?"

"You're takin' the bed. I'm takin' the chair. That's final." He was already moving around the cabin, unpacking with determined efficiency, not meeting your eyes.

"But you'll hurt your back—"

"My back's fine."

"Striker—"

"Darlin'." He stopped, finally looking at you. His expression was set, stubborn. "You're takin' the bed. I ain't arguing about this."

"That's not fair to you—"

"Life ain't fair. You'll learn that quick enough." But his voice gentled slightly. "Look, you've been through enough. Break-in, injury, uprooting our whole life to come here. Least I can do is make sure you get a decent night's sleep. The chair's fine. I'm fine. Let it go."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that he deserved comfort as much as you did. But the set of his jaw and the way his tail was rattling told you that pushing would get you nowhere.

"Okay," you said quietly. "But if you change your mind—"

"I won't." He softened slightly, mouth twitching. "Appreciate the concern, though."

You both went back to unpacking in silence, but it was different now. Charged. The bed seemed to take up way more space than it actually did, impossible to ignore.

The main house was already loud when you arrived. Voices overlapped, someone was laughing, something clattered in what must be the kitchen. The warm smell of cooking food drifted out into the evening air.

Striker knocked once, and Lin's voice called out, "Come in, come in!"

The interior was organized chaos. A long table dominated the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs that were rapidly filling up. Three younger imps—the boys, you assumed—were wrestling near the fireplace until Joe barked at them to settle down and wash up for supper. A female imp with a wicked grin was setting the table—Sallie May, definitely. And two other ranch hands were already seated, including a nervous-looking imp who kept glancing toward the door.

All conversation stopped when you walked in.

You resisted the urge to hide behind Striker, very aware of all the eyes suddenly on you. His hand found the small of your back—subtle, steadying.

"Everyone, this is Striker and his companion," Lin announced cheerfully, emerging from the kitchen with a massive pot. "They're gonna be staying in the back cabin. Striker's our new farmhand."

You managed a small wave. "Hi."

The female imp that had been setting the table pushed off from the wall she'd been leaning against—tall, with a wicked grin and what looked like a knife strapped to her thigh. She looked you up and down with sharp, assessing eyes.

"Huh," she said. "You're kinda ...different."

"Sallie May," Joe warned.

"What? She is!" Sallie May circled around you like a predator examining prey. "And weird lookin'. No offense, but what the hell are you supposed to be?"

"Sallie May, that's enough," Lin said firmly.

"I'm just sayin' what everyone's thinkin'!" But Sallie May's grin turned less sharp, more curious. "You got a name ?"

You told her, voice quiet.

"Huh. Weird name for a weird thing." She poked your shoulder—not hard, but testing. "You're soft. Like, really soft. How are you even alive?"

Striker's hand pressed more firmly against your back. "That's enough questions for now."

"Aw, c'mon, I'm just—"

"I said that's enough." His voice dropped an octave, dangerous and low.

Sallie May raised her hands in surrender, but she was still grinning. "Alright, alright. Don't get your tail in a knot, cowboy. I'm just messin' around." She looked at you. "You're alright, Softie. Welcome to the madhouse."

Then she was gone, back to setting the table, and you could finally breathe again.

"Don't mind Sallie May," Lin said, guiding you toward the table. "She's got all the subtlety of a brick through a window, but she means well. Mostly."

You ended up squeezed between Striker and one of the boys, who immediately started asking rapid-fire questions about why you didn't have horns until his father told him to hush up and eat.

The food itself was incredible. Roasted meat that fell apart at the touch, vegetables that actually tasted fresh, bread that was still warm from the oven, and some kind of pie that made you nearly moan when you tasted it. You ate until you were uncomfortably full, listening to the family banter and tease each other with the ease of people who'd been doing this their whole lives.

Striker fit in seamlessly—trading barbs with Sallie May, answering Joe's questions about his experience, deflecting Lin's gentle probing about your relationship with practiced ease. He kept one hand on the back of your chair the whole time, a quiet reassurance in the chaos.

After supper, Lin shooed everyone away from the table except you. "You can help me with dishes, sweetheart. Give us a chance to talk without all this noise."

You gathered plates while she filled the sink, falling into an easy rhythm. Lin asked gentle questions—where you were from, how you'd met Striker, what you thought of the ranch so far, it was wonderful, if a bit overwhelming.

In the other room, you could hear the others talking. Joe's steady voice, Striker's drawl, one of the farmhands—Rusty—saying something too quiet to catch.

Then, louder—nervous and clearly directed at Striker "So, uh... what exactly is she? No offense or nothin', but I ain't never seen anything quite like her before."

The room went quiet.

You froze, hands still in the dishwater, waiting for Striker's response.

When Striker spoke, his voice was still conversational. Still casual. But there was an edge underneath—sharp as a blade. "You know what happens to folks who ask too many questions about things that ain't their business, Rusty?"

A pause. "N-no, sir."

"They tend to have accidents. Unfortunate ones." The sound of a chair creaking—Striker leaning back, probably. "Real shame when someone trips and falls into a hell-cattle pen. Or gets trampled during a stampede. Lot of ways to get hurt on a ranch, you know?"

"I didn't mean—I was just—"

"I know what you meant." Striker's voice stayed level, almost friendly. Almost. "And I'm tellin' you—polite-like—to keep your curiosity to yourself. We clear?"

"Crystal. Yes, sir. Very clear."

"Good." The chair scraped—conversation over. "Anyone else got burning questions, or can we talk about something productive?"

The conversation resumed after that, moving on to safer topics like tomorrow's work schedule. But you'd heard what you needed to hear.

Lin caught your eye and smiled knowingly. "He's protective of you."

"Yeah," you said softly. "S-sorry about ... that."

"No ... It's good. World's a harsh place—Wrath especially. Nice to have someone watchin' your back." She handed you a dish to dry. "You're in good hands with that one. I can tell."

You nodded, throat tight with emotion you couldn't quite name, and went back to the dishes.

The walk back to the cabin was quiet. Peaceful. The Wrath sky had deepened to crimson, and stars—or whatever passed for stars in Hell—glittered overhead like distant embers.

The porch light was on, casting that warm yellow glow across the small porch and the steps leading up to your door.

You stopped at the edge of the stairs, just looking at it.

"What?" Striker asked, following your gaze.

"It's just..." You smiled, helpless and genuine. "It's so cute. The little porch, the light. I wish I had a camera. I'd take a picture."

He stared at you like you'd grown a second head. "A picture. Of a porch light."

"Yes! Look at it!" You gestured at the cabin—small and cozy and glowing in the dark like something out of a dream. "It's perfect. Like something from a storybook."

"It's a porch light, darlin'. They got 'em all over Hell."

"Not where I'm from." The words slipped out before you could stop them. You didn't know if they were true—couldn't remember—but they felt true. "Or maybe they do. I don't know. But this one's special."

Striker was quiet for a moment, his tail swishing thoughtfully behind him. Then, quietly "Why's it special?"

You looked at him—really looked. At his sharp features softened by the yellow light, his yellow eyes watching you with an expression you couldn't quite name. At the way he stood close but not too close, always giving you space while making it clear he'd be there if you needed him.

"Because it's ours," you said simply. "Our cabin. Our porch. Our light."

His tail went very, very still. Then, slowly, it curled slightly—that soft movement you'd learned meant he was pleased, even if his face didn't show it.

"Yeah," he said, voice rough. "Yeah, it is."

He climbed the steps and held the door open for you, spurs jingling softly. "Come on, Sentimental lost thing. Let's get ya inside. Long day tomorrow."

You followed him into your little cabin with its one bed and its small kitchenette and its promise of something new. Something good.

Striker closed the door behind you, shutting out the Wrath darkness, and the porch light kept burning—a small beacon in the night.