#hellouva x reader

"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty finally decides to rejoin the land of the livin'."

You turned your head—too fast, vision swimming—and there he was.

The Cowboy. The creature from... before? How long ago was before? Everything was fuzzy, fragmented, like trying to remember a dream after waking.

He was leaning against the far wall, one boot propped behind him, arms crossed over his chest. That wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, but you could see the glint of yellow eyes watching you with lazy intensity, like a snake sunning itself on a rock.

"Where..." Your voice came out as barely a croak. Tried again. "Where am I?"

"My lair." He pushed off the wall with unhurried grace, moving closer. "Which you've been freeloadin' in for the better part of a week, by the way. You're welcome."

"A week?"

He grabbed something—a tin cup—and filled it from a canteen before holding it out. When you just stared, he rolled his eyes.

"It ain't poisoned. Already had plenty of opportunity to kill you while you were out cold. Drink."

You took the cup with trembling hands. The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly metallic, but it was the most amazing thing you'd ever experienced. You drained half before he pulled it away.

"Slowly. You want to throw up everywhere, be my guest, but you're cleanin' it."

"Sorry," you whispered automatically.

Something flickered across his face—too quick to read. He set the cup aside and crossed his arms again, studying you like a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out.

"Now then." He tilted his head, yellow eyes narrowing. "How 'bout you start explainin' what the hell you are and what you're doin' in my territory."

"I don't... I don't know." You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, the blanket pooling around your waist. Your clothes were still torn and dusty, dried sweat making the fabric stiff. "I don't know how I got here. I just—I was falling, and then I woke up in the sand, and—"

"Uh-huh." His voice dripped skepticism. "And before the fallin'? Where were you?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried to remember and found nothing but fuzzy static. "I... I can't remember. I don't—" Panic crept into your voice. "I don't know. Why can't I remember?"

Striker watched you for a long moment, expression unreadable. His tail continued to sway and you realized it was moving in time with his breathing—unconscious, like a heartbeat.

"You hit your head?" he asked finally, voice flat.

"I don't know. Maybe?" You touched your scalp gingerly, feeling for bumps or blood, but found nothing obvious. "Everything's just... blank."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a creative string of curses. "Fantastic. Just what I need—a amnesiac crash-landin' in my backyard." He dragged a hand down his face, then seemed to collect himself. "Alright, fine. You got a name, at least?"

You told him. It was one of the few things that came easily, solid and real in the fog of confusion.

He repeated it slowly, rolling it around in his mouth like he was tasting it. "Huh. Weird name. But then again, you're a weird little thing, ain't ya?" He straightened his hat. "Name's Striker. Welcome to Wrath, I guess—though if you were hopin' for a resort, you landed in the wrong ring."

"Wrath?" You looked around the sparse room—weapons on the walls, hellfire lanterns, everything sharp edges and volcanic stone. "Is that... where is that?"

His eyes sharpened. "You really don't know nothin', do you?" He leaned back against a table, studying you like a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out. "Wrath. One of the seven rings of Hell. You know—fire, hell-beasts, eternal fuckin' heat, all that fun shit."

The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. "Hell? Like... actual Hell?"

"No, like the fake Hell they put in them theme parks." His voice dripped sarcasm. "Yes, actual Hell. Where the fuck else would you be?"

You stared at him—at the horns, the slitted pupils and rattling tail. At the lanterns burning. At the reality of it all crashing down like a landslide.

"I'm in Hell," you whispered.

"Gold star for the amnesiac." He straightened his hat. "And before you ask—no, I don't know what the hell you are or where you came from." His tail rattled softly. "But seein' as my horse threw a fit about abandonin' you, I guess you can stay till you get your strength back. After that..." He shrugged. "We'll figure it out."

You didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to process any of this.

"Rest," he said, already moving toward the door. "You've been out for a week. Gonna take time before you're back on your feet. Don't do anythin' stupid while I'm gone."

"Where are you going?"

He paused, hand on the doorframe. Didn't turn around. "Out. Got business."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the dim lair with more questions than answers and the sinking realization that you were very, very far from anything resembling home.

The next few days passed in a haze of sleep and waking. You were weak—embarrassingly so. Just sitting up left you dizzy. Walking to the privy out back required resting halfway there.

Striker came and went with no pattern you could discern. Sometimes he was gone for hours. Sometimes he'd return smelling like smoke and something copper-sweet that made your stomach turn. He never explained where he'd been or what he'd been doing.

You didn't ask. Some instinct told you that questions wouldn't be welcome.

But he always made sure you had what you needed before he left. Water canteen full. Food within reach. Blanket adjusted just so.

"I'm headin' out," he'd say, checking his things with practiced efficiency. "Might be gone till tomorrow. You need anythin'?"

"No, I'm okay."

"You sure? 'Cause I ain't turnin' around if you suddenly remember you needed somethin'."

"I'm sure."

He'd grunt acknowledgment and leave. And you'd hear him outside, talking to his horse—that massive, flaming creature who'd been so gentle when you first woke.

"Keep an eye on her, would you? Lost little thing can barely stand without fallin' over. Last thing I need is comin' back to find she cracked her skull open."

The horse would nicker, and Striker would mutter something else you couldn't quite catch before the sound of hooves faded into the distance.

By the fifth day since waking, you could walk without feeling like you'd collapse. It was progress. Small, but real.

You tried to make yourself useful—cleaning up the lair, organizing the few supplies Striker had, attempting to do something that justified taking up space in his home.

That's when you discovered you had a shadow.

Bombproof—Striker's horse—had appointed himself your personal guardian. Every time you stepped outside, he materialized from wherever he'd been resting. Those four glowing orange eyes would fix on you, and he'd follow at a distance of about ten feet.

At first, it was unnerving. Then it became almost comforting, having this massive presence watching over you.

Until you tried to actually interact with him.

You'd been attempting to carry water from the collection area—a task that should've been simple but left you winded and frustrated. Bombproof had followed, as always, and when you set the bucket down to rest, he'd moved closer.

Lowered his massive head. Nudged your shoulder gently with his muzzle.

You froze.

He was on fire. His mane flickered and danced with actual flames, orange and gold, beautiful and terrifying. Heat radiated off him in waves.

"Um," you said intelligently. "Good... horsie?"

Bombproof huffed—clearly offended by your tone—and nudged again. Wanting something. Attention, maybe?

You raised a shaking hand toward his neck, then stopped inches away. The flames licked higher, and even though they didn't seem to be burning anything, the idea of sticking your hand directly into fire went against every survival instinct you had.

"I can't—I'm sorry, I just—"

The horse made a sound that was almost a whine, pushing his nose against your arm insistently.

"No, really, I can't—fire is ... fire—"

"Oh for fuck's sake."

You spun around to find Striker standing there, with that swagger that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining. He looked thoroughly exasperated, but there was definitely amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"He's waitin' for you to pet him."

"He's on fire!"

"And?" Striker stopped beside Bombproof and, without even looking, reached up and shoved his entire hand into the horse's flaming mane. The flames parted around his fingers like they were nothing. "See? Not burnin'. Not even that warm."

"That's—that's not—"

"Ugh, quit bein' a baby." He grabbed your wrist—firm but not rough—and started pulling your hand toward Bombproof's neck.

"No! Wait—" You tried to pull back, heels digging into the dirt. "Striker, I really don't think—"

"You really don't think what? That hellfire works different than regular fire? Newsflash—we're in Hell. Everything works different." He kept pulling, relentless. "The horse ain't gonna hurt you. He's been followin' you around like a lovesick puppy for days. Least you could do is give him a damn pat."

"But what if—"

"What if nothin'. You really think I'd let you touch him if he was gonna hurt you?" He raised an eyebrow, yellow eyes glinting with challenge. "Give me some credit here, darlin'."

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he'd already pressed your palm against Bombproof's neck—right through the flames.

The fire parted like silk. Beneath it, the horse's hide was warm—almost hot—but not burning. Solid but surprisingly soft.

Bombproof made a sound of pure contentment, leaning heavily into your touch.

"See?" Striker's voice had gone smug. "Told you. You're bein' dramatic about nothin'."

"It's still weird," you muttered, but your fingers were already moving, tentatively scratching. Bombproof's back leg twitched in happiness.

"Everything in Hell's weird. You gonna have a crisis every time somethin' don't make sense by your standards?" He released your wrist, crossing his arms as he watched. "Because I gotta tell you, that's gonna get real old real fast."

"I'm not being dramatic—"

"You definitely were." But there was no real heat in his voice. Almost teasing, actually. "Next you're gonna tell me you can't eat hell-pig because it's got too many eyes or somethin'."

"How many eyes do they have?"

"Not the point." He turned to leave. "Point is, Bombproof's been waitin' on you to stop actin' scared of him. Now you know he ain't gonna roast you, maybe try bein' grateful instead of skeptical."

Bombproof huffed agreement, nearly knocking you over with the force of his head-bump.

"Alright, alright!" You laughed despite yourself, using both hands to scratch behind his ears now. "I'm sorry I was scared. You're a very good horse. A very good, not-at-all-scary horsie."

"That's better," Striker called back, already heading toward the lair. "And quit babyin' him! You're gonna make him soft!"

But you caught the faint smile on his face before he disappeared inside, and something warm settled in your chest.

Maybe being here wasn't so bad after all.

A pattern developed over the following days.

Morning: you'd wake to find Striker already up, checking weapons or preparing to leave. The sound of his tail was usually what roused you—that distinctive rattle as he moved around the lair.

"Headin' out," he'd say, not looking at you as he loaded his rifle. "Back by sundown, probably."

And then he'd pause. Glance at the supplies.

The canteen would be full—you'd swear it had been half-empty the night before.

The food tin would have fresh jerky on top—the good kind, not the boot-leather stuff.

The hellfire lantern would be topped off with oil.

You never saw him do it. Never caught him in the act. But every morning before he left, everything you might need was somehow... taken care of.

"Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone," he'd add, already heading for the door.

"What counts as stupid?"

"If you gotta ask, it's proably stupid."

Then he'd be gone and you'd spend the day trying to be useful.

You'd started noticing other things too. The wood pile by the door that never seemed to get low, even though you used it for cooking. The way your blanket was always draped over the cot just so when you woke up, even though you were sure you'd kicked it off during the night.

Small things. Practical things. Things that could be explained away as coincidence or habit.

But they happened every day. Like clockwork.

You didn't mention it. Weren't sure if you should. Striker seemed like the type who wouldn't appreciate being called out on... whatever this was. Consideration? Care?

So you just accepted it. And tried to return the favor in your own small ways. His spare clothes, folded. The lair swept clean.

He never commented on it either.

But sometimes you'd catch him pausing in the doorway, looking around like he was taking inventory. And his tail would do that soft rattle that you'd learned meant he was pleased, even if his face didn't show it.

Striker had a job. A real one—something that would take him overnight, maybe longer.

He prepared with meticulous care, cleaning his rifle, checking ammunition, sharpening knives you tried not to look at too closely. His spurs clinked softly against the floor as he moved around the lair, gathering what he needed.

You watched from the cot, pretending to fold the last of the laundry, but really just... watching.

He moved with such efficiency. Such purpose. Like violence was just normal to him, and he was very, very good at it.

It should've scared you. Maybe it would've, if you'd known what he actually did out there.

But you didn't ask. And he didn't tell.

"Gonna be gone a few days," he said, not looking at you as he checked his rifle one more time. "Maybe three."

"Okay."

He paused. His tail rattled once—short, sharp. Agitated.

Then he walked back inside, spurs announcing his approach. Moved past you to the shelf. Grabbed the canteen, checked it was full. Grabbed the food tin, added more jerky. Checked the oil in the lantern even though he'd just filled it that morning.

You didn't say anything. Just watched him work through his mental checklist.

"Medical supplies are in the chest by the door," he said finally, voice gruff. "You remember where?"

"Yes."

"And you know how to use 'em?"

"You showed me twice."

"I'm showin' you a third time." He crossed to the chest and started pulling out supplies. "This is for cuts. This is for burns. This one's if you get bit by somethin'—"

"Striker." You stood up, moved closer. "I'll be okay. I promise."

He looked at you then—yellow eyes searching your face with an intensity that made you want to look away even as you felt like you couldn’t.

"You don't know that," he said quietly. "Things happen. Especially out here."

"Then teach me what to do if they do."

Something flickered in his expression. Then he nodded once and spent the next twenty minutes running through every possible emergency scenario, showing you where everything was, making you repeat it back to him until he was satisfied.

Outside, Bombproof whinnied—impatient.

"Yeah, yeah," Striker called back. Then, quieter, to you "Bombproof's stayin' here."

You blinked. "What? But—don't you need him?"

"I can walk. He's better off here, keepin' an eye on things." On you, he meant, but didn't say. "Anything happens—anything at all—you get on that horse. He'll come find me."

"How will he know where you are?"

"He always knows." Said with such certainty that you didn't question it.

Finally, there was nothing left to check. Nothing left to prepare. He grabbed his gear, headed for the door.

Stopped.

Didn't turn around.

"Be here when I get back."

It wasn't a question. Wasn't even really a request. Just... a statement. An expectation.

"Where else would I go?" you asked softly.

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Right. Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I won't."

He left then, the sound of him fading into the distance, and you realized, standing there in his lair surrounded by evidence of his care disguised as practicality, that he'd left his horse—his closest companion—to watch over you.

The target was dead. Clean shot, no complications. Professional.

Striker wiped down his rifle, packed it away, and collected his payment without fanfare. The client barely looked at him—just handed over the cash and scurried off like Striker might change his mind and add him to the body count.

Smart.

He should've headed to the next job. Had two more lined up, both good money. Could keep the momentum going, stack up some serious funds.

Instead, he found himself at a supply station, staring at a shelf of preserved foods.

She'd need more than jerky. Couldn't live on dried meat alone—too hard on the stomach, especially for someone still recovering. Maybe some of those fruits. And that grain stuff that could be made into porridge.

His hand moved toward them, then stopped.

What the heaven am I doin'?

She wasn't his responsibility. Wasn't his problem. He'd done his part—kept her alive, gave her a place to stay till she got her strength back. That was more than most would do.

He grabbed the supplies anyway. Told himself it was just practical. Couldn't have her wasting away on his watch. That'd be inconvenient.

The vendor gave him a look that Striker ignored.

Then came the walk back.

The long, solitary, horse-less walk back through Wrath.

His rifle case dug into his shoulder. The supply sack seemed heavier with each mile. And his spurs—his goddamn spurs that he'd worn for years without issue—suddenly felt like they were made of lead.

"Left my horse," he muttered to himself, adjusting the rifle strap. "Left my perfectly good, perfectly functional horse to babysit some stray who can't even remember her own damn story."

A dust devil swirled past. Striker kicked at it irritably.

"Could be ridin' right now. Could be halfway home. But nooo—had to leave Bombproof behind 'cause what if somethin' happens? What if she needs help? What if—"

He stopped himself, scowling at the empty desert.

"This is ridiculous. She's got food. Water. Shelter. Medical supplies I spent twenty minutes explainin' even though she's a grown-ass adult who should be able to figure shit out. She's fine."

His boots crunched on volcanic rock. The heat made the air shimmer.

"And even if she ain't fine, that's what Bombproof's there for. Perfectly logical. Tactical decision. Leave the horse, travel light, get the job done faster."

Except he wasn't traveling light. He was hauling extra supplies he'd bought specifically for her. And he wasn't going faster—he was going significantly slower because he was on foot like some kind of amateur.

"Satandamn sentimental—" He shifted the supply sack to his other shoulder, spurs jingling with each irritated step. "Next time she's gettin' left with a canteen and a 'good luck.' Not my damn horse. No babyin'. She wants to stay in Hell, she can learn to survive in Hell."

A hell-lizard skittered across his path. He barely noticed.

"And another thing—why the hell am I buyin' grain? I don't even eat grain. Tastes like shit. But oh, she might need somethin' soft, somethin' easy on the stomach, can't have her chokin' on jerky—"

He was talking to himself. Out loud. In the middle of the Wrath desert. Like a crazy person.

"This is what happens," he told the orange sky. "This is what happens when you let strays stick around. They make you soft. Make you stupid. Make you leave your damn horse behind and haul supplies through the desert on foot like some kind of—"

He stopped.

In the distance, barely visible through the heat shimmer, he could see his lair.

And standing outside it, was a figure. Scratching Bombproof's ears. The horse's flames were clearly visible, and even from here Striker could tell he was leaning into her touch, shameless as ever.

Something in his chest twisted.

"Temporary," he reminded himself, resuming his walk. "Just temporary. Soon as she remembers where she came from, she's gone. Back to normal. Back to just me and Bombproof and no fuckin' complications."

His spurs jingled steadily as he walked, marking time, marking distance.

Marking the gap between what he told himself and what he was starting to suspect was true.

"Shoulda left her in the desert," he muttered, but there was no conviction in it anymore.

Just resignation.

You were fine when he got back. Of course you were. Standing outside the lair in the fading light, scratching Bombproof's ears while the horse dozed contentedly.

You looked up when you heard his approach—the jingle of spurs carrying across the distance—and your whole face lit up. "You're back!"

Something in Striker's chest went warm and uncomfortable.

"Yeah. Job's done." He said, trying to look casual as he checked you over from a distance. No visible injuries. Moving fine. Color in your cheeks. "Everything okay here?"

"Everything's fine. Bombproof took good care of me." You smiled at the horse, who preened. "We're friends now. Real friends. I even brushed his mane."

"Course you did," Striker muttered, but there was no real bite to it. "You eat?"

"Yes."

"All of it, or did you ration like I ain't comin' back?"

"...Most of it?"

"Uh-huh." He shot you a look over Bombproof's back. "You ain't gotta waste away to nothin'. Next time, eat the damn food."

"Yes, sir," you said, but you were smiling.

He wasn't sure why that made his tail rattle, but it did.

"Stay out of trouble?" he asked

"Define trouble."

He paused. "What'd you do?"

"Nothing! I just... reorganized your clothes? They were all mixed up and I thought it would be helpful but maybe that was—"

"Thought I told you not to touch my things."

Your face fell. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I'll put them back how they were—"

"Relax." He hefted the sack supply sack to sit higher on his shoulder. "Did I say I was mad?"

"...No?"

"Then quit apologizin'." He moved around Bombproof to face you properly, and hell if you didn't look up at him with those wide eyes like he'd just done something miraculous instead of just not yelling at you. "Probably needed organizin' anyway. Just warn a man before you go reorderin' his shit."

"I will. Next time."

Next time. Like you were planning on sticking around. Like this was just... normal now.

He should probably address that. Set expectations. Make it clear this was temporary.

"Good," is what came out instead.

You stood up, brushing dust off your clothes—his spare shirt, actually, the one he'd given you because you'd had nothing else. It was a bit big on you, hanging off one shoulder, sleeves rolled up multiple times.

Something curled in his chest at the sight, he shoved it down hard.

"I'll make dinner," you offered heading back toward the lair, then paused. Looked back at him, backlit by the lantern inside. "I'm glad you're back... Safe, I mean."

Striker stilled glad he was back. Glad he was safe. When was the last time anyone had said that to him? Cared whether he came back at all?

"Yeah," he said, voice rougher than he'd intended. "Thanks."

You smiled—soft, genuine—and disappeared inside.

Striker stood there for a moment, just staring at the doorway you'd vanished through.

"She ain't stayin'. Can't stay. Soon as she gets her memory back, she'll leave, and things'll go back to normal."

Bombproof gave him a look that clearly said keep telling yourself that.

"I'm serious. This is temporary. A... a situation. That's all."