#helluva x reader

"Something like that," you said, smiling at the familiar nickname he'd given you. "Need any help?"

"Nah, I got it," Porchi said, hoisting the crate with practiced ease. "But if you see Fizz, tell him he left his backup juggling pins at the bar last night. I'm holding them hostage."

"I'll let him know," you promised.

Speaking of Fizz—you spotted him near the stage entrance, practically vibrating with pre-show energy. He was in full costume, bells jingling as he moved, checking and rechecking various props with the kind of manic focus he only got right before a performance.

"Fizzy!" you called, making your way over to him.

His head whipped around, and his face lit up. "Cutie! You're here!" He bounded over to you, his mechanical limbs extending to close the distance faster. "Come to watch me be amazing?"

"Always," you said, and it was true. Watching Fizz perform never got old.

"Damn right," Fizz said, grinning. Then, without warning, he was cupping your face and kissing you, right there in the middle of the backstage area with staff rushing around you.

It caught you completely off guard. Your brain short-circuited for a moment letting you melt into it as Fizz's tounge whispered across the seem of your lips deepening the kiss, heat flooding your face as you registered the whistles and good-natured catcalls from nearby crew members.

When Fizz pulled back, he looked absolutely delighted by your flustered expression. "Aw, look at you! All blushy and cute! I love how I can still do that to you."

"Fizzy babe," you whined, hiding your burning face against his chest. "You can't just—people are watching—"

"Let them watch," Fizz said smugly, his arms wrapping around you. "They all know you're ours anyway. Might as well give them a show."

"You're impossible," you muttered, but you were smiling despite your embarrassment.

"Impossibly charming," Fizz corrected. He pressed another quick kiss to your forehead before pulling back, checking the clock. "Shit, I gotta finish setting up. Ozzie's waiting for you in the balcony by the way. Go on up, and I'll see you after the opening number!"

He was already bouncing away, calling out instructions to the lighting crew, his energy infectious even at a distance.

You shook your head fondly and started making your way toward the stairs that led to the balcony level. But before you could reach them, you heard raised voices—the kind of stressed, problem-solving voices that indicated something had gone wrong.

A group of stage crew members were clustered near one of the rigging systems, looking up at the complex network of lights and pulleys with expressions ranging from frustrated to concerned.

"—can't reach it without bringing the whole rig down," one of them was saying. "And we don't have time to do that before opening."

"What about Porchi? He's pretty small—"

"Porchi's got that thing about heights, remember?"

"Fuck. Okay, what about—"

You drifted closer, curiosity getting the better of you. "Is everything okay?"

The crew members turned, and one of them—a tall demon with four arms—sighed. "Oh, hey. Yeah, we're fine, just... there's a screw that came loose on the rigging. We need to tighten it before the show, but it's in a really tight spot and none of us can reach it without potentially damaging other equipment."

"How tight of a spot?" you asked, looking up at the rigging in question.

"See that catwalk up there? There's a junction box on the underside, and one of the mounting screws has worked its way loose. It's a small space—we'd need someone with small hands and a good sense of balance."

Small hands. You had those. And you'd climbed ladders before.

"I could do it," you offered.

The four-armed demon blinked at you. "You? No offense, but—"

"I'm small, I have small hands, and I've climbed ladders before," you pointed out. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Several of the crew members exchanged glances. Finally, the demon sighed. "Okay, if you're sure. We'll spot you, and there's a safety harness you can wear. It should only take a minute or two."

The ladder was taller than you'd expected. Much taller. From the ground, the catwalk had looked maybe fifteen feet up. Standing at the base of the ladder and looking up, it seemed more like thirty.

"You sure about this ?" Porchi had appeared from somewhere, frowning up at the rigging. "That's a long way up."

"I'll be fine," you said, with more confidence than you felt. "I've climbed ladders before."

"Not this tall," Porchi muttered, but he didn't try to stop you.

The safety harness was uncomfortable but reassuring, even if you weren't entirely sure it would actually help if you fell. One of the crew members checked it twice before giving you the tools you'd need—a small screwdriver and a wrench.

"Just get up to the catwalk, crawl out to the junction box, and tighten the screw," the four-armed demon instructed. "Should be straightforward. If you feel unsafe at any point, just come back down."

"Got it," you said, and started climbing.

The first few rungs were easy. Then you made the mistake of looking down and your stomach did a uncomfortable flip. The ground seemed much farther away than it should.

Don't look down, you told yourself firmly. Just keep climbing.

The catwalk, when you finally reached it, was narrow but stable. You carefully maneuvered yourself onto it, very aware of the drop on either side. The crew members below were watching, ready to help if needed.

"You okay up there?" one of them called.

"Yeah!" you called back, your voice only slightly shaky. "I see the junction box!"

Crawling along the catwalk was nerve-wracking but manageable. The junction box was exactly where they'd said it would be, and you could see the loose screw immediately. You positioned yourself carefully, bracing against the catwalk railing, and got to work.

The screw was stubborn. It had worked itself loose enough that getting purchase was difficult, and you had to adjust your position several times to get the right angle.

"How's it going?" someone called from below.

"Almost got it!" you called back, giving the screw one more turn. There. Tight and secure. "Done! I'm coming down!"

You gave them a thumbs up, and saw them nod before dispersing back to their other pre-show tasks. Apparently satisfied you could handle the descent on your own.

You started to crawl backward on the catwalk, heading back toward the ladder. You were feeling pretty proud of yourself—you'd helped solve a problem, proved you could handle heights, and—

Your hand slipped.

It happened so fast. One moment you were carefully balanced, the next your palm was sliding—and your weight shifted wrong. You grabbed for the railing but your fingers couldn't find purchase, and then you were falling.

The harness caught you, jerking tight—and then you heard a snap, felt the sudden terrifying sensation of free-fall.

You didn't even have time to scream.

You hit the ground hard.

The impact knocked all the air from your lungs in one violent gasp. Your head cracked against the floor. Pain exploded through your body—sharp and overwhelming and all-consuming.

You tried to breathe, but your lungs wouldn't work. Tried to move, but your body wouldn't respond. Tried to call for help, but no sound came out.

The world tilted sideways. Going white at the edges.

The last thing you heard before everything went white was the distant sound of music—Fizz's opening number starting on stage, a strange distant beeping sound.

Fizz was mid-bow, soaking in the applause from the opening number, when he noticed Ozzie's absence from the balcony.

That was weird. Oz always watched the opening number, always. It was tradition. He kept his showman's smile in place as he exited the stage, but the moment he was in the wings, his expression shifted to concern. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut.

He bounded off stage, bells jingling, expecting to find you waiting in the wings like always.

But you weren't there.

"Hey!" he called to the stage crew. "Where's our girl ?"

"Oh, she helped us fix the junction box!" The four armed demon called back. "She should still be backstage somewhere—"

Fizz headed toward the rigging area, expecting to find you watching from a different angle, what he found instead made his heart stop.

You were on the ground, crumpled at the base of the ladder. Not moving.

"CUTIE!" He was across the space in seconds, his mechanical arms already reaching for you. "Oh fuck, oh fuck—OZ! OZZIE, WE NEED HELP!"

His hands—shaking, why were they shaking—reached for your neck, feeling for a pulse the way he'd been taught years ago. It was there, but weak. Thready.

"What happened?!" Ozzie's voice, and then he was there, massive and imposing and immediately taking charge. "What—"

"I don't know! I found her like this! She's breathing but she won't wake up!" Fizz's voice was rising, panic overtaking him as he drew his hand back to find it sticky and red. "There's—whats this red stuff—is that—blood?—Oz, there's blood—oh my SATAN—"

There was. A small pool of it beneath your head, dark against the floor.

"We need to get her to a hospital. Now." Ozzie was already scooping you up with infinite care, mindful of potential injuries. "Fizz, portal to Sloth. Hospital district."

"On it!" Fizz's hands were still shaking as he pulled out his phone, calling up the portal coordinates. "It's gonna be okay, cutie. You're gonna be okay. Just stay with us, please stay with us—"

The portal snapped open—swirling pinks and lavender.

"What happened?!" Porchi had appeared, his face pale. "Oh Satan, is she—Princess ?—C'mon kid."

"Cancel the rest of tonight's show," Ozzie ordered, his voice hard with authority. "I don't care what you have to tell people. Cancel it."

"Yes sir!" Porchi replied.

Ozzie stepped through the portal with you cradled against his chest, Fizz right behind him, and they left the chaos of the club behind.

The Sloth Ring hospital was quiet and efficient in that eerie way that medical facilities always were. Nurses moved with purpose but without urgency, doctors consulted in hushed voices, and everything smelled like antiseptic and something herbal you couldn't identify.

Ozzie had to fight his instinct to demand immediate attention, to throw his weight around as a Sin. But these were medical professionals and you needed their expertise, not his interference.

Still, the fact that they made him wait while they assessed you at a glacial pace, made his jaw tight with suppressed frustration.

"She's going to be okay," Fizz said, though his voice shook. He was pacing, mechanical arms flexing and retracting with anxiety. "She has to be okay."

"She will be," Ozzie said firmly, because the alternative was unthinkable.

A doctor finally emerged—a tired-looking demon with too many eyes and a clipboard.

"Asmodeus? Fizzarolli?"

They both stood immediately.

"How is she?" Ozzie demanded.

"Stable. Concussed, definitely. Possible fractures we're still imaging. She lost blood from a head laceration, which is concerning given that she's human." The doctor consulted their clipboard. "We've started a transfusion. Her vitals are improving."

"A transfusion? With what?" Fizz asked, his bells jingling with agitation.

"Sin blood. It's compatible with human physiology—surprisingly so, actually. We've had to do this once or twice when a human ends up down here. It works, though there can be some... interesting side effects."

"Side effects?" Ozzie's voice was dangerous.

"Nothing harmful. Some humans report increased healing speed, temporary changes in sensory perception, occasional minor physical changes that fade over time. All reversible once the blood cycles out of their system." The doctor made a note. "She's being moved to a room now. You can see her once she wakes up."

"When will that be?" Fizz asked.

"Could be minutes, could be hours. Concussions are unpredictable." The doctor looked at them both. "She was lucky. A fall from that height could have been much worse. As it is, she'll need to be here for a few days but should make a full recovery."

Ozzie's shoulders sagged slightly with relief.

"Room 347," the doctor added. "Third floor. Someone will come get you when she's awake."

You came back to consciousness slowly, awareness returning in fragments.

Why was there medical equipment?

Soft fabric against your skin. A bed. Not your bed nit the palace.

Pain. Dull and throbbing in your head, sharper in your ribs.

You tried to open your eyes, but the light was too bright. You made a small sound of protest.

"She's waking up! Get the nurse!"

Was that Fizz's voice ? Didn't sound like it.

You managed to crack your eyes open. Hospital room. Definitely a hospital room. But wrong—the equipment looked strange, the colors were off, everything had that slightly surreal quality that marked it as Hell.

And there was something in your arm.

You looked down and your brain stuttered to a halt.

There was an IV line running into your arm. That was normal. Medical. Fine.

Except the bag hanging above you was full of blue liquid.

Not clear. Not red. Blue.

Blue liquid was dripping into your veins.

"What—" Your voice came out as a croak. "What is—"

You grabbed at the IV line with your other hand, trying to pull it out. This was wrong, this was bad, they were putting something in you—

"Whoa, whoa, don't!" A nurse appeared, trying to stop you. "You need that! Please don't remove it!"

"Get it out!" Your voice was rising, panic flooding through you. "Get it out, get it out—"

"You needed a transfusion, you lost blood—"

"That's not blood! Blood isn't blue! What is that? What are you putting in me?!" You were pulling at the tape now, desperate to get the line out.

"It's sin blood, it's safe for humans—"

"SIN BLOOD?!" Your voice cracked. "You're putting demon blood in me?! Without asking?! Without—"

The door burst open.

"Cutie!" Fizz was there in an instant, his mechanical arms gently but firmly stopping your hands from pulling at the IV. "Stop, stop, you're going to hurt yourself—"

"Fizz!" You were crying now, you realized. Tears streaming down your face. "They're—they put—"

"I know, I know, it's okay—"

"It's not okay! It's blue! Why is it blue?! What's happening to me?!" You were spiraling, hyperventilating, everything was too much and you couldn't—

"Hey. Hey. Look at me." Ozzie was there too now, his voice cutting through the panic. "Focus on me. Just me. Can you do that?"

You tried to focus on his face. On his glowing eyes. On the familiar, safe presence of him.

"Good. Now breathe with me. In—" He demonstrated. "—and out. In and out. Can you match me?"

You tried. It came out shaky and uneven, but you tried.

"That's it. Keep going. In and out." Ozzie's voice was steady, calm, an anchor in the chaos. "You're safe. You're in a hospital. You fell and hit your head. Do you remember?"

"The—the ladder," you managed between breaths. "I fell."

"You did. And you lost blood. The doctors gave you a transfusion to replace it." Ozzie's hand—so large it engulfed yours completely—settled carefully over both of yours, stopping you from pulling at the IV without force. "It's demon blood because that's what they have here. But it's safe. It's compatible with human biology. It's helping you heal."

"But it's blue," you whimpered.

"Sin's blood is blue," Fizz said gently, his bells chiming softly. "I know it looks scary, but it's the same as if you got a transfusion in the human world. Just... blue instead of red, you know... they gotta be extra about there bullshit. It's helping you, cutie. Not hurting you."

"Are you sure?" Your voice was small, frightened.

"I'm sure," Ozzie said firmly. "I wouldn't let anyone do anything to you that wasn't safe. Neither would Fizz. You trust us, right?"

"Yes," you whispered.

"Then trust us now. The blood is helping you. Your body needed it. In a few days, it'll cycle out of your system and you'll be back to normal." Ozzie's thumb stroked gently over your hand. "But right now, you need to let it work. Can you do that?"

You looked between them—Fizz with his worried expression and jingling bells, Ozzie with his steady, protective presence. They wouldn't let anything bad happen to you. They'd proven that over and over.

"Okay," you said shakily. "Okay. I'll—I'll leave it in."

"Good," Ozzie said softly. "Now lie back. You need to rest."

You let them guide you back down onto the pillows, your grip on Ozzie's finger not loosening. Fizz settled into a chair on your other side, one mechanical hand reaching out to hold your free hand.

"How do you feel?" Fizz asked. "Besides scared?"

"Everything hurts," you admitted. "My head especially."

"You have a concussion," Ozzie explained. "And some bruised ribs. You're going to be sore for a while. But you're going to be fine."

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I shouldn't have climbed that ladder. I should have waited for someone else—"

"Don't apologize," Fizz interrupted firmly. "You were trying to help. It was an accident. Accidents happen."

"We're just glad you're okay, babe" Ozzie added. "When Fizz found you—" His voice caught slightly. "We thought—"

"We were really scared, cutie," Fizz finished, his bells quiet. "Really, really scared."

"I'm sorry," you said again, tears welling up.

"Stop apologizing," Ozzie said gently. "Just focus on healing. That's all we need from you right now."

You nodded, exhaustion pulling at you despite the fear. The panic was fading, replaced by bone-deep tiredness.

"Don't leave," you mumbled, already halfway back to sleep. "Please don't leave."

"We're not going anywhere," Fizz promised.

"Never," Ozzie agreed.

And with both of them holding your hands, you let yourself drift back into unconsciousness.

Once you were stable and sleeping peacefully, the nurse gently suggested that Ozzie and Fizz move to the waiting room to let you rest properly.

Ozzie had flatly refused.

"With all due respect," he'd said, his voice dangerously polite, "I'm staying right here."

"Sir, we have visiting hour policies—"

"I'm aware of your policies. I'm also aware that I'm Asmodeus, Sin of Lust, and that this hospital operates partially on funding from the Lust Ring. So I'll be staying. Thank you for your understanding."

The nurse had wisely retreated.

Fizz was sprawled in a chair he'd pulled up next to your bed, watching you sleep with anxious attention. Ozzie stood near the window, too large for most of the furniture and too agitated to sit anyway.

"She was terrified," Fizz said quietly. "When she woke up and saw the blood. She was so scared."

"I know." Ozzie's jaw was tight. "They should have waited. Explained it to her first."

"She needed the transfusion immediately. They didn't have time—"

"Then they should have called us sooner!" Ozzie's voice rose slightly, frustration and fear making him sharper than usual. "We could have been there when she woke up. Could have explained it before she panicked."

"Oz—"

"She pulled at the IV, Fizz. She was so scared she was trying to rip it out." Ozzie's hands clenched. "She thought they were hurting her. And we weren't there to—"

"But we got here," Fizz interrupted firmly. "We got here in seconds and we calmed her down and she's okay now. We can't control what happened before, but we handled what happened after."

Ozzie took a breath, forcing himself to calm down. "You're right Froggie, I'm just—"

"Scared," Fizz finished. "Me too."

They fell into silence, both watching you sleep.

A doctor entered to check your vitals—a different one from before, shorter and with a friendlier demeanor.

"How is she?" Ozzie asked immediately.

"Improving. The transfusion is working well. Her body is accepting the blood without complications." The doctor made notes on their clipboard. "She should be able to go home in a day or two, provided there are no setbacks."

"What kind of setbacks?" Fizz asked, bells jingling with worry.

"With head injuries, there's always a risk of secondary complications. But she's healthy, and her vitals are strong. I'm optimistic." The doctor smiled at them. "She's lucky to have you both. Should I list you as her ?" The doctor trailed off letting the question hang in the air.

"Partners," Ozzie and Fizz said firmly in unison. "Both of us."

"Ah." The doctor's expression didn't change, unflappable and professional. "Well, she's in good hands then. Do you have any questions about her care?"

"The blood," Ozzie said. "How long before it cycles out of her system?"

"Three to five days, typically. She might experience some minor side effects—increased healing speed, enhanced senses, possibly some mild sensitivity. All temporary, standard protocol."

"And there's no lasting damage?" Fizz pressed.

"None. Once the blood cycles out, she'll be completely back to her baseline human physiology." The doctor put away their clipboard. "Try to rest, both of you. She's going to be fine."

After the doctor left, there was another knock at the door. A different nurse, looking apologetic.

"Sirs, I'm sorry, but visiting hours are ending soon, you'll need to—"

"We're not leaving," Ozzie said flatly.

"Sir, I understand, but we have policies—"

"Your policies can make an exception." Ozzie's voice took on the tone of the Sin of Lust—authoritative and absolute. "She woke up terrified and alone once already today. That's not happening again. We're staying."

"I'll need to get my supervisor—"

"Get whoever you need to get. We're not leaving her."

The nurse retreated, clearly not paid enough to argue with a Sin.

Fizz reached over and took Ozzie's hand. "Hey. Breathe. Getting heated at nurses isn't going to help."

"I know. I just—" Ozzie looked at you, small and vulnerable in the hospital bed. "I can't leave her, Fizz. Not after today."

"I know. We won't. We'll make them understand." Fizz's bells chimed softly. "But maybe with less intimidation and more negotiation?"

Ozzie managed a small smile. "You're the reasonable one now? What happened to my chaotic boyfriend?"

"He's taking a break so his protective boyfriend doesn't accidentally terrorize the hospital staff." Fizz squeezed Ozzie's hand. "She's safe. We're here. That's what matters."

"That's what matters," Ozzie agreed quietly.

The supervisor never came. Apparently word had spread that Asmodeus was refusing to leave, and nobody wanted to be the one to force the issue.

So they stayed—Fizz in the chair he'd claimed, Ozzie in a corner where he could see both you and the door, both of them keeping watch.

"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.

This was the easy part. The part that required no thought at all.

Which is why his mind wandered.

The cot situation's gettin' ridiculous, he thought, tracking the target's movement with minimal effort. She's on my cot, I'm on the floor. Can't keep that up forever. Gonna wreck my back.

The target stopped. Lit a cigarette. Perfect.

Could get another cot. Wouldn't cost much. Just gotta find one that'll fit in the lair without takin' up all the space.

He adjusted for wind. Minimal, barely a factor.

Food's runnin' low too. She eats like a bird but it adds up. Gonna need to stock up better. Maybe hit that market in the east settlement—they got better prices on jerky.

The target turned, presenting a clear line of sight.

Water storage could be better. The canteen's fine for one but we're goin' through it twice as fast now. Should set up a better collection system. Maybe rig somethin' near the back where the runoff—

He stopped. Rewound that thought.

We're going through it.

Our water supply.

When the hell had he started thinking like that?

His finger tightened on the trigger reflexively. The rifle kicked. The target dropped—clean headshot, dead before he hit the ground.

Striker lowered the rifle, already disassembling it with practiced hands, but his mind was elsewhere.

We. Our. Us.

Not my lair with a damn stray Not temporary situation. Just... we.

Like it was normal. Like she belonged there.

"Fuck," he muttered, packing the rifle away with more force than necessary.

But even as he tried to push the thoughts away, they kept coming. Relentless as a sandstorm.

Could reinforce the door better. Make sure nobody can just kick it in. And the perimeter needs work—maybe some tripwires, something that'll give us warning if anyone gets close.

We could use better storage. Somewhere to keep supplies organized so we ain't constantly diggin' through crates lookin' for shit.

And if we're stayin' long-term—

He stopped walking. Stood there in the middle of a Greed Ring alley with his rifle case over his shoulder and the slow, creeping realization that he'd stopped thinking about this as temporary.

Stopped thinking about when she'd leave.

Started thinking about... what? A future? Together?

But the thoughts wouldn't stop. Plans kept forming, practical and detailed, all centered around making the lair more livable.

Making it more like a home.

For both of them.

"Dammit," he hissed, starting to walk again. "This is what happens when you let strays in. They get comfortable. You get comfortable. Next thing you know you're thinkin' about—about—"

About her smile when she successfully pet Bombproof for the first time. About the way she hums while she cooks sometimes. About coming back to find someone waiting, someone who was glad to see him safe.

About not being alone anymore.

His tail rattled—sharp, agitated. He didn't do complications.

Striker was taking the long route back through Wrath—partially because Bombproof needed water, partially because he needed time to think before facing her again. Before she looked at him with those wide, trusting eyes and asked how his work went like she actually cared about the answer.

He'd stopped at a small trading outpost—barely more than a handful of structures clustered around a well. Bombproof drank while Striker restocked some basic supplies, trying not to think about how he was buying things specifically because she might need them.

That's when he saw it.

Tacked to a wooden post outside what might've been a general store, faded and sun-bleached but still legible:

FARMHAND WANTED

Ruff'n'Tumbleweed Ranch—35 miles west

Honest work, fair pay, lodging included

Experience preferred but not required

Inquire within or contact below

Little tear-off tags dangled from the bottom with a contact number.

Striker stopped. Stared at it.

Farmhand work. He'd done that before, years ago, before he'd gotten good enough with a rifle to make real money. It was hard labor—feeding livestock, mending fences, mucking out stables, mustering hell-beasts. Back-breaking and monotonous.

Honest work, like the poster said.

...Safe work.

The kind of work where you didn't come home smelling like gunpowder or blood. Where you kept regular hours and had people around. Where you weren't alone in the middle of nowhere with nothing but your horse and your weapons and—

An image flashed through his mind, unbidden and visceral: her, hurt. Bleeding or worse—the image of someone finding her while he was gone—

His hand moved before his brain caught up, reaching out to tear off one of the tags.

He stopped with his fingers on the paper.

What was he doing? He wasn't a farmhand. He was a Killer. He was a professional. He had a reputation. Had standards. Taking some grunt-work position on a ranch was beneath him.

But.

Lodging included.

That meant walls. Structure. Other people around. She wouldn't be alone when he had to leave. There'd be someone to check on her, make sure she was safe, keep her—

Keep her safe.

That's what this was about, wasn't it? Keeping her safe. Making sure she didn't end up hurt or worse because he'd left her alone in the most dangerous ring of Hell with nothing but a horse for protection.

His fingers closed around the tag. Pulled.

The paper tore free with a soft ripping sound.

Striker stared at it—at the faded ink, at the contact information. At the possibility it represented.

"The hell am I doin'?" he muttered.

But he pocketed the tag anyway.

The ride back to the lair took hours. Bombproof maintained his steady pace while Striker's mind spun in circles, worrying at the idea like a hound with a bone.

A ranch. Steady work. Lodging included.

It made sense, he told himself. Practical. The kind of stable income that didn't depend on contracts or targets. Reliable. Predictable.

The kind of work that could support two people.

The thought settled in his mind before he could stop it, bringing images with it—unbidden, unwanted, persistent.

A real house. Not his cramped lair with its stone walls and minimal amenities, but an actual home with a kitchen and windows and space to breathe. Coming back from a day's work to find a proper meal cooking, warm light spilling from the windows.

Providing, real gentleman like. Making sure she had everything she needed—food, safety, comfort. Not just scraping by on jerky and rationed water, but actually living.

Her not having to worry. Not having to be scared every time he left. Just... safe. Cared for.

By him.

The possessiveness of that thought should've bothered him. Instead, it felt right. Natural. Like some part of him had been waiting for this—someone to take care of, to work for, to build something with.

I could make sure she never went hungry. Never had to ration. Just... provide. The way a man's supposed to.

Come home to her every night instead of maybe, possibly, if the job don't run long.

"Fuck," he muttered, shaking his head.

But the images kept coming. Her sitting on a porch while he worked—safe, content, waiting for him. Both of them at a table for dinner, talking about the day like normal people instead of whatever the hell they were doing now. Bombproof in an actual pasture, with real turf, and her feeding him apples or whatever the heaven Bombproof wanted, laughing when he got pushy about it.

A life. A real one. The kind where he wasn't always looking over his shoulder or wondering if this job would be his last. Where he could be something other than a killer for hire.

Where he could be a provider. A protector. Someone she could rely on.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut.

Was that what this was about? Proving he could take care of someone properly? That he wasn't just some drifter who'd stumbled across her by accident?

"Gettin' way ahead of yourself," he told Bombproof, who flicked an ear back in response. "Ain't even seen the place. Probably a shithole. Probably wouldn't even hire me."

But what if they did?

What if he could walk in there, prove he knew his way around a ranch, and secure steady work that came with a roof and regular pay? What if he could give her stability instead of just survival?

What if he could be the kind of man who came home every night instead of disappearing for days on jobs he couldn't talk about?

The kind of man who deserved her.

You're thinkin' like she's yours, some part of his brain pointed out. Like you got any claim.

He did, though. Didn't he?

She was staying in his lair. Sleeping on his cot, eating his food, wearing his spare shirt. She waited for him to come back. Worried about him. Looked at him like he was something other than a killer.

Like he was someone worth coming home to.

"Maybe I'll just ride past it," he said aloud, testing the words. "The ranch. See what it looks like. Whether it seems like the kind of place that could... work."

Work for providing. For building something that lasted. For being the kind of stable, reliable presence she deserved instead of whatever mess he was now.

Bombproof snorted—knowing, pointed.

"Information gatherin'," Striker insisted. "That's all. Just seein' if it's worth considerin'."

The horse's silence was eloquent.

Striker rode on through the Wrath wastes, contact information burning a hole in his pocket, and let himself imagine what it might be like.

To provide. To protect. To come home to someone who was his.

To build something that mattered.

The lair came into view just as the orange sky was deepening toward crimson. Striker could see smoke rising from the chimney.

Bombproof nickered a greeting as they approached, and Striker heard her voice call out from somewhere.

"Striker? Bombproof ?"

"Yeah, it's—" He rounded the corner and stopped dead.

You were covered in mud. Not like a little splash—covered. Head to toe, thick volcanic mud that clung to your clothes, your hair, your skin. You looked like you'd been wrestling a swamp thing.

And lost spectacularly.

For a moment, Striker just stared. Then his mouth twitched. Then he was grinning—full-on, gold fang showing.

"Well, well. What do we have here?"

You looked down at yourself miserably, then back at him. "Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin widened. "I ain't said nothin' yet."

"You're laughing at me."

"I ain't laughin'. I'm observin'." He tilted his head, clearly enjoying this. "Observin' that you look like you lost a fight with a mud pit."

"I was trying to help," you said defensively. "The water collection area needed cleaning and the edge gave way—"

"Uh-huh. And instead of, say, steppin' back when you felt it give, you decided to just... commit? Dive right in?"

Your face burned. "It happened fast!"

"I bet it did." He was definitely laughing now, shoulders shaking as he dismounted. "How long you been standin' here like that?"

"...A while."

"A while." He circled you slowly, taking in the full extent of the damage. "You try to wash it off?"

"Yes, but it's really sticky and I didn't want to use all the water—"

"So you just stood here. Covered in mud. Waitin' for me to come home and witness this disaster." He stopped in front of you, arms crossed, still grinning. "That about sum it up?"

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Oh, I really am." He reached out and flicked a chunk of dried mud off your shoulder. "This is the most entertainin' thing that's happened all week."

"I hate you," you muttered.

"No you don't." He was already moving past you toward the lair, spurs jingling with obvious amusement. "You're just embarrassed 'cause you look ..."

"Striker don't—"

"You look like a mud sculpture that came to life." He emerged with towels, soap, and one of his spare shirts. "Lucky for you, I'm a generous man. Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Spring. Can't have you drippin' mud all over my lair." He grabbed Bombproof's reins. "And don't even think about arguin'. You need a proper bath and I ain't wastin' our water supply on... whatever this is."

He gestured at your mud-caked form with barely suppressed laughter.

"This is humiliating," you said, following him anyway.

"Yep." He helped you onto Bombproof's back—didn't even try to avoid the mud, just hauled you up. "But it's also hilarious, so I'm countin' it as a win."

"A win for who?"

"Me, obviously." He swung up behind you, and you could hear the grin in his voice.

Bombproof huffed like he was already laughing.

"I'm never helping with anything ever again," you announced.

"Sure you are." His arm came around your waist—mud and all. "You're gonna keep tryin' to be useful, and you're gonna keep gettin' into situations, and I'm gonna keep havin' to rescue you from your own good intentions."

"You make me sound helpless."

"Not helpless. Just..." He paused, considering. "Enthusiastically incompetent?"

You elbowed him. He laughed—actual, genuine laughter—and urged Bombproof forward.

And despite your mortification, despite being covered in mud and the subject of his amusement, you found yourself smiling.

The ride was quiet. He could feel you trying not to get mud on him and trying not to feel embarrassed, you kept ducking your head every time he spoke.

"Could happen to anyone," he said finally, voice gruff.

"Volcanic mud's tricky. Looks solid till it ain't."

"I should've been more careful."

"You're still learnin'. Can't expect you to know every hazard in Wrath right off." He adjusted his grip on the reins. "That's on me for not warnin' you better."

"It's not your job to warn me about everything—"

"Yeah, it is." The words came out more intense than he'd intended. He softened his tone. "You're—you're stayin' in my lair. That makes you my responsibility. So yeah. It is my job."

You were quiet for a moment. "Thank you."

His tail rattled. "Don't mention it."

The spring came into view—one of the few places in Wrath where water actually pooled instead of evaporating immediately. Steam rose from the surface in lazy curls, and the air around it shimmered with heat.

"Here." Striker dismounted and helped you down, handing you the towels and soap and his spare shirt. "Water's safe and warm. Should get that mud right off."

"Okay." You looked at the spring, then at him uncertainly.

He realized the problem immediately and turned his back, moving toward a cluster of rocks. "I'll be over here. Startin' a fire. You just... do your thing. Take your time."

"You're not going to try—"

"I'm a gentleman," he said firmly, sounding almost offended, not turning around. "Despite appearances. You got privacy."

He heard you wade into the water—heard your small gasp as the warmth hit you—and forced himself to focus on building the fire. Finding kindling. Arranging stones. Not thinking about the sounds of you bathing just a few dozen feet away.

Not thinking about how the mud had clung to your skin or how that spare shirt was going to look on you or—

"Focus," he muttered to himself, striking his flint with more force than necessary.

The fire caught. He fed it carefully, keeping his back turned, and tried very hard to think about literally anything else.

Like farmwork. Yeah. Farmwork. Mucking stables. Feeding chickens. Very distracting farmwork.

It didn't help as much as he'd hoped.

The water was glorious. You scrubbed at the mud with the rough soap—it smelled like mesquite and smoke, distinctly Striker—and watched it dissolve into dark clouds that dispersed downstream.

True to his word, Striker kept his back turned. You could see him at the edge of your vision, crouched by the growing fire, shoulders rigid like he was concentrating very hard on not looking.

It was... sweet. In a gruff, Striker kind of way.

You finished washing and waded to the shallows, wrapping yourself in one of the towels before calling out, "I'm done!"

He stood but still didn't turn. "You decent?"

You'd pulled on his spare shirt, fingers making quick work of the buttons—massive on you, falling to mid-thigh like a dress. "Yeah."

Only then did he turn. His eyes flicked over you—quick, assessing—and something complicated crossed his face before he schooled it back to neutral.

"Good. My turn." He grabbed the other towel and moved past you toward the water, already shrugging out of his vest. "Don't go wanderin"

You settled onto a flat rock near the fire, toweling your hair, and tried very hard not to watch as Striker waded into the spring.

You failed.

It wasn't your fault, really. He was right there. And you'd never actually seen him without the vest and shirt before, never realized how lean and muscled he actually was under all those clothes. Scars crisscrossed his back and arms—old ones, silver against his skin, each one a story you'd probably never hear.

He moved with that same efficiency in the water—quick, practical, no wasted motion. Ducked under to wet his hair, came up slicking it back from his face. Water ran down his spine in rivulets, and the firelight caught the droplets on his skin, making them glow like embers.

You should look away. You knew you should look away, your tried to look away, but soon as you did you found your eyes drifting back to his back.

You didn't look away again.

Not until he turned slightly and caught you staring.

For a heartbeat, you both froze. His eyebrow raised slowly, deliberately. Then his mouth curved into a smirk that was absolutely wicked.

"See somethin' you like, darlin'?"

Your face went nuclear. "I wasn't—I didn't—"

"Oh, you absolutely were." He waded a bit closer to shore, still grinning. "That's twice now I've seen you peekin'. Startin' to think you got a habit."

"I was just—the fire—I was looking at the fire—"

"The fire." He crossed his arms, which did absolutely nothing to help your situation because it just made his muscles more obvious. "The fire that's behind you?"

"I—" You had no defense. None. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His grin widened, gold fang glinting. "I'm flattered, actually. Nice to know I still got it."

"Still got what?"

"The ability to make pretty things stare, apparently." He turned away, giving you a view of his back, and you could hear the amusement in his voice. "Go on, then. Get your fill. I ain't shy."

"I'm not—I wasn't trying to—"

"Darlin', you were definitely tryin' to." He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes glinting with mischief. "And succeeding, from the look on your face. What'd you see that's got you so flustered?"

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"The scars? Nah, you dont seem the type." He straightened, water sluicing down his chest in ways that should be illegal. "Must be somethin' else. Maybe—"

"Please stop talking," you managed, hands over your face.

He laughed—actual, genuine laughter that echoed across the spring. "Alright, alright. I'll spare you further torment." But he was still grinning as he started actually washing. "But just so we're clear—we're even now."

"Even?"

"For the other day. When I caught you admirin' Bombproof and you got all defensive." He ducked under the water, came up shaking his head like a dog. "Consider this payback."

"That's completely different!"

"How?"

"Bombproof is a horse!"

"And I'm devastatingly attractive. What's your point?" He was clearly enjoying himself now, tail swishing in the water. "Besides, you're wearin' my shirt, eatin my food. Only fair I get to tease you a little."

You pulled the shirt tighter around yourself, suddenly very aware of how much of you was exposed. "You're impossible."

"So you keep sayin'." He finally waded toward shore, and you immediately spun around to face the fire, giving him privacy to dress. "But you ain't kicked me outta my lair yet, so I must be doin' somethin' right."

You heard the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of boots being pulled on. The jingle of spurs as he settled them into place.

"You can look now, darlin'. I'm decent."

You turned slowly. He'd pulled his pants back on and was shrugging into a clean shirt, hat still off so his damp hair stuck up at odd angles. He looked softer like this. Less dangerous. Almost... approachable.

"Better?" he asked, settling onto the rock beside you.

Your face was still burning. "Much."

Striker had packed food—actual food, not just jerky. He pulled it out now, bread, cheese, some kind of smoked meat that tasted better than it had any right to, and fruit.

"You brought supplies," you said, surprised.

"Had to restock anyway." He tore off a piece of bread and handed it to you. "Figured I'd get stuff that don't require much prep."

You ate together in comfortable silence, the fire crackling between you and the spring steaming in the background. The sky had deepened to that particular shade of crimson that meant full dark was settling over Wrath.

Striker was quieter than usual. You could see him working through something in his head, the way his tail swayed in slow, thoughtful patterns and his eyes stayed fixed on the fire.

"You the type that prefers handlin' everything yourself ?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked at the question. "What do you mean?"

"Just... some folks like takin' care of themselves. Don't want nobody else involved." He tore another piece of bread, not looking at you. "Others are fine lettin' someone else handle certain things. Logistics and such."

"I... I think I'd be okay with someone helping? As long as I could still contribute."

"Mm." He was still watching the flames. "What about routine? You like knowin' what each day's gonna bring, or you need variety?"

"I think routine sounds nice. Predictable."

"Good. That's..." He paused. "That's practical."

Silence settled again. The fire popped, sending up sparks.

"You like animals?" he asked. "I know you warmed up to Bombproof, but what about others? Chickens, pigs, cattle?"

"I think I would. I've never really been around them—that I remember—but the idea sounds nice."

"Even the messy parts? Feedin', cleanin' up after 'em, all that?"

"I don't mind getting dirty," you said, thinking about the mud incident. "Obviously."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Fair point."

More silence. He handed you a piece of fruit, fingers brushing yours briefly.

"You ever think about what makes a place feel like home?" he asked, voice careful. "Like, what would that take for you?"

You thought about it. "I guess... having a purpose? Being useful. And..." You paused, suddenly shy. "Not being alone."

Something in his posture shifted—eased, maybe. "Yeah. Not bein' alone's important."

"What about you?" you asked. "What would make somewhere feel like home?"

He was quiet for a long moment, tail swaying in slow patterns. "Knowin' I could provide what's needed. That the person there—" He stopped, corrected himself. "That whoever's there is taken care of. Safe."

"That sounds like a lot of responsibility."

"It is." But he didn't sound bothered by it. "But it's the kind of responsibility that... means somethin'. You know?"

You nodded, even though you weren't entirely sure you did.

"You mind hard work?" he asked. "Early mornings, physical labor, that sort of thing?"

"I don't think so. I kind of like feeling useful at the end of the day."

"Even if it means bein' tired? Sore?"

"Even then."

He nodded, like you'd confirmed something important. Fed another stick to the fire.

"You ever picture yourself somewhere long-term?" he asked. "Settlin' down somewhere? Or you more the type to keep movin'?"

"I think..." You considered it carefully. "I think I'd like to settle. To have a place that's... mine." You caught yourself. "I mean, wherever I end up. Having roots sounds nice."

His eyes flicked to you at 'ours,' but he didn't comment on it. "Yeah. Roots are good."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"You comfortable around other folks?" he asked. "Like, families? Groups of people workin' ?"

"I think so. It might take me a while to adjust, but I don't mind people."

"That's good." He was choosing his words carefully now, you could tell. "Because sometimes... situations involve other people bein' around. For safety. Company. That sort of thing."

"That makes sense."

He glanced at you, something almost vulnerable in his expression. "You think you could be happy with a simple life? Nothin' fancy, just... steady. Predictable. Knowin' what to expect each day."

"I think I could be happy with that," you said softly. "It sounds peaceful."

"Peaceful," he repeated, like he was testing the word. "Yeah."

The silence that followed was comfortable. Understanding, even if you didn't fully grasp what you were understanding.

He'd been asking about a life, you realized. A specific kind of life. But why, you weren't sure.

"Hey ?" he said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"If I..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "If an opportunity came up. Somethin' that checked all those boxes—routine, animals, other people around, chance to settle. Would you want to know about it?"

Your heart did something complicated. "Yes. I'd want to know."

He nodded slowly. "Alright. Good to know."

"Are you thinking about something specific?" you asked carefully.

"Maybe. Nothin' concrete yet." He poked at the fire with a stick. "Just... weighin' options. Seein' what makes sense."

"For both of us?"

He looked at you then—yellow eyes intense in the firelight. "Yeah. For both of us."

The weight of that settled between you. Not a declaration, not a promise. Just... acknowledgment. That whatever he was planning, you were part of it.

You were included.

"We should probably head back," he said eventually, though he made no move to stand. "Gonna be full dark soon."

"Okay."

But neither of you moved. Just sat there in the firelight, the space between you feeling smaller even though neither of you had shifted closer.

Finally, he stood and offered you his hand. Pulled you up with easy strength, his grip steady and warm.

"Come on, darlin'. Let's get you home."

You climbed onto Bombproof's back, and Striker swung up behind you, and as the horse carried you through the darkness toward the lair, his arm steady around your waist, you thought about the questions he'd asked.

About routine and animals and settling down. About being provided for. About not being alone.

About whatever future he was building in his head.

You forced your smile wider, painted your expression with that vacant, glittering joy that audiences ate up like bootleg gin. Around you, the other dancers fell into formation, a kaleidoscope of sequins and fringe and stockings rolled just above the knee. The pianist hammered out the opening bars again, and you were off.

The studio was a converted warehouse in the cheaper part of town, all exposed brick and questionable heating, but when the music played, it transformed. Your arms swept through the air in those exaggerated, angular movements that defined the era you were trying to resurrect for audiences who'd never lived it. Charleston, shimmy, break, pose. The routine was a love letter to a time that existed now only in fading photographs and scratchy recordings.

Sweat beaded along your hairline, threatening the carefully pinned waves you'd spent an hour crafting that morning. The other dancers—Rosie with her gap-toothed grin, Marco who always counted beats under his breath, Jean who'd been doing this since she could walk—they were all in their own worlds, chasing their own dreams across the scuffed floorboards.

"Better!" Gerald called out as the number reached its crescendo, all of you frozen in a final pose, arms outstretched like you were trying to grab onto something just out of reach.

"That's a wrap for tonight, ladies and gents. Don't forget, we've got the showcase in two weeks. Be brilliant or be gone, those are your options."

The spell broke. The music stopped. You were just tired people in a cold studio again, gathering bags and street clothes, transforming back from fantasies into ordinary humans with ordinary problems.

You changed quickly, pulling on your threadbare coat and wrapping a scarf around your neck. The dance shoes—your good ones, the ones you'd saved three months to buy—stayed on your feet. They were too precious to risk losing, even if they pinched your toes and had already rubbed one heel raw.

The bus stop stood under a flickering streetlight that buzzed like an angry wasp. You checked your watch and winced. Late. Again. The buses ran infrequently this time of evening, and you'd already missed the usual one by fifteen minutes. The next wouldn't arrive for another twenty.

Your stomach knotted. He'd be waiting. He was always waiting.

When the bus finally wheezed to a stop, you climbed aboard and fed coins into the fare box with shaking fingers. The driver didn't look at you—they never did. You were just another body, another passenger in a city full of people trying to get somewhere else.

The bus rumbled through streets that grew progressively darker, progressively quieter, progressively more desperate. Neon signs gave way to broken streetlights. Shop windows with elaborate displays became barred doors and security gates. This was the part of the city that the postcards forgot to mention.

Your stop came both too soon and not soon enough. The apartment building loomed above you, all crumbling brick and rusted fire escapes, a monument to deferred maintenance and broken promises. You climbed the stairs slowly, each step an act of will, each floor bringing you closer to a door you didn't want to open.

The hallway on the fourth floor smelled like old cooking oil and defeat. Your apartment was 3C, right next to 3B where the lights were always off and strange sounds sometimes echoed through the walls at odd hours. You'd learned not to ask questions in buildings like this.

Curiosity was a luxury you couldn't afford.

Your key turned in the lock with a click that sounded too loud, too final.

The apartment hit you like a physical force—the reek of cigarettes and cheap booze, the staleness of air that hadn't circulated in days, the particular quality of tension that came from sharing space with someone who'd been drinking and thinking in equal measure.

He was sitting in the armchair, the one piece of furniture in the whole place that wasn't falling apart, because he'd claimed it first and defended it like a lion did territory.

The ashtray on the arm was overflowing, a pyramid of butts and ash that threatened to spill onto the floor. A bottle stood on the table beside him like a soldier at attention.

"You're late." His voice was flat, emotionless, which was somehow worse than if he'd been yelling. "Rehearsal ended an hour and a half ago."

"The bus—" you started, but he was already standing, already moving toward you with that particular gait that made your heart rate spike.

"The bus," he repeated, his laugh sharp and humorless. "Right. The bus. You think I'm stupid? Huh bitch ?"

"I'm not—there's nothing—j-just dancing" The words tangled on your tongue, because how did you convince someone that the narrative they'd invented in their head wasn't real?

"Dancing." He stood up, the bottle clutched in his fist, already half-empty. "That what you're calling it now?"

"It's not—I was at the studio, you can call and ask—"

"Oh, I'm sure you were at the studio. Question is, what you were doing there. Or who you were doing." He moved closer, and you instinctively took a step back, your shoulders hitting the door you'd just closed. "You think I'm stupid don'tcha ? You think I don't know?"

Your bag slipped from your shoulder to the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was dancing. Just dancing."

"Just dancing." He laughed, but there was nothing funny in it. "Dressed up in those little outfits, shaking your ass for anyone who wants to look. You think I don't know what kind of girls become dancers?"

"It's not like that—"

"DON'T YOU FUCKIN' LIE TO ME!"

The bottle shattered against the wall beside your head, and you flinched, throwing your arms up instinctively. Whiskey and glass rained down, and then his hands were on your shoulders, shoving you hard against the door.

"Who is he? Tell me his name!"

"There's no one! I swear, there's no—"

"LIAR!"

The shove came suddenly, violently, sending you stumbling sideways into the tiny kitchen area. Your hip caught the corner of the counter and pain exploded white-hot through your side. You tried to catch yourself, but your dance shoes—those beautiful, impractical, expensive dance shoes—found no purchase on the grimy linoleum.

You went down hard, hands barely breaking your fall, the impact jarring through your wrists and elbows. One shoe buckle snapped with a sound like breaking bone.

Through the thin wall separating 3C from 3B, unheard and unnoticed, came the muffled sounds of someone—or a few somethings—moving around with purpose.

"Okay, so that's one dead cheating husband, one dead secret girlfriend, and—Moxxie, what the fuck is that?"

Blitz stood in the middle of apartment 3B, gesturing at the carnage with the casual air of someone critiquing a restaurant meal. Blood spattered the walls in patterns that would have fascinated a forensic analyst and horrified literally everyone else. The bodies—well, they weren't in positions that bodies normally achieved without significant help from physics and creative use of nearby furniture.

Moxxie looked up from where he was attempting to wrestle a severed arm into a garbage bag, his face scrunched with concentration and barely suppressed disgust. "Sir, this is the dead secret girlfriend. You literally just said that's what we were cleaning up."

"No, I mean that." Blitz pointed at something that might have once been an internal organ. "That shouldn't be... outside. That should be inside. How did it even get over there?"

"Well, when you shot him with the—"

"It was a rhetorical question, Moxx!" Blitz threw his hands up, flinging droplets of questionable fluid across the already-ruined carpet. "Christ on a stick, we don't have time for your nerdy anatomical play-by-play. We've got like twenty minutes before someone reports the screaming, and we still need to—"

"Actually, B," Millie chimed in cheerfully, her Southern accent somehow making discussion of dismemberment sound downright wholesome, "nobody's gonna report nothing in this building. Did you see the state of this place on the way in? Pretty sure the guy on the second floor is running a whole meth lab."

She was wiping down her knife with an efficiency that spoke to long practice, already moving on to gathering shell casings with the kind of methodical thoroughness that Blitz appreciated in an employee, even if he'd never actually say it out loud.

"Still," Moxxie insisted, carefully placing the bagged arm next to what was becoming an impressive pile of biological evidence, "we should maintain proper protocols. The last thing we need is someone investigating and finding traces that lead back to—"

CRASH.

The sound came from the apartment next door—3C—loud enough to cut through Moxxie's protocol speech and make all three imps pause mid-cleanup.

"The FUCK was that?" Blitz said, swiveling toward the shared wall.

Millie and Moxxie exchanged a look, one of those wordless married-people conversations that Blitz found both nauseating and privately enviable.

"Probably just neighbors," Blitz continued, returning his attention to the mess. "Not our problem. We've got enough problems. See? This is problems." He gestured broadly at the crime scene that was absolutely not going to clean itself.

"Sir..." Moxxie started, his tail twitching with that anxious energy that usually preceded him saying something annoyingly moral.

"Nope! No. Whatever you're about to say, the answer is no. We are not getting involved in some random humans domestic—"

"YOU THINK I'M STUPID?"

The yell came through the wall clear as day, male, aggressive, with that particular quality that made Millie's expression harden and Moxxie's hand drift toward his weapon.

"Blitz, " Millie said, her usual cheerfulness cooling to something sharper, "that don't sound good."

"Not. Our. Problem," Blitz enunciated carefully, like he was explaining advanced mathematics to a particularly dim child. "We are LITERALLY standing in an apartment with two dead bodies that we killed on PURPOSE. We are in the murder business, not the—the—whatever the fuck the opposite of murder is business."

"The saving people business?" Moxxie offered.

"We don't have that business! That's not a business we're in!"

Another crash, louder this time, followed by a sound that might have been something breaking. Or someone.

Then silence.

Not the peaceful kind of silence, but the heavy, waiting kind that pressed against your eardrums and made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

"Fuck," Blitz muttered, because that silence was somehow worse than the yelling had been.

Millie was already moving toward the door, her knife back in her hand like it had never left. "Mox, you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That we should probably check if someone needs—"

"No! Nobody is thinking anything!" Blitz scrambled after them, trying to physically put himself between his employees and the door. "We have dead bodies! Plural! That need disposing of! This is literally the worst time for you two DIPSHITS to develop a conscience!"

But Millie was already in the hallway, and Moxxie was right behind her, and Blitz was left in apartment 3B having a moral crisis he absolutely did not have time for.

"Should we knock?" Moxxie suggested, which was such a Moxxie thing to suggest that Blitz actually groaned out loud.

"Oh sure, knock! 'Hey, random domestic abuser, can you pause beating the shit out of someone so we can murder you properly? We're kinda in a hurry!'" Blitz's voice dripped with sarcasm thick enough to bottle.

Millie pressed her ear against the door of 3C. "I don't hear nothing. No talking, no moving, nothing."

"Maybe they made up and they're having makeup sex," Blitz tried desperately. "Humans do that. It's weird as FUCK but they do it. Now can we please just—"

"Sir," Moxxie said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made even Blitz shut up. "That wasn't the sound of people making up. That was the sound of someone getting hurt. Badly."

The three of them stood in the hallway, a tableau of demonic indecision, Millie coiled and ready, Moxxie anxious but determined, and Blitz calculating odds and exit strategies and how much explaining he'd have to do to Loonie if this all went sideways.

"Fine! FINE! But if this fucks up our whole evening, I'm blaming both of you in the group chat." Blitz stepped back, sized up the door to 3C, and—

"Wait, shouldn't we—" Moxxie started.

Too late. Blitz hit the door with his shoulder, Millie added a well-placed kick for good measure, and the cheap apartment door basically exploded inward in a shower of splinters and failing hinges.

The first thing you registered was the sudden cold air from the hallway, rushing in through the space where your door used to be.

The second thing was the creatures standing in that space.

Your mind tried to process what you were seeing and failed spectacularly. They were small—shorter than you, which was saying something given your own stature—but they radiated a kind of dangerous competence that made size irrelevant.

Red skin, horns, tails, yellow eyes that glowed slightly in the apartment's dim lighting.

Your boyfriend's voice, usually so commanding, came out as a strangled wheeze. "What the fuck—"

The tallest one—male, you thought, with stripes on his horns and the kind of grin that promised violence—pointed at your boyfriend with something that was definitely a gun. "Okay, here's how this is gonna go, fuckface. You're gonna shut up, sit down, and seriously reconsider your life choices in the next thirty seconds, or—"

But your boyfriend, drunk and angry and stupid, lunged forward instead.

What happened next occurred too fast for your shocked brain to fully catalog. The female one—shorter, with a Southern accent that seemed wildly out of place—moved like liquid death, her knife finding its mark with surgical precision. The other one—nervous-looking, bow-tied—followed up with efficiency that spoke to practice.

Your boyfriend went down hard and didn't get back up.

You should have screamed. That would have been the normal response. But your voice had fled somewhere deep inside you, taking all your other reactions with it. You just sat there on the floor, back against the kitchen counter, staring at the scene in front of you with the kind of detachment that only came from severe shock.

The tall one—the leader, clearly—groaned. "Great! Fantastic! Now we've got TWO FUCKIN messes to clean up tonight. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid!"

"Blitz, sir, he attacked first," the bow-tied one said, already moving to check the body with professional thoroughness. "We were clearly acting in... well, not self-defense exactly, but..."

"But he was a piece of shit who had it coming," the female finished, wiping her blade clean on your boyfriend's shirt with zero ceremony. Then she looked up and met your eyes, and her expression softened into something almost kind.

"Hey there, sweetie. You okay?"

Were you okay? The question seemed absurd. You were sitting on the floor of your apartment, which no longer had a door, watching actually were they demons? they had to be demons, stand over the body of your now-very-dead boyfriend, and one of them was asking if you were okay.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

"Shit, she's in shock," Blitz observed. "Moxxie, do something. You're good at the...at things."

"I don't think this situation is really covered in any manual I've read, sir," Moxxie replied, but he moved closer anyway, hands raised in what was probably meant to be a non-threatening gesture. Given that those hands had been instrumental in killing a man about fifteen seconds ago, the effect was somewhat lost.

Your eyes dropped to your feet, to your dance shoes. The left one's buckle hung broken, the strap dangling uselessly. Three months of saving, of skipping meals and walking instead of taking the bus, of dreaming about the showcase where you might finally catch someone's eye, someone who could offer something better than this apartment and this life and this—

The shoes were ruined.

That's what broke through the shock. Not the violence, not the impossible creatures in your kitchen, not even the corpse bleeding out onto your floor. The shoes.

You started laughing.

It was not a sane sound. You knew that even as it bubbled up from somewhere in your chest, harsh and broken and edging toward hysterical. You laughed and laughed and couldn't stop, even as tears started streaming down your face, even as the three demons exchanged increasingly worried glances.

"Okay, that's... concerning," Blitz said. "That's a concerning reaction. Millie, your call—is that a 'leave her here' laugh or a 'she's gonna tell the cops' laugh?"

But Millie wasn't looking at Blitz. She was looking at you—really looking, taking in the bruises already forming on your arms, the way you'd instinctively curled in on yourself, the apartment that reeked of cigarettes and broken promises, the ruined shoes on your feet.

"We're taking her with us," Millie announced, in the same tone she might use to comment on the weather.

"WHAT." Blitz's voice cracked on the word. "No. Absolutely not. We are not adopting a stray human!"

"Mills, honey," Moxxie started carefully, "I understand the impulse, but we can't just kidnap someone. That's... that's actually very illegal. Even for us."

"She ain't got nothing here," Millie shot back, gesturing around the apartment. "Look at this place, Mox. Look at her. You really wanna leave her here, with a dead body and no door and satan knows who coming around asking questions?"

"That is extremely not our problem!" Blitz insisted. "We kill people! That's the job! We don't rescue them!"

Your laughter had finally subsided into hitching breaths. You looked up at the three of them—these impossible things arguing about your fate like you weren't even there—and found your voice, small and cracked but functional.

"Where... where did you even come from?"

Three pairs of glowing eyes turned to you.

"Hell," Blitz said flatly, like it was obvious, like he was tired of explaining basic facts to idiots. "We're from Hell. We kill people for money. And we're leaving. Right now. Without you."

"Sir—" Moxxie tried.

"Blitz—" Millie started.

"NO! Final answer! We've already had one impulsive decision tonight—" he gestured at your boyfriend's body "—and that's my limit! We're going back home, we're cleaning up the ORIGINAL mess we came here to make, and we're forgetting this ever happened!"

But Millie had that look in her eye, the one Moxxie probably recognized from countless arguments. She crossed her arms and set her jaw, and Blitz visibly deflated.

"Mills, please don't do the thing."

"What thing?" Millie asked innocently.

"The thing where you make the face and then I feel like an asshole and then we end up doing whatever insane plan you had anyway!"

"I ain't making no face. I'm just saying, we can't leave her here. It ain't right."

"We're from Hell! We're not supposed to do what's right!"

You watched this argument unfold with the distant fascination of someone watching a play in a foreign language. Hell. They were from Hell. That should have been terrifying, should have sent you screaming into the hallway, if you could have stood up, which seemed unlikely given how much your legs were shaking.

But somehow, sitting here on your floor with these bickering demons, you felt safer than you had in months.

"I don't... I don't understand," you whispered. "Hell is real? Like, actually real?"

"Oh good, she's forming sentences," Blitz muttered. "That's a great sign that she's totally fine to leave here on her own."

Moxxie crouched down to your level, his expression genuinely concerned. "Yes, Hell is real. So is Heaven, theoretically, though we don't really interact with them much. There's a whole... system. It's complicated."

"Moxxie, stop explaining the afterlife to a human!" Blitz snapped. "We need to FUCKING GO!"

"Her name's on the lease," Millie announced, having apparently taken a moment to rifle through the mail on the counter. "Apartment's in her name, that cocksucker wasn't even on it. She's been paying for everything herself." She fixed Blitz with a look. "We're taking her."

"This is kidnapping!"

"It ain't kidnapping if she wants to come." Millie turned to you, offering a hand that was still slightly stained with your boyfriend's blood. Her smile was warm despite the carnage.

"What do you say, sugar? Wanna get out of here?"

You should have said no. Any sane person would have said no. These were demons. From Hell. Who had just murdered someone in your kitchen.

But you looked at that offered hand, and then at the apartment around you—the prison you'd been living in without even realizing it—and then down at your ruined shoes.

You took Millie's hand.

"Okay, fine! FINE!" Blitz threw his hands up in defeat. "But if she tries to exorcise us or starts praying, I'm leaving all of you FUCKING here!" He stomped toward the destroyed door, then paused and turned back. "And someone needs to carry her because there is no way those shoes are gonna make it down four flights of stairs."

Before you could process that statement, Moxxie had scooped you up with surprising strength for someone his size. You made an undignified sound.

"Don't worry," he said, sounding embarrassed. "This is just temporary. Until we get you somewhere with, um, intact footwear."

Millie grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door—your jacket, you realized dimly—and draped it over your shoulders. "We'll figure the rest out once we getcha home. Blitz is grumpy but he'll come around. Always does."

"I can HEAR you, Mills!"

You should have been terrified.

You blinked your eyes open slowly, vision slightly blurry with sleep, and let out a soft groan as you tried to process where you were. The room was dim—heavy curtains blocking out most of the lust's perpetual glow—but you could make out shapes moving in the darkness.

Your eyes focused slowly, and you realized Fizz was across the room by the dresser, in his costume, carefully packing items into a suitcase. His movements were precise and quiet, clearly trying not to wake anyone.

He was wearing his jester hat.

The thought drifted through your sleep-drunk brain—has he ever taken that off? You'd never seen him without it. Not once. Even last night, when you'd all fallen asleep together, he'd been wearing it.

But the thought slipped away as quickly as it had come, replaced by the more immediate realization that Fizz was packing. Right. The tour. The kids shows in Greed. He was leaving today.

A couple of weeks worth of shows, he'd said.

You must have made some sound—a soft noise of displeasure at the thought—because Fizz's head snapped toward the bed, his eyes widening when he saw you watching him.

"Oh shit," he whispered, wincing. "Sorry, cutie. I was trying not to wake you."

You just stared at him, still too sleep-fuzzy to form words, and watched as he carefully set down the shirt he'd been folding and made his way over to the bed.

"I'm so sorry," he cooed, his voice dropping into that baby-talk tone as he settled on the edge of the mattress. "Did I wake you up? I was being so quiet! Well, quiet for me, which admittedly isn't very quiet, but still!"

One of his mechanical hands came up, gently carding through your hair, pushing the messy strands back from your face with surprising tenderness. His touch was careful, almost reverent.

"Go back to sleep, okay?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "You don't have to get up yet."

But you were more awake now, and the reality of the situation was setting in. Fizz was leaving. For two weeks. That was... that was a really long time.

"Don't wanna," you mumbled, your voice rough with sleep. Your hand reached up, fumbling slightly, until you caught his wrist. "Don't go."

"Aw, cutie," Fizz said, and there was something achingly soft in his voice. "I have to. Contract and all that. Mammon's gonna be a dick if I bail."

"Don't care," you said stubbornly, tugging on his wrist. "Stay."

Fizz laughed quietly, the sound warm and fond. "You're very cute when you're sleepy, you know that?"

"M'not cute," you protested. "M'serious. Stay."

"Tell you what," Fizz said, letting you pull him down closer. "How about one more kiss and then I promise to call you every single day I'm gone?"

You considered this, your sleep-addled brain trying to decide if that was an acceptable compromise. Before you could answer, you were pulling him down further, until his face was level with yours, and pressing your lips to his.

The kiss was soft and unhurried, sweet in a way that made your chest ache. Fizz made a small sound of surprise before melting into it, one hand coming up to cup your face.

When you finally pulled apart, Fizz was grinning at you with an expression that was somehow both playful and unbearably tender.

"Okay," he said softly. "That was a pretty compelling argument for staying."

"Then stay," you mumbled, already trying to pull him back down.

"Can't, cutie. Contractual obligations are a bitch."

The bed shifted beneath you, and a deep, rumbling voice said, "What's going on?"

You realized, with a start, that you'd been sleeping against Ozzie this entire time. He was warm—that explained the heat—and solid, and you'd apparently been using his bicep as a pillow for most of the night.

"Sorry," Fizz said, not sounding sorry at all. "Our girl is trying to convince me not to go on tour by being unreasonably adorable."

"I see that," Ozzie said, and you could hear the amusement in his voice. One of his large hands came to rest on your back, the touch grounding. "How's that working out for you, little one?"

"Not good," you admitted, your face still buried against what you now realized was Ozzie's chest. "He's being stubborn."

"He has a contract," Ozzie pointed out gently. "As much as I'd love to keep him here too."

You finally lifted your head to look at them both—Fizz perched on the edge of the bed, looking fond and amused, and Ozzie propped up slightly against the headboard, his eyes soft in the low light.

"This is unfair," you said. "I just got used to having both of you around and now one of you is leaving."

"Just for two weeks," Fizz promised. "And I'm gonna call so much you'll get sick of me."

"Impossible," you said immediately.

"Aw, you say that now," Fizz teased. "Wait until I'm calling you at 3 AM because I can't sleep and want to tell you about the weird dream I had."

"I wouldn't mind," you said honestly.

Something shifted in Fizz's expression—something soft and vulnerable that was quickly covered by his usual grin. "Careful, cutie. Say stuff like that and I might actually do it."

"Good," you said.

Ozzie's hand was still on your back, his thumpad, drawing soothing circles. "We should get up," he said reluctantly. "I'll make breakfast, and we have a proper send-off for Fizz. With food and coffee and maybe some dignity."

"I don't do dignity," Fizz protested.

"I'm aware," Ozzie said dryly. "But we can at least try."

Breakfast turned out to be a chaotic affair, but in the best way.

Ozzie made pancakes—actual, fluffy, delicious pancakes—while Fizz flitted around the kitchen like a hyperactive hummingbird, stealing bites of batter and generally being a menace.

You sat at the counter, still in your clothes from the night before, watching them move around each other with the ease of long practice. They had a rhythm, these two. Ozzie would reach for something and Fizz would already be handing it to him. Fizz would start to tip over a bowl and Ozzie would steady it without looking.

It was beautiful, in a way. Intimate. You felt privileged to witness it.

"Okay, so," Fizz was saying, gesticulating wildly with a piece of bacon. "The first show is tonight, which means I'll probably be exhausted and grumpy. The second show is tomorrow afternoon, which means I'll be exhausted and even grumpier. By day three I'll probably be questioning all my life choices."

"So business as usual," Ozzie said, flipping a pancake with practiced ease.

"Exactly!" Fizz said cheerfully. "But with more screaming children."

"You love performing for kids," you pointed out.

"I do," Fizz admitted. "They're honest. If your joke sucks, they let you know immediately. It's refreshing." He paused. "Also they're way easier to impress than adult audiences. Set something on fire and they lose their minds."

"Please don't set anything on fire," Ozzie said.

"I make no promises," Fizz said, then caught Ozzie's expression. "Fine, fine. I promise to only set things on fire in a controlled and professional manner."

"Better," Ozzie said, sliding a plate of pancakes toward you.

You picked up your fork, but found yourself watching Fizz instead of eating. He was so animated, so full of energy, even this early in the morning. The thought of the palace without that energy for two whole weeks felt wrong.

"You're staring, cutie," Fizz said, noticing your attention.

"Sorry," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "I'm just... gonna miss you."

Fizz's expression went soft. "Gonna miss you too. Both of you." He looked at Ozzie. "Try not to burn the palace down while I'm gone?"

"I think I can manage," Ozzie said dryly.

"And you," Fizz pointed at you with his bacon, "try not to let Ozzie work too much. He's gonna try to bury himself in paperwork the second I leave. It's what he does when he's stressed."

"I do not—" Ozzie started.

"You absolutely do," Fizz interrupted. "You're a workaholic and we all know it."

"Pot, kettle," Ozzie shot back.

"Yeah, but I'm a fun workaholic," Fizz said. "You're a boring workaholic. There's a difference."

You couldn't help but smile at their bickering. This was normal. This was them. And you were going to miss this specific flavor of chaos so much.

After breakfast, after the dishes were cleared and Fizz had triple-checked his suitcase, it was finally time.

The three of you stood in the entryway, Fizz's suitcase by the door, and nobody seemed to want to be the first to actually say goodbye.

"So," Fizz said finally, his usual manic energy tempered by something more genuine. "This is it. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours."

"You did the math?" you asked.

"I did the math," Fizz confirmed. "I'm gonna be counting down every single one of them."

Ozzie stepped forward, pulling Fizz into a hug that looked like it might crack ribs if Ozzie wasn't being careful. "Call when you get there," he said, his voice low. "And after every show. And if Mammon gives you any shit—"

"I'll handle it Oz," Fizz promised. "I always do."

"I know," Ozzie said. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

They kissed—a proper kiss, deep and lingering, the kind that spoke of years together and promises to come back.

Then Fizz turned to you, and his expression shifted into something playful. "Come here, cutie. Can't leave without a proper goodbye from my favorite human."

You stepped forward, and Fizz immediately pulled you into a hug, lifting you slightly off your feet. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on tighter than was probably necessary.

"Two weeks," Fizz murmured into your hair. "I'll be back before you know it."

"It's gonna feel like forever," you said, your voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Yeah," Fizz agreed. "Yeah, it is."

He set you down gently, but kept his hands on your waist. "Hey. Look at me."

You looked up, meeting his mismatched eyes.

"I'm coming back," he said firmly. "Two weeks, and then I'm coming home. To both of you. Okay?"

"Okay," you whispered.

"Good," Fizz said, and then he was kissing you—quick and sweet and full of promise. "Take care of Ozzie for me. Make sure he actually sleeps and eats and doesn't just work himself to death."

"I will," you promised.

"And take care of yourself too," Fizz added. "Don't let the palace get too quiet. Play music. Bother the Quevies. Raid the kitchen. Whatever you need to do."

"Okay," you said again.

Fizz pulled back, his hands lingering for just a moment longer before he finally, reluctantly, let go. He grabbed his suitcase, shot one more grin at both of you, and headed for the door.

"Don't have too much fun without me!" he called over his shoulder.

And then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed far too loud in the sudden silence.

You and Ozzie stood there for a long moment, just staring at the door.

"Well," Ozzie said finally. "That's that."

"Yeah," you agreed quietly.

The palace felt emptier already.

The first thing you noticed about Ozzie without Fizz around was how much attention he paid to you.

It wasn't that he'd been inattentive before—far from it. But with Fizz gone, that focus that was usually split between the two of you was now entirely concentrated on you, and it was... intense.

"What do you want for lunch?" he asked that first afternoon, appearing in the doorway of the living room where you'd been reading.

"Oh, I can make something," you said, already starting to get up.

"I didn't ask if you could make something," Ozzie said, his tone gentle but firm. "I asked what you wanted. I'm making it."

"I don't want to be a bother—"

"Little one," Ozzie interrupted, moving into the room. Even trying to be casual, his presence was enormous, commanding. "You are not, and have never been, a bother. Now. What sounds good?"

You ended up with a grilled cheese sandwich that was somehow the best grilled cheese you'd ever had, made with cheeses you couldn't pronounce and bread that was probably too fancy for a simple sandwich.

"You didn't have to go this fancy," you said, taking another bite.

"I wanted to," Ozzie said simply, watching you eat with an expression that was impossibly soft. "Besides, Gotta spoil someone."

It continued like that throughout the day. Ozzie checking in on you, asking if you needed anything, making sure you were comfortable. It was attentive and sweet and occasionally overwhelming in the best way.

"I'm going to the club tonight," Ozzie said that evening, voice a low, velvet rumble as he adjusted his jacket in the mirror. "Need to check on operations, do some hosting. You want to come with me?"

"To the club?" you asked, surprised. "I mean, I've been there for open mic night, but..."

"But you've never seen me actually work," Ozzie finished, turning to face you with a slow, wicked grin. "Run the show. Be the host. The full Asmodeus experience." He paused, something almost vulnerable flickering in his eyes. "I'd like you to see that side of me. If you're interested, little one."

"I'm interested," you said immediately.

Ozzie's smile was brilliant. "Good. Wear something nice. I'll make sure you have the best seat in the house."

A few hours later, you were settled in the private balcony booth—the same one from open mic night—but this time you were alone. Porchi had brought you a drink "On the house, Princess,"

You scoffed as he winked setting the drink down with exaggerated flair before vanishing back into the chaos.

The club was packed, the energy electric in a way open mic night hadn't been. This was prime time at Ozzie's, and the crowd was here for sin in full swing.

And then Ozzie took the stage.

He was enormous—a commanding presence that made the whole room feel smaller. His expression bright under the spotlights, shadows shifting across the dancers and tables. His voice boomed effortlessly, deep and sinful, every word dripping with that theatrical flair that was pure Asmodeus.

"Welcome, welcome, WELCOME to Ozzie's!" he purred, drawing out the word like he was tasting it. The crowd erupted. "Hell's premier establishment for lust, debauchery, and whatever filthy little fantasy gets your blood pumping! I'm your host, the one, the only, the Sin of Lust himself—Asmodeus!"

This wasn't the Ozzie who stressed cooked and fussed over you and Fizz.

This was the showman—seductive, shameless, larger than life. He moved like liquid, gesturing wide as he introduced the first act.

"Now, I know what you're all here for," he continued, voice dropping to a husky growl that sent shivers through the room. "You're here to indulge. To let loose. To celebrate every throbbing, aching urge that makes lust so goddamn delicious." He leaned forward "So give in, darlings. Let it build. Let it burn."

A wolf-whistle cut through the noise. Ozzie's grin turned almost predatory as he zeroed in on the source.

"Ohhh, I like you," he drawled, pointing with one clawed finger. "Bold, beautiful, horny little hellborn. Someone get them a drink on the house—and make it the good stuff. Anyone brave enough to catcall the King of Lust deserves a reward... or at least a good buzz."

The crowd roared approval. Throughout the night, he worked them like a master—flirtatious quips, suggestive commentary, innuendos that landed like punches wrapped in silk. "Come on, don't be shy—show me what you've got!" Or, spotting a couple getting handsy: "Look at that—just how I like it. Keep going, babes, remember in desire we trust!"

Yet every so often, his gaze flicked upward to your booth. Just a second—long enough for those glowing eyes to find you, soften, and remind you: this was still your Ozzie under the performance.

During a brief lull between acts, his attention shifted fully to the balcony level. His voice carried that same seductive purr, but now aimed higher.

"We have some very special guests tonight," he announced, eyes locking on you. "Including someone who's been watching very intently all evening."

Your face burned as heads turned, trying to spot you in the shadows.

"Now, now," Ozzie continued, playful but firm, raising a hand to hush the curious murmurs. "Don't go looking. Some guests deserve their privacy. But know this—" his tone dipped, warm and intimate despite the mic, "—even the Sin of Lust has people he wants to impress. People who get the real show when the lights go down."

The crowd ate it up—cheers, whistles, a few knowing laughs. You buried your face in your hands, mortified and thrilled.

When you peeked again, Ozzie was grinning straight at you from the stage, teasing and affectionate in equal measure.

After the final act, after the crowd thinned and the club quieted to a low hum of cleanup, Ozzie found you still in the booth. He ducked through the entrance—careful not to clip his head on the frame—and settled beside you, or rather took up the entire space next to you, the custom furniture barely containing his frame.

"So," he said, voice back to its usual deep warmth, no performance left. "What did you think, little one?"

"You're really good," you said honestly. "The hosting. The performance. You had everyone completely captivated."

"Yeah?" There was a hint of shyness in it now, despite the earlier swagger. "It didn't make you uncomfortable? The flirting, the innuendos, all that... showmanship?"

"No," you said, thinking it over. "It was... actually pretty attractive. Watching you be so confident and in control. It's different from how you are with me, but it's still you."

"Different how?" he asked, genuinely curious, leaning down so his face was closer to yours.

"With me and Fizz, you're gentle," you said softly. "Careful. Sweet. Up there, you're commanding. Seductive. Powerful."

You paused, suddenly shy "I i-kinda like both versions."

Ozzie's face brightened, a pleased rumble vibrating through his chest. He reached out, one massive finger gently tracing your cheek.

"Good," he murmured, voice low and sincere. "Because you are the only one who gets this side of me. You and Fizz both—you're my priority. No one else even comes close."

You swallowed, warmth blooming in your chest. "I know, Ozzie."

He leaned in, pressing a slow, careful kiss to your forehead—warm, steady and grounding. "Good. Now come on, little one. Let's go home. It's late"

That night, after you'd changed into your pajamas, you found yourself back in Fizz and Ozzie's bed.

Ozzie was already in bed, propped up against the headboard with his laptop, his frame making the massive custom mattress look almost normal-sized. He looked up when you climbed in beside him, those glowing eyes softening as they landed on you.

"Fizz should be done with his show by now," he said, voice a low, resonant rumble that vibrated through the room. "Want to call him, little one?"

"Yes," you said immediately, settling in next to him—though "next to" was generous, even sitting up, you barely reached his ribs.

Ozzie pulled up a video call program and hit Fizz's contact. It rang twice before Fizz's face appeared on screen, grinning wide and slightly flushed from performing, jester makeup still perfect despite the sweat.

"Hey!" Fizz said, his voice bright with that post-show high. "There's my favorite people! Miss me yet?"

"Desperately," Ozzie said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "The palace is far too quiet without you bouncing off the walls."

"I've been gone for like, eight hours," Fizz pointed out, but he was beaming.

"Longest eight hours of my life," you said, only half-joking.

Fizz's expression went impossibly soft. "Aw, cutie. You're gonna make me emotional."

"How was the show?" Ozzie asked.

"Fucking amazing," Fizz said, energy ramping right back up. "The kids were so into it. I did the balloon animals bit and this one kid made something that looked like an eldritch horror I was so proud! It was adorable. Mammon was thrilled—said it was 'prime merchandising material.' Had me sign like fifty extra posters afterward. You know how he gets."

"Sounds like it went well," Ozzie said, smiling, though his eyes narrowed just a fraction at the mention of Mammon.

"It really did," Fizz agreed. He shifted, revealing a hotel room behind him that looked cheap and impersonal. "Though I'm already sick of this place. The bed is nowhere near as comfortable as ours."

"Nothing is as comfortable as our bed, Froggie" Ozzie said. "I had it custom made for a reason."

"Touchè" Fizz said. Then his gaze focused on you, head tilting. "You look sleepy, cutie. What time is it there?"

Before you could respond, a loud, grating voice cut through off-screen. "Fizzarolli! Get your ass over here! We need to discuss tomorrow's merchandising setup—chop chop, my boy!"

Mammon. Even through the screen, his voice made your skin crawl.

Fizz's grin faltered for half a second before snapping back into place, practiced and bright. "Duty calls. Gotta go make the Mammon happy—can't keep the King of Greed waiting."

"Be careful," Ozzie said, voice carrying that quiet undercurrent of concern he tried to mask with nonchalance.

"Always am," Fizz replied, but it sounded automatic. "I'll call tomorrow after the next show—maybe even sneak in a quick vid of the new routine if Mammon lets me."

"Take care of yourself Froggie," Ozzie said.

"Miss you, talk tomorrow" you added sleepily.

Fizz's eyes went impossibly soft. "Get some sleep, cutie. And hey—don't let Ozzie hog all the blankets, yeah?"

The call ended, leaving the screen blank and that strange ache back in your chest.

"You okay, little one?" Ozzie asked, gentler now, closing the laptop and setting it aside.

"Yeah," you said. "I just...should we visit him ? Before the two weeks are up. I don't like the idea of him being alone with Mammon for that long. He tries so hard to impress him, even when it seems like he's asking ... too much."

Something warm flickered in Ozzie's expression—surprise melting into quiet pride. "You want to go to Greed? Crash his tour?"

"If that's okay," you said, eyes already heavy. "I just...maybe I'm overthinking...I just think... he shouldn't be alone. And I miss him already."

"We can do that," Ozzie murmured, voice like velvet. "I'll arrange it. Mammon won't like the interruption, but he can kiss my feathered ass if he thinks he gets to keep Fizz running ragged without pushback."

"Good," you mumbled, Ozzie's warmth was right there, solid and immense, and you gravitated toward it without thinking.

"Come here, little one," he said, shifting his massive frame so he could pull you in properly.

You ended up curled up against his side, your entire body fitting easily against his chest like you were made to slot there. His heartbeat—strong, steady—thrummed beneath your ear, a deep bass you could feel more than hear. One enormous arm draped over you, careful not to crush, hand splaying across your back with fingers that could span your whole torso.

You let out a small, contented sigh.

Ozzie didn't speak. He just held you, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over your spine through the pajama fabric. Giving you room to settle.

After a minute, you tilted your head up to look at him—way up, past his feathery chest to those eyes watching you with something quiet and careful.

"Is this... okay?" you asked softly. "Me being in your bed while Fizz is gone? I don't want to overstep."

Ozzie's lips curved, amused and fond. "Overstep?" he repeated, voice deep enough to sink into. "You're all curled up. If anything, you're being too polite about it."

Your face heated, but you didn't pull away. "Well it is your bed."

Ozzie's eyes softened further. He lifted his free hand—index finger gentle as it brushed hair from your forehead.

"First," he said, "it's our bed. Fizzy's too—always will be. But the space doesn't vanish when he's off playing golden boy for that greedy fucker." His tone sharpened briefly on Mammon, then smoothed.

"Second... you're not a guest. You're here. With us. Nothing physical has happened yet sure, but that doesn't make this—" he squeezed you just a fraction closer, and your entitlement to take up space in our lives—any less real." He rolled slightly, tucking you more securely against him, deliberate, but not pushy.

"I like having you here," he continued, quieter. "I like how small you feel against me. I like the way your breathing evens out when you're close like this. And I appreciate that you miss Fizz enough to worry about him burning himself out for someone who doesn't fucking deserve it."

You swallowed, throat tight in the best way. "So... it's okay if I stay? Like this?"

Ozzie leaned down and pressed a slow, warm kiss to your forehead. Nothing heated, just steady affection. "More than okay." He paused, a hint of his theatrical flair slipping back in. "Besides, I want you right here, stealing my warmth and asking sleepy questions."

You laughed softly against his chest, muffled. "Alright alright."

"You're the most precious thing when you're half-asleep and overthinking." His hand slid up cover you like a living blanket.

"Now hush. Close those eyes. Fizz'll be back before you know it, and until then... I've got you covered, little one."

You relaxed fully into him then, your eyelids drooped, your voice mumbled, barely above a whisper.

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.

The imp appeared in the doorway, looking agitated. His tail was lashing in that way it did when he was working through something he didn't want to think about.

"She still out?" Blitz asked, not quite meeting Stolas's eyes.

"Yes. She's still sleeping quite a bit. The trauma was significant." Stolas set his book aside, his eyes tracking over Blitz with interest. "How are you feeling? That bite mark Striker gave you seems to have healed nicely."

"Yeah, well, I heal fast. Comes with the territory." Blitz moved to the liquor cabinet, helping himself without asking. "Unlike her. Tits fucking bruises if you look at her wrong."

"Mmm, yes, human skin is remarkably delicate." Stolas's voice took on a purr. "So soft. So... easily marked."

"Don't start with your weird shit, Stolz."

"I'm simply making an observation, darling." Stolas stood, moving closer. "You know, it is the full moon tonight."

"No shit. Bird brain. " Blitz downed half his glass in one go. "You gonna get to the point or are we doing the whole foreplay conversation thing? Because I got better shit to do then re-harsh that FUCKERY."

"Actually, I had a rather delicious thought." Stolas moved behind Blitz, his voice dropping to that particular register that meant trouble. "Our little star is upstairs, sleeping soundly. You've been here for five days being an awfully dutifull bodyguard. The sexual tension has been absolutely exquisite."

"SATAN'S TAINT—How many times—There's no FUCKING tension! I'm just making sure she doesn't DIE!"

"Of course, darling, all those lingering looks are purely professional concern." Stolas's hand came to rest on Blitz's shoulder. "I was thinking... perhaps tonight we could make it a threesome?"

Blitz choked on his drink. "A WHAT?!"

"Oh, don't act so scandalized! You've been thinking about it!" Stolas's voice was thick with amusement and arousal. "I've seen how you look at her. How you position yourself between her and any perceived threat."

"That's—that's just—I was being NICE! You know, that thing people do sometimes?!"

"You're never nice without ulterior motives, Blitzy. We both know that." Stolas moved around to face him, all four eyes gleaming. "Admit it—you want to ravage her."

"So what if I do?! Half of Hell probably wants to fuck her! She's—she's—" Blitz gestured wildly, "—she's got that whole corruptible thing going on! SATAN'S FUCKING SPHINCTER its like catnip!"

"Mmm, yes, I'm quite aware. I've been fantasizing about ruining her myself for weeks now." Stolas's voice went heated. "Imagine it, Blitzy—her beneath us, those wide eyes looking up as we show her exactly what she's been missing. I could hold her while you make her unravel. Or perhaps you'd prefer to watch while I make her come undone with my tongue?"

"Christ on a stick, Stolz!" Blitz slammed his glass down. "Can you NOT be a horny bird for five fucking seconds?!"

"Why? The full moon makes me exceptionally eager, and the thought of adding our sweet little star to our activities has made me absolutely ravenous." He leaned in close. "Think about it—you, claiming that perfect mouth while I spread those lovely thighs. Or perhaps both of us at once we could even—"

"OKAY! Okay! I get the picture! You're horny! You want a threesome! Message received!" Blitz was pacing now, his tail lashing violently. "But you're assuming she'd even WANT that! She got fucking strangled a week ago!"

"Which is precisely why she needs to feel desired. Safe. Worshipped." Stolas's tone was almost reasonable, if you ignored the absolutely filthy content. "And who better to provide that than the two of us? You, with all that passionate intensity. Me, with my more refined appreciation for the female form."

"This is a terrible idea!"

"It's a MAGNIFICENT idea!" Stolas was getting excited now, his feathers ruffling. "I've been aching to touch her for days, Blitzy. To taste her. To feel her come apart under my hands. And you—you've been practically vibrating with repressed desire every time she's near you!"

"I am NOT—"

"You absolutely are! You watch her constantly! You tense every time she gets close to anyone else! You let her demand you stay here when you've never let anyone dictate your schedule before!" Stolas grabbed Blitz's shoulders. "You want her and I want her, unless I'm very much mistaken. So why are we standing here arguing when we could be upstairs making her feel incredible?"

Blitz shook him off. "Because it's the FULL MOON! We have a DEAL! This is supposed to be about YOU getting your rocks off so I can use your book! Not—not dragging her into our fucked up arrangement!"

"Why can't it be both?" Stolas's voice dropped to a purr again. "I get what I need. You get to finally act on whatever feelings you have—dont deny it again, we both know you do. And she gets to feel safe and desired after a traumatic experience. Everyone wins."

"I don't have FEELINGS! I just—" Blitz grabbed his glass and refilled it. "I just need to fuck her so I can get her out of my system! That's IT!"

"Oh, Blitzy." Stolas's expression was knowing, almost pitying. "That's not going to work."

"Yes it will! That's exactly how it works!" Blitz downed the drink. "I fuck someone, I get them out of my head, I move on! It's simple! It's what I DO!"

"Darling, you've been pining after her for months—"

"I'm not PINING! Pining is for sad assholes who write poetry! I just have a very persistent boner that needs addressing!"

"If you truly believe that a single night of sex will cure you of these feelings—"

"They're not FEELINGS! It's just Physical attraction! That's IT!" Blitz was getting more agitated. "Look, are we doing this or not?! Because if we are, we need to wake her up and I can fuck this weirdness out of my system and everything can go back to normal!"

Stolas regarded him with all four eyes, something soft and sad in his expression. "Very well, Blitzy. But I'm warning you—I don't think this is going to solve your problem the way you think it will."

"Yeah? Well we'll fucking see about that!" Blitz pulled away, grabbing his drink. "And for the record? If this goes sideways, I'm blaming you AND your fancy bird puss."

"Duily Noted." Stolas returned to his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Now, shall we discuss the evening's... agenda? I have some new restraints I've been dying to try, and I thought perhaps we could—"

"Oh for FUCK'S sake!" Blitz downed his drink in one go. This was going to be a long fucking night.

And in the back of his mind, that traitorous voice whispered Maybe if you just fuck her, you'll get her out of your system. That's all this is. Just attraction. Just regular horny thoughts. Fuck her, get it over with, and everything goes back to normal.

He ignored the part of him that knew it was a lie.

Upstairs, you woke slowly, the plush bedding of Stolas's guest room making it hard to fully surface into consciousness. The light filtering through the curtains was that perpetual red of Hell's sky, but softer somehow, like Stolas had the windows enchanted to be less harsh.

Your hand went to your throat automatically—a habit you'd developed over the past few days. The bruises were mostly gone now, just the faintest shadow where Striker's tail had dug in, wrapped around your neck and squeezed and squeezed and—

You sat up quickly, pushing the memory away. You were fine. You were safe. Striker was gone.

Your phone—the one Stolas had given you—was on the nightstand. You grabbed it, needing to hear a familiar voice, needing to confirm that everyone else was okay too.

You pulled up Loona's contact and hit call before you could second-guess yourself.

It rang three times before an irritated voice answered "What?"

"Loona! Heyyy! Are you—are you okay?"

"...it's three in the afternoon. Why wouldn't I be okay?" She sounded confused and annoyed in equal measure.

"I just—I wanted to check. Make sure you were safe. That nothing—that no one—"

"Oh, you're still freaking out about the festival thing?" Loona sighed heavily. "I'm FINE. I'm at Moxxie and Millie's eating their food and judging their FUCKASS décor. Everything's fine."

"Are you sure? Because if you need anything—"

"I'm SURE. Christ, you're worse than Blitz." But her tone had softened slightly. "Seriously, I'm fine. Moxxie's being his usual anxious self and Millie's trying to teach me some weird country recipe. It's annoying but ... seriously it's fine."

"Okay. Okay, good." You took a breath. "Can you put Moxxie on the phone?"

"Why?" Loona sounded suspicious now.

"Just—please? I need to talk to him."

A heavy sigh. "Fine. But you're being weird." There was rustling, then Loona's muffled voice "Hey, Moxxie! The human wants to talk to you!"

More rustling, then "Hello? Is everything alright?"

"Mox! Hi! Yes, I just—I wanted to check—are you guys okay? Is Millie okay? Have you seen anything suspicious? Has anyone tried to break in or—"

"Whoa, hey, slow down!" Moxxie's voice was gentle but concerned. "We're fine. Everything's fine. The apartment is secure, Millie's in the kitchen, Loona's on the couch being surly. Nothing suspicious has happened."

"Are you SURE? Because that cowboy guy could still be—"

"Striker is long gone," Moxxie said firmly. "Blitz—made very sure of that before we left the Wrath Ring. And even if he wasn't, we're prepared. I have weapons staged at every entrance and Millie sleeps with an axe under her pillow."

"An axe?!"

"Two axes, actually," Moxxie corrected. "She's very thorough about the ahhh home defenses."

Despite your anxiety, you felt a small smile tug at your lips. "Okay. Okay, that's... that's good."

"Are YOU okay?" Moxxie asked. "You sound stressed."

"I'm fine. I just—I needed to make sure everyone was safe. That he didn't—that nothing happened while I was—" Your voice cracked slightly.

"Hey, it's okay," Moxxie said gently. "What happened at the festival was terrifying. It's completely normal to be worried. But I promise you, we're all fine. We're taking precautions. And you're safe at the palace with Blitz and Stolas, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, they're—Blitz has been ...himself, but in a good way. And Stolas keeps checking on me."

"Good. That's good." A pause. "You know, for what it's worth, you were very brave. Not many people would stay as calm as you did with a tail around their throat."

"I panicked," you whispered.

"You held your ground. That matters."

You didn't know what to say to that.

"Listen," Moxxie continued, "why don't you try to rest? Enjoy the palace. Let Blitz and Stolas take care of you for a bit. We've got everything handled here."

"You'll call if anything happens?"

"Immediately," he promised. "But nothing's going to happen. We're safe, you're safe, and Striker is probably halfway to another Ring by now trying to drink away the memory of ot all."

That got a small laugh out of you. "Okay. Thank you, Mox."

"Anytime. Now get some rest. And maybe eat something? Stolas's chef is apparently incredible."

"I will. Thanks."

"Take care of yourself," he said warmly, then called out "Loona! Your... she wants to say goodbye!"

"She's not—oh for fuck's sake—" Rustling, then Loona was back on the line. "You done freaking out now?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Whatever. Just... stop worrying so much. We're fine. You're fine. Everyone's fine." A pause. "And if you need anything, I guess you can call. Or whatever."

Coming from Loona, that was practically a declaration of affection.

"Thanks, Loona."

"Yeah, yeah. Now let me get back to judging the stupid throw pillows."

The line went dead.

You sat there for a moment, phone in hand, feeling marginally better. Everyone was safe. No one was hurt. Striker was gone.

You were okay.

Your stomach growled, reminding you that you'd slept through lunch. Time to venture downstairs and see what Stolas and Blitz were up to.

You had no idea you were walking into a full moon dinner with two demons who had very specific ideas about how the evening should end.

Dinner was served in what Stolas called "the intimate dining room," which was still larger than Blitz's entire apartment. The table was dark wood that gleamed in the candlelight, set with china so delicate you were afraid to touch it, and silverware that was probably actual silver. Crystal glasses caught the light from floating candles that drifted lazily overhead.

"This is beautiful," you said softly, taking your seat. Stolas had positioned you across from Blitz, with Stolas to your right at the head of the table.

"I'm so pleased you think so, little star." Stolas settled into his chair with grace. "I do try to maintain certain standards, though I fear Blitzy finds it all rather tedious."

"It's fucking pretentious is what it is," Blitz muttered, but he was eyeing the wine bottle with interest. "Who needs four forks?"

"People with class, darling." Stolas poured a small amount of wine into your glass with a practiced hand. "But I suppose we can't all be refined."

"I can be refined! I just choose not to be because it's boring as shit!"

You hid a smile behind your napkin as staff—staff in neat uniforms—began bringing out the first course. It was some kind of soup, pale purple and steaming, with edible flowers floating on top.

"What is this?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"Shadowbloom bisque," Stolas explained. "The flowers only grow in complete darkness. They're quite rare. I do hope you enjoy it."

You took a careful spoonful. It was... actually delicious. Rich and creamy with a subtle flavor you couldn't quite place, something between mushroom and something floral.

"This is really good," you said, surprised.

"My chef is exceptional." Stolas took a sip from his own bowl, then his eyes slid to Blitz. "Though I must say, Blitzy, the anticipation of dessert has me quite... eager."

Blitz nearly choked on his soup. "We're talking ACTUAL dessert, right? Not your weird euphemism bullshit?"

"Why not both?" Stolas's voice dropped lower, and he leaned slightly toward Blitz. "I've been thinking about what you said last time—"

"Stolz—" Blitz's voice was a warning. "You have a GUEST!"

"She's focused on her soup. Aren't you, dear?"

"Mmhmm," you said, not looking up. "This soup is delicious."

"See? Perfectly fine." Stolas took another spoonful of his own soup, then continued in that same casual tone, "I've also been practicing with the larger—"

"I'm gonna STRANGLE you with your own FUCKING feathers," Blitz threatened.

"Oh, I do hope so." Stolas sounded absolutely delighted. "You know how I adore your hands around my throat."

The second course was some kind of meat—you didn't ask what kind—with roasted vegetables that glowed faintly and a sauce that tasted like nothing you'd ever experienced. It was all delicious, presented beautifully, and you could tell that Stolas genuinely enjoyed good food. This wasn't pretentious for show; this was just how he lived.

"So, little star," Stolas said, cutting his meat with precise movements, "how are you feeling? The bruises from your... encounter are practically gone."

Your hand went unconsciously to your throat, where the marks had been. "Much better. They don't hurt anymore."

"Good. I'm glad." Stolas's expression was genuinely warm. "That was quite a terrifying experience. You were very brave."

"I wasn't brave," you said quietly. "I was scared."

"You almost shot that ASSCLOWN in the face," Blitz said gruffly. "That's pretty FUCKING brave for someone who'd doesn't kill people for a living."

"I didn't though," you said. "I missed."

"Yeah, well, missing is muchhh better than accidentally shooting ME, which is what could've happened if you hadn't missed." Blitz took a long drink of wine. "So, you know, thanks for that."

It was probably the closest to a compliment you'd had from him, and it made you smile.

Stolas was watching the exchange with visible interest, his eyes moving between you and Blitz with an expression you couldn't quite read.

Then he leaned toward Blitz again, his voice dropping. "You know, I've been imagining what you might do to me later. Those claws of yours digging into my thighs while you—"

"Can we NOT?" Blitz cut in, but his voice was rougher than before.

"I'm simply making conversation, darling." Stolas's smile was wicked. "Surely you don't mind me discussing how much I'm looking forward to you absolutely ruining me tonight?"

When you looked down to cut your meat, you heard Blitz's voice drop to that dangerous growl "Keep talking and I'm gonna make you regret every word."

"Promise?" Stolas breathed.

"You're not gonna be able to WALK tomorrow."

"Oh Blitzy, you always know exactly what to say."

You cleared your throat loudly, and they both had the grace to look slightly sheepish.

The meal continued in that vein—dessert was some kind of chocolate confection that was so rich you could only eat half.

"Now then," Stolas said as staff cleared the dessert plates, "I thought perhaps we could retire to my chambers. I have a rather extensive collection of texts on interdimensional magic that might prove useful for our little star's situation."

"Your chambers," Blitz said flatly. "Not the library? The actual library that you have?"

"Well, my personal collection is much more comprehensive. And comfortable. The library chairs are dreadfully stiff." Stolas stood, smoothing his jacket. "Unless you'd prefer the formal library? Though it is quite cold this time of evening..."

You stood as well, the little bit of wine making you pleasantly warm. "I'd love to see your books. Thank you for offering."

Blitz shot Stolas a look that very clearly said 'I know what you're doing,' but stood anyway. "Yeah, sure, let's go look at books. That's definitely what's happening."

Stolas's chambers were accessed through a private hallway lined with more portraits and tapestries. The doors were tall and carved with intricate patterns of owls and moons, opening into a suite that was somehow both opulent and comfortable.

The bedroom itself was enormous, dominated by a massive four-poster bed with curtains of deep blue velvet. But what caught your attention was the wall of bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with leather-bound volumes of every size and color.

"Oh wow," you breathed, moving toward them immediately. "This is incredible."

"You know how I enjoy my reading," Stolas said, following you over. "Let's see... interdimensional magic would be... ah, yes, here."

He reached past you, pulling down a tome that was nearly as big as your torso. His hand brushed your shoulder as he did, and you felt the warmth of him at your back.

"This one is particularly comprehensive," he murmured, his voice much closer than you expected. "Covers everything from basic portal theory to complex dimensional anchoring."

You turned slightly to take the book, and found yourself nearly pressed against him, his height meaning you had to crane your neck to look up. All four of his eyes were focused on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"I—thank you," you managed.

"Of course, little star." His hands settled on your shoulders, gentle but firm, and slowly turned you back toward the bookshelf. "Let me show you a few more that might be relevant..."

You were acutely aware of three things, Stolas's hands on your shoulders, his chest warm against your back, and Blitz across the room, watching with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"So," Blitz said, his voice cutting through the moment, "we doing this or what?"

Your head whipped around. "Doing what?"

Stolas's hands tightened very slightly on your shoulders. "Blitzy, subtlety—"

"Fuck subtlety! We've been dancing around this shit all night!" Blitz moved closer, his tail swishing in agitation. "Look, Tits, here's the deal. You're cute ... maybe even hot ... if human is what gets you going. We wanna see if you're interested in... expanding your Hell education."

Your brain short-circuited. "I—my what?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake—" Blitz ran a hand over his horns. "You want me to spell it out? Fine! We wanna stick our tounges down your throat! More than that you if you're into it! There, clear enough?"

"Blitzy, you have all the romantic grace of a brick through a window," Stolas sighed, but he didn't move away from you.

"She appreciates HONESTY!" Blitz protested. "Don't you?"

You nodded mutely, still trying to process.

"See? Honesty!" Blitz took another step closer. "So here's some more honesty, you're hot as fuck Tits, and I've been thinking about kissing that shocked look off your face since you fell on me. Stolas has actually been thinking about worse shit, the fucking creep."

"I prefer 'admirer,'" Stolas murmured above you.

"And—" Blitz continued, now close enough that you could see the exact pattern of his yellow-and-red eyes, "—I do NOT disappoint. Just so we're clear. I'm fucking EXCELLENT at this shit."

"Blitzy, perhaps we should—"

"Let her make her own decision, bird brain!" Blitz's eyes were fixed on yours. "So what do you say? You interested, or should we actually just look at these boring-ass books?"

Your heart was hammering. Your face felt like it was on fire. Stolas's hands on your shoulders were warm and solid, and Blitz was looking at you like he wanted to devour you, and your brain was just screaming static.

"I—" you started, your voice barely working. "I don't—this is—"

"Overwhelming?" Stolas suggested gently. "We can slow down, dear. There's no pressure."

But Blitz, apparently, disagreed with the concept of slowing down. "Or we could speed up. Just saying, the faster we get to the good stuff, the faster you figure out just how much of what HORNY shit your into."

"That's not how seduction works—"

"Who said anything about seduction? I'm being EFFICIENT here!"

Despite the chaos of your thoughts, you laughed. It came out slightly hysterical, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

Both of them stopped, looking at you.

"You're both insane," you said, still laughing. "This is insane. I'm in Hell, at a palace, being propositioned by—I mean your both—and I'm just—"

You stopped, looking between them. Blitz, all sharp edges and crude confidence. Stolas, elegant and patient and wanting. You thought about all the stress and the chaos, the stupid fucking fall and how close that fucking cowboy got to actually—

"Fuck it," you whispered.

And you grabbed Blitz's coat, pulled him in by the lapels, and kissed him.

For a moment, Blitz was completely still, like he hadn't expected you to actually do it. Then he made a low noise in his throat and kissed you back with a enthusiasm that made your knees weak.

His mouth was hot—literally hot, warmer than human—and he tasted like wine and something spicy. One hand came up to cup the back of your head, the other wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. He kissed like he did everything else, aggressively, confidently, and with complete commitment.

When he pulled back, you were breathing hard.

"Christ on a stick," he said, eyes wide. "You actually—"

You didn't let him finish, kissing him again. His hands tightened on you, and you heard him growl—actually growl—against your mouth. The sound sent heat straight through you.

"How delightful," Stolas murmured from behind you, and you felt his presence there, warm and solid. You broke away from Blitz, turning to find Stolas watching with all four eyes, his expression somewhere between pleased and hungry.

"May I?" he asked softly, one hand reaching toward you.

You nodded, and he tilted your chin up with one gentle finger. His kiss was different from Blitz's—slower, more deliberate. His beak was surprisingly soft against your lips, the edges smooth and warm. Where Blitz was fire and demand, Stolas was warmth and persuasion, coaxing rather than taking.

He kissed like he had all the time in the world, like every second was meant to be savored. His hand cupped your face with such gentleness it made your chest ache, thumb stroking along your cheekbone. The kiss deepened gradually, carefully, his other hand coming to rest at the small of your back.

There was something almost reverent about it, the way he explored your mouth with patient thoroughness, the way his talons trembled slightly against your skin. When he finally pulled back, you were dizzy with it, your lips tingling.

"Exquisite," he breathed, all four eyes half-lidded as he looked at you. "Absolutely exquisite, little star."

When you turned back to Blitz, his pupils were blown wide, eyes dark with want. "Okay, that was hot as fuck," he muttered, and then he was pulling you back to him, kissing you harder this time.

His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, tangling in your hair. You made a small noise against his mouth, and he groaned in response, the sound vibrating through you.

"You like that?" he murmured against your lips. "You make the cutest fucking sounds. I wanna hear more of them."

Your back hit something soft—the bed, you realized distantly. When had you moved to the bed? Blitz followed you down, one hand braced beside your head, the other still on your waist. He kissed down your jaw, finding that spot just below your ear that made you gasp.

"There it is," he said, sounding satisfied. "Found the spot." He focused there, kissing and sucking until you were squirming beneath him.

"Blitzy, you're being greedy," Stolas said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. Through half-lidded eyes, you saw him settle onto the bed beside you, propped up on one elbow, watching with clear appreciation.

"Damn right I'm greedy," Blitz said against your neck. "She tastes fucking amazing and I'm not sharing right now."

He worked his way back up to your mouth, and this kiss was deeper, more demanding. His tongue slid against yours, and the heat of it made you gasp. His hand on your waist started moving in slow circles, the touch burning through the fabric of your clothes.

"You good?" he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, hungry, but there was a question there too.

"Yeah, yea" you breathed. "I'm good."

"Good." He kissed you again, his claws on your side started moving higher, just brushing the curve of your ribs. "Because I meant what I said. I don't fucking disappoint."

He was kissing down your neck again, finding new sensitive spots that made you arch into him. His other hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a gesture that was almost tender—a stark contrast to the way his teeth were grazing your collarbone.

"So fucking soft," he muttered against your skin. "How are you this soft? Shit's not FUCKING fair."

You couldn't answer—could barely think—as he worked his way back up to your mouth. You felt yourself melting into it. Your hands found his horns, and when you touched them experimentally, he made a sound that was almost a whine.

"Oh fuck yea, do that again," he demanded, his voice rough.

You did, running your fingers along the base of his spikes at the back of his head, and he shuddered against you, his grip on you tightening. "Shit, that's—fuckkk—"

His hand on your side was still moving in those maddening circles, gradually working higher. You were so focused on his mouth, on the sensation of his body against yours, on the solid weight of him above you.

Movement caught your eye, and you turned your head slightly to find Stolas watching, all four of his eyes glowing softly in the dim light. There was something hypnotic about that glow, the way it pulsed gently like a heartbeat. His hand reached out, gently turning your face more toward him, and you found yourself staring into those luminous eyes.

The effect was immediate and strange—your racing heart began to slow, the nervous energy in your chest easing. The glow seemed to pulse in rhythm with your breathing, drawing you in, calming you.

"The fuck are you doing?" Blitz's voice cut through the haze, sharp and suspicious. "That better not be some creepy consent-bypassing magic shit, bird brain!"

"Blitzy, really," Stolas said, though he didn't look away from you. "I would never. I'm merely helping our little star relax. She was getting rather worked up." His voice was soft, soothing. "I can stop if you'd prefer, little star."

You shook your head slightly. The calming effect of his gaze was actually helping, the nervousness that had been building easing back.

"Just checking," Blitz muttered. "Can't be too careful with you and your freaky bird magic."

"I assure you, all I'm doing is providing a calming presence." Stolas's eyes continued to glow gently. "Nothing more."

Blitz made a dismissive noise but seemed satisfied. He returned his attention to you, kissing along your jaw. "Where were we? Oh yeah—making you fall apart."

His mouth found yours again, and between Blitz's insistent kisses and Stolas's calming presence, you felt yourself relaxing into it, into them. Blitz's hand continued its exploration, moving higher, and you didn't stop him.

He kissed down your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point, and you heard yourself make a sound that should have embarrassed you. Instead, it just made him grin against your skin.

"That's it," he murmured. "Now where getting somewhere."

His hand slid under your shirt, palm hot against your skin, and you arched into the touch. He made an approving sound, fingers spreading across your ribs.

"Fuck, you're so responsive," he said, pulling back to look at you. Your lips were swollen from his kisses, your breathing ragged, and the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the only thing in hell that mattered. "So fucking perfect."

His hand on your ribs moved higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, your nipples pebbling painfully the sensation made you gasp into his mouth.

"Blitzy," Stolas murmured, his voice a gentle warning. "Slow down."

"She's fine," Blitz said without pulling away. "Aren't you?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and he grinned. "See? She's fine. She'd tell me if she wasn't."

He returned to your mouth, kissing you breathless, his hand still exploring. You were so focused on the sensations, on the heat of him, on the way he was making you feel things you'd never felt before.

And then he bit you.

Not a gentle nip like before, but a full bite, all of his sharp teeth sinking into the junction of your neck and shoulder.

Pain exploded through you, white-hot and shocking.

"FUCK!" The word tore out of you before you could stop it, your hands coming up to shove at his chest. "OW! What the—that HURT!"

Blitz pulled back immediately, his eyes wide. "Shit—"

You pressed your hand to your neck and it came away with blood. Actual blood. He'd broken the skin with those sharp teeth, and it fucking hurt.

"Oh, Blitzy, what did you do?!" Stolas was immediately moving, all pretense of calm observation gone. "Little star, let me see—"

"You fucking bit me!" you said, your voice shaking somewhere between pain and shock and anger. "That wasn't—what the fuck was that for!"

"Aw FUCK me, I didn't mean to—" Blitz started, but Stolas cut him off.

"Out of the way!" The command in Stolas's voice was absolute. Blitz moved without argument, and Stolas was there, gently taking your hand away from your neck to examine the wound. "Oh dear. Oh, this is quite deep."

"Is she okay? I didn't mean to—fuck me, there's a lot of blood—" Blitz sounded genuinely panicked.

"Stay there," Stolas ordered, standing and moving swiftly to what must have been a bathroom. He returned moments later with a warm, damp cloth and bandages. "Little star, this may sting a bit."

He pressed the warm cloth to your neck with infinite gentleness, dabbing away the blood. His touch was so careful, so tender, that it almost made you want to cry.

"I'm so sorry, darling," he murmured. "Blitzy sometimes forgets his own strength. And the sharpness of his teeth."

"I said I was FUCKING sorry!" Blitz protested from where he was standing by the bed, his own tail wrapped pitifully around his ankles, looking miserable.

"Sorry doesn't fix a bite wound!" Stolas said sharply, still focused on cleaning you up. "You know better than to bite that hard, especially on a human! Their skin is far more delicate than ours!"

"I know! I just—Ughhh—"

Stolas finished cleaning the wound and began carefully applying a bandage, his long fingers deft and gentle. "There we are, little star. All patched up. How do you feel?"

"It hurts," you admitted, your voice small. The shock was wearing off, leaving behind a throbbing ache and the sting of betrayal. You'd been trusting him, letting him touch you, and he'd hurt you.

"I know, darling. I'm so sorry." Stolas finished securing the bandage, then cupped your face gently. "Are you alright otherwise? Do you need anything else?"

You shook your head, then looked past him to Blitz, who was staring at his hands like they'd betrayed him.

"I didn't mean to," he said quietly. "I got too into it and I forgot you're not—that you can't—"

"That I'm human," you finished for him.

"Yeah." He looked up at you, and there was genuine regret in his eyes. "I'm really—fuck, tits—I'm fucking sorry."

The adrenaline was crashing now, leaving you shaky and overwhelmed. The pain in your neck, the blood, the reminder that these weren't human men who knew how to be gentle with human bodies—it was all too much.

"I think we should stop," you said quietly.

"Of course," Stolas said immediately. "Of course, little star. Would you like to rest?"

You nodded, suddenly exhausted.

"I think," Stolas said carefully, "It's been quite an eventful evening, and you need time to process."

"I'll be fine—"

"Yes but you're not fine right now, dear. You're shaking, and you've been bitten, and that's perfectly alright to admit." His voice was kind, patient. "Why don't you lie down? Blitzy and I will be just outside if you need anything."

"I don't want to kick you out of your own bed—"

"You're not kicking anyone out. I have several beds, and more importantly, I have a very comfortable balcony." Stolas moved toward the balcony doors. "Come along, Blitzy."

Blitz looked like he wanted to argue, his tail unfurling from his ankles, he looked like he wanted to do more say more. But he followed Stolas toward the balcony. At the threshold, he looked back at you, and his expression was hard to read—concern, frustration, guilt, something that might have been self-loathing.

"You good?" he asked.

You nodded, even though you weren't sure if it was entirely true.

"Alright. Yell if you need anything. Or, you know, don't yell. Just... we'll be right outside." He paused, then added more quietly, "I really am sorry. I fucked up."

The balcony doors closed behind them, leaving you alone in the enormous bed, one hand pressed gently to the bandage on your neck. You could see their silhouettes through the glass, talking, and tried not to think about what they might be saying about you.

You'd kissed them. Both of them. And it had been good—really, really fucking good—until Blitz had bitten too hard and pain had ruined everything.

Carefully, you lay down, pulling the blanket up. The bed was absurdly comfortable, the pillows soft as clouds, and despite everything, exhaustion was starting to creep in. The wine, the rich food, the emotional whiplash of the evening, the pain in your neck—it was all catching up to you.

You could still feel the ghost of Blitz's hands on your skin, the pressure of his mouth on yours. Could still see Stolas's glowing eyes, hypnotic and calming.

Your eyes drifted closed, and the last thing you were aware of was the murmur of voices from the balcony, too low to make out words, before sleep pulled you under.

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

The balcony overlooked the gardens, and the night air was warm and still. Blitz had immediately pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a snap of his lighter and taking a long drag.

Stolas conjured a cigarette of his own with a small spell, leaning against the railing. "Well. That escalated quickly."

"I fucked up," Blitz said flatly, smoke curling from his mouth. "I fucking BIT her. Made her bleed. Great job, FUCKING idiot."

"You did get rather... enthusiastic," Stolas said carefully.

"Enthusiastic?! I hurt her, Stolas! She was into it and I fucking RUINED it!" Blitz took another aggressive drag. "This is why I shouldn't—why this was a bad idea—"

"Blitzy—"

"Don't 'Blitzy' me! I know what I did! I got carried away and forgot she's not—she can't handle that shit!" He was pacing now, tail lashing. "She's HUMAN. Already freaked out by that fucking SHITSTAIN cowboy. She's still fragile and I HURT her!"

"You stopped the moment she said something," Stolas pointed out. "And you apologized. That counts for something."

"Does it? Does it really?" Blitz laughed bitterly. "She was scared, Stolas. Of ME. Just like she was scared of that psycho cowboy FUCK"

"She was hurt and startled, not scared of you specifically." Stolas took a delicate puff of his cigarette. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Blitz slumped against the railing next to him. "Because from where I was sitting, it looked pretty fucking similar to the last time she was scared."

They were quiet for a moment, just smoking and staring at the gardens below.

"She kissed you first," Stolas said finally. "That means something, Blitzy. She wanted this."

"Yeah, and then I bit her too hard and made her bleed! Real sexy! Really smooth!" He took another drag. "This is exactly why I don't give a FLYING FUCK about people. I always fuck it up somehow."

"You care about her," Stolas said softly.

It wasn't a question.

"That's not the point!" Blitz gestured wildly with his cigarette. "The point is she was sweet and curious and treats me like I matter, and then I go and BITE her like a fucking animal!"

"You got caught up in the moment. It happens."

"It SHOULDN'T happen! Not with her!" His voice cracked slightly. "She's—she's different. And I'm gonna fuck it up because that's what I DO. I fuck things up."

Stolas was quiet for a long moment, watching Blitz with an unreadable expression. "You know," he said finally, "You're rather distraught about this."

"Shut the fuck up."

"I'm simply observing—"

"Well STOP observing and start—I don't know—telling me how to fix this!"

"You can't fix it tonight," Stolas said gently. "She needs rest. Tomorrow, you apapologize properly. You make sure she knows you didn't mean to hurt her. And you give her space to decide if she wants more of ... whatever this is."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then you respect that decision." Stolas finished his cigarette, vanishing it with a snap. "But I don't think that's what will happen."

"How the fuck would you know?"

"Because I saw the way she looks at you, Blitzy. Before the unfortunate biting incident." Stolas smiled slightly. "She wasn't just curious. She was... smitten."

"Don't use words like 'smitten' Stolz. It makes you sound like one of those MOUTH BREATHERS... fucking creepy."

"I'll use whatever words I like in my own palace, thank you." Stolas turned to face him fully. "The point is, she cares about you. One accident isn't going to change that. Though perhaps in the future, we should remember that she is rather more delicate than we're accustomed to."

"Yeah, no shit." Blitz dropped his cigarette butt, grinding it out with his boot. "I'm never gonna hear the end of this, am I?"

"Probably not," Stolas agreed cheerfully. "I plan to remind you about proper bite pressure for at least a decade or so."

"Fuck you."

"Later, perhaps. After we've ensured our little star is properly recovered." Stolas moved toward the balcony door. "Come. Let's check on her."

"She's probably asleep."

"Then we'll check on her quietly." Stolas's voice softened. "And then perhaps we should rest as well. It's been quite an evening."

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

Blitz followed him back inside, his eyes immediately going to the bed where you lay sleeping, curled on your side with one hand near the bandage on your neck.

"She looks so small," he muttered.

"She is small," Stolas agreed. "And human. And trusting. Which is why we must be more careful with her."

"I know."

"Do you?" Stolas looked at him. "Because you have a tendency to sabotage things that matter to you, Blitzy. Don't do that with her."

"I'm not—"

"You are. I can see you spiraling already, convincing yourself that you're going to ruin everything so why bother trying." Stolas's voice was firm. "Stop it. For once in your life, don't run from something that might actually be good for you."

Blitz opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He looked at you again, at your peaceful sleeping face, at the bandage he'd necessitated.

"What if I hurt her again?"

"Then you apologize and do better next time," Stolas said simply. "That's how caring for someone works, darling. It's messy and complicated and you make mistakes. But you keep trying."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is." Stolas smiled. "But it's also rather wonderful, when you let it be."

They stood there for a moment, watching you sleep. Then Stolas moved to the other side of the bed, removing his cape.

"What are you doing?" Blitz asked.

"Getting ready for bed. It's late, I'm tired, and this is my bedroom." Stolas raised an eyebrow. "Unless you'd prefer to sleep elsewhere?"

Blitz looked at the bed, at you sleeping in the middle, at the space on either side.

"Fuck it," he muttered, moving to the near side and toeing off his boots. "But if she wakes up screaming, that's on you."

"If she wakes up screaming, I suspect it will be because of your snoring," Stolas said mildly.

"I don't snore!"

"You absolutely do."

They settled into the bed on either side of you, careful not to wake you. You shifted slightly in your sleep, unconsciously moving toward Blitz's warmth.

Blitz held his breath, not daring to move. Slowly, carefully, he let his hand rest near yours—not touching, just close.

Close enough to be there if you reached for him.

From the other side, Stolas's hand came to rest on your back, gentle and protective.

"We'll make it up to her, tomorrow Blitzy" Stolas whispered into the darkness, "we'll do better."

And now here it was. Forgotten.

You checked the time. He'd left about an hour ago, which meant he was probably already at the factory dealing with whatever crisis or meeting had come up. You could leave it, let him fend for himself, but... no. You'd made it specifically so he wouldn't have to skip a meal.

"Fizz!" you called out, grabbing the container. "I'm heading out for a bit!"

There was a sound of bells jingling, and then Fizz was bounding across the room, his mechanical limbs extending and retracting to propel him toward you with impressive speed. Before you could brace yourself, his arms were wrapping around you from behind, lifting you slightly off your feet.

"Aww, where's my widdle cutie going?" he cooed in that baby-talk voice, nuzzling against your neck in a way that made you squirm and giggle. "Is she leaving me all alone? In this big empty palace? With nothing to do but pine away?"

"Fizz!" you protested through your laughter, trying to swat at him with your free hand. "Stop! That tickles!"

"Does it?" He nuzzled harder, his breath warm against your skin. "I had no idea! This is brand new information!"

"You're ridiculous," you said, still giggling as you managed to twist enough to see his grin.

"I'm delightful," he corrected, finally setting you back on your feet but keeping his arms loosely around you. "Where are you going, anyway?"

"Ozzie forgot his lunch," you said, holding up the container. "I'm just running it down to the factory."

"Aww, look at you being all domestic and shit," Fizz teased, but his expression had gone soft. "Your adorable."

"It's just lunch," you said, feeling your face heat.

"Uh-huh. Sure." Fizz pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before releasing you. "Just be careful down there, yeah? The factory's huge. Don't get lost. And watch out for the sex toys," He paused, his grin turning wicked. "Actually, you know what? I'd be extra careful ... they might attack."

"That's not as funny as you think it is," you said dryly.

"It was brillant," Fizz said cheerfully. "Now go, before Ozzie starves to death from lack of your carefully prepared meal. Very tragic. I'd have to write a ballad."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help smiling as you headed toward the door that led to the factory. How bad could it be? It was a factory. Manufacturing and stuff. Probably just a lot of machinery and assembly lines, Ozzie was serious about his domain you where certain it would all be very professional, very normal business operations.

Right?

The factory entrance was marked by a set of heavy double doors with Asmodeus's logo emblazoned on them—You pushed through them and immediately found yourself in a sleek reception area.

It was professional. Polished floors, modern furniture, a large desk where a succubus sat typing away at a computer. She looked up when you entered, her expression shifting from bored to intrigued.

"Oh! Hello there," she said, standing. She was tall and gorgeous in that effortless way demons often were, with long dark hair and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You must be the little guest everyone's been whispering about."

"I'm just here to drop off lunch for Ozzie—I mean, Asmodeus," you said quickly, holding up the container like evidence.

"Look how adorable you are," the succubus said, and something about her tone made it not sound like a compliment. "I'm Monica, the receptionist. Your welcome to take his lunch right to him, I'll even give you a tour."

"Oh, that's okay," you said. "I can just—"

"Nonsense!" Monica was already coming around the desk, her smile widening in a way that showed just a few too many teeth. "I insist. Besides, you've come all this way. The least I can do is give you a little tour. Show you exactly what we do here. I'm sure you're just dying to know what fun things we actually make."

The way she said 'fun' made something uncomfortable twist in your stomach, but you couldn't think of a polite way to refuse. "I mean... I don't want to be any trouble?"

"No trouble at all," Monica said, her tone sweet but her eyes calculating. "Follow me! I'll make sure you get the full experience."

She led you through another set of doors, and you found yourself in what appeared to be a main hallway. It was wide and well-lit, with various doors branching off on either side.

"So this is the main production facility," Monica explained as she walked. "We manufacture a variety of products here. Very popular products. Very in-demand. I'm sure a sweet little thing like you can't even imagine what kind of items we're talking about."

There was something condescending in her voice, like she was talking to a child.

"This way," Monica said, turning down a corridor that seemed to branch away from the main path. "Let me show you where the magic happens."

Monica pushed open the first door with a flourish. "This is our design department!"

The room was full of workstations, each occupied by demons sketching, modeling, and discussing various designs. It took you a moment to process what you were seeing, and when you did, your face immediately went hot.

They were designing toys. Adult toys. Very extravagant adult toys.

"Oh, don't be shy!" Monica said, noticing your reaction and clearly delighting in it. "This is where we come up with all our innovative designs. See that one?" She pointed to a designer's screen showing a 3D model of something so large that it made your eyes widen. "That's based on anatomical scans of actual demons. Very realistic. Very detailed. We call it the 'Devil's Delight.' Guess why?"

You couldn't answer, too busy trying not to stare at the screen.

"The ridges are designed to hit all the right spots," Monica continued, her voice cheerful and educational like she was discussing furniture design. "And see how it curves? That's for deeper penetration. Really gets right in there."

"I—um—" you managed.

"Oh, and this one!" Monica moved to another workstation. "This is our tentacle line. Very popular with the adventurous crowd. The suckers actually create a vacuum sensation. Feels like it's trying to pull out your—well, you can imagine."

You could not, in fact, imagine, and you desperately didn't want to.

One of the designers looked up, noticed your red face, and grinned. "First time seeing the design process, huh?"

"She's with the boss," Monica said, her tone making it sound like an accusation. "Just showing her around. Making sure she understands what we do here."

"Ah," the designer said, their grin widening. "Well, welcome to the fun factory!"

Monica laughed, high and sharp. "Oh, I'm sure she'll adjust. Won't you, sweetie?"

You managed a weak nod, clutching Ozzie's lunch container tighter.

"Come on," Monica said, already heading for another door. "So much more to see!"

The next room was the testing department, and you immediately wished you'd stayed in design.

"Quality control!" Monica announced. "Very important. Can't sell a product that doesn't work properly."

There were demons in lab coats operating various devices, taking notes, discussing technical specifications. The devices themselves were displayed on testing rigs, and you tried very hard not to look directly at them.

"See, we have to test for durability," Monica was explaining, picking up what looked like a bright purple object with more features than your phone. "This baby has to withstand repeated use, various... fluids, temperature changes. We run it for hours to make sure it won't break down when customers are right in the middle of of it all."

She pressed a button and the thing started vibrating with a sound that reminded you of a chainsaw and made you want to disappear into the floor.

"Hear that? That's the motor. Multiple speeds, multiple patterns. This one has a setting called 'earthquake' make you see stars—I have seven of them." Monica's smile was sharp as she watched your reaction. "Want to hold it? Feel how strong it is?"

"No!" you said quickly. "No, thank you, I'm fine."

"Suit yourself," Monica said, setting it down. "Though I'd think someone staying with the Sin of Lust would be a little more curious about these things."

There was definitely mockery in her voice now, thinly veiled behind false sweetness.

"Let's continue," she said brightly.

The packaging department was somehow worse. The boxes were decorated with explicit images and text that made your face burn hotter with each passing second.

She grabbed a box. "And this one is our bestseller. 'The Asmodeus Special.' Named after the boss himself. Modeled after his... proportions. Very popular. Especially with demons who want to say they've 'been with' a Sin but don't want to deal with the actual size difference." She looked at you pointedly. "Must be quite the challenge for someone your size, huh?"

You felt your face go from red to probably purple.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed!" Monica said, her fake sympathy grating. "I'm sure you two will figure something out. Or maybe you haven't gotten there yet? Hard to tell."

The materials storage area was a nightmare of technical specifications and detailed explanations.

"This is our silicone," Monica said, running her hand over large containers of the material. "Medical grade. Body safe. We have it in various firmness levels. Soft, medium, firm, extra firm. Depends what customers want. Some like it realistic and giving, others want something that feels like it could break them in half."

She picked up a sample. "Feel this one. Go ahead, don't be shy."

You reluctantly touched it, and Monica laughed at your expression.

"That's the extra firm. Popular with size queens. The kind of people who think 'if it doesn't hurt a little, what's the point?'" She set it down. "We also have temperature-reactive materials. Gets warm with body heat. Makes it feel more... alive."

Every room was worse than the last, and Monica's commentary got more explicit and pointed with each stop. She watched your reactions like a hawk, clearly enjoying your discomfort while maintaining a veneer of helpfulness.

Finally, she led you to the showroom, and you felt your soul try to leave your body.

"And here's our pride and joy!" Monica announced. "The showroom! Every product we've ever made, displayed for posterity!"

The room was enormous, with products displayed on walls, in cases, on pedestals like they were art pieces. Each one had a little placard describing its features, its history, sometimes customer testimonials that made you want to dig a hole and live in it.

"This one," Monica said, pointing to a particularly elaborate piece that looked like it required an engineering degree to operate, "was Asmodeus's personal design. Revolutionary when it came out. See all these attachments? Each one does something different. You can customize the experience. Very popular. We sell out constantly."

She moved to another display. "And this is from our 'Sinful Seven' collection. Seven products, each one representing a different sin. The Lust one is, of course, our most popular. Has settings that are supposed to make you insatiable. Like, can't-stop-won't-stop level of need."

You were gripping the lunch container so hard your knuckles were white.

"Oh, and you'll love this," Monica continued, moving to a display case. "These are our couple's items. Designed for two people to use together. See this one? Both parties can feel it at the same time. Very intimate. Great for bonding." Her eyes glinted. "I'm sure that'll be useful for you eventually. When you're ready to actually participate in all this."

The implication was clear and mean, too inexperienced to really be part of this world.

"Monica."

The voice was deep, authoritative, and very, very familiar. You turned to see Ozzie standing in the doorway of the showroom, and his flames were bright as they flickered across his usually feather soft mane.

"Oh! Sir!" Monica's entire demeanor shifted, her mockery disappearing behind a mask of professionalism. "I was just giving your guest a comprehensive tour—"

"I can see that," Ozzie said, his voice dangerously level. "And I'm sure it was very... thorough. You can return to reception. Now."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command from the Sin of Lust himself, and Monica's smile faltered.

"Of course," Monica said, shooting you one last look that said she'd accomplished exactly what she'd set out to do before leaving.

Ozzie watched her go, his flames dampening, then turned his attention to you. You were still standing in the middle of the showroom, clutching his lunch container, your face probably the color of a tomato.

"Hey Babe," he said gently, moving closer. "Are you alright?"

"I brought your lunch," you said, your voice small. "You forgot it."

"Did I ?," Ozzie asked, taking the container carefully. "Thank you. That was very thoughtful." He paused, studying your expression. "Wanna tell me what just happened? You look shell-shocked."

"I just—" You gestured vaguely at the showroom around you. "I didn't expect—I mean I know what you make obviously, but I didn't think about—and she showed me everything and explained everything and there were so many—"

You couldn't finish the sentence, too flustered and overwhelmed.

Ozzie's expression dimmed and when he spoke, his voice was carefully gentle. "Monica took you on a grand tour, didn't she?"

"She was very thorough," you managed.

"I'm going to have a word with her about that," Ozzie said, and there was an edge to his voice that suggested that 'word' would not be pleasant. "You came to bring me lunch. You didn't need to see all of... this." He gestured at the showroom.

"It's okay," you said automatically, then stopped. "Actually, no, it's not okay. I was really uncomfortable and she kept going and I didn't know how to make her stop without being rude."

"You're allowed to be rude when someone's making you uncomfortable," Ozzie said firmly. "Especially here. In my factory. Where you should feel safe."

"I just wasn't expecting it to be so... explicit," you admitted.

"This is a sex toy factory, little one," Ozzie said, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice now. "Explicit kind of comes with the territory."

"I know," you said, feeling your face heat again. "I just didn't expect to see it all rapid fire and at once and now I can't un-see any of it and—" You stopped, taking a breath. "Sorry. I'm being weird."

"You just got ambushed babe," Ozzie corrected gently. "You weren't ready for all that. It's not weird, that's normal." He paused. "Do you want me to walk you back? Or do you need a minute?"

"I need several minutes," you admitted. "Maybe a cold shower."

Ozzie's laugh was warm and rumbling. "Fair enough. Come on, my office is quieter. You can sit while I eat this delicious food, you really did spoil me."

You followed him gratefully, very deliberately not looking at any of the displays as you left the showroom.

Ozzie's factory office was a blessed relief after the chaos of the factory floor. It was large but comfortable, decorated in dark blues and golds, with a massive desk and several seating areas clearly designed for meetings with people of various sizes.

You sank into one of the chairs that was actually your height, finally feeling like you could breathe again.

"I'm sorry," Ozzie said, settling into his own chair behind the desk. "Monica shouldn't have done that. She knows better."

"Why did she?" you asked.

Ozzie was quiet for a moment. "Because you're new. Because you're human. Because she probably thought it would be funny to watch you squirm." His flames flickered with annoyance. "And because I have to make it explicitly clear that you're off-limits for that kind of hazing."

"Off-limits?" you repeated.

"You're with us," Ozzie said firmly. "That means you get the same respect and consideration that Fizz and I get. No exceptions. No 'harmless fun' at your expense."

Something warm bloomed in your chest at his protectiveness. "Thanks Oz."

"Don't thank me for basic decency," Ozzie said. "This is your home too now. You shouldn't have had to deal with that kind of shit."

You were quiet for a moment, processing. Then, because you couldn't help it: "So... you really design some of those yourself?"

Ozzie's face brightened with enthusiasm. "Some. It's part of the business. Making sure products meet certain standards of quality and innovation."

"The one Monica pointed out—is it really made from your—"

"Is very popular, but no its not modelled after me." Ozzie interrupted, but there was amusement in his voice now.

Despite everything, you felt a smile tug at your lips. "Oh, ok ... good"

You sat in comfortable silence, your heartbeat finally returning to normal, the mortification fading into something more manageable.

After you left, Ozzie sat at his desk for a long moment, staring at the lunch container you'd brought him. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed.

"Hey Big Daddy," Fizz's voice came through. "What's up?"

"Monica took her on the full fucking tour," Ozzie said without preamble.

There was a beat of silence. "She fucking what?"

"Design, testing, packaging, materials, and the damn showroom," Ozzie said, his flames flickering with renewed irritation. "Every detail. Watched her squirm the whole time like it was entertainment."

"That bitch," Fizz said, and he sounded pissed. "I knew Monica was petty but I didn't think she'd pull that shit. Where is she now?"

"Back at reception," Ozzie said. "I'm dealing with her later. But Fizz, our girl showed up at my office looking so out of sorts.'"

"Fuck," Fizz said, his anger shifting to concern. "How bad?"

"Bad enough that I don't think she's gonna want to set foot in this factory ever again," Ozzie said. "And I can't even blame her. Monica made it as uncomfortable as possible while pretending to be helpful."

"So what do we do?" Fizz asked.

"We talk to her," Ozzie said. "Tonight. About what we actually do, what it means. Because I think part of why it was so overwhelming is she doesn't fully get what this stuff can do, Monica seem to show her the most extreme end."

"You wanna have the sex talk with our girl," Fizz deadpaned.

"I wanna have the your partners use these and here's what that actually looks like talk," Ozzie corrected. "She gets it in theory she needs to understand its different in practice. After today, she's probably got a million questions she's too embarrassed to ask."

"Fair," Fizz said. "So what's the plan?"

"Invite her to our room tonight," Ozzie said. "Show her our stuff. Make it personal instead of industrial. Let her see it in context instead of watching some brainless employee wave dildos in her face while making snide comments."

"Show her our toy collection while she's still processing an entire factory of toys," Fizz said slowly. "Bold strategy."

"You got a better one, Froggie?"

"Actually no," Fizz admitted. "That's probably the move. Our space, our stuff, no judgy succubus making her feel like shit. Plus she can ask whatever she wants without worrying about looking stupid."

"Exactly," Ozzie said.

"When?" Fizz asked.

"After dinner," Ozzie said. "Casual. No pressure. Just us."

"Right," Fizz said. "Totally casual. 'Hey cutie, wanna see our dick collection?' Very smooth."

"Fizzy, Hush " Ozzie warned, but there was affection in his voice.

"Make me," Fizz shot back. "Oh wait, you can't. You're at work. Guess you're stuck listening to me be a little shit."

"Why am I with you again?"

"Because I'm devastatingly charming and incredible in bed," Fizz said cheerfully. "Also because I found our girl for us and she made you lunch. Specifically for you. Because she knew you'd forget to eat."

"I know," Ozzie said quietly.

"We're keeping her forever, right?" Fizz asked, his voice going soft. "Like, this is it? Because I don't think I can handle the alternative."

"We're keeping her," Ozzie confirmed. "Long as she'll have us."

"Good," Fizz said. "Now get back to work and I'll prep her for tonight."

Dinner that night was a relatively quiet affair. You'd made pasta, one of the few things you could make that translated well to Hell's ingredients, the three of you ate together in the kitchen like always.

You didn't bring up the factory tour. Neither did they. But you could feel them watching you, exchanging glances when they thought you weren't looking.

Finally, as you were clearing plates, Ozzie said casually, "Hey, little one, would you want to hang out in our room for a bit tonight? Just the three of us?"

You paused, plate in hand. "Your room?"

"Yeah," Fizz chimed in, his tone carefully light. "We thought it might be nice. More comfortable than the living room. Plus, our bed is stupid comfortable and I've been wanting to show it off to you."

"Oh," you said, processing. "I mean... yeah? That sounds nice?"

"Great!" Fizz said, bouncing slightly. "Finish up here and then come join us. No rush."

They disappeared down the hallway, leaving you to finish the dishes with a slightly confused but not unpleasant feeling.

When you finally made your way to their room, you knocked softly on the door.

"Come innnn!" Fizz called.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Their bedroom was large—of course it was, given Ozzie's size—but it was also surprisingly cozy. Bright colors, soft lighting, and the star of the room, the biggest bed you'd ever seen. It was circular, piled high with pillows and blankets, and looked like something out of a luxury hotel.

"Holy shit," you said before you could stop yourself. "That bed is huge."

"Right?" Fizz was already sprawled across it, looking very pleased with himself. "It's custom made. Has to be, for Ozzie's size. But it also means there's room for like, six people. Very convenient for sleepovers."

Ozzie was sitting on his side of the bed, and he gestured to the space between them. "Come on, little one. It's just as comfortable as it looks."

You climbed up—which involved climbing a small staircase of pink stars a given considering your height differences—you immediately sank into the mattress with a sound of surprise.

"Oh wow," you said. "This must be like sleeping on a cloud."

"Told you," Fizz said smugly. "Ozzie doesn't do anything halfway. Including beds."

You settled in between them, very aware of how close they both were, how intimate this felt despite being fully clothed and just sitting.

"So," Ozzie said carefully, "I wanted to talk to you about today. About the factory."

Your stomach immediately tensed. "Oh. Yeah."

"Monica is getting written up," Ozzie continued. "That was completely inappropriate and it won't happen again. But more than that, I realized that you probably have questions."

"I mean, I know what you do," you said quietly. "You run a club and a factory that makes... products for that industry."

"Sex toys," Fizz said bluntly. "We can say it out loud. Sex toys. Dildos. Vibrators. All manner of things designed to make people feel good."

Your face heated but you nodded. "Yeah. Those."

"And I think seeing them in an industrial context was overwhelming," Ozzie said gently. "Because it's a lot. It's clinical and removed from the actual purpose."

"Which is pleasure," Fizz added. "The whole point is making people feel good. Helping them explore what they like, what feels nice, what brings them outta there she'll. That's what Ozzie's whole King of Lust sithick is about."

"I know," you said. "Intellectually, I know that. It's just... a lot to process when you're seeing hundreds of toys at once with detailed explanations about features."

"Would it help," Ozzie said slowly, "to see it in a different context? To understand what this looks like for us personally, rather than industrially?"

You looked at him, uncertain what he meant.

Fizz sat up, moving to his side of the bed. He opened a drawer and pulled out a small box. "We have our own," he said simply. "Things we use. Together and separately. And I think maybe showing you that—in our space, in our context—might make it less scary?"

"You want to show me your sex toys," you said, your voice coming out higher than intended.

"Only if you're comfortable," Ozzie said immediately. "There's no pressure. But you're with us now. Part of our lives. And this is part of who we are. I don't want you to feel like you have to avoid certain parts of us or be worried about what you might see. I want you to understand it."

"Okay," you said finally. "Alright, go on... show me."

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

Fizz opened the box carefully, and you realized it was organized. Neat. Everything had its place.

"So," Fizz said, pulling out the first item, "this is pretty basic. Standard vibrator. Nothing fancy."

He held it up, and you noticed it was sleek and simple—nothing like the elaborate monstrosities you'd seen at the factory.

"We use this one a lot," Fizz continued casually. "Good for warm-up, good for when you want something straightforward. Ozzie uses it on me when he wants me all desperate and begging like a..."

"Fizzy," Ozzie said, but there was amusement in his voice.

"What? I'm being educational!" Fizz grinned at you. "She should know what we actually do with these things, not just that they exist."

Your face was definitely red, but you found yourself curious despite the embarrassment. "So you... use it on each other?"

"Sometimes," Ozzie said, pulling out another item from his side of the bed. "Sometimes separately. Depends on the mood." He held up what looked like a more complex but spongy looking device. "This one's designed for couples. See the shape? Lets both people feel good simultaneously."

"Oh," you said, tilting your head to study it. "That's... actually kind of clever." Giving it a squeeze between your palms and watching it compress.

"Right?" Fizz said, bouncing slightly. "It's all about the engineering. Making sure everything works together." He pulled out another item. "This one's Ozzie's design. One of his prototypes before it went into production."

"You test them?" you asked Ozzie.

"Can't sell something I wouldn't use myself," Ozzie said with a shrug. "If it's not good enough for me and Fizz, it's not good enough for customers."

Fizz was still rummaging through the box, pulling out items and explaining them with the same casual energy he brought to everything. "Oh, and this one's fun. Got these attachments—see? Each one does something different. We spent a whole weekend testing all the combinations."

"A very productive weekend," Ozzie added, and there was heat in his voice that made your face burn hotter.

"Very productive," Fizz agreed with a wicked grin. He set that one aside and pulled out something smaller. "And these are just for me. Ozzie's too big for them but they're perfect for in my—"

"She gets the idea," Ozzie interrupted, though he was smiling.

"Does she though?" Fizz asked innocently. "I wanna make sure she understands. Communication is important in relationships."

You were trying very hard not to combust, but there was something... nice about this. The casual way they talked about it, the lack of judgment, the clear comfort they had with each other and with you.

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

Fizz reached back into the box and pulled out several small bottles, his grin turning mischievous. "Oh, and these! Can't forget the lube."

"Fizz—" Ozzie started.

"What? It's important!" Fizz held up one of the bottles. "This isn't just regular lube, this is the good shit. Flavored." He waggled his eyebrows before reading the label. "This one's strawberry. We also have—" he grabbed another bottle, "—cherry, watermelon, and this one that's supposed to taste like chocolate but honestly just tastes like disappointment."

"The chocolate one is terrible," Ozzie confirmed. "We threw out the first bottle."

"But we kept buying it to test," Fizz added. "You know, for science. To make sure it wasn't just a bad batch."

"It was always bad," Ozzie said.

"Fucking terrible," Fizz agreed. "But these other ones?" He waggled the strawberry bottle. "These are actually good. Want to try?"

"What kind of try?" you squeaked.

"Just taste it," Fizz said, already squeezing a small amount onto his finger. "It's safe, I promise. Edible. That's actually the whole point."

Before you could respond, he held his finger up to your mouth. "Just lick it. Trust me."

You hesitated, then cautiously licked the small drop off his finger. It actually did taste like strawberry—sweet and artificial, but not unpleasant.

"See?" Fizz said triumphantly. "Convenient and tasty."

"The watermelon one's better," Ozzie added, pulling out that bottle. "Here." He squeezed a small amount onto his own finger—which was significantly larger than Fizz's—and offered it to you.

Your face was absolutely burning, but you found yourself leaning forward to taste it. Ozzie was right—it was better. Sweeter, but less artificial.

"Verdict?" Fizz asked, grinning at your expression.

"It's... actually pretty good," you admitted.

"Told you!" Fizz set the bottles aside. "We go through these pretty fast. Turns out making things more fun also makes them taste better. Who knew?"

"Everyone knew," Ozzie said dryly. "That's why they exist."

"Shh, I'm having a moment," Fizz said. He was digging deeper into the box now. "Oh! Can't forget these."

He pulled out what looked like soft cuffs—padded, with adjustable straps.

Your eyes widened. "Are those—"

"Restraints, yup," Fizz said cheerfully. "Very beginner-friendly ones though. See the padding? Won't leave marks at all. And check this out—" He demonstrated the quick-release mechanism. "One pull and they come right off. Safety first and all that."

"Why would you need a quick release?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

"Sometimes you panic," Ozzie said simply. "Sometimes what felt good a minute ago suddenly doesn't feel good anymore. Sometimes there's an emergency—fire alarm, phone call, someone knocking on the door, because someone who shall remain nameless," Ozzie raised a brow at Fizz "forgot about the Sushi boat they ordered"

"Come on Oz, that was one time!" Fizz protested.

"Oh," you laughed softly. "That's... actually really thoughtful."

"Who do you think coined the term 'Consent is sexy'," Fizz asked with a wicked grin. "And part of consent is being able to stop whenever you want." He held up the cuffs. "These are designed for fun, not for actual restraint. Want to see how easy they are to get out of?"

"Um ... sure," you said.

"Watch this," Fizz said. Before you could process what was happening, he'd fastened one of the cuffs around his own wrist. "See? Snug but not tight. Comfortable. Could wear these for a while without any problems." He tugged experimentally. "Can't pull out by accident, which is you know ... the point. Buttttt—" He reached up with his hand and pulled the release mechanism. The cuff fell open immediately. "Ta-da ...Easy out whenever you want."

"Huh," you said, studying the mechanism. "That is pretty clever."

"Want to try?" Fizz offered, holding out the cuff.

"I—what?"

"Just to see how it feels," Fizz said. "No pressure. Just so you know it's not scary. Ozzie can put it on you and you can take it off yourself. See how the release works."

You hesitated, looking between Fizz's encouraging expression and Ozzie's careful, patient one.

"Only if you want to," Ozzie said quietly. "No pressure, little one."

"Okay," you said finally, holding out your wrist.

Ozzie took the cuff gently, his large hands careful as he fastened it around your wrist. It was soft, padded, and surprisingly comfortable—not tight or restrictive, just... there.

"How does it feel?" Ozzie asked.

"Weird," you admitted. "But not bad weird. Just... different."

"Now try the release," Fizz encouraged.

You found the mechanism—a simple pull loop—and tugged. The cuff immediately opened, falling away from your wrist.

"See?" Fizz said. "Easy. Nothing scary about it. Just a thing that exists for people who like that kind of play."

"Do you like it?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

"Sometimes," Fizz said with a shrug. "Depends on the mood. Sometimes it's hot to not be able to touch, to just have to take whatever the Big Guy's giving. Makes everything more intense. But sometimes I want my hands free so I can grab onto him or touch myself or whatever. It's about variety, you know?"

"And knowing what we like changes depending on the situation," Ozzie added. "There's no one right way to do any of this. It's all about communication and checking in."

Fizz was already pulling out more items. "Oh, and we've got blindfolds—" he held up a soft, silky one, "—which are fun for sensory stuff. Makes everything feel more intense when you can't see what's coming."

"Literally and figuratively," Ozzie snorted, and Fizz barked out his own laugh almost falling off the bed.

"And these," Fizz continued, pulling out what looked like feathers and some kind of small wheel, "are for sensation play. The feathers tickle, and this—" he held up the wheel, "—is a Wartenberg wheel. Looks scary, but it's actually just tingly. Here, give me your arm."

You extended your arm hesitantly, and Fizz rolled the wheel across your inner forearm. It felt strange—not painful, just a prickling sensation that made your skin tingle.

"See?" Fizz said. "Good for when you want to mix things up, keep things interesting."

"Can I ask you something?" you said quietly.

"Anything," Ozzie said immediately.

"Is this—" You gestured vaguely at the items spread across the bed. "Is this something you'd want... eventually? With me?"

"If you want to," Ozzie said, his voice gentle. "There's no expectation, but eventually, if you're interested, we'd love to share this part of our lives with you."

"We're not gonna push you into anything," Fizz added, shifting closer to you on the bed.

You nodded, processing.

"There's more to a relationship than sex. More to lust than physical stuff." Ozzie continued simply.

"Though the physical stuff is pretty great," Fizz added, then caught Ozzie's look. "What? I'm just saying! It's one aspect of many aspects! We're well-rounded!"

Despite everything, you laughed. "You're still ridiculous."

"I'm honest," Fizz corrected unusually serious for once. He reached out, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. "But seriously, cutie. We're happy... just like this."

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

As if to prove his point, Fizz shifted even closer, casually draping one of his mechanical arms around your waist. The touch was becoming so natural now—comfortable and warm. You found yourself leaning into it without thinking.

"Sides," Fizz continued, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair, "we're already way ahead of schedule with this relationship thing. You're in our bed, letting me play with your hair. That's pretty damn hot even without any of the fun stuff."

"He's right," Ozzie said, and you felt the bed shift as he moved closer to your other side. One large hand came to rest gently on your back—just resting there, warm and solid and grounding. "You being here, willing to understand this part of us—that matters more than any blind physical act could."

You were surrounded by them now, Fizz pressed against your side with his arm around your waist, Ozzie's hand on your back, and it felt... safe. Intimate, yes, but in a way that didn't feel overwhelming.

"You two really have thought of everything," you observed.

"We've had a lot of time to figure out what works," Ozzie said. "And what doesn't. Trial and error."

"Lots of trials," Fizz added with a wicked grin. "Very thorough testing process."

"Fizz," Ozzie warned, but there was affection in his tone.

"What? I'm just saying we're very dedicated to quality!" Fizz said innocently. Then he looked at Ozzie, and something shifted in his expression—something heated and playful. "Speaking of..."

Fizz stretched across you to reach Ozzie. You found yourself between them as Fizz pulled Ozzie into a kiss.

It was casual and familiar—the kind of kiss that spoke of years together, of knowing exactly what the other person liked.

You watched, frozen, as Fizz's hand came up to cup Ozzie's face, as Ozzie's fingers ghosted Fizz's jaw.

When they pulled apart, both of them were smiling.

"Missed you today," Fizz said softly.

"I was gone for eight hours," Ozzie pointed out.

"Eight hours too long," Fizz said dramatically, then seemed to remember you were there. "Oh, shit, sorry cutie. Didn't mean to just start making out over you."