Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

121. The Instigator

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Parties had never really been his thing. People had never really been his thing—and to be completely honest, he couldn't give a rat's ass about any of the demons in that crowded banquet hall, sinner or hellborn.

But they were important to (Y/N). And Satan knows she was important to him. So he didn't mind her going. He did, however, mind her going alone.

After their close call at the last party, Striker couldn't take the thought of something like that possibly happening again. She was among friends here, yes, but she had been among friends when that fucker spiked her drink and dragged her unconscious body outside to have his way with her. Thinking about it even now made his blood boil; there was just no way he would let her out of his sight this time.

He sat near the bar, sipping on his whiskey while he watched (Y/N) socialize and enjoy herself. She danced with a couple of her friends from the hotel, returning to the bar a time or two for a new drink. Every now and again throughout the night, (Y/N) would stop by his table to check on him: her "little wallflower," as she had so affectionately put it. At some point, she had run off to greet Stolas, and Striker paused when his eyes fell on a familiar imp at the opposite side of the large room.

Ah, shit, he thought to himself when he saw Blitzø lingering at the edge of the dance floor. He stood, mulling over whether or not to confront him, but froze.

Stolas brought Blitzø over to introduce him to (Y/N), who gave the imp a friendly smile and shook his hand. The three began conversing amongst themselves, prompting Striker to reluctantly reclaim his seat. He tapped his finger on the tabletop in frustration as he watched the trio; he wasn't about to start anything here, not if it meant (Y/N) might be caught in the crossfire.

Eventually, (Y/N) and the two men parted ways, and she soon found yet another familiar face to talk to. Fizzarolli had come to the party as Asmodeus' plus one, and when they had separated to mingle with the other partygoers, (Y/N) flagged him down to say hello. And after a few minutes, Striker noticed the two heading closer to the middle of the dance floor at the start of a new song.

A spark of envy flickered in Striker's chest at the sight of his lover dancing with another man—even if it was a pansy like Fizzarolli. Just the sway of her hips as she moved across the dance floor made him want to carry her off to a secluded room in the hotel and fuck her until she forgot the name of every other man she'd ever met. He groaned and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, frowning when the booze wasn't quite stiff enough to deaden his jealousy.

But he kept quiet and went to grab another drink from the bar, leaning back on the counter to view the throng of demons around him.

"I had a feelin' you weren't the social type," said Husk as he handed Striker his bourbon.

The imp shook his head and said nonchalantly, "Nah. This kinda thing ain't never been my cup o' tea."

Husk propped his elbows on the bar counter. "Yeah, I've never really been fond of bein' stuck in a room full of strangers either," he said, then nodded toward the DJ at the back corner of the banquet hall. "Or all the noise."

Striker smirked. "So you agree the music they play at these things is horse shit."

"I'd hardly call it music," Husk remarked.

The imp grinned for a second or two before taking another swig of his drink, feeling the burn of the cheap booze slide down his throat and settle in his stomach.

"She's been starting to act like her old self again."

Striker looked back at the bartender, who kept his dark eyes on the countertop while he wiped the old varnished wood with a dish towel.