Striker x Reader - Picking Up Trash and Calling It Treasure
You know Striker is bad news. You know he's not boyfriend material. You know he's a killer. But that doesn't stop him from sweet-talking his way into your heart. Just how far will you let yourself fall for that rattlesnake bastard before you decide enough is enough?
My first fic of this fandom! I knew it was only a matter of time. I've recently developed a crush on Striker and have found very little fulfilling Striker content so I wrote my own. This story is written with a female reader in mind but until the smut happens it could be read either way if you don't mind mentally changing pronouns. If you'd like me to write some male!reader x Helluva Boss, you're more than welcome to request some. Let me know what y'all think!
“You know he’s bad news, right?”
You rolled your eyes as you lifted your drink to your lips, taking a swallow. Across from you sat Millie for your weekly Girls Night Out, her expression a combination of disbelief and concern for your mental state.
“Yes, Mills, I know,” you nodded, scanning your eyes across the bar. Unless he’d gotten better at hiding (unlikely), this was the first Girls Night where Blitzø hadn’t trailed the two of you. For the first few weeks, you or Millie would spot him hiding rather poorly in a corner booth or behind a bigger demon, struggling to eavesdrop on your conversations in case either of you were talking shit about him. After the last time, when he’d hidden in the shadows of the women’s restroom, you’d given him a very private, very personal threat of what would happen should he follow the two of you again.
You were pleased to see that he could follow directions.
“He’s an assassin for hire, (y/n)!”
A laugh bubbled in your throat. “The fuck does that make us, Millie?
“We kill humans,” she argued, as though that was somehow holier than Striker’s chosen profession. “He kills demons. He could kill you.”
“And I could kill him,” you countered, finishing your drink. “Hell, he’d probably like it.”
She groaned loudly, falling forward until her head hit the table with a thump. You took your empty glass as well as hers and sauntered up to the bar, sliding the glasses across the surface and flagging down the bartender for another round. After a nod of confirmation, you made your way back to your seat, giggling at the irritation on your best friend’s face.
“It’s not like I’m gonna do anything,” you offered, knowing that she wouldn’t believe you. “He’s just nice to look at, is all. I know he’s not boyfriend material.”
“Who’s not boyfriend material?” came a low, gravelly voice twinged with a southern accent.
Your brow lifted as you turned your head to see the subject of your conversation standing beside your table, looking far more attractive than he had any legal right to. From the corner of your eye, you could see Millie glaring daggers into your non-existent soul, so you offered the demon-killing cowboy a flirtatious grin.
“Blitzø,” you lied easily. “He’s a little too chaotic for my taste, but he’s kinda cute.”
“Too chaotic, huh?” Striker chuckled, and you may or may not have crossed your legs to quell the tingling sensation between them. “I could see that. Your boss man is a little high-strung. I bet a lady like you could use a night under the stars, unwind from all that time in the living world.”
“Sounds like a good time,” you purred, gnawing at your lower lip as you looked up at him. Millie slumped in her seat, groaning loudly in disapproval, though you both ignored her.
“It’s a date, then,” Striker grinned. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night.”
“You’re on,” you replied as he walked away. Once he was out of view, you turned to face Millie, who had her arms crossed over her chest.
“Not boyfriend material, remember?” she growled.
“Going on one date doesn’t make him my boyfriend,” you giggled. A whistle to your right informed you that your drinks were waiting at the bar, so you rose from your seat to retrieve them. Returning to the table, you slid Millie’s towards her, laughing as she took hold of the glass and downed half of its contents in one drink.
“Thirsty?” you teased, sipping at your own drink.
“I need a lot more alcohol if I’m gonna listen to you talk about that snake all night,” she defended.
“What was I supposed to do, Mills? You saw him!”
“Yeah, I saw him, and you were supposed to tell him off, not agree to a date.”
“He’s hot though,” you groaned. “I can’t help it. I like my men like I like my alcohol – deliciously terrible for my health.”
“This is gonna blow up in your face,” Millie stated, finishing off her drink.
"Oh, definitely," you nodded in agreement. “But the orgasm will be worth it.”
The imp made a face at you, her nose scrunched up in disgust while her eyes narrowed in disappointment. You giggled in response, downing the rest of your drink.
“What do you mean, you’re not celebrating with us?” Blitzø exclaimed, his signature pout on his lips as he stared at you.
“Exactly what I said,” you replied, packing up your weaponry. “I have plans tonight.”
“But we always go out together after a successful job!” your boss whined dramatically, earning a scoff from Millie and an eyeroll from Moxxie.
“Not true, sir,” Moxxie countered. “Millie and I have blown you off countless times.”
“Besides,” Millie grumbled, “she has a date.”
You closed your eyes, inhaling as you waited for the explosion.
You opened your eyes to find Blitzø staring at you, eyes wide, mouth agape, arms flailing helplessly. “Since when do you have a date? Who is he? Or she? Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?!”
“Because it just happened last night,” you rolled your eyes, slinging the strap of your weapons case over your shoulder. “It’s not a big deal. It’s one date.”
“With a psychopath,” Millie added, crossing her arms. You leveled her with a glare as Blitzø sprang to life, animatedly asking more personal questions.
“Please don’t tell me you’re going out with Striker after he tried to kill all of us,” Moxxie commented, mentally putting the pieces together and pinching what would be the bridge of his nose.
You fell quiet, refusing to meet any of their gazes, and Blitzø exhaled a loud shriek.
“Striker? Seriously?” he demanded, eyes narrowing into angry slits. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing going out with Striker?!”
“It’s just one date,” you reminded the trio, “and it’s really none of your business. Now, if y’all don’t mind, I have a date to get ready for.”
Without listening to any of their complaints, you made your way out of the office, allowing the door to slam closed behind you.
Back at home, you stood before your full-length mirror, twisting left and right to determine whether or not your outfit was acceptable. You didn’t want to appear desperate, as though you were trying to get the cowboy’s attention, but you wanted to look hotter than you did on a regular basis. You opted for tight jeans that hugged the curve of your ass, a (f/c) button-up shirt that you tied up around your waist, and high-heeled combat boots.
As you waited for Striker to arrive, you sat on your bed, the reality of the night finally caught up with you. You were going on a date with a very dangerous imp, and that was the majority of the information you had on him. You knew he was from Wrath, that he was an assassin for hire, that he was more narcissistic than Blitzø, that he was the hottest imp you’d ever seen, and that his southern drawl made you weak in the knees.
An hour passed as you sat on your bed, your gaze occasionally flicking towards the door. You knew he traveled by horse, though that didn’t stop your heart from skipping a beat every time a car slowed down outside of your apartment complex. You didn’t have any way to contact him, not having exchanged numbers. It dawned on you that he may not even know where you lived, and that asking you out may have just been a spontaneous joke.
Anger, embarrassment, and disappointment fought for top billing in your heart as you sat on your bed, hands balled into fists, pressing into your thighs. The hour grew later and later, without a single text or knock, not even from your friends. You lasted until midnight before you decided he wasn’t going to show, and you stripped out of your clothes, throwing on a tank top and shorts to sleep in. You scrubbed the makeup off of your face and threw your hair into a bun, angrily crawling under the covers and snuggling into your favorite pillow. If tears stained the fabric beneath your head, you sure as fuck weren’t going to tell anyone about it.
