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

66. Safe

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TRIGGER WARNING:

This chapter contains strong themes of sexual trauma that may be disturbing or troubling to some readers. Please proceed with caution.

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It was still dark when I was awoken by someone stirring beside me in my bed. The bedframe creaked slightly, and my bedsheets rustled with each movement of the person in bed with me.

"Wake up," commanded a familiar voice as its owner shook my shoulder.

My eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the darkness, and I caught sight of a figure silently looming over me. I looked up at him; a pair of luminous yellow eyes glowed in the dim light and stared down at me — but there was something off about them.

"What's wrong?" I slurred, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Striker didn't answer me. Instead he removed the bandana from his neck, grabbing my hands and wrapping the red cloth snugly around my wrists.

"Striker," I started warily, tugging against him. "What are you doing?"

Once he finished binding my wrists, he pinned my hands to the mattress above my head and tossed my bedsheets onto the floor. He climbed on top of me, pulling up the skirt of my hospital gown to expose my body.

My stomach lurched. "Striker, no," I said, my voice wavering. "I'm still hurt. I-I can't do this right now."

Striker ignored me and reached down to the waistband of his pants, and my heart jumped into my throat when I heard the clinking of his belt unbuckling.

"Striker, please," I muttered, my panic evident in my voice. "Please don't. Please. You said you'd wait until I got better — "

A large hand suddenly covered my mouth, followed by a low, venomous growl: "Shut the fuck up."

There was something abnormally malicious and feral in his voice, something I had never heard from him before. Tears pricked my eyes, and I began to hyperventilate. I tried to speak again, beg him to stop, but my words were muffled by his hand. Striker roughly kicked my legs apart, the action causing me to whimper loudly out of both fear and pain. My frame shook violently, and I screamed into his hand. My wordless pleas only drove him to clamp down harder over my mouth, pressing down with enough force to push my head into the mattress.

I gasped as I felt Striker shove himself inside me, my whimpering quickly devolving into helpless sobs, and he removed his hand from my mouth and clasped it tightly around my throat. He put all of his weight behind his hand, crushing my windpipe and cutting off my airway. I squirmed powerlessly beneath him, trying to break free of his grasp, no longer concerned with the sharp pain in my gut. But he held onto me with a vise-grip, a small grunt escaping him with every careless thrust.

My vision became blurry, and my limbs started to lose their strength. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. All I could do was lie there and feel him moving painfully in and out of me, my wound burning from my attempts to resist. I looked up at him again. Those eyes — they looked the same, but there was something different about them. They were cold. Icy cold. There was no life in them. They were the eyes of a mindless machine carrying out a task.

This wasn't him. Right?

Right?

My pulse bounded in my ears, and I shut my eyes and tried to scream one more time before I felt someone shaking my shoulder again.