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

85. Influence

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The morning after the games, I was awoken from my peaceful slumber by a warm but calloused hand on my face. Its knuckles gingerly traced my jawline before it settled on the side of my face, palm pressed to my cheek. The hand's owner brought his mouth close to my ear, his hot breath tickling my skin as he whispered, "Mornin', darlin'."

It took me a moment to fully wake up, and when I finally opened my eyes, there was Striker sitting on the side of the bed, already half-dressed.

"What time is it?" I slurred drowsily.

"Around eleven," he replied with a half-smile. "You had yourself a good little nap there."

I pushed myself up in the bed, wincing when the movement sent a dull but powerful ache rippling through my gut. Striker extended an arm and helped me sit up, and I leaned on him briefly while I gathered myself.

"We oughta be headin' back to Pride pretty soon," he said.

"We'll need to drop Bombproof off at the stable, right?" I asked.

"That's right."

I shifted to Striker's side and dangled my feet off the edge of the bed. "So, I can thank Miss Daisy and Darryl for their help last night."

"How're you feelin', by the way?"

I placed a hand on his shoulder for support as I slowly stood to my feet. "Still pretty sore, but better," I answered, looking down to see that I was still wearing my jeans and button-up flannel from the day before. "I reckon I'll just have a quick wash-up here and take an actual shower back home," I mused. "That way I can do my dressing there — I don't think I have enough stuff left with me to properly change it here."

My gaze travelled to Striker when I heard a humored chuckle escape his lips. "What?" I said.

"You reckon?" he teased with a smirk, his gold fang glinting in the natural light shining through the window. "Have I been rubbin' off on you, darlin'?"

I looked away sheepishly. "Well, it's not like I wasn't pretty lax when I spoke, anyway," I said, flustered. "But I'd say I've influenced you a little bit, too, though."

"Care to elaborate?" he quipped, moving closer and leaning down to bring his face to mine.

I mirrored his smirk, but it quickly morphed into a warm smile as I wove my fingers through his alabaster locks. "You're a little softer now than when I first met you."

The smirk immediately dissolved from his lips, giving way to a small but disapproving frown, and he pulled my hand away and straightened back up to his full height.

"Having a soft side isn't inherently a bad thing, Striker," I explained. "You can still be quite cold and vicious when you want to be, I know." I lifted my hand again, gently resting my fingertips on his cheek. "But there was always that part of you, deep down. It just needed nurturing."

"I ain't gone soft," he said flatly.

"No, you haven't." I leaned on his frame, propping my chin on his chest while I looked up at him. "You're putting words in my mouth, love. That's not what I said." I slipped a hand under the hem of his wife beater, trailing it up his scarred waist. "You're still plenty rough and jagged around the edges — I've just managed to find some of the softer spots." The pads of my fingers migrated down to his lower back, and I lightly raked my nails across the smooth skin just above his tail.

Striker rolled his eyes, and I barely noticed a light blush dusting his cheeks.

I let out a sigh of resignation through my nose. "So defensive," I teased, a smile crawling up my face. "All I meant was that my little Grinch's heart has grown a few sizes since I met him."