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

140. Surreal

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"Oh, Striker. . ."

Striker smiled in satisfaction as he drew a series of sighs and moans out of his bride, his lips trailing down her neck to her collarbone. His fingers hooked themselves under the neck of her wedding dress, pulling down the ornate fabric until it slid off her shoulders. He kissed and nibbled at her soft skin, and his hands slithered beneath her bodice to squeeze and grope at her flesh.

"I love you," he murmured against her skin, gently pushing her backward on the bed. He crawled on top of her, taking in the sight of her flushed face and doe-like eyes—God, she looked so perfect. His excitement getting the better of him, he tossed the skirt of her dress out of his way and lowered himself onto her frame. His hand roughly felt up her leg, shoving down her thin pantyhose, and teasingly inched up her inner thigh until he reached his goal.

"Striker," (Y/N) mewled, her fingers clumsily unbuttoning her groom's white dress shirt. She mirrored his expression and whispered breathlessly against his lips, "I love you, too."

Striker's smile widened, his free hand combing through (Y/N)'s hair and carefully holding her head as he pressed his lips to hers once more. A low moan rumbled in his chest as he pushed his hips into hers, his black slacks growing just a bit tighter from the spark of pleasure it produced. He kissed her slowly, longingly, as if to savor every second he had her in his embrace.

His eyes closed in contentment, and for just a moment in his hard, tumultuous life, he genuinely felt at peace.

"Consider this an equal exchange, cowboy."

Striker snapped his eyes open in recognition of that voice, and he looked up at his surroundings. Gone were the cream-colored walls and the sheer veil gracefully hanging from the canopy of their bed—now there was nothing around him but blackness. Cold, silent blackness.

His stomach lurched, his eyes eventually falling to the dead weight in his hands.

The sound of Tiamat's hearty, sadistic laughter echoed in Striker's ears as he stared down at the languid, bloodied body in his arms. (Y/N)'s frame fell limp, her head tilting back. A thin stream of blood flowed from the corner of her mouth, dripping from her jaw and staining her clean white dress a deep crimson. Her eyes were half-open and glazed over, now completely void of any trace of warmth or life.

"Oh, no," he muttered under his breath, his blood turning to ice in his veins. He held the back of her head and lightly slapped his free palm against her mottled cheek. "No, no—(Y/N). C'mon, baby, wake up—stay awake for me."

(Y/N) had no reaction, but merely continued to lie still in Striker's arms.

Panic began to set in, causing Striker's heart to pound violently against his ribs, and he repeated over and over, "No, no, no, no—(Y/N). C'mon, (Y/N). Just stay awake for me, darlin'. Ple—c'mon, don't . . . Please. . ."

Please.

Please. Not again.

Please. . .

"Striker?"

Striker paused, his world going dark yet again. (Y/N) was gone, and he was enveloped in pitch black nothingness. He felt weak, sore—tired. He felt cold, though his gut burned with a searing pain, erasing any coherent thought from his mind. But in the eerie silence of that encompassing darkness, he could hear that familiar voice again:

"Striker? Can you hear me?"

It was distant, but it was there. He fought the exhaustion that threatened to overtake him once again, choosing to follow that voice. Eventually, he opened his eyes, but shut them immediately when a glaring white light shone directly in his face. Slowly, he managed to peel them open just enough to scan his surroundings.