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

73. Want

---

"Hey, Striker?"

"Hm?"

"Have you heard of the Harvest Moon Festival?"

"Have I heard of it?" Striker poked his head out from around the corner of the kitchen. "You're lookin' at the winner of last year's Pain Games."

I smirked. "So, I guess it's safe to assume you've been before," I remarked playfully.

He grinned, setting down the saucepan in his hand and leaning on the wall to lend me his undivided attention. "Why you ask?"

I coyly shifted my gaze to the side. "Well . . . Stolas co-hosts the festival, and he invited me to go this year. He even offered to let me borrow an Asmodean crystal again. . ."

Striker's grin dissolved into a small, almost contemptuous frown. "Oh," he said curtly. "Alright."

I looked down at my phone in my lap. "I know you two still aren't on good terms. . ."

"That's putting it mildly, darlin'," he deadpanned, crossing his arms.

I pursed my lips. "But . . . he did say he didn't mind if you were there. . ."

He raised an eyebrow, staring at me with a flat, unimpressed expression.

I played with the case on my cell phone and added sheepishly, "I would really like to have you there. And, I mean, you know Wrath a lot better than I do." I looked back at him, half-smiling. "I didn't get to explore very much when I was down there by myself."

Striker remained silent, that expression still on his face. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head, a small, humored smile tugging at his lips. "Alright, darlin'. I'll go. But don't think for a second that I'm not competin' in the Pain Games again this year."

"Of course," I replied, smiling sweetly. "And I can cheer you on from the sidelines while you reclaim your title."

He chuckled and headed back into the kitchen to continue preparing dinner. My smile gradually faded as he worked, my mind wandering to the events earlier that afternoon. I brought a hand to my stomach, gently covering my belly wound under my nightgown. I bit my lip when I remembered the look on Striker's face, the yearning in those smoldering eyes. The thought of his desire for me hungrily manifesting itself in his words and actions caused my heart to flutter — and the thought that he couldn't bring himself to keep going out of fear that he'd hurt me left a sickening feeling in my gut.

"Supper's ready," Striker said, coming into the living room with a dinner plate in each hand. He bent down and gave me a quick peck on the cheek, handing me one of the plates before taking a seat beside me on the couch.

I looked down at the food on my dish, my eyes widening slightly in recognition.

"Is this . . . jambalaya?"

"Mm-hm," Striker hummed through a mouthful of food. He swallowed and added, "Well, sorta. Tried to copy your friend's recipe. But some of the seasonin's are probably different, and I couldn't get my hands on venison — I'd've had to go all the way to the Pentagram for that."

A wide smile crawled up my face, and I excitedly scooped up a spoonful and shoveled it into my mouth. A happy giggle escaped my nose as I chewed, the familiar flavors exploding on my tongue. I tasted sausage, and it so closely emulated the taste of the Andouille sausage Alastor would use in his dishes that my giggles briefly grew into ecstatic laughter.

"It's perfect," I muttered after swallowing a large bite. I beamed at him, setting my plate on the coffee table, and I couldn't stop myself from wrapping my arms around his neck and planting a long kiss on his lips. "Thank you."

He snickered and briefly returned the kiss. "You're welcome, darlin'," he said. "But don't think I did it just for you — I thought it was pretty fine, too."

I smiled against his lips. "I love you."

Striker mirrored my smile, cupping my cheek and kissing me once more before I pulled away and picked up my plate.

We both devoured our food, not stopping until wecould practically see our reflections in our dishes. We sat back on the couch for a good while after finishing, letting our food settle, until Striker finally stood and took our empty plates to the kitchen. I rested my head on the back of the couch and closed my eyes as I listened to the clanking and splashing of Striker washing the dishes. A contented smile eventually tugged at my lips, and I felt a warmth radiate through my chest.

I laid a hand over my chest when my heart began to ache. In a way, I wanted to somehow repay him for the gift he'd given me tonight. I wanted to make him feel as good as he made me feel. I wanted the comfort of his closeness.

I wanted him. All of him.

I stood from the couch and silently walked down the short hallway to my bedroom, perching myself on the side of the bed. I bit my lip in thought, mulling an idea over in my mind for a moment.

About ten minutes later, the noise in the kitchen finally quieted, and footsteps tracked down the hall until they reached the doorway to the bedroom. Striker leaned on the doorframe, his brow slightly furrowed in confusion.

"What's wrong?"

I smiled and shook my head before standing and walking toward him. "Nothing," I answered, snaking my arms around his neck and laying my head on his chest. He let out a small sigh through his nose and pressed his lips to the crown of my head, carefully enveloping my frame.

I looked up at him pleadingly and asked, "Will you do something for me?"

"What is it?" he said, his voice laced with a twinge of concern.

I stepped out of his arms and took his hand, leading him to the bed and gesturing for him to take a seat. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at me.

"(Y/N)," he said warily. "What are you wantin', darlin'?"

I bent down to plant a long, tender kiss on his lips, which he returned after a moment's hesitation. I reached for his free hand, and slowly, I lifted the hem of my nightgown and guided his hand underneath.

Striker broke off our kiss and stared at me as his hand touched my bare groin, his eyes darting downward when his fingers felt the wetness of my womanhood.

"You've been in here touchin' yourself," he said, already knowing the answer, then raised an eyebrow. "Have you been goin' commando since this afternoon?"

I smirked. "No," I replied. "Just since I came back here."

He smirked in mild amusement and shook his head.

I brought my hands to his face, cupping his cheeks. "You make me so happy," I started with a bittersweet smile. "You make me feel so good in every way." I kissed him again, letting my lips linger. "And I want to make you feel good, too."

Striker sighed against my lips, his hand leaving my womanhood to rest on my thigh. "(Y/N). . ."

"You don't need to worry," I continued. "We can try again. And see what works for us."

Striker grimaced, his eyes falling to the floor. "And if I hurt you again?"

"Then we wait out the pain and try something else," I said matter-of-factly, giving him a reassuring smile. "It'll be okay."

He pressed one of my hands to his cheek, squeezing it firmly. His eyes fluttered closed, his brows knitting together. "You don't know how bad I've wanted you, darlin'."

I leaned forward, resting my knee on the mattress beside him and holding his hand to my inner thigh.

"Then take me."