Is It Okay If I Request Strade X Reader Who Age Regresses Headcanons?

is it okay if i request Strade x Reader who age regresses headcanons?

{ strade x gn! reader }

warnings/tags: generally SFW, age regression, mentions of psychological and emotional abuse.

he would initially be very observant, noticing the changes in your behaviour and demeanour without fully understanding what's happening.

his curiosity might drive him to closely monitor these regressions, trying to discern triggers that cause these shifts. he'd start to recognize the emerging pattern, the way your eyes glaze slightly and your shoulders hunch as if bracing against an imminent force.

though he doesn't quite understand it, he senses it’s some kind of defence or coping strategy— a psychological retreat from the overwhelming pressures he imposes.

the thought of pushing you to that edge clearly feeds his ego; it swells within him, a prideful bloom, and he finds your heightened vulnerability oddly endearing, almost charming in its rawness.

he might even find a sort of dark entertainment in watching the crescendo of your emotions, the tremble in your voice, and the palpable increase in your fear.

he begins to anticipate these regressions, strategically nudging you over the brink time and again, until you're so battered, so utterly terrified, that you must revert to that pure, innocent state.

he may even begin manipulating the environment to trigger you... this could include altering the level of light, sound, or even the room's temperature, and observing how each change impacts your behaviour.

if he finds your regressed state easier to manage or somehow beneficial, he might subtly soften his approach, adopting a gentler, almost soothing tone and simpler language to maintain your delicate condition as long as possible, as though preserving the fragility of a rare, beautiful but broken artifact.

he'd likely exploit your vulnerability and emotionally manipulate you by creating scenarios that deepen your dependency or fear, thus reinforcing the dynamic in his favour.

if the regression interferes with his other motivations or desires, he may grow impatient or frustrated. this conflict could lead to unpredictable behaviour on his part, oscillating between indulgence and irritation.

yet, he always takes pleasure in unsettling you when you're regressed, watching each nuanced reaction—every flinch, every whimper— and cataloging them with keen interest.

he might use mocking or teasing as a way to assert control or provoke a reaction, especially if he finds your state intriguing or amusing in some way. this could involve using pet names or speaking in a patronizing tone to reinforce the regression.

if you tend to cry or scream when regressed, he’d playfully call you his "kleine heulsuse,", his voice laced with faux sweetness.

he'd also purposefully scare you to make you more reactive, delighting in each sign of your unravelling.

he’d set out each of his tools before you, introducing them as if you were seeing them for the first time (though their purpose was grimly familiar). he revels in explaining his favourites, detailing their uses with morbid enthusiasm and in vivid, graphic detail.

when you come back around, he'd go at you full force, relishing the slow deterioration of your psyche. it's as if your temporary escape into regression only serves to invigorate him.

and because he finds these physiological dynamics so fascinating, your coping mechanism—the desperate clutching at the straws of your old self—may end up buying you a little time.

send requests/asks its a slow day @ work ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ

Can i request strade doing some gross stuff to fem!reader on stream?

a/n: of course anon! i hope you enjoy :3

YOU'RE A STAR <3

{ strade x f! reader }

word count: 3.0k

warnings/tags: DEAD DOVE, NON-CON, graphic sexual violence and gore, forced exhibitionism, gagging and restraint, fingering, foreign object insertion and removal (?), genital mutilation, eye gouging, forced self-cannibalism, wound fucking, reader death.

As you awaken, the soft glow of a computer screen flickers erratically, casting eerie shadows across the room. Squinting against the harsh, unfamiliar light, you groan against the cloth gag pressed into your mouth. It feels rough against your tender cheeks and oppressively heavy on your tongue, leaving your palate dry. Pain and confusion mix as you find yourself kneeling on the floor, clothed only in your underwear with your arms secured tightly behind your back. Your head groggily lolls forward, your gaze falling upon the thick, durable fabric of a tarp laid out beneath you. Panic flickers through you as you shift your weight, the bony parts of your knees pressing into the tarp's hard, unyielding texture, its coarseness grating against your skin.

Suddenly, the echo of footsteps approaching breaks the silence. Before you can react, a gloved hand grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls back, forcing your head upward. The movement is abrupt, jerking your neck as your eyes are directed away from the relative safety of the floor toward a camera set up a few feet away. You blink against the light, now glaringly bright, as your masked captor adjusts his position and poses beside you. The camera's lens focuses, the red recording light a sinister glow that confirms your fears— this spectacle is not only for him but for an unseen audience.

"Did you have a nice rest?" Strade asks, his familiar accented voice interrupting your thoughts. He pauses, his breath close to your ear as he ensures the camera captures every expression of fear and confusion on your face. "Don’t worry, we’re just getting started. Smile for the camera, won’t you? We wouldn’t want to disappoint our viewers."

Your heart hammers in your chest, the sensation of fear mingling with the stale taste of the gag in your mouth. His hand travels down your front, the light glinting off his fingers as they skim along your chest. He traces the contours of your ribcage and teases the tender skin beneath your breasts before grabbing and squeezing one roughly. You shiver, attempting to recoil from his touch, but the ropes binding your arms dig into your skin.

“Oh don't be like that, kumpelin,” Strade hums, his voice resonating with chilling casualness. “I thought you wanted to come home with me.” The pressure intensifies as he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, bruising the sensitive flesh. You whimper into the gag, your sounds muffled and distorted by the cloth. His fingers then creep upward, tracing over your collarbone and around your neck to finally rest at the nape. With a sudden jerk, he pushes you forward, forcing you onto your stomach. You feel his body hovering above yours as he leans in to whisper in your ear. "Are you ready to perform?" You try to shake your head 'no', to squirm away, but the weight of his knee presses into you. "Relax. My viewers paid good money to see this." Strade commands, his voice lowering as the camera captures your prone position. Your muscles loosen, causing him to hum in approval. "That's it. Now let's put on a show, shall we?"

His knee presses more firmly into your lower back, pinning you helplessly beneath him. As the camera light blinks, his other hand explores, charting a path across your trembling body. Strade's fingers probe and tease, moving lower and lower until they reach the waistband of your panties. With a practiced ease, he slips them down your hips, baring you to his touch. You shudder as he dips his fingers between your legs, feeling your wetness coat his calloused skin. He shoves two digits beyond your entrance, your warmth enveloping him. His fingers are cool against your warm insides, causing you to arch on instinct. He growls in satisfaction, his fingers moving faster as he expertly slides them in and out of you. The anticipation is almost unbearable, your body trembling as you try to focus on the sensations he's creating, the pleasure that threatens to overwhelm the fear.

Strade's free hand grips your shoulder, holding you in place as he continues to glide his fingers along your gummy walls. You feel the pressure building within you, the need to cum becoming more intense with each second. Just as you're on the verge of climax, he pulls his fingers away, leaving you aching and desperate. The camera's red light blinks on, bathing you in its harsh glow as Strade stands, his robust silhouette outlined against the monitor. His steps echo across the room as he strides toward a shadowy corner. Each footfall resonates, deliberate and heavy, the sound growing fainter as he moves away to retrieve something unseen. After a moment, the echo of his footsteps shifts, growing louder and more distinct as he walks. In his hand, he clutches an empty beer bottle, its smooth glass catching the dim light as he moves.

Strade's presence looms as he approaches, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots signalling his return. The outline of the bottle in his grasp, though indistinct, sends a shiver down your spine as he stands over you. He taps the edge of the bottle, letting the clink of glass punctuate the tense silence, before setting it down on the tarp with a muffled thud. Your heart pounds as you strain against the tight ropes, twisting your body in a desperate attempt to slide away. He swiftly grabs your hips and forces them back and up, forcing you into a downward position. As Strade's fingers find the hard, smooth edge of the beer bottle, his lips curve into a predatory smile. "Jetzt beginnt der Spaß," he chimes, his tone low and sinister.

Tauntingly, he taps the bottle's rounded lip against your entrance, causing your body to tense in response. You plead and sob helplessly into the gag, which only seems to excite him further. With a brutal thrust, he pushes the neck of the bottle inside you, filling you up with its cold, hard length. You cry out, lurching forward as pain rips through your body. Strade grins, his large hand driving the object forward from the base. "Ah, that's it," he purrs. "Let it all out. Let them hear you." He begins to thrust it into you, slowly at first, letting its edges scrape against your tender flesh. You feel yourself stretching as if your cunt is being torn open with each savage draw. The camera captures every movement, every expression of pain, and displays your twisted, contorted form on the monitor beside it. He leans over you, his hot breath fanning across your sweat-drenched skin. "Ready?" he pants, an edge of excitement tinging his voice. Before you can respond, Strade pushes the bottle deeper until the lip hits hard against your cervix. With a grunt, he pushes again, and the bottle's neck gives way, shattering within you.

A raw, guttural scream erupts from your throat and your legs shake, threatening to collapse. Your body spasms uncontrollably as he continues to shove the base forward, fucking you with the jagged pieces of broken glass. Blood mixes with your fluids as it coats the insides of your thighs and drips onto the tarp beneath. As Strade pushes the remnants of the bottle deeper into your body, you can feel your walls ripping and tearing. Your wails diminish to muffled groans as tears blur your vision. Strade breathes heavily, his chest heaving as he works himself into a frenzy. The room seems to spin around you, the burning sensation pushing you to the brink of consciousness. Just as you think you can bear no more, he yanks the bottle free, and a hot rush of air and blood fills the empty space.

Strade leans back, his satisfaction evident as he watches you writhe in your own blood. Your breathing slows, with each inhale a desperate gasp through the stale fabric of the gag. As it absorbs your saliva, the cloth turns into a damp, heavy mass, pressing down on your tongue. For a moment, he simply observes you, allowing the unseen audience to take in the full extent of your distress. His eyes, visible above the cloth of his mask, glint with amusement as he watches the struggle reflected on the camera's monitor.

Then, he eases you up, guiding you back to a seated position with rough, steady hands. You can feel some pieces of glass crunch within you, making you cringe and tremble. He kneels and starts untying the ropes that bind your wrists. As each strand of rope loosens, you gradually restore feeling to your numb hands. He tilts your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Is that better?" he taunts, the smirk evident in his voice. You can barely nod, the pain radiating sharply with every movement.

"Now, give them a better look," he commands, nodding to the camera. "And pick the pieces out of your cunt."

You stare up at him pleadingly, his gaze merciless. "Or would you prefer that I do it?" Strade asks, his voice laden with dark amusement, knowing full well the torment he offers is no choice at all. Your heart pounds in your chest, the fear almost choking as much as the gag. Gathering what little resolve you have left, you tentatively reach for the first shard poking out of your mutilated hole. The cool, slick edge of the glass bites into your fingertips as you grasp it, a sharp contrast to the warm blood that coats it. Every muscle in your body tenses as you pull, the pain a searing, white-hot flash that threatens to overwhelm your senses. You toss the piece aside as Strade watches intently, his presence looming over you like a dark cloud. You wince and pause, the room spinning slightly as agony courses through you.

"Don’t stop now," Strade urges, his voice dripping with false encouragement "Every piece, remember? Our viewers expect a thorough show."

You can feel your face wet and sticky as tears mix with snot, each breath shaky and ragged. Another shard awaits deeper inside, and with a shuddering breath, you prepare yourself to continue. As you reach again toward your entrance, your hands tremble uncontrollably. You can hardly recognize your genitals through the tears and outflow of sanguineous fluid. Gritting your teeth, you push your fingers deeper, searching for the next shard with a mixture of dread and determination. As you locate the jagged piece, it cuts into your flesh, forcing a gasp from your lips. You carefully try to coax it out, pinching it between your index and middle fingers. Slowly, you draw the shard out, pain flashing intensely. Fresh tears spill over, blurring your vision as you fling it onto the tarp alongside the other one.

Your hand reaches back in, fuelled by a sudden surge of adrenaline. The pain is intense, but it also sharpens your resolve. You find another broken piece, smaller than the others, yet just as vicious. This time, your fingers are more precise, your grip more confident. You pluck it from your soft walls, a small victory against the overwhelming hurt. The shard joins the others, clinking lightly against them. Your breath catches as you probe for more, the fear of missing even a single piece keeping you vigilant.

Strade watches, silent now, his gaze heavy upon you. You feel his eyes tracking every motion, every flinch. You wince as you discover yet another fragment, lodged deep and angled awkwardly. Taking a long, shaky breath, you set your jaw and ready yourself. This one hurts the most, yet as you finally free it and toss it aside, a sense of grim accomplishment fills you. Pain, fear, and determination meld, fuelling you to see this through; no matter the cost.

Every move you make, every shard you remove under Strade's watchful eye, is immortalized by the camera lens, feeding the twisted spectacle for him and his audience.

After what feels like an eternity, you manage to retrieve the last of the shards. Your fingers, slick with blood, finally still, and you slump back, exhausted. Strade surveys the collection of bloodstained glass on the tarp then turns his attention back to you, kneeling beside your slouched body.

"Well done, liebling!" He beams, patting your cheek. "You did a great job." Despite the situation, his praise elicits a weak smile from you; a small, involuntary response to recognition. "But don't think it's time to rest yet," he continues, his tone shifting to one of ominous delight. "There's still so much more fun to be had."

Strade rises to his feet and picks up one of the larger shards from the ground, examining it under the harsh light. He turns back, bathing you in his imposing shadow. You draw a shaky breath as cold dread pools in your stomach.

"You've bled, but not nearly enough," he says excitedly as he approaches with the shard. As you attempt to scoot away, Strade reacts swiftly, straddling your hips and pinning you down with his weight. His free hand clamps firmly on the back of your head, immobilizing you. The cold, sharp edge of the shard grazes the unblemished skin of your lower eyelid, paralyzing you with terror.

"Stay still, liebling," he whispers, his breath ghosting over your face through his mask. Without warning, he presses the shard deeper, and a sharp, excruciating ache erupts. He slices through the tender flesh, tracing a slow, deliberate curve around your eye socket. You try to pull away, but his ironclad grip holds you in place. A stifled scream escapes through the gag, a tortured sound that seems to delight him.

As he meticulously carves around your eyeball, blood wells up, warm against your cheek, trickling down and mingling with your tears. Your nails dig into his arm, but his focus never wavers; his grip firm as he continues to saw through your flesh.

"You're doing so well," he murmurs, as if his soothing tone could make the ordeal any more bearable. The pain blinds you— a mix of sharp stings and deep, throbbing aches that threaten to engulf your senses. You fight to stay conscious, driven by a primal fear of what might happen if you black out too soon.

He completes the circle and leans back, examining his work. "Almost done," he assures you, skillfully manipulating the shard and severing the last strands of connective tissue. Then, he shoves his thick fingers into the socket, extracting the fleshy organ with a grotesque squelch. Your vision wavers, relaying the final blurry image of Strade’s masked face as he severs your optic nerve.

He holds up the bloody mess to the camera, admiring it under the light before his attention returns to you. Letting your head go, you slump forward slightly, dazed. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he grips your chin, removes your gag, and forces your mouth open. With a disturbing calm, he places your own eyeball between your teeth.

"Eat it," he commands, his voice a twisted mix of encouragement and command. Your stomach churns, bile rising in your throat as blood and fluid coats your tongue. The organ feels oddly firm yet fragile in your mouth. "Go on. Chew."

With a hesitant bite, the delicate outer membrane bursts under the pressure of your teeth. A rush of salty, iron-rich fluid floods your mouth, mingling with a hint of the faintly sweet vitreous humour. You gag, the urge to vomit nearly overwhelming as he firmly closes your jaw. Tears stream down your face, cringing at the crunch and squelch of your own eye. The texture is an unsettling mix of squishy and gritty, and the residual connective tissue offering a slight resistance as you chew.

Forced to swallow, you feel the remnants slide down your throat, clinging desperately on their way down. The taste of copper lingers on your tongue as Strade releases your jaw, satisfied with the perverse ritual.

Your consciousness begins to falter, wavering on the edge as the room spins into a blur of indistinct shapes and shadows. Each heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears, a slow, dragging rhythm that seems to echo through the muffled chaos of the room. The metallic taste in your mouth is overwhelming, suffocating, as you struggle to draw a clean breath through the heavy, copper-laden air.

You desperately try to focus on something—anything—but your thoughts are scattered, disjointed fragments that refuse to cohere.

Strade’s face hovers above you, his features distorted and shifting as if seen through water. His voice sounds distant, a disembodied echo that you can barely grasp. “Stay with me,” he murmurs, or perhaps commands, but the words slip through your mind like sand through fingers.

A zipper rasps loudly in the thick silence. Through your dimming vision, you make out the vague shape of Strade standing before you, his movements deliberate and ominous as he slides his boxers down. You try to recoil, but your body barely responds; your head weakly bobs backward, only to be caught and steadied by his firm grip.

"Es ist Zeit für das Finale," he growls, positioning the head of his cock at your empty eye socket. As he forces himself into you, pain spreads throughout your entire body, shooting up your spine and filling your skull. You try to scream, but no sound comes out; only a wet gurgle rises from your throat as you struggle to form words. The pressure in your head increases, becoming almost unbearable, as his hips begin to thrust roughly.

You feel the foreign sensation pulsing within your skull, then the trickle of something warm flowing down your cheek. A distant, guttural sound—perhaps a laugh or a grunt—echoes in your ears as your eyelids become unbearably heavy. The pressure in your head builds, blurring the remaining fragments of your consciousness.

The last sensation you register is the chilling grip of Strade’s hand and the distant wet slapping of his skin against yours.

Translations

Kumpelin = Buddy

Jetzt beginnt der Spaß = Now the fun begins

Liebling = Darling

Es ist Zeit für das Finale = It's time for the finale

hammer time?

❥   masterlist

❥   art

❥   rules

❥   about me

Holy moly guacamole! You do strade fics and requests too?! Is there anything you can't do?

Anyway am I allowed to request a strade x reader but like...weird reader not weird like him but more like they talk to themselves a lot and are 110% convinced there's bugs in their skin like he doesn't even need to cut em they're already fuckin bleeding from trying to get the bugs out...and maybe once...or twice...or thrice they tried to bite him

Just like...a creepy unnerving reader if that's cool with you-

a/n: awe thank you anon! this was such an interesting request XD i know you said he didn't have to cut them, but how else would they get the bugs out ?? :3c anyway, i had fun writing it so i hope you enjoy!

BENEATH THE SKIN

{ strade x gn! reader }

part 2: SCRATCHING THE SURFACE

word count: 1.6k

warnings/tags: self-harm, hallucinations (formication), strade fucks with you and feeds into your delusions, psychological torment, wound touching/probing, deep cutting, head stomping, skin flaying, gore.

The basement was stark, with bare concrete walls and a few utilitarian pieces of furniture, each coated in a layer of dust and grime. The silence was punctuated only by the constant dripping of water from an exposed pipe and the frantic rhythm of your breathing.

It was in this space that Strade watched you with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. You sat hunched over, incessantly scratching at your arms, your fingers stained with blood, your nails chipped and filthy. The damp air hung heavy, mingling with the musty stench of old blood and sweat.

Though invisible to others, you had grown accustomed to the sensation of phantom insects crawling beneath your skin—an incessant itch, always lurking, just waiting to erupt.

"You alright there, buddy?" Strade asked, his tone casually mocking as he leaned against the workbench. "Most folks don't start bleeding until I've had my fun," he chuckled darkly, amusement lacing his words as he watched your desperate actions.

Engrossed in your torment, you continued digging into your forearm. “Can’t help it. The bugs are crawling, moving under my skin. They're squirming, biting,” you muttered shakily to yourself, barely aware of his presence.

Your arm was a horrifying sight— lined with crimson, raw patches where you had torn at your skin. The blood mingled with sweat, creating a slick sheen that caught the dim light. Strade's interest peaked, his eyes widening with perverse fascination as he pushed off from the workbench and stepped closer.

He crouched beside you, his face invasively close as he inspected your self-inflicted wounds. "Maybe you aren't digging deep enough," he remarked, his voice low and eerily calm.

You stared at him with wild, unblinking eyes. "I'm digging deep! Deeper than you could ever imagine," you exclaimed, your voice trembling as much as your body. "They’re everywhere, inside me... Crawling, biting, burrowing... I can hear them, feel them,"

Strade's eyebrows raised, amusement and a hint of caution playing across his features. "Is that so? Well, that's quite the burden to bear," he said, his sympathy obviously feigned.

Suddenly, he grasped your arm, his fingers cold and firm. With a curious tilt of his head, he pushed his thumb into one of the deeper gouges, eliciting a sharp pain as he explored the raw flesh. His digit slipped deeper, the coarse skin of his thumb dragging against the tender, exposed tissues. His touch was probing and intrusive, causing blood to well up around his intrusion, mingling with the dirt under his nails.

"Hmm, quite the effort here," he commented, a twisted grin forming on his lips as he watched how the blood pooled and your muscles tensed under his thumb. "But not deep enough, not by a long shot," he added, his tone laced with feigned concern.

Yet, you believed him— the crawling, squirming feeling under your skin hadn’t subsided despite your efforts.

“You really think you can get them all out like this?" he pressed, pushing his thumb deeper and eliciting a sharp gasp from you.

Instinctively, you jerked your arm away, but his grip was unyielding. "Let go!" you shouted, desperation evident in your voice. Strade smirked, clearly intrigued by your reaction. In a swift, almost reflexive move, you turned your head and snapped your teeth towards his hand, aiming to bite him.

Surprised, he withdrew his hand just in time, a small rivulet of blood marking the path of his retreat. "Feisty, aren't we?" he chuckled, leaning back but keeping his eyes fixed on you. "Not many try to bite back. I like that,"

He paused, then added mockingly, "Alright, then. You don't want my help?" Strade's tone shifted, becoming mockingly sorrowful. "That’s too bad. I was really looking forward to hunting down those pesky bugs with you. But perhaps, you prefer your methods?" He gestured broadly to the bloodied gouges on your arms.

Realizing his enjoyment of the situation, you knew arguing was futile. Instead, you glared at him, the pain and relentless itching fueling your anger. Strade watched you with an unblinking gaze, his smile morphing into a more contemplative expression.

"Or maybe," he whispered almost tenderly, "you just need the right kind of tool to dig a little deeper." His eyes briefly flicked to the leather holster around his waist, then back to you; his hand moving slowly, deliberately, pulling out a sleek hunting knife. The blade caught the dim light, casting a sinister glow.

"Let’s try this," he suggested, his voice steady and menacing. He approached you again, knife in hand, your body tensed in anticipation. He positioned the blade just above one of the more savaged areas of your arm and, with your slight nod, pressed the knife's edge into your skin, deeper than your own nails could manage.

The cold steel sliced through the skin effortlessly, reaching down to where you felt the imaginary insects burrowing. You inhaled sharply, the sensation both terrifying and relieving. Your flesh separated with ease, revealing the glistening, yellowish layers of fat cushioning the deeper structures of your arm.

You watched intently, searching for the elusive invaders, but all that met your eyes was the stark reality of flesh and blood—no insects, no crawling entities, just the vivid tableau of your own anatomy laid bare.

As the knife continued its work, your panic swelled. The insects seemingly burrowed away from the incision site, evading the blade's reach. A desperate fear took hold that they were scurrying further into the untouched sanctuaries of your body, infiltrating deeper into your core.

"They're going to take over," you gasped, the pain distant yet sharp. "I can feel them... moving. If I don’t get them out, they’ll spread. They’ll control everything."

As Strade prepared to cut again, your panic surged anew. In a frantic move, you lashed out again, aiming for any part of him within reach. He catches your jaw firmly, irritation flashing across his face. “Keep it up, and I’ll rip out those teeth of yours—one by one— if that's what it takes to get you to calm down.” he threatened, tightening his grip as he forced you to face him.

"Look," he continued, "if they're everywhere like you say, I guess we'll just have to strip you down to the bone, huh? Give them nowhere to hide."

With a cruel smirk, he released your jaw, giving you a small shove. You stumbled back, crashing into the cold concrete. You tried to rise, but the room spun disorientingly around you.

Seizing the moment, Strade advanced, his expression darkened. As he neared, you saw a fleeting chance. With every ounce of strength, you lunged forward, teeth bared, aiming for his outstretched hand. He recoiled just in time, a mix of surprise and anger flashing across his face as your teeth snapped shut inches from his skin.

With a snarl, Strade stepped back, his eyes narrowing into slits. Then, without warning, he lifted his boot high and brought it down viciously on your jaw. Your head snapped to the side, smacking against the concrete with a hollow crack. As the world blurred into a maelstrom of pain and fear, the incessant itch intensified.

He straddled your hips, pinning you down under his oppressive weight as he brandished the knife again, his face contorted by grim determination. He began to peel back layers of your skin from your arm, slicing through the air with clinical precision. "Still feeling them crawl?" he taunted, his knife parting your flesh as though it were mere fabric. Blood welled up in the wake of the blade, a vivid, alarming red that flowed down to your shoulder and pooled on the cold concrete floor. The flayed skin hung loosely, fluttering slightly with each tremulous breath you took.

As Strade’s gruesome exploration continued, the basement echoed with the sound of your laboured breathing, ragged and sharp with pain. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the damp, musty air, creating a suffocating atmosphere that seemed to tighten around you.

Suddenly, Strade paused, tilting his head as though listening to an inaudible whisper. "Do you hear that?" he murmured, a sickening smile spreading across his face. His eyes darted to the shadows at the edges of the room, as if expecting them to respond. "They’re whispering to me now. They’re telling me where to cut next." His chuckle was soft, devoid of warmth as he angled the blade to scrape away the remaining fascia.

The steel traced a searing path, delving deeper. Beneath, the exposed muscle glistened wetly, its fibres quivering under the harsh glare of the overhead light. Every nerve in your body screamed in protest, yet the imaginary insects continued their relentless assault, burrowing deeper into your psyche than Strade’s knife could ever reach.

"Come on, talk to me. Are the bugs still there? Have they left? Or are they just deeper than you thought?"

His questions dripped like acid, corroding what little resolve you had left. The pain was unimaginable, yet part of you clung to the desperate hope that he might actually find and eradicate the tormenting infestation.

Through gritted teeth, you managed a whimper, "They're deeper... everywhere... I can feel them slipping away from the cuts. You have to get them all... Please..."

"Almost there," he cooed, as if soothing a child. "Just a bit deeper, and maybe we'll find them, hm?" His words slithered into your ears, venomous and vile.

With each cut, you felt your strength waning, your will dissolving into the growing pool of blood beneath you. Strade’s face, illuminated by the flickering light, appeared demonic, his features twisted into a grotesque mask of enjoyment.

The knife descended again, methodically slicing through sinew and muscle until it scraped against bone. The harsh, grating sound echoed as his blade met the stark, vulnerable white of your ulna, lying amidst the red, mangled tissues.

And yet, the crawling of elusive insects persisted; their presence haunting every exposed layer of anatomy as if fabricated from your very being.