Gurokiitty - ｡⁠⁠✧⁠⁠♡ Kitten And Murder Enthusiast ♡⁠✧｡

uhh dad strade x fem reader drabble or short fic? make it as gross as you want. hope you’re having a good day :)

PAPA

{ dad! strade x adult daughter! reader }

word count: 880

warnings/tags: INCEST, age gap (18+ reader), molestation, alcohol use, descriptions of blood, violence, oral mutilation, and decapitation, poorly translated german lol

You live blissfully unaware of the horrors lurking just beneath the surface of your father's life, drawn instead to his charm and rough affection. Even as an adult, you seek comfort in his embrace, climbing onto his lap where you feel the familiar outline of his knife sheath against your back. The weight of his large, calloused hand rests reassuringly on your hip, and in these moments, you feel only safety and love. Unbeknownst to you, the same hand that holds you close could, with chilling ease, end your life.

Consumed with lustful thoughts, your father gazes down at your body, imagining all the ways he could destroy it. His rough fingertips reach to trace the curve of your stomach through your shirt, his breath hot against your neck. He imagines pulling out every one of your teeth, tasting your blood as it drips down your chin, and licking away your salty tears as you cry out in agony. He wants to hear you scream and feel you struggle as he stifles your sounds with his cock, shoving it deep into your gummy, bloody mouth.

But above all else, he wants to take your head. He helped bring you into this world, after all, and he insisted on being the architect of your departure. In his darkest fantasies, he envisions the satisfying thud of your head as it strikes the basement floor, followed by the crimson tide of your blood, warmly spilling, seeping into the rough, porous concrete beneath.

Fuelled by alcohol, his hand squeezes your flesh roughly, causing you to wince as sharp waves of pain ripple through you.

"You are so beautiful, Mein Schatz," he murmurs, "Just like your mother…" His fingers press roughly into your flesh, causing you to wince as sharp waves of pain ripple through you. You try to wriggle away but his grip tightens, anchoring you in place.

"Oh, don't be like that," he breathes, his voice a soft, velvet purr that belied the sharpness in his eyes. "Don't you want to feel how much your old man loves you?". He asks, his hand sliding down between your legs. You try to protest, but your words are smothered by his free hand tightening over your mouth. He paws at your thinly-dressed crotch, seemingly deaf to your whines and enraptured by the warm sensation of your skin.

His fingers tremble slightly, the alcohol undermining the steadiness of his grip on your face. In his clouded mind, he thinks of a myriad of ways to end your life—each more lingering and excruciating than the last. Yet impatience whispers to him, suggesting he could end it all now, right here on this couch. The thought curls his lips into a sinister smile as he imagines the swift draw of his blade across your tender throat, releasing sanguineous rivulets that pour down your front and stain the fabric beneath.

He withdraws his hand, the touch lingering like a shadow as it slides from between your legs and back to your torso. "You know, I always thought about what it'd be like to have a daughter," he murmurs, his voice low and thick with a twisted mirth. "And I got one, didn't I?" His fingers crawl higher, skittering across your ribs before they hook around the edge of your bra. "You were such a pretty thing, so quiet and sweet. I'd just watch you for hours."

You shudder under his gaze, locked into his intense stare. His face shows pure love and adoration, yet hides something sinister beneath that bleeds through each touch. It’s as if he’s two people rolled into one and you can’t tell which is real.

He leans closer, his breath hot against your ear, his words a whisper laced with menace. "But you grew up, didn’t you? You became a woman, and oh, how things changed." His eyes, predatory and cold, scan your face as he pauses. "I told myself I wanted to keep you safe, to shield you from the horrors of the world," he continues, pressing his fingers deeper, pinning you with a force that shatters his protective guise. "But the one you need saving from is me."

Your eyes widen with fear and confusion as you squirm against the heat of his embrace and the confinement of his arms. He watches you silently, curiously, pondering your thoughts and feelings. Yet instead of releasing you, he draws even closer, his breath unsettlingly warm against your face. "Mein süßes Mädchen," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face with deliberate slowness. "I've always wondered how you'd look splayed out on my workbench... I'm just dying to know what's inside that pretty little head of yours..."

Your heart flutters as he speaks again, his voice low and hypnotic. You try to reply, but the words snag in your throat. His eyes gleam with eagerness as he observes your panicked struggle.

Then, with a contrived snicker, he shakes his head. "Oh, you should see your face!" he exclaims, his fingers darting out to tickle you. "You’re so easy to scare!" His laughter rings out again, hollow and disconcerting. You try to laugh along, but it comes out as a strangled gasp, hanging in the air as your father's chuckles continue to echo around you.

Lawrence Oleander (older version) - Boyfriend to death 2

what are your thoughts on Derek goffard?

he's a little bastard but i'd be lying if i said he didn't make me feel some type of way...

mechanic! strade loves when naïve and trusting college students wander into his shop, believing him to be a harmless mechanic. he loves ensnaring their attention with charming anecdotes and technical explanations; all while subtly luring them deeper into his workspace. it thrills him to see how easily they trust, leaning closer to hear him over the noise of the garage, his scent of oil, gasoline, and sweat invading their senses. their wide eyes stare up at him as he leads them around, pointing out various tools and car parts with a seemingly benign smile. he'd observe which tools catch their eyes and ask "ever seen one of these in action?" before guiding their delicate hands to hold the cold metal, his presence enveloping. it builds anticipation for when he can finally show them just how dangerous a mechanic’s tools can become.

he wears a white tank top stained with grease, oil, and faded rust-coloured marks set deeply into the fabric. it stretches tightly across his broad, hairy chest and clings to the contours of his body. the fabric dips into the crevices of his soft stomach, which bulges slightly over his belt line. his tattooed arms are strong and capable, dusted with coarse hair that catches the flecks of metal and dirt as he works...

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