Do U Write For Any Other Btd Charas ? :0 Id Love To See Any Hcs U Have For Ren :3c

do u write for any other btd charas ? :0 id love to see any hcs u have for ren :3c

ya! i'll write for any of them :3!!

umm strade size kink drabble / hcs pretty please :3c

{ strade x gn! reader }

warnings/tags: NSFW, size difference, physical dominance, body pinning and smothering, belly bulging.

strade enjoys using his height and bulk to maneuver you with minimal effort.

he'd slam your pliable body onto and against any surface he pleases, keeping you pinned with the soft expanse of his stomach. his extra weight makes your struggle feel inconsequential and his thick arms imprison you against him.

he may hold you up with one arm, your legs dangling helplessly, or keep you under his shadow by pressing you firmly to the ground with his heavy boot.

his large, strong hands are perfect for asserting dominance, encircling your wrists, waist, or neck with ease.

he derives a certain pleasure in watching your combined reflections in mirrors. the visual of his large, imposing figure coupled with your smaller stature excites him. he'd call you his "kleine Puppe", his little doll, as he smothers you with his bulk.

as you're pinned beneath him, the heat and scent of his body are inescapable, and his broad chest against yours makes it hard to breathe without his permission.

he often stands just a bit too close, towering over you with a sadistic grin.

to intimidate, he may occasionally demonstrate his raw strength. whether he's twisting your arm behind your back or crushing hard objects in his palm, he enjoys watching your eyes widen in fear as you are reminded of his power.

when he fucks you, your tummy bulges from the girth and weight of his erection. he often rests his hands over your stomach, feeling the muscles tighten as he thrusts into you harder, faster.

with your hands bound behind you, he'd force you into a prone bone position, his stomach heavy against your lower back and his robust forearms on either side of your head.

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.

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 ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ