Can I Rq Strade X Ren X Reader Nsfw Hcs Please ?? Ur Like My New Fav Btd Fanfic Writer Teehee :3

can i rq strade x ren x reader nsfw hcs please ?? ur like my new fav btd fanfic writer teehee :3

a/n: yes of course! and omg thank you <3 i'm so flattered :3c i hope you enjoy these nasty hcs!

{ strade x ren x gn! reader }

warnings/tag: NSFW, NON-CON, abuse of all forms, lots of strade voyeurism, fox-like mating/courting behaviours, breeding, cum licking/eating, sweat, piss, humiliation, oral mutilation, oral sex (double bj, face sitting, deep throating), blood as lube, necrophilia (?), hypothetical reader death.

It's no surprise that Strade gets off on testing loyalties, often commanding one of you to inflict pain on the other. Whatever it is, he finds pleasure only when both of you are left sobbing, bleeding, and terrified; both of yourselves and each other.

Ren becomes noticeably more affectionate and clingy at the onset of mating season, often nuzzling your neck and closely shadowing your movements. During this period, he is more susceptible to Strade's coercion, compelling him to act on his primal instincts. Strade might restrain or hold you down to allow Ren to breed you like the animal he is.

Strade finds pleasure in your humiliation, often forcing you to "clean each other up" post-ordeal. He'd make you and Ren lick the blood, sweat, and cum off each other's bodies, denying you the luxury of bathing.

While he's bound and helpless, Strade may command you to urinate on Ren, who is normally meticulous about keeping his fur clean. You comply, your cheeks burning with embarrassment as the warm stream cascades over Ren's trembling body, his features twisted in distress and his fur matted unpleasantly.

Strade would push his knife between your lips, slowly carving through each of your tongues. As your mouths fill with the coppery tang of blood, you and Ren kneel side by side, mouths working in tandem to suck him off. With his hands firmly gripping your heads, Strade dictates the rhythm and depth, the bitter taste of blood intertwining with his salty essence.

You'd often be made to straddle Ren’s face, pressing down as he struggles to breathe beneath you. Meanwhile, Strade grabs a fistful of your hair and grinds his hips forward, pushing his cock deep between your lips. As he forces himself all the way down your throat, he pinches your nose shut, cutting off your air completely. Ren’s hands, previously idle, instinctively move to your hips, attempting to ease the suffocating pressure on his face while his tongue works desperately between your legs.

Strade enjoys forcing you to draw blood from yourselves or each other, then using it to lubricate his fingers or cock before he violates you both. He watches with glee as you and Ren reluctantly smear the blood across each other’s bodies, coating your skin in a macabre sheen.

With the basement floor slick with the blood of a previous victim, Strade commands Ren to fuck you. The metallic scent hangs heavy in the air as the proximity of their lifeless body, mere inches away, adds a morbid thrill. Strade observes you both, physically entwined and coated in blood.

Should a bond form between you and Ren, Strade would seek to destroy it in the most harrowing way imaginable. He hands Ren a sharp, gleaming knife, issuing a chilling command: "Tear them open and take what's yours." Bound and helpless, your pleas fall on deaf ears as you lock eyes with Ren, whose apologies spill forth through sobs, just before the cold steel slices your skin. He cuts deeply, laboriously sawing through bone and cartilage, prying open your chest with excruciating precision to reveal your heart in an act that is as grotesque as it is intimate. Ren’s fingers, trembling and reluctant, slip under your sternum; his claws inadvertently tearing through delicate tissues, until finally, they close around your heart— warm, slippery, and pulsating in his grasp.

Hi! It's me the one who said the thing about the bugs and skin I loved it and now I can't stop thinking about it in fact I'm thinking about it more

Idk why but now I can just imagine they just like scratching shit in general because I had this idea...lets pretend for a second that maybe they get to be collared too let's just pretend...because I can imagine them just aggressively scratching strades head because they "like watching the dandruff fall out"

I was scratching stuff and this came into my head

a/n: you are so interesting anon XD thank you for sharing your fun ideas with me. i hope you enjoy!

SCRATCHING THE SURFACE

{ strade x gn! reader }

part 1: BENEATH THE SKIN

word count: 760

warnings/tags: alcohol use, drunk strade, scratching, slight body worship/fascination, mentally ill reader, poetic descriptions of dandruff lol, kinda wholesome.

The evening air was heavy with the smell of beer and cigarettes, the flickering television light casting erratic shadows across the walls. Strade lounged beside you on the couch, shirtless and slightly inebriated, lazily holding a bottle of liquor. His usual sharp edge seemed dulled by the alcohol, his eyes half-closed as he watched the screen.

Despite the heavy bandages, the mangled skin of your forearm itched with a compulsive need that had never truly left. Strade’s attention was glued to a grainy action movie, allowing your mind a moment’s distraction in the warm, quiet room.

Your gaze drifted from the television to Strade’s exposed skin, illuminated by the screen's glow that highlighted the soft contours of his abdomen. Driven by curiosity and a relentless need to scratch, your hand moved almost involuntarily.

Initially, Strade didn’t react as your fingers made contact with his warm skin. His indifference encouraged you, and you began to trace your nails lightly across his stomach— a sensation vastly different from scratching your own scarred skin. His skin was smoother, warmer, and surprisingly responsive.

At the faint sensation, Strade's muscles twitched subtly, and a slight smirk formed on his lips as if amused by your audacity.

Emboldened, your fingers ventured further, tracing the lines that segmented his stomach. The scratching was gentle at first, but the familiar urge surged, compelling you to apply more pressure. Your nails pressed harder, leaving faint red marks that faded as quickly as they appeared.

Taking a deep swig of his beer, Strade finally turned to face you, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Like what you feel?” he slurred, his breath heavy with the smell of alcohol.

You leaned closer and scratched his stomach again, the fine hairs tingling under your fingertips. "You're smoother than I imagined... like tracing patterns on silk," you whispered, your hand moving upward to trace the lines of his chest.

He hummed in response, his smirk widening as you felt the changing texture of his skin near his collarbone. You paused, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, in sync with the low, erratic hum of the television.

Then, almost naturally, your hand drifted to his head, fingers tangling in his hair. You began to scratch gently at his scalp, the initial softness giving way to a more firm, scraping motion. As you enjoyed the sensation of his coarse locks between your fingers, tiny flakes of dried skin began to drift down like bizarre, unseasonal snow onto the back cushion.

His eyes closed and his smirk smoothed into a contented smile, appreciating how your fingers worked through his hair. The change in his expression seemed to shift the atmosphere, the room growing quieter despite the ongoing drone of the television. Each scrape of your nails seemed to sink him deeper into relaxation, his body loosening against the soft back of the couch.

You continued to explore the texture of his scalp, noting the spots that made him lean into your touch, his head subtly pushing against your hand like a cat seeking affection. The intimacy of the moment felt almost surreal, a stark contrast to the usual chaos that defined your interactions. This gentler, quieter side of him was entirely new to you.

As your nails found the dry patches, you gently loosened more flakes of dandruff. There was something oddly satisfying about watching the tiny white particles drift down, catching the light before vanishing into the shadowy room. Each flake seemed to momentarily soothe the relentless squirming sensation beneath your skin.

Your hand moved of its own accord, scratching harder, deeper, to free more stubborn flakes trapped within the roots. The frantic scraping of your nails against his scalp grew louder, almost echoing in his ears. As you intensified your efforts, a cascade of dandruff dislodged from his hair, swirling in a miniature storm of white specks. These particles caught in the dim light, swirling erratically before settling silently around you, like ash from a snuffed candle.

Suddenly, Strade’s eyes snapped open, and his hand clamped around your wrist with drunken firmness. “Like that, do you?” he asked, his focus sharpened despite his inebriation. Despite the pain of his grip, your fingers twitched, driven by a gnawing, primal urge.

"I-I like like watching the dandruff fall..." You murmured, his gaze drilling into you, curious yet hazy from the alcohol.

“Alright. Go on then, just watch the claws, yeah?” He replied, his tone carrying a hint of amusement as he loosened his grip slightly, allowing you to continue.

strade in this

VOULD I ASK ABOUT A COP READER AND STRADE???

Like the readers older sibling was missing and they were looking for them, who also got kidnapped (and possibly killed by strade) he meets them at the bar, reader is like REALLYY drunk, she whines about not being able to find their older sibling, and Strade knows. He knows what he did.

a/n: what a fun idea!! strade would definitely be extra horrible if he knew his victim was a cop. hope you enjoy, anon!

PIGGY

{ strade x gn! reader }

word count: 1.3k

warnings/tags: alcohol use, violence, kidnapping, psychological torture, forced voyeurism, implied sibling death.

The room spins and the edges of the world soften as you gulp down another shot, the sting of alcohol burning a path down your throat. The dim lights of the bar flicker, casting elongated shadows that dance mockingly around you. This place is a sanctuary of sorts— a shabby dive where lost souls come to drown memories and silence their demons with liquid oblivion.

Strade finds you there, at the edge of dissolution. His entrance is unremarkable, yet somehow you feel the atmosphere shift, a predatory chill seeping through the smoky haze.

His eyes catch yours across the crowded room, glinting with a dark curiosity as he takes the stool beside you. "Rough night, buddy?" he asks, his voice smooth, dangerously inviting.

You nod, swirling the ice in your nearly empty glass. "You could say that." The words spill out of you, heavy with bitterness.

His smile holds a semblance of warmth, perhaps a touch too studied, but under the weight of your despair, you don't notice. He leans in, the movement calculated, as if setting the stage for a confession. "Wanna talk about it? Sometimes airing it out is the only way to breathe again," he suggests, his voice a careful blend of intrigue and concern.

You hesitate, the words hanging precariously on the tip of your tongue. The presence of a stranger, oddly enough, feels like an opportunity to unload, to confide. "It's my older brother," you finally say, the words escaping in a rush. "He's missing, and I feel like I'm chasing shadows. It's like he just vanished into thin air."

Strade’s interest sharpens, his gaze locking onto yours, unblinking. "Disappeared? That’s heavy. How long has he been gone?"

"Three weeks," you reply, the number feeling more substantial with each passing day. "Three weeks of not knowing. It’s eating me up inside."

"And the police?" Strade probes, his voice a soft nudge pushing you deeper into your own turmoil.

"They're doing what they can, I guess. But I'm a cop too, and it feels like I should be able to do more. It's different when it's personal, you know?" You take another sip, the alcohol a poor salve for the ache of helplessness.

Strade nods, feigning empathy. "I can only imagine. Being so close to it, being expected to just wait and see. Must be tearing you apart."

"It is," you admit, your guard crumbling under the weight of your grief and the false security of his attentive gaze. "I keep thinking I'll miss something, or that I’ll get a call saying they've found him, but not... not in the way I hope."

He leans back slightly, giving you space to breathe, yet his presence envelops you, thick as the smoke in the bar. "Sounds like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders. Someone like you shouldn’t be alone with this."

You laugh, a hollow sound. "Feels like I don’t have much choice in the matter. Everyone else is just... moving on."

"But you can't," Strade concludes, his voice soft. "Not until you know."

"Yeah," you whisper, feeling the truth of his words like a punch to the gut. "Not until I know."

He watches you for a moment, a predator disguised as a confidante. "Let me do something for you tonight. Let's make sure you get home safe. It’s the least I can do."

Gratitude, misguided and dangerous, washes over you. "Thanks, I... I appreciate that, really."

"Don’t mention it," he replies, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he signals the bartender to settle your tab.

You lean heavily on him as he guides you outside, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the stuffy atmosphere of the bar. The alley beside the establishment is dimly lit, deserted, and as you stagger against the cold brick for support, Strade’s demeanour shifts imperceptibly.

"You really think I'd help a cop?" His voice is suddenly sharp, a serrated edge that cuts through your alcohol-fueled haze.

"What?" Confusion clouds your mind, struggling to keep up with the sudden change.

"I’m not calling you a cab," he sneers, his face inches from yours and his grip tightening painfully on your arm.

Before you can react, your head slams against the wall, a burst of pain radiating through your skull as stars explode in your vision. Strade’s mocking laugh is the last thing you hear before darkness claims you.

When your consciousness creeps back, it’s a cruel awakening. Your body aches, bound tightly to a cold, metal pole in a room that reeks of blood and decay. Panic claws at your chest as your eyes adjust to the dimness, the figure of Strade emerging from the shadows.

He's watching you intently, holding an expensive-looking laptop under his arm. "Awake already?" He asks, his voice mockingly gentle.

"Where the fuck am I?" Your voice is raw, fear sharpening each word.

"My little workshop," he replies nonchalantly, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. "You want to see your brother, don't you?" Strade smiles, sensing your fear. You quickly nod, hope and desperation surging through you.

"Then relax. You won't want to miss this."

He casually opens the laptop, types something on the keyboard, and turns it towards you. The flicker of the screen casts eerie shadows across his face as the video begins to play.

You squint, trying to make sense of the images flickering across the laptop as he holds it just out of reach. Your heart sinks as you recognize the figure in the video— it's your brother, bound and terrified. A cold dread washes over you as Strade walks into frame, your mouth dry, words failing.

"What is this you sick fuck?!" You manage to spit out, your voice laced with horror and revulsion.

The screen flashes with horrific scenes, your brother's pleas echoing in the cramped, dark space as Strade approaches with a knife.

He watches you, a perverse glee lighting up his eyes. "See, your brother... he's become quite the celebrity."

Despite the overwhelming urge to look away, to shut out this nightmarish reality, you can't. Your eyes remain glued to the screen, each image searing itself into your memory— your brother's fear, his pain, his futile attempts to plead for a life already doomed as Strade's knife slices through his skin.

Guilt surges through you—irrational and overwhelming—guilt for not being able to stop this, for not finding him sooner, for every moment you spent doubting the worst had happened.

Strade's face twists into a smirk as the video unfolds before you. "Touching, isn’t it? The bond between siblings..." His words hang in the air, a new kind of torment. "Y'know, he talked about you, even towards the end. Kept saying, 'My sister is a cop. She’ll find you. She'll stop you.'" He laughs, mocking your brother's voice with an exaggerated shrill.

Your response is visceral. A scream rips from your throat, raw and hoarse, as the full weight of the horror crashes down upon you. Hot tears stream down your face, mingling with the bile on your tongue. The bonds around your wrists chafe painfully as you struggle against them, the metal pole unforgiving and cold.

He stands over you, a dark silhouette against the dim light, watching your every reaction with an analyst's eye. As the final scenes play out, your brother's wet, gurgling screams fade into a haze of pain and terror. Strade closes the laptop with a slow, deliberate motion and leans in close, his breath foul against your ear. His voice, a venomous whisper, sends shivers down your spine. "Your cop friends are probably wondering how torn up you are about your brother... It wouldn't be too surprising if you just... disappeared too."

"Now, why don't we film a sequel, little piggy?" His words slither around you, tightening like a noose. "And find out if you squeal just like your brother."

I JUST SAW REQUESTS CLOSED IM SO SORRY

don't worry! i'll add your request to my list and start working on it soon :3

Can you write something about Lawrence? 👉👈

a/n: yessss i've been looking forward to a law request! thank u, anon, i hope you like it!! :3

THE LIGHT THAT SEARS

{ lawrence oleander x gn! reader }

word count: 2.1k

warnings/tags: NSFW, psychological, yandere(ish), stalking, jealousy/obsession, kidnapping, brief marijuana use, cutting, blood, waterboarding to drowning, reader death.

Under the cloak of night, Lawrence prowled the periphery of your existence. You emerged as a rare exception to his cynical worldview; a delicate exception that flickered like a flame in the darkness. As the night clerk at the local gas station, your presence was an enigma, haloed by the soft, ethereal glow of fluorescent lights— a figure both intoxicating and infuriating to him.

You began to recognize the patterns of his visits, the late hours when he would appear almost like a shadow from the night. Soon enough, you learned his usual purchases; mainly simple, pre-packaged meals, which he grabbed almost mechanically from the same aisle each visit.

With a practiced ease, you attempted small talk, your light and inviting voice contrasting sharply with his curt responses. Lawrence hardly ever met your gaze, his eyes flicking away to the brightly lit shelves or the grimy floor tiles, as if the sight of you was both necessary and unbearable.

Despite this, you persisted, peeling back layers of his solitude with each word. He felt seen, truly seen. Not just observed but understood, in a way that both unnerved and intrigued him. You seemed to look right through his shell, peering into the depths of his turbulent soul.

Each night, as you smiled and handed him his change, he sensed your awareness of his trembling hands, as if each coin and bill burned into his fingertips. It was almost painful how you looked at him with so much pity and concern.

This perception of vulnerability made Lawrence feel exposed yet inexplicably drawn to you. His nightly visits to the gas station became less about necessity and more about this complex dance between observation and interaction. He began to linger, fabricating reasons to stay by browsing aimlessly through the aisles or waiting for the slowest coffee machine pour.

Eventually, his fascination led him beyond the confines of the gas station, tracking your movements like a silent guardian. He found himself waiting in the shadows, watching as you ended your shifts, and noting the way you carefully scanned the parking lot before stepping into the early morning air.

But everything changed one fateful night when he watched you interact with another customer— a casual exchange that shattered his distorted illusion of exclusivity. Lawrence stood, a silent spectator lined up behind this stranger, who elicited a laugh from you with an ease that made his blood boil. Your eyes sparkled with the same light you often gifted him, yet here it was, shared freely with someone else. Each giggle, each easy smile you bestowed upon the interloper, drove a spike of disgust and jealousy through his already frayed nerves. His hands trembled and his eyes ignited with a fervent fury as he watched you, his delicate flower, fluttering towards another.

When it was finally his turn to cash out, the usual gentle cadence of your voice grated against his heightened sensitivity. He responded not with the muted gratitude of before but with a cold silence, tossing the cash onto the counter with a force that made the coins scatter. Avoiding your puzzled look, he stormed out of the gas station, the chime of the door ringing mockingly behind him.

The night outside had turned chilly, the breeze that swept through the parking lot carrying an ominous whisper. Lawrence sat in his car, his hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled force. Each breath was a ragged intake, his thoughts racing as he waited, the tick of the clock on the dashboard echoing in the cramped space like a countdown.

Your shift ended as it always did, with the fluorescent lights shutting off one by one, casting shadows that crept along the ground toward him. You stepped out, oblivious to the dangerous undercurrent that now pulsed through the air. As you made your way across the parking lot, the sound of your footsteps were muffled against the asphalt, but to Lawrence, they were deafening.

He exited his vehicle, driven by a twisted mixture of betrayal and anger. His approach was silent, a predator’s gait, all traces of the awkward, stuttering recluse gone. Just as you reached your car, he was upon you, a hand clamping down over your mouth to stifle your screams. His other arm snaked around your waist, dragging you back towards his car. The world blurred into a chaotic swirl as you struggled, but his grip was unyielding. In a swift motion, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, damp cloth, and pressed it against your nose and mouth. Your struggles weakened, your limbs grew heavy, and soon, darkness engulfed you as you slipped into unconsciousness.

You awoke to an unfamiliar coldness, the hard porcelain surface of a bathtub pressing uncomfortably against your back. Your wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape, immobilizing you in a vulnerable sprawl. Another strip sealed your mouth, muffling your disoriented murmurs. The bathroom around you was dimly lit, casting elongated shadows across the walls where ivy and ferns crept over the tiles. A pervasive, sickly sweet scent filled the air, suffocating your senses.

As your eyes adjusted, you noticed Lawrence sitting on the edge of the tub, his silhouette blurred against the dim light. A joint dangled from his trembling fingers, the smoke curling into the stale air as he took a deep, slow drag. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, his expression remained unreadable, veiled in a mix of shadow and haze. His eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, seemed to drift away momentarily before snapping back to meet yours with an intensity that pinned you in place.

The moment hung heavy between the crackling of the ember and the distant dripping of a leaky faucet. As the smoke floated lazily in the air, it seemed to bridge the gap between Lawrence's disjointed musings and the harsh reality of your predicament.

"I thought you understood," he whispered, a chilling calmness underpinning his words. "I thought you were different." He took another drag, the ember briefly illuminating his hollowed features with an eerie red light.

"But you’re just like them, aren’t you? A beautiful façade," His voice cracked slightly, betraying a hint of the turmoil swirling inside him.

The accusation struck a strange chord, mixing fear with confusion. You could only listen, the adhesive tape cruelly sealing any response. Lawrence's presence loomed larger as he shifted his weight, the porcelain creaking under him.

"Even then, I can't let you go— can't forget you," he muttered, more to himself than to you as he stubbed out the joint. He turned his gaze fully onto you and confessed, "I can’t allow you to float away to anyone else. You saw me... really saw me, unlike everyone else."

Slowly, almost cautiously, Lawrence moved closer, positioning himself to straddle you in the tub. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating. He pulled a small knife from his pocket, the blade glinting in the light. His fingers, though cold, felt like they burned into you as he began to slice through your shirt, and spread the fabric open to expose your skin underneath.

The blade descended again, gliding from your sternum to your navel with terrifying precision. You felt the sting of the blade, a cold line of fear that drew a shallow, sharp path across your skin. Lawrence’s breath was heavy, each exhale shuddering against the charged silence of the room. He leaned closer, torment and fascination dancing across his features.

A flush crept across his cheeks as he watched the red line appear on your skin. His hands, unsteady yet deliberate, touched the blood that welled from the cut, tracing it across your skin with a perverse reverence. His touch was careful, as if tending to a withering flower.

"I need you to understand this connection," Lawrence murmured, his fingers painted with your blood. "No one else can see what I see, feel what I feel for you. You’re not like them— you can't be."

His eyes, usually so shifty and evasive, now held yours with an intensity that felt like chains, binding you to his will. Amidst the flora and the sweet scent of decay, the room around you seemed to close in, setting the stage for his macabre confession. The tape stifled your cries, muffling the sound to a desperate whimper as you watched the crimson seep from your body.

Lawrence set the knife down with a clink against the porcelain, his hands now free to frame your face, forcing you to maintain eye contact. "When I saw you talking to him, laughing, it hurt. It burned, like nothing I’ve felt before." He continued, tracing the contours of your features.

Tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over despite your attempts to hold them back. As he noticed your tears, his expression shifted, a mix of satisfaction and sorrow mingling in his gaze.

"I need you to understand the pain," He said as his fingers tightened against your cheeks, the pressure increasing painfully.

Your cries, stifled under the adhesive, became more desperate, a silent plea that seemed lost on him. But then, without a word, Lawrence reached over and turned on the tap. Cold water poured from the faucet as he forced your head back, positioning your face under the stream. The cold water splashed against your skin, entering your nostrils and flooding your senses with an icy shock. Your body convulsed involuntarily as water cascaded over your head, drowning out your pleas with the relentless rush of liquid oblivion.

Lawrence watched intently, his eyes never leaving your face as you gasped and sputtered, the water punishing every attempt to draw breath. His expression was unreadable, perhaps a mix of curiosity and a desperate need to share his own suffocating experiences of jealousy and betrayal.

"Feel it, the burning pain I felt," He whispered, his voice a distant echo lost to the steady cascade of water and the weak thrashing of your body.

As it continued to pour over your face, the line between executioner and confessor blurred. He seemed almost mesmerized by your struggle, as if each gasp and flutter of your eyelids brought him closer to understanding his own tortured emotions.

Finally, he turned off the water, the sudden silence in the room echoing louder than the rushing stream had been. Your breaths came in ragged, desperate gulps, as your lungs screamed for air. Lawrence's gaze remained fixed upon you, his own turmoil reflected in the sheen of sweat upon his brow

"Every time I see you, it’s like I’m drowning," he muttered as his finger followed the trail of water dripping from your chin. His admission lingered in the air, a confession both haunting and revelatory. You searched his eyes for some semblance of remorse or empathy, but found only the reflection of a tormented soul as he gazed over your drenched, trembling form.

"You shine so brightly, it's blinding." His finger paused, hovering above the pulse at your neck, where each heartbeat seemed to echo louder against the stillness. "I can't help but be drawn to your light, even though it scorches me. I never want it to end."

As the water on your skin began to chill, his hand shifted, becoming almost protective as he cupped your cheek. "I want to keep you here, with me, forever," he continued, his voice softer and edged with a strange sadness. "I want your light all to myself."

Without warning, Lawrence reached for the faucet again, turning the knob with a decisive twist. The water surged forth once more, cascading over your face in a relentless torrent. This time, however, there was no restraint in his actions, no hesitation or remorse. His grip on your head tightened, forcing you further under the icy deluge until every gasp for air was silenced by the rush of water filling your lungs.

Your struggles became feeble and your body wracked with convulsions as the cold enveloped you. Through the haze of pain and panic, you caught one last glimpse of Lawrence's face, distorted by the watery veil between you. There was a flicker of something in his eyes— regret, perhaps, or even a twisted form of tenderness as he watched you drown with eerie detachment.

The weight of his gaze bore down on you, unyielding even as your consciousness waned under the suffocating flow. As the coldness of water seeped into your bones, your world dimmed, fading into a silent, dark oblivion.

For a moment, he remained frozen, suspended in the void between remorse and obsession. His trembling hands drew your lifeless body towards his, the coldness of your skin seeping into his own as he gently cradled you against his chest.

"You're still shining," he whispered, his voice barely audible amidst the constant flow of the faucet. "You're still beautiful."

As the water continued its relentless cascade, Lawrence raked his fingers through your wet hair, admiring how the tendrils clung to his skin as though you had become one.