Can You Write Big Brother Strade And Adult Sister Reader Scenario?

Can you write big brother strade and adult sister reader scenario?

a/n: omg omg YES i can anon!!! ty for the request! i wanted the reader to be the 'perpetrator' in this one, so i hope you like it! <3

THICKER THAN WATER

{ older brother! strade x younger sister! reader }

word count: 980

warnings/tags: INCEST, NON-CON (?), weirdo lil sis reader, somnophilia, implied past sexual/physical abuse, molestation, masturbation, obsession, body worship, heavy romanticization.

In the stillness of the night, your feet chart a path to a room as familiar as the blood that pulses through your veins. As you slip inside, the air hangs heavy with shame and desire. Yet, in the concealing darkness, you seek refuge in the bed of the one who has always been both your sanctuary and your undoing.

Creeping closer, the familiar scent of your brother envelops you—a musky blend of tobacco and petroleum, more intoxicating than the finest perfume. Gently, you climb into bed and slip beneath the covers, the mattress dipping subtly under your weight. He remains undisturbed, the effects of alcohol shielding him from nightmares and memories alike.

Your heart calms as you draw near, drinking in the sight of him, so still and vulnerable under the moon’s soft gaze. It stirs something deep within you, a familiar ache you’ve carried since your first encounter. His jaw, shadowed by stubble, retains the softness of the boy you once knew.

Strade, with his piercing gaze and disarming charm, is a figure of authority in your world. Your devotion to him has never wavered, acting as a steady anchor amidst the chaos of your relationship. You cling to his every word and eagerly obey his every command, driven by an insatiable desire to fulfill each whim and craving. Despite the countless scars that mark your body, you remain willfully blind, captivated by the charisma that masks the sadism lurking beneath his smile.

You lay your head on his chest, feeling the solid reality of him. His skin warms your cheek, the fine hairs tickle softly, and his heartbeat sends a steady, reassuring rhythm that echoes through your body.

You shift closer, drawn by an irresistible force that pulls you into the orbit of his sleeping form. With tentative fingers, you trace the contours of his torso, exploring the landscape of muscle and skin that you know as well as your own. As your fingers glide over his body, you recall the first brush of his fingertips against your skin; a moment that ignited an obsession within you— a craving no other man could ever satisfy.

Your lips find purchase on his jawline, pressing feather-light kisses against the rough stubble. It's a ritual as familiar as breathing, a silent offering of devotion to the only deity you've ever known. As you brush over the jagged scar marring his skin, he murmurs and stirs slightly. You freeze, your heart caught in your throat, torn between the thrill and fear of being discovered. But he soon settles back into a deep slumber, the moment passing as quickly as it came. You exhale softly, relief quietly mingling with your unchecked desires.

Your hand wanders further, tracing invisible lines across his abdomen until it rests just above the waistband of his boxers. With a breath held in anticipation, your fingers slip under, your palm feeling the heat radiating from him. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, his skin soft and oddly vulnerable in his sleep. As he twitches involuntarily, the intimacy of the moment washes over you like a forbidden wave, swelling with a mixture of guilt and longing. His response is minimal, a low, unconscious groan that might as well have been a sigh carried by the wind. It's enough to spur you forward, your body responding with its own, mirrored arousal.

Simultaneously, your other hand ventures down your body, seeking pleasure in the quiet communion of touch. Your fingers slide between your legs, pushing your panties aside as you press them against your aching clit. The sensation is dizzying, the friction of your fingers sending sparks of desire through your veins.

The symmetry of your actions, one hand on him, the other on yourself, weaves a silent thread of connection that feels both transgressive and transcendent. As you stroke him, you feel his length harden in your grasp. His hips buck gently as his breaths come faster, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. You press your face against his neck, muffling a moan that escapes your lips.

The moonlight filtering through the window bathes the scene in a soft glow, casting long shadows that dance across the walls as if they too are complicit in your silent act.

You move with careful, deliberate motions, governed by the fear of waking him and the overwhelming need to continue. His occasional murmurs punctuate the silence, ambiguous sounds that could be interpreted as protest or pleasure— in the thick veil of night, it's hard to tell, and perhaps you don't want to.

As your exploration deepens, you find yourself caught in the delicate balance between self-gratification and the gratification of him. You bite your lower lip, trying to stifle your whimpers, as the urgent need cum, to let go and surrender to the pleasure, courses through you. Your fingers move faster, instinctively seeking the release that hovers just out of reach.

You pump his cock faster as it twitches violently in your hand, leaking pre-cum onto your skin. It feels hot and impossibly hard, like a living thing writhing in your grasp. With a low, guttural groan, he releases, his muscles clenching. You can feel it in your fingers as he spurts, the warmth and weight of his ejaculate coating your palm. You gasp in response with your face buried in the crook of his neck, your breaths sharp and ragged.

Arching into your fingers, you abandon all pretense of restraint, letting out a long, shuddering moan that breaks the silence of the room.

Suddenly, your world freezes. Just as your climax builds, a vice-like grip encircles your wrist, pulling you from the depths of your indulgence, and shattering the fragile tranquillity of the night. Your eyes snap open, heart pounding as you meet your brother's gaze— no longer clouded by sleep, but piercing and awake.

hii!! i love all of ur writing and headcannons so much, would there be any chance you could write about strade kidnapping reader who just so happens to be a virgin? he knows about this thanks to some talking beforehand at the bar and later brings it up. he ends up taking their virginity (unwanted hehe) thanks a lot if u write this !! 🙈🙈🙈 feel free to change the consent !!

a/n: tysm! as a certified virgin™️, yes i can!!! <3 hope you enjoy :3

IN THE WOLF'S DEN

{ strade x virgin! gn! reader }

word count: 2.2k

warnings/tags: NSFW (graphic), NONCON, build-up, brief alcohol use, kidnapping, violence, knifeplay, blood and injury, licking and biting, mild corruption themes, loss of virginity, creampie.

Your fingers glide along the rim of your glass, tracing patterns in the condensation that pools beneath your touch. Amidst the cacophony of voices in the bar, his presence stands out, a solitary figure who commands your attention. He emerges from the crowd, his sharp features softened by the warm lights, and his eyes gleam with a dangerous allure, drawing you in with each step he takes. He slides onto the stool beside you, effortlessly claiming the space as his own.

"Name's Strade," he offers, his voice smooth and accented. You introduce yourself in return, feeling the weight of his gaze as you shift nervously in your seat.

"You look like you have something on your mind," he observes, taking a sip of his drink. You're taken aback by his directness, but something about him draws you in, a magnetic pull you find impossible to resist.

You swallow, nerves dancing beneath your skin as you meet his gaze. His presence is overwhelming, yet oddly comforting. "I guess so," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper, "but it's nothing I'd share with a stranger."

His chuckle ripples through the air, a low sound that sets your pulse alight. "Ah, but aren't strangers the best confidants? No judgments, no preconceptions."

His words resonate within you, coaxing a nod of agreement. "I suppose you're right," you concede, turning your gaze back to him.

You begin to open up, sharing things you've never told any stranger before. You tell him that you're alone, that your family lives in a different city, that you feel the most lonely you have in your adult life. The words spill freely from your lips and he listens with an intensity that both unnerves and excites you. And then, almost as an afterthought, you confess a truth you've kept hidden for so long— the truth of your virginity.

Strade's reaction is immediate, his lips curling into a wolfish grin. "A virgin," he muses, his voice edged with amusement, "how intriguing."

A flush blooms across your cheeks, a blend of embarrassment and exhilaration at his reaction. Your fingers linger on the rim of your near-empty glass, his gaze holding you captive.

"In what way?" you ask, a small thrill pulsing through your veins.

Leaning closer, his smile widens, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "It's not every day you find someone so… untouched. It makes you unique, like a rare gem."

Your pulse quickens at his words, but before you can respond, the bartender interrupts; a temporary reprieve. You hastily order another drink, the liquid a balm for your nerves.

As the night wears on, you lose yourself in conversation, the sounds of the other patrons fading into insignificance. Only when the bar begins to empty does reality come crashing and you realize it's time to part ways.

"I should get going," you say, pushing yourself away from the bar. "I have an early morning." Before you can take another step, he's beside you, his hand grazing yours in a tantalizing caress. "Allow me to walk you to your car," he offers, his eyes twinkling with a dangerous glint.

There's part of you that hesitates, a silent warning echoing in the recesses of your mind; but the pull of his presence is undeniable, drawing you into his orbit once more.

The streets are quiet as you make your way through the night, the only sound is the soft shuffle of your footsteps on the pavement. You steal glances at him out of the corner of your eye, his silhouette a dark shadow against the moonlit sky.

As you round a corner into a dimly lit alley, the air suddenly thickens with an ominous tension. Your heart quickens its pace, a silent drumbeat of warning, and in an instant, he's upon you, pinning you against the rough surface of the alley wall. His grip is firm, almost bruising, as he leans in close, his hot breath fanning across your face.

"Don't make a sound," Strade whispers, sending shivers racing down your spine. His smile, once charming and enticing, now twists into something dangerous; like a predator revelling in its prey.

Panic surges within you as you struggle against his hold, your pleas swallowed by the gaping alley. With a sickening thud, your head meets brick and stars explode behind your eyelids as darkness descends like a shroud.

You awaken to the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights, your head pounding with a dull, insistent ache. Disoriented, you blink against the harsh brightness, your surroundings slowly emerging from the haze. No longer are you in the alley; instead, you find yourself in a musty basement, the air thick with the scent of damp and decay.

Your heart lurches as you shift, feeling a cold metal pole press into your back and your arms bound tightly behind it. Panic claws at your insides, fueling a desperate struggle against the restraints.

"Ah, you're awake already?" Strade's voice cuts through the silence like a blade, sending a shiver down your spine. You turn your head to see him descending the stairs with an unsettling grace, his silhouette looming like a spectre in the dim, flickering light.

"Wha— What's going on?" you stammer, your voice trembling with fear.

He chuckles, a sound devoid of warmth, as he crouches to meet your gaze. "You don't remember? Our chat was going so well... You opened up to me about so many things,"

Dread coils in the pit of your stomach as your naivety sinks in like a lead weight. "Please, let me go," you plead, shrinking back against the cold metal pole, trying to distance yourself from him.

But he only smiles in response, seemingly unmoved by your desperation. "I wanted to get to know you on a more... intimate level," He explains, his tone disturbingly casual. "So I took you home."

Your breath catches in your throat as he moves closer, the heat of his body an unwelcome presence. With a swift motion, he withdraws a knife from his belt, the blade gleaming in the dim light.

"Please," you whimper again, tears clouding your vision. "I'll do anything, just let me go."

Strade laughs, the sound echoing in the confines of the basement. "Anything, huh?" he muses, that menacing smile still etched on his face. "Well then."

He places the knife on the floor and leans into you, his body pressing intimately against yours. He's so close you can smell him— a dreadful blend of sweat and petroleum invading your senses. Rough hands reach for the ropes binding your wrists, causing you to flinch. With deft movements, he begins to untie the knots, his fingers brushing over your skin in a way that makes your stomach churn.

The ropes fall away, and you gasp in relief, only to feel his hands seize your shoulders, shoving you back against the pole. Strade retrieves his knife and kneels before you, his bulky frame illuminated by the overhead lights.

"Now," he commands, gesturing with the blade, "strip."

You swallow hard, bile rising in the back of your throat as you meet his gaze. Slowly, with trembling hands, you begin to remove your clothes, the fabric rustling loudly in the silence of the basement.

Strade watches you intently, his eyes devouring every inch of exposed skin. You strip down to your underwear, your clothes a crumpled heap at your feet. The cool air of the basement chills your skin, and you curl into yourself, attempting to shield your body from his invasive gaze. He steps closer, his free hand brushing across your cheek.

"Have you ever stripped naked for anyone before?" he asks, almost tauntingly, his face mere inches from yours. You shake your head, your voice barely a whisper. "N-No," you manage to croak out, the response hanging between you.

Strade chuckles as if amused by your innocence. "I figured as much," he sneers, "A virgin in every sense."

He watches your reaction with a sadistic delight, savouring your fear— your vulnerability, as you shrink further into yourself.

"Aww, you're trembling," he observes, his eyes raking over your quivering form. "Niedlich."

With a sudden, brutal motion, he grabs your ankles, dragging you forward until you're sprawled on the ground before him. He crawls over you, his weight pressing heavily, the knife still firmly in his grasp.

Strade brings the knife to your chest, the cold steel kissing your skin before biting in with a sharp sting. You gasp, a cry of pain escaping your lips as the red line blossoms with warm, crimson buds. His eyes gleam with sadistic delight, his thumb pressing into the wound and smearing the blood across your skin.

"So cute," he repeats, his lips curving into a predatory smile. "I could just devour you whole!"

His tongue flicks out to trace a wet, humid stripe along your jaw, his putrid saliva mingling with your tears. "Hah... You taste sweeter than I imagined, Liebling," he purrs, and you shudder beneath him, the sensation both revolting and terrifying. His fingers then trail down your stomach, his touch like a brand against your skin.

"But you forgot something," he breathes, forcing your trembling knees apart.

Your blood runs cold as he carves a delicate line along your abdomen with the knife. He stops just below your navel and flattens the blade against your stomach, sliding it beneath your underwear. His movements are slow, deliberate, and you can feel the blade prodding the delicate skin of your groin.

Strade's breathing is quick and shallow, his breath warm across your face as the flush of excitement tints his cheeks. "Don't squirm too much," he whispers, his voice trembling with anticipation.

Without looking down, he begins to slice through the fabric of your underwear, the knife gliding effortlessly through the thin material. The sound of ripping cloth fills the silence, mingling with the rapid beat of your heart. As the last shred of fabric falls away, your body is laid bare, exposed and vulnerable beneath him.

He runs the flat of the blade over your abdomen once more, a sadistic smile spreading across his face as he revels in your fear. "So rein," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "So unbroken. It's almost a shame." He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks, "but not quite."

As Strade sheaths the knife, you attempt to pull yourself away, the concrete chafing your palms with each drag. He follows close behind you, his cruel smile unwavering. Your heart is pounding in your ears as you desperately try to crawl faster, but it's futile. His hand clamps down on your waist with a bruising grip, yanking you back towards him.

You cry out in terror and frustration, the sound echoing in the desolate basement. He flips you onto your wounded stomach, your skin scraping painfully against the floor. With a sadistic grin, Strade forces your head down, pressing your cheek into the rough concrete. It bites harshly into your skin, and you can feel your tears mingling with the grime.

The metallic clink of a belt buckle sends a fresh wave of fear through you, and the sound of a zipper follows soon after. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as he positions himself between your legs, his weight pressing down on you. His hands roam over your body, squeezing and kneading, leaving blooms of purple on your tender skin.

His grin widens as he leans in, panting. "This may... sting a little," he taunts, his voice sticky against your ear.

"No! Wait!" you cry, your voice cracking with desperation. Your pleas are met with cold indifference as he slams into you, his cock worming past the resisting tissue and resting deep inside. A searing pain rips through your body, and you scream, the sound raw and guttural.

"Mmm, perfekt..." he huffs, revelling in your agony.

You choke on your sobs, the foreign sensation warm and heavy, and tearing with force. Something warm and wet trickles down your thighs, coating them—and him— in a cherry-red sheen. With each brutal thrust, your cheek grates against the rough concrete floor, the blistering ache engulfing your pleas. Strade shows no mercy, his movements relentless and punishing, each gasp and flinch you make fueling his perverse excitement.

"That's it," he breathes, heavy and strained. "Scream for me."

The pain blurs into a surreal haze, your mewls crumbling into incoherent moans and whimpers. Strade's weight is suffocating and his flesh is damp against yours; a clammy, sweaty layer uniting you both. His breath is hot and heavy as it mingles with the nauseating wet slapping between you.

His teeth drag threateningly along your shoulder as his thrusts become more frenzied. He curses against your skin before biting down hard on your neck with a sudden, primal urge. You yelp in pain and he cums, the warm spurts seeping deep inside your body.

Strade chuckles breathlessly as he pushes himself off of you, his eyes heavy and pupils dilated.

Your own eyes flutter open, puffy and glossed with tears as you roll over, curling into yourself on the unforgiving concrete. Through the haze, you dimly register the traces of your spit and blood splattered beside your face; the rough surface glittering almost beautifully under the light.

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.

hii could I get somnophilia with lawrence, maybe some stockholm syndrome too?

a/n: ooo sure!! i luv writing somno :3c

MYCELIAL

{ lawrence oleander x f! reader }

word count: 1.0k

warnings/tags: NSFW, noncon, somnophilia, stockholm syndrome, somewhat obsessive reader, touching, kissing, grinding, brief mention of necrophilia, violence, choking, ambiguous end.

There was something magnetic about the daylight—something that transformed the ordinary into the extraordinary, casting a golden hue over the mundane. It was during these hours that Lawrence found respite, his nocturnal nature demanding slumber while the sun soared high in the sky. His apartment, bathed in warm light filtering through the windows, seemed a world away from the darkness that usually enveloped him. And it was during these stolen moments that you found yourself drawn to him, unable to resist the pull of your twisted fascination. With his guard down and vulnerability laid bare, he became yours to touch and explore.

As he slept, the rise and fall of his chest had a slow, hypnotic rhythm. His face was serene, softened from the sharpness that defined his waking hours. You watched him, heart pounding, a mixture of fear and longing swirling within you. The morning light caressed his features, turning them into something softer, almost gentle. The blanket laid just below his ribs, revealing his bare chest, where the sun painted shadows across his skin. And his long, golden hair fanned out across the pillow, framing his face in a halo of gold. He was a beautiful, ethereal being, lying there and vulnerable—you couldn't help but reach out.

You started with his hair, running your fingers through the soft strands, marvelling at how different he seemed when he was asleep. The detachment and unpredictability melted away, leaving behind a man who was sensitive, reactive, and utterly receptive to your touch. It was intoxicating.

You traced the lines of his face, your touch feather-light, afraid to wake him but unable to stop yourself. His skin was lukewarm, the stubble on his jaw rough against your fingertips. You moved down to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. The sensation sent a thrill through you, a reminder that, despite everything, he was still human—tender and unknowing. Even in this state, you craved his touch, his attention; just as much as you feared the consequences.

Pressing your lips against his neck, you kissed him softly, his sweat lingering on your tongue. His scent, earthy and sickly sweet, grounded you; tethered you to this strange, dark reality that you had come to accept—even crave. You were like mould, thriving in the shadows of his world, clinging to him, and feeding off the dark corners of his existence.

Lawrence stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping him. You froze, your heart hammering, but he did not wake. Emboldened, your hand wandered beneath the blanket, trailing down his torso, fingers ghosting over the taut muscles. He was so responsive in sleep, so different from the aloof man who held you captive. His gentle breaths sent heat pooling in your core.

You slid closer, your body moulding to his contours. His warmth seeped into you like a silent invitation, enticing you to nestle along his side. Carefully, you pried the thin blanket from him, exposing the smooth expanse of his skin and the subtle rise and fall of his chest. You then draped a leg over his, your thigh brushing against his hip. Slowly, you straddled him, positioning yourself above his crotch, your heart pounding with a dangerous thrill.

As you settled your weight onto him, your breath caught in your throat at the sensation of his bulge against the thin fabric of your underwear. You began to move, your hips undulating in slow, deliberate circles, feeling the heat of him beneath you. His breath hitched, blending reality with whatever dreams he was lost in. His pelvis then bucked softly, a subconscious response to the friction.

A flush spread across your skin as you bit your lip, stifling a moan. The sensation was almost overwhelming as you ground harder against him, your underwear damp with arousal. Your palms found his chest, resting gently on his muscles for support. The softness of his skin, the gentle rhythm of his breathing, and the intimacy of the moment created a heady mix that left you dizzy with desire. You leaned forward, your breaths mingling with his own, as if this closeness breathed life into you.

Lawrence's face twisted in pleasure and confusion, his brows furrowing as his subconscious grappled with the unfamiliar weight of your body. He was accustomed to partners who were cold, unresponsive; but you were so warm and wet—a cadaver in waiting.

You flinched at the thought, a gentle pressure building in your core with each, desperate roll of your hips. You could feel him hardening beneath you, his soft moans and gasps spurring you on as you rubbed needily against him. With one final grind, you felt the wave of release wash over you, your body shuddering as you came. A strangled moan escaped your lips, the sound raw and desperate, waking Lawrence from his slumber.

With a sudden, sharp intake of breath, his eyes flew open, confusion clouding his gaze. A deep crimson heat flushed his cheeks as his expression shifted to shock, then anger. His hands shot up, gripping your hips with a painful intensity before jerking your pliant body off his own. You hit the floor with a sharp thud, the impact knocking the air from your lungs.

As you lay there, dazed and disoriented, Lawrence loomed over you, his features contorted with disgust and embarrassment. His chest heaved as he glared down at you, his grip on your hips now replaced by the cold, suffocating pressure of his hands around your throat.

"W-What the hell were you doing!?" his voice was low, trembling, as his fingers tightened behind your nape. The edges of your vision blurred, but amidst the fear, there was an undeniable thrill—a twisted fulfillment. With a weak, shaky breath, you managed to smile up at him, your lips curling in a fragile, almost serene grin.

You couldn't help but notice how he was still hard, his erection straining against the fabric of his sweatpants, creating an unmistakable outline. The sight only intensified your delirious contentment, as if his body's betrayal filled the void left by your captivity. Despite the constriction, you felt euphoric, basking with Lawrence in the sun's warm, golden embrace.

Hi! It's me! The scratchy one remember that thing you said about strade being a mechanic? I love that thought I love mechanic strade I was watching this show called tires and it's really funny it's about mechanics it kinda made me think about strade...anyway I'm just saying you should watch it if you'd like

hii scratchy anon! i saw tires the other day when i was scrolling on netflix. right now I'm finishing heeramandi but i'll be sure to check it out, thank you for the suggestion :3

OH oh

JusT GONNA ASK DI YOU WRITE FOR DEMON STRADE???

SURE ANON :D that'd be sooo fun