Can I Request Derek Taking His Anger Out On Fem!reader After The "he Took You Home" Ending? You Can Make

Can i request Derek taking his anger out on fem!reader after the "he took you home" ending? You can make it as nasty as you want 👀

a/n: sure! i luv that sleazy, bleach-blonde bastard. hope you like it! :3

PLAYING WITH FIRE

{ derek goffard x f! reader }

word count: 2.4k

warnings/tags: NON-CON, painal, fire torture, burning, stomping, mutilation (?), degradation, name-calling, humiliation.

As you blink away the haze of sleep, the painful wound in your back throbs dully amidst newer aches. With a shuddering breath, you try to push yourself upright, only to be met with the uncomfortable resistance of chains binding your wrists. The cold, varnished floorboards press into your bare skin, making you acutely aware of your nakedness.

"Hello!? Where am I?" your voice cracks, echoing slightly in the vast, lavishly furnished room.

The door swings open as you struggle to make sense of your opulent, yet foreboding surroundings. Derek steps into the room, his presence immediately filling the space with a palpable tension. He's meticulously groomed and dressed in an expensive, tailored suit; a stark contrast to the dishevelled, agonising figure you remember from the desert.

“Ah, finally awake, are we?” His smooth voice cuts through the silence, his smirk widening as he hungrily scans over your body. It's then you realize this is the man who revelled in your torment under the brutal desert sun— the same man you had desperately stabbed, yet had been too terrified to finish off.

You try to speak, but your voice is strangled by the rising panic, words lost in the jumble of your frightened thoughts. Instinctively, you slide back as he approaches, the cold metal chains clinking as your throbbing back slams against the wall.

“You remember me, don't you?” His voice is smooth, almost casual, but you can hear the malice underlying each word. “You stabbed me.” He emphasizes the word, his eyes gleaming with a sinister delight.

“I-I'm sorry,” the words tumble out as a weak whimper.

“Oh, I know you’re sorry.” Derek’s tone is mockingly sympathetic as he crouches in front of you, his face inches from yours. “But an apology won’t quite cut it, will it? No,” he shakes his head slowly, his words sending a shiver of dread through your spine.

You press back against the wall, trying to disappear into its cold embrace. The chill from the varnished wood floors beneath you seeps deeper into your bones, mirroring the cold dread that fills you as he leans closer. His presence suffocates, looming over you, chained and vulnerable.

Without a word, he reaches for your ankles, pulling sharply to straighten your body along the cold floor. The chains at your wrists tighten as your arms twist and pull at your shoulders. The metal is cold and unforgiving against your bruised skin as your joints are stretched to their limits.

"You know... I've thought long and hard about what I wanted to do to you once I got you here." Derek says, towering over you. He reaches around in his suit pockets and then produces a small bottle filled with a clear liquid and a sleek silver lighter. "Here, we won't run out of time," he adds, his eyes gleaming as he holds up the items for your inspection.

"If you don't die too soon, at least." With a chilling smirk, he swiftly slams his foot down hard on your stomach, the polished dress shoe pressing cruelly into your flesh.

You gasp, air whooshing out of your lungs, pain splintering through your body like shattered glass. Your eyes water, a silent scream etching itself into the frozen air as you struggle futilely against the icy hold of the chains. The weight of his shoe pins you helplessly as he unscrews the bottle's cap.

"Wh—" Your breath catches in your throat as the acrid scent of alcohol permeates the air. He grinds his foot deeper into your soft stomach, eliciting a pained grunt from your lips.

"Let's see how long you last," he muses, his words slithering through the air and sending waves of panic crashing over you.

With a chilling calmness, he begins drizzling the alcohol over your breasts; trailing a cold, wet path across the marred skin. Some drops seep into your fresh wounds, making your muscles tense involuntarily.

"No, please— Wait!" you plead, your voice cracking as each breath is laced with the sharp tang of isopropyl alcohol.

As Derek lowers the lighter to your chest, his eyes alight with a perverse pleasure. With a flick of his thumb, a small flame dances to life and the liquid ignites a blazing inferno upon your writhing body. For a fleeting moment, there's a bizarre sensation of warmth that tickles your skin, almost deceivingly gentle. But this warmth rapidly morphs into a deep, searing pain.

Within seconds, the ticklish sensation escalates into an unbearable burning. Your skin reacts violently to the intense heat, the pain magnifying as the fire consumes the alcohol-soaked area. The room fills with the acrid smell of burning as you scream, raw and guttural.

The sound of his laughter mingles with your cries as the flames dance hungrily across your tender breasts. You instinctively try to recoil, but the chains and the weight of his foot, hold you mercilessly in place.

"Awww... I could listen to you squeal like that all day," Derek taunts, his voice dripping with amusement as he watches the flames. "But I want this to last."

Abruptly, he shifts his stance, lifting his foot from your stomach and bringing it down sharply onto the flames on your chest. The polished shoe crushes the fire against your skin, smothering the flames with a series of swift, brutal stomps. The heat retreats as quickly as it had erupted, leaving behind a suffocating smoke, the grotesque smell of charred skin, and the lingering scent of alcohol.

Derek observes the aftermath with a twisted satisfaction, his shoe leaving a grim imprint on your abused flesh. Leaning down, he grips your face harshly, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he forces you to meet his gaze. "You look good when you're crying," he murmurs, a malicious smirk twisting his lips.

Before you can respond, he presses his foot down on the side of your face, turning your head sharply to the side. His other hand uncaps the bottle once more, and he begins dousing the other side of your face and neck with alcohol.

Muffled cries escape your lips, distorted and desperate, as Derek's shoe presses firmly against your cheek, pinning you to the hard floor. You struggle to breathe, each gasp a laborious effort as panic claws at your throat. Your sounds of distress are smothered under his force, reduced to whimpering that barely breaks the tense air of the room.

Leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear, Derek taunts, "What was that, bitch? Did you say something?" He pauses, feigning a moment of thoughtful consideration before his voice hardens. "Ah, you want me to burn your pretty little face, is that it?" With a cruel smirk, he straightens slightly, the pressure momentarily easing from your face before he shifts his stance.

"You really shouldn’t ask for things you don’t want," he murmurs darkly as he once again produces the sleek silver lighter. His fingers play over the metal, teasing the flame to life with a swift flick.

Holding your gaze with his, he lowers the flame deliberately towards the alcohol-soaked side of your face. The fire catches instantly and the heat sears your skin as it ignites. The initial warmth is swiftly overwhelmed by a sharp, engulfing pain that races across your flesh. As the flames lick upwards, the tips of your hair catch fire, adding a horrifying, crackling sizzle to the dreadful orchestra of your shrieking. Your cries intensify; a visceral reaction to the unbearable sensation of your skin and hair burning.

With deliberate cruelty, Derek shifts again, his shoe coming down hard on the burning side of your face. The sudden pressure extinguishes the flames and the harsh grind of his sole against your charred cheek sends a new wave of pain through your body. As he steps back, the smell of burnt hair and skin lingers nauseatingly in the air.

The room falls silent for a moment, save for your heavy, ragged breathing and the occasional clink of chains. Derek eyes the damage with a perverse sense of accomplishment. "Look at you now. Not so pretty anymore, are you?" he sneers.

He suddenly grabs your ankles and pushes them uncomfortably over your body so your toes touch the floor behind your head. The harsh and sudden movement forces you into a vulnerable and painfully distorted position. "Mmm, but your cute noises got me all excited," He purrs, fumbling with the zipper of his dress pants. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as he peers down at you from between your thighs, his cock freed from the confines of his boxers.

"Now, beg for it," Derek demands, his voice low and commanding. "Beg for me to fuck you."

You swallow hard, your throat tight with fear and revulsion. You bite back a cry, clenching your eyes shut.

His hands, now gripping the backs of your thighs, push your knees even further towards your chest. The movement is so forceful that a sharp yelp escapes you despite your resolve.

"I said beg, slut" he repeats, his brows furrowing. "You were quick to beg for my cock out there in the desert; let's hear that desperation again, right here."

You turn your eyes away from his gaze, a small act of defiance against his demands. However, the cruel delight in his eyes intensifies as he reaches beside him, retrieving the sleek silver lighter once again. His fingers play over the metal deliberately as he watches your eyes widen with renewed fear. The small flame springs to life with a click, its glow reflecting ominously in his turquoise eyes.

"Or," he murmurs, the flame now hovering dangerously close to the sensitive skin between your legs. "I could burn you where it'll hurt most."

Panic claws at your chest, your heart hammering wildly as the heat from the flame prickles your inner thigh. The threat is clear and imminent, pushing you to the brink.

"Please, Derek," your voice trembles, the horror of the situation squeezing the air from your lungs. "Please fuck me... I'll do anything. Just don't burn me again... please."

The words tumble out of your mouth, broken and raw, the shame of hearing your own voice reduced to such desperation echoing within you. Derek's smirk widens in response, a twisted satisfaction lighting up his eyes.

The flame suddenly licks across the tender skin of your vulva, causing you to scream in pain. "Oops," he says nonchalantly, watching as the small burn mark forms.

"No, please, stop it!" you cry out shakily, tears welling in your eyes. "Please... anything but this,"

"Hah! I like really that pathetic look on your face," he sneers, the flame flickering dangerously close one last time before he snuffs it out.

With a cruel smirk, he deliberately spits on your clenched hole, the warm liquid landing with a sickening splatter. You recoil in disgust, waves of shame and humiliation crashing over you. "I knew you'd be begging for me to fuck you," Derek chuckles, leaning close as his hot breath brushes against your burned face.

He positions himself at your entrance, the smirk never leaving his face. he taunts, pushing forward without any gentleness. The discomfort is immediate, intensifying the mix of pain and humiliation already consuming you.

He curses under his breath as he slides into you, the ring of muscles gripping tight around him. His fingers squeeze into your hips, anchoring him as he moves with ruthless intent.

"That's it, cry," he whispers harshly in your ear, each word punctuated by another forceful movement. His laughter is low and dissonant, mixing with the sound of your choked sobs. He thrusts harder, his body pressing down on yours with a cruel weight.

"I love hearing you like this," Derek hisses, his breath hot against your neck. The pain from the burns and his brutal handling makes each moment excruciating. Your vision blurs with tears, the room spinning as you struggle to find any semblance of control over the situation.

Suddenly, Derek stops, pulling back slightly to look down at you with a twisted grin. "You know, I think you enjoy this. All this pain, the humiliation. It's what you deserve, isn't it?" His words cut deeper than any physical wound, his voice dripping with cruelty.

You gasp for breath, trying to form words, to deny his accusations, but the pain overwhelms you, stealing your voice.

Without warning, his hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are cold, devoid of any humanity as he scrutinizes your tear-streaked face. "Look at me," he commands, his voice a low growl. "I want to see your pain."

You stare back at him, your eyes wide with fear. Derek’s face inches is from yours as he resumes his movements; slow and deliberate now, watching your reactions with sick satisfaction.

The room fades around you, your senses dulled by the overwhelming pain and fear. You feel disconnected, as if watching the horror unfold from outside your own body. Derek's voice, his harsh breaths, and the cold chains become distant sounds, muffled by the roaring in your ears.

As he continues, his grip on you tightens, his body pressing down with oppressive weight. "You’re mine, my property," he whispers, each word a venomous promise. "No one can hear you here. No one will save you."

You struggle to focus on anything but the pain, the burning sensation that seems to consume every inch of your being. Your thoughts spiral out of control and your body feels like it's being torn apart. Derek leans forward, bracing himself on one arm as he thrusts deeper, harder.

Finally, his movements grow erratic, his breaths coming faster as he nears his release. His lips nearly touch your ear as he delivers a final, chilling message. "Remember this pain," he murmurs. "It’s only the beginning."

With those words, Derek finishes inside, his body shuddering above you. You feel his warmth fill you as he slowly pulls out, sliding free with a wet, sucking sound.

He stands, fixing his clothing with quick, efficient movements, never looking back at you. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room.

You lie there, aching and broken, the tears drying on your cheeks. The chains rattle faintly as you shift, the cold metal a harsh reminder of your captivity. In the silence, your mind whispers a vow, a flicker of defiance in the darkness: somehow, you will survive this. You must.

Hey hey!

Could you do a Ren x Fem!reader Nsfw while they were still ‘owned’ by Strade? He can be there too if you want ^^

I just need this 🙏

a/n: yess i love this dynamic so muchh <3 this is probably one of the more wholesome things i've written. hope you enjoy, anon!!

WASH IT ALL AWAY

{ captive! ren hana x captive f! reader }

word count: 1.7k

warnings/tags: NSFW, consensual (:0 !?), mentions of blood/injury, soft and gentle, bathtub sex, kissing, handjob, some scratching/biting, fox penis in vagina.

The night was still, punctuated only by Strade's deep, even breaths as he slept in the adjacent room. His slumber marked a brief reprieve from the day’s cruelty, a precious few hours where shadows gathered and whispered of forbidden things. The dim light seeping through the basement door painted golden streaks across the staircase, a faint illumination that led you to Ren.

Your steps were silent, cautious, as if the very air around you could betray your intent. Ren was there, as you knew he would be, standing at the stairhead, his eyes alert and intense. His presence was a beacon, drawing you closer with the gravity of shared pain and longing.

As you approached, his posture relaxed, a soft smile spreading across his face. "I was so worried," Ren whispered, his voice heavy with relief. "When I heard you, the sounds... I was so scared."

"I made it back to you, Ren. Like I promised," you replied, though your voice trembled.

His eyes warmed with a familiar tenderness as he took your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles in a soothing rhythm. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay? A warm bath... we can forget everything else, just for a while," he suggested, his voice a gentle caress promising care and comfort.

As Ren guided you upstairs to his bedroom, the soft click of his claws against the stairs marked your path. Upon entry, your pain and fear momentarily subsided, replaced by a sense of security in his familiar presence. The room was suffused with the scent of him— earthy and lightly floral, mixed with the copper tang of blood that no amount of scrubbing could erase.

"Just relax," he murmured, his voice soothing as he brushed past you, his tail gently swaying. "I'll run the bath."

He disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, and soon the sound of running water mingled with the rustle of movement as he adjusted the taps. Steam slowly began to fill the space, weaving around you both like a gentle caress and blending seamlessly with the room’s lingering scents.

"The bath's ready! Nice and warm," Ren called out softly, invitingly. You both undressed, the layers of your captivity falling away with each piece of fabric that hit the floor. Though the heavy shock-collars remained around your necks they seemed less constricting here, in this temporary sanctuary.

Stepping into the bathroom, the humidity enveloped you, easing the chill of fear that had clung to your bones. Together, you sank into the comforting embrace of the hot water; the bath becoming a secluded haven where peace could exist, if only for a while. As you settled in, the water around you faintly blushed, tinged with red from your fresh wounds.

You sat facing each other, your legs intertwined comfortably. Ren’s tail softened in the water, becoming slick and smooth under your fingers. You reached out, tentatively at first, then with more assurance as you brushed your fingers through his fur, the texture luxurious and mesmerizing. He sighed, a sound of deep contentment escaping him as his tail twitched slightly and his eyes closed in blissful surrender to the moment.

Ren opened his eyes, his gaze meeting yours with a warmth that melted any lingering tension. He smiled gently, reaching for a sponge. "May I?" he whispered softly, seeking your permission to touch, to wash away the physical reminders of the day's ordeal.

You nodded, allowing him to cleanse the wounds and weariness from your body. As the sponge moved in smooth, careful strokes over your skin, the tension within you began to ebb away. Gradually, he set aside the sponge, his fingers replacing it, the transition almost imperceptible. The soft touch of his hands felt more intimate, more healing than the porous material, tracing the contours of your body with a touch both soothing and careful.

The steam hung heavy around you, a veil that seemed to isolate you from the rest of the world. It was just you and Ren, the water lapping gently at your skin, his hands exploring the lines of your body with a reverence that made your breath catch. The kiss came naturally, almost inevitable, as you leaned into him. His lips were soft against yours, urgent yet incredibly tender, conveying emotions too complex to voice.

You deepened the kiss, your fingers weaving into his damp, red hair, gently tugging him closer. As your hands explored, they found the soft base of his ears and squeezed gently, drawing a throaty groan from him. Ren's reaction vibrated against your lips as he touched your back, his nails gently raking along your spine. The water around you seemed to pulse with the rhythm of your beating hearts, waves gently swaying in time with your movements.

Your hands slid down his front and traced patterns on his furred chest, feeling every beat of his heart, every rise and fall of his breath. Ren responded in kind, his hands sliding down to cup your hips, pulling you closer until you were straddling him, the water swirling around you as you moved together.

His kisses trailed down your jaw, each one light and tantalizing. You threw your head back, allowing him access to the delicate skin of your throat, his lips and teeth gently teasing. His breath, warm against your damp skin, mixed with the steam, creating a heady sensation that made the room spin slightly.

You leaned forward, whispering his name as a silent plea, your movements becoming more deliberate. Ren's hands steadied on your hips, guiding you as you gently ground against him. Your hands ventured further, tracing the course line of fur that led to his cock. His response was immediate; a sharp intake of breath, his back arching slightly, urging you closer.

The bathroom vanished, consumed by the sensations intensified by the warm water caressing your skin. It was just you and Ren, moving together in perfect harmony. His lips found yours once more, your tongues dancing as his hands explored the contours of your body, urging you closer still. You could feel him, hard and ready against your stomach, the water lapping at your skin as he thrust into your grasp.

His fingers dug into your hips, urging you to a faster pace, and you obeyed without hesitation. You could feel every inch of him, the head of his shaft pressing against your palm as you stroked him, the familiar ridges that slid between your fingers slick with water and precum. The sounds of your breath mingled with the soft splashing of the water, creating a rhythm that seemed to echo through your very soul.

He whispered your name, his voice husky with need, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. "Please, I need to be inside you," he breathed out, a plea laced with passion, urging you closer to the edge. "Can I?" he asked softly, his voice tender as he sought your consent. The words sounded almost foreign to you now, having grown so accustomed to the harsh commands of Strade's regime. Here, with Ren, every word was a gentle offer, a question soaked in care and respect, forming a stark contrast to your current reality.

You nodded as you managed a response, "Yes, Ren, please." His smile was slow, grateful, and filled with warmth. You hovered above him and he carefully moved forward, uniting you both in a moment as delicate as it was intense.

As his cock slipped inside, Ren's hands gripped your thighs, his nails digging slightly into your skin and drawing a soft moan from you. He leaned forward and his lips found the curve of your neck again. This time, his kisses were punctuated by gentle bites, each leaving behind a tender mark.

The shape of him, with its curious, fox-like tapering, fit perfectly, complementing your own form. Your body moved in sync with his rhythm as you met his thrusts with your own. Each connection sent ripples of pleasure through you, drawing moans that mixed with the steamy air. Your hands clung to his shoulders and your nails dug in slightly as he bucked faster into you.

"I want you to remember this... remember us, when everything else feels like too much," Ren murmured against your skin, his breath hot and his words imbued with a fervour that made your heart swell. His actions were deliberate, marking you in a way that felt reverent— in a way that made you forget the weight of the shackle that sat just a few inches below his lips.

The rhythm you found together was a natural cadence, echoing the soft sound of water lapping at the sides of the tub, the gentle movement resonating in perfect harmony with your joined breaths.

Ren's pace quickened, his movements becoming less controlled, more urgent as he sought release. You could feel the tension building within him, his grip tightening as he neared the brink. His breaths became short, his chest heaving against yours. With a final, deep thrust, he groaned, his body tensing as he reached his climax, filling you with the warmth of his seed.

Panting, he collapsed gently against you, though he remained inside, ensuring the connection wasn't broken. You both sat there, entwined and still, the water in the bath slightly cooler now, but your bodies radiated enough heat to keep the chill at bay.

Ren's arms wrapped around you more fully, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You felt his lips move against your skin in a soft, almost imperceptible kiss. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice laden with emotion. His tail, still submerged, curled around your leg in a gentle embrace.

You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat steady against yours. The steam from the bath enveloped your bodies, creating a serene cocoon that shielded you from the harsh outside world. Each touch, each whisper deepened a connection that felt as vital as the air you breathed.

does mason even kno what eating pussy is </3 🥺

Strade weight gain/body worship? Focusing on how big and squishy he is :P

a/n: heheh yess!!! i love big squishy guys <33

INDULGE YOURSELF

{ strade x f! reader }

word count: 1.0k

warnings/tags: NSFW, mild dubcon, weight gain, body worship, thigh riding, reader is a feeder (?), stockholm themes.

You kneel between Strade's legs, your hands trembling slightly as they trace the contours of his body. Throughout the months, you've become intimately familiar with every crevice of his home, every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet; yet, it is the transformation of Strade himself that captivates your attention.

His clothes, once snug and form-fitting, now strain against his larger frame. The seams of his shirt stretch over his abdomen, the buttons threatening to burst, and his pants hug his thighs, outlining the swell of his flesh. When he pins you down, he is heavier and more imposing, pressing into you with a force that leaves you breathless. The added bulk makes him harder to resist, your struggles futile against his newfound size.

As your palms press against his stomach, the soft, warm flesh yields under your touch, bouncing slightly as you release. You take a strange pride in knowing your cooking has contributed to his transformation, each meal adding to his mass. A shiver runs down your spine, settling into a warmth in your chest.

Strade watches you with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He shifts slightly, the movement causing his belly to jiggle, and you can't help but follow the motion with your gaze, entranced. You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to his navel, your lips lingering against his skin. He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through you.

"How cute," he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "All this extra weight is because of you, you know. Your cooking skills are to blame." His words are teasing, but there's an edge of truth in them.

You look up at him, your eyes wide and earnest. "I love it," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. "I love how big you've gotten."

His laughter is louder this time, his hand coming down to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lips. "How sweet, Liebling," he says, his tone mocking yet affectionate. "Tell me more."

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to find the words to express the chaotic mix of emotions inside you. "I love how soft you are," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. "How warm and... and squishy."

He hums in approval, his hand sliding down to rest on the back of your neck, guiding you closer. "Show me then," he commands softly. "Show me how much you love me."

You obey without hesitation, your hands roaming over his body, exploring every curve and fold. You press your lips against the rounded expanse of his stomach, kissing and nuzzling where faint stretch marks spiderweb across his skin. He groans as your tongue darts out to taste the saltiness of his sweat, tracing a path up to his chest. He's bigger here too, the flesh soft and pliant under your touch.

With a playful glint in his eyes, Strade shifts, forcing you to straddle his leg. Your hands explore again, gently squeezing his chest and feeling the hairs tickle your fingertips. As you press closer to him, your body melds with his as if you were two halves of the same whole. You instinctively grind your hips down on him, feeling the thick muscles against you.

"Go ahead. Ride my thigh." He grins, his rough hands finding your waist.

You comply eagerly, your breath hitching as you grind harder. The fabric of his pants is taut beneath you, the size of his leg apparent even through the layers of clothing, forcing your thighs apart just by straddling him. Strade's fingers dig into your flesh as he encourages your movements.

"I love how you fill up my hands," you breathe out, your voice tinged with awe. "Every part of you... so big, so strong."

His eyes darken with pleasure, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Is that so?" he replies, his voice a seductive purr. "You love feeling how much I've grown, how much I overwhelm you?"

You nod fervently, your hands squeezing the skin bulging over his waistline. "Yes, I love it. I love how heavy you are." The admission makes your cheeks flush; it's intoxicating, this feeling of being so completely consumed by him, of knowing you are the one who has helped make him the size he is now.

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that reverberates through your entire being. "Good," he says, leaning close to your ear. "Beacause I love how pathetic you've become."

Despite the harshness of his words, you find yourself unable to resist him. Each rough thrust against his thigh sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, igniting a hunger that only he can satisfy. With every moan that escapes your lips, you give yourself over to him completely.

His hands slide up your back, pressing you even closer to him as you continue to move against him. His thigh is warm and solid beneath you, the muscles flexing as he shifts his position slightly, giving you a better angle. The friction between your core and his leg is maddening; a delicious torture that leaves you gasping for breath. You cling to him, your fingers gripping his broad shoulders as you ride him with increasing fervour.

As you tremble and mewl, Strade watches you with a dark, satisfied gaze. You can feel the softness of his belly pressing against you, the warmth of his skin seeping into your own.

"I-I love you," you whimper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He freezes for a moment, his grip tightening. "Do you now?" he laughs, amused. "How sweet."

You nod, burying your face into his soft chest, tears welling in your eyes. "Yes," you reply, your voice trembling. "I do."

There were days when you'd fought against him, screaming and crying, your spirit burning bright with defiance. Over time, your resistance crumbled, replaced by a dependence that terrified you. Strade has become your world, your tormentor and saviour wrapped into one monstrous figure.

Now, as you moan in his lap, his large body pressed against yours, you realize how far you've fallen. "I love you," you whisper again, your voice hardly audible.

His hand tightens on your hair, forcing your head back. "And I love what I've made of you. You've come a long way from that frightened girl I took months ago."

OH oh

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

SURE ANON :D that'd be sooo fun

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.