God I Feel Bad For Coming Back So Much But I Love Your Writings It Keeps Making Me Think Of The Scratching

God I feel bad for coming back so much but I love your writings it keeps making me think of the scratching I love the way you write it...may I ask for more scratch I LOVEB it-

a/n: my beloved itchy/scratchy anon!! what else do you want me to write about scratching? i wasn't sure so i thought about strade's hairy back... hopefully, this satisfies that... itch of yours hehehehehe :3c

SCRATCHING HIS BACK

{ strade x gn! reader }

word count: 690

warnings/tags: mentions of alcohol and inebriation, detailed descriptions of dirt and dead skin, intimate back scratching :3

The evening unfolded lazily, an amalgam of shadows and silhouettes cast by the dim light filtering through the window. You were tucked into a corner of an old, musty couch, the fabric worn and rough beneath you. Beside you, Strade sprawled out, a picture of carefree inebriation. The scent of beer clung heavily to the air, mixing with the lingering odour of cigarette smoke that seemed permanently embedded in the room's fabric. His shirt was tossed carelessly aside, revealing his broad, hairy back to the dim room.

“Hey,” Strade’s voice was a gruff murmur, slightly slurred from the alcohol. “Got an itch right in the middle of my back. Mind giving it a scratch?”

You looked at his back, a vast canvas of skin, hair, and subtle rolls of fat that moved with every breath he took. There was something deeply human, almost vulnerable about the request, and it spurred a warmth in you that offset the chill creeping through the cracked window.

With a nod, you shifted closer, your fingers tentatively touching down on the warm skin. The hairs were coarse under your touch, each strand tickling your fingertips as you searched for the spot he couldn’t reach. He hummed approvingly when your nails finally found the place, a small groan of relief escaping him as you began to scratch.

His skin was surprisingly soft, pliable under your fingers, the hairs parting easily as you dragged your nails over them. Beneath the initial layer of hair and warmth, you could feel the fine grit of dirt and the flaky texture of dead skin. It was almost mesmerizing, the way the debris collected under your nails, forming little scrolls of filth that were oddly satisfying to remove.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Strade mumbled, his voice heavy with contentment. “Genau da... yeah, harder.”

Encouraged by his words, you increased the pressure, your fingers working deeper as they explored the landscape of his back. Each movement of your hand seemed to excavate more from beneath the surface, revealing the hidden details of his skin. His back was a map of experiences, marked by scars and speckled with moles, each a story shadowed by the blemishes he inflicted on others.

Strade shifted, leaning back into your touch like a large, satisfied cat. The room was quiet, save for the low buzz of a streetlight outside and the distant sound of a siren. There was an intimate humanity in these movements, in the soft yielding of his body to your fingers.

Your nails traced down to the lower part of his back, where the skin grew softer and the hair sparser. Here, the sensation changed, the resistance of his skin lessening, allowing your nails to glide smoothly. The creases under touch were like the gentle undulations of a calm sea; each wave eliciting a soft sigh under your exploratory scratch.

Strade’s breathing deepened, a sign of his drifting focus, caught between the sensations you provided and the edge of sleep. “Ah, don't stop” he whispered, almost pleadingly.

Your scratching, while superficial, felt almost cathartic, as if each small flake of skin and dirt removed could lighten his burdens. Slowly, you continued your methodical exploration, your fingers now familiar with the contours of his back. Each pass of your nails brought more of the hidden grime to the surface, leaving a trail of cleaner, fresher skin beneath. The rhythm of scratch and relief painted a moment of pure tranquillity, a rare pause in the chaotic symphony of his daily existence.

As the night wore on, Strade’s body relaxed completely, succumbing to the dual lull of your touch and the alcohol’s embrace. His last conscious murmur was a soft grunt of thanks, fading into the steady, deep breaths of sleep.

You paused, looking at the quiet figure beside you, the steady rise and fall of his back a silent testament to the peace you’d brought. The night continued around you, the world moving on, but in this small, dimly lit room, you had found a profound connection in the simple act of caring, of cleaning— a connection as real and gritty as the dirt under your nails.

hiii!! i don’t know if requests are open so in case they’re not this is more of like a convo / thirst?? but i keep thinking abt strade with a pregnant mc..like me personally i would try to hide the pregnancy for as long as i can bc knowing strade i wouldn’t be surprised if he used violence to get rid of the baby so AAA what do you think?? :00

hii! requests are technically closed, but i am fine with anyone still sending them in— just know i have many to finish and it may be a few days before i get to it!

anyway, I totally agree with you, anon! i don't think strade would be very receptive to the idea of you being pregnant. he'd likely use it as another avenue to exert his control and further manipulate you.

warnings (please heed): pregnancy, violence, forced miscarriage.

He'd inevitably notice the signs— the way your body changed, became fuller and more enticing. He might fix his gaze on your swelling belly, a cruel smile spreading across his face as he lifts his foot. When you shield yourself, curling protectively around your unborn child, the realization would hit him fully, and his smile would turn cold and menacing.

"So, you're hiding something from me, aren't you?" he'd say, voice dripping with mock sweetness. He may find it amusing, the fact that you tried to conceal it, but it wouldn’t take long for him to use the pregnancy to his advantage and make frequent, terrifying threats against you and the fetus.

His torment would culminate in him violently forcing a miscarriage, despite your desperate, animalistic protests. In the aftermath, as you lay broken and devastated, Strade would crouch beside you, his expression a twisted mask of satisfaction. "Don’t worry," he’d whisper, a chilling promise.

"I can always give you another 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.

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.

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

Local German man should be in prison