Hii Could I Get Somnophilia With Lawrence, Maybe Some Stockholm Syndrome Too?

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.

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

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."

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

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

I was scratching stuff and this came into my head

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

SCRATCHING THE SURFACE

{ strade x gn! reader }

part 1: BENEATH THE SKIN

word count: 760

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strade 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."

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.