How About A Crazy Ex Girlfriend! Reader And Strade I Really Like Your Writing Its Really Good!

how about a crazy ex girlfriend! reader and Strade🔪🩸 I really like your writing its really good!

a/n: i wasn't sure what flavour of crazy you were hoping for, so i went with the classic 'break into your house and hold you at gunpoint to express her love' kinda crazy. hope you enjoy!

THIS LOVE

{ strade x f! reader }

word count: 1.5k

warnings/tags: DUBCON to consent, implied stalking, obsessive behaviour, gun use, nonconsensual bondage, threats of violence, some gaslighting, self-injury (cutting and stabbing), bloodplay, woundfucking.

The moon casts an eerie glow over Strade's house as you approach, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and dread. The gun tucked into your waistband feels heavy, but it’s a necessary weight.

It's been months since you last saw him, since he cast you aside because of your jealousy and the scenes you caused. But tonight, you will make him see reason. Tonight, you will make him understand that you belong together. Your love is a storm, wild and consuming, and nothing will stand in its way.

The lock clicks open under your deft fingers, and you slip inside, the familiar scent of his home washing over you. As you move through the darkened hallway like a spectre, your fingers trail along the walls, absorbing the essence of the place where he lives—where he breathes. Every step deeper into his sanctuary feels like a step closer to your destiny.

Your eyes are drawn to the living room, where you can almost feel his warmth, his musk lingering in the air. Bathed in glittering moonlight, Strade lies passed out on the couch, an empty bottle at his feet. His chest rises and falls with the rhythm of deep, alcohol-induced sleep, a scene so deceptively peaceful it almost makes you hesitate.

Almost.

You retrieve zip ties from your bag, your hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You move silently, slipping the ties around his wrists and tightening them until they bite into his skin. He stirs slightly and then wakes, thrashing and confused like an ensnared boar. His eyes dart wildly before settling on you, widening in shock. “Was zum Teufel…?”

“Strade, my love,” you whisper, pressing the gun to his temple, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. “Don’t move. I have a gun.”

His eyes flash with a dangerous glint, muscles tensing as he tests the restraints. “W-What the hell are you doing here?” he growls, his rough voice trembling slightly.

You smile as dread floods his features. It's as if a shell crumbles before you, revealing the soft, vulnerable creature within. The expression on Strade's scarred face assures you that you are in control—you have the power to sway him your way.

“I’ve seen them,” you say, your finger hovering over the trigger. “All the... the sluts you bring home."

You've watched from the shadows, seeing people come but never leave, witnessing his hand itch down their backs as they drunkenly stumble in. Some are hardly conscious, their heads lolling as he carries them inside. The images gnaw painfully at your heart as your digit glides over the steel pad, just itching to press down.

"It makes me so angry... So jealous. I'd decorate this couch with your brains if I didn't love you so much..." Your voice is laced with desperation, your brows furrowed and pout immanent. It was an expression as familiar to him as one of fear, but it frightened rather than thrilled him.

“You’re insane, you have no clue what you see,” he spits, struggling against the zip ties.

“No, I'm in love with you, Strade,” you insist, tears blurring your vision. “I came here to show you don’t need anyone else. Just me. Only me. I can make you change your mind—make you remember the love we shared..."

You're on him in an instant, leaning in to smash your lips into his, the kiss sloppy and desperate. He tries to pull away, but you hold him in place, the gun digging into his temple. You straddle his hips and fumble with the waistband of his pants, pulling them just enough to expose his manhood.

You grind your clothed body against him, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Yet, he remains unresponsive, his eyes cold and narrow. The realization cuts deep, and you stop midway, staring down at him with a mix of anger and despair. Memories flood your mind—how he used to grip your throat just a little too tight, how he’d smile when you cried out in pain, how his eyes would light up at the sight of your scars and bruises. He had always seemed to enjoy getting off on your suffering, pushing you to the edge, revelling in your pain.

“Y-You need to see me bleed, don't you? See me in pain?” you ask, your voice tinged with urgency. “That's what it takes to get you off, isn't it?”

Before he can reply, you slide off him and scurry to the kitchen, tucking the gun back into its holster. The knife drawer opens with a metallic clink, and you rummage through, frustration mounting as you find only dull blades, their edges worn from neglect. Your fingers finally close around a steak knife, the one sharp exception among the rest. Its pointed edge gleams under the dim light, forged for gliding effortlessly through meat of all kinds; a weapon used for dining rather than violence. You grip the handle, feeling its weight, the promise of pain and power thrumming through your fingers.

With the knife in hand, you return to the living room and straddle Strade’s thighs once more. He relaxes slightly, his expression softening with a mixture of curiosity and caution. You can feel his gaze following your every movement as you push your shirt up, exposing your stomach to the cool air.

Slowly, you trace the knife down your abdomen, the sharp edge grazing your skin just enough to draw a thin, blooming line. His eyes darken, his interest piqued despite his earlier defiance.

“You always did like to see me bleed, didn’t you?” you murmur, the knife trailing lower. His eyes remain fixed on the blade, and you can see the flicker of something primal in his gaze. He bites his lip as if trying to stifle a response, but his cock bobs in approval.

You smirk, feeling a sense of satisfaction at his reaction. “Then watch closely,” you whisper, reaching for him with your free hand. You press the knife a bit harder, small droplets of blood forming where the tip bites into your skin. Leaning forward, you glide your torso against him, the fresh wound skimming the length of his shaft and coating it in a cherry-red sheen. You can feel him slowly hardening in your hand, slick with blood and arousal.

"You know, I'd cut my heart out for you if it would make you happy," you huff, a small smile playing on your lips as you lean back on your heels. "But then, how would I get to see your handsome face when I present it to you?"

Strade's brows raise in amusement as you continue to toy with the knife. "You can see my face now, Liebling," he murmurs, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. "So, go on then. Bleed more for me. Go deeper."

Without hesitation, the blade pierces your flesh again, and a small cry escapes your lips. You push the knife deeper into your abdomen, feeling a hot, searing ache radiate through your body. Blood wells up, spilling over your fingers as you pull the knife away and let it clatter to the floor.

With a grimace, you push your own fingers into the gash, feeling the warmth of your essence coat your skin. The pain is blinding, but you don't stop. You want him to see, to understand the lengths you’ll go to for him. Your fingers move inside the wound, exploring the torn flesh, and you gasp again, your breath coming in ragged bursts.

A curious smile tugs at the corners of Strade's mouth, and you can feel his erection twitch in your bloodied hand, responding to the perverse tableau before him.

"D-Do you see?" you gasp, your voice trembling. "I bleed for you."

You then lean forward and guide the head of his cock into the open wound, pressing it against the jagged flesh. Pain and ecstasy blur as you stroke the base, feeling the hot throb of his arousal against your anatomy. His hips jerk forward, pushing deeper into the wound, and you yelp, your head falling forward as your hair cascades over your sweat-slick face.

"Haah.. F-Feel... Feel me..." you stammer, your voice breaking with the intensity of the moment. Your hands move with frantic urgency, stroking his length and smearing your blood over him.

The world narrows to the point of pain where his cock and your wound meet, a singular focus of raw, consuming sensation. Every thrust sends waves of agony through you, yet a familiar pressure builds in your core.

You sob his name, your voice a weak, broken plea. "Strade… I… I love you…"

With one final, savage thrust, he shudders, his climax tearing through him. You feel the hot flood of his cum seeping through your tissues, the sensation overwhelming, yet so rewarding. As the intensity peaks, your vision blurs and your body succumbs. You collapse on top of him, darkness closing in as you bask in the aftermath of your union, skin against skin.

Food for thought

If strade wasn't german he would sound like Jschlatt

You are welcome.

Tchuss

omg i can kinda see that

gale n my durge tav <3 🐶

full nsfw version here

Could you possibly do MC gaining the upper hand over Strade somehow... and then the terrifying consequences of Strade regaining the upper hand?

a/n: sure! hope you enjoy, anon :3

SHOCKER

{ strade x gn! reader }

word count: 908

warnings/tags: graphic violence and gore, stabbing, electric shock, some name-calling, cutting, wound fingering, disembowelment.

It felt different being the one in control, wielding a knife with trembling hands, your heart hammering against your ribcage. Your body bore the signs of your captivity—your torment. Scars both old and fresh marred your skin, and a shackle-like collar weighed heavy around your neck. Over the months, they had transformed you into captive prey, but tonight, the predator was on the opposite side of the blade.

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of uncertainty betraying the facade of confidence he wore like armour. His gaze filled with shock and, perhaps, a hint of fear. Yet, you couldn't afford to dwell on his reaction, not when your own heart threatened to burst from your chest.

Before he could react, before he could utter a word of warning or defiance, you lunged forward, the blade seeking purchase in the flesh of his shoulder with a sickening squelch.

His scream echoed through the basement, a primal sound that sent shivers down your spine. The sight of blood staining his shirt was both horrifying and intoxicating. Its metallic tang filled the air, thick and cloying like the taste of iron on your tongue. Strade's curses pierced the silence, a cacophony of rage and pain that drowned out the pounding of your heartbeat. As you recoiled, the weight of your actions came crashing down upon you like a tidal wave.

His fury was palpable, a storm gathering on the horizon with the blade still embedded in his skin. He shakily reached into his pocket and retrieved a remote control, aiming it toward you—toward the machinery around your neck.

And then came the shock.

It hit you like lightning, searing through your nerves with an intensity that stole your breath away and made your body crumble to the floor. The collar became a conduit for agony, the metal digging into your skin like a thousand needles. Your muscles spasmed uncontrollably, limbs jerking with a violence that felt foreign and surreal.

Numbness spread like wildfire, engulfing your senses in a shroud of icy oblivion. Your vision blurred, the world tilting on its axis as you teetered on the precipice of consciousness. As the shock continued unabated, each agonizing second stretched into eternity. You felt as if your very bones were vibrating, threatening to splinter and fracture beneath the weight of the torment.

Then, mercifully, the shock ceased, leaving behind a searing pain that pulsed in time with your racing heartbeat.

You saw him looming over you through tear-blurred eyes, his features twisted in a crazed, fervent mask of triumph. He snarled as he wrenched the knife from his shoulder, the motion swift and brutal, blood splattering like rain on the concrete before you. The blade gleamed wickedly in the dim light as he turned it over in his hands, its tip now pointed at your trembling form. He descended upon you with a predatory grace, straddling your hips and pinning you to the cold, unforgiving floor.

His weight was oppressive, crushing your hope as easily as your breath. With deliberate cruelty, he lifted your shirt, exposing your scarred flesh to the basement chill. His eyes roamed over your body, a dark hunger lurking in their depths, and he licked his lips as if savouring the fear emanating from you.

"Ah, Mein Liebling, you're too soft," Strade hummed, pressing the blade beneath your sternum. "Couldn't even stab me where it'd hurt."

You attempted an apology but your tongue lay useless in your mouth, your words garbled and senseless. He laughed, leaning in closer, his breath hot against your neck.

"You are weak, pathetic, and so... cute."

You could smell him, a potent musk accompanied by the lingering stench of alcohol that clung to him like a second skin. It was sickening, listening to the words tumble from his lips as his own blood and sweat continued to flow.

"You're soft everywhere," he breathed, plunging the knife deeper and deeper into your flesh until a pool of crimson formed beneath its cutting edge. Strade pulled the blade down to your navel, eliciting a pained groan as you gawked helplessly at your bloodied skin.

He retraced the incision, making a shallow cut through your muscles, and slipping two fingers into the newly-formed hole. He was breathing faster now, working himself into a frenzy as he probed around at your insides.

Strade was knuckle-deep in your abdomen, yet you could hardly feel a thing. All you could register was the wet, almost lewd, squelching of your anatomy as it shifted around, out of place. He shoved his hand deeper, and a foreign, burning sensation built in your gut. Four thick fingers grasped for something, but it slithered from his grasp, slick and elusive like a snake through the grass.

He grabbed again, a fistful this time, and pulled the snake-like thing out of your body. It slunk down your side and met the concrete with a moist thump. Strade grabbed once more, pulling harder.

You felt something unwinding inside.

Inside.

Your insides felt cold and empty, yet your skin was searing hot and painful.

You strained your neck to watch the scene unfold—your own body being turned inside out with each tug, joining a small heap of viscera beside you.

With one final pull, he grinned and held something red and glistening high above his head like a trophy—whatever was left of your intestine, slipping around his grasp, coated in a thick, mucousy sheen.

Strade doodles I really wanted to do because I need his breasts thank you.

You're so handsome when you're silent, Gale. Don't spoil the moment.