Btd Strade - Tumblr Posts
BROOOOOO…🤭
Why are there two of them?… 🥵
2 Strade: @ehfuvohft
Omfg thank you so much!!! 🥴🥴🤯🤯
Pls draw Strade curb stomping the hell out of me and or whoever you want tHanKs
Holy shit, can I say really quick that you're so pretty!!! Like 💖💓💗💞💕💖💓💗💞💖💓!! Hope you like the drawing!! 🌺❤️
Yeah I'm here just to drop one page of Strade sketches
My friend sent me this thing at 2:AM and I am just screaming
I hope he will get normal cover for his damn student ID
Tw : a bit of bad strawberry jam, and Strade
TW: bad strawberry jam, censored who-knows-what, ya know, S t r a d e
I really want to go on a nice picnic but snow outside is just-
please gtfo of btd fandom
why 😔😔😔 okay guys if you see this i dont condone the stuff in the game i mostly like the characters.. by stuff i mean the grape .. cause theyre fictional. fictional murderers exist guys!!! and idc that im a minor like.. its just an interest of mine because i enjoy the gameplay and characters designs... anyway tell that to my friend who obsesses over irl murderers! which is worse? you tell me!!
is it okay if i request Strade x Reader who age regresses headcanons?
{ strade x gn! reader }
warnings/tags: generally SFW, age regression, mentions of psychological and emotional abuse.
he would initially be very observant, noticing the changes in your behaviour and demeanour without fully understanding what's happening.
his curiosity might drive him to closely monitor these regressions, trying to discern triggers that cause these shifts. he'd start to recognize the emerging pattern, the way your eyes glaze slightly and your shoulders hunch as if bracing against an imminent force.
though he doesn't quite understand it, he senses it’s some kind of defence or coping strategy— a psychological retreat from the overwhelming pressures he imposes.
the thought of pushing you to that edge clearly feeds his ego; it swells within him, a prideful bloom, and he finds your heightened vulnerability oddly endearing, almost charming in its rawness.
he might even find a sort of dark entertainment in watching the crescendo of your emotions, the tremble in your voice, and the palpable increase in your fear.
he begins to anticipate these regressions, strategically nudging you over the brink time and again, until you're so battered, so utterly terrified, that you must revert to that pure, innocent state.
he may even begin manipulating the environment to trigger you... this could include altering the level of light, sound, or even the room's temperature, and observing how each change impacts your behaviour.
if he finds your regressed state easier to manage or somehow beneficial, he might subtly soften his approach, adopting a gentler, almost soothing tone and simpler language to maintain your delicate condition as long as possible, as though preserving the fragility of a rare, beautiful but broken artifact.
he'd likely exploit your vulnerability and emotionally manipulate you by creating scenarios that deepen your dependency or fear, thus reinforcing the dynamic in his favour.
if the regression interferes with his other motivations or desires, he may grow impatient or frustrated. this conflict could lead to unpredictable behaviour on his part, oscillating between indulgence and irritation.
yet, he always takes pleasure in unsettling you when you're regressed, watching each nuanced reaction—every flinch, every whimper— and cataloging them with keen interest.
he might use mocking or teasing as a way to assert control or provoke a reaction, especially if he finds your state intriguing or amusing in some way. this could involve using pet names or speaking in a patronizing tone to reinforce the regression.
if you tend to cry or scream when regressed, he’d playfully call you his "kleine heulsuse,", his voice laced with faux sweetness.
he'd also purposefully scare you to make you more reactive, delighting in each sign of your unravelling.
he’d set out each of his tools before you, introducing them as if you were seeing them for the first time (though their purpose was grimly familiar). he revels in explaining his favourites, detailing their uses with morbid enthusiasm and in vivid, graphic detail.
when you come back around, he'd go at you full force, relishing the slow deterioration of your psyche. it's as if your temporary escape into regression only serves to invigorate him.
and because he finds these physiological dynamics so fascinating, your coping mechanism—the desperate clutching at the straws of your old self—may end up buying you a little time.
mechanic! strade loves when naïve and trusting college students wander into his shop, believing him to be a harmless mechanic. he loves ensnaring their attention with charming anecdotes and technical explanations; all while subtly luring them deeper into his workspace. it thrills him to see how easily they trust, leaning closer to hear him over the noise of the garage, his scent of oil, gasoline, and sweat invading their senses. their wide eyes stare up at him as he leads them around, pointing out various tools and car parts with a seemingly benign smile. he'd observe which tools catch their eyes and ask "ever seen one of these in action?" before guiding their delicate hands to hold the cold metal, his presence enveloping. it builds anticipation for when he can finally show them just how dangerous a mechanic’s tools can become.
he wears a white tank top stained with grease, oil, and faded rust-coloured marks set deeply into the fabric. it stretches tightly across his broad, hairy chest and clings to the contours of his body. the fabric dips into the crevices of his soft stomach, which bulges slightly over his belt line. his tattooed arms are strong and capable, dusted with coarse hair that catches the flecks of metal and dirt as he works...
umm strade size kink drabble / hcs pretty please :3c
{ strade x gn! reader }
warnings/tags: NSFW, size difference, physical dominance, body pinning and smothering, belly bulging.
strade enjoys using his height and bulk to maneuver you with minimal effort.
he'd slam your pliable body onto and against any surface he pleases, keeping you pinned with the soft expanse of his stomach. his extra weight makes your struggle feel inconsequential and his thick arms imprison you against him.
he may hold you up with one arm, your legs dangling helplessly, or keep you under his shadow by pressing you firmly to the ground with his heavy boot.
his large, strong hands are perfect for asserting dominance, encircling your wrists, waist, or neck with ease.
he derives a certain pleasure in watching your combined reflections in mirrors. the visual of his large, imposing figure coupled with your smaller stature excites him. he'd call you his "kleine Puppe", his little doll, as he smothers you with his bulk.
as you're pinned beneath him, the heat and scent of his body are inescapable, and his broad chest against yours makes it hard to breathe without his permission.
he often stands just a bit too close, towering over you with a sadistic grin.
to intimidate, he may occasionally demonstrate his raw strength. whether he's twisting your arm behind your back or crushing hard objects in his palm, he enjoys watching your eyes widen in fear as you are reminded of his power.
when he fucks you, your tummy bulges from the girth and weight of his erection. he often rests his hands over your stomach, feeling the muscles tighten as he thrusts into you harder, faster.
with your hands bound behind you, he'd force you into a prone bone position, his stomach heavy against your lower back and his robust forearms on either side of your head.
Can I request some Strade x fem!reader with A LOT of self harm scars?
Totally understand if ur uncomfortable with the topic or just don’t wanna do it, and thank you in advance🫶🫶
a/n: i hope this is okay! thank you for the request noa :3
TRACING SCARS
{ strade x f! reader }
word count: 820
warnings/tags: self-harm, kidnapping, emotional/psychological abuse themes, light knife play.
The evening began innocuously enough; your chance encounter at a lonely pub seemed like nothing more than a curious twist of fate. Strade's charm was rustic and disarmingly inviting, drawing you in despite your better judgment. When he invited you back to his place under the guise of a few more drinks and good company, excitement chased away your usual caution.
It wasn't until you got into his car that you realized his allure was as dangerous as it was intriguing.
Now, as you lay groggily on his basement floor, the familiar scent of blood flooded your senses. He loomed over you, his silhouette outlined by the dim glow of the single overhead bulb. The air was heavy with the weight of impending dread, and the cold concrete beneath you offered little comfort.
As your consciousness began to trickle back, you became acutely aware of the ache in your limbs, the throbbing pain in your head, and the sharp tang of fear that lingered on your tongue. You tried to move, but found yourself restrained, your wrists bound behind you with rope. A chilling breeze against your skin made you suddenly realize with a jolt of horror: you were naked, every scar laid bare under his scrutinizing gaze.
"Look who's finally awake." He purred, a twisted smile dancing across his lips. You struggled against your restraints, panic bubbling up like bile in your throat.
"What do you want?" you managed to choke out, your voice raw and trembling.
"Why hide these?" Strade's voice was low and curious as he crouched beside you, his eyes tracing the myriad of scars across your skin. His hand was gentle, almost reverent, as he reached out with the tip of his knife, lightly tracing a particularly long, jagged scar that snaked its way down your thigh. The cold metal sent shivers through your body, not from pain but from the eerie intimacy of the act.
"You want to be seen, don't you? But you keep them covered like dirty little secrets." His words were tinged with a mix of fascination and mockery. You remained silent, your breath catching in your throat as the knife's point danced dangerously close to your skin.
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your chilled skin. "I see you, liebling," he continued, his voice a mere whisper. "Now there is no more hiding, no more shame."
Strade's face loomed over yours, the shadows from the overhead bulb casting dark, elongated streaks across his features. "Most people, they scream and cry, beg me to let them go," he mused, tilting his head in contemplation. "But you? You've been enduring pain long before tonight," The knife paused on your skin, emphasizing his point without breaking the surface.
His knife skated across the edges of another scar, this time across your hip. "I wonder... Do they make you feel alive? Or are they attempts to feel nothing at all?"
You swallowed hard, the cold, damp air filling your lungs as you tried to steady your racing heart.
"I want to see how much more you can take when it's not by your own hand." Strade declared as he pulled back slightly, the knife still in hand. The shift in his demeanour was abrupt, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
Fear surged through you, a stark, visceral terror that you hadn’t felt even at your lowest. As he stepped back to admire the fear in your eyes, it was clear that he was revelling in this new game.
He circled around you slowly, the knife still tracing air near your exposed skin, as if drawing invisible lines connecting the dots of your scars. "Let's find out if the pain you've given yourself compares to the pain I can give you," he whispered, as if proposing a challenge.
A smirk spread across his face as he stood, tucking the knife into his belt. "Stay put, sweetheart," he teased. He turned and strode toward a cluttered workbench obscured in the shadows of the room. The sound of drawers opening and tools clinking filled the air, each noise sharpening the sense of dread pooling in your stomach.
You craned your neck, watching his back as he rifled through his collection. With your heartbeat loud in your ears, the reality of your situation sank in deeper with every passing second, each thud a loud echo in the chilling silence that followed his movements.
Finally, he found what he was looking for, turning to face you with a heavy-duty drill in one hand, its bit sharp and gleaming under the light. The casual way he handled the drill, with his finger already on the trigger, and the confident thud of his boots on the floor as he walked back toward you, filled you with terror.
"Ready for some real fun?" he asked, his voice low and menacing as the drill started to whir softly in his grasp.
if reqs are open, what would happen if the reader managed to escape strade? i can imagine she did her best to act as if she loved him (like if she developed stockholm syndrome) but when least expected, strade finds out she’s gone??
LOL i love drama like that & i just gotta know how he would react!!
i luv your acc ☆〜（ゝ。∂）!!
a/n: thank you for your kind words! i absolutely adore drama too lmao, so i had fun with this. hope you enjoy :3c
{ strade x f! reader }
warnings/tags: generally SFW, stockholm syndrome, psychological and emotional abuse themes, flashbacks, dependency, reader was held captive before ren (to justify why he isn't in this LOL).
After months of careful deception, you learn to mimic signs of affection and dependency, crafting a façade of compliance. Gradually, you familiarize yourself with Strade’s routine, seizing on his rare moments of carelessness. This observation reveals where he hides his keys and the device needed to disarm the shock collar around your neck.
The day finally comes when he leaves you home alone, overly confident in your supposed submission. As his car vanishes down the driveway, a surge of fear and exhilaration grips you. You quickly disarm the shock collar and slip out barefoot, dressed only in the thin tanktop and shorts he provided.
Once outside, the stark reality sets in. Without belongings, money, or means to communicate, you find yourself overwhelmed by uncertainty. The unfamiliar streets and neighbourhood only heighten your sense of vulnerability.
Your deep-seated fear of what Strade might do to anyone who assists you, prevents you from seeking help. Remembering his threats and knowing his capability for cruelty, you avoid involving others as much as possible, fearing that any attempt they make to help could lead them into grave danger.
Upon discovering your absence, Strade's initial disbelief rapidly spirals into rage and paranoia. Anticipating that you might seek police help, he destroys any evidence of your captivity before starting his search.
Despite his rage and sense of betrayal, he is calculated in his approach, reviewing footage from hidden cameras he installed around the house to trace your last known direction. He predicts your likely paths and potential havens, using his intimate knowledge of your behaviours and fears to narrow down his search.
Meanwhile, he may begin to leave cryptic messages in places he suspects you might visit; each laden with intimate references designed to manipulate and unnerve you.
The longer you're free, the more you recognize how deeply your dependence on Strade has become. Every shadow and unfamiliar face triggers a panic that he might be lurking nearby. Despite your desperation for freedom, there's a twisted comfort in the life you left behind.
You find yourself grappling with survival on the outside—seeking food, shelter, and a semblance of normalcy. The harsh practicalities of life make you question whether you can truly exist without the perverse care Strade provided. Amid these struggles, you feel an overwhelming sense of isolation and disorientation.
After wandering the streets aimlessly, you eventually stumble upon a small, rundown shelter for the homeless; where the dim lights and hushed whispers contrast the nighttime silence you've grown accustomed to in his home. Lying on a worn cot, a memory of sleeping in Strade's bed unexpectedly floods your mind.
It was the first night he invited you upstairs, a night that marked a disturbing progression in your captivity—a sign that you had somehow earned his trust or, perhaps more accurately, successfully played into his delusions. This memory was far removed from the stark and unforgiving confines of the basement where you initially spent your days.
It feels surreal now, as distant and detached as a scene from another person's life. The warmth of his bed and the false sense of security he provided starkly contrast with the thin, scratchy blanket provided by the shelter. You remember how he held you close, his breath steady in the quiet room, making you feel, for just a moment, that you were something more than a captive. It was a night when the boundaries of your grim reality seemed blurred, and you almost allowed yourself to forget the bars of your gilded cage.
Now, lying amid the restless stirrings of others seeking shelter, you feel a stark loneliness. Here, there are no arms to hold you, no illusion of safety. You pull the thin blanket tighter around yourself, trying to stifle the shiver that runs through you, not just from the cold, but from the haunting clarity that here, in this place of refuge, you are utterly alone.
The following morning, as the grey light of dawn filters through the shelter's windows, you gather your sparse courage to face another day. Stepping outside, you draw a deep breath, bracing against the cold. Your breath catches in your throat when your eyes land on Strade's truck ominously idling at the curb. He's leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. He startles you—not just by being there, but by his calmness, as if this morning is merely another routine pickup, not the recapture of an escapee. "Good morning," he says, his voice disturbingly casual, as though the recent events were just a minor disruption. The street is mostly deserted; the few early risers are too wrapped up in their morning routines to notice your tense reunion. He pushes off from the truck and steps towards you, his movements controlled, almost gentle. "Let's go home," he says, his words sounding more like an invitation than a command.
As you climb into the truck, the familiar interior greets you—a stark reminder of your first time in this seat, marked by its distinctive coppery smell and the notable absence of a passenger-side handle. When the shelter recedes into the background, a wave of finality washes over you, and tears begin to stream down your face.
Upon reaching his house, Strade quietly guides you inside. As the door locks behind you, it becomes certain that you will never step foot outside again.
can i rq strade scent / sweat kink hcs ? ( if ur comfortable with it ofc ^-^ )
a/n: omg pls anon, sweaty smelly hairy men are my weakness :''3 thank you for the request!!
{ strade x gn! reader}
warnings/tags: NSFW, sweat and blood licking, armpit sniffing and licking, body pinning and smothering, body worship, biting.
Strade's natural scent is a complex blend of sweat, leather, and motor oil, carried by an underlying note of earthiness akin to freshly turned soil. A hint of copper lingers too, intensifying whenever fresh blood stains his skin. His aroma grows more pungent after long hours in the shop or when he skips showers, each element combining to create a distinctly raw and potent musk.
His sweat has a tangy and salty quality that clings to the skin, underpinned by a distinct metallic sharpness. When on your tongue, this pungent mix becomes almost overwhelming, each flavour distinct and bold.
Strade might find you even more endearing if he discovers that you're aroused or affected by his natural odours. He'd tease you for being a 'little weirdo,' as he smothers you with his warm, sweaty body.
He'd pull your face into his armpit, allowing you to indulge in his distinct scent: strong, musky, and intoxicatingly male. As you shudder with delight, he'd watch your reactions closely, a smirk playing on his lips. "Like what you smell?" he'd taunt, before tightening his grip around your head just enough to restrict your breathing. Then, he'd encourage you further, "Go on, taste it," as you hesitantly extend your tongue to the damp skin, the salty tang of his sweat mixing with the unique musk of his body.
When he pins you down, his weight presses evenly against you so you can feel every contour and line of his muscular frame. The heat from his body coupled with the texture of his sweat-dampened skin are intoxicating. As you trace your hands and lips across the broad expanse of his chest and abdomen, you feel the subtle stickiness of his sweat against your bare skin. His scent—a heady mix of musk— envelops you completely, leaving you immersed in his essence.
After your blood is on him and he's warm, sweating from exertion, Strade would position himself to give you ample opportunity to worship his body. Starting from his feet and moving upwards, he'd instruct you meticulously: "Don't miss a spot." He'd revel in the sensation of your nose and lips on his heated skin. With every kiss and inhale you'd savour his scent, devotedly lapping up your own blood as it trickles down his hairy, sweat-slicked body.
Strade may even turn the tables on you, indulging in his own perverse curiosities. He'd pull you close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers a taunting challenge. "Let's see how you taste," he'd murmur, before taking long, deliberate inhales of your scent, his nose brushing along the curve of your jaw. Then, with a wicked grin, he would extend his tongue, tracing a slow, tantalizing path down your neck and along your shoulder, savouring the briny taste of your sweat as if it were a delicacy. He'd then bite hard enough to draw blood, swirling his tongue along your skin to make a mess of the wound and mix the flavours of iron-rich blood with salty sweat.
Three words here me out:
Strade
Wedding
Angst
a/n: i'm listening, anon !! 👂 👂 👂 ren is here too becoz why not
JUST THE THREE OF US
{ strade x ren hana x f! reader }
word count: 1.4k
warnings/tags: angst, forced "marriage", physical and psychological abuse, tongue mutilation, blood, forced intimacy (kissing), may be kinda ooc for strade?
As the morning dawned, a single ray of light sneaked through the boarded-up window, casting a thin strip of illumination across the dusty floor. It travelled slowly, like a silent, ethereal intruder in the otherwise shadowed space. You watched it crawl up to your legs, highlighting the bruises and scars marking your skin, as well as the bandages wrapped around your foot— a mocking beacon of faint hope in the dim room.
Beside you, Ren sat stiffly. His usual poise was marred by anxiety, evident by the way his ears flattened against his head each time his gaze darted to the heavy door.
Soon, the sound of footsteps approached and the door creaked open. Strade entered with a twisted smile, holding two garments. For you, a faded white dress— obviously a thrift store find— yet it held a semblance of what could have been a bride’s traditional attire. For Ren, one of Strade's old suits, dusty and unworn.
"Time to get ready," he announced, his voice echoing slightly in the cramped space. "Don’t take too long. We wouldn’t want to keep the big day waiting." His smile widened as he tossed the garments onto the bed, pausing briefly at the doorway to give one last look before turning to leave.
As the door clicked shut behind him, you exchanged a brief, fraught glance with Ren, his eyes mirroring your turmoil. The preparations were mechanical; the simple acts of bathing and dressing became an attempt to maintain a shred of normalcy.
In the small bathroom, you sat in the tub and cleaned yourself carefully below the neck. Each stroke on your skin felt like an attempt to erase the gruelling memories of the past days. The water ran pink, mingling dust and sweat with blood— a stark reminder of the reality you couldn't completely wash away.
The ordeal felt more surreal as you dried yourself and slipped the dress over your head. It hung loose on your frame, the soft material grazing your skin in unfamiliar, almost comforting touches. You looked into the fogged mirror, wiping away the condensation to see yourself. Your reflection was simple yet transformative, and for a fleeting moment, you recognized a shadow of the person you once were.
Stepping back into the room, you noticed Ren standing before a full-length mirror, smoothing his hair. He turned his head slightly as you approached, his suit hanging loosely on his frame. The mismatched fit would have been almost comical if not for the gravity of the situation. You caught his eye through the mirror and his ears perked up slightly.
His gaze lingered before he forced a smile and turned to adjust the collar of his ill-fitting suit. "It doesn't quite feel like a celebration, does it?"
You approached him slowly, the fabric of the white dress whispering against the floor. "No, but we'll get through this. Just like we've gotten through everything else." You replied, your voice steadier than you felt.
"I know we will. It's just..." His voice trailed off as he met your eyes in the mirror again, searching for an assurance neither of you could truly provide.
You reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling the coarse fabric under your fingertips. "We'll find a way out. Together." It was a promise, a thin thread of hope you both clung to, even as doubt whispered in the back of your minds.
The ceremony that awaited you was nothing short of a macabre performance, orchestrated by Strade for his twisted enjoyment. As you descended the stairs, the ceremonial charade Strade had set up in the living room revealed itself. A crude altar stood at the end, draped in an old tablecloth and surrounded by a few flickering candles.
Strade's presence, polished yet sinister in a crisp, red suit, only heightened the surrealism of the moment. His hair was neatly styled, transforming him into a figure vastly different from the one you knew. Yet, as the candlelight danced across his face, it illuminated his familiar smile while he puffed on a cigar; the smoke curling around him like a visible sneer.
"You two clean up nice," he mused, a sinister melody in his voice. "My beautiful bride and my handsome groom, all dolled up for our big day." His smirk widened as he exhaled, the cigar's scent mingling with the stale air.
Then, Strade stepped forward, positioning himself by the makeshift altar. "Let’s begin, shall we?" He said, taking the cigar between his fingers and clearing his throat.
“Während manche sagen, dass es zwei braucht, um eine Ehe zu schließen, / While some say it takes two to make a marriage,” he began, "Wir drei sind ein Leben lang verbunden. / The three of us are bound together for a lifetime."
His smile twisted further as he concluded in a chilling tone, "In life and death, our fates are forever intertwined."
As you stood there, facing Strade in his unnervingly handsome guise, a mixture of dread and despair settled heavily in your stomach. His eyes, sharp and calculating, skimmed over you and Ren, taking in every detail of your forced readiness.
“Now let's get to the good part, huh?” his voice dropped to a husky whisper as he closed the distance between you; his movements poised yet predatory. He reached out suddenly, gripping your chin with a firmness that made your heart skip.
“A little token to commemorate our day,” he murmured before his lips pressed briefly against yours. His touch was cold, his fingers clamping your jaw as he pulled away.
Before you could react, Strade's hand moved to your mouth, prying it open, his fingers pressing against your lips. Dread washed over you as he withdrew a small knife from his suit pocket. The sheen of the blade caught the flickering candlelight as he unsheathed it, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel Ren's gaze burning into you, a silent plea for mercy mirrored in his expression.
Strade's grip on your chin tightened as he brought the blade closer to your trembling lips, positioning it at the center of your tongue. Without hesitation, he made a long, deliberate cut down the median sulcus, the cold steel slicing through the soft flesh. Pain seared through you as blood began to pool in your mouth, spilling down your chin in thick rivulets, and staining the white of your dress.
You could hear Ren's sharp intake of breath, his own fate mirrored in the cruel twist of Strade's lips. The room seemed to spin, the weight of your shared agony pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket.
Strade then turned to Ren, who had watched the ordeal with horror etched deeply into his features. Ren’s attempts to protest were muffled by Strade’s swift and brutal actions, repeating the gruesome act. The immediate flow of blood now tied your pains together in the most visceral way possible.
With a monstrous grin, he forced you and Ren to face each other, pushing you two into a proximity that felt both intrusive and intimate. "Now, kiss," he commanded, his voice low.
You reached up, your hands trembling as they framed Ren's face, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks. You could feel his muscles tense under your touch.
Reluctantly, painfully, you leaned towards him, the coppery taste of blood mingling as your lips met. The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but you pressed closer and your wounded tongues touched. The pain sparked again, more intensely, as you both stifled a groan. Blood mixed with saliva, creating a bond that was as real as it was enforced, painting your lips and trickling down in a slow, warm drip that met the front of your dress.
You could feel Ren's breath hitch, his hands coming up to rest hesitantly on your hips, his touch light, as if afraid to cause more pain— or perhaps more connection. The kiss deepened slightly, not out of desire but out of a desperate need to find solace in your shared suffering.
“This is what binds us together,” Strade remarked, “Not just some vows or rings, but blood, pain, and fear. You two are mine, in every way that counts.”
Finally, you pulled away, and the string of blood that had connected you broke, leaving only a sticky residue on your lips.
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.
VOULD I ASK ABOUT A COP READER AND STRADE???
Like the readers older sibling was missing and they were looking for them, who also got kidnapped (and possibly killed by strade) he meets them at the bar, reader is like REALLYY drunk, she whines about not being able to find their older sibling, and Strade knows. He knows what he did.
a/n: what a fun idea!! strade would definitely be extra horrible if he knew his victim was a cop. hope you enjoy, anon!
PIGGY
{ strade x gn! reader }
word count: 1.3k
warnings/tags: alcohol use, violence, kidnapping, psychological torture, forced voyeurism, implied sibling death.
The room spins and the edges of the world soften as you gulp down another shot, the sting of alcohol burning a path down your throat. The dim lights of the bar flicker, casting elongated shadows that dance mockingly around you. This place is a sanctuary of sorts— a shabby dive where lost souls come to drown memories and silence their demons with liquid oblivion.
Strade finds you there, at the edge of dissolution. His entrance is unremarkable, yet somehow you feel the atmosphere shift, a predatory chill seeping through the smoky haze.
His eyes catch yours across the crowded room, glinting with a dark curiosity as he takes the stool beside you. "Rough night, buddy?" he asks, his voice smooth, dangerously inviting.
You nod, swirling the ice in your nearly empty glass. "You could say that." The words spill out of you, heavy with bitterness.
His smile holds a semblance of warmth, perhaps a touch too studied, but under the weight of your despair, you don't notice. He leans in, the movement calculated, as if setting the stage for a confession. "Wanna talk about it? Sometimes airing it out is the only way to breathe again," he suggests, his voice a careful blend of intrigue and concern.
You hesitate, the words hanging precariously on the tip of your tongue. The presence of a stranger, oddly enough, feels like an opportunity to unload, to confide. "It's my older brother," you finally say, the words escaping in a rush. "He's missing, and I feel like I'm chasing shadows. It's like he just vanished into thin air."
Strade’s interest sharpens, his gaze locking onto yours, unblinking. "Disappeared? That’s heavy. How long has he been gone?"
"Three weeks," you reply, the number feeling more substantial with each passing day. "Three weeks of not knowing. It’s eating me up inside."
"And the police?" Strade probes, his voice a soft nudge pushing you deeper into your own turmoil.
"They're doing what they can, I guess. But I'm a cop too, and it feels like I should be able to do more. It's different when it's personal, you know?" You take another sip, the alcohol a poor salve for the ache of helplessness.
Strade nods, feigning empathy. "I can only imagine. Being so close to it, being expected to just wait and see. Must be tearing you apart."
"It is," you admit, your guard crumbling under the weight of your grief and the false security of his attentive gaze. "I keep thinking I'll miss something, or that I’ll get a call saying they've found him, but not... not in the way I hope."
He leans back slightly, giving you space to breathe, yet his presence envelops you, thick as the smoke in the bar. "Sounds like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders. Someone like you shouldn’t be alone with this."
You laugh, a hollow sound. "Feels like I don’t have much choice in the matter. Everyone else is just... moving on."
"But you can't," Strade concludes, his voice soft. "Not until you know."
"Yeah," you whisper, feeling the truth of his words like a punch to the gut. "Not until I know."
He watches you for a moment, a predator disguised as a confidante. "Let me do something for you tonight. Let's make sure you get home safe. It’s the least I can do."
Gratitude, misguided and dangerous, washes over you. "Thanks, I... I appreciate that, really."
"Don’t mention it," he replies, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he signals the bartender to settle your tab.
You lean heavily on him as he guides you outside, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the stuffy atmosphere of the bar. The alley beside the establishment is dimly lit, deserted, and as you stagger against the cold brick for support, Strade’s demeanour shifts imperceptibly.
"You really think I'd help a cop?" His voice is suddenly sharp, a serrated edge that cuts through your alcohol-fueled haze.
"What?" Confusion clouds your mind, struggling to keep up with the sudden change.
"I’m not calling you a cab," he sneers, his face inches from yours and his grip tightening painfully on your arm.
Before you can react, your head slams against the wall, a burst of pain radiating through your skull as stars explode in your vision. Strade’s mocking laugh is the last thing you hear before darkness claims you.
When your consciousness creeps back, it’s a cruel awakening. Your body aches, bound tightly to a cold, metal pole in a room that reeks of blood and decay. Panic claws at your chest as your eyes adjust to the dimness, the figure of Strade emerging from the shadows.
He's watching you intently, holding an expensive-looking laptop under his arm. "Awake already?" He asks, his voice mockingly gentle.
"Where the fuck am I?" Your voice is raw, fear sharpening each word.
"My little workshop," he replies nonchalantly, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. "You want to see your brother, don't you?" Strade smiles, sensing your fear. You quickly nod, hope and desperation surging through you.
"Then relax. You won't want to miss this."
He casually opens the laptop, types something on the keyboard, and turns it towards you. The flicker of the screen casts eerie shadows across his face as the video begins to play.
You squint, trying to make sense of the images flickering across the laptop as he holds it just out of reach. Your heart sinks as you recognize the figure in the video— it's your brother, bound and terrified. A cold dread washes over you as Strade walks into frame, your mouth dry, words failing.
"What is this you sick fuck?!" You manage to spit out, your voice laced with horror and revulsion.
The screen flashes with horrific scenes, your brother's pleas echoing in the cramped, dark space as Strade approaches with a knife.
He watches you, a perverse glee lighting up his eyes. "See, your brother... he's become quite the celebrity."
Despite the overwhelming urge to look away, to shut out this nightmarish reality, you can't. Your eyes remain glued to the screen, each image searing itself into your memory— your brother's fear, his pain, his futile attempts to plead for a life already doomed as Strade's knife slices through his skin.
Guilt surges through you—irrational and overwhelming—guilt for not being able to stop this, for not finding him sooner, for every moment you spent doubting the worst had happened.
Strade's face twists into a smirk as the video unfolds before you. "Touching, isn’t it? The bond between siblings..." His words hang in the air, a new kind of torment. "Y'know, he talked about you, even towards the end. Kept saying, 'My sister is a cop. She’ll find you. She'll stop you.'" He laughs, mocking your brother's voice with an exaggerated shrill.
Your response is visceral. A scream rips from your throat, raw and hoarse, as the full weight of the horror crashes down upon you. Hot tears stream down your face, mingling with the bile on your tongue. The bonds around your wrists chafe painfully as you struggle against them, the metal pole unforgiving and cold.
He stands over you, a dark silhouette against the dim light, watching your every reaction with an analyst's eye. As the final scenes play out, your brother's wet, gurgling screams fade into a haze of pain and terror. Strade closes the laptop with a slow, deliberate motion and leans in close, his breath foul against your ear. His voice, a venomous whisper, sends shivers down your spine. "Your cop friends are probably wondering how torn up you are about your brother... It wouldn't be too surprising if you just... disappeared too."
"Now, why don't we film a sequel, little piggy?" His words slither around you, tightening like a noose. "And find out if you squeal just like your brother."
Pleaseeee moreee dad strade last one was too good! love your acc! ✨
a/n: thank you! i'm so happy you liked the last one cuz i've been thinking about papa strade a lot since then :3c i hope you like it! see the end for translations of the german phrases/words!
VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER
{ dad! strade x daughter! reader }
word count: 1.4k
warnings/tags: INCEST, sexual assault (non-con kissing, grinding), heavy drinking/alcoholism, forced/encouraged drinking, descriptions of fighting and violence (boxing), 'princess' pet name, strade speaking in german, choking, reader is 18+, totally wholesome father-daughter bonding.
The evening unfurls through the open window, mingling the scents of rain and asphalt with the stale air of your home. Inside, the television casts shadows against the walls, painting the walls in oscillating shades of blue and grey. You sit beside your father on the couch that reeks of spilled beer and cigarettes; the leather sticking to your skin every time you shift.
He clutches a bottle of liquor, swigging from it with eager, sloppy gulps. His eyes glint with a dark thrill as he watches the boxers on the screen, circling each other like wolves, muscles tense and eyes locked.
Strade leans forward, the bottle momentarily forgotten as his eyes fixate on the fight unfolding before him. “Sieh dir das an, princess,” he slurs, nodding toward the television as one fighter lands a vicious uppercut. A sickening thud resonates through the speaker as the opponent stumbles. The crowd roars, a sound like thunder, while the man regains his footing and strikes back, a spray of blood arching beautifully in the harsh light.
“Da! Did you see that hit?!” Your father chuckles, his voice electric with excitement.
The fight escalates and the men are reduced to beasts in a pit, their bodies and wills colliding in raw, brutal displays. The violence on screen seems to feed something in your father, a nasty delight that oozes out of him like sweat.
As one boxer lands a particularly savage punch, Strade lets out a howl of approval, slamming his fist into the couch in rhythm with the impact. His breath comes faster now, his eyes glazed over with a mix of lust and aggression.
“Beautiful isn't it?” he muses as he eagerly reaches for a fresh bottle. He pops it open and shoves it toward you. “Come on, drink up. It's better when you feel it all the way down.”
Reluctantly, you accept the bottle and clink it against his, the hollow sound mingling with the roar of the crowd from the television.
As you continue to drink, a fleet of empty bottles accumulates on the floor beside the sofa. With each new bottle, the world around you begins to sway slightly as if carried by an unseen current. Your father, ever the pillar in this tempest, seems unfazed, his laughter more boisterous, his comments sharper as the alcohol flows freely.
“Papa... I don't feel so good,” you manage, the words thick and clumsy on your tongue.
Your father turns to you, his gaze narrowing. “Just the booze hitting, princess. You're fine.”
But there’s something sinister in how he watches you— like a predator observing its prey as it stumbles and falters. The numbness starts creeping through your limbs, a leaden weight that pulls at the edges of your consciousness. The sounds around you— the harsh thuds of the fighters, the distant cheers of the crowd— begin to blur into a chaotic symphony, one that spins around you as if you're caught in a whirlpool. The room tilts a bit, and your head lolls to the side, heavy like it's filled with wet sand.
"I'm dizzy... Feels like spinning," You mumble, your voice is weak, slurred, and desperate.
Strade glances at you, his expression softening for a moment. "Oh, princess," he drawls, his voice dripping with a twisted admiration. "So süß, wenn du völlig beschissen bist." Setting his bottle down, he shifts closer, his arm circling your shoulders in a tight embrace.
"You're such a delicate thing, aren't you? Can hardly handle your poison." He coos as he gently strokes your hair, his fingers raking through the familiar locks.
As your head continues to spin, his hand shifts slowly from your hair to your shoulder, then down to your chest, pushing gently yet firmly. The motion nudges you back until you are laid out against the couch, your body aligning with its contours. The room tilts further, each sensation magnified by your blurred state.
"Wh- What're you doing—" you murmur, your voice weak, tinged with confusion and fear.
Feeling your resistance wane, Strade's presence looms larger. He maneuvers himself over you, his figure casting a daunting shadow. He pins you down with his weight; an oppressive force that feels both suffocating and grounding in the dizzying whirl of your surroundings.
His face inches closer, narrowing the space between you. His breath, tainted with liquor and tobacco, envelops you as his lips find yours, pushing roughly past your numb resistance. He bites down on your bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, and you taste the metallic tang on your tongue as he continues, his tongue forcefully intertwining with yours.
The leather of the couch groans under you both, each movement exaggerated in the dense, sluggish air. You try to shift, to push him away, but your movements are lethargic as if through molasses. Panic begins to claw at the edges of your clouded mind, each heartbeat pounding loudly in your ears.
You wrestle with your sluggish body, trying in vain to fend him off as the kiss deepens into something more savage. He shifts his assault downwards, his teeth finding the tender flesh of your neck. Each bite is deliberate, sharper than the last, leaving a trail of painful, throbbing marks. As the bites intensify, his touch transforms; the hands that once clung to your shoulders now travel upwards, their presence chilling as they snake their way to your neck.
His fingers encircle your throat, pressing in slowly but inexorably. The pressure is subtle at first, then grows insistently as your airway begins to constrict under his firm grip. Panic ignites within you as you thrash beneath him, your heart hammering wildly against your chest.
"Can't take the heat, princess?" Strade's voice slurs slightly, thick with mockery and the haze of alcohol. "It's just getting good."
Your vision blurs further, eyes watering not just from the alcohol but from sheer terror. You gaze up at him, your hands weakly reaching up to claw at his wrists, feebly attempting to pry his grip loose.
He watches, his face alarmingly close to yours, his eyes gleaming with delight. There's a dark thrill in his gaze, some kind of perverse satisfaction as he observes the fear and desperation playing out over your features. He grounds his hips against yours and you feel his erection pressing hard against your stomach. The sensation is alarming, terrifying, as you struggle to breathe under the weight of his body.
As the edges of your vision start to darken, your world narrowing into a closing tunnel of dimming lights, he observes your struggle with an unnerving detachment. Just when your lungs burn with the need for air, when spots of light burst across your closing field of view, he releases you abruptly. Air rushes back into your lungs in harsh, ragged gasps, each breath a painful struggle against the lingering tightness of your throat.
The room spins wildly now, no longer just from the alcohol but also from the shock and the sudden influx of oxygen. You roll soppily off the couch and grip your chest, tears blurring your vision. You're left coughing, gasping for air, the fear and relief mingling in a bitter cocktail that leaves you shuddering under his looming presence.
He leans back slightly, his expression unreadable in the dim, flickering light from the television. "Es ist besser, wenn du es fühlst," he mutters darkly, a twisted smirk forming on his lips as he observes the effect of his actions, the control he wields as effortlessly as breathing.
You lie there, struggling to stabilize your breathing, to push back the curtain of fear and disorientation. The television's glow casts ghostly shadows across his face, making him seem even more like a figure from a nightmare. As the final moments of the match unfold, the climax of violence reaches its peak: one fighter, fueled by desperation and sheer force of will, lands a series of rapid, precise blows. His opponent, overwhelmed and battered, staggers back—one last punch, devastatingly accurate, sends him crashing to the mat.
The victor stands over his fallen adversary, chest heaving, then suddenly roars in triumph, pounding his chest with clenched fists as the arena erupts around him. The sound of the crowd is a tidal wave of noise, a cacophony that fills the room and mingles with the ringing in your ears.
This, you realize, is what captivates your father— this unadulterated display of power and pain. This ability to dominate, to control, to decisively end the dance of violence with a single, defining act.
German Translations (in order of appearance)
“Sieh dir das an, princess,” = “Look at that, princess,”
“Da! (…)” = "There!"
"So süß, wenn du völlig beschissen bist." = "So cute when you're all fucked up."
"Es ist besser, wenn du es fühlst," = "It's better if you feel it,"