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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.

uhh dad strade x fem reader drabble or short fic? make it as gross as you want. hope you’re having a good day :)

PAPA

{ dad! strade x adult daughter! reader }

word count: 880

warnings/tags: INCEST, age gap (18+ reader), molestation, alcohol use, descriptions of blood, violence, oral mutilation, and decapitation, poorly translated german lol

You live blissfully unaware of the horrors lurking just beneath the surface of your father's life, drawn instead to his charm and rough affection. Even as an adult, you seek comfort in his embrace, climbing onto his lap where you feel the familiar outline of his knife sheath against your back. The weight of his large, calloused hand rests reassuringly on your hip, and in these moments, you feel only safety and love. Unbeknownst to you, the same hand that holds you close could, with chilling ease, end your life.

Consumed with lustful thoughts, your father gazes down at your body, imagining all the ways he could destroy it. His rough fingertips reach to trace the curve of your stomach through your shirt, his breath hot against your neck. He imagines pulling out every one of your teeth, tasting your blood as it drips down your chin, and licking away your salty tears as you cry out in agony. He wants to hear you scream and feel you struggle as he stifles your sounds with his cock, shoving it deep into your gummy, bloody mouth.

But above all else, he wants to take your head. He helped bring you into this world, after all, and he insisted on being the architect of your departure. In his darkest fantasies, he envisions the satisfying thud of your head as it strikes the basement floor, followed by the crimson tide of your blood, warmly spilling, seeping into the rough, porous concrete beneath.

Fuelled by alcohol, his hand squeezes your flesh roughly, causing you to wince as sharp waves of pain ripple through you.

"You are so beautiful, Mein Schatz," he murmurs, "Just like your mother…" His fingers press roughly into your flesh, causing you to wince as sharp waves of pain ripple through you. You try to wriggle away but his grip tightens, anchoring you in place.

"Oh, don't be like that," he breathes, his voice a soft, velvet purr that belied the sharpness in his eyes. "Don't you want to feel how much your old man loves you?". He asks, his hand sliding down between your legs. You try to protest, but your words are smothered by his free hand tightening over your mouth. He paws at your thinly-dressed crotch, seemingly deaf to your whines and enraptured by the warm sensation of your skin.

His fingers tremble slightly, the alcohol undermining the steadiness of his grip on your face. In his clouded mind, he thinks of a myriad of ways to end your life—each more lingering and excruciating than the last. Yet impatience whispers to him, suggesting he could end it all now, right here on this couch. The thought curls his lips into a sinister smile as he imagines the swift draw of his blade across your tender throat, releasing sanguineous rivulets that pour down your front and stain the fabric beneath.

He withdraws his hand, the touch lingering like a shadow as it slides from between your legs and back to your torso. "You know, I always thought about what it'd be like to have a daughter," he murmurs, his voice low and thick with a twisted mirth. "And I got one, didn't I?" His fingers crawl higher, skittering across your ribs before they hook around the edge of your bra. "You were such a pretty thing, so quiet and sweet. I'd just watch you for hours."

You shudder under his gaze, locked into his intense stare. His face shows pure love and adoration, yet hides something sinister beneath that bleeds through each touch. It’s as if he’s two people rolled into one and you can’t tell which is real.

He leans closer, his breath hot against your ear, his words a whisper laced with menace. "But you grew up, didn’t you? You became a woman, and oh, how things changed." His eyes, predatory and cold, scan your face as he pauses. "I told myself I wanted to keep you safe, to shield you from the horrors of the world," he continues, pressing his fingers deeper, pinning you with a force that shatters his protective guise. "But the one you need saving from is me."

Your eyes widen with fear and confusion as you squirm against the heat of his embrace and the confinement of his arms. He watches you silently, curiously, pondering your thoughts and feelings. Yet instead of releasing you, he draws even closer, his breath unsettlingly warm against your face. "Mein süßes Mädchen," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face with deliberate slowness. "I've always wondered how you'd look splayed out on my workbench... I'm just dying to know what's inside that pretty little head of yours..."

Your heart flutters as he speaks again, his voice low and hypnotic. You try to reply, but the words snag in your throat. His eyes gleam with eagerness as he observes your panicked struggle.

Then, with a contrived snicker, he shakes his head. "Oh, you should see your face!" he exclaims, his fingers darting out to tickle you. "You’re so easy to scare!" His laughter rings out again, hollow and disconcerting. You try to laugh along, but it comes out as a strangled gasp, hanging in the air as your father's chuckles continue to echo around you.

Can i request strade doing some gross stuff to fem!reader on stream?

a/n: of course anon! i hope you enjoy :3

YOU'RE A STAR <3

{ strade x f! reader }

word count: 3.0k

warnings/tags: DEAD DOVE, NON-CON, graphic sexual violence and gore, forced exhibitionism, gagging and restraint, fingering, foreign object insertion and removal (?), genital mutilation, eye gouging, forced self-cannibalism, wound fucking, reader death.

As you awaken, the soft glow of a computer screen flickers erratically, casting eerie shadows across the room. Squinting against the harsh, unfamiliar light, you groan against the cloth gag pressed into your mouth. It feels rough against your tender cheeks and oppressively heavy on your tongue, leaving your palate dry. Pain and confusion mix as you find yourself kneeling on the floor, clothed only in your underwear with your arms secured tightly behind your back. Your head groggily lolls forward, your gaze falling upon the thick, durable fabric of a tarp laid out beneath you. Panic flickers through you as you shift your weight, the bony parts of your knees pressing into the tarp's hard, unyielding texture, its coarseness grating against your skin.

Suddenly, the echo of footsteps approaching breaks the silence. Before you can react, a gloved hand grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls back, forcing your head upward. The movement is abrupt, jerking your neck as your eyes are directed away from the relative safety of the floor toward a camera set up a few feet away. You blink against the light, now glaringly bright, as your masked captor adjusts his position and poses beside you. The camera's lens focuses, the red recording light a sinister glow that confirms your fears— this spectacle is not only for him but for an unseen audience.

"Did you have a nice rest?" Strade asks, his familiar accented voice interrupting your thoughts. He pauses, his breath close to your ear as he ensures the camera captures every expression of fear and confusion on your face. "Don’t worry, we’re just getting started. Smile for the camera, won’t you? We wouldn’t want to disappoint our viewers."

Your heart hammers in your chest, the sensation of fear mingling with the stale taste of the gag in your mouth. His hand travels down your front, the light glinting off his fingers as they skim along your chest. He traces the contours of your ribcage and teases the tender skin beneath your breasts before grabbing and squeezing one roughly. You shiver, attempting to recoil from his touch, but the ropes binding your arms dig into your skin.

“Oh don't be like that, kumpelin,” Strade hums, his voice resonating with chilling casualness. “I thought you wanted to come home with me.” The pressure intensifies as he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, bruising the sensitive flesh. You whimper into the gag, your sounds muffled and distorted by the cloth. His fingers then creep upward, tracing over your collarbone and around your neck to finally rest at the nape. With a sudden jerk, he pushes you forward, forcing you onto your stomach. You feel his body hovering above yours as he leans in to whisper in your ear. "Are you ready to perform?" You try to shake your head 'no', to squirm away, but the weight of his knee presses into you. "Relax. My viewers paid good money to see this." Strade commands, his voice lowering as the camera captures your prone position. Your muscles loosen, causing him to hum in approval. "That's it. Now let's put on a show, shall we?"

His knee presses more firmly into your lower back, pinning you helplessly beneath him. As the camera light blinks, his other hand explores, charting a path across your trembling body. Strade's fingers probe and tease, moving lower and lower until they reach the waistband of your panties. With a practiced ease, he slips them down your hips, baring you to his touch. You shudder as he dips his fingers between your legs, feeling your wetness coat his calloused skin. He shoves two digits beyond your entrance, your warmth enveloping him. His fingers are cool against your warm insides, causing you to arch on instinct. He growls in satisfaction, his fingers moving faster as he expertly slides them in and out of you. The anticipation is almost unbearable, your body trembling as you try to focus on the sensations he's creating, the pleasure that threatens to overwhelm the fear.

Strade's free hand grips your shoulder, holding you in place as he continues to glide his fingers along your gummy walls. You feel the pressure building within you, the need to cum becoming more intense with each second. Just as you're on the verge of climax, he pulls his fingers away, leaving you aching and desperate. The camera's red light blinks on, bathing you in its harsh glow as Strade stands, his robust silhouette outlined against the monitor. His steps echo across the room as he strides toward a shadowy corner. Each footfall resonates, deliberate and heavy, the sound growing fainter as he moves away to retrieve something unseen. After a moment, the echo of his footsteps shifts, growing louder and more distinct as he walks. In his hand, he clutches an empty beer bottle, its smooth glass catching the dim light as he moves.

Strade's presence looms as he approaches, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots signalling his return. The outline of the bottle in his grasp, though indistinct, sends a shiver down your spine as he stands over you. He taps the edge of the bottle, letting the clink of glass punctuate the tense silence, before setting it down on the tarp with a muffled thud. Your heart pounds as you strain against the tight ropes, twisting your body in a desperate attempt to slide away. He swiftly grabs your hips and forces them back and up, forcing you into a downward position. As Strade's fingers find the hard, smooth edge of the beer bottle, his lips curve into a predatory smile. "Jetzt beginnt der Spaß," he chimes, his tone low and sinister.

Tauntingly, he taps the bottle's rounded lip against your entrance, causing your body to tense in response. You plead and sob helplessly into the gag, which only seems to excite him further. With a brutal thrust, he pushes the neck of the bottle inside you, filling you up with its cold, hard length. You cry out, lurching forward as pain rips through your body. Strade grins, his large hand driving the object forward from the base. "Ah, that's it," he purrs. "Let it all out. Let them hear you." He begins to thrust it into you, slowly at first, letting its edges scrape against your tender flesh. You feel yourself stretching as if your cunt is being torn open with each savage draw. The camera captures every movement, every expression of pain, and displays your twisted, contorted form on the monitor beside it. He leans over you, his hot breath fanning across your sweat-drenched skin. "Ready?" he pants, an edge of excitement tinging his voice. Before you can respond, Strade pushes the bottle deeper until the lip hits hard against your cervix. With a grunt, he pushes again, and the bottle's neck gives way, shattering within you.

A raw, guttural scream erupts from your throat and your legs shake, threatening to collapse. Your body spasms uncontrollably as he continues to shove the base forward, fucking you with the jagged pieces of broken glass. Blood mixes with your fluids as it coats the insides of your thighs and drips onto the tarp beneath. As Strade pushes the remnants of the bottle deeper into your body, you can feel your walls ripping and tearing. Your wails diminish to muffled groans as tears blur your vision. Strade breathes heavily, his chest heaving as he works himself into a frenzy. The room seems to spin around you, the burning sensation pushing you to the brink of consciousness. Just as you think you can bear no more, he yanks the bottle free, and a hot rush of air and blood fills the empty space.

Strade leans back, his satisfaction evident as he watches you writhe in your own blood. Your breathing slows, with each inhale a desperate gasp through the stale fabric of the gag. As it absorbs your saliva, the cloth turns into a damp, heavy mass, pressing down on your tongue. For a moment, he simply observes you, allowing the unseen audience to take in the full extent of your distress. His eyes, visible above the cloth of his mask, glint with amusement as he watches the struggle reflected on the camera's monitor.

Then, he eases you up, guiding you back to a seated position with rough, steady hands. You can feel some pieces of glass crunch within you, making you cringe and tremble. He kneels and starts untying the ropes that bind your wrists. As each strand of rope loosens, you gradually restore feeling to your numb hands. He tilts your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Is that better?" he taunts, the smirk evident in his voice. You can barely nod, the pain radiating sharply with every movement.

"Now, give them a better look," he commands, nodding to the camera. "And pick the pieces out of your cunt."

You stare up at him pleadingly, his gaze merciless. "Or would you prefer that I do it?" Strade asks, his voice laden with dark amusement, knowing full well the torment he offers is no choice at all. Your heart pounds in your chest, the fear almost choking as much as the gag. Gathering what little resolve you have left, you tentatively reach for the first shard poking out of your mutilated hole. The cool, slick edge of the glass bites into your fingertips as you grasp it, a sharp contrast to the warm blood that coats it. Every muscle in your body tenses as you pull, the pain a searing, white-hot flash that threatens to overwhelm your senses. You toss the piece aside as Strade watches intently, his presence looming over you like a dark cloud. You wince and pause, the room spinning slightly as agony courses through you.

"Don’t stop now," Strade urges, his voice dripping with false encouragement "Every piece, remember? Our viewers expect a thorough show."

You can feel your face wet and sticky as tears mix with snot, each breath shaky and ragged. Another shard awaits deeper inside, and with a shuddering breath, you prepare yourself to continue. As you reach again toward your entrance, your hands tremble uncontrollably. You can hardly recognize your genitals through the tears and outflow of sanguineous fluid. Gritting your teeth, you push your fingers deeper, searching for the next shard with a mixture of dread and determination. As you locate the jagged piece, it cuts into your flesh, forcing a gasp from your lips. You carefully try to coax it out, pinching it between your index and middle fingers. Slowly, you draw the shard out, pain flashing intensely. Fresh tears spill over, blurring your vision as you fling it onto the tarp alongside the other one.

Your hand reaches back in, fuelled by a sudden surge of adrenaline. The pain is intense, but it also sharpens your resolve. You find another broken piece, smaller than the others, yet just as vicious. This time, your fingers are more precise, your grip more confident. You pluck it from your soft walls, a small victory against the overwhelming hurt. The shard joins the others, clinking lightly against them. Your breath catches as you probe for more, the fear of missing even a single piece keeping you vigilant.

Strade watches, silent now, his gaze heavy upon you. You feel his eyes tracking every motion, every flinch. You wince as you discover yet another fragment, lodged deep and angled awkwardly. Taking a long, shaky breath, you set your jaw and ready yourself. This one hurts the most, yet as you finally free it and toss it aside, a sense of grim accomplishment fills you. Pain, fear, and determination meld, fuelling you to see this through; no matter the cost.

Every move you make, every shard you remove under Strade's watchful eye, is immortalized by the camera lens, feeding the twisted spectacle for him and his audience.

After what feels like an eternity, you manage to retrieve the last of the shards. Your fingers, slick with blood, finally still, and you slump back, exhausted. Strade surveys the collection of bloodstained glass on the tarp then turns his attention back to you, kneeling beside your slouched body.

"Well done, liebling!" He beams, patting your cheek. "You did a great job." Despite the situation, his praise elicits a weak smile from you; a small, involuntary response to recognition. "But don't think it's time to rest yet," he continues, his tone shifting to one of ominous delight. "There's still so much more fun to be had."

Strade rises to his feet and picks up one of the larger shards from the ground, examining it under the harsh light. He turns back, bathing you in his imposing shadow. You draw a shaky breath as cold dread pools in your stomach.

"You've bled, but not nearly enough," he says excitedly as he approaches with the shard. As you attempt to scoot away, Strade reacts swiftly, straddling your hips and pinning you down with his weight. His free hand clamps firmly on the back of your head, immobilizing you. The cold, sharp edge of the shard grazes the unblemished skin of your lower eyelid, paralyzing you with terror.

"Stay still, liebling," he whispers, his breath ghosting over your face through his mask. Without warning, he presses the shard deeper, and a sharp, excruciating ache erupts. He slices through the tender flesh, tracing a slow, deliberate curve around your eye socket. You try to pull away, but his ironclad grip holds you in place. A stifled scream escapes through the gag, a tortured sound that seems to delight him.

As he meticulously carves around your eyeball, blood wells up, warm against your cheek, trickling down and mingling with your tears. Your nails dig into his arm, but his focus never wavers; his grip firm as he continues to saw through your flesh.

"You're doing so well," he murmurs, as if his soothing tone could make the ordeal any more bearable. The pain blinds you— a mix of sharp stings and deep, throbbing aches that threaten to engulf your senses. You fight to stay conscious, driven by a primal fear of what might happen if you black out too soon.

He completes the circle and leans back, examining his work. "Almost done," he assures you, skillfully manipulating the shard and severing the last strands of connective tissue. Then, he shoves his thick fingers into the socket, extracting the fleshy organ with a grotesque squelch. Your vision wavers, relaying the final blurry image of Strade’s masked face as he severs your optic nerve.

He holds up the bloody mess to the camera, admiring it under the light before his attention returns to you. Letting your head go, you slump forward slightly, dazed. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he grips your chin, removes your gag, and forces your mouth open. With a disturbing calm, he places your own eyeball between your teeth.

"Eat it," he commands, his voice a twisted mix of encouragement and command. Your stomach churns, bile rising in your throat as blood and fluid coats your tongue. The organ feels oddly firm yet fragile in your mouth. "Go on. Chew."

With a hesitant bite, the delicate outer membrane bursts under the pressure of your teeth. A rush of salty, iron-rich fluid floods your mouth, mingling with a hint of the faintly sweet vitreous humour. You gag, the urge to vomit nearly overwhelming as he firmly closes your jaw. Tears stream down your face, cringing at the crunch and squelch of your own eye. The texture is an unsettling mix of squishy and gritty, and the residual connective tissue offering a slight resistance as you chew.

Forced to swallow, you feel the remnants slide down your throat, clinging desperately on their way down. The taste of copper lingers on your tongue as Strade releases your jaw, satisfied with the perverse ritual.

Your consciousness begins to falter, wavering on the edge as the room spins into a blur of indistinct shapes and shadows. Each heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears, a slow, dragging rhythm that seems to echo through the muffled chaos of the room. The metallic taste in your mouth is overwhelming, suffocating, as you struggle to draw a clean breath through the heavy, copper-laden air.

You desperately try to focus on something—anything—but your thoughts are scattered, disjointed fragments that refuse to cohere.

Strade’s face hovers above you, his features distorted and shifting as if seen through water. His voice sounds distant, a disembodied echo that you can barely grasp. “Stay with me,” he murmurs, or perhaps commands, but the words slip through your mind like sand through fingers.

A zipper rasps loudly in the thick silence. Through your dimming vision, you make out the vague shape of Strade standing before you, his movements deliberate and ominous as he slides his boxers down. You try to recoil, but your body barely responds; your head weakly bobs backward, only to be caught and steadied by his firm grip.

"Es ist Zeit für das Finale," he growls, positioning the head of his cock at your empty eye socket. As he forces himself into you, pain spreads throughout your entire body, shooting up your spine and filling your skull. You try to scream, but no sound comes out; only a wet gurgle rises from your throat as you struggle to form words. The pressure in your head increases, becoming almost unbearable, as his hips begin to thrust roughly.

You feel the foreign sensation pulsing within your skull, then the trickle of something warm flowing down your cheek. A distant, guttural sound—perhaps a laugh or a grunt—echoes in your ears as your eyelids become unbearably heavy. The pressure in your head builds, blurring the remaining fragments of your consciousness.

The last sensation you register is the chilling grip of Strade’s hand and the distant wet slapping of his skin against yours.

Translations

Kumpelin = Buddy

Jetzt beginnt der Spaß = Now the fun begins

Liebling = Darling

Es ist Zeit für das Finale = It's time for the finale

Holy moly guacamole! You do strade fics and requests too?! Is there anything you can't do?

Anyway am I allowed to request a strade x reader but like...weird reader not weird like him but more like they talk to themselves a lot and are 110% convinced there's bugs in their skin like he doesn't even need to cut em they're already fuckin bleeding from trying to get the bugs out...and maybe once...or twice...or thrice they tried to bite him

Just like...a creepy unnerving reader if that's cool with you-

a/n: awe thank you anon! this was such an interesting request XD i know you said he didn't have to cut them, but how else would they get the bugs out ?? :3c anyway, i had fun writing it so i hope you enjoy!

BENEATH THE SKIN

{ strade x gn! reader }

part 2: SCRATCHING THE SURFACE

word count: 1.6k

warnings/tags: self-harm, hallucinations (formication), strade fucks with you and feeds into your delusions, psychological torment, wound touching/probing, deep cutting, head stomping, skin flaying, gore.

The basement was stark, with bare concrete walls and a few utilitarian pieces of furniture, each coated in a layer of dust and grime. The silence was punctuated only by the constant dripping of water from an exposed pipe and the frantic rhythm of your breathing.

It was in this space that Strade watched you with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. You sat hunched over, incessantly scratching at your arms, your fingers stained with blood, your nails chipped and filthy. The damp air hung heavy, mingling with the musty stench of old blood and sweat.

Though invisible to others, you had grown accustomed to the sensation of phantom insects crawling beneath your skin—an incessant itch, always lurking, just waiting to erupt.

"You alright there, buddy?" Strade asked, his tone casually mocking as he leaned against the workbench. "Most folks don't start bleeding until I've had my fun," he chuckled darkly, amusement lacing his words as he watched your desperate actions.

Engrossed in your torment, you continued digging into your forearm. “Can’t help it. The bugs are crawling, moving under my skin. They're squirming, biting,” you muttered shakily to yourself, barely aware of his presence.

Your arm was a horrifying sight— lined with crimson, raw patches where you had torn at your skin. The blood mingled with sweat, creating a slick sheen that caught the dim light. Strade's interest peaked, his eyes widening with perverse fascination as he pushed off from the workbench and stepped closer.

He crouched beside you, his face invasively close as he inspected your self-inflicted wounds. "Maybe you aren't digging deep enough," he remarked, his voice low and eerily calm.

You stared at him with wild, unblinking eyes. "I'm digging deep! Deeper than you could ever imagine," you exclaimed, your voice trembling as much as your body. "They’re everywhere, inside me... Crawling, biting, burrowing... I can hear them, feel them,"

Strade's eyebrows raised, amusement and a hint of caution playing across his features. "Is that so? Well, that's quite the burden to bear," he said, his sympathy obviously feigned.

Suddenly, he grasped your arm, his fingers cold and firm. With a curious tilt of his head, he pushed his thumb into one of the deeper gouges, eliciting a sharp pain as he explored the raw flesh. His digit slipped deeper, the coarse skin of his thumb dragging against the tender, exposed tissues. His touch was probing and intrusive, causing blood to well up around his intrusion, mingling with the dirt under his nails.

"Hmm, quite the effort here," he commented, a twisted grin forming on his lips as he watched how the blood pooled and your muscles tensed under his thumb. "But not deep enough, not by a long shot," he added, his tone laced with feigned concern.

Yet, you believed him— the crawling, squirming feeling under your skin hadn’t subsided despite your efforts.

“You really think you can get them all out like this?" he pressed, pushing his thumb deeper and eliciting a sharp gasp from you.

Instinctively, you jerked your arm away, but his grip was unyielding. "Let go!" you shouted, desperation evident in your voice. Strade smirked, clearly intrigued by your reaction. In a swift, almost reflexive move, you turned your head and snapped your teeth towards his hand, aiming to bite him.

Surprised, he withdrew his hand just in time, a small rivulet of blood marking the path of his retreat. "Feisty, aren't we?" he chuckled, leaning back but keeping his eyes fixed on you. "Not many try to bite back. I like that,"

He paused, then added mockingly, "Alright, then. You don't want my help?" Strade's tone shifted, becoming mockingly sorrowful. "That’s too bad. I was really looking forward to hunting down those pesky bugs with you. But perhaps, you prefer your methods?" He gestured broadly to the bloodied gouges on your arms.

Realizing his enjoyment of the situation, you knew arguing was futile. Instead, you glared at him, the pain and relentless itching fueling your anger. Strade watched you with an unblinking gaze, his smile morphing into a more contemplative expression.

"Or maybe," he whispered almost tenderly, "you just need the right kind of tool to dig a little deeper." His eyes briefly flicked to the leather holster around his waist, then back to you; his hand moving slowly, deliberately, pulling out a sleek hunting knife. The blade caught the dim light, casting a sinister glow.

"Let’s try this," he suggested, his voice steady and menacing. He approached you again, knife in hand, your body tensed in anticipation. He positioned the blade just above one of the more savaged areas of your arm and, with your slight nod, pressed the knife's edge into your skin, deeper than your own nails could manage.

The cold steel sliced through the skin effortlessly, reaching down to where you felt the imaginary insects burrowing. You inhaled sharply, the sensation both terrifying and relieving. Your flesh separated with ease, revealing the glistening, yellowish layers of fat cushioning the deeper structures of your arm.

You watched intently, searching for the elusive invaders, but all that met your eyes was the stark reality of flesh and blood—no insects, no crawling entities, just the vivid tableau of your own anatomy laid bare.

As the knife continued its work, your panic swelled. The insects seemingly burrowed away from the incision site, evading the blade's reach. A desperate fear took hold that they were scurrying further into the untouched sanctuaries of your body, infiltrating deeper into your core.

"They're going to take over," you gasped, the pain distant yet sharp. "I can feel them... moving. If I don’t get them out, they’ll spread. They’ll control everything."

As Strade prepared to cut again, your panic surged anew. In a frantic move, you lashed out again, aiming for any part of him within reach. He catches your jaw firmly, irritation flashing across his face. “Keep it up, and I’ll rip out those teeth of yours—one by one— if that's what it takes to get you to calm down.” he threatened, tightening his grip as he forced you to face him.

"Look," he continued, "if they're everywhere like you say, I guess we'll just have to strip you down to the bone, huh? Give them nowhere to hide."

With a cruel smirk, he released your jaw, giving you a small shove. You stumbled back, crashing into the cold concrete. You tried to rise, but the room spun disorientingly around you.

Seizing the moment, Strade advanced, his expression darkened. As he neared, you saw a fleeting chance. With every ounce of strength, you lunged forward, teeth bared, aiming for his outstretched hand. He recoiled just in time, a mix of surprise and anger flashing across his face as your teeth snapped shut inches from his skin.

With a snarl, Strade stepped back, his eyes narrowing into slits. Then, without warning, he lifted his boot high and brought it down viciously on your jaw. Your head snapped to the side, smacking against the concrete with a hollow crack. As the world blurred into a maelstrom of pain and fear, the incessant itch intensified.

He straddled your hips, pinning you down under his oppressive weight as he brandished the knife again, his face contorted by grim determination. He began to peel back layers of your skin from your arm, slicing through the air with clinical precision. "Still feeling them crawl?" he taunted, his knife parting your flesh as though it were mere fabric. Blood welled up in the wake of the blade, a vivid, alarming red that flowed down to your shoulder and pooled on the cold concrete floor. The flayed skin hung loosely, fluttering slightly with each tremulous breath you took.

As Strade’s gruesome exploration continued, the basement echoed with the sound of your laboured breathing, ragged and sharp with pain. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the damp, musty air, creating a suffocating atmosphere that seemed to tighten around you.

Suddenly, Strade paused, tilting his head as though listening to an inaudible whisper. "Do you hear that?" he murmured, a sickening smile spreading across his face. His eyes darted to the shadows at the edges of the room, as if expecting them to respond. "They’re whispering to me now. They’re telling me where to cut next." His chuckle was soft, devoid of warmth as he angled the blade to scrape away the remaining fascia.

The steel traced a searing path, delving deeper. Beneath, the exposed muscle glistened wetly, its fibres quivering under the harsh glare of the overhead light. Every nerve in your body screamed in protest, yet the imaginary insects continued their relentless assault, burrowing deeper into your psyche than Strade’s knife could ever reach.

"Come on, talk to me. Are the bugs still there? Have they left? Or are they just deeper than you thought?"

His questions dripped like acid, corroding what little resolve you had left. The pain was unimaginable, yet part of you clung to the desperate hope that he might actually find and eradicate the tormenting infestation.

Through gritted teeth, you managed a whimper, "They're deeper... everywhere... I can feel them slipping away from the cuts. You have to get them all... Please..."

"Almost there," he cooed, as if soothing a child. "Just a bit deeper, and maybe we'll find them, hm?" His words slithered into your ears, venomous and vile.

With each cut, you felt your strength waning, your will dissolving into the growing pool of blood beneath you. Strade’s face, illuminated by the flickering light, appeared demonic, his features twisted into a grotesque mask of enjoyment.

The knife descended again, methodically slicing through sinew and muscle until it scraped against bone. The harsh, grating sound echoed as his blade met the stark, vulnerable white of your ulna, lying amidst the red, mangled tissues.

And yet, the crawling of elusive insects persisted; their presence haunting every exposed layer of anatomy as if fabricated from your very being.

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,"

Hey hey!

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

I just need this 🙏

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

WASH IT ALL AWAY

{ captive! ren hana x captive f! reader }

word count: 1.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCRATCHING HIS BACK

{ strade x gn! reader }

word count: 690

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can you write something about Lawrence? 👉👈

a/n: yessss i've been looking forward to a law request! thank u, anon, i hope you like it!! :3

THE LIGHT THAT SEARS

{ lawrence oleander x gn! reader }

word count: 2.1k

warnings/tags: NSFW, psychological, yandere(ish), stalking, jealousy/obsession, kidnapping, brief marijuana use, cutting, blood, waterboarding to drowning, reader death.

Under the cloak of night, Lawrence prowled the periphery of your existence. You emerged as a rare exception to his cynical worldview; a delicate exception that flickered like a flame in the darkness. As the night clerk at the local gas station, your presence was an enigma, haloed by the soft, ethereal glow of fluorescent lights— a figure both intoxicating and infuriating to him.

You began to recognize the patterns of his visits, the late hours when he would appear almost like a shadow from the night. Soon enough, you learned his usual purchases; mainly simple, pre-packaged meals, which he grabbed almost mechanically from the same aisle each visit.

With a practiced ease, you attempted small talk, your light and inviting voice contrasting sharply with his curt responses. Lawrence hardly ever met your gaze, his eyes flicking away to the brightly lit shelves or the grimy floor tiles, as if the sight of you was both necessary and unbearable.

Despite this, you persisted, peeling back layers of his solitude with each word. He felt seen, truly seen. Not just observed but understood, in a way that both unnerved and intrigued him. You seemed to look right through his shell, peering into the depths of his turbulent soul.

Each night, as you smiled and handed him his change, he sensed your awareness of his trembling hands, as if each coin and bill burned into his fingertips. It was almost painful how you looked at him with so much pity and concern.

This perception of vulnerability made Lawrence feel exposed yet inexplicably drawn to you. His nightly visits to the gas station became less about necessity and more about this complex dance between observation and interaction. He began to linger, fabricating reasons to stay by browsing aimlessly through the aisles or waiting for the slowest coffee machine pour.

Eventually, his fascination led him beyond the confines of the gas station, tracking your movements like a silent guardian. He found himself waiting in the shadows, watching as you ended your shifts, and noting the way you carefully scanned the parking lot before stepping into the early morning air.

But everything changed one fateful night when he watched you interact with another customer— a casual exchange that shattered his distorted illusion of exclusivity. Lawrence stood, a silent spectator lined up behind this stranger, who elicited a laugh from you with an ease that made his blood boil. Your eyes sparkled with the same light you often gifted him, yet here it was, shared freely with someone else. Each giggle, each easy smile you bestowed upon the interloper, drove a spike of disgust and jealousy through his already frayed nerves. His hands trembled and his eyes ignited with a fervent fury as he watched you, his delicate flower, fluttering towards another.

When it was finally his turn to cash out, the usual gentle cadence of your voice grated against his heightened sensitivity. He responded not with the muted gratitude of before but with a cold silence, tossing the cash onto the counter with a force that made the coins scatter. Avoiding your puzzled look, he stormed out of the gas station, the chime of the door ringing mockingly behind him.

The night outside had turned chilly, the breeze that swept through the parking lot carrying an ominous whisper. Lawrence sat in his car, his hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled force. Each breath was a ragged intake, his thoughts racing as he waited, the tick of the clock on the dashboard echoing in the cramped space like a countdown.

Your shift ended as it always did, with the fluorescent lights shutting off one by one, casting shadows that crept along the ground toward him. You stepped out, oblivious to the dangerous undercurrent that now pulsed through the air. As you made your way across the parking lot, the sound of your footsteps were muffled against the asphalt, but to Lawrence, they were deafening.

He exited his vehicle, driven by a twisted mixture of betrayal and anger. His approach was silent, a predator’s gait, all traces of the awkward, stuttering recluse gone. Just as you reached your car, he was upon you, a hand clamping down over your mouth to stifle your screams. His other arm snaked around your waist, dragging you back towards his car. The world blurred into a chaotic swirl as you struggled, but his grip was unyielding. In a swift motion, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, damp cloth, and pressed it against your nose and mouth. Your struggles weakened, your limbs grew heavy, and soon, darkness engulfed you as you slipped into unconsciousness.

You awoke to an unfamiliar coldness, the hard porcelain surface of a bathtub pressing uncomfortably against your back. Your wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape, immobilizing you in a vulnerable sprawl. Another strip sealed your mouth, muffling your disoriented murmurs. The bathroom around you was dimly lit, casting elongated shadows across the walls where ivy and ferns crept over the tiles. A pervasive, sickly sweet scent filled the air, suffocating your senses.

As your eyes adjusted, you noticed Lawrence sitting on the edge of the tub, his silhouette blurred against the dim light. A joint dangled from his trembling fingers, the smoke curling into the stale air as he took a deep, slow drag. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, his expression remained unreadable, veiled in a mix of shadow and haze. His eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, seemed to drift away momentarily before snapping back to meet yours with an intensity that pinned you in place.

The moment hung heavy between the crackling of the ember and the distant dripping of a leaky faucet. As the smoke floated lazily in the air, it seemed to bridge the gap between Lawrence's disjointed musings and the harsh reality of your predicament.

"I thought you understood," he whispered, a chilling calmness underpinning his words. "I thought you were different." He took another drag, the ember briefly illuminating his hollowed features with an eerie red light.

"But you’re just like them, aren’t you? A beautiful façade," His voice cracked slightly, betraying a hint of the turmoil swirling inside him.

The accusation struck a strange chord, mixing fear with confusion. You could only listen, the adhesive tape cruelly sealing any response. Lawrence's presence loomed larger as he shifted his weight, the porcelain creaking under him.

"Even then, I can't let you go— can't forget you," he muttered, more to himself than to you as he stubbed out the joint. He turned his gaze fully onto you and confessed, "I can’t allow you to float away to anyone else. You saw me... really saw me, unlike everyone else."

Slowly, almost cautiously, Lawrence moved closer, positioning himself to straddle you in the tub. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating. He pulled a small knife from his pocket, the blade glinting in the light. His fingers, though cold, felt like they burned into you as he began to slice through your shirt, and spread the fabric open to expose your skin underneath.

The blade descended again, gliding from your sternum to your navel with terrifying precision. You felt the sting of the blade, a cold line of fear that drew a shallow, sharp path across your skin. Lawrence’s breath was heavy, each exhale shuddering against the charged silence of the room. He leaned closer, torment and fascination dancing across his features.

A flush crept across his cheeks as he watched the red line appear on your skin. His hands, unsteady yet deliberate, touched the blood that welled from the cut, tracing it across your skin with a perverse reverence. His touch was careful, as if tending to a withering flower.

"I need you to understand this connection," Lawrence murmured, his fingers painted with your blood. "No one else can see what I see, feel what I feel for you. You’re not like them— you can't be."

His eyes, usually so shifty and evasive, now held yours with an intensity that felt like chains, binding you to his will. Amidst the flora and the sweet scent of decay, the room around you seemed to close in, setting the stage for his macabre confession. The tape stifled your cries, muffling the sound to a desperate whimper as you watched the crimson seep from your body.

Lawrence set the knife down with a clink against the porcelain, his hands now free to frame your face, forcing you to maintain eye contact. "When I saw you talking to him, laughing, it hurt. It burned, like nothing I’ve felt before." He continued, tracing the contours of your features.

Tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over despite your attempts to hold them back. As he noticed your tears, his expression shifted, a mix of satisfaction and sorrow mingling in his gaze.

"I need you to understand the pain," He said as his fingers tightened against your cheeks, the pressure increasing painfully.

Your cries, stifled under the adhesive, became more desperate, a silent plea that seemed lost on him. But then, without a word, Lawrence reached over and turned on the tap. Cold water poured from the faucet as he forced your head back, positioning your face under the stream. The cold water splashed against your skin, entering your nostrils and flooding your senses with an icy shock. Your body convulsed involuntarily as water cascaded over your head, drowning out your pleas with the relentless rush of liquid oblivion.

Lawrence watched intently, his eyes never leaving your face as you gasped and sputtered, the water punishing every attempt to draw breath. His expression was unreadable, perhaps a mix of curiosity and a desperate need to share his own suffocating experiences of jealousy and betrayal.

"Feel it, the burning pain I felt," He whispered, his voice a distant echo lost to the steady cascade of water and the weak thrashing of your body.

As it continued to pour over your face, the line between executioner and confessor blurred. He seemed almost mesmerized by your struggle, as if each gasp and flutter of your eyelids brought him closer to understanding his own tortured emotions.

Finally, he turned off the water, the sudden silence in the room echoing louder than the rushing stream had been. Your breaths came in ragged, desperate gulps, as your lungs screamed for air. Lawrence's gaze remained fixed upon you, his own turmoil reflected in the sheen of sweat upon his brow

"Every time I see you, it’s like I’m drowning," he muttered as his finger followed the trail of water dripping from your chin. His admission lingered in the air, a confession both haunting and revelatory. You searched his eyes for some semblance of remorse or empathy, but found only the reflection of a tormented soul as he gazed over your drenched, trembling form.

"You shine so brightly, it's blinding." His finger paused, hovering above the pulse at your neck, where each heartbeat seemed to echo louder against the stillness. "I can't help but be drawn to your light, even though it scorches me. I never want it to end."

As the water on your skin began to chill, his hand shifted, becoming almost protective as he cupped your cheek. "I want to keep you here, with me, forever," he continued, his voice softer and edged with a strange sadness. "I want your light all to myself."

Without warning, Lawrence reached for the faucet again, turning the knob with a decisive twist. The water surged forth once more, cascading over your face in a relentless torrent. This time, however, there was no restraint in his actions, no hesitation or remorse. His grip on your head tightened, forcing you further under the icy deluge until every gasp for air was silenced by the rush of water filling your lungs.

Your struggles became feeble and your body wracked with convulsions as the cold enveloped you. Through the haze of pain and panic, you caught one last glimpse of Lawrence's face, distorted by the watery veil between you. There was a flicker of something in his eyes— regret, perhaps, or even a twisted form of tenderness as he watched you drown with eerie detachment.

The weight of his gaze bore down on you, unyielding even as your consciousness waned under the suffocating flow. As the coldness of water seeped into your bones, your world dimmed, fading into a silent, dark oblivion.

For a moment, he remained frozen, suspended in the void between remorse and obsession. His trembling hands drew your lifeless body towards his, the coldness of your skin seeping into his own as he gently cradled you against his chest.

"You're still shining," he whispered, his voice barely audible amidst the constant flow of the faucet. "You're still beautiful."

As the water continued its relentless cascade, Lawrence raked his fingers through your wet hair, admiring how the tendrils clung to his skin as though you had become one.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Just noticed your ask box was open again!

How about another Ren x Fem!Mc smut? But instead it’s reader cleaning Ren up and taking care of him after one of Strades punishments? I read your last one and absolutely loved it! ^^

a/n: sure thing! hope you enjoy :3

UNTIL THE END

{ ren hana x f! reader }

word count: 1.0k

warnings/tags: NSFW (consensual), very fluffy, mentions of injury and abuse, handjob, mirror sex, lots of praise and comfort.

It's as if your kisses are a balm, your love a salve that can soothe the hurt carved into his skin and soul by cruelty and pain. Your tongue tracing the edges of his wounds becomes a timeless ritual, a reminder that love can be a powerful, healing force, hidden from the chaos of your captive life.

Ren whimpers softly, his breath hitching with each touch. You cradle him closer against your chest, your hands tenderly running through his soft tresses. The bath is now lukewarm, tinged with pink from antiseptic and blood. Your fingertips have begun to prune from the humidity, but you still hold him, soothe him, understand him. The collection of scars you both bear binds you together.

"Does it still hurt?" you whisper, your lips brushing against his ear. The water ripples as you adjust your position, pulling Ren even closer, his head resting against your shoulder.

"A little," he admits, his voice barely audible. "But it's better now... with you."

Your heart aches at his words, a mixture of love and sorrow. You kiss his temple, your lips lingering against his damp skin. "I wish I could take all your pain away," you murmur, your fingers tracing the delicate curve of his jaw.

"You do," he replies, his voice steady despite the tremor you can feel running through his body. "Every time you hold me, every time you kiss me... you make it bearable."

You squeeze him gently, your arms wrapped around his slender frame. "We make it bearable for each other," you say, your voice filled with conviction. "We survive because we have each other."

Ren’s eyes meet yours, his amber gaze filled with gratitude and love. "I don't know what I’d do without you," he whispers, his voice choked with emotion.

"You’ll never have to find out," you assure him, your hand gently cupping his cheek. "We’re in this together, remember?"

His hand reaches up to caress your cheek, his touch feather-light against your skin. "Together," he echoes, his voice a mere breath against your skin. "Until the end."

In that moment, the tension and fear of your life dissolve into an overwhelming need for connection. Slowly, Ren leans in, his lips meeting yours in a tender kiss. He starts softly, tentative as if testing the waters of this newfound intimacy. But as the warmth builds between you, the kiss deepens and becomes more desperate.

His hands roam over your back, tracing the curve of your spine with a delicate caress. You respond in kind, fingers threading through his hair, a sensation like silk beneath your touch. Your hands find the base of his ears, squeezing gently and eliciting a soft moan from his lips. There’s an urgency in the way you embrace each other, as if the moment might slip away and leave only the cold reality of your shared captivity.

Ren breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. "You’re so soft," he murmurs, his voice filled with awe. "So gentle."

You smile, brushing your lips against his jawline, savoring the hitch in his breath. "You deserve gentle," you whisper back, your breath warm against his skin. "You deserve all the tenderness in the world."

You hold him like that for a long time as the room fills with the soft sounds of your breathing and the steady lapping of water around your bodies.

Eventually, you shift slightly and pull away from him. "C'mon, we should get dried off," you suggest softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Ren nods, his movements slow and careful as he allows you to help him out of the bath. Grabbing a towel, you begin to dry him off, your movements gentle over his fresh injuries. He flinches at first but then relaxes into your touch, trusting you implicitly.

In the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourselves. Strade's marks are etched into both of your skins, a haunting reminder of the sadism you endure. For a moment, you imagine what you might look like free from the bruises and collars, living a life where pain isn't a constant companion.

As you tenderly dry his skin, your eyes meet in the mirror. "What do you think we would look like in another life?" you ask softly, your fingers brushing against his neck.

He leans his head back into your touch, a small sigh escaping his lips. "Beautiful," he replies, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Without all this…"

You lean in, peppering kisses along his neck and shoulder, feeling him shiver beneath your lips. "Do you want me to touch you?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, please," he pleads, his voice trembling with need.

Your breasts press against his back, still slightly damp and warm from the bath. Your hand travels down his front, grasping his length gently. He gasps, his body tensing for a moment before relaxing into your touch. You begin to stroke him, your movements slow and deliberate, your other hand tracing patterns on his chest.

"Look at yourself," you whisper into his ear, watching his reflection in the mirror. "See how beautiful you are, still."

His eyes flutter open, locking onto his own image. A flush spreads across his cheeks, and his lips part as soft moans escape. You continue to murmur words of praise, your voice soothing and steady.

"You're so beautiful, Ren. So perfect." Your hand moves with a steady rhythm, your thumb occasionally brushing over the sensitive tip. His hips begin to move in time with your strokes, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

As he reaches the edge, you hold him close, your own breath mingling with his. "I’m here for you, always," you promise, your voice filled with unwavering conviction. "I'll be there to lick your wounds and soothe your pain. We’ll survive this, together."

With a final, desperate gasp, he finds his release, his body trembling against yours. You hold him through it, your hand never faltering until he’s spent and leaning heavily against you.

You press a gentle kiss against his temple, your lips lingering on his skin. "Together," you repeat, your words soft and genuine. "Until the end."

can you write about fem strade x fem mc 👉👈

a/n: HECK YES I CAN !!!!

CAN YOU HANDLE IT?

{ f! strade x f! reader }

word count: 1.2k

warnings/tags: NONCON, mentions of blood and injury, facesitting, suffocation, foreign object insertion.

When you first laid eyes on her, you felt a twinge of something unfamiliar yet compelling, like a moth drawn to an unearthly flame. Strade was unlike anyone you'd ever met—a whirlwind of charm and confidence, her aura both captivating and dangerous. The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and the murmur of conversations, but you were entrapped.

Her smile was disarming, a perfect blend of warmth and mischief that made you feel seen in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling. Her freckled brown eyes seemed to see right through you, as if she knew your darkest secrets and loved you for them. She spoke with such ease, her voice a soothing melody that made you forget you were strangers. Every word she uttered wrapped around you like a silken thread, drawing you closer to her web.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, her accent adding an intriguing lilt to her words.

You nodded, unable to tear your gaze away. "Sure, why not?"

You talked for what felt like hours, her laughter ringing in your ears like a beautiful, haunting tune. She made you feel special, desired in a way you'd never felt before. When she suggested going back to her place, you didn't hesitate. It seemed like a natural progression, an inevitability.

Now, you lay on the cold, hard floor of her basement, your wings singed beyond repair. You couldn't remember when you were stripped naked or how your wrists ended up bound behind your back. All you knew was that your body throbbed, and your skin was sticky with sweat and blood.

You tried to convince yourself it was just a nightmare, that you were passed out drunk on your sofa, but the pain was too real. Every pulse, every ache, was a cruel reminder that this was your reality.

And of course, she was too.

Strade stood over you, the same endearing smile plastered on her face, but now it seemed grotesque, a mask of sadistic pleasure. In her hand, she held a hammer, its head coated in crimson.

"Aw, ready to give up already, schätzchen?" she purred, her voice sending a chill down your spine. "I hope not, we're just getting started."

You didn't respond, your mouth too dry, your head too foggy to form words. Instead, you stared up at her, hoping she could see the plea in your eyes.

"Ever eaten a woman out before?" she asked casually, shifting her weight to one leg. As she hovered above you, the overhead lights bathed her in a golden halo, and you couldn't help but feel small and insignificant beneath her.

You nodded, the movement making your head swim. Strade merely chuckled in response.

"Good!" she mused, her smile widening. "I'd hate to waste time teaching you."

You knew you had no choice. Protesting would only bring more pain, and you couldn't bear the thought of her hitting you again. She dropped her pants and lowered herself onto your face, her scent overwhelming your senses.

"Lick," she commanded, her body sinking down you.

Her thick thighs pressed against your cheeks, her warmth spreading over your skin like a stifling blanket. The pressure was suffocating, her full weight making it hard to breathe. Her skin was hot and slick with sweat, the musk of her arousal filling your nostrils and coating your tongue as you reluctantly obeyed her command. You could feel her every movement, every shift and grind, each one pressing her deeper against you, further sealing your fate beneath her.

Your tongue moved with more urgency as she pressed down harder, and soon her soft moans filled the room. You felt her muscles tense and relax, her hips grinding against you as she chased her release.

"Mmm, let's see how you handle this, Liebling," she cooed, her legs caging your face.

She didn't lift herself off you; instead, she hovered slightly, ensuring you were still beneath her as she reached for the hammer. With a cruel smile, she dropped herself back down, suffocating you once more. Strade then ran the hard, wooden handle along your slit, dragging it agonizingly up and down as struggled to breathe.

Then, without warning, she inserted it into you, the intrusion sharp and painful. You gasped, your body tensing against the bonds that held you in place. She began to move it slowly at first, each thrust sending waves of discomfort through you, a twisted echo of the pleasure she had taken moments before. The handle stretched and scraped along your walls, and her pelvis jerked into your face.

Her breathing quickened and mingled with each shuddering gasp you made. Strade's excitement was palpable, her hips grinding harder against your face as she found pleasure in your torment.

You struggled to breathe, your airways constricted by her weight pressing down on you. Panic surged through you as you fought for even the smallest breath, your vision blurring at the edges. Desperation clawed at your mind, and you wanted nothing more than to scratch at her thighs, to push her off, to find relief—but your wrists remained uselessly bound beneath you, denying you even the slightest chance of escape.

"Yes, that's it," she panted, her voice heavy with arousal. "Struggle for me, Liebling. Let me feel your desperation."

The handle moved faster inside you, each thrust a painful, throbbing presence, interwoven with the suffocating pressure against your face. Your lungs burned, and you could feel your strength waning, the fight slowly draining from your body as the lack of oxygen took its toll.

Strade's moans reached a fever pitch, her movements becoming more erratic and frenzied. She was close, teetering on the edge of her release, her pleasure derived from your suffering. Every twitch, every futile struggle only seemed to heighten her arousal, driving her further into a state of ecstasy.

"That's it, keep going," she urged, her voice a breathless whisper. "Don't stop. Show me how much you can take."

You tried to comply, your tongue moving as best it could under the crushing weight, but your body was failing you. Darkness crept in at the corners of your vision, your mind teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. You could hear your own heartbeat, a frantic drum in your ears, each beat a desperate plea for air.

Just as you thought you couldn't endure any longer, Strade shuddered above you, her climax ripping through her with a force that left her trembling. She rode out her orgasm, her hips jerking erratically, before finally collapsing forward, her weight pressing down even harder, if only for a moment.

Then, she slowly lifted herself off you, the sudden rush of air almost as painful as the suffocation. You gasped desperately, your lungs burning as they filled with much-needed oxygen. Tears streamed down your face, your body shaking uncontrollably from the ordeal.

Strade looked down at you, her expression one of sated pleasure and cruel satisfaction. She ran a hand through her tousled hair, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous light.

"You did so well," she praised, her gaze lingering on your heaving chest, the blood and sweat glistening on your skin. She paused, seeming to savour every inch of your suffering, like a connoisseur appreciating a fine meal.

"I think I'll keep you around... Mein kleines Haustier."