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guilty-pleasure-writings · 1 year

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Willing Participant - 4

Strade x F Reader (A boyfriend to death fanfic)

A story in which Strade’s next victim makes a suggestion. To his surprise he listens. OR Strade kidnaps a complete masochist who doesn’t fear death. He’s a bit taken aback by the situation.

Content warnings for this chapter: descriptions of death (but no character deaths), torture via burns, humiliation, dom/sub undertones, embodied but not enthusiastic consent, penetrative sex, forced and ruined orgasm, threats of death, profanity and food mentions. Strade is his own warning.

4600 words. Banner was made from gatobob's art. Bottom divider belongs to firefly-graphics.

Masterlist - Previous - A03

You’re still unconscious when Strade enters the shop the next morning. He surveys you with a critical eye, frowning at your pallor and shallow breathing. He’d thoroughly enjoyed two days with you. It isn’t a surprise to find you looking so weak, but it’s still disappointing.

He usually kills his victims when they reach this stage. Planning a delicious death is satisfying. Getting worked up during a scene, only to find his guest hadn’t survived the ordeal, is less so.

He sighs as he considers his options. He could fuck you one more time: bend you over the wood saw and enjoy your clenching as he inched you closer and closer to the spinning blade. Though that runs the risk of leaving him too excited afterwards.

He could give you that bath you so sweetly requested. Then when you were relaxed and pliant, he could push you under, holding you down as you thrashed. Though it’d be a pain to carry you downstairs again. Impulsive as he is, Strade frowns as he considers the impracticality of lugging your carcass around his house.

No. He’d do it the easy way. Strade thumbs the holster at his hip open and closed, trying to ignore the weight in his chest. You’d been an absolute treat. Most guests couldn’t stand him after that first hurt, flinching away from every subsequent touch. Devolving into snivelling messes by the end of the first day. The begging became repetitive and grating. The threats empty. The silences boring. You’d been none of the above.

Your witticisms are genuine. Your shamelessness, refreshing. Your receptiveness to his touch, downright delectable. Fuck – you'd climbed into his lap after that second session. Had thanked him for hurting you. You aren’t what he expected at all when he’d spotted you in that pub.

And what you’d said on that first day: That’s all I want. For somebody to hurt me. And use me. And make me scream. Fuck. It had made his blood sing, even as he’d scoffed.

Strade is unnerved when he realises that he’s experiencing something akin to disappointment. Regret? He hadn’t made you scream. Yell and sob and cry, of course. But he still wants to pry those sounds from your throat. To hear your voice blow out and turn hoarse from abuse.

“Fick,” he mutters, before turning and trudging back upstairs.

---

When you come to, Strade is scowling at you. It’s not a pleasant way to start your morning, wondering how you’d inadvertently offended him. Nothing about the situation is particularly pleasant. Your hurts are accumulating. You’re cold and stiff. The crusted blood covering you and the itch of your stitches set your senses on edge.

You grit your teeth and raise your brow. “Something wrong?”

He crosses his arms. “Du siehst scheiße aus.”

You frown at him. “I only know one of those words.”

Your abductor sighs. Takes a moment to roll his shoulders and rub his face. Some of the tension leaves his frame and when he offers you a small smile, you’re taken aback at how smoothly he can change his demeanour.

“I said you look terrible.”

You shrug and nod. “I feel terrible.”

He hums, hardly acknowledging your reply. When he thumbs open his hip holster and draws a knife something in you chills. He approaches before sinking into an easy crouch, eyeing you speculatively.

“Tch.”

Your scoff shakes him from his ponderance, and he gives you an amused smile. “You’ve had enough?”

You don’t like the gentle mockery to his tone. The condensation. He’s not the one who’d gone painfully numb from their bindings, or who’d sat in a disgusting mix of cum, blood, and at this point, piss, for three days.

You lean in, taking on a conspiratorial tone. “I look like scheiße because you’ve been sticking me like a pig for two days. Surely there’s other ways to have our fun.”

He blinks at your retort. Then throws back his head and laughs. It’s a warm sound. Hearty and genuine. He examines you with renewed interest.

“I was worried you wouldn’t have the energy for another date, but it seems you’re still lively as ever.”

That’s it then. The reason for the scowl. The dread that had blossomed in you when he’d unsheathed the knife. It seems that the moment Strade deems you unable to withstand his appetite is the moment you’ll have no further use.

The knowledge has you tingling with fear. And triumph. There’s nothing quite like the click of a puzzle piece moving into place. And people are just full of them. Characters, with stories that you can pry open and read.

And Strade is an open book that you intend to edit.

“You’ve got a whole workshop down here and I’ve only seen you use that knife. Why don’t you show me what else you can do?”

His smile matches the fervour of your own. “Would you like a tour?”

Your grin turns feral. “I’d be delighted.”

---

Strade unties you from the hardpoint with the cool assurance of a practiced predator. He zip-ties your wrists in front of you, but otherwise gives you complete range of motion. You want to scoff at his arrogance, but when he pulls you upright you realise his confidence is well placed.

The room spins when you stand, and you frown. You’re ravenous, and your mouth is bone dry. Details that had been easy to miss over your collective aches and pains. You have to lean against Strade for support, which he doesn’t seem to mind, propping you against the workbench once you cross the room.

He appears to be a jack of all trades, owning everything you’d pack into a standard toolbox, and at least the basics to get him started in several other crafts. You do notice a distinct lack of materials, though. Hammer, nails, drill bits, but no scrap wood in sight. Glass cutters but no glass. Welding equipment but no metalworks.

He works through each cupboard, seemingly happy to introduce you to each tool and explain what they’re used for. It’d almost be charming if he weren’t also going into detail about the different ways he’d maimed people with his equipment. He discusses the torture matter-of-factly, and with a hint of pride when detailing some of his more creative punishments.

You let him talk it out, as he doesn’t appear to tire of the discussion, even asking questions here and there. Less to distract him: you know he’ll get his pound of flesh by the day’s end. You keep him talking more to relax him. To endear yourself to him.

When he seems to be winding down, you let yourself butt in, giving him an teasing smile to keep things light hearted. “As incredible as that would be, I’m afraid that would involve drawing a lot of blood.”

“Right, right. Remind me to show you some of my videos later, ja?”

"Sure.”

Strade looks over the workbench, finally ready to plan out the morning. After a moment he pulls a hammer from the wall rack. “Would you like to break some bones today?”

You purse your lips. The man is deranged, offering to maim you with such boyish charm and enthusiasm. You have to bite back a smile in favour of being stern.

“Will you set them afterwards?”

“Of course, <3”

You don’t bat an eye, fixing him with a shrewd stare.

After a moment Strade deflates, pouting and lowering the hammer. “I’ll set them afterwards.”

“Unless you can do it properly, I’d like to see what else you’ve got.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh and puts the hammer back. After some consideration he opens a draw and pulls out-

“-is that a car battery?”

“It’s modified,” he says, almost defensively. “I’ve used it on people before. They usually survive.”

Usually?

You sigh, trying to play off the fear as exasperation.

This won’t do. Not at all. The whole situation is too risky and growing more fraught. If you keep turning down his ideas, if you can’t prolong your time with him, if-

“Schätzchen?”

You glance between the car battery and the hammer and take a deep breath. You need an idea, and you need it fast.

“Do you-” you hesitate. Fuck, this would suck. “Have you done any soldering?”

You could survive some burns. They’d be insanely painful, but provided Strade was careful, provided he had the right tools... the damage would only be cosmetic.

By the glint in his eye, you know you’ve stumbled onto the right answer.

“Soldering,” he hums, stepping closer to you. “Really?”

You swallow. You’re reminded of your stature when Strade boxes you in, leaning against the work bench and regarding you with growing intensity. He’s not a behemoth of a man but he’s still got a few inches on you. You flash back to the way he’d grabbed your hair and slammed your head into the wall when you’d first arrived – he's certainly not afraid to use his strength.

“Yeah, really,” you murmur, trying and failing to summon some enthusiasm into your tone.

“I like how you think, schatz .”

Before you can dredge up a response, he leans down, too close for comfort. If you didn’t know him, the fingers winding up your nape and the breath on your cheek might have been intoxicating. The sound of Strade sniffing your hair and his other hand running up your side is still thrilling, even if it fills you with wariness.

His lips close over your neck and your breath hitches. You find yourself clinging to him as he sucks a line of kisses into your throat. You wince at the feel of his teeth before relaxing into the touch.

You’re so fucking easy.

The danger of the situation, the inherent possession and arrogance of his touches; your mind goes hazy with lust. Never mind the torture ahead. Never mind the looming threat of death. You curse yourself for thinking with your cunt even as a soft moan escapes you.

At the sound, Strade’s control cracks. His hands go to your thighs, and he hoists you onto the bench. One hand fists in the hair at the back of your neck, dragging you down to his level. The other parts your knees so he can press up against you.

You lift your bound hands over his head, grasping the back of his shirt and pulling him closer. The kiss is... well if you were to judge Strade for technique alone, it wouldn’t be great. You suspect he has more experience sticking his dick in his victims than he does kissing them.

There’s no finesse. Too much spit for not enough tongue. And he’s way too liberal with the use of his teeth. You whimper when he digs his fingers into your injured thigh, skin tearing around the sutures.

“Ahff- A warm up would have been nice,” you grouch.

“This is your warm up.”

The words send a spike of fear through you. You decide to be grateful for the little things, and give yourself wholeheartedly to the kiss, wrapping your thighs around Strade and groaning against his mouth. Evidence of his excitement presses against you, but before you can reach for it Strade ducks out of your grasp, panting heavily.

His hands can’t move fast enough as he sets up, producing an extension cord from one cabinet and a soldering gun from another. Once it’s plugged in, he sets it aside. The sight of it is sobering; you swallow. This would be your last chance to back out. To ask for something else. To reason with him before bloodlust and elation overtake his rationale.

But there’s nothing to be said.

Pain shoots down your leg when he pulls you from the bench. You nearly collapse, grabbing on to him to catch yourself.

He allows the touch for a moment, smiling with lowered brows, as if to silently chide you for your clumsiness. The moment passes and he steps away before you can recover. You fall to the ground in an uncomfortable sprawl.

The time for messy kisses has passed, you realise, when his boot comes down to rest on the back of your head. He presses, experimentally, as if testing the give to your skull. Your face is pressed unpleasantly into the filthy concrete, and your breath comes out ragged.

You clench your thighs together, embarrassed by the sudden flood of warmth at your core. You bite down on your lip, reminded of how depraved you are.

“Kneel for me.”

He doesn’t move his foot.

Slowly and awkwardly, you pull your legs beneath you, propping yourself up on your knees. You close your eyes, trying to block out the abject humiliation of exposing yourself in such a way.

“Good girl.”

You nearly melt at his words. They ease the shameful burn in your cheeks and you’re suddenly less self-conscious about the position. Holding your face and chest to the ground with your ass in the air – you're too keyed up to notice the change in Strade’s stance or hear the scuff of the power cord on the cement.

He presses the iron against your back.

All the arousal in the world couldn’t stop you from feeling it. (Pain) Your whole body seizes, writhes, flattens, does anything to escape the searing touch. (It hurts) Your throat hurts. You don’t recognise the sounds you make. Don’t even realise that you’d been making them until you’re gasping for breath and the shrill cries fade. (It still hurts) If it weren’t for the boot on the back of your head, you’d have bolted. Even so you claw at the ground, struggling to move.

“How was that?”

You barely hear him over your panting. Can’t see shit past the tears blurring your vision. You try to shake your head, try to form words, but still haven’t recovered the ability to speak. (You could always scream?)

His weight shifts again. The pressure on your head lessens. You think he’s crouching.

Fingers stroke up the curve of your back. (No) You’re in so much pain you’d assumed the whole slab of your back was a blistered mess, but at his touch you know you’re still intact. (No, no, no) You know because you shake and cry with dread as his fingers work towards the mark he’d burnt into you. (Please don’t touch it)

You choke on a sob when he fingers the wound, pulling back and wincing before chuckling.

“You’re still hot.”

The weight leaves your head and Strade kneels behind you, his erection pressing against your ass. (Not now) You don’t even have it in you to moan, or grind against him. Your whole body is shaking. In the following silence you whimper. Anticipation and dread building in equal parts.

You don’t get a warning before he touches the gun to your skin again.

You screech, struggling and fighting the contact. It just makes it worse. Instead of a steady line drawn between your shoulder blades, (get away, get away) the iron dips and stutters, dotting your skin sporadically. It almost reminds you of wax play, but (it hurts) infinitely more twisted. Instead of the thrill of heat you’re experiencing the terror of molten burns.

“Shhh,” Strade puts the gun down to touch your hair. “This was your idea.”

You want to retort. To curse and spit at him and beg for mercy. But the words come out as an unintelligible stream of whimpers and sniffles. All you can do is sag against the ground, panting. Your whole body feels weak.

He laughs. Seizes you by the hair and lifts you up to your knees. He turns your face to regard him; drinking in your agony.

“Tell me how it feels.”

“H- hurts...”

“Come on. Use your words, sweetheart.”

You try again. “H- hurts more than... anything... I’ve...”

He lets out a whistle. “Now this is something I’ve got to experience.”

Strade drops you. You hear him unzip. Feel the press of his cock against your entrance. Then hesitate.

“Oh? I thought you were into this?”

You’re not wet anymore. The pain had been way too much way too soon, and you doubt anything could arouse you enough to make you slick right now.

“Tsk.” He pushes you down again, one hand on the back of your neck, crushing your face against the ground. He knees your thighs open. “Well, if you’re going to be difficult, you can at least scream for me.”

Yes. Yes, fuck, you would scream yourself hoarse if it meant pleasing him, if it meant ending this punishment sooner rather than later.

But when he presses the gun against the back of your thigh your enthusiasm drains in an instant. You shriek and buck and he draws back for a moment, leaving you to sob and try to catch your breath.

He does it again, further up your leg.

Logically you know kicking is dangerous. That you could hit Strade and piss him off. That you could knock the iron and give yourself a larger burn. That he might like watching you struggle and be prompted to keep going.

You’re not thinking logically.

You squirm and kick and cry, wiggling your ass to try and get out of the way. Strade’s hold on the back of your neck is steadfast, and you don’t succeed in anything more than bending your spine into an uncomfortable angle.

Again, he burns you, the tip now inches from your core. Hysteria takes over and you start to sob. You shake your head when he releases you. He touches your folds, holding your lips open and letting out a ‘hmm’.

“Was würde passieren, wenn ich dich damit ficken würde?” He muses.

(What would happen if I fucked you with this?)

“Please,” you wail. “Please don’t.”

You feel sick with terror. Your thigh burns but your press your backside flush against Strade, hiding your slit from him. If he were to burn you there- Fuck, you don’t even know what you’d do.

“Don’t worry, schatz. I’ll be good to you,” he soothes before pressing the iron against your ass.

You shriek and jerk, desperately trying to crawl forward. Strade lets you go a few inches before grabbing you by the ankle and yanking you back against him. You barely notice him reach around to your hands, cutting them free. When he wrenches your arms behind your back, you groan. He binds them again, heedless of how the position shifts and stretches your injuries. Then, with practiced ease he digs his fingers into your hip and rolls you over.

Lying on your injuries is agony. Your arms pinned beneath you don’t fare any better. Your breath catches and you lose focus for a moment as Strade climbs on top of you, kneeling above your thighs. He brushes the tears from your face until you can see again.

Your abductor is flushed and sweating, amber eyes sparkling with excitement. He puts the gun to the side and grabs you by the hips, grinding his length against you. Your head lolls and you whimper. All the tensing and bucking and shaking has left you exhausted. When he ruts against you, dragging his cock over the top of your folds, you can’t bring yourself to care. There’s nothing left in your reserves; no fight in you when he’s not inflicting any pain.

He doesn’t seem to mind. After a pause he spits into his hand and strokes his cock a few times, before pressing against your entrance again. Then with a jerk of his hips he sheathes himself in you, forcing you open.

Your fingers flex. Then relax. You arch your back as you’re jostled and pressed hard into the ground. Your back hurts. Your thighs hurt. Your ass hurts. Your throat, your chest, your arms: everything hurts. (Just fuck me. Fuck me and get this over with. Fuck me and let me rest) But Strade stops, and smiles at you.

“Now, schatz, I want to feel you scream.”

Your eyes are watery and you’re feeling distant. Part of you hopes that you can just tune this out. Forget yourself for a little while. Let your body relax around the familiar stretch until you’re tired enough to pass out and hopefully have painless dreams.

You’re snapped back into your body when Strade presses the soldering iron against your stomach.

You cry when he draws it along your side, tracing the length of your ribs. Then stops. Pauses for effect. Drinks in your snotty face and agonised gasping with delight.

Your whole body jerks when he circles your breast with the iron. Pauses again.

You’re shaking your head. You know what comes next.

“Please-”

He presses it against the flesh of your nipple. And holds it there.

You open your mouth and scream.

Your skin sears. The sounds that escape you are barely human.

Strade laughs. Then moans. “Du wirst so eng, wenn ich dich verletze.”

(You get so tight when I hurt you)

He removes the iron. He’s panting too, watching you with wide eyes, biting down on his lip as he takes in your dishevelled form. His hips buck as he draws a line up over your collar bone and rests the iron at the side of your neck.

Your throat feels raw from how much you’re screaming. You twitch and clench and cry. You can smell burning flesh.

“Ich könnte dich daran ersticken lassen,” he murmurs, bringing the gun to your cheek and stroking you with it.

(I could make you choke on it)

Your skin bubbles and blisters. You turn your face away, but only succeed in scraping your jaw against the gun tip, tracing another agonising line into your flesh.

He pulls the iron back again. Lets out a shuddering exhale. Then starts moving in you. Each thrust brings the gun too close to your face. Scrapes your back against the concrete. Hurts. Bitterly, dizzyingly.

You clench and freeze when the iron dips closer, inches from one of your eyes. Strade laughs at your reaction, tilting his head back and relishing the feel of you around him.

You close your eyes and focus on keeping still. On withstanding the torture; the array of terrible sensations. He’s right. You’d asked for it. And it’s this or letting him bleed you again; letting him inch you closer to death.

You open your eyes when the hand wraps around your throat. The soldering gun isn’t in sight, to your relief. It’s just you and Strade, fucking like animals on the floor. Some of the tension eeks out of you, and you let out a low groan; your whole body hurts. You can’t even derive any enjoyment from the sex; you’re practically dry.

“You look so good, liebling,” he murmurs, thumbing the burn on your face.

You sniffle and wince. “Did I do good?”

“Well, you sounded beautiful,” he agrees, smiling down at you with a gentle fondness, like he hadn’t just been melting your flesh. “Why don’t you show me what other sounds you can make?”

You can’t bring yourself to reply. Exhausted. If he wants you to put on a show for him, you’re going to be hard pressed to do anything other than lie limp and pliant, and pant in time with his thrusts. Even the panting grows difficult as his grip on your throat tightens, and your eyes start to trickle again as he digs his hand into the burn he’d just placed there.

“Come on, pet. Louder.” He punctuates the order with the press of his palm against your clit.

You wheeze and arch as he grinds its heel against you, eliciting a visceral reaction. He even pauses in his fucking to focus on you, pressing hard enough to hurt.

The pressure on your clit is overwhelming and you clench reflexively, letting out a string of whimpers and moans. His ministrations hurt and the brutal treatment of your nub is somehow enough to rekindle your desire.

“Fuck,” you groan, bucking up against his hand.

He squeezes your throat again and you clench around his cock, vision blurring, head spinning. You don’t know if it’s pain, or pleasure, or a lack of oxygen, but you are riding a high once again, moaning like a bitch in heat, eyes streaming.

You peak. And it’s over too soon. Before you can flex and shake and gasp, before you can ride out the waves of the orgasm, Strade pulls his hand away. Grabs you by the thighs and starts fucking you, lifting your hips to meet his.

You whine when he stops touching you. Legs shaking, desperate to feel his vicious touch for just a moment longer. Left on the brink, with your satisfaction torn away, you begin to despair, your orgasm ruined.

Strade doesn’t seem to notice, slamming his hips against yours. He pants over you, flushed, sweating, face contorted in pleasure, using you how he pleases. You feel the throb of his dick when he spills, and the wet heat spreading through your cunt. He takes his time riding out the aftershocks, bent over with his hands braced on either side of you.

The weight of his body against yours would probably be a comfort if he weren’t pressing against your new injuries painfully. Regardless, you lean into his chest, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder. There’s only so much you can do laying on the floor with your arms tied behind you, but you’ll be damned if you don’t at least try to ground yourself with some human contact after that particularly gruelling session.

He allows it, even lowering himself to the ground beside you, resting his head on one hand as he looks you over, contemplative once more.

You wish you know what he’s thinking about. Even as your eyelids droop and your limbs turn leaden, the suspense of the moment keeps you awake. As much as you want to pass out, or melt into the apparent cuddle, you have to ask. The words are a battle to get out of your mouth.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

He blinks, resurfacing from thought. “It was certainly satisfying. The iron was a good choice.”

You try to ignore the wicked delight to that comment. You give him a smug smile instead. “I’m full of bright ideas.”

“Oh? Are you going to share another?”

You stretch, as best you can in this position, though the movement only has you hissing in pain. You clear your throat before you answer his question, letting confidence and good humour exude from your voice. “Nasty shower sex.”

He huffs a laugh. “You have a one track mind.”

You shrug. “Followed by breakfast. I think we’ve earned some pampering.”

“We?”

“Don’t think I wasn’t impressed by your performance too. How can I reward you? A massage? A blowy in the shower? A movie night? You said you wanted to show me some videos. Or I could cook breakfast. I make a good scrambled egg.” You pause. You want to hammer in your point, but rambling if he’s not completely on board will do you no good. You swallow, and soften your tone. “This doesn’t have to be a one-time thing, Strade.”

He raises a brow. “It sounds to me like you’re bartering for time.”

You pout. “So, what if I am? Time with you could be a lot of fun.”

He chews on his lip while he considers. His eyes trace the length of your body. Each hurt he’s inflicted on you. Each mark he’s bestowed.

You wait, knowing you’ve applied just enough pressure, and that any more might foil your plan.

“I suppose a shower wouldn’t hurt.”

You smirk. “I’m sure you could make it, though.”

He processes the joke, and then laughs. “You know what, Schätzchen? I think I like you.”

You survived.

He’ll keep you forever.

But not if he knows what’s good for him.

Next Series

#btd #boyfriend to death #btd strade #boyfriend to death strade #guilty writes #my writing #willing participant #there will be more strade x masochist #strade x masochist #however this story of how they meet is self contained

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