Lawrence didn't mind it much the first few times Strade would mutter about needing some "pussy", no matter how vulgar it was. Strade didn't care for manners much anyway. Though eventually it grew agitating, he couldn't even enjoy the feeling of Strade's rough calloused fingers rubbing circles in his scalp and running through his hair. He kept talking about having a woman, and how the ones from the bar only keep his needs met for so long and how he gets tired of them too easy.

He loves Strade, loves Strade's rough german voice, his tender yet harsh touches, his warmth that he wished so desperately to borrow himself in. But this had to be the only thing he didn't like. Lawrence wished he was those basement victims sometimes, so he could have all of Strade's attention but at the same time, he didn't really want to die, not yet at least, not now. Not when such a beautiful, captivating person like Strade is around.

The next day rolls around and suddenly Lawrence is called from his room, he quickly sets his tradescantia down and goes downstairs. His heart was racing, him and Strade had this routine, After Strade would be done with his basement...affairs Lawrence would rest his head on Strade's chest as Strade would run his fingers through his scalp as he'd tell Lawrence all the details. This time Lawrence steps off the bottom step to be met with a disheveled woman, her body littered with red stitches and bandages, something Lawrence himself grew accustomed to.

Yet the thing that stood out the most was the heavy metal collar around her neck, it seemed to weigh her neck down quite a bit as her head was leaned forward. Strade held a small remote in his hand, it was a shock collar. Lawrence had noticed before that Strade had put strange sensors up around the back and front door, so it's probably for that collar she wears. Strade gleamed with pride, his hand on his hip, the other resting on her shoulder.

"Ah, my Blume, look what I have for us here, meet isn't she just so beautiful?" Lawrence grimaced at the sight and the nickname. Strade would call him "Blume" occasionally, it's flower in German. Lawrence wasn't a flower he was a Pilostyles thurberi, a parasitic plant leeching off Strade's warmth, nothing like the pretty flowers Strade was thinking about.

That woman, maybe she was a flower, a liar, that's all flowers are they look pretty to hide the truth beneath. Her beautiful? No. Strade was beautiful, everything about him is beautiful in its own sickening way. He was like a rose with many thorns, you have to have his torns tear into your flesh to appreciate his beauty.

Lawrence chose not to respond, instead he went back to his room despite Strade's calls for him to get back in there, each one becoming more angry. A week has passed since then and Lawrence has seen the woman more. She constantly shrinks away from Strade's touch but he forces it anyway, she's constantly crying and upset which Strade finds endearing while Lawrence finds it aggravating.

He wished to be her, he would sink into Strade's arms at any call to do so yet she fought against it, squirming and begging. She could never understand the beauty Strade holds. She doesn't deserve him, even now with his arm slung around her shoulder, Lawrence with his head nestled on Strade's plump thighs as they watched some shitty horror movie which Strade can't stop laughing at. Her face is recoiled in terror and hatred yet an odd submission. Lawrence could appreciate one thing though, she has to be collared while he has no collar around his neck, that's because Strade trusts him to not run, he's seen him shock her multiple times with it. That gives him a higher place in this twisted hierarchy, with her at the very bottom. Lawrence smiles at that.