I Want To Write Darkfics For Bg3 As Well :'3

i want to write darkfics for bg3 as well :'3

would anyone be interested?

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

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.

one with the weave

Strade all beaten up maybe he secretly enjoys it