bhaalsballs

[bhaalsballs]

Chrollo with “You cannot love,” M!reader please? Thank you!

tags: yandere, male reader, implied kidnapped reader, nonconsensual kissing, unhealthy relationships, generally bad vibes, brief conversation about gay orgies in ancient greece, no beta we die like men word count: 862

thank you for requesting, anon! everyone has been so polite. this event is still open for anyone interested!

Conversations with Chrollo often feel to you like prayers to an unforgiving god, or screaming into the ocean—you speak, you bare yourself, and he remains a current, ebbing in the wind—close at hand yet ungraspable, flowing through the crevices of your fingers.

"How do you see me?"

"With my eyes, love," He laughs lightly, then goes on, "Do you mean to ask what I think of you? Say, when I see you, I see a man of legendary beauty, like Hyacinthus," he says, setting his half-empty rocks glass, swirling with crystalline ice spheres and honey-brown spirits, on a leather coaster atop the nightstand. He then sits his elbows on the ample armrests of the hotel chair, entwining his fingers.

"The one who had all his consorts oil themselves naked and have orgies to prove their love for him?" you ask in the seat opposite him, tilting your head.

"There were no orgies that I am aware of."

"You don't know that. He had three gods for lovers; why wouldn't there be orgies?"

"Well, neither do you. Unless you were participating." Chrollo raises a brow.

"Would it make you jealous if I were?" you respond, smirking in his direction.

"I would wrestle you from the gods if I had to," he counters, grinning easily, dark eyes fixating on yours. The heavy weight of his gaze presses against your chest until you shift in your chair.

At possessive remarks passed off as charming compliments, he is the undisputed champion. Those words are the exact reason you asked your initial question. You clear your throat—perhaps his semantic jab was correct—you will have to rephrase in order to get the answer you are looking for.

"Then tell me what you think of me."

"I think of you as a lover, an object of worship. Do you doubt this?"

"The first part, I do. You don't know enough about me to."

"And yet," he says softly, almost amused, "you speak as though you are unknowable." He leans back, folding one leg over the other with unhurried grace. "That’s endearing." A beat passes before his voice drops, including, "But wrong."

You scoff under your breath, challenging, "And what makes you so sure?"

"I know plenty about you—plenty that you do not know yourself," he replies calmly, lidded gray eyes trailing an arduous path up and down your body. His lips slither to a serpentine simper, and he leans forward, adding in a low whisper, "You're sweating."

Perspiring palms clasp together; you had no idea. No matter, you will not reward his provocation—you think—as you drag your damp hands down the thighs of your pants.

You bite back, "And I know something about you."

"Pray, tell." Chrollo reclines again, leisurely gesturing for you to continue.

"You cannot love."

There is a brief moment, like the flicker of an old light, that his brows knit, and his smile drops. While he regains his composure in a flash, the curl of his lips never quite reaches his eyes again.

"Explain this conclusion, my love," he enjoins you, and you must strain to hear, but there is a tension tightening taut in his tone.

"No one could explain it better than you. 'An object of worship?' I am a man of flesh and blood! What you feel is a want—possession. That is not love."

Chrollo is standing in front of you by the time you blink. You gasp, pushing against the chair, but he seizes your wrist in an unyielding grip and pulls you up into him, your foreheads nearly colliding. His other hand tilts your chin aside, lips grazing a slow, deliberate path down your jawline. Shoving against him proves useless; his body is stone beneath your palms; your lack of strength versus him incenses you—makes you feel weak, kittenish. He guides your captured hand against his chest, though twist and tug, pinning it there, forcing you to feel the frantic hammering beneath his ribs, his heart thrashing like a caged animal. He lingers at the crook of your neck, breath ghosting hot against your skin before he whispers:

"Do you feel me? Feel what you do to me? At times, I think I may lose myself completely without you," he speaks on a lull of breathlessness, almost reverent. You cannot bring yourself to look him in the eyes; a medusa-state where you are sure his gaze would mean death. "If this is not love I feel for you," he breathes, hand sliding from your chin to cradle your jaw, forcing you to face him, "then perhaps I do not know what love is. But I do know this…" His pupils swallow the light, like eclipses, though he smiles thinly, fragile at the edges. "What I feel for you is not a want—it is a need."

When his lips descend on yours, you remain unmoving at first, but Chrollo is patient. He licks greedily at the seam of your mouth until you open for him, helpless against the undertow. Conversations with Chrollo are much like prayers to an unforgiving god, or screaming into the ocean—you never come out the winner.

[bhaalsballs]

sukuna & eat w/ gn reader, please?

tags: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, implied noncon, yandere, AU: heian era, gender-neutral reader, blood/spit ingestion, cannibalism, graphic depictions of violence, injury to reader, implied kidnapping, throat fucking (?), not beta read we die like men word count: 506

thank you for requesting anon! this event is still open for anyone interested! no preview before read more cause this gets fucked up, like, immediately.

Your body no longer feels your own. Beastly hands knead your flesh, down your sternum to your navel, clasped around your wrists, up your calf to your thigh, pinning your ankles. There is not an inch on your skin you do not feel him pawing, scratching—sundering screams from your throat. He is everywhere; sinking his teeth into the tender meat of your thigh and tearing you open. Blood black as pitch crusts his face as ripe red beads ooze from his lips, drizzling back down to your wound. Rapidly, your flesh reconstructs, allowing him to gorge on you again and again and again.

Mercy, he said. This was his mercy. Your body for your village; a trade far too simple for the truth it entailed. A sorcerer, you are, though not a fighter. There is no cursed technique you can call your own; however, you possess a rare affinity for reversing cursed energy. In your village you were a renowned healer, the like of which is only born once an era. Now, you remain but a feast for the hulking creature before you.

He is grotesque. A massive amalgamation of limbs, both monstrous and horribly human. The eyes are most dreadful; the way his excitement radiates off his four pupils in hot, heady waves—you wish they were worse, unrecognizable. You wish his desire was not so understandable, so you would not be weighed with the burden of this knowledge; he has taken a keen interest in you, one of a dangerous extent.

"Not many receive such doting attention from me… and live," Sukuna drawls, half mumbling from a mouth full of flesh. His top left hand's claws drag just above the point of puncture, circling over the top of your pelvis. "Won't you thank your lord for his benevolence?"

With a look of complete captivation, he draws a thin line of blood on your stomach, watching in awe as the scrape seals, muscle and tissue stitching together instantaneously. You bite your bottom lip, willing a whimper away—you cannot allow yourself to give anymore to him, not when he has already taken so much.

"Speak," his voice rumbles like thunder in his chest.

"Fuck you—!"

Sukuna interrupts you by crashing his lips into yours, his face so much larger than yours it feels as if he is attempting to devour you head first. His kiss is filthy, full of fluids flowing down your chin. Saliva and blood mix in a bitter, briny taste, flooding your tongue in an overwhelming deluge. You sputter and choke as he forces his tongue in your mouth, the long, slimy appendage nearly fucking into your throat. You kick in aimless directions, beating his back and dragging blood under the bed of your nails, whipping your arms around wildly, desperate to hit something, anything at all. He does not budge, only breaking away to whisper into your flesh, his breath humid, burning as if steam against your skin.

"Resilient child, how far may I bend you before you break?"

[bhaalsballs]

prompt request event!

hello, everyone! i am a relatively new blog in this space, so im going to open up a prompt event to garner a bit more activity over here.

please check out my navigation page for about me, my masterlist, etc., and feel free to check out my most recent fic to get a feel for my writing.

prompts:

movie quotes

format your request for this prompt as so: character + "quote." M/F/GN reader, SFW/NSFW

words

format your request for this prompt as so: character + "word." M/F/GN reader, SFW/NSFW

requests are open indefinitely, i will make an announcement post when they close.

i am a dead dove blog, primarily writing "yandere" content. no minors! also, i write specifically for F/F, M/M and gender-neutral readers. keep this in mind. below the read more i will outline request etiquette for my event.

read my rules & what i write

one character per prompt, per ask

NSFW is ok, if you do not specify i will choose to make the request SFW/NSFW myself. of course, if you do not care, no need to specify.

please specify if reader is gender-neutral or not, and afab/amab in heavy smut cases. if a request does not specify, i will default to gender-neutral 99% of the time.

on that note, trans readers are ok--i am a trans man.

[bhaalsballs]

what i write.

keep in mind this may be subject to change, characters and fandoms may be added or removed. i may write for fandoms/characters outside of this list, but it will be few and far between; however, these are the only characters i answer asks/take requests for.

characters and fandoms are sorted alphabetically.

baldur's gate 3:

enver gortash, orin the red

chainsaw man:

aki hayakawa, kishibe, makima

hunter x hunter:

chrollo lucifer, feitan portor, illumi zoldyck, machi komacine

jujutsu kaisen:

mahito, ryomen sukuna (specifically heian era), satoru gojo, suguru geto

[bhaalsballs]

hell must be cold. | yandere chrollo x reader

tags: noooot explicitly NSFW but definitely pretty steamy, yandere, gender-neutral reader, bleeding, coercion, injury with weapon, semi-established relationship, implied sex, mentions of murder, mentions of torture, multiple (failed) attempts at murder, violence, no beta we die like men word count: 2.1k

You begin to harbor serious doubts about your relationship with Chrollo.

No shadow can be cast onto Earth in the absence of Sun; mirages of clear, sparkling reservoirs in long stretches of desert, and the fata morgana—which inversely appear upon the water—are supposed to be tricks of light. The man who stands before you, his eyes seem entirely void of illumination. Reflective of nought. A fathomless gray sky of rumbling thunder clouds, churning on like a raging tempest, as bleak as a new moon night.

How would one cast a shadow onto an object bereft of light? A new light source must be introduced, or conjured into existence; you posited you could set a Sun in the palm of your hands, and shape a shadow yourself. Yet the purpose has been blurred, lost somewhere in the inevitable fall of dusk. Admittedly, you have been dallying, indulging time, savoring these nights in truth.

As he kisses you, slow and serene, you speculate if he is aware that you think of him so pessimistically. His dark eyes lid, yet never close, as though you may vanish into mist any instant. You surmise he must know; if not by his constant stare, then by the wild manner he peels his gentlemanly veneer as immediately as he caresses your flesh. Poise crumbles like sand as he skims his hand down your spine, grains falling between the crevices of his fingers. Chrollo's shoulders slacken, and his other hand draws up the side of your torso, ghosting over your throat and grasping your cheek, sharply tilting your jaw further toward his. He swallows your ensuing gasp straight into his mouth, ravenous, tongue greedily lapping up all you keep inside. Moments like these, you truly believe he means to devour you, and you don't let him—you willfully goad him.

You pull him by the hips, arching your back so your chests brush together, groaning into his lips. Eagerly, he accepts your advances, arm slithering just above your sacrum, embracing you tight in a serpent-like coil. Your bodies rub nigh to the point of fusing into one. The friction fosters heat, yet you still cannot help but experience him as cold. Rime dusts your joined skin, rapidly rising steam freezing as you comb through his black hair, middle-parted and finely primed. Such pleasantries of his appearance will not hold; you seek to dishevel him completely, to allow yourself to be glaciated in whole.

The more of him you touch, the more you feel you are groping at the negative of a photograph—emulsion-sweat seeping in your skin, slick as his saliva spilling over your tongue, your shadow slipping away. Chrollo shrugs off his suit coat, breaking away for only a fraction of a second before he is upon you again, as though trying to superimpose his body on yours, as your shadow imposes onto his. His speed is frightening—enthusiasm doubly; you doubt you can match pace. That vigor alone may well overpower even adept Nen users.

From behind, you see his hair has loosened in strands that brush his damp neck, and his white shirt clings to him, wetted in sweat, each seam outlining the carved ridges of his back. You had not imagined such a physique when you first met him, though certainly not an unwelcome sight. In the low dark, you catch but a faint sheen along his spine, the subtle shift of his shoulder blades with each movement. He is entirely engrossed, utterly unguarded.

Chrollo's lips part from yours, a needle-thin thread of spit fraying between you as he dips in toward the crook of your neck. His hand comes gently to cup the back of your head, angling it so your throat's side is vulnerable. Softness swiftly gives way to savagery; his grip hardens, now firmly securing you in place as he tenderizes your supple flesh, kissing, licking, and biting marks into every inch left exposed. You twitch, quiver, and groan, grunting and jerking even as his teeth sink into a particularly sensitive spot, but he holds you still, inescapable. This is not so terrible; you would not mind letting him go on forever, letting this night be eternal. Killing the anticipation feels akin to saying goodbye.

Yet dawn must rise all the same.

He walks backward, tugging you along with him; you think Chrollo is taking you to the bed, but he stops by the nightstand and switches on the lamp. The light pours onto your forms, illuminating two bodies, one shadow.

An avalanche barrels toward you with sudden and sickening conviction, but your body is buried already.

"Your Nen… it must require considerable concentration," he rasps breathlessly into your skin, each word accentuated by cool puffs of air. "I'm impressed, truly, that you've managed to maintain it during such… lively activities."

What he speaks of is your shadow, or rather your lack thereof, since severed and set creeping. While kissing, your shadow slithered away and circled around him, using the darkness as a shroud. Once you had him on the bed, you were going to kill him; your shadow-puppet would pin him from behind, and you would bring a dagger down onto his chest while he remained reeling from surprise. That was the idea, at least. Perhaps not all is lost just yet—your shadow still lies in waiting.

Promptly, you weave to the side while your shadow lunges. He smoothly dodges, and you unsheathe your blade simultaneously, thrusting the dagger en route for his heart as your shadow bounces back, careening off the corner of the hotel room and phasing toward him. Chrollo reaches for your wrist, and your shadow displaces in the shade of the furniture, re-emitting through his own shadow, and taking place in front of you so you have a chance to back step. Whirling around him, you raise your blade once more while your shadow manifests a copy of the knife's cast. At once, both forms descend their weapons upon him.

Blades plunge through the air as he pivots, ducking and sliding out of your aim. You brace yourself, shadow immediately turning to guard your body, yet he makes no act of aggression. A black book appears in one of his hands, quickly flipping through pages as though blown open by wind. Your shadow charges while you attempt to dash at his flank. Before you are able to get to him, he stops his book at a particular page, humming and extending his free hand outward. As your shadow propels toward him, his palm outstretches, a blinding white light emerging and coating the room in an overwhelming brightness, as if unleashing a miniature star. Your arms shoot up to cover your eyes, and your shadow dissolves to a haze, hissing, with no darkness to hold form.

Despite the loss of your Nen, you push through the light, trying to listen for breathing or the shifting of clothes to locate him. You thrust your dagger at the sound of footsteps to your right, but are swept off your feet by a kick to your ankles. The white unwinds like a yarn skein yanked by its strand, and you must blink rapidly to regain your sight. When you come to, your knife is knocked across the room, and your wrists are pinned above your head.

Chrollo holds your wrists together in one hand, face hovering above yours, appraising you with raised brows and an easy grin, his eyes an impenetrable gale.

"Will you kill me, now?" you ask, and he tilts his head as though your question is if the sky was green.

"Pray tell, why would I do that?"

"I was sent to kill you."

"Oh, you weren't that threatening," he replies, smile curling upward. Your jaw drops so fast you swear it must have fallen from your skull.

"…So, are you going to torture me? Try to learn who employed me?"

"Hah, you are quite pessimistic. Won't you tell me, was all of this a ruse?" he chuckles shortly, trailing a finger down your cheek.

"My employer told me you were too strong to face head-on. So I thought I could get close to you, get your guard lowered," you say simply. He does not need to know anything else; you were simply doing your job.

"Do try to answer the question I asked," he tuts, running his thumb across your bottom lip. You grimace. Is this some sort of humiliation ritual? If he knew all along, what did any of it matter to him?

"Not all of it," you respond as flat and vague as possible, though Chrollo hums, evidently pleased.

"Curious. Are there any examples that come to mind?" He smooths the wrinkles in the collar of your shirt, fingers sliding beneath the hem and ghosting over your clavicle.

"What's the point of this? Are you going to peel off my fingernails or what?"

"No, I rather like them scratching down my back. Will you answer my question?"

"Fuck you!" you shout, incensed by his vulgar teasing. You tug your wrists, but his grip does not budge. He merely trails his other hand, slow and steady, down your chest.

"I'm sure you would. Will you answer my question?" He repeats, dipping in toward your lips and whispering, "I'll tell you what I believe." He rubs gentle circles at your waist, voice dropping. Your shadow, reformed, slips from your body. "I believe you like seeing me undone, no, you love when I—"

"I liked talking to you."

Chrollo halts, and for a brief moment, you see the flash of a glimmer, like a bolt of lightning, shine deep in the storm of his eyes. His mouth hangs open, words stolen, as he stares at you like you're the only other person in the world. Even you hesitate, the air still, and at once, warm.

With a lurch, your shadow stabs into his back. Absentminded, he senses your Nen a second too late, swiftly swiveling but unable to completely avoid the shade's knife. The blade sheathes in his shoulder, missing the target of his spine. Not a fatal injury, but you are left with enough room to scramble out from beneath him. A grunt slips past his clenched teeth, and you recognize it for what it is: not pain alone, but disbelief. You clamor for your corporeal dagger on the floor as the shadow copy dissipates from his back. You want to scream so badly the sound aches in your chest. You had him! How could you have missed?

He stands straight, calmly, deliberately, as though rising from prayer. The lamplight paints the slope of his shoulder in gold, glistening crimson where blood seeps through the white of his shirt. His hand does not clutch the wound; the limb hangs languidly at his side, as if acknowledging the gash would diminish him. Then… he laughs. Low at first, a soft exhale that rumbles in his chest, but builds to the point he bends from the weight, hugging his stomach.

“You really…” Chrollo breathes between chuckles, lifting his gaze to you, eyes brighter, sharper, more alive than you have ever seen them, “You truly got me.” He speaks not in mockery but candid wonder.

Knuckles paling, you clench the hilt of your blade so hard you hear it creak. Your shadow readies to retaliate against any sudden strikes, yet he only smiles, faint and unnervingly calm, blood still leaking steadily down his arm.

Then, softly, he says, "Leave the city with me."

His words disarm you almost more than his laughter had. You blink, stunned.

"If I don’t return with your head, I’ll be killed."

"You won't return." He steps closer, and your throat tightens, blade raised and trembling. "And you won't be killed—if you're with me."

Chrollo's black book manifests again, fluttering open as if the pages already knew where to fall. Before you can attack a blinding flare erupts from his palm, swallowing the room in searing white, dispelling your shadow-puppet to the umbral realm once more. Faltering in the afterimage, you stagger, and your dagger is wrenched from your fist. A hideous crunch follows—your wrist snapping like brittle kindling, and your blade clinks to the floor. Chrollo holds your broken wrist to the wall, pinning you, his expression as easy as ever.

"Then I don't have much of a choice," you groan, half in pain, half in resignation.

"Good," his tone smooths, almost tender. "I don't recall giving you one."

He brings your aching wrist to his lips, leaving a ginger kiss atop the skin, and you are sure, if this man is Lucifer, then hell must be cold.

[bhaalsballs]

vena cava. | orin the red x f!reader

tags: not SFW, reader is not tav, female reader, pre-canon, biting, cannibalism, force feeding, gore, graphic violence, hate-sex, minor character death, murderous ideation, oral sex (receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, sex in immediate proximity to a corpse, sex covered in blood, strangulation, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT word count: 3.7k

orin wants to know your atrocities, and know atrocities against you.

“And He walks with me, and He talks with me…” 

Your cleaver is supped from its tender meat-sheath, drizzling in sanguine glaze. Shining ichor drip-drops in a piddling pitter-patter down your blade to the floor. Intently, you watch as blood drenches boring beige carpeting in a desirous deep red, each droplet soaking and spreading in small amoeba-like shapes.  

“…And He tells me I am His own.” 

In a single, swift motion your cleaver tears through bone and fatty tissue like parchment, sundering hand. The limb spews skinny streams of crimson from its pruned stub. Some spits onto your fingers, still warm, still pumping quite too lively. Sever wrist from arm, now split gut from skin. You retract and stab, digging in to unearth your buried treasure. Bubbling blood boils up to the surface—pooling and spilling below the hilt of your blade. You are met with resistance this time, a recoil from the flesh-cocoon swaddling your visceral prize, the sorry thing curling into himself before he flops back down stiff. A miracle he still lives, although by a thread. Such is the beauty of mortal resolve, only truly witnessed through Bhaal’s ruthless doctrine.  

“And the joy we share as we tarry there…” 

Trembling and groaning, barely a sound rasps between the coughs of his fluid-filling lungs, so pathetic you almost pout. That would-be corpse hopelessly clings to his life, once a man, a son, a brother, perhaps even a betrothed. His eyes, rolled into the back of his head, turning pink and bulging veins, tell you he is nothing. The pallid, bovine face his skull wears grimaces a thousand different ways, all strained, all in agony. Dig and twist inside, he chokes and jerks forward, hands flailing to claw, to yank, to beg, yet too weak to do anything but shake like autumn leaves. How he fights so hard for it to mean so little, how his legs kick in aimless directions, how his throat swelled, scratched, sore from screaming can do no greater than bellow like a bull begging for its slaughter.  

Both of your hands around the blade’s hilt and drag downward, drawing a crude crimson line from sternum to pelvis. A gaping cavern is torn open and the treasure you seek is yours for the taking. Deft fingers take the place of blade, squash, squish and squelch, slick sticky scrambling as the silver scent sifts your synapses. You push through the swamp of would-be offal, prod around intestines, and plow beneath ribs to find the jewel. You caress the sapless thing, still beating insipidly inside. 

His heart is harvested still ripe red from the body, cupped in your palm, spurting puny bits of blood in its last one, two, three pumps. The final but a sputter before its relent, a hiss, a spit, then still, silent. A smile crawls across your lips. You have drained all vitality from this organ bag, and there was no greater joy to be had in the private pleasures of Bhaal. 

“…None other has ever known,” you sing to yourself. 

But another has known and wants to know. Wants to know your atrocities and know atrocities against you. 

Orin is felt, before she is seen. Her mere presence seems to coil in tendrils around the edges of light, flickering the flame of candlesticks until they are smothered cold. Goosebumps rise on the nape of your neck, the air once burning now bites with frost, stale and stagnant, as if holding breath alongside your anticipation. Orin has always had a way of halting the world in her step, stopping and directing all life to the jagged edge of her dagger. You have never been exempted from this rule, despite the way your fingers croon to wring her throat, and the way your palms sweat with the dream of her blood wetting them.  

Step after soft step, she chooses to circle you like a vulture. At once you hear her stalking to your left, and in the same second, she slithers to your right. You smell the reek of day-old carrion fused with the noxious stench of sewer fumes. The oppressive odor twists in your nostrils, mingling with the damp scent of sweat and copper. Dread rises like bile in your throat; you hate how she inspires it with such terrific ease. You strain to listen, to catch any hint of where she might be, but the sound is disorienting, deliberately chaotic. Your fingers claw into fists, and a shudder tremors up your back so fiercely you feel a quake in your bones.   

“Oh, how you rend flesh to ribbons! Split them, sever them, bathe in the sinews!” Her voice buzzes alight with fanaticism. Cold fingers caress your spine, and she cackles as you bristle like a cat. You catch first the pearly whites of her eyes as she strides forward. She soaks in the pallor of the moon bleeding through the curtains, striking her pewter pale skin an even sicker shade. “Your cruelty always hungers me so. What venom must pump through your veins and how I long to taste it,” Orin ebbs on a lull of breathlessness, as if she can barely contain all the words she speaks within her lung capacity. 

As she closes in you hear her excitement: her blood thrumming just underneath the skin, her whole form trembling as if a roaring engine. Crawling, she straddles the corpse and sits herself atop it, making the dead man her throne. The edges of her black lips curl in a mad, ear-to-ear grin as she leans toward you. Red, vein-like marble that swirls in her skin semes to flux and flow faster. She takes your free hand and forces you to feel the thunderous drumbeat of her heart, rattling against the bars of its cage. You fantasize that the heart of your sacrifice is hers, and wonder just how long hers would beat past its prime, how much blood would gurgle from its faucets; would it run warm or cold? 

“My heart beats so fast I wish to claw it out my ribcage, it surges ache in my body, it itches me to tear your throat, to see your guts spill, just so that this treacherous organ may stop beating inside me.” Orin exemplifies her words by cupping her other hand around the one that holds your victim's heart, still pressing your other firm to her chest. She raises the organ for you both to behold, admiring the organ with a softness unspeakable. “I will sate myself on your sing-screaming today, but tomorrow…. tomorrow I may gorge myself completely.” 

“My blade is stayed, Orin,” you hiss, yet meet the fervor in the ivory void of her gaze. She chuckles, and the mirth washes over you in waves. You loathe her, you loathe her so much you long for her in your every breath. You yearn to snap open the shine of her skull; to shatter her kneecaps into a billion shard-like pieces and to lick the blood she spits out her wretched lips. Taste her, taste her, claw her open, and crawl inside her! Your fist clenches, squeezing the heart in your grasp until gore melts like jelly between your fingers, crushed in your unforgiving palm. “Keep me full so it is not my cleaver that caresses your flesh.”  

Orin’s tongue wets her dark-inked lips, and she dives to taste the gore that stains you. Her swift tongue trails up your palm, takes a finger into her mouth and swirls, licks each digit like a kitten and bites the tip of your index finger as she slides it out of her mouth, spit slick wet. Blood, sweat, guts, she greedily takes everything for herself. Exhaling shakily as she takes your thumb between her teeth, she pokes it playfully with her tongue; a faux soothing gesture. This time when she bites, she is rabid, pain jolts up your thumb to your shoulder like electricity, when she releases it from her lips you nearly fear to see the tip missing. The digit exits her lips with a “pop!” still whole yet swollen red and bleeding.  

There is not a moment of reprieve before Orin’s lips slam against yours. Teeth clash against teeth, and she shoves her tongue down your throat. You taste your blood on her, mingled with that of the carrion that sits below her. She will not let you breathe, intent to taste every last inch of your mouth with a wild fervor. The sheer relentlessness of her assault leaves you in shock when she pulls back. She gnaws on your bottom lip as if testing the waters, before pulling the tender flesh between her teeth. Iron fills your mouth more concentrated than before, and Orin licks a line of blood that drips down the corner of your lips. She reconnects with you one last time, and separates leaving a red-twinged line of salvia keeping you still attached. Your bottom lip throbs with dull pain. 

“Your blood is like ambrosia. Let me taste more, and more, and more, and moreandmoreandmore,” the longer she goes on, the more her words become distorted into a gibberish fit of giggling.  

You scoff, and then respond to her in scorn, “So that you may lash at my throat like a mad hound? Allow me to pay you due retribution.” 

Bold, your hands slink to her hips, ghosting over her exposed skin, trailing the slow, undulating waves of carmine that plume beneath it. Settling your palms firmly on her waist, your nails dig into the plush and flip her body so that her back hits the floor with a resounding thud. You then feel upwards, across the rough and rigid edges of her vermilion armor, fleeting over her breasts until you reach her throat. She does nothing but snicker and sneer as you close your grip around her neck, searing you with her white-hot glare. You clench until her larynx ceases its proper function, amused simpers choking into whistle-gasps. Finally, that mouth of hers is silenced, and there is no music in all Faerûn more pleasant to your ears.  

Gagging loud and caricatured, she writhes around like a worm wriggling on a fishhook. You bend to her level and narrow your gaze, watching as her eyes crinkle upwards. Clearly, more effort must be made to shut her up. Slotting your lips against hers, you are sure to take control this time, voracious, swelling in desire, driven by a desperate hunger that compels you to rip her to shreds. The aching curl of arousal churns inside your stomach, gnawing, growling, drooling with the ache to mince and mangle. Your tongue does not ask for entry, it demands it. You tighten your grip around her throat and delight in the way she chokes into your mouth. A maddening zeal overtakes you, filling you to the brim and spilling out your lips, keeping you drunk and distracted. While you are so engrossed, Orin strikes the side of your head with blunt end of her dagger, and you fall clamoring to the ground. You do not get a second to coddle the injury, as she wastes no time in taking her place above you. 

“So brazen it is, with little brawn to back it up.” She laughs when all you respond with is a glare, your head pounding with a stinging pain. Her lips ghost over the shell of your ear when she whispers, “Such a cute creature it is, prey playing pretend at predator.” 

“You--” Your attempt at a rebuttal is swiftly cut short by Orin’s canines burrowing into your flesh. A high, tumult noise is drawn from between your clenched teeth, and you flinch upwards—an action that is promptly reprimanded by Orin, as she digs in deeper, holding your hips still and groaning madly into your neck. She pulls back only to clean the mess she made, tracing over puncture marks with the flat of her tongue and lapping up the blood that drips from the wound. You snarl, steadying your hands on her hips as she contents herself with sucking and nibbling at your carotid pulse. She gratifies herself with the thumping of your racing heartbeat on her lips, grinding down on your thigh with one hand ambling up your navel. Muttering something low and obscene into the dip of your shoulder, she draws away from her assault on your neck.  

“I am soon to be Bhaal’s chosen, my rightful place in Father’s unholy purpose, and you…” She trails off, occupying herself with stripping you bare. You almost want to laugh. Orin, Bhaal’s chosen? What of the Dragonborn? The train of thought is lost when she gropes your now exposed breasts, tweaking your nipples between a finger and a thumb, forcing a mewl from you. “…You are but the innards that decorate his sanctum.” She tugs again, another depraved sound following soon after. Eager to hear more, she drags a finger up your still covered slit, your underwear the last piece of cloth she left remaining—the rest tattered beyond repair across the floor. You are soaking; you already know it. Your thighs clench and rub together to alleviate some friction. Orin slaps your thigh in rebuke, adjusting herself so she is kneeling between your legs.  “I will whet you on my edges. Then you may become a honed blade, and only then may we give each other true agony.” 

“I will become stronger—you have my word. These innards will not rest until you die by my hand,” You bare your teeth, yet you do not try to protest her insults toward your ability, because you are well aware she tells the truth. The gap of strength between you feels insurmountable at times. It is the source of your envy, and your envy is both the bearer of your hatred and the birth of your yearning. They were once at a constant tug-of-war, now, you cannot help but experience them all as one emotion.  

Orin cares little for your remark, her patience having clearly run thin, she rips off your last garments in one fell swoop—leaving you vulnerable and exposed in a slimy swamp of gore. Carnage marring you and her alike, already crusting and clotting, creating a crude carapace. She nuzzles your thigh, the nicks of her teeth slinking down, dragging against the sensitive skin, sometimes sinking in, just to let go a hair’s breadth before she leaves an indent. Her path has a purpose, meticulous and enthusiastic at once. A cat toying with a mouse; the perfect picture of a predator playing with its meal.  

Meanwhile, your breathing picks up at an erratic pace. You flinch as her cool tongue licks a long stripe up your inner thigh, stopping right before she touches where you want her the most. She seems keen to play this game for as long as it pleases her. When you finally feel her searing breath fan on your aching cunt, she swiftly pulls away to bully a bruise into the flesh beside it. An agitated groan slips out, and your back arches in a weak attempt to get her closer. Her hands tremble in excitement where they hold your hips unwaveringly still, and she tuts when you continue to struggle against her. 

“You are greedy. Let me slake your thirst,” she purrs. You yelp as she abruptly tugs you by the hips and laves a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on your vulva before attaching herself to your clit and sucking. Grinding upwards into her mouth, you feed her indulgence at the moment of contact, moaning blissfully the instant her tongue touches your clit. She shifts lower, pulls your legs further apart and throws them over her shoulders. Drool and teeth, hot and heady; she feasts on you, her face pressing as close as she can physically get. She moans, and the sound reverberates against your pussy and up the length of your spine.  

Rapidly mounting pleasure leaves you sweating, sweltering, heat pooling from your core and washing over your whole body in waves. Your back arches as two fingers slide into your entrance alongside her tongue, spreading you open so her undivided attention can attend to your clit. The unbearable ache Orin has caused within you since the moment you crossed paths is at long last being nourished. She cursed you with this hunger, so it is only fair for her to alleviate it. She is merciless, grinding the flat of her tongue into your clit as her slender fingers pump in quick, forceful thrusts inside you. Orin seems intent to punish you with a brutal pleasure you cannot escape—and you do not want to. You want all and everything she can give, no matter the savagery. 

“Such brilliant depravity you showcase. I will milk your sin from your body until you are dried of its supply,” Orin pulls away from your cunt with a wet pop, but you do not miss the stimulation for long. She grinds the heel of her palm into your clit as her fingertips scrape against something soft and pliant inside of you, a third finger soon being added. The spot is abused relentlessly, her thrusts never failing to hit it with a sadistic kind of precision. Your head lulls to the side in ecstasy, and she takes advantage of your newfound vulnerability. She kisses slobbering up the slant of your shoulder, teeth sinking into the mark she left earlier, bent on leaving a permanent scar in her wake. “Give it a little pleasure and it becomes such a sweet kitten. Your sharp threats cut me, and now your sing-screaming soothes me.” 

Blood boils in your veins, pumping with a blistering burn inside you. The muscles in your thighs tense, and a death-like shudder quakes up your spine. Tension tightens like a taut rope in your core, threads fraying rapidly as your release builds and builds. Orin catches on to this, her already vicious pace growing harder, faster. Your legs slide off her shoulders as her free hand becomes occupied. Pleasure ascends so quickly you are rendered incapable of coherent thought; whatever she is doing is beyond your comprehension. That is until she shoves something raw and metallic down your throat, the soft-textured, chewy thing melts like meat jelly in your mouth. The taste is heady of liver.  

“Cum. I wish to watch as corruption reaps your flesh,” she sing-songs. 

You sputter, choking down the piece of organ like swallowing fire. Orin’s fingers stay lodged in your mouth, keeping your jaw wedged open and pressing down on your tongue. She gestures them in a manner that has her digits fucking into your mouth. Your tongue wraps around them, licking up the sides and flitting her fingertips. The blood that soils them is cleaned with an astute expertise, greedily savoring the potent taste of iron. Her hands movements turn short, erratic, as she edges you closer and closer to your climax, creeping onto you, piercing ablaze all throughout your body. Vision spotting, a muffled, keening whine torn from your lips, and the final string of tension is snapped; you come undone around her fingers. Your hips raise and buck into her, desperate not to miss a second of pleasure. 

When you fall limp, her fingers slide out of your mouth, yet the other hand stays curled securely inside your pussy, thrusting just as fervently. Tears grow heavy on your waterline, and a droplet trickles down your cheek which she promptly licks off. Orin does not let up, rubbing and rubbing your throbbing clit with her thumb and still hastening her pace. You cry out and clench around her, feeling the warm slippery slick slithering down your thighs. Pangs of overstimulation hit you like lightning, cracking and shocking nerves aglow. Your voice strangles itself into throaty whines and broken whimpers, jaw falling open in a silent scream. Nails dig into her wrists as you try to pry her away; the sensations seethe inside your gut, swelling from shattering to agonizing. All strength has been viciously sapped from your body; resistance futile. 

A second climax tears you asunder, entirely inconsolable by the time her fingers finally pull out, loudly and openly sobbing. Your chest heaves as your lungs desperately try to reclaim air inside them. She chuckles darkly, sliding her slick soaked fingers past her own lips. Her pleasure is audible, a reveling hum resonates from deep within her throat as she cleans herself of your soil. Weakened so greatly, you can do nothing but watch listlessly as those damnable fingers plop out of her mouth soused in saliva, eyes following the dewy shine of moonlight that glistens off her skin, and the drool that slowly drips down her chin. She kisses you anew, just as harsh and dominating as before, but now, you can hardly keep up. You taste yourself on her—your blood, your sweat, your tears, your cum—you taste all at once.  

“Poor, needy thing. Have I supped it of vigor? Is this truly all it has to offer?” She looms over you, casting her shadow across your face. “…It can’t be…,” she whispers, the plates of her armor clanking to the floor as she bares herself. “We are not yet finished, we are far, far from finished.”  

Part of you jumps at the urge to beg for mercy—to hell with your pride, to the pits with your dignity—but this idea concludes quickly. Your mind blanks as your sight falls upon her naked breasts, shamelessly ogling as they hover above you. Orin notices this, smirking knowingly as she crawls forward, your pupils firmly planted on the slight sway of her perk nipples. Your gaze lowers from her chest, down her abdomen, to her cunt, likely just as soaked as yours. You realize how much of you she has tasted, and how little of her you have in turn.  

Revitalized, you flip her over once more, your teeth now the ones to tear at her throat. You keep biting until you feel fresh ichor flow into your waiting mouth, lapping up the ferrous substance with blatant greed. Orin moans out rapturously, nails clawing down your back, dragging until she draws blood of her own. You grunt in response, biting again and again and again until the only thing you can see is red. When you inevitably withdraw, you wipe your face with your forearm, kissing aimlessly down her body as she cackles ceaselessly.  

“No, Orin… We haven’t even started.” 

[bhaalsballs]

Who else wants to be subjected to the Horrors of sex with Orin? Blood perverts to the front please. Not kidding. Nasty time!

Even something as simple as kissing her is perverse, all tongues and teeth and blood- yours, hers, and whoever was unlucky enough to be around both of you. It was someone you knew, now a rabidly cooling corpse underneath you as she invades your mouth. Her knife, still slick with their blood, is hovering dangerously over your thigh. She’s already carved her name on you in four different spots, what’s another?

Her blood slick fingers slither under your clothes, stroking sensitive flesh to ease the pain of the knife dragging up your thigh. How generous. You whimper into her mouth and she grins, biting down on your lip before pulling back with an animated gasp. She rolls her hips in your lap, the blood from your lip dripping off her lips and onto her chest. You’re enthralled, your hands finding her hips as you watch the blood droplets drip from her chest, to her navel, all the way to the junction of her thighs until it disappears between you. She theatrically twirls the knife in her hand before dragging it down your chest and you throw your head back. Whether it’s in pain or ecstasy, you’re not sure. You’re delirious with sensations, and you’re not sure she’s faring so differently. Her hips roll rhythmically, stuttering a bit when you dig your nails into her hips hard enough to break the skin.

Anyone witnessing this union would think it disgusting, depraved- but that’s of no consequence to you. You pull your own knife from the corpse below you, looking up at her with a love-drunk, blood-stained smile before cutting into her thigh. She keens, back arching. Her own knife slicing deeper into your chest. Blood pools beneath you both, evidence of your shared devotion. You’ve never felt so alive.

[bhaalsballs]

my first words were no live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality

[bhaalsballs]

hell must be cold. | yandere chrollo x reader

tags: noooot explicitly NSFW but definitely pretty steamy, yandere, gender-neutral reader, bleeding, coercion, injury with weapon, semi-established relationship, implied sex, mentions of murder, mentions of torture, multiple (failed) attempts at murder, violence, no beta we die like men word count: 2.1k

You begin to harbor serious doubts about your relationship with Chrollo.

No shadow can be cast onto Earth in the absence of Sun; mirages of clear, sparkling reservoirs in long stretches of desert, and the fata morgana—which inversely appear upon the water—are supposed to be tricks of light. The man who stands before you, his eyes seem entirely void of illumination. Reflective of nought. A fathomless gray sky of rumbling thunder clouds, churning on like a raging tempest, as bleak as a new moon night.

How would one cast a shadow onto an object bereft of light? A new light source must be introduced, or conjured into existence; you posited you could set a Sun in the palm of your hands, and shape a shadow yourself. Yet the purpose has been blurred, lost somewhere in the inevitable fall of dusk. Admittedly, you have been dallying, indulging time, savoring these nights in truth.

As he kisses you, slow and serene, you speculate if he is aware that you think of him so pessimistically. His dark eyes lid, yet never close, as though you may vanish into mist any instant. You surmise he must know; if not by his constant stare, then by the wild manner he peels his gentlemanly veneer as immediately as he caresses your flesh. Poise crumbles like sand as he skims his hand down your spine, grains falling between the crevices of his fingers. Chrollo's shoulders slacken, and his other hand draws up the side of your torso, ghosting over your throat and grasping your cheek, sharply tilting your jaw further toward his. He swallows your ensuing gasp straight into his mouth, ravenous, tongue greedily lapping up all you keep inside. Moments like these, you truly believe he means to devour you, and you don't let him—you willfully goad him.

You pull him by the hips, arching your back so your chests brush together, groaning into his lips. Eagerly, he accepts your advances, arm slithering just above your sacrum, embracing you tight in a serpent-like coil. Your bodies rub nigh to the point of fusing into one. The friction fosters heat, yet you still cannot help but experience him as cold. Rime dusts your joined skin, rapidly rising steam freezing as you comb through his black hair, middle-parted and finely primed. Such pleasantries of his appearance will not hold; you seek to dishevel him completely, to allow yourself to be glaciated in whole.

The more of him you touch, the more you feel you are groping at the negative of a photograph—emulsion-sweat seeping in your skin, slick as his saliva spilling over your tongue, your shadow slipping away. Chrollo shrugs off his suit coat, breaking away for only a fraction of a second before he is upon you again, as though trying to superimpose his body on yours, as your shadow imposes onto his. His speed is frightening—enthusiasm doubly; you doubt you can match pace. That vigor alone may well overpower even adept Nen users.

From behind, you see his hair has loosened in strands that brush his damp neck, and his white shirt clings to him, wetted in sweat, each seam outlining the carved ridges of his back. You had not imagined such a physique when you first met him, though certainly not an unwelcome sight. In the low dark, you catch but a faint sheen along his spine, the subtle shift of his shoulder blades with each movement. He is entirely engrossed, utterly unguarded.

Chrollo's lips part from yours, a needle-thin thread of spit fraying between you as he dips in toward the crook of your neck. His hand comes gently to cup the back of your head, angling it so your throat's side is vulnerable. Softness swiftly gives way to savagery; his grip hardens, now firmly securing you in place as he tenderizes your supple flesh, kissing, licking, and biting marks into every inch left exposed. You twitch, quiver, and groan, grunting and jerking even as his teeth sink into a particularly sensitive spot, but he holds you still, inescapable. This is not so terrible; you would not mind letting him go on forever, letting this night be eternal. Killing the anticipation feels akin to saying goodbye.

Yet dawn must rise all the same.

He walks backward, tugging you along with him; you think Chrollo is taking you to the bed, but he stops by the nightstand and switches on the lamp. The light pours onto your forms, illuminating two bodies, one shadow.

An avalanche barrels toward you with sudden and sickening conviction, but your body is buried already.

"Your Nen… it must require considerable concentration," he rasps breathlessly into your skin, each word accentuated by cool puffs of air. "I'm impressed, truly, that you've managed to maintain it during such… lively activities."

What he speaks of is your shadow, or rather your lack thereof, since severed and set creeping. While kissing, your shadow slithered away and circled around him, using the darkness as a shroud. Once you had him on the bed, you were going to kill him; your shadow-puppet would pin him from behind, and you would bring a dagger down onto his chest while he remained reeling from surprise. That was the idea, at least. Perhaps not all is lost just yet—your shadow still lies in waiting.

Promptly, you weave to the side while your shadow lunges. He smoothly dodges, and you unsheathe your blade simultaneously, thrusting the dagger en route for his heart as your shadow bounces back, careening off the corner of the hotel room and phasing toward him. Chrollo reaches for your wrist, and your shadow displaces in the shade of the furniture, re-emitting through his own shadow, and taking place in front of you so you have a chance to back step. Whirling around him, you raise your blade once more while your shadow manifests a copy of the knife's cast. At once, both forms descend their weapons upon him.

Blades plunge through the air as he pivots, ducking and sliding out of your aim. You brace yourself, shadow immediately turning to guard your body, yet he makes no act of aggression. A black book appears in one of his hands, quickly flipping through pages as though blown open by wind. Your shadow charges while you attempt to dash at his flank. Before you are able to get to him, he stops his book at a particular page, humming and extending his free hand outward. As your shadow propels toward him, his palm outstretches, a blinding white light emerging and coating the room in an overwhelming brightness, as if unleashing a miniature star. Your arms shoot up to cover your eyes, and your shadow dissolves to a haze, hissing, with no darkness to hold form.

Despite the loss of your Nen, you push through the light, trying to listen for breathing or the shifting of clothes to locate him. You thrust your dagger at the sound of footsteps to your right, but are swept off your feet by a kick to your ankles. The white unwinds like a yarn skein yanked by its strand, and you must blink rapidly to regain your sight. When you come to, your knife is knocked across the room, and your wrists are pinned above your head.

Chrollo holds your wrists together in one hand, face hovering above yours, appraising you with raised brows and an easy grin, his eyes an impenetrable gale.

"Will you kill me, now?" you ask, and he tilts his head as though your question is if the sky was green.

"Pray tell, why would I do that?"

"I was sent to kill you."

"Oh, you weren't that threatening," he replies, smile curling upward. Your jaw drops so fast you swear it must have fallen from your skull.

"…So, are you going to torture me? Try to learn who employed me?"

"Hah, you are quite pessimistic. Won't you tell me, was all of this a ruse?" he chuckles shortly, trailing a finger down your cheek.

"My employer told me you were too strong to face head-on. So I thought I could get close to you, get your guard lowered," you say simply. He does not need to know anything else; you were simply doing your job.

"Do try to answer the question I asked," he tuts, running his thumb across your bottom lip. You grimace. Is this some sort of humiliation ritual? If he knew all along, what did any of it matter to him?

"Not all of it," you respond as flat and vague as possible, though Chrollo hums, evidently pleased.

"Curious. Are there any examples that come to mind?" He smooths the wrinkles in the collar of your shirt, fingers sliding beneath the hem and ghosting over your clavicle.

"What's the point of this? Are you going to peel off my fingernails or what?"

"No, I rather like them scratching down my back. Will you answer my question?"

"Fuck you!" you shout, incensed by his vulgar teasing. You tug your wrists, but his grip does not budge. He merely trails his other hand, slow and steady, down your chest.

"I'm sure you would. Will you answer my question?" He repeats, dipping in toward your lips and whispering, "I'll tell you what I believe." He rubs gentle circles at your waist, voice dropping. Your shadow, reformed, slips from your body. "I believe you like seeing me undone, no, you love when I—"

"I liked talking to you."

Chrollo halts, and for a brief moment, you see the flash of a glimmer, like a bolt of lightning, shine deep in the storm of his eyes. His mouth hangs open, words stolen, as he stares at you like you're the only other person in the world. Even you hesitate, the air still, and at once, warm.

With a lurch, your shadow stabs into his back. Absentminded, he senses your Nen a second too late, swiftly swiveling but unable to completely avoid the shade's knife. The blade sheathes in his shoulder, missing the target of his spine. Not a fatal injury, but you are left with enough room to scramble out from beneath him. A grunt slips past his clenched teeth, and you recognize it for what it is: not pain alone, but disbelief. You clamor for your corporeal dagger on the floor as the shadow copy dissipates from his back. You want to scream so badly the sound aches in your chest. You had him! How could you have missed?

He stands straight, calmly, deliberately, as though rising from prayer. The lamplight paints the slope of his shoulder in gold, glistening crimson where blood seeps through the white of his shirt. His hand does not clutch the wound; the limb hangs languidly at his side, as if acknowledging the gash would diminish him. Then… he laughs. Low at first, a soft exhale that rumbles in his chest, but builds to the point he bends from the weight, hugging his stomach.

“You really…” Chrollo breathes between chuckles, lifting his gaze to you, eyes brighter, sharper, more alive than you have ever seen them, “You truly got me.” He speaks not in mockery but candid wonder.

Knuckles paling, you clench the hilt of your blade so hard you hear it creak. Your shadow readies to retaliate against any sudden strikes, yet he only smiles, faint and unnervingly calm, blood still leaking steadily down his arm.

Then, softly, he says, "Leave the city with me."

His words disarm you almost more than his laughter had. You blink, stunned.

"If I don’t return with your head, I’ll be killed."

"You won't return." He steps closer, and your throat tightens, blade raised and trembling. "And you won't be killed—if you're with me."

Chrollo's black book manifests again, fluttering open as if the pages already knew where to fall. Before you can attack a blinding flare erupts from his palm, swallowing the room in searing white, dispelling your shadow-puppet to the umbral realm once more. Faltering in the afterimage, you stagger, and your dagger is wrenched from your fist. A hideous crunch follows—your wrist snapping like brittle kindling, and your blade clinks to the floor. Chrollo holds your broken wrist to the wall, pinning you, his expression as easy as ever.

"Then I don't have much of a choice," you groan, half in pain, half in resignation.

"Good," his tone smooths, almost tender. "I don't recall giving you one."

He brings your aching wrist to his lips, leaving a ginger kiss atop the skin, and you are sure, if this man is Lucifer, then hell must be cold.

[bhaalsballs]

Sukuna is not jerking off because thats what you are for. If you're not practically begging him to let you suck him off/fuck you like you should be doing, well then he never really cared about your consent anyway. He knows you want it, he'll prove it.

I can't see him using roofies, I think intimidation and coercion is more his style. Gojo though is definitely roofie coded

this but also i think sukuna would be genuinely disgruntled about having any sexual feelings whatsoever. when you come along and make him touch his dick(s) after centuries of Not Doing That, he's absolutely pissed - moreso when he finds out you're not exactly happy about resolving the issue you created. you should be glad to fuck him because he's your king/the strongest living creature/the sole arbiter of whether you live or die, but also because it's literally your fault. if you weren't around, no one would have to fuck sukuna at all. how dare you.

[bhaalsballs]

vena cava. | orin the red x f!reader

tags: not SFW, reader is not tav, female reader, pre-canon, biting, cannibalism, force feeding, gore, graphic violence, minor character death, murderous ideation, oral sex (recieving), overstimulation, rough sex, sex in immediate proximity to a corpse, sex covered in blood, strangulation, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT word count: 3.7k

orin wants to know your atrocities, and know atrocities against you.

“And He walks with me, and He talks with me…” 

Your cleaver is supped from its tender meat-sheath, drizzling in sanguine glaze. Shining ichor drip-drops in a piddling pitter-patter down your blade to the floor. Intently, you watch as blood drenches boring beige carpeting in a desirous deep red, each droplet soaking and spreading in small amoeba-like shapes.  

“…And He tells me I am His own.” 

In a single, swift motion your cleaver tears through bone and fatty tissue like parchment, sundering hand. The limb spews skinny streams of crimson from its pruned stub. Some spits onto your fingers, still warm, still pumping quite too lively. Sever wrist from arm, now split gut from skin. You retract and stab, digging in to unearth your buried treasure. Bubbling blood boils up to the surface—pooling and spilling below the hilt of your blade. You are met with resistance this time, a recoil from the flesh-cocoon swaddling your visceral prize, the sorry thing curling into himself before he flops back down stiff. A miracle he still lives, although by a thread. Such is the beauty of mortal resolve, only truly witnessed through Bhaal’s ruthless doctrine.  

“And the joy we share as we tarry there…” 

Trembling and groaning, barely a sound rasps between the coughs of his fluid-filling lungs, so pathetic you almost pout. That would-be corpse hopelessly clings to his life, once a man, a son, a brother, perhaps even a betrothed. His eyes, rolled into the back of his head, turning pink and bulging veins, tell you he is nothing. The pallid, bovine face his skull wears grimaces a thousand different ways, all strained, all in agony. Dig and twist inside, he chokes and jerks forward, hands flailing to claw, to yank, to beg, yet too weak to do anything but shake like autumn leaves. How he fights so hard for it to mean so little, how his legs kick in aimless directions, how his throat swelled, scratched, sore from screaming can do no greater than bellow like a bull begging for its slaughter.  

Both of your hands around the blade’s hilt and drag downward, drawing a crude crimson line from sternum to pelvis. A gaping cavern is torn open and the treasure you seek is yours for the taking. Deft fingers take the place of blade, squash, squish and squelch, slick sticky scrambling as the silver scent sifts your synapses. You push through the swamp of would-be offal, prod around intestines, and plow beneath ribs to find the jewel. You caress the sapless thing, still beating insipidly inside. 

His heart is harvested still ripe red from the body, cupped in your palm, spurting puny bits of blood in its last one, two, three pumps. The final but a sputter before its relent, a hiss, a spit, then still, silent. A smile crawls across your lips. You have drained all vitality from this organ bag, and there was no greater joy to be had in the private pleasures of Bhaal. 

“…None other has ever known,” you sing to yourself. 

But another has known and wants to know. Wants to know your atrocities and know atrocities against you. 

Orin is felt, before she is seen. Her mere presence seems to coil in tendrils around the edges of light, flickering the flame of candlesticks until they are smothered cold. Goosebumps rise on the nape of your neck, the air once burning now bites with frost, stale and stagnant, as if holding breath alongside your anticipation. Orin has always had a way of halting the world in her step, stopping and directing all life to the jagged edge of her dagger. You have never been exempted from this rule, despite the way your fingers croon to wring her throat, and the way your palms sweat with the dream of her blood wetting them.  

Step after soft step, she chooses to circle you like a vulture. At once you hear her stalking to your left, and in the same second, she slithers to your right. You smell the reek of day-old carrion fused with the noxious stench of sewer fumes. The oppressive odor twists in your nostrils, mingling with the damp scent of sweat and copper. Dread rises like bile in your throat; you hate how she inspires it with such terrific ease. You strain to listen, to catch any hint of where she might be, but the sound is disorienting, deliberately chaotic. Your fingers claw into fists, and a shudder tremors up your back so fiercely you feel a quake in your bones.   

“Oh, how you rend flesh to ribbons! Split them, sever them, bathe in the sinews!” Her voice buzzes alight with fanaticism. Cold fingers caress your spine, and she cackles as you bristle like a cat. You catch first the pearly whites of her eyes as she strides forward. She soaks in the pallor of the moon bleeding through the curtains, striking her pewter pale skin an even sicker shade. “Your cruelty always hungers me so. What venom must pump through your veins and how I long to taste it,” Orin ebbs on a lull of breathlessness, as if she can barely contain all the words she speaks within her lung capacity. 

As she closes in you hear her excitement: her blood thrumming just underneath the skin, her whole form trembling as if a roaring engine. Crawling, she straddles the corpse and sits herself atop it, making the dead man her throne. The edges of her black lips curl in a mad, ear-to-ear grin as she leans toward you. Red, vein-like marble that swirls in her skin semes to flux and flow faster. She takes your free hand and forces you to feel the thunderous drumbeat of her heart, rattling against the bars of its cage. You fantasize that the heart of your sacrifice is hers, and wonder just how long hers would beat past its prime, how much blood would gurgle from its faucets; would it run warm or cold? 

“My heart beats so fast I wish to claw it out my ribcage, it surges ache in my body, it itches me to tear your throat, to see your guts spill, just so that this treacherous organ may stop beating inside me.” Orin exemplifies her words by cupping her other hand around the one that holds your victim's heart, still pressing your other firm to her chest. She raises the organ for you both to behold, admiring the organ with a softness unspeakable. “I will sate myself on your sing-screaming today, but tomorrow…. tomorrow I may gorge myself completely.” 

“My blade is stayed, Orin,” you hiss, yet meet the fervor in the ivory void of her gaze. She chuckles, and the mirth washes over you in waves. You loathe her, you loathe her so much you long for her in your every breath. You yearn to snap open the shine of her skull; to shatter her kneecaps into a billion shard-like pieces and to lick the blood she spits out her wretched lips. Taste her, taste her, claw her open, and crawl inside her! Your fist clenches, squeezing the heart in your grasp until gore melts like jelly between your fingers, crushed in your unforgiving palm. “Keep me full so it is not my cleaver that caresses your flesh.”  

Orin’s tongue wets her dark-inked lips, and she dives to taste the gore that stains you. Her swift tongue trails up your palm, takes a finger into her mouth and swirls, licks each digit like a kitten and bites the tip of your index finger as she slides it out of her mouth, spit slick wet. Blood, sweat, guts, she greedily takes everything for herself. Exhaling shakily as she takes your thumb between her teeth, she pokes it playfully with her tongue; a faux soothing gesture. This time when she bites, she is rabid, pain jolts up your thumb to your shoulder like electricity, when she releases it from her lips you nearly fear to see the tip missing. The digit exits her lips with a “pop!” still whole yet swollen red and bleeding.  

There is not a moment of reprieve before Orin’s lips slam against yours. Teeth clash against teeth, and she shoves her tongue down your throat. You taste your blood on her, mingled with that of the carrion that sits below her. She will not let you breathe, intent to taste every last inch of your mouth with a wild fervor. The sheer relentlessness of her assault leaves you in shock when she pulls back. She gnaws on your bottom lip as if testing the waters, before pulling the tender flesh between her teeth. Iron fills your mouth more concentrated than before, and Orin licks a line of blood that drips down the corner of your lips. She reconnects with you one last time, and separates leaving a red-twinged line of salvia keeping you still attached. Your bottom lip throbs with dull pain. 

“Your blood is like ambrosia. Let me taste more, and more, and more, and moreandmoreandmore,” the longer she goes on, the more her words become distorted into a gibberish fit of giggling.  

You scoff, and then respond to her in scorn, “So that you may lash at my throat like a mad hound? Allow me to pay you due retribution.” 

Bold, your hands slink to her hips, ghosting over her exposed skin, trailing the slow, undulating waves of carmine that plume beneath it. Settling your palms firmly on her waist, your nails dig into the plush and flip her body so that her back hits the floor with a resounding thud. You then feel upwards, across the rough and rigid edges of her vermilion armor, fleeting over her breasts until you reach her throat. She does nothing but snicker and sneer as you close your grip around her neck, searing you with her white-hot glare. You clench until her larynx ceases its proper function, amused simpers choking into whistle-gasps. Finally, that mouth of hers is silenced, and there is no music in all Faerûn more pleasant to your ears.  

Gagging loud and caricatured, she writhes around like a worm wriggling on a fishhook. You bend to her level and narrow your gaze, watching as her eyes crinkle upwards. Clearly, more effort must be made to shut her up. Slotting your lips against hers, you are sure to take control this time, voracious, swelling in desire, driven by a desperate hunger that compels you to rip her to shreds. The aching curl of arousal churns inside your stomach, gnawing, growling, drooling with the ache to mince and mangle. Your tongue does not ask for entry, it demands it. You tighten your grip around her throat and delight in the way she chokes into your mouth. A maddening zeal overtakes you, filling you to the brim and spilling out your lips, keeping you drunk and distracted. While you are so engrossed, Orin strikes the side of your head with blunt end of her dagger, and you fall clamoring to the ground. You do not get a second to coddle the injury, as she wastes no time in taking her place above you. 

“So brazen it is, with little brawn to back it up.” She laughs when all you respond with is a glare, your head pounding with a stinging pain. Her lips ghost over the shell of your ear when she whispers, “Such a cute creature it is, prey playing pretend at predator.” 

“You--” Your attempt at a rebuttal is swiftly cut short by Orin’s canines burrowing into your flesh. A high, tumult noise is drawn from between your clenched teeth, and you flinch upwards—an action that is promptly reprimanded by Orin, as she digs in deeper, holding your hips still and groaning madly into your neck. She pulls back only to clean the mess she made, tracing over puncture marks with the flat of her tongue and lapping up the blood that drips from the wound. You snarl, steadying your hands on her hips as she contents herself with sucking and nibbling at your carotid pulse. She gratifies herself with the thumping of your racing heartbeat on her lips, grinding down on your thigh with one hand ambling up your navel. Muttering something low and obscene into the dip of your shoulder, she draws away from her assault on your neck.  

“I am soon to be Bhaal’s chosen, my rightful place in Father’s unholy purpose, and you…” She trails off, occupying herself with stripping you bare. You almost want to laugh. Orin, Bhaal’s chosen? What of the Dragonborn? The train of thought is lost when she gropes your now exposed breasts, tweaking your nipples between a finger and a thumb, forcing a mewl from you. “…You are but the innards that decorate his sanctum.” She tugs again, another depraved sound following soon after. Eager to hear more, she drags a finger up your still covered slit, your underwear the last piece of cloth she left remaining—the rest tattered beyond repair across the floor. You are soaking; you already know it. Your thighs clench and rub together to alleviate some friction. Orin slaps your thigh in rebuke, adjusting herself so she is kneeling between your legs.  “I will whet you on my edges. Then you may become a honed blade, and only then may we give each other true agony.” 

“I will become stronger—you have my word. These innards will not rest until you die by my hand,” You bare your teeth, yet you do not try to protest her insults toward your ability, because you are well aware she tells the truth. The gap of strength between you feels insurmountable at times. It is the source of your envy, and your envy is both the bearer of your hatred and the birth of your yearning. They were once at a constant tug-of-war, now, you cannot help but experience them all as one emotion.  

Orin cares little for your remark, her patience having clearly run thin, she rips off your last garments in one fell swoop—leaving you vulnerable and exposed in a slimy swamp of gore. Carnage marring you and her alike, already crusting and clotting, creating a crude carapace. She nuzzles your thigh, the nicks of her teeth slinking down, dragging against the sensitive skin, sometimes sinking in, just to let go a hair’s breadth before she leaves an indent. Her path has a purpose, meticulous and enthusiastic at once. A cat toying with a mouse; the perfect picture of a predator playing with its meal.  

Meanwhile, your breathing picks up at an erratic pace. You flinch as her cool tongue licks a long stripe up your inner thigh, stopping right before she touches where you want her the most. She seems keen to play this game for as long as it pleases her. When you finally feel her searing breath fan on your aching cunt, she swiftly pulls away to bully a bruise into the flesh beside it. An agitated groan slips out, and your back arches in a weak attempt to get her closer. Her hands tremble in excitement where they hold your hips unwaveringly still, and she tuts when you continue to struggle against her. 

“You are greedy. Let me slake your thirst,” she purrs. You yelp as she abruptly tugs you by the hips and laves a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on your vulva before attaching herself to your clit and sucking. Grinding upwards into her mouth, you feed her indulgence at the moment of contact, moaning blissfully the instant her tongue touches your clit. She shifts lower, pulls your legs further apart and throws them over her shoulders. Drool and teeth, hot and heady; she feasts on you, her face pressing as close as she can physically get. She moans, and the sound reverberates against your pussy and up the length of your spine.  

Rapidly mounting pleasure leaves you sweating, sweltering, heat pooling from your core and washing over your whole body in waves. Your back arches as two fingers slide into your entrance alongside her tongue, spreading you open so her undivided attention can attend to your clit. The unbearable ache Orin has caused within you since the moment you crossed paths is at long last being nourished. She cursed you with this hunger, so it is only fair for her to alleviate it. She is merciless, grinding the flat of her tongue into your clit as her slender fingers pump in quick, forceful thrusts inside you. Orin seems intent to punish you with a brutal pleasure you cannot escape—and you do not want to. You want all and everything she can give, no matter the savagery. 

“Such brilliant depravity you showcase. I will milk your sin from your body until you are dried of its supply,” Orin pulls away from your cunt with a wet pop, but you do not miss the stimulation for long. She grinds the heel of her palm into your clit as her fingertips scrape against something soft and pliant inside of you, a third finger soon being added. The spot is abused relentlessly, her thrusts never failing to hit it with a sadistic kind of precision. Your head lulls to the side in ecstasy, and she takes advantage of your newfound vulnerability. She kisses slobbering up the slant of your shoulder, teeth sinking into the mark she left earlier, bent on leaving a permanent scar in her wake. “Give it a little pleasure and it becomes such a sweet kitten. Your sharp threats cut me, and now your sing-screaming soothes me.” 

Blood boils in your veins, pumping with a blistering burn inside you. The muscles in your thighs tense, and a death-like shudder quakes up your spine. Tension tightens like a taut rope in your core, threads fraying rapidly as your release builds and builds. Orin catches on to this, her already vicious pace growing harder, faster. Your legs slide off her shoulders as her free hand becomes occupied. Pleasure ascends so quickly you are rendered incapable of coherent thought; whatever she is doing is beyond your comprehension. That is until she shoves something raw and metallic down your throat, the soft-textured, chewy thing melts like meat jelly in your mouth. The taste is heady of liver.  

“Cum. I wish to watch as corruption reaps your flesh,” she sing-songs. 

You sputter, choking down the piece of organ like swallowing fire. Orin’s fingers stay lodged in your mouth, keeping your jaw wedged open and pressing down on your tongue. She gestures them in a manner that has her digits fucking into your mouth. Your tongue wraps around them, licking up the sides and flitting her fingertips. The blood that soils them is cleaned with an astute expertise, greedily savoring the potent taste of iron. Her hands movements turn short, erratic, as she edges you closer and closer to your climax, creeping onto you, piercing ablaze all throughout your body. Vision spotting, a muffled, keening whine torn from your lips, and the final string of tension is snapped; you come undone around her fingers. Your hips raise and buck into her, desperate not to miss a second of pleasure. 

When you fall limp, her fingers slide out of your mouth, yet the other hand stays curled securely inside your pussy, thrusting just as fervently. Tears grow heavy on your waterline, and a droplet trickles down your cheek which she promptly licks off. Orin does not let up, rubbing and rubbing your throbbing clit with her thumb and still hastening her pace. You cry out and clench around her, feeling the warm slippery slick slithering down your thighs. Pangs of overstimulation hit you like lightning, cracking and shocking nerves aglow. Your voice strangles itself into throaty whines and broken whimpers, jaw falling open in a silent scream. Nails dig into her wrists as you try to pry her away; the sensations seethe inside your gut, swelling from shattering to agonizing. All strength has been viciously sapped from your body; resistance futile. 

A second climax tears you asunder, entirely inconsolable by the time her fingers finally pull out, loudly and openly sobbing. Your chest heaves as your lungs desperately try to reclaim air inside them. She chuckles darkly, sliding her slick soaked fingers past her own lips. Her pleasure is audible, a reveling hum resonates from deep within her throat as she cleans herself of your soil. Weakened so greatly, you can do nothing but watch listlessly as those damnable fingers plop out of her mouth soused in saliva, eyes following the dewy shine of moonlight that glistens off her skin, and the drool that slowly drips down her chin. She kisses you anew, just as harsh and dominating as before, but now, you can hardly keep up. You taste yourself on her—your blood, your sweat, your tears, your cum—you taste all at once.  

“Poor, needy thing. Have I supped it of vigor? Is this truly all it has to offer?” She looms over you, casting her shadow across your face. “…It can’t be…,” she whispers, the plates of her armor clanking to the floor as she bares herself. “We are not yet finished, we are far, far from finished.”  

Part of you jumps at the urge to beg for mercy—to hell with your pride, to the pits with your dignity—but this idea concludes quickly. Your mind blanks as your sight falls upon her naked breasts, shamelessly ogling as they hover above you. Orin notices this, smirking knowingly as she crawls forward, your pupils firmly planted on the slight sway of her perk nipples. Your gaze lowers from her chest, down her abdomen, to her cunt, likely just as soaked as yours. You realize how much of you she has tasted, and how little of her you have in turn.  

Revitalized, you flip her over once more, your teeth now the ones to tear at her throat. You keep biting until you feel fresh ichor flow into your waiting mouth, lapping up the ferrous substance with blatant greed. Orin moans out rapturously, nails clawing down your back, dragging until she draws blood of her own. You grunt in response, biting again and again and again until the only thing you can see is red. When you inevitably withdraw, you wipe your face with your forearm, kissing aimlessly down her body as she cackles ceaselessly.  

“No, Orin… We haven’t even started.” 

[bhaalsballs]

"...You wish to share?"

[bhaalsballs]

vena cava. | orin the red x f!reader

tags: not SFW, reader is not tav, female reader, pre-canon, biting, cannibalism, force feeding, gore, graphic violence, hate-sex, minor character death, murderous ideation, oral sex (receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, sex in immediate proximity to a corpse, sex covered in blood, strangulation, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT word count: 3.7k

orin wants to know your atrocities, and know atrocities against you.

“And He walks with me, and He talks with me…” 

Your cleaver is supped from its tender meat-sheath, drizzling in sanguine glaze. Shining ichor drip-drops in a piddling pitter-patter down your blade to the floor. Intently, you watch as blood drenches boring beige carpeting in a desirous deep red, each droplet soaking and spreading in small amoeba-like shapes.  

“…And He tells me I am His own.” 

In a single, swift motion your cleaver tears through bone and fatty tissue like parchment, sundering hand. The limb spews skinny streams of crimson from its pruned stub. Some spits onto your fingers, still warm, still pumping quite too lively. Sever wrist from arm, now split gut from skin. You retract and stab, digging in to unearth your buried treasure. Bubbling blood boils up to the surface—pooling and spilling below the hilt of your blade. You are met with resistance this time, a recoil from the flesh-cocoon swaddling your visceral prize, the sorry thing curling into himself before he flops back down stiff. A miracle he still lives, although by a thread. Such is the beauty of mortal resolve, only truly witnessed through Bhaal’s ruthless doctrine.  

“And the joy we share as we tarry there…” 

Trembling and groaning, barely a sound rasps between the coughs of his fluid-filling lungs, so pathetic you almost pout. That would-be corpse hopelessly clings to his life, once a man, a son, a brother, perhaps even a betrothed. His eyes, rolled into the back of his head, turning pink and bulging veins, tell you he is nothing. The pallid, bovine face his skull wears grimaces a thousand different ways, all strained, all in agony. Dig and twist inside, he chokes and jerks forward, hands flailing to claw, to yank, to beg, yet too weak to do anything but shake like autumn leaves. How he fights so hard for it to mean so little, how his legs kick in aimless directions, how his throat swelled, scratched, sore from screaming can do no greater than bellow like a bull begging for its slaughter.  

Both of your hands around the blade’s hilt and drag downward, drawing a crude crimson line from sternum to pelvis. A gaping cavern is torn open and the treasure you seek is yours for the taking. Deft fingers take the place of blade, squash, squish and squelch, slick sticky scrambling as the silver scent sifts your synapses. You push through the swamp of would-be offal, prod around intestines, and plow beneath ribs to find the jewel. You caress the sapless thing, still beating insipidly inside. 

His heart is harvested still ripe red from the body, cupped in your palm, spurting puny bits of blood in its last one, two, three pumps. The final but a sputter before its relent, a hiss, a spit, then still, silent. A smile crawls across your lips. You have drained all vitality from this organ bag, and there was no greater joy to be had in the private pleasures of Bhaal. 

“…None other has ever known,” you sing to yourself. 

But another has known and wants to know. Wants to know your atrocities and know atrocities against you. 

Orin is felt, before she is seen. Her mere presence seems to coil in tendrils around the edges of light, flickering the flame of candlesticks until they are smothered cold. Goosebumps rise on the nape of your neck, the air once burning now bites with frost, stale and stagnant, as if holding breath alongside your anticipation. Orin has always had a way of halting the world in her step, stopping and directing all life to the jagged edge of her dagger. You have never been exempted from this rule, despite the way your fingers croon to wring her throat, and the way your palms sweat with the dream of her blood wetting them.  

Step after soft step, she chooses to circle you like a vulture. At once you hear her stalking to your left, and in the same second, she slithers to your right. You smell the reek of day-old carrion fused with the noxious stench of sewer fumes. The oppressive odor twists in your nostrils, mingling with the damp scent of sweat and copper. Dread rises like bile in your throat; you hate how she inspires it with such terrific ease. You strain to listen, to catch any hint of where she might be, but the sound is disorienting, deliberately chaotic. Your fingers claw into fists, and a shudder tremors up your back so fiercely you feel a quake in your bones.   

“Oh, how you rend flesh to ribbons! Split them, sever them, bathe in the sinews!” Her voice buzzes alight with fanaticism. Cold fingers caress your spine, and she cackles as you bristle like a cat. You catch first the pearly whites of her eyes as she strides forward. She soaks in the pallor of the moon bleeding through the curtains, striking her pewter pale skin an even sicker shade. “Your cruelty always hungers me so. What venom must pump through your veins and how I long to taste it,” Orin ebbs on a lull of breathlessness, as if she can barely contain all the words she speaks within her lung capacity. 

As she closes in you hear her excitement: her blood thrumming just underneath the skin, her whole form trembling as if a roaring engine. Crawling, she straddles the corpse and sits herself atop it, making the dead man her throne. The edges of her black lips curl in a mad, ear-to-ear grin as she leans toward you. Red, vein-like marble that swirls in her skin semes to flux and flow faster. She takes your free hand and forces you to feel the thunderous drumbeat of her heart, rattling against the bars of its cage. You fantasize that the heart of your sacrifice is hers, and wonder just how long hers would beat past its prime, how much blood would gurgle from its faucets; would it run warm or cold? 

“My heart beats so fast I wish to claw it out my ribcage, it surges ache in my body, it itches me to tear your throat, to see your guts spill, just so that this treacherous organ may stop beating inside me.” Orin exemplifies her words by cupping her other hand around the one that holds your victim's heart, still pressing your other firm to her chest. She raises the organ for you both to behold, admiring the organ with a softness unspeakable. “I will sate myself on your sing-screaming today, but tomorrow…. tomorrow I may gorge myself completely.” 

“My blade is stayed, Orin,” you hiss, yet meet the fervor in the ivory void of her gaze. She chuckles, and the mirth washes over you in waves. You loathe her, you loathe her so much you long for her in your every breath. You yearn to snap open the shine of her skull; to shatter her kneecaps into a billion shard-like pieces and to lick the blood she spits out her wretched lips. Taste her, taste her, claw her open, and crawl inside her! Your fist clenches, squeezing the heart in your grasp until gore melts like jelly between your fingers, crushed in your unforgiving palm. “Keep me full so it is not my cleaver that caresses your flesh.”  

Orin’s tongue wets her dark-inked lips, and she dives to taste the gore that stains you. Her swift tongue trails up your palm, takes a finger into her mouth and swirls, licks each digit like a kitten and bites the tip of your index finger as she slides it out of her mouth, spit slick wet. Blood, sweat, guts, she greedily takes everything for herself. Exhaling shakily as she takes your thumb between her teeth, she pokes it playfully with her tongue; a faux soothing gesture. This time when she bites, she is rabid, pain jolts up your thumb to your shoulder like electricity, when she releases it from her lips you nearly fear to see the tip missing. The digit exits her lips with a “pop!” still whole yet swollen red and bleeding.  

There is not a moment of reprieve before Orin’s lips slam against yours. Teeth clash against teeth, and she shoves her tongue down your throat. You taste your blood on her, mingled with that of the carrion that sits below her. She will not let you breathe, intent to taste every last inch of your mouth with a wild fervor. The sheer relentlessness of her assault leaves you in shock when she pulls back. She gnaws on your bottom lip as if testing the waters, before pulling the tender flesh between her teeth. Iron fills your mouth more concentrated than before, and Orin licks a line of blood that drips down the corner of your lips. She reconnects with you one last time, and separates leaving a red-twinged line of salvia keeping you still attached. Your bottom lip throbs with dull pain. 

“Your blood is like ambrosia. Let me taste more, and more, and more, and moreandmoreandmore,” the longer she goes on, the more her words become distorted into a gibberish fit of giggling.  

You scoff, and then respond to her in scorn, “So that you may lash at my throat like a mad hound? Allow me to pay you due retribution.” 

Bold, your hands slink to her hips, ghosting over her exposed skin, trailing the slow, undulating waves of carmine that plume beneath it. Settling your palms firmly on her waist, your nails dig into the plush and flip her body so that her back hits the floor with a resounding thud. You then feel upwards, across the rough and rigid edges of her vermilion armor, fleeting over her breasts until you reach her throat. She does nothing but snicker and sneer as you close your grip around her neck, searing you with her white-hot glare. You clench until her larynx ceases its proper function, amused simpers choking into whistle-gasps. Finally, that mouth of hers is silenced, and there is no music in all Faerûn more pleasant to your ears.  

Gagging loud and caricatured, she writhes around like a worm wriggling on a fishhook. You bend to her level and narrow your gaze, watching as her eyes crinkle upwards. Clearly, more effort must be made to shut her up. Slotting your lips against hers, you are sure to take control this time, voracious, swelling in desire, driven by a desperate hunger that compels you to rip her to shreds. The aching curl of arousal churns inside your stomach, gnawing, growling, drooling with the ache to mince and mangle. Your tongue does not ask for entry, it demands it. You tighten your grip around her throat and delight in the way she chokes into your mouth. A maddening zeal overtakes you, filling you to the brim and spilling out your lips, keeping you drunk and distracted. While you are so engrossed, Orin strikes the side of your head with blunt end of her dagger, and you fall clamoring to the ground. You do not get a second to coddle the injury, as she wastes no time in taking her place above you. 

“So brazen it is, with little brawn to back it up.” She laughs when all you respond with is a glare, your head pounding with a stinging pain. Her lips ghost over the shell of your ear when she whispers, “Such a cute creature it is, prey playing pretend at predator.” 

“You--” Your attempt at a rebuttal is swiftly cut short by Orin’s canines burrowing into your flesh. A high, tumult noise is drawn from between your clenched teeth, and you flinch upwards—an action that is promptly reprimanded by Orin, as she digs in deeper, holding your hips still and groaning madly into your neck. She pulls back only to clean the mess she made, tracing over puncture marks with the flat of her tongue and lapping up the blood that drips from the wound. You snarl, steadying your hands on her hips as she contents herself with sucking and nibbling at your carotid pulse. She gratifies herself with the thumping of your racing heartbeat on her lips, grinding down on your thigh with one hand ambling up your navel. Muttering something low and obscene into the dip of your shoulder, she draws away from her assault on your neck.  

“I am soon to be Bhaal’s chosen, my rightful place in Father’s unholy purpose, and you…” She trails off, occupying herself with stripping you bare. You almost want to laugh. Orin, Bhaal’s chosen? What of the Dragonborn? The train of thought is lost when she gropes your now exposed breasts, tweaking your nipples between a finger and a thumb, forcing a mewl from you. “…You are but the innards that decorate his sanctum.” She tugs again, another depraved sound following soon after. Eager to hear more, she drags a finger up your still covered slit, your underwear the last piece of cloth she left remaining—the rest tattered beyond repair across the floor. You are soaking; you already know it. Your thighs clench and rub together to alleviate some friction. Orin slaps your thigh in rebuke, adjusting herself so she is kneeling between your legs.  “I will whet you on my edges. Then you may become a honed blade, and only then may we give each other true agony.” 

“I will become stronger—you have my word. These innards will not rest until you die by my hand,” You bare your teeth, yet you do not try to protest her insults toward your ability, because you are well aware she tells the truth. The gap of strength between you feels insurmountable at times. It is the source of your envy, and your envy is both the bearer of your hatred and the birth of your yearning. They were once at a constant tug-of-war, now, you cannot help but experience them all as one emotion.  

Orin cares little for your remark, her patience having clearly run thin, she rips off your last garments in one fell swoop—leaving you vulnerable and exposed in a slimy swamp of gore. Carnage marring you and her alike, already crusting and clotting, creating a crude carapace. She nuzzles your thigh, the nicks of her teeth slinking down, dragging against the sensitive skin, sometimes sinking in, just to let go a hair’s breadth before she leaves an indent. Her path has a purpose, meticulous and enthusiastic at once. A cat toying with a mouse; the perfect picture of a predator playing with its meal.  

Meanwhile, your breathing picks up at an erratic pace. You flinch as her cool tongue licks a long stripe up your inner thigh, stopping right before she touches where you want her the most. She seems keen to play this game for as long as it pleases her. When you finally feel her searing breath fan on your aching cunt, she swiftly pulls away to bully a bruise into the flesh beside it. An agitated groan slips out, and your back arches in a weak attempt to get her closer. Her hands tremble in excitement where they hold your hips unwaveringly still, and she tuts when you continue to struggle against her. 

“You are greedy. Let me slake your thirst,” she purrs. You yelp as she abruptly tugs you by the hips and laves a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on your vulva before attaching herself to your clit and sucking. Grinding upwards into her mouth, you feed her indulgence at the moment of contact, moaning blissfully the instant her tongue touches your clit. She shifts lower, pulls your legs further apart and throws them over her shoulders. Drool and teeth, hot and heady; she feasts on you, her face pressing as close as she can physically get. She moans, and the sound reverberates against your pussy and up the length of your spine.  

Rapidly mounting pleasure leaves you sweating, sweltering, heat pooling from your core and washing over your whole body in waves. Your back arches as two fingers slide into your entrance alongside her tongue, spreading you open so her undivided attention can attend to your clit. The unbearable ache Orin has caused within you since the moment you crossed paths is at long last being nourished. She cursed you with this hunger, so it is only fair for her to alleviate it. She is merciless, grinding the flat of her tongue into your clit as her slender fingers pump in quick, forceful thrusts inside you. Orin seems intent to punish you with a brutal pleasure you cannot escape—and you do not want to. You want all and everything she can give, no matter the savagery. 

“Such brilliant depravity you showcase. I will milk your sin from your body until you are dried of its supply,” Orin pulls away from your cunt with a wet pop, but you do not miss the stimulation for long. She grinds the heel of her palm into your clit as her fingertips scrape against something soft and pliant inside of you, a third finger soon being added. The spot is abused relentlessly, her thrusts never failing to hit it with a sadistic kind of precision. Your head lulls to the side in ecstasy, and she takes advantage of your newfound vulnerability. She kisses slobbering up the slant of your shoulder, teeth sinking into the mark she left earlier, bent on leaving a permanent scar in her wake. “Give it a little pleasure and it becomes such a sweet kitten. Your sharp threats cut me, and now your sing-screaming soothes me.” 

Blood boils in your veins, pumping with a blistering burn inside you. The muscles in your thighs tense, and a death-like shudder quakes up your spine. Tension tightens like a taut rope in your core, threads fraying rapidly as your release builds and builds. Orin catches on to this, her already vicious pace growing harder, faster. Your legs slide off her shoulders as her free hand becomes occupied. Pleasure ascends so quickly you are rendered incapable of coherent thought; whatever she is doing is beyond your comprehension. That is until she shoves something raw and metallic down your throat, the soft-textured, chewy thing melts like meat jelly in your mouth. The taste is heady of liver.  

“Cum. I wish to watch as corruption reaps your flesh,” she sing-songs. 

You sputter, choking down the piece of organ like swallowing fire. Orin’s fingers stay lodged in your mouth, keeping your jaw wedged open and pressing down on your tongue. She gestures them in a manner that has her digits fucking into your mouth. Your tongue wraps around them, licking up the sides and flitting her fingertips. The blood that soils them is cleaned with an astute expertise, greedily savoring the potent taste of iron. Her hands movements turn short, erratic, as she edges you closer and closer to your climax, creeping onto you, piercing ablaze all throughout your body. Vision spotting, a muffled, keening whine torn from your lips, and the final string of tension is snapped; you come undone around her fingers. Your hips raise and buck into her, desperate not to miss a second of pleasure. 

When you fall limp, her fingers slide out of your mouth, yet the other hand stays curled securely inside your pussy, thrusting just as fervently. Tears grow heavy on your waterline, and a droplet trickles down your cheek which she promptly licks off. Orin does not let up, rubbing and rubbing your throbbing clit with her thumb and still hastening her pace. You cry out and clench around her, feeling the warm slippery slick slithering down your thighs. Pangs of overstimulation hit you like lightning, cracking and shocking nerves aglow. Your voice strangles itself into throaty whines and broken whimpers, jaw falling open in a silent scream. Nails dig into her wrists as you try to pry her away; the sensations seethe inside your gut, swelling from shattering to agonizing. All strength has been viciously sapped from your body; resistance futile. 

A second climax tears you asunder, entirely inconsolable by the time her fingers finally pull out, loudly and openly sobbing. Your chest heaves as your lungs desperately try to reclaim air inside them. She chuckles darkly, sliding her slick soaked fingers past her own lips. Her pleasure is audible, a reveling hum resonates from deep within her throat as she cleans herself of your soil. Weakened so greatly, you can do nothing but watch listlessly as those damnable fingers plop out of her mouth soused in saliva, eyes following the dewy shine of moonlight that glistens off her skin, and the drool that slowly drips down her chin. She kisses you anew, just as harsh and dominating as before, but now, you can hardly keep up. You taste yourself on her—your blood, your sweat, your tears, your cum—you taste all at once.  

“Poor, needy thing. Have I supped it of vigor? Is this truly all it has to offer?” She looms over you, casting her shadow across your face. “…It can’t be…,” she whispers, the plates of her armor clanking to the floor as she bares herself. “We are not yet finished, we are far, far from finished.”  

Part of you jumps at the urge to beg for mercy—to hell with your pride, to the pits with your dignity—but this idea concludes quickly. Your mind blanks as your sight falls upon her naked breasts, shamelessly ogling as they hover above you. Orin notices this, smirking knowingly as she crawls forward, your pupils firmly planted on the slight sway of her perk nipples. Your gaze lowers from her chest, down her abdomen, to her cunt, likely just as soaked as yours. You realize how much of you she has tasted, and how little of her you have in turn.  

Revitalized, you flip her over once more, your teeth now the ones to tear at her throat. You keep biting until you feel fresh ichor flow into your waiting mouth, lapping up the ferrous substance with blatant greed. Orin moans out rapturously, nails clawing down your back, dragging until she draws blood of her own. You grunt in response, biting again and again and again until the only thing you can see is red. When you inevitably withdraw, you wipe your face with your forearm, kissing aimlessly down her body as she cackles ceaselessly.  

“No, Orin… We haven’t even started.” 

[bhaalsballs]

masterlist.

NAVIGATION:

fandoms and characters are sorted by alphabetical order, while fics are sorted chronologically (newest at the top). bolded titles indicate the work is NSFW bolded and italicized titles indicate the work contains non/dubcon *following a title indicates the work contains extreme violence

BALDURS GATE 3:

Orin the Red

vena cava* | 3.7k words, 4 aug. 2025 [F/F]

Orin wants to know your atrocities, and know atrocities against you.

HUNTER X HUNTER

Chrollo Lucifer

hell must be cold | 2.1k words, 16 aug. 2025 [M/GN]

You begin to harbor serious doubts about your relationship with Chrollo.

[bhaalsballs]

info/rules.

i ask those under 18, please do not interact. dead dove: do not eat.

my inbox is always open unless otherwise stated. that being said, i am enrolled fulltime in university while also working a part-time job. please, exercise some patience. i may not respond to every person's ask; don't consider it a personal slight, i just may not have the time or thoughts to respond.

does this mean i take requests? not exactly. i dont take requests for fics, though i am always open to hear questions, thoughts, suggestions, etc. and i do enjoy writing small blurbs or "micros" in response to ideas.

so, don't send fic requests or anything with an overly detailed plot. i dont mind an ask inquiring if i plan on writing for a certain character or fandom, though.

that being said, i will address the god-forsaken "part 2?" question. if you are simply interested in hearing if i have any plans to continue a story, i dont mind an inquiry. keep in mind, my brain is quite fickle, so any response to this question will not be a promise; otherwise, i will restate that i do not take fic requests.

my dms are off for accounts i do not follow. if you have any questions or concerns, please just send an ask; you may indicate in the ask if you would like it answered privately.

also, please do not repost or promote my content on other platforms.

these are my will not writes in regards to asks:

incest

ddlg/daddy kink by extension

underage

explicit animal harm

OCs

character x character (character x reader x character is fine)

scat/watersports

M/F pairings

readers with specific/detailed appearances

pregnancy

any characters outside this list

im not going to say everything else, but mostly everything else is on the table. if youre concerned, just ask, i promise i dont bite.

in regards to commissions, i am very busy. fics i write for myself will be slow to come out. i am interested in opening commissions in the forseeable future, but that likely will not be until i am out of university for the year. keep your eyes and your ears open, as i may open a few spots during breaks or slow periods. but for now, no commissions.

triggers will not be actually tagged on posts, but listed at the top with content under a read more. if you felt i missed a trigger, or would like me to start listing a new trigger, feel free to send an ask my way. on my masterlist there will be indicators by fic titles for nsfw, noncon, and extreme violence.

this is a dead dove blog, so keep in mind all of my fics will have some triggering themes. if you dont want to see my content, i dont take a block personally. otherwise, all my posts are tagged with #dead dove do not eat and #darkfic, so feel free to mute those.

navigation:

#lars speaks - my text posts

#reblogs - misc reblogs that aren't fics/other writer's work

#self reblog - self reblogs

#fic reblog - fic reblogs by other authors-- includes drabbles/micros

#general asks - asks answered without writing

#lars writes - my writing, including both fics and drabbles/micros

#lars' fics - specifically my fics (1.5k words and over)

#lars' drabbles - drabbles/micros (under 1.5k words)

#lars' events - my prompt/request events!

[bhaalsballs]

about.

lars ♰ he/they/it ♰ transmasc ♰ 20 ♰ aries

im lars, as you may already know. i love horror, i love eroticism, i love erotic horror, etc. etc.

this is not a definitive list, but here are some notable things i like (do not take this as a list of media i write for, you may find that here):

anime/manga:

berserk, chainsaw man, dorohedoro, evangelion, fire punch, hunter x hunter, jujutsu kaisen, madoka magica, monster, the summer hikaru died, tokyo ghoul

books:

dracula, hawk mountain, haunting of hill house, notes from the underground

TV/movies:

anything robert eggers, hannibal, midsommar, perfect blue, possession (1981), the shining, twin peaks

video games:

baldur's gate 3, bloodborne, darkest dungeon, dark souls III, dragon age: origins, elden ring, fear & hunger (I&II), silent hill

visual novels:

fata morgana, higurashi, slow damage, sweet pool

a fun fact, when i was younger, and i mean way too young, like literally twelve-years-old, i was very active in the danganronpa and diabolik lovers (black butler too, but less so) fandoms on wattpad. im a veteran in this business.

some misc. things:

my favorite colors are black, red and dark/muted greens. i like coconut and melon flavors, vodka, white rum (bacardi), and wolves

[bhaalsballs]

nav.

hello, my name is lars (he/they/it), i am 20 and you can learn more about me here. :3

about me:

yes im a loser

yes im a pervert

no i will not work on myself

about the blog:

my writing is reader-insert focused, and i only write same-sex pairings (M/M or F/F) or gender-neutral readers. why? because thats what i want to write.

i write darkfic, dead dove etc. with an emphasis on the "yandere" archetype. a lot of smut because im a freak. that being said, this an 18+ only space.

this blog is multi-fandom, here is a link to what i write for

please check the info link before sending an ask.

about | ao3 | info/rules | masterlist

latest:

hell must be cold | chrollo lucifer

vena cava | orin the red