thedarksilkpen - Tumblr blog

thedarksilkpen · 7 days ago

Text

The Corpse Regards You, Lifelessly - Chapter 8: Run, Ravengard

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64962646

------Huge shout out to my lovely editor @thedarksilkpen for making this readable lol. you're the best i love you------

“I should have known you would be the death of us all. I was trying desperately to see the good in you. I wanted to forgive you for your past, but you have gone too far. I am through with your games!”

Cyril stared at him, expressionless and unblinking, and said nothing. Wyll flourished his sword at him, maintaining distance, but making his intentions known all the same. The tiefling did not react. He was unarmed and remained in a neutral, open position, showing no signs of defence.

“It is always about using people,” the warlock continued, “and never about what they need. Look what you did to Shadowheart. You didn’t allow her to learn about her past, just to continue down the dark path that led her to leave us for good. She became too strong, too much of a threat to you, and you exiled her!”

This appeal to Cyril’s guilt was not working. He refused to care. He was as bad as the devils, perhaps he was one.

Wyll spoke again. “You gathered us together, said we could help each other find a cure, but you’ve given over to your urges time and again. How many have died because of you? Because of us? You have made us all monsters!”

He was met with more sickening silence. Righteous rage roiled in Wyll’s stomach. He was a monster hunter, he had promised to keep the Sword Coast safe, and he was failing miserably at it. Wyll gathered his courage. He had never killed someone he had spent so much time getting to know. The monsters he was used to hunting were clear-cut evil. There was no doubt that a demon needed to be put down, an ogre to be slain. It wasn’t until he met Karlach and Cyril that he realized good could be found in evil shapes, and villainy could be disguised behind such a charming creature.

“This ends now, foul beast! Your days of weaving lies and shedding blood are over. For the good of the Gate, and the good of Faerun, you will meet the sting of my blade, monster!”

Cyril did not move, his glowing red eyes fixed on Wyll’s horned forehead. The Blade of Frontiers prepared for an attack, aiming the tip of his rapier at the tiefling’s heart, but the monster still did not even flinch. What was wrong with him? Had he accepted his fate? No, that couldn’t be. The beast wouldn’t know remorse if it hit him upside the head. Then what–?

“Esurio!”

Wyll’s blade had just begun to pierce through ridged skin, when he suddenly stopped, letting go of the curved hilt. He jumped back several feet as bone-chilling fear washed over every cell in his body. His eyes widened, his breath caught in his mouth. He was paralyzed. The monster gently picked up the rapier and toyed with it in his hands. He walked slowly toward Wyll, who felt compelled to run as far away as possible, but couldn’t will his legs to move.

The men stood face to face. Cyril had to look up slightly to meet Wyll's eyes, but he may as well have been a Hill Giant for how much power and intimidation he possessed as cold fear continued to eat at Wyll’s veins. For the first time since earlier that evening, the monster spoke, forcing the rapier into the Blade’s shaking hands. “Run. Run away and save your pathetic father. Run away from your little devil’s pact. Run, like you always have, little Ravengard. Run, until there is no one left to chase you. Run away before I catch you.”

#author promo #o look it me #i LOVE YOU SO MUCH #YOU ARE SO TALENTED #MWAH MWAH MWAH

6 notes · View notes

thedarksilkpen · 8 days ago

Text

Blessed

Pairing: Astarion x Tav (reader) WC: 2143 Summary: You enter a temple in the city to find a disused sauna. Lucky for you, Astarion knows exactly where to find you for a little bit of heresy! Blasphemy! Tags: dom/sub undertones, dirty astarion, choking, female oral, rough, a lot of dirty talk, like oops, slight ownership reference if you squint NSFW

(Suggestions/pairings/spicy ideas or challenges are welcome!)

also more religious allegories, sorry. this is so loosely edited because i had to get this out of my head and scrivener is giving me issues with formatting.

---

The heat clings to your skin like silk.

The sauna is empty except for you-- tucked behind the inner sanctum of the temple, hidden past a mosaic-tiled hallway that no longer sees worshippers. Once, it was used for ritual cleansing, reserved for high priests and the anointed. A sacred space meant to purify the body before communion. But the gods are silent now, and the scent of incense has long since given way to rosemary and cedarwood. The door creaks on rusted hinges as you step inside, towel clinging to sweat damp skin. Steam curls up in thick waves, diffusing the lanternlight until the air seems to glow with halos, yellow and calming.

You’re alone. For now.

The bench is warm against your thighs as you settle in, palms flat at your sides. Sweat beads at your temples, trails down your throat, curves and nestles into the hollow at your collarbone. You breathe deep-- sharp herbs and salt and old ash, the smell of fire long burned out. The stones hiss with every splash of water, the room mist-thick and fragrant with herbal steam. Another deep breath and you can feel the days on the road practically melting away as you sit, your muscles relaxing and finally, blessedly!, your back releases its tension.

The groan that leaves your lips is practically pornographic, head dropping back onto the soft cushion behind the bench. You kick out a leg languidly, enjoying the heavy, heated air as it brushes against you, heated just enough to feel humid and thick. The secluded sauna offers enough privacy that you’re bold enough to fully drop your towel, taking a moment to drape it to either side, allowing the steam to kiss the whole of you.

The change in air pressure is what alerts you first, a swirl of coolness brushing against your legs and making you look up sharply, reflexes honed from the perils of the road. Everything inside you pulls taut. The vacuum of the door opening parts the steam enough for you to make out someone entering and shutting the door behind them before moving into the room properly, and you’re able to see who it is for the first time clearly. The door clicks shut behind him. The lock turns.

Astarion enters your field of vision like a shadow cut from moonlight, all soft silk and sharper things beneath. Boots discarded. Daggers missing. Leathers shed. Only a loosely tied robe of charcoal-gray linen, cinched at the waist, clinging to damp skin and scandalous intentions. Pale chest bare beneath the open lapel, red eyes slow and appraising. He says nothing at first. Just watches you from beneath already dampened curls, red eyes catching the flicker of the lanterns like a slow-burning flame.

"Well," he murmurs, finally, voice thick with heat and wine-dark charm, "how very pious of you. Coming to a holy place for purification. Though I must say, I prefer my absolution… more carnal." He grins down at you at your place on the bench, sharp white teeth suddenly seeming much more dangerous, much more pointed.

Your throat goes dry.

He walks towards you with the patience of a predator, bare feet silent even on the slick stones and robe parted every so slightly-- just enough to reveal a teasing flash of pale hip and the long, lean muscle of his thigh. He stands before you, letting you look. And gods, do you look. His robe slips farther open, revealing the lean cut of his torso, the silver-pale trail of hair beneath his navel, the telltale sharpness of his hips.

When he stands before you, he doesn’t ask permission.

He simply kneels.

Astarion’s hands are warm on your knees as he spreads them apart gently, pries them open like the cover of a sacred tome. He situates himself better between your legs, palms sliding up the sides of your naked thighs like a benediction, and looks up at you with reverence, and then grins, slanted and blasphemous.

“You came here to be clean,” he says, lips brushing your inner thigh. “But tell me, my love… do you truly want to be cleansed? Or do you want to be consecrated?”

You shift your hips against the towel beneath you, thighs parting in silent invitation.

His hands glide up your thighs with agonizing care, trailing streaks of heat in their wake. He doesn’t move quickly. There’s no need. The others were too pious to their own chosen forms of worship to wander into somewhere so sacrosanct and-! His mouth finds the crease of your hip and you gasp, your fingers tightening on the edge of the bench to either side of you. Astarion’s red eyes flicker up to meet yours and a silent agreement passes between the two of you-- desecrate. His lips move from your hip to your upper thigh, kissing the spot like it deserves worship. You shiver. The air is heavy and wet, and it only thickens with the tension rising in your gut.

“I thought of you,” he whispers, lips brushing your sensitive skin between each word, “while I fucked myself on my fingers this morning and came into my fist. Thought of your mouth, your hands… the way you say my name when you’re too far gone to be shy.” His voice grows husky, nails grazing sharper against you as his arousal grows.

Then his mouth is on you.

There is no hesitation, no preamble. He parts you with reverent fingers and leans in slowly, normally whip-sharp tongue dragging along the length of your cunt with slow but devastating intent. The first pass is exploratory, teasing, but the next is nothing short of hunger, lips sealing around your clit as if tasting divinity itself. The heat of his mouth rivals the sauna and you allow yourself to moan softly, back arching as pleasure builds in the center of your gut.

"Gods above," he mutters between long sweeps of his tongue, pulling away from you to make smoldering eye contact, "if this is sacrilege, may I be damned a thousand times over." His hands grip your thighs tightly, holding you open for him, tongue plunging deep, curling inside you. He drinks you in like communion wine, slow and obscene, eyes flicking up just once to watch you tremble. Fuck, how he savors it… every gasp, every twitch, every roll of your hips against him, seeking more more more!

Astarion moans against your cunt, the sordid sound sending sparks straight through you. He alternates between flicking your clit with precision and burying his tongue as deep as he can reach, murmuring praise into you with every sound you make. "So sweet," he purrs, lips slick and shining, "so radiant, my darling." When your legs begin to tremble, when you clutch the towel beneath you in desperation, he doesn’t relent; instead he devours you like prey, merciless and slow, until your thighs visually tremble and shake and your breath hitches in your throat.

When he pulls away from your cunt you reach for him, but he’s already rising, already dropping his robe to the slickened stones to reveal the long, hard line of his cock, glistening at the tip. Astarion guides you back against the seat of the sauna, levying your ass and hips forward to meet him with ease. One hand braces behind your neck, the other trails slowly between your breasts. You arch into the touch with a luxuriating sigh-- the way he touches you does nothing to convince you that you /arent/ God.

And a God should be loved, no?

“Mm. Such devotion to your subjects,” he purrs. “Perhaps I should offer a prayer.” His lips move slowly to your own, brushing gently against your cheek first, the promise of more. Astarion kisses you slowly, like he’s sealing a pact. His tongue slips against yours, coaxing, claiming, and when he slides a hand around the back of your neck, it’s not forceful… it’s possessive. You’re already his, he’s merely reminding you of the truth.

“Astarion,” you gasp against his lips and whine when his long, lithe fingers part you again in preparation. He smiles into the kiss, allowing his lips to hover just above yours, the space between you filled with soft pants and desire.

“Blessed are the wicked, for they shall be filled.”

He sinks into you with a slow, deliberate sigh, head falling back, mouth parting in silent ecstasy. Your breath hitches. He’s so deep, stretching you open with agonizing fullness. A slow roll of his hips, and your body welcomes him like a prayer answered in blood and heat before he pulls out again, just as slow. The head of his cock nudges through your slick folds with delicious ease, gliding in inch by inch until he’s buried deep again, thighs pressed against your ass.

You grip his hips and pull him closer, and he moans, a strangled, hungry sound. Astarion steadies himself with one hand on the back of the bench while the other scorches a searing path up your side, fucking you in a rhythm that is filthy in its elegance; it’s slow and cyclical, like a dance learned in a different, darker church.

“This place,” he pants, “this temple… they used to baptize virgins here. Can you imagine it? The holy oils. The sacred chants. All wasted on trembling girls too afraid to even look at themselves.” The laugh that leaves him is sharp and sardonic. “Wasted. But you… oh you, darling…” Astarion grunts as he thrusts into you once, sharply. A bead of sweat drips from a white curl, lands on your collarbone. “You have no fear, do you?”

With a wry smile of your own, you meet each of his thrusts, hard and insistent, and the sound he makes borders on obscene. His thighs slap against yours as the pace builds, each grind of his hips sending shudders through your core, fucking you into the bench, into the etched memory of the temple. You hear the wood of the bench creak under his hand as he grips it tighter, his other finally sliding between the two of you and between your legs, swiping at your clit in fast, desperate strokes.

He’s close, but still wants you to finish.

What a gentleman.

“Fuck me,” you gasp, your own grip on the bench threatening to tear your fingernails, “don’t stop.” His eyes find yours, red and fervent, nearly crazed with arousal. “Ruin me.”

The wet slap of bodies. The rasp of his breath in your ear. The hiss of the steam stones. All of it blends into a heady blur as your pleasure crests. You feel him tremble above you, his pace growing erratic and arms threatening to give way to exertion, hips stuttering as he grinds deeper into you. The coil inside you tightens with each thrust, your release threatening to snap inside of you like a taut rubber band.

You reach up, fingers threading into his hair as you press your forehead to his, voice rough with want. “Come for me.” The breath that leaves him is a sharp exhalation of shock through his nose, and you watch as his eyes grow dangerous. Astarion's hand wraps gently but firmly around your throat, his thumb brushing your pulse as his hips snap forward one final time. He holds you there, suspended between fear and pleasure, his own breath ragged as he fills you, his eyes trained firmly on your eyes. The pressure, the heat, the thrill of it sends you reeling and your climax surges up in a blinding wave, drawn out and delicious, your body clenching around him as you fall apart beneath his grip.

When he relaxes his grip on your throat enough for you to breathe you draw in a shuddering gasp, your eyes fluttering as he draws one more climax from your shaking body, his pelvis rocking perfectly against you. His hold softens as you twitch under him, gasping and panting as you come down. He leans down, brushing a kiss against your lips, his chest heaving against yours. Astarion’s mouth trails to your throat, where his thumb still rests reverently over the flutter of your pulse.

There’s a brief moment where you’re worried he’ll give in, bite you, end things right here.

But no.

He trails his pointed nose into the hollow behind your ear and huffs a short laugh.

"Do you think they’ll smell it?" he murmurs, voice syrupy with satisfaction. "The priests. The paladins. The ones who wander in to light candles and whisper prayers to indifferent gods. I want them to smell your delicious cunt, and what we’ve done here.”

“Let them,” you respond, smiling into his hair and pressing a kiss to his temple that seems almost chaste in comparison to what you’ve just done.

He laughs. It’s soft.

Unholy.

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

---

as usual, i hate writing endings. if anyone has requests, let me know :) sorry again if there's any typos or weird formatting, i'm trying out Scrivener for the week and it's odd.

#last self reblog

55 notes · View notes

thedarksilkpen · 9 days ago

Text

Blessed Are The Wicked

(Suggestions/pairings/spicy ideas or challenges are welcome!)

also more religious allegories, sorry. this is so loosely edited because i had to get this out of my head and scrivener is giving me issues with formatting.

---

The heat clings to your skin like silk.

You’re alone. For now.

Your throat goes dry.

When he stands before you, he doesn’t ask permission.

He simply kneels.

“You came here to be clean,” he says, lips brushing your inner thigh. “But tell me, my love… do you truly want to be cleansed? Or do you want to be consecrated?”

You shift your hips against the towel beneath you, thighs parting in silent invitation.

Then his mouth is on you.

And a God should be loved, no?

“Blessed are the wicked, for they shall be filled.”

He’s close, but still wants you to finish.

What a gentleman.

“Fuck me,” you gasp, your own grip on the bench threatening to tear your fingernails, “don’t stop.” His eyes find yours, red and fervent, nearly crazed with arousal. “Ruin me.”

There’s a brief moment where you’re worried he’ll give in, bite you, end things right here.

But no.

He trails his pointed nose into the hollow behind your ear and huffs a short laugh.

“Let them,” you respond, smiling into his hair and pressing a kiss to his temple that seems almost chaste in comparison to what you’ve just done.

He laughs. It’s soft.

Unholy.

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

---

as usual, i hate writing endings. if anyone has requests, let me know :) sorry again if there's any typos or weird formatting, i'm trying out Scrivener for the week and it's odd.

55 notes · View notes

thedarksilkpen · 10 days ago

Text

Blessed

(Suggestions/pairings/spicy ideas or challenges are welcome!)

also more religious allegories, sorry. this is so loosely edited because i had to get this out of my head and scrivener is giving me issues with formatting.

---

The heat clings to your skin like silk.

You’re alone. For now.

Your throat goes dry.

When he stands before you, he doesn’t ask permission.

He simply kneels.

“You came here to be clean,” he says, lips brushing your inner thigh. “But tell me, my love… do you truly want to be cleansed? Or do you want to be consecrated?”

You shift your hips against the towel beneath you, thighs parting in silent invitation.

Then his mouth is on you.

And a God should be loved, no?

“Blessed are the wicked, for they shall be filled.”

He’s close, but still wants you to finish.

What a gentleman.

“Fuck me,” you gasp, your own grip on the bench threatening to tear your fingernails, “don’t stop.” His eyes find yours, red and fervent, nearly crazed with arousal. “Ruin me.”

There’s a brief moment where you’re worried he’ll give in, bite you, end things right here.

But no.

He trails his pointed nose into the hollow behind your ear and huffs a short laugh.

“Let them,” you respond, smiling into his hair and pressing a kiss to his temple that seems almost chaste in comparison to what you’ve just done.

He laughs. It’s soft.

Unholy.

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

---

as usual, i hate writing endings. if anyone has requests, let me know :) sorry again if there's any typos or weird formatting, i'm trying out Scrivener for the week and it's odd.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 smut #fanfic #aosarchive #ao oopsied #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #astarion

55 notes · View notes