//PAHA RUMA MOOTTORIMUNA

//CONFESSION

minesweeperaddict:

In soft shadows cast under perpetual gloaming he received the impassioned avowals of Ciaran, returned in due degree the zeal that coloured her admissions of each minute trespass, that she go forth in grace; he took in the ponderous rumblings of Gough, assured him both as leader and as friend of his continued righteousness. To all who wished for pardon through him, Ornstein listened patiently, and replied with care. Only the dark man, who held most apathy for what his station entailed, recoiled from his devoir.

A few months back, my buddy Akhrati and I decided to do a bit of slash writing for Dark Souls, which seems to be a bit of a rarity in the fandom. I recently decided to combine all of our writings into one document for easy re-reading, just for us, but given the high quality of writing and the amount of speculative detail we ended up including, my co-conspirator thought it would be something that others of a similar mindset might enjoy. So as per his suggestion, here we are!

If you are a fan of Dark Souls and/or well-written slash fiction (or both!), then please have a read, if you like! At 26k words it’s a bit of a behemoth, but we think it’s worth it! Be aware that behind these lovely words there are massive amounts of unashamedly homo, explicit goings-on, so if that is not your cup of tea, consider passing this one over.

So, without further ado, read on, Chosen Undead, if you so dare! (pdf, 567kb)

We’re here! We’re queer! And we like Knightly gays! There are a LOT of words, but none of them are wasted. Here you go, DaS fandom! Rest assured, this shall not be the last you hear from us!

A snippet from an original project of mine, Amsel der Unsterblich (Amsel the Deathless), a spin on the Slavic folk tale of Koschei the Deathless.

Dietrich Amsel is a man that cannot die, but when his immortality is threatened, he is caught up with a young girl, Marya, on the trail of the Bogatyrs, an organisation of heroes that hunt the undead, witches and malicious, they set out on a journey to halt them in their hunts.

Hairy Toes the Dinner Witch is a story that a bro of mine told me, about a friend of his whose father used to scare her into eating her greens, taking a bath, going to bed or misbehaving in the park (any situation she didn’t listen!) with Hairy Toes the witch. He would get her brother to go and ring the front doorbell to trick her into believing that the witch had come for her…

“Don’t give me that look!”

Diesel looked up from the books on the desk, giving the girl opposite him a quirk of the eyebrow. It was good that she was in the spirit of things, but some of the stories that came out of her mouth seemed somewhat… embellished. He shifted his bulky arms to the table and leant forwards, the image of inquisitiveness. Marya seemed placated, eyes wide as she met him halfway across.

“It was about five years back, just before Dad died. He told me,” She put on her father’s rough-edged voice and wagged her finger at the man, as if he were there at the table with her family. “’Marya, if you don’t finish them greens, she’s gonna come and getcha!’ And I didn’t think anything of it, right? So I just gave him that look you’re giving me and poked at that broccoli and when I looked up…”

Her prim face fell, grim.

“She was there. Right at the end of the table…” Punctuated with a point of her painted nail, Diesel’s eye followed it, then back to Marya. “Feet up… Just combing that toe hair with a little bone-ass comb. She gave me this knowing little grin… And you know what? I ate it!”

“… Hairy Toes, dhe Dinner Witch?”

Marya nodded.

“In the very flesh! Y’know, she shows up at bedtime, or bath time, just ringing that doorbell when you don’t do as your parents tell you. She’s a menace!”

Diesel looked back down, tiny traces of a smile coming to the corners of his mouth.

“Per’heps we should… ask her for help?”

Marya shook her head so fast that her hair fluffed up.

“Never! She knows me!”

“All dhe better to… make up, eh?”

All he received in return was a filthy look, before she looked back down to her study. Other witches, surely, would be safer.

“You’ve been lifting, haven’t you?”

“Huh?”

Gene stopped, greasy burger from across the road half-unwrapped in his hand. He chewed, face like crammed-ass hamster cheeks, blinking at the other man, who hadn’t bothered to pause his game.

“You’re looking good.”

… Now this was weird. Travis didn’t say nice things. He’d been jabbing him in the stomach the other week, saying he was getting kind of flabby (“Off season isn’t a fucking excuse! You don’t have an off season, fuckwit!”) from his latest desk job.

“… What do you want?”

This time, Travis paused.

“Why so fucking suspicious? Geez! You just don’t look so fat any more. … Is that my shirt?”

“Yeah, it fits again.”

“See what I mean?”

“Fuck you, dude,” Gene smirked, leaning forwards into Travis’ ear to take another bite of his burger.

“Fuck off!”

CONTENT: DARK SOULS
SUMMARY: The Age of Dark creeps slowly. One man is dedicated to its ushering— the Carim of the future is a land already crawls with corruption.
WORDS: 489

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You catch up to the figure! It is a Shardmind wrapped up in fine, patterned cloth with a Greatsword slung over its back. It turns around and with a crackle of psychic energy, locks eyes with the leader of the party.

You see a swirling abyss, lit only by the energy that strings your eyes and picks your body apart. You fall. You fall and fall, as emotions burn your mind one after another— the rage of a mother torn from her children, their blood painted over her body by creatures you cannot understand. The emptiness of a wanderer, who walks so lightly they barely exist. The sorrow of a father and traitor, who can never redeem himself. These tear your chest apart and re-seal it.

> [The duty of a constructed soul, a name cleansed by death. You choke on the shame of transgressions, an inability to protect.]
>[The duty of an ancient, a soul that can barely remember itself. The land calls to you, lives pray to you and yet, you can do nothing.]
>[The duty of a warlord, a soul bathed in blood. Past triumphs dissolve and reform, the congratulations of your kin warping into their last words, disappointed and condemning.]
>[The duty of a wiseman, a soul lost to the stars. The universe pushes down on you, calls your name and whispers the joy of the void.]

You come to. Roll will check.

CONTENT: DARK SOULS
SUMMARY: Artorias and Sif leave Anor Londo for the night to gaze at the moon.
WORDS: 538

It never grew dark in Anor Londo.

The perpetual twilight of their night was beautiful in its own way, but it didn’t seem natural.

He wrapped the pup in his cloak and set out on a personal pilgrimage, walking the silent marble corridors until the duskiness faded and the stairwells grew dim. Polished white gave way to sandy brick and he descended from their walled haven, towards the kingdom of man.

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//AGREEMENT

CONTENT: DARK SOULS
SUMMARY: Lautrec/Solaire, threat.
WORDS: 277
NOTES: Surely, you don’t think he got those Sunlight Medals by helping? Long overdue, had this sat around on my tablet since November!


He held the Warrior to his body, uncomfortably close, metal to metal. The Shotel’s elegant curve fit comfortably in the chink between helm and neck, nestled against skin so rarely exposed— with a quirk of his wrist the wrong way, irreparable damage would be dealt.

Lautrec always played to win.

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duressian-gray asked: "Lygerastia - The condition of one who is only amorous when the lights are out." Death/War, Darksiders universe.

An icy hand on his chest jerked him back from the cusp of rest.

“Death? What is this?”

“Hush, now. You’re far more becoming with your mouth firmly shut.”

War’s protest was short-lived, nipped before it could form. As bade, he shut his mouth and squinted into his brother’s mask, eyes murky. The structure about them, spartan in its styling and silent as a dusty grave (technically, the hovel could qualify as a mass grave, given the nature of its construction), held no light sources and in the heavy, oppressive dark, all he could see were two glowing orange half-circles glaring down at him, lighting the deep, foreboding sockets and a hint of the mask highlighted by the weaker glow from his own face and eyes. His darkvision was slow to kick in in such a shattered state, but he knew that touch.

Its intent was clear. Death straddled his midsection, but sunk forwards onto War’s solid, bulky form until they were near-flush together, masked face bowed close to his ear.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you, War?”

War swallowed.

Death’s eyes curved at the bottom, telling of a wicked smirk.

“Aren’t you?”

“If I want to be.”

His working arm rose, hand splayed, and reached for Death’s body— whiplike, the elder ride lashed out before he had the chance to even touch him. War hissed and recoiled.

“You will be good on my terms. Understand me?”

“Who says I will be?”

A hand around his throat did, squeezing so tightly that the articulated claws of his gauntlet dug into tanned skin until it gave, drawing blood. Belligerence was something he couldn’t shift, though he was sure that Death enjoyed the chance to sling his weight about without true consequence— it was just the way they played the game.

”I do.”

And that was final.

minesweeperaddict asked: Artorias/Ornstein, Baisemain. Or for less heartbreaking adorable, Apodyopis. (What if all that gleaming armour was out of the way...)

Out of the view of sin, bereft of the shackles of code and propriety, Artorias existed. So few worries were given to such things as the eyes of the Gods on their backs, the scrutiny of the Dark Sun or the disapproving line of the Lord Blade’s mouth. How she despised such talk. Their Captain was not a man to be thought of in such a way; the Allfather’s position on such things was firm, written into their codex to police emotion and the desires the Dark may bring.

He could not explain himself well to her, as she wasn’t listening. Chose not to, turned her head. Jealousy was such an unbecoming thing, no matter who it may have been.

He didn’t need her permission to think and do— she was not the police of thought, nor the arbiter of action and beyond her third, haunting eye, they drew close to the end of their patrol as the sky deepened for what they had come to call ‘night’.

Philosophy dominated their patter. Ornstein was a learned man, of scholarly interests and deep thought. He spoke with his regal, practised tone, each word even and considered carefully. New Londo granted many a wise man with many a wise thought and he poured over their words for hours, mulling debates over and over until they would come to Artorias’ ears with a response to anything waiting for him.

“Chivalry, as a concept, was formed far before man. Beneath Lord Gwyn’s eye, we agreed upon honourable conduct and passed it down to mankind when they opened their eyes and hearts to the Gods.”

They patrolled the courtyard in mirrored steps, pace matched perfectly to their own beat.

“Be genuine of heart, Artorias. Devotion’s worth outweighs all the gold in the world.”


A bitter-sweet gesture, so gentle, so pure. An impulse finally acted upon, for better or for worse. He knelt before his Captain in subservience, reverence and adoration and bowed his head, humbled.

“Artorias?”

He reached out and took a gold-plated hand in his silver— Ornstein did not resist. His fingers gripped gently as Artorias’ face lowered and lips pressed lightly to the contoured metal.

“Illicit and elevating,” he murmured, “Passionate and disciplined, humiliating and exalting—”

“Human and transcendent. But… you mustn’t, Artorias.”

“I don’t care, Sir.”

Silent, he allowed a moment of worship, chest tight and lost for words. None could match up to Artorias’ tenacity— ‘no’ was not an answer.

“… Very well.”

Artorias looked up, nose and mouth visible beneath his half-helm. He was smiling.

Anonymous asked: "Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lips." Jorr/Cruexis. (Obvious ask is obvious.)

He spoke so infrequently— deferring to a silent ‘Sir’, pressing in an uncomfortable, forced, bizarre line. His forced, intimidated smiles were a pleasure each time and with his manners so forcefully drilled into him, excitingly often.

The way that Cruexis spoke was clipped and curt, but frayed at the edges. His master was yet to grind that last imperfection out which lingered on the tip of his tongue and hovered on his lips— a fresh split from their battles caught a dim, dead eye for slightly too long and kept returning at any opportunity. Every so often, he’d lick it, wetting it slightly to soothe its sting, a stubborn imperfection that his holy light could not seem to close.

It was a red so vivid that it pierced his face, opened when he smiled and followed up with a hiss, a snarl and an apology. Tantalising. How would it taste? How would he taste it?

A fantasy quashed, filed away for later. They would make camp and he would take it for himself, desecrate his charge with his rotten mandibles, chew beauty into meat and consume it, depraved.

Anonymous asked: "Druxy - Something which looks good on the outside, but is actually rotten inside." Diesel? I like Diesel here.

Unlike many others, Amsel did not deny the blackness that wrapped his innards. He was not so big-headed as to believe himself flawless, no, far from, but each day, the dark reached up his throat in sick tendrils and threatened to expose itself to the world.

He caught eyes when he was sat there on his bike, wrapped tightly in black that flaunted each built shape of his honed body. He was angular and supposedly so handsome that it lied for him. Fools wandered towards him, his pallour a flame that they could not resist, demanding to be humoured by this lurking beast. He took them as he pleased, turned them to meat with nothing but his fists and his force and dumped them when finished.

Nothing but offal to be found by somebody else. Identified by their dental record. Suspicious. Unsolved.

How easily they were tempted by the towering beast.

Something so beautiful could not be so rotten within.

Surely?

Anonymous asked: "Autolatry - The worship of one’s self." Abyssal Alorian.

The grand mirror in the chambers of the Dark Lady caught his eye every day— easily thrice his height and twice his width, it was an artefact to be revered. There, he watched his goddess dress, drank in the shapes of her sinful body, the shift of gossamer against her curvature, how raven hair tumbled like silk around her shoulders and caught the polished obsidian shards and pearls of her adornments. She was his everything; the humblest of servants, her most trusted and adored of advisers. That she trusted him to witness her most private moments spoke volumes of her love for him and within this adoration, he flourished.

She left to face her public and so he rose to prepare himself. As he passed the mirror, a hand reached out to brush the frame— it throbbed beneath his fingertips, a deep, resonating sensation that drew his eyes aside, to…

His body.

Entranced, he saw the power beneath his skin as if it were the first time, barely contained beneath skin so pale, he could follow the forked tracks of his veins down his arm with his eyes. As if he were experimenting, he flexed at his side and marvelled at muscle so developed, he could follow every cord, picked out by the pallid light around him. When he relaxed, he realised he’d been holding his breath.

His hair, loose of its braid, fell from him like a curtain, locks falling over the swell of his chest, ghosting down his stacked abdomen and further, brushing just above his knee. Each line, each valley, he noticed and adored, following them with blunt fingers that picked out lines of ancient, mortal scars that faded away with each passing day. They meshed across him, old slash wounds, gouges, shallow pockmarks and finer tissue blossoming around pain so long ago felt— years of battle, finally given attention by rapt eyes, overdue. Each flaw was worked over until his flesh was alight with sensation and breath grew heavier until he locked eyes with himself.

Such an unnatural blue swirled with particles of paler hue and glowed an ethereal white in the dimness. He reached up to trace his cheekbones, then down to his jawline, sharp, strongly-defined and down to his clavicles, brushing hair aside. Again, he indulged in his face, turning side to side to watch where the light caught, the swell of his lips, the straight, white line of his teeth, the point to his nose, the narrow lines etched into him as if he were stone, carved from a single block and smoothed to perfection.

How glorious he was.

How beautiful he was.

How perfect he was.