7 Works by drainoctane
Listing Works
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Summary
Young not-a-boy, not-yet-a-slug-man Aldrich terrorizes dinner.
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Trust Exercise (drabble) by drainoctane
Fandoms: Dark Souls III, Dark Souls (Video Games)
25 Jun 2019
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"high tension high stakes cannibal blob blowjobs" -anon
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Banquet for Two at the Cathedral of the Deep by drainoctane
Fandoms: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
22 Jun 2019
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Summary
Aldrich narrowed his eyes beneath the twisted half-mask. “I still don’t understand.” His elbows rested on the tabletop, and his fingers wove together under his cheek. He studied Sulyvahn’s plate where it sat nearby. Every day, at least twice, the pontiff would come and sit for all of fifteen minutes, hardly look at his plate, and leave once the piddling amount of food on it was gone. “It’s like a chore.”
“I have more important things to do.” Sulyvahn’s voice had the slightest edge of annoyance in it. He wasn’t sure what to make of Aldrich’s newfound interest in his eating habits, outside of irrepressible distaste for the knowledge that whatever was left of Aldrich’s most recent batch of sacrifices was temporarily sharing a dining room with him.
Aldrich folded his arms and rested his head on the table. “There aren’t more important things.”
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"Okay so, hear me out here. I like to think that either Sulyvahn or Aldrich have a wax play fetish?? Because holy shit have you seen the amount of candles in the Cathedral, it's absurd." -anon
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The newly-disgraced cleric Aldrich was caught between rage and despair. He’d been snatched from his quarters in the dead of night and carted clear from Irithyll to the windowless, lightless room in which he was currently locked, through miles of gods-know-where. The lovely niche he’d carved out for himself in Irithyll had been wrenched from him, likely for good, and likely by that bastard sorcerer who called himself Pontiff.
The irony wasn’t lost on Aldrich that he could hear chanting through the walls, garbled and insane though it sounded when he could distinguish the words. He’d caught glimpses of the cathedral that imprisoned him – its statues were twisted, its clerics shadowed by strange compulsions. Had he ventured here in better standing, he might have wanted it as his home.
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Aldrich panted through the Dark Sun’s throat. The dead god’s body slumped back in a throne in the bowels of the Cathedral, with Aldrich’s own mass joining it at the waist and trailing across the floor, weaving in and out of a throng of waiting faithful, littered with yet-undigested bones. As his his followers melted out of the shadows to welcome their lord with awe and trepidation, Aldrich settled into a spacious hall already slick with temporarily detached slime-flesh, and spoke slowly to his reverers. “Bring forth your sacrifices to me.”
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This time, when Aldrich awoke, the mouth he had clearly put to use the night before was unreachable. This gave him a moment’s worry, as his mouth was, in a way, the part of him to blame for the state of the rest of his decaying body. But he calmed as he stirred from his sleep – the bodies and souls he’d conquered had blessed his form with innumerable thrilling variations, and this one would prove no less a blessing for its challenging nature.