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“It’ll do you no good to keep pining for him like that.”
Words meant merely to tease, yet cutting deeper than any knife.
Darian glanced over his shoulder to Lanya as she sat at the roundtable, resting her head in her palm with a mischievous smile. He dared not humour her with anything she could use as fuel, but what did it matter? Lanya could spend hours talking to herself to deduce something.
No better than Rogier, who had already left the Hold, and D cursed himself for holding his cloudy-eyed gaze just a moment too long. Long enough for nosy Lanya to catch. “Your dear sorcerer won’t wait for you to say something,” she continued. “Best do it before he finds someone else.”
Another knife plunged into his back.
“It doesn’t matter,” mumbled Darian. He didn’t want to believe it, but he had no choice but to acquiesce to the truth: that his emotions indeed mattered very little in the way of his work. Cleansing the Lands Between of blighted undead was not a duty that required feelings, much less feelings for a sorcerer who questioned the sanctity of the Order. That’s all Darian was—a soldier of the Order, and if he was not benefitting the Order, what good was he?
It was all he had after he and his twin were abandoned. Disgusting, cursed things that had no place in society. Better to be dead than to live as a curse. But it was the Order that took them in when they only knew the dirty alleyways as their home. Gave them food that was edible, not rats cooked on an open flame. Bathed them, clothed them, gave them purpose when they had none. And so he devoted his heart and body to the Order, and the will of Queen Marika became his own.
He held no ambitions past the Order. No dreams or desires beyond the Order’s design. That is, until he met a peculiar sorcerer in some catacombs one day. He didn’t know that garishly dressed man would spell the end of him, whisking him into unending schemes, challenging his devotion, and unravelling his thoughts like peeling meat from a corpse.
It happened in the forest of Stormveil.
From a bush, a spread of crossbow bolts pierced through Darian’s armour. Pain coursed through him, unsure if something important was hit in the ambush. Rogier forced him away, to a spot hidden by the foliage, and fumbled with the breastplate. Observing the damage, he concluded that the wounds weren’t deep and could be tended without too much trouble. He glanced at Darian’s anxious face, beaded with sweat. Rogier’s hand stroked his platinum hair as if to allay it, fingers gliding down to cup his pale cheek. The tenderness of the gesture was juxtaposed with a knowing smirk.
“Worry not, friend. You’ll be fine.”
A warm shiver flashed down Darian’s spine.
He only knew himself to be a filthy curse, unworthy of love. An ill omen that would spread disease were one to come in contact with him.
But at that moment, the first time he was ever touched, he wondered if it was really true.
He was born to be alone. Physically, anyway—mentally, he was never apart from his brother, whose endless love guided him despite them never meeting eyes, never speaking a word to each other. But the only touch he had ever felt was holding his unconscious twin’s warm hand to his own face. That was enough to sustain him, and it was all he knew he would ever receive—a silhouette of tangible affection from the one who loved him most, cursed to never be awake at the same time.
So when Rogier brushed his hand upon his cursed flesh, a once-unknown desire unfurled within him, and he found himself craving more. Wishing to feel Rogier’s touch again.
A wish he flagellated himself for holding, for he was a tool of the Order and nothing more. His purpose was to enact the Order’s will, and to want more than that spelled an ungratefulness unjustifiable in any prayer. What else would a soldier want, when they were afforded the greatest honour, to serve Queen Marika? To restore the Golden Order’s glory? How could any other banal thoughts take root, when there was a sacred duty to uphold?
Months later, a terrible thing happened.
Rogier popped open a bottle of wine liberated from a bandit camp earlier in the day. Tipsy Rogier was cute, and drunken Rogier so very charming. But Darian kept his hands to himself, as was expected of a holy knight with a holy duty. Oh, but fiercely independent Rogier was not bound to such solemn vows, and dear, oh dear, why was it that his arms were wrapping around Darian’s neck like that, as if he wanted him? As if he wasn’t enacting a mockery of all the nights Darian spent meditating to keep thoughts like this very moment away?
“You’re drunk,” Darian had said, immediately standing up and sending Rogier’s arms limp to his sides. “Drink some water.”
Darian had already confided in him that he was a cursed being. Rogier prodded further, as he always did, but never held it cruelly over Darian’s head like those of his hometown, who cast him askew glances and whispered rumours of his disease. Rogier seemed to not take the claims of such malaise seriously, and certainly he did not now, caressing Darian’s arms with a pleading whine, slurring some string of words that only served to show that he had enough. Darian shook his head and put him to his bedroll after forcing him to guzzle a canteen of water. Rogier passed out soon afterwards, and Darian was left to stew in his own thoughts. How desperately did he gather the remnants of the physicality that Rogier so briefly graced him with, like a dog lapping up morsels of food its master left behind.
How nice it would be to know the taste of Rogier’s lips, to feel that tanned skin against his own white flesh, to touch his body in places he had never given thought to before. His wandering thoughts dove into territory he knew he should not ponder, dipping below the belt, into those white pants, wondering what he would find there. What kind of noises would escape those perfect lips were Darian to caress him so carefully around his cock, waiting for him to whimper and plead for Darian to go further? How would his body react to Darian, when he would finally give him what he wanted? When he reached the height of pleasure and spilled himself solely from Darian’s touch?
Marika’s will held the utmost importance, so why was he wishing he could give up resisting and give himself to Rogier? No, why did he even entertain the comical thought that he could ever be with him? Because of this little incident? It meant nothing. Rogier was drunk. A man of such status would never be interested in a cursed knight without downing a few drinks first.
“Seems like it matters quite a lot to you.” Lanya’s voice snapped him back into the present.
Of course she would say that. Her and Rogier’s prodding natures were so similar that he wondered if Diallos’s and Rogier’s noble families had swapped retainers every now and then. A deep sigh escaped his lips before he muttered, “I’ve a duty to uphold.”
“That’s what keeping you? Being duty-bound?”
“I must follow only the guidance of the great Elden Ring.”
“And a cheeky sorcerer isn’t written in the Elden Ring, it seems.” She laughed. “Why don’t you give me a list of things you’re allowed to do, then?”
Darian quickly bid her farewell and left the Hold before he would fall to her trap; he’d already said too much. Of course, she was only invested in him to get the latest details on interpersonal drama in the Hold. There wasn’t any other reason to interact with him. Even Rogier only stayed by his side to get whatever new thing he needed for his research—he had no reason to regard Darian as anything other than a useful tool. Indeed, a tool of the Order, he was, and no more.
Despite his diligent studies, no passage of the Golden Order Principia could prepare him for such an event.
Not a few steps into the catacombs, Rogier had tripped forward on the uneven stone flooring, and Darian reached to jerk him back, toppling them to the floor. Rogier lay beside him, dazed for but a moment before realizing what happened.
“Oh dear,” said Rogier, his voice low with a playful air. He slowly leaned over Darian’s chest, staring into the holes of his faceplate. “It appears I was distracted.”
Darian waited for Rogier to get up. But he made no effort to leave, only casting a longing gaze from his handsome visage. And so Darian laid still as a boulder, watching Rogier creep upon him, only to have his golden mask lifted, his partner beholding his pale face stricken with panic. Rogier smirked at the sight, and pressed his face so terribly close to Darian’s, too close, for he felt his nose tickle his own, Rogier’s breath so hot upon his trembling lips. Feeling he might perish right there from the proximity, Darian found himself no longer breathing. His heart pumped an exhilarating mix of desire and terror straight into his blood, seizing every muscle with fervid anticipation beneath his impassive armour.
More than anything, he wanted Rogier to lean closer, oh so faintly, to meet his lips, to intimately know the mouth that spoke philosophies and theories to him, to cave to the feeling that he pushed down time and time again for the sake of his holy duty. A little closer, just a little more…
“Thank you, dear friend,” whispered Rogier. He hesitated a moment, as if deciding something, and leaned back, finally getting up. Darian exhaled a deep, laborious sigh as the buried tension in his veins evaporated from his body. He almost cursed, wishing so badly that he could’ve indulged in that feeling, but the icy chill of reality washed over him, reminding him that Rogier had no reason to ever want to be with a person like him.
But… why did he do that?
“What did it mean?” asked Darian, who sat hunched on a stool next to Lanya, a deeply serious expression cast upon his face.
Lanya stared wide-eyed for a moment before bursting into a high-pitched cackle. “Are you serious?” She barely eked out a coherent sentence between hiccups of laughter. “Sir D, tell the truth.”
“I am.”
“You and Lord Diallos are peas in a pod.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “All the scholarship of the Order in your head and still not a clue, huh? It’s surely obvious. Won’t you return Rogier’s affections?”
Darian looked down, his brow furrowed. “I am not a person of interest.”
“He certainly takes interest in you.”
“To his own end. I’m useful to him.”
“That is how all relationships begin.” Lanya absentmindedly oiled parts of Diallos’s splayed-out armour with an rag. “I am a useful servant to House Hoslow. That does not mean my liege lords do not love me, that they wouldn’t defend my honour when I am looked down upon for being of lesser status. Do you think me a lowly, undeserving creature, just because I’m only a servant?”
“No.”
“Then just as you, too, are a servant—a useful tool—you are afforded honour and love as well, as any human being deserves.”
“I am”—he paused—“seen as not human, by some.”
Lanya cocked an eyebrow. “Even so, Rogier doesn’t see you that way. Haven’t you ever considered his feelings on this matter?”
“I already know them.”
They argued a few minutes more before Darian decided he had enough and left. What the hell did Lanya think she knew about Rogier, other than scraps he gave to sate her when she was prying? Rogier was a deeply private man who wore the illusion of being an open book. After nearly a year of traveling together, Darian had only been afforded mere crumbs of Rogier’s true nature.
What he did know was that Rogier was opportunistic, and he couldn’t pass up a chance to use Darian if it was convenient. He also knew that Rogier could get anyone and anything he wanted, and for someone as beautiful as him to take interest in a lowly soldier like Darian was as stupid of an idea as baking a rowa berry pie. His feelings didn’t need to be spoken; it was obvious that Darian was just a useful thing to tease for his own amusement.
“How embarrassing,” said Rogier, not embarrassed at all. Water soaked through his shirt from the canteen he spilled on himself, and Darian kept himself from sneaking glances. Night approached and his companion would surely get cold, so he reached for a rag in his pack, but Rogier plopped himself upon his lap before he could move. He froze.
Rogier reached for his hands, guiding them to the buttons of his yellow shirt. “Won’t you help me?” he asked, a devilish smile spread across his lips, his eyes alight with trickery. “Mr. Hunter.”
Darian’s arms were heavy as lead, and were they not held up, they would surely fall otherwise, for he was cast in stone and could only stare fearfully into Rogier’s enticing eyes. Warm, steady breath fell upon him. Their faces were close enough to touch, and any closer, their lips would meet. It was terribly intimate, more than he could bear, yet why was it that he wanted to lean forward so badly and fulfil that prophecy? No, he mustn’t. What was it that Rogier wanted?
“I’m freezing to death, and a brave and strong knight won’t even rescue me,” Rogier teased. “Truly terrible.”
“What do you need me for?” asked Darian.
“Take off my clothes,” Rogier whispered into his ear. His voice, so soft and low and so inviting, sent tendrils of desire tunnelling through Darian’s nerves. He felt his limbs become puppeted by his own yearning, trembling fingers unhooking every button with growing anticipation.
Boiling heat pooled in his crotch, and his uncomfortably stiff pants poked Rogier in the ass, who grinned in delight. Before long he found himself facing Rogier’s bare torso, and how difficult it was, mustering every ounce of willpower to not splay his hands all over that beautiful, dark flesh; he thought he might go mad from the need to taste dear Rogier’s nipples, offered to him like a gourmet meal, how could he resist?
Just as it happened months ago, Rogier wrapped his arms around Darian, the warmth of his body pressed against him, yet Darian had no excuse to deny him this time, for not a drop of booze had touched his lips, no external force to blame his wanton affections upon.
And the realization sent a freezing chill up his spine.
“Rogier,” Darian choked up the words, keeping his hands to himself, unwilling to relent. “What are you doing?”
“Kiss me,” Rogier purred.
Oh, how he wanted to, more than anything. Just a hair forward and he could, but why stop there? He could touch Rogier anywhere, feel his pert nipples get hard beneath his thumbs, stroke his cock until it was stiff and eager to be sucked. Have him drooling and begging to cum, and watch him cry as he was denied again and again…
But Darian swallowed hard. “I can’t.”
Rogier paused and leaned back, his smile evaporating. “Why?”
“I’m beneath you.”
“That’s where I’d like to be right now,” Rogier said, pursing his lips. “You’ve been making eyes at me for this long, only to tell me no? Golden Order men are so cruel.”
“I’m only a tool,” Darian mumbled. He averted his eyes from Rogier’s judging stare. “A tool of the Order, and for your whims. My duty lies in hunting the dead. I can offer naught but my own usefulness. That is where my worth lies.”
“Mm. You are useful, true.” Rogier idly traced circles onto Darian’s shirt. “You don’t think, perhaps, even just a bit, that there would be something else you’re good for?”
“No.”
Rogier laughed, and Darian felt his control of the situation slipping like sand through his fingers. “That’s unfortunate. Well then, would you kindly begin grovelling at my feet, since you’re so beneath me and unworthy of my presence? Become my living footstool to wipe my feet upon, who will dutifully lick my shoes clean of dirt?”
Darian opened his mouth to speak, but he flushed red as the nature of Rogier’s mockery slowly dawned upon him like a cold teacup filling with boiling water. It was clear he was a fool for being so callous, for ignoring Lanya’s advice, for realizing only now that it was solely his own feelings he considered and not Rogier’s. No, he had only blindly assumed Rogier wanted nothing to do with him, because he himself was blinded by his own worthlessness. If he was not serving someone, what good was he, then, to anyone?
Being a useful tool was the only reason anyone had ever engaged with him. They looked past his cursed nature to make use of him, and without others’ reliance upon him, he had nothing, for there was nothing inside of him. What goals or ambitions did he have, other than to be useful to the Order, to his brother, to Rogier? All his actions, all his being, his desires, have always been to provide for others, to prove that he had reason to exist, despite being cursed and wished death. Indeed, if such cursed creatures were only fit for death, then he would surely get to live if he were to be complacent and beg for mercy in the form of servitude—even a wretched curse could have an inkling of value like this.
And so he did as he always was told, hollowing himself out for others’ use, dousing his own passions to kindle others’ fire, and wondered just then, what difference was there between him and the soulless husks he dutifully hunted? They violated the Golden Order by living in death, and yet, he himself only haunted a soul that belonged not to him. It belonged to his twin, who had ambitions and life in him still, unlike the deteriorated thing that called itself his older brother. A shambling corpse that endeavoured to make use of itself, lest it be put down. Were it not for this corpse, they would never be cursed, because there would be no soul to share. It would only belong to Devin.
Darian knew it now, that he was something less than a person, a curse masquerading as a human. He thought of what Lanya had said, being deserving of love and honour, and felt ashamed to have entertained the chance that it could ever apply to a cursed thing like himself, a thing that suddenly felt so small and empty and drifting away into a desolate tide. There was no need to ever prove his hometown’s superstition wrong. A wretched curse that haunted a soul deserved to not exist.
Rogier nudged him. “’Twas a joke, D. No need for such a crestfallen face.”
Reality smashed into him like an avalanche and he recalled the situation at hand. Sitting in his lap was the man he wanted more than anything, who he had convinced himself was out of reach. But now, it felt as if he had played a terrible prank on Rogier, pulled the wool over him and tricked him into thinking that the thing his arms were wrapped around was a person and not a hollowed shell.
“I’m sorry. I misled you.”
Rogier cocked his head inquisitively.
“I’m—I am only a curse. As I told you before.” Darian looked away, too ashamed to face his darling. “Best to not associate with me.”
“We’re making up all kinds of excuses tonight, aren’t we? That’s rather off-colour for you. No need to be polite, friend. If you’re not interested, just say no.”
“That’s not it!” Darian cried. Panic usurped his despair and a deep fear surged within him; not the fear of Rogier hating him, for his life was built upon being hated, but the fear of Rogier’s disappointment, his sadness. He would not allow himself to be the reason that Rogier’s night was ruined. “I’m not suitable for you. No different than a walking corpse. You’re better off with someone else.”
“I was without the knowledge that I brought my parents along on my travels.” Rogier curled his fingers to his mouth in thought. “Very well. If you believe these things, then get up and leave me.”
The words caught Darian so abruptly he flinched. How was he supposed to leave Rogier’s warm embrace, his comforting weight upon Darian’s legs? He was to leave the only one who touched him despite his curse? The one who would ask him mundane things he enjoyed, and treated him like a person and not a thing? The one who sat beside him at the crackling campfire, passionately debating him into the night about the academics of the Order? Leave Rogier, who he wished so dearly to have in his arms?
Of course he couldn’t leave. He loved Rogier, no matter how much he tried to bury the feelings, no matter how much he very well believed the things he uttered a moment ago. To hell with being cursed. To hell with it all! The object of his affection was within arm’s reach, exposing himself, waiting for Darian to take him. To fall into his web. And Darian would, gladly. He would do anything for Rogier, anything he asked.
He was quite familiar with Rogier’s number of partners, and the lowly curse had told himself it would be fine to not be counted among them. Indeed, it would even be fine if he were a mere stepping stone for Rogier to find someone worthy. But such things would no longer delude him. No, Rogier’s insistence emboldened the curse’s own delusions, and he would not suffer to be merely his footstool. He wanted Rogier, and he wanted to be the only one, disgusting and rotten as Darian was. Being with Rogier let him live in a twisted reality where he was not a vile curse, a reality where he was a person who deserved to be treated with love and kindness, and he selfishly wanted to chase that false truth.
Darian sighed. “I can’t leave you.”
“Hmm.” Rogier gently caressed Darian’s chest for a few moments, sparks of bliss bouncing up his spine. “Then I presume you are finished making excuses.” He shoved Darian to the ground, crawling on top of him, cupping his head into his slim fingers. “How about we start doing something a bit more productive, mm?”
Not a breath later he found Rogier’s lips upon his own, so soft and warm just as he imagined, causing thousands of butterflies to flutter about inside his stomach, and were he not lying on the ground, his knees surely would have buckled. This is what he had been denying himself this entire time? Living only in the present gave him little avenue for regret, but if he had one, it was that he hadn’t fallen to Rogier’s touch sooner. Yes, this was surely better than wallowing in despair. Tonight, he could pretend he was not a curse, spellbound by the sweet caresses of his lover.
“I’ll have you tonight,” Rogier purred, nipping Darian’s lower lip. “Begging me to stop, how does that sound?”
“Anything you want.”
“Good boy.”
With every kiss, every stroke, every word of whispered filth, he lost himself further and further into Rogier’s passion like a gateway into a dreamworld, finding himself with no memory of losing his shirt nor pants, but there he lay naked on the ground for Rogier to do what he wished. And Rogier made quick work to tease him, lazily rolling his tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, increasing in intensity with each of Darian’s pathetic moans. His mouth was wet and hot and felt impossibly good wrapped around his dick, a feeling better than any he had ever fantasized about, one he could never replicate with his own hand.
What a dirty man Rogier was, fingering himself while he dutifully fucked his own mouth with Darian’s throbbing cock, hungrily slurping up every drip of precum as oil dripped from his hole down his thighs. But how very pretty he was with his mouth so full, saliva slicked all around his lips like a sloppy whore, gazing up at Darian with those naughty green eyes clouded with desire. He drank in the sight of Rogier, so eagerly preparing himself for his knight, and it rendered Darian almost delirious with lust. He was sure he’d never been this hard in his entire life. He was unaware that Rogier had wanted him so badly, and he wanted him now.
His fantasies didn’t prepare him for just how hot and good it felt, having Rogier now on all fours below him, his needy hole stretched around his dick, struggling to accommodate his girth. He wasn’t prepared for the sound of Rogier’s pleading whines, Darian’s name moaned from his sweet lips, begging him for more, deeper, harder. Unprepared for the sight of his beautiful arched back, the feeling of his dark skin slicked with sweat. Darian knew nothing of the world around him, for only dear Rogier’s pleasure mattered, and he would do anything to coax another moan from his breathless sorcerer, to split him open again and again with each pump of his hips.
But Rogier’s own eagerness caught him by surprise, as he began to press back against Darian, meeting his every thrust, plunging him deeper into Rogier and deeper into pleasure he thought he’d already reached the height of.
“Fuck,” Darian hissed, rapidly losing control of himself. It felt good, too good, he didn’t want it to end, it was too soon. His soft request to stop turned to desperate begging, trying to even keep away from Rogier, who did not relent in his pursuit of Darian, and with each slap of Rogier’s ass against his hips, Darian felt himself slipping closer to the edge. “Rogier stop, stop stop!” He had cried, but why would dear Rogier stop, looking so pleased with himself to be driving his lover into a sweating, heaving mess?
With a loud curse Darian dug his nails into Rogier’s waist and wildly thrust into him like a rabid animal, releasing every drop of frustration into the sorcerer’s abused hole, every feeling he ever had for the man condensed into his release. Every drop of tension dissolved from his body in rolling waves, his hips stuttering to a halt, and with a laboured breath, he collapsed to his knees, his legs like jelly.
“Oh dear, you think you’re done?” Rogier jeered. He sat up, turning around only to push Darian to the ground once more. Too exhausted, he couldn’t fight back. Rogier nestled up next to him and traced circles on his chest, playfully pouting. “I haven’t even come close to finishing. You’re going to keep going until I’m done.”
Darian weakly nodded, fighting off the urge to sleep, and after several minutes of cuddling he was hard again. Rogier wasted no time to fuck him, riding him until he was begging Rogier once more to stop. And then again, and again, and again…
Darian thought himself to be an exhumed corpse by the time Rogier decided it was time to finish. He spilled himself upon Darian’s flushed face with a cheeky grin, the pearly warm liquid oozing down his cheeks and mouth like melted butter.
“You look good like that,” cooed Rogier. He kissed Darian, lapping up some of his own cum, and then handed him a rag. But Darian’s exhaustion overtook him and he immediately passed out.
“I did?” Darian asked, tying his pants.
Rogier laughed as he tossed Darian’s pack to him. “You really don’t remember? I thought I’d be kind and clean your face for you.”
Darian grunted. The morning had come and last night felt hazy. Part of him felt like he only imagined making love to Rogier, but given the embarrassing story, he had to believe it was true. Still, it felt like a fairy tale he had been cast into, finally being able to have the man he yearned for. Yet he couldn’t help but feel guilty even now, to have been the one Rogier chose, when he could have so much more, more than just a curse.
But Rogier’s intuition was sharp as a knife, and so if it was a curse that Rogier wished to adore, then Darian would be complacent as always, unquestioning and useful to the man he loved.
For if he was useful, Rogier would surely not throw him away.
