#altair buchannan oc

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

You mentioned shadow tendrils in the recent piece of writing-- have you written anything with Lord Denholm using those to fuck Altair?

I would use them to pull his cute little pussy open and force him to take those and Lord Denholm's cock at the same time.

Listen we're just going to pretend that you didn't send this like 9 months ago lmao

But anyway I uh. Hope this is what you wanted? idk there ended up being more emotions than I was expecting lmao

Contains: explicit noncon, weird tentacle(ish) sex, vampires, intimate whump, wing whump, captivity, begging

~~~

The shadows coiled around his wings, sliding between feathers in a way that made Altair’s very soul recoil with revulsion. The smoky, inky magic dripped with such malice and envy that Altair was practically choking on it. The harder he struggled, the more securely the tendrils held him, unyielding in their loving, covetous embrace.

Those same shadows held his wrists in place, held his legs spread open, kept him firmly in place on the bed as Lord Denholm knelt over him, eyes ravenously roaming over Altair’s bare form.

“I can hear your heartbeat, my little ruin,” Lord Denholm purred, cold fingers tracing across Altair’s chest. “Tell me, what has you so afraid?”

Hatred roiled through him as fierce as any tidal wave. But with the corrupted magic intertwined with his feathers, he couldn’t stop the words from pouring from his mouth. “You- you’re going to rape me. Again. And it won’t be the last time, either, for me or for Elze’ith, because I can’t figure out how to stop you.”

A wave of delight cascaded over Altair as Lord Denholm smiled. “Oh, it gladdens me to hear that.” Altair choked on a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob as the shadows caressed further into the spaces between his feathers. “It should put your mind at ease, then, to know that you cannot stop me. I am going to do as I please, and you are going to take what I have to give. You do not have to fret about how to escape your fate, because I have already claimed you. All that will change is how you understand and appreciate your role here, my ruinous little angel.”

“You-” Virulent hatred threatened to choke Altair, but he still coughed up the words. “You’re wrong. I’m never going to stop fighting. I’m never going to accept any of this. You’re never going to break me.”

“Oh, my ruinous little angel.” Lord Denholm’s dark eyes glinted with malice. “The cracks in you will are already forming. And I have plenty of time to see how you fall apart.”

Slow and deliberate, a tendril curled up his leg and pressed lightly at his folds. Though insubstantial, like thick smoke or sleet or cold oil, it was solid and probing enough that Altair immediately tensed and tried to pull away. There was nowhere to go, however, not with the magical binds that held him so firmly in place, that spread his legs even wider in response to his struggles. Just as he knew he would be, he was helpless to stop the tendril as it teased and taunted at his entrance.

“No, wait— stop—”

He didn’t want to beg, but he couldn’t manage to stop himself. He wasn’t in control. He wasn’t in control of anything that was happening, not his words or the situation or his fear or the strangled, panicked sound he let out as the tendril pushed its way inside of him.

Nothing had ever felt quite this unnatural. It seemed to slither inside of him, eager to caress every part of him it could access. The sensation made his skin crawl, made him writhe instinctively, made his breath catch in his chest. Cold and oily and slick and wrong. He wanted it out, wanted to burn it away until it could never touch him again, but it just kept feeding into him, slow and methodical and joyous.

An eternity passed just like that, with the perverse, foul tendril sliding its way into his core until it could go no further. Its counterparts in his wings continued to slowly shift and coil, inexorable and inescapable. Any coherent thought was lost beyond the sickening dread in his stomach and the desperation to somehow get this to stop.

So lost he was in the overwhelming, defiling sensation that he almost didn’t notice the second tendril that brushed his entrance. It was impossible to escape the feeling of it slipping inside, though, right alongside the first, twisting and twirling and filling him up even more. Lips parted in a silent gasp, he strained and tensed in his bonds, but every movement only made him more aware of the magic around him, inside him, claiming him.

And then, the tendrils went still. The ones in his wings retracted, not leaving entirely, but withdrawing enough to allow him to breathe. The twin shadows inside him stiffened and pulled apart, making him groan from the stretch, but they too paused in their ministrations. Blinking, Altair tried to take the moment to gather himself, to reclaim some shred of his dignity, though he knew that his violation was far from over.

After all, the tendrils were still inside him. Lord Denholm was still watching. It wasn’t over yet.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Lord Denholm leaned down to press a kiss to his collarbone, eyes gleaming with covetous desire. Altair shivered, forcing his breath to stay even. “My beautiful, ruinous little angel. So open and ready for me,” Lord Denholm purred. His hand drifted lower, to Altair’s hip, tracing the outline of his burn scar before thumbing over Altair’s clit. “Don’t worry; I’ll give you what you need.”

It hit Altair, all at once, why the tendrils were holding him open. “No— wait— don’t—!”

His begging morphed into a scream of terror and pain as Lord Denholm sank into him, between the tendrils already inside. He clenched his eyes shut, tears gathering on his eyelashes, his lungs shaking and unable to capture any air. The stretch was excruciating, inconceivable, unbearable, and yet he was vaguely aware of Lord Denholm bottoming out inside of him as though he was made to take this much. A sob rippled through him, of pain and humiliation and anger, and then another, because

Lips brushed against his eyelids; Altair tensed, but didn’t have the strength to recoil. Though Lord Denholm’s voice washed over him, he couldn’t quite parse the words over the roaring of his heartbeat in his ears. Good, some desperate, fervent part of him thought. He didn’t want to hear what the bastard had to say anyway.

He wasn’t sure if Lord Denholm or his shadows started moving first. There was just sensation, the push and pull, the steady cadence and the unnatural twisting within him. All he could do was close his eyes and try to endure and do whatever he could not to give Lord Denholm any more of what he wanted.

He didn’t think he was very successful. Nothing had ever felt like this, felt this much, felt so familiar and strange and unwanted and tainted and wrong.His entire body thrummed with revulsion with every thrust, shivered and shuddered as perverse magic shifted around and within him. He couldn’t manage to tamp down on those instinctual, involuntary reactions. He knew Lord Denholm, with his magic tangled up in his wings, would be able to feel it even if he did. Altair could certainly feel Lord Denholm’s delight, just as he knew Lord Denholm wanted him to.

Distantly, through his horror, Altair realized that the tendrils were pleasuring Lord Denholm inside of him, coiling around his cock and stroking both of them in tandem. His stomach turned; it was worse than if they were just defiling him.The notion was enough for him to try, futile as he knew it was, to summon his magic so that he might burn the foul things away. It didn’t work, and the attempt only made him more exhausted, made him want to cry even more than he already was. He didn’t know what he was expecting. Lord Denholm was jerking himself off inside of Altair, and he couldn’t stop it.

How much further would this go? How many more ways would Lord Denholm find to violate him, defile him, take him apart and lay claim to the pieces? How long could Altair withstand the assault? He already felt ready to come apart at the seams, and every waking moment seemed to bring a new horror.

What would even be left of him when this was done?

Through his cascade of emotions, through the disgust and despair, a tentative but warm pulse emanated from the back of his mind. A part of him wanted to recoil, sure that this was some trick of Lord Denholm’s, but Lord Denholm could never replicate how Elze’ith made him feel, could never fake this warmth. And even if he never wanted Elze’ith to know him when he was like this… he needed to know he wasn’t alone.

Just as softly, just as tentatively, he reached back through his mind. Brushed up against that small presence, that sliver of connection. It didn’t stop the inexorable stretch or the unbearable thrusting or the sudden intense pressure on his clit. But it was enough to keep him from drowning in it all.

Sharp pain in his neck yanked him out of his mind and slammed him back into his body. The pain was no less horrible for how familiar it was; moreso now, even, because Lord Denholm had gone still, begun to spill inside him, even if the tendrils still danced in the thin space between them. The whimper that broke free from his chest seemed to get swallowed by the shadows that still endlessly coiled around him, as eager as their master to drink in his suffering.

The brief connection with Elze’ith was gone. Even as Altair mourned the loss, he was glad for it. He shouldn’t have even reached out. Elze’ith had suffered enough. He deserved better than to bear witness to what Altair was being forced to endure.

After a short eternity, the tendrils settled, though Altair could still feel them slowly shifting. Lord Denholm pulled away from his neck, smiling down at him with blood-stained fangs and dark, insatiable eyes. Altair tried to muster a glare; in response, Lord Denholm only hummed, and leaned down to kiss him. The taste of his own blood made Altair wince, feeling sick as Lord Denholm smiled against him before pulling away.

“You feel better every time we do this, my little ruin,” Lord Denholm said, licking the last of the blood from his lips. “Just as I knew you would.”

Altair scowled, the only response he could muster. The shadows within him coiled tighter, as did the ones still furled in his wings, making his back arch.

“Please—!” The word slipped from him unbidden, a raspy, desperate cry for relief he knew would not come. As soon as he said it he tensed, eyes clenching shut; he knew what he was asking for, and he knew what Lord Denholm would give him.

“Oh?” Something cold and slick circled his clit as the tendrils within moved more insistently. “Tell me what you want, my little ruin. I think you’ve earned a reward.”

“Please—“ he gasped, feeling the unwanted tension mount. “I can’t— Enough—!”

The shadows inside him pulsed. Orgasm ripped through him, violent and calamitous, and for a moment he didn’t know whether he hated himself or Lord Denholm more.

But it was over. He sagged against the bed, limp and panting, as Lord Denholm finally withdrew. First his cock, making Altair groan as the overwhelming fullness left him. The tendrils within took a last moment to twist and twine before sliding out as well, and though Altair had to bite back a whine, he was finally, blissfully empty.

It was over. He hated how grateful he was that it was over.

Later, when Lord Denholm had returned him to his cell and he was curled against the wall trying not to feel, the soft warmth in his mind reached out once again. Altair couldn’t find the strength in himself to reach back. But neither did he push it away, even though part of him wanted to. He just let Elze’ith radiate what little solace he could, let the echoes of it wrap around him like a blanket, let his partner help hold him together when he felt like he was going to fall apart. He just hoped Elze’ith knew how much it meant.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Tender

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Tender is the flesh that yields so easily. Tender is the flesh that refuses to yield at all.

Contains: Intimate whump, vivisection, gore, vampire whumper, captivity/gilded cage, mind control

~~~

“Stay with me, my light. I want us both to experience this.”

A shuddery, pained breath was his only response. The deep, vacuous agony that had swept over him made anything else seem inconceivable. All he could do was follow his Lord’s orders— keep breathing, cling desperately to consciousness, and maintain a steady outpouring of healing magic to weather the storm as his Lord cut deeper into his chest and pulled his skin aside.

It wasn’t enough to soothe the agony that ripped through him as his ribs met the cold air of the castle. It wasn’t enough to stop his blood from pouring out over his Lord’s fingers. It wasn’t enough to stop tears from gathering at the corners of his unseeing eyes. But his Lord wanting him alive, wanted him present, so he would keep his magic pulsing through him to deter the hungry jaws of oblivion.

“Beautiful.” There was something akin to reverence in his Lord’s voice as he trailed his fingers delicately along exposed ribs. A whine escape him; each touch sent panic and pain through his body, a feeling of distress and discord that had been muffled when his Lord had used magic to caress him in this way. His Lord merely chuckled, a dark sound that chilled his bones more than the open air. “Relax, my light. There is no need to be afraid. This is a wonderful thing, another way for us to be intimate. I’ve felt every part of you; now I’m going to see you, laid bare before me.”

The gentle touch turned firm, insistent, as clawed hands found their way to his sternum. The rush of fear had him closing his eyes; through the pain, he couldn’t see much anyway. A soft yet haunting scraping sound rang through the air as his Lord’s claws searched for purchase on his breast bone. His back arched at the sensation, almost bucking into those grasping hands as they found their grip and pulled. The sound of cracking bone was only drowned out by the scream of sheer uncomprehending agony that ripped through his rupturing chest.

Cold, comforting darkness surged forward to envelop him. There was no fighting it. His magic slipped through his fingers, and he fell back into oblivion.

Somewhere, someone was screaming. There was no sound, no voice, but he felt it, deep in his soul, a scream of rage and grief and terror so fundamental he almost thought the emotions were his own. If he could have shrank back from the force of it, he would have, but there was nowhere to flee to in the gentle, calm nothingness broken by the scream, nothing to do but absorb the torrent of love and fear that threatened to overwhelm him, and in his not-awareness try to decide what he could possibly feel about it.

“My light, wake up. You’re not done yet.”

His Lord’s voice was a lifeline, a shackle, a tether that wrapped around him and pulled him right back into awareness. He gasped like he was drowning, struggling to force his lungs to work through the pain that his chest had become. His fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically, a tortured body’s desperate attempt for some sort of control or release. Healing magic shuddered erratically through him; it was all he could do to keep himself conscious as his Lord wished, despite the wounds he had sustained, despite the agony, despite how little strength he had left.

A hand warm and slick with blood cradled his cheek. The sensation pulled a whine from him, even as he leaned desperately into the touch. “There you are, my light. I knew you could handle this. And it is glorious, is it not?”

Maybe it was, if glory was profound and all-consuming agony. That didn’t seem right, but he didn’t have the strength to deny it, to question it, to think much of anything at all.

The next weak, trembling breath he took was met by another hand pressing lightly against his lungs. There wasn’t enough force to prevent his inhale, but it still made his fluttering heart clench with fear, made his stomach churn with disgust and dread and despair. Lungs weren’t meant to be touched like this, even so reverently. They weren’t meant to be exposed to the same air that they breathed. They weren’t built to deal with clawed fingers tracing trails of blood down their lengths, leaving the body surrounding choking and spasming with distress.

And yet. Was any of his life really meant to be like this, when he was under the care of a being so dedicated to corruption?

“How wonderful. Even now, you are enduring beautifully, my light. A lesser man would have perished. But you are truly worthy of this, aren’t you? You’ve proven that time and time again. I chose well in making you my beloved.”

The words slid off of him like water off of glass as he struggled to just keep breathing under the gentle pressure of his Lord’s hand. The instinctual writhing of his body had already weakened, his strength having dissipated as rapidly as he had found it. All for the better; moving hurt, and risked damaging himself further. He couldn’t have that. Not when he was already struggling to keep himself together and whole enough to please his Lord’s will.

The hand on his cheek caressed him tenderly as it pulled away, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Did he feel better or worse now that it was gone? He couldn’t tell, at least not until that hand came to cup his heart with the same reverence it had held his face, as though it were the most precious thing in all of creation. The muscle quivered weakly, each beat an effort of magnitude, and he could feel how his heart strained to keep pumping blood that was spilling out against fingers that could very well push his body into stillness.

Heartbeat and breath. With barely a thought, his Lord could take away the very things that kept him alive. And yet, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Instead his Lord let him balance on the precipice, had him put everything into maintaining his grip on mortality, so that…

Why? For what end? Had there ever been a reason? Did he ever know, and just not remember? Or…

“What trust you give to me, my light, to put your heart in my hands.” His Lord’s words washed over him, mixing with the excruciating desolation that enveloped him to steal away all thought. “And who am I to waste this gift?”

He couldn’t quite see what his Lord did next; pain had overtaken his vision, leaving it blurry and incomprehensible. But he felt something new tenderly brush against his trembling heart— something he had felt countless times before, but never like this. The semblance of affection his Lord offered was just as chilling as the contact from the lips that kissed his heart, chastely at first, but then more insistently, more greedily. His lips parted in a silent gasp, his entire body rigid with horror.

How could he handle this? What could he do in the face of something this grisly and dreadful and perverse? If not for his Lord’s power continue to pull the puppet strings of his magic, he was sure he would have lost consciousness once again. He almost wished to; if this had to happen (and it didn’t, some part of him howled),he didn’t want to bear witness, be aware of being subject to something so uniquely violating in its intimacy.

At least his Lord wasn’t—

Teeth scraped against the soft exterior of his heart, sharp and probing, and despite how utterly empty and drained he was, he still found the strength to scream. Somewhere in the depths of his soul, someone screamed with him. And his Lord’s pleasure filled the room and his mind and the spaces between his ribs as his Lord drank and drank and drank from his frantically beating heart until it threatened to give out entirely.

And though his heart kept pumping that which his Lord loved so much, unable to fight the tethers of control, the tangled and thorny knots of emotion that encompassed it did begin to shrivel. As he lay there in utter devastation, listening to the screams in his soul, Elze’ith began to call back, crying out in agony and despair and determination, having realized that Lord Denholm would never offer him the tender mercy he so craved.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Violation

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

For BTHB: Rape/Noncon.

Lord Denholm wants many things from Altair that Altair doesn't intend to give. Lord Denholm takes what he wants anyway.

Contains: Explicit noncon, vampire whumper/bloodbag whumpee, intimate whump, captivity, restraint, wing whump, begging, dissociation

~~~

Altair was so cold.

Shadows coiled around him, insubstantial yet still holding him in place. They seemed to sap the warmth from his very bones, leaving him shivering as he knelt on the floor of Elze’ith’s room. And he could swear he felt them moving, sliding along his skin and between the feathers of his new wings, making him more dizzy and breathless and nauseous by the moment.

But the restricting shadows mattered less than the fact that Elze’ith was gone. Lord Denholm had ripped them apart and dragged Elze’ith away, and though Altair had fought, Lord Denholm’s shadows easily pinned him down. Elze’ith’s screams still rang in Altair’s ears. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it felt like hours. It was certainly long enough for Altair to feel Elze’ith’s absence, for worry and dread to weigh heavy in his mind. Their embrace when Altair’s wings had come out had been the first moment of peace Altair had felt in such a long time. Now it was gone, and so was Elze’ith, and Altair was alone again. And given Lord Denholm’s fury when he had taken Elze’ith away, Elze’ith would be paying the price for that fleeting serenity.

And he could feel… something. The faint presence in his mind swelled with something that felt like fear, before receding to the point that he could barely feel it. He didn’t know what that meant. Just that it couldn’t be good.

The door finally opened. Lord Denholm strode in, imperious as ever. The look on his face was unreadable, but his aura had calmed ever so slightly. There was still rage and power swirling in it, but not quite as much as when he had torn Elze’ith away. He came to stare down at Altair, not saying anything for a moment. Altair strained against the shadows holding him in place, but they held fast.

“What did you do to Elze’ith?”

“I needed to separate you two. He needs time alone to think, and you, little ruin, need some individual attention.” Lord Denholm’s voice was a low purr as he regarded Altair. “After all, despite your disobedience, you have made quite the breakthrough today.”

Before Altair had an opportunity to respond, the shadows engulfing him drew back, taking him with them. He cried out as he was pulled off the floor and deposited on his back on Elze’ith’s bed, wings splayed beneath him. His arms were pulled above his head and his legs were wrenched apart, making him wince at the force. Then the mass of shadows melted away, leaving only the tendrils holding his arms and legs in place.

His heartbeat picked up in his chest. He could see where this was going. He had feared this ever since Lord Denholm had captured him. Now it seemed Lord Denholm finally intended to fulfill one of his long-standing threats, and Altair wasn’t ready. Digging deep, he reached for his magic once again. Maybe now that something had changed within him, now that he had awoken to the divine power in his blood, his magic would finally answer him. But just the same as every time before, the cuffs around his wrists kept him from summoning flames to his fingertips or causing lightning to crackle in the air.

All Altair could do was struggle futilely against the shadows holding him down and watch as Lord Denholm moved about the room. Despite feeling like smoke against his skin, the shadows were utterly unyielding, barely offering any slack as Altair pulled on them. Lord Denholm seemed to pay his efforts little mind as he pulled a few things from the wardrobe. When he approached Altair, he carried a handful of the same silk strips that had been used to tie Altair to the canopy earlier that evening, as well as a small bottle that had Altair’s blood running cold.

“Bastard,” Altair snarled. “I’m going to kill you for this.”

“Hush,” Lord Denholm said softly. He placed the bottle on the table before taking one of the silks and wrapping it around Altair’s wrist. The shadow holding it retreated as Lord Denholm did so. 

Altair furrowed his brow. Why was he restraining Altair using mundane means, when he clearly could do so magically? Was he worried about running out of magic?

Not that it mattered, when his arm was being fastened to the bedpost. Though he strained, he still couldn’t get himself free. Lord Denholm’s hands were almost gentle as he took Altair’s other wrist to repeat the process. Every brush of Lord Denholm’s frigid hands against his skin made him shiver in disgust.

“Don’t touch me!” It wouldn’t do much good. He knew that. But he couldn’t just do nothing while this was happening. Even if his protests were useless, they were all he had.

But Lord Denholm seemed to take that as an invitation. He ran a hand down Altair’s bare chest, smiling when Altair tried and failed to shrink away. “You need to understand, my little ruin. You are mine. Mine to touch, mine to use, mine to mold.” 

Altair bit his lip as Lord Denholm’s hand trailed lower, tracing the outline of the scar on Altair’s hip before moving to the waistband of his pants. He lingered for a moment, almost tauntingly, before slipping his fingers around the fabric and slowly pulling down. Every inch seemed to take an eternity, and Altair grit his teeth as goosebumps broke out across his newly-exposed flesh.

“Beautiful,” Lord Denholm purred, setting Altair’s pants aside and running a finger down his leg. Altair tried desperately to kick out at him, but the shadows’ hold remained strong. The resistance merely earned a chuckle from Lord Denholm as he took more silks, securing them first to Altair’s ankles and then to the bedposts, leaving his legs spread open. 

Altair’s breath was starting to come in shorter, harsher bursts. His mind raced, his eyes darting about the room, searching for a way out. But there was no way out. He was helpless. Lord Denholm was going to rape him, and there was nothing he could do.

“Easy, little ruin.” Lord Denholm shifted forward on the bed until he was looming over Altair, a shadow blotting out the room’s low light. Altair could see the way Lord Denholm’s pants had grown tight, and the sight made him taste bile. “Breathe. I can’t have you passing out yet.”

A part of Altair almost wanted to hyperventilate until he lost consciousness. At least then he wouldn’t have to feel what was coming. But he didn’t want to give Lord Denholm the satisfaction of seeing him so afraid. Instead, he just swallowed. “You-” 

Before Altair could say anything else, Lord Denholm placed a hand on the top of Altair’s wing. The cold touch shocked Altair to his core; part of him wanted to melt into the gentle hand, while part of him could feel the ill-intent and wanted to get away. It was far more direct and intense than anything he had ever felt, and he gasped as the combination of sensation and emotion immediately threatened to overwhelm him. Lord Denholm only smiled and deliberately trailed his hand down the length of Altair’s wing. The motion drew a whine from Altair’s throat as the strange, conflicting feelings managed to grow even stronger.

“Exquisite. I knew you would be. You just needed the right push,” Lord Denholm mused. “How many people have tried and failed to unlock your true potential, my little ruin?”

Altair, shivering on the bed, didn’t intend to respond. But the words came tumbling out anyway. “I always thought they were wrong. All my life my family told me I was special, told me I had a unique spark of divinity. But their years of training amounted to nothing. Nothing changed after I left, though people kept chasing me, acting like they knew something I didn’t. I-” 

He cut himself off with a long, shuddering inhale. Why had he said that? It wasn’t as if he wanted to talk about any of this, let alone with Lord Denholm. But it was as if he hadn’t had a choice. Lord Denholm asked, and he answered.

And in response Lord Denholm’s smile grew. He worked his fingers in between Altair’s feathers to more directly touch the sensitive skin underneath. For a moment Altair’s thoughts stalled, his breath catching in his throat. 

“There was a time where you wouldn’t have even considered answering me. Have you finally realized your place, then?”

“I don’t want to answer you!” Once again it felt as though the words were being pulled from his throat. “I don’t know how you’re making me, but-” Realization rippled through him. “It’s my wings, isn’t it. Something about them is making me talk. It’s the only thing that’s changed. I- stop touching them!” He tried to twist away, but his bonds held him fast, leaving him with nowhere to go. There was just the bed beneath him, and Lord Denholm above him, with his cold, insistent hands and his widening grin.

“I already told you. You are mine. I will touch you however I please. All the better that it makes you so much more transparent. I rather like this side of you; I cannot wait to see more of it.” The ostensive gentleness of Lord Denholm’s touch abruptly vanished as he dug his nails into Altair’s wing and scraped slowly along towards the tip. The sudden pain was far more intense than it should have been, and Altair found himself arching his back with a strangled groan, eyes clenched shut as the sensation washed over him.

Then, finally, Lord Denholm drew his hand away. The sudden loss of contact left Altair gasping. He was left with an ache that took several long moments to begin to fade. He didn’t want Lord Denholm’s hand back, but part of him did. The feeling was bewildering in how utterly unfamiliar it was. It was enough to make him want to crawl out of his own skin, even if Lord Denholm wasn’t intending on assaulting him.

He heard shifting above him. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, he opened his eyes. Lord Denholm had taken off his pants and set them, neatly folded, to the side. Now he loomed over Altair once again, his cock erect and ready. 

Ice flooded Altair’s veins. “No,” he breathed, not even directed at Lord Denholm, just in disbelief and horror. “No, you can’t—”

“You beg so prettily, little ruin,” Lord Denholm murmured. “If only anyone would listen.”

Cold, slick fingers slipped between Altair’s legs, pressing lightly along his folds. Altair froze, his breath coming to a complete standstill, as though the lack of movement might help him hide from what was to come. Lord Denholm might have said something, but Altair couldn’t hear it over the pounding of his heart roaring in his ears. It seemed Lord Denholm wasn’t looking for a response, though, as after a moment of exploration, one finger slipped inside.

A high-pitched, terrified whimper resonated in Altair’s throat. He heard a sound that might have been Lord Denholm humming, or maybe laughing, as he slowly pushed his finger in, all the way up to the knuckle. It was too much, and his finger was so cold, and it didn’t necessarily hurt but it sure as hell didn’t feel good. Time seemed to stretch and warp as Lord Denholm moved his finger within Altair as though he were mapping out the space inside. The entire time, Altair stayed frozen, mind blank with panic.

And then Lord Denholm withdrew, just as agonizingly slowly as he had pushed his finger in. Altair let out a shuddery breath as soon as the intrusion was gone, his lungs seeming to work again as he gasped for air. The reprieve was brief, however, as Altair felt something much larger pressing against him.

Tears sprung to his eyes. If anything broke him, it would be this. 

Lord Denholm smiled down at him. “Fret not, little ruin. The first time is always the hardest.”

And then Lord Denholm sank his cock into Altair.

Altair opened his mouth in a soft, wordless cry. Lord Denholm went slowly, taking his time, as though he were giving Altair a chance to adjust, as though he wanted to enjoy it. But there was no adjusting to being violated so utterly. Now it did hurt, sparks of sharp pain shooting through him, because what little preparation Lord Denholm had given him hadn’t been nearly enough. Altair instinctively clenched, trying to keep Lord Denholm out, but that only made Lord Denholm groan in pleasure as he continued to press in, inch by tortuous inch until he fully bottomed out.

“There,” Lord Denholm purred. “You feel so good, my ruinous little angel, stretched around my cock like this. Simply perfect.”

He began to lazily roll his hips. The movements were small, but they still sent jolts of sensation through Altair’s core. It might have been gentle in any other scenario, but the mockery of intimacy only made it all the more cruel. 

“No,” Altair gasped. “No, stop, please-”

Lord Denholm brought up his hand, finger still covered in Altair’s fluid, up to stroke Altair’s wing once again. A full-body shudder of disgust rippled through Altair. “Your begging only makes you more enticing, my little ruin. By all means, please continue.”

“Please. Please, I can’t do this, just stop, you can hurt me as much as you want, just don’t do this.” The words tumbled freely from his mouth without his conscious permission. Honestly, he would have begged completely willingly if he thought it might have any chance of stopping this. But he knew all he was doing was giving Lord Denholm even more perverse satisfaction.

“Yes, that’s it, just like that,” Lord Denholm purred. He began to speed up his pace, rocking his hips into Altair more earnestly. As he did he threaded his fingers in between Altair’s feathers and tightened his grip, as if seeking purchase. And his smile, that dreadfully smug smile, never left as he stared down at Altair to take in his every reaction.

It was too much. The hand in his wing was a perpetual starburst of intense sensation and emotional turmoil, enough to leave him speechless and desperate for relief. Each movement of Lord Denholm within him was a new flare of pleasure-pain-disgust, bright and repulsive and inescapable. Combined it was utterly overwhelming, invasive in a way he never would have thought possible, like his entire being was being turned inside out just for Lord Denholm’s pleasure. He wanted to crawl out of his skin. He wanted to rip Lord Denholm apart with his bare hands and burn his remains to cinders. He wanted to keep begging and begging until it finally stopped. But he couldn’t do any of that, could barely breathe anymore as Lord Denholm just kept going.

Time smeared and blurred and bent. Altair was trapped in that ceaseless moment, as his feathers crumpled under Lord Denholm’s fingers, as Lord Denholm’s smile taunted him, as he was forced to stretch to take every thrust of Lord Denholm’s cock. At some point, he thought he might have started crying, but he honestly wasn’t sure. The wetness on his face might have just been from Lord Denholm leaning down to kiss his cheeks. All he knew was that this was the worst torture he had ever been forced to endure, this purposeful violation of Altair’s body and soul.

“You are divine like this, little ruin,” Lord Denholm said, his face suddenly next to Altair’s ear. The movement of his hips had sped up again, to the point where it was almost frantic. Altair found himself trying and failing to bite back whimpers. “So open and yielding and submissive for me. Just as you should be. Now, let me see how you come undone.”

A few more thrusts and Altair shuddered as he felt Lord Denholm climax, liquid surging to fill him in a way that had him whining in distress. Lord Denholm groaned, gently grinding down into Altair as though he were trying to wring as much pleasure from the orgasm as possible. The desperate hope that this might finally be over had barely entered Altair’s head when Lord Denholm’s fingers came down to press against Altair’s clit. The touch was the last thing he wanted, and yet it built on top of the pressure that Lord Denholm had already been forcibly building inside of Altair’s core. He whimpered in protest, but Lord Denholm was insistent in his ministrations. It didn’t take long before orgasm washed over Altair too, unwanted and revolting and yet somehow still a relief.

Suddenly there were teeth in his neck, the pain sharp and bright. Altair gasped as Lord Denholm sank in his fangs and started to drink. Being fed from was never pleasant, but somehow this was worse, with all of the conflicting sensations and emotions still roiling within him. Lord Denholm’s hand was still in his wing. His cock was still in Altair’s pussy. Altair didn’t even have the strength to try to pull away or protest or react at all as he was slowly drained of blood, on top of everything else he had just lost.

He wasn’t sure how long Lord Denholm drank. It felt longer than usual; Altair felt faint when he finally pulled away, although there were many things that might have caused that. Lord Denholm almost looked drunk when he looked down at Altair, his pupils dilated, his mouth stained red.

“Magnificent,” he said, licking his lips. A weak shiver went through Altair at the sight. “I knew that this would be just what you needed, my little ruin.”

All Altair could do was shake his head. He hated this— this was wrong— but he just didn’t have the strength to reply. He was exhausted, wrung out, physically and emotionally.

“Oh, it’s okay,” Lord Denholm said. The hand in his wing released its grip and began smoothing over his feathers in almost a soothing motion. Lord Denholm’s other hand rose to cup his cheek. “You’ll get used to it in time. This is where you belong, after all.”

Altair couldn’t hold back the sob that burst out of him. He was strong, but he didn’t think he was strong enough to handle this. Not again. He just wanted to be with Elze’ith. He just wanted to be safe, to be free.

He was starting to think he could never have that.

Finally, with a luxurious groan, Lord Denholm pulled out of Altair. Another sob wracked Altair’s body as he felt the mix of their fluids gush out of him onto the sheets beneath him. It only compounded the bone-deep feeling of disgust that had long-since settled over him. 

Lord Denholm gave one last pat to his wing before reaching for his pants, making him flinch. “I should return you to your cell,” he mused as he began to dress himself again. “You still have a lot to answer for, after all. But you have made progress, and you performed well for me. I think you’ve earned some rest here.”

Altair’s first instinct was that he didn’t want any reward that would come after something like that. A numbness had settled in next to the maelstrom of other emotions raging within him, but he still felt that loud and clear. And yet… this was his partner’s room. He turned his head weakly to the side to look at Lord Denholm as he asked, “Elze’ith…?”

Lord Denholm merely shook his head. “My light is being taken care of. Just as you are being taken care of, little ruin. If you behave well enough, I might let you see each other again. But not before.”

The flicker of hope Altair had managed to find sputtered and died. He would be sleeping in Elze’ith’s bed, but Elze’ith wouldn’t be coming. He would be all alone. All alone in the aftermath of his lowest moment.

“I hate you,” Altair muttered softly. He had to, because otherwise the despair would utterly overwhelm him.

“I know,” Lord Denholm said. His pants were back on, and he came to sit on the bed near Altair’s head. Fingers began carding through his feathers once again, and though Altair whined and pulled weakly on his bonds, there was still no escaping Lord Denholm’s touch. “I assure you, one day that’ll change.”

And that, perhaps, scared Altair more than anything.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Gentle

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

A gentle touch is all Prince Elze'ith needs.

For @augusnippets Day 23: Gentle Touch

Contains: Royalty, arranged marriage, hurt/comfort

~~~

“Are you alright, my prince?”

Was he? Elze’ith was shaking. Part of him wanted to hide away until an eon had passed and no one remained knew him. He felt afraid. And yet, he had no reason to be. Lord Denholm was his betrothed; they were to be partners, to unite their kingdoms and bring peace and prosperity. With that came certain obligations, duties that Elze’ith had long understood, even if he did not care for them. So why did Lord Denholm leave him wanting to crawl out of his skin?

“Prince Elze’ith?”

He startled at Altair’s voice, gentle and careful though it was. The concern in his knight’s eyes made his heart twist, even as he forced a smile.

“I am alright, Sir Altair. You need not worry about me.”

“My prince.”

Slowly, giving Elze’ith time to pull away, Altair took his hand. Elze’ith found himself grateful for the touch, even as he wished to take both of their gloves off, so that he might feel the warmth of Altair’s hands.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Altair squeezed Elze’ith’s hand, ever so gently, as he bent to kiss his knuckles. The tenderness in the gesture was punctuated by the certainty in his voice as he looked up at his prince. “Anyone.”

Elze’ith’s face softened, his smile becoming just a bit more genuine. “Thank you, my knight. I know you will.”

Luckily, they were alone, so no one had to see how long their hands remained joined as the apprehension slowly left Elze’ith’s blood.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Homemade

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

All Altair ever wanted is right here.

Thanks as always to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump and @that-one-thespian for letting me borrow their guys! For @augusnippets Day 20: Homemade Meal

Contains: Pure domestic fluff

~~~

The kitchen was warm, and smelled of all sorts of delightful things. Vegetables and meat and spices all brought together under Fletcher’s expert hand. Altair took a moment just to watch him. He loved Fletcher’s cooking. It tasted like the home he had always longed for.

Fletcher turned to him, a soft smile on his face. “It- it should be almost done. Just a few more minutes.”

“Wonderful.” Altair couldn’t resist taking a few steps closer to press a kiss to Fletcher’s temple. The small embarrassed squeak he let out made Altair chuckle. “Mariano and Bastian have set the table. We should be just about ready to eat.”

He could see them from here, just beyond the kitchen. The salad and rolls Elze’ith had made were already out on the table, a table set for all of the people he loved. Their boys were waiting for them, chattering quietly about someone Mariano and Bastian had met in the market that day and the new book Archer was reading and how Elze’ith’s plants were doing in the garden. The simple domesticity was one of the most beautiful things Altair had ever seen. They just needed Altair and Fletcher and the main course for everything to be complete.

A soft blush had spread across Fletcher’s face. “I- I hope it’s good.”

“Knowing you?” Altair smiled. “It’ll be amazing.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Forgiveness

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Ahaha War Mage AU go brrr. Mariano (and the War Mages) belong to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump! This fill is for @augusnippets Day 17 c:

Contains: Captivity, forced to hurt, blood, hurt/comfort

~~~

“I’m sorry.”

Altair murmured the words softly, almost inaudibly, but they were still as loud as thunderclaps in the small concrete cell he shared with Mariano. The smell of blood, Mariano’s blood, hung in the air like a miasma, clung to him like a condemnation. His lungs and hands were sticky with it, with the memory of what he had done.

But there was no hatred it Mariano’s eyes. Only impossible trust. “It’s okay. I know they made you.”

And he would have to do it again tomorrow, too. This time in their cell was only a brief respite. Altair would do anything to take Mariano’s place, to be the one taking the pain, but he doubted their captors would grant him that mercy.

“Still. I’m sorry.”

Mariano reached for his hand. Tentatively, as though touching him again might shatter him, Altair took it.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Nightmare

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Altair dreams of the worst case scenario.

Contains: Nightmares, explicit noncon, (believed) character death, mental link, vampires

~~~

Shadows constricted him so tightly he couldn’t even twitch. They strangled him, choked him, embraced him until he wasn’t sure where he ended and they began. There was no pain, just the crushing weight of shadows and expectations and memories ever tightening around him.

If that were all, Altair could have handled it. But he wasn’t alone.

A bed filled his vision, the only thing he could see through the roiling darkness. It was close enough to touch and yet far enough away that he was certain he could crawl across the ground for hours and never reach it. The shadows enshrouded it just as thoroughly as they had captured him, and yet it was the only spot of light in the sea of nothingness.

Elze’ith was there. He was there, on the bed. If Altair had any air in his lungs he would have screamed for him, but instead he was left in the deafening silence.

Lord Denholm was there, too. There was no escaping him, no fighting him. He loomed over Elze’ith like a hungry predator, made up the shadows that threatened to consume them both. Hatred and fear surged within Altair in tandem, utterly intertwined and indistinguishable, yet the fear was far stronger than anything else.

For he could do nothing as hands and shadows roamed across Elze’ith’s limp, bare, shivering form. All he could do was watch as Lord Denholm kissed Elze’ith as though he wanted to steal the breath from his lungs. Any desperate cries he might have tried to make were drowned out by the shadows in his lungs and the sweet, poisonous promises that Lord Denholm murmured against Elze’ith’s skin.

There was nothing he could do. There was never anything he could do.

His despair mounted as Lord Denholm inexorably and wickedly pressed inside. Elze’ith’s back arched in some horrid mix of revulsion and forced pleasure, a combination Altair fervently wished neither of them were so intimately familiar with. Each gentle thrust made him shake like he was about to fall apart. But it was Elze’ith’s eyes that Altair couldn’t look away from, that filled him with horror. They were empty, utterly empty, with none of the light or hope or resolve that Altair had come to love.

A moment and an eternity later, Lord Denholm joined their hips together. They both shuddered and went still. Ice-white fangs sunk into Elze’ith’s neck.

Elze’ith’s eyes closed.

Altair couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He knew, he knew all-too well, what it meant to be fed from like this. He knew how much blood one could stand to lose. And Lord Denholm was taking too much.

Elze’ith’s eyes were closed. Lord Denholm pulled away, but Elze’ith was utterly still. Not even his chest rose and fell.

Lord Denholm had taken everything Elze’ith had to give. Now there was nothing left.

Altair’s scream could have shaken the very heavens. Every fiber of his being was flooded with anguish, a weight bearing down on him stronger than any of the shadows trying to suffocate him. He was hot with rage and cold with grief and it was all too much. His heart could have been ripped from his chest in that moment and it would have hurt less. His wings could have been torn from his back and the result would have been the same.

The only thing that mattered was Elze’ith was limp and cold and drained and dead in front of him. He hadn’t been able to stop it. He would never see his beloved again.

There was no dance of victory from the shadows. No song of exaltation from Lord Denholm. There was only Altair, and his grief, and what once was Elze’ith.

It couldn’t get any worse. Altair was certain it couldn’t get any worse. Elze’ith was gone, and everything worth fighting for was gone with him. But then Elze’ith’s body began to shimmer and fade in front of him; even as he lurched forward to try to grab on, to keep hold of his partner, Elze’ith vanished before his eyes. Somehow, the grief hit him even harder then, squeezing the air from his lungs and turning his bones into lead. Elze’ith was gone, gone, gone—!

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, so tentative and uncertain. It was warm, warm in a way Altair barely remembered and yet could never forget. Warm and gentle and familiar; even through the maelstrom of tears and grief and regret Altair knew that hand and presence and soul as well as he knew his own, and turned around before he could even think twice.

Elze’ith gently pulled his hand away, but only to open his arms to offer a hug. His face looked as it often did, full of concern and tenderness and love. And his eyes were full of that same love, full of light, full of life.

It was him. Elze’ith.

With a sob of joy instead of anguish, Altair threw himself forward into Elze’ith’s arms. Elze’ith let out the smallest whuff of breath, but caught Altair easily, pulling him in impossibly close. Altair buried his face into the crook of Elze’ith’s neck, just to breathe him in. Wrapped his wings around Elze’ith, just to shield him from any oncoming harm.

“You’re here,” Altair murmured, voice thick with relief. “You’re alive.”

Elze’ith nodded against him. This close, he could feel Elze’ith’s heartbeat. Steady and sure and strong.

“You’re here. I’m here. It’s gonna be okay,” Altair said, as though he were the one comforting Elze’ith. “I won’t let that happen to you. We’re both gonna be okay. I’m gonna make sure of it.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

“I’m going to lift you up, okay? Tell me if it hurts.” for dealer's choice!!

(Ehehe gonna yoink ur guy again c: Prompt from this list)

“I’m going to lift you up, okay? Tell me if it hurts.”

Altair could see the subtle tension written across Mariano's face, even as he nodded. "Alright. I trust you."

He didn't waste any time gathering Mariano into his arms. From what he could tell, the break in Mariano's leg was clean, at least, though that didn't make it any more possible for Mariano to walk on it. Altair was just glad he had been there when it happened. Otherwise Mariano might have been in a lot more trouble.

Mariano didn't react as Altair got his grip steady. Altair looked down at him. "You alright?"

"Yeah." Mariano looped his arms around Altair's neck, making him smile.

"Elze'ith is just at the base of the mountain. We'll be there by sundown."

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Hypnosis

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

There's comfort in the loss of control. Sometimes, there shouldn't be.

An AU where Lord Denholm's control over Elze'ith is a bit of a more traditional vampiric thrall. For @augusnippets Day 1: Hypnosis

Contains: Mind control, nonconsensual kissing

~~~

Arms wrapped around him as a fog enveloped his mind, strong and heavy and inescapable. Once, he would have tried to fight it; now there was a comfort to the unending, dreamy haze. Here, like this, he didn’t have to worry about anything at all. Couldn’t, even if he had wanted to.

And why would he want to?

His Lord pulled him closer, pulled him into a kiss, so lovely and tender. His lips kissed back before he knew how he felt about it. Flickers of emotion were quickly smothered by the thick fog of compliance, until all that was left was the subsuming embrace of his Lord’s will. And that was fine— was wonderful, even. Surely it couldn’t be so bad to just let this happen, could it?

He didn’t understand why Altair looked so scared. Everything was wonderful. He was just as he was meant to be, just what his Lord wanted him to be.

Didn’t Altair want that, too?

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Fever

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze'ith takes care of his partners, even in the throes of magical exhaustion.

Thank you to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump for letting me borrow Mariano and Bastian! This was done for Day 5 of @augusnippets

Contains: Magical exhaustion, fever, dizziness, blood, caretaking

~~~

The cottage smelled of suffering and sour blood. It hung in the air like smoke, a lingering reminder of what they had done to escape. The sheer potency of it made Elze’ith dizzy, but his own fever might have also contributed to that.

He couldn’t rest, though. Not even as blood filled his lungs and his vision swam. Because Mariano and Altair were laid out on the bed, entangled with each other, trembling as their bodies fought to be rid of rotten magic. Elze’ith was able to stand, was able to wipe the blood from their mouths and lay wet cloths on their heads to mitigate the fevers that ravaged them. He couldn’t let his failing body fail them.

Bastian would be back soon. He would bring water and supplies and comfort. Elze’ith held that knowledge close as his shaking hands collected bloody feathers and dabbed at crimson tears. He just had to look after his beloveds until Bastian arrived.

He almost crumpled, a few times, as he stumbled to and from their closet for more spare rags to keep his partners clean. He had to brace himself against the bed when the dizziness threatened to overtake him. He had to be so, so careful not to cough into the clean water he was using, because Mariano and Altair didn’t need to be wiped clean with Elze’ith’s blood. But he was willing to do all of that and more, if it meant that they were taken care of. He just wished this was something his magic could fix.

The cottage smelled of suffering and sour blood and desperation when Bastian finally burst through the front door. Elze’ith only had a moment to be happy before he finally let himself collapse into strong, supportive arms.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Paralysis

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

A brief trip back into the timeline to fill out my BTHB card. For @badthingshappenbingo: Paralysis.

A paralytic does more than numb Altair's wing.

Contains: Intimate whump, wing whump, captivity, paralytic drugs, brief implied suicidal ideation

~~~

The incision into the base of his wing was small. If it had been anywhere else on Altair’s body, he might not have noticed it. But that slow, careful cut had him shifting and groaning from the fiery pain sent down his wing and up his spine.

“You’re doing well, my little ruin,” Lord Denholm purred. His hand on the small of Altair’s back was cold and steady and firm. Altair tried to convince himself it was more for Lord Denholm’s benefit than his own. “You’re already becoming more adept at taking this pain. You should be proud.”

“I don’t feel proud,” Altair growled through gritted teeth. “I don’t want it to hurt this much, but I don’t want to get stronger like this. I don’t want to get tortured into it.”

“Oh, I understand,” Lord Denholm murmured, his voice that of a person trying to soothe a small child.

“You don’t understand at all—“

But Lord Denholm continued speaking, paying him no heed. “One day, my little ruin, you will appreciate all the work I am doing to better you. Until then—“

Something dripped into the wound in his wing, something cold, and Altair’s breath caught in his throat.”

“—There’s something I’d like to see.”

Altair almost didn’t hear him. Ice was spreading through his veins, creeping across his wing and leaving nothing but numbness in its wake. The slow and inexorable crawl froze blood and sinew and muscle, and then traveled even deeper. Tips of frost gathered across the corners of his heart, his very core, and his sense of himself dulled and faded away.

Distantly, he was aware of the numbness spreading from his wing to his body, deadening muscles and slowing his unsteady breath, but he observed it with a detached sort of anxiety. He was being drugged again. That was bad.

He should try to do something, shouldn’t he?

But all he felt was cold, cold and numb and listless. It was almost as though he had had far too much to drink, and now was struggling to hold onto consciousness as the world blurred around him. Even drunkenness, though, carried sensation, dizziness and nausea and delirium; Altair barely felt anything at all.

Maybe he was dead. Maybe whatever awful experiment Lord Denholm had tried had finally killed him. Maybe this cold was his eternity. Maybe that would be alright.

(Part of him strained against that, part of him knew that was wrong, but with every thought moving through molasses, he couldn’t grasp that willpower.)

Above him, someone was talking. He tried to parse what they were saying, but the words were as blurry as he was. A touch to his wing jolted him back towards awareness, filled him with a sudden flood of emotion and intent and danger, but he couldn’t maintain his hold on that clarity with how cold his fingers were. All he knew was that he was talking, now, though he couldn’t tell what he was saying, didn’t know if he was saying anything intelligible at all.

Another touch to his wing, a gentle stroke, a gesture to soothe and to possess. It repeated, again and again, and with each moment of contact came a flutter of almost-lucidity. He tried to take advantage, tried to shift and twist away, but the numbness in his soul had made every muscle heavy and insensate (or had it happened the other way around?) and he could barely manage the barest of twitches.

The voice above him laughed, low and dark. The sound almost made him feel something, but the cold ran too deep. The sound and the touch and the presence could barely reach him, could barely affect him, could barely impact him at all.

Later, when the paralytic in his system wore off, he would curse and writhe and fight the monster who did this to him. Later, the terror at how empty he had become would fully set in. Later, he’d try desperately to pull his wings back inside, just so this could never happen again. But now, he could barely manage to close his eyes and drift in the cold nothingness as the man he hated marveled at his still, silent beauty.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Blizzard

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

A chance meeting that sparks a lifetime of devotion.

For @augusnippets Day 3: Blizzard.

Contains: Blizzard, hypothermia, blood, caretaking

~~~

It was a small miracle that Elze’ith stumbled across the man collapsed in the snow.

The howling winds and swirling snow made it night impossible to see; everything was just an expanse of white and cold. Somehow, inexplicably, there was still enough crimson visible against the snow to catch Elze’ith’s eye. He rushed over as quickly as he could, shielding himself with his magic against the worst of the storm, though the freezing wind still sapped the heat from his core.

The man was already half-buried by snow and ice when Elze’ith knelt down beside him. The furs he was wrapped in, haphazard as they were, were likely the only reason he was still even shallowly breathing. And a quick examination revealed the source of the bright blood against the snow; a wound on his temple, another in his shoulder, bleeding his life away sluggishly but unceasingly.

Elze’ith didn’t know who this man was. He didn’t know why he was out here. But he knew he couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t bear to watch this man die.

The cold air stung against his skin as he took off his glove, but he needed direct contact to heal the man’s wounds. Luckily, they weren’t deep, and it didn’t take too much magic to seal them over. The man groaned as he did; he was strong, Elze’ith realized. Even after all he had clearly been through, he wasn’t fading. Not yet.

As gently as he could manage, Elze’ith bundled him into his arms. His camp was nearby, and he needed to get this man warm if he was to survive. And Elze’ith had no intentions on letting him die now.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

"No, no, look at me--you're going to be pkay but you have to look at me."

(ehehe I'm borrowing ur guy I hope that's okay)

"No, no, look at me--you're going to be okay but you have to look at me."

There were a few blood-chilling seconds where Mariano didn't move. Then his eyes fluttered open, hazily staring up at Altair's face. Altair could have sobbed in relief, but he forced it down, trying to focus on keeping Mariano awake and putting pressure on the gaping hole in his stomach.

Gods, there was so much blood-

"That's it, just keep looking at me. Don't you dare stop looking at me."

Mariano's gaze seemed to focus, even if only slightly. Altair offered a shaky smile.

"Bastian is bringing Elze'ith, they're going to be here soon. And Elze'ith is going to heal you, and you're going to be fine. Okay?"

Mariano's only response was a groan. Altair prayed to any deity that would listen that Elze'ith and Bastian would make it on time.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Poisoning

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

There was something in the wine.

Ehehe royalty AU go brrr. This is for @augusnippets Day 13 c:

Contains: (Attempted) Poisoning, fluff

~~~

“There’s something in your wine, my prince.”

Altair’s words were whispered, inaudible to anyone but Elze’ith as he set the wine glass back down on the table. Concern immediately chilled Elze’ith’s blood. The wine had been supplied by their guests, foreign dignitaries from a small kingdom Elze’ith was trying to forge an alliance with.

For them to be so brazen…

He took the opportunity to excuse himself; if either of his guests senses anything amiss, they didn’t show it. Altair flanked him close as he retreated to a side room, though his attention immediately turned to his faithful bodyguard.

“Sir Altair. I… thank you for alerting me to that danger. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, my prince,” Altair said in the immediate way that indicated he wasn’t okay at all. “Whatever they put in your drink, I didn’t get the full dose.”

“Are you sure?” Elze’ith’s voice was a low murmur of concern. “You protected me from that poison, Sir Altair. I want to make sure you are safe as well.”

“I am only doing my duty, my prince.”

“I know. Let me do mine.”

His duty to his people, to his realm, to his beloved bodyguard.

Altair’s expression softened, ever so slightly. “I— I am feeling slightly dizzy, Prince Elze’ith. It shouldn’t stop me from protecting you, unless it gets worse.”

Elze’ith smiled in relief. “It will not get worse. I will make sure of that.

He needed a bit of time to find proof of the attempted poisoning. Once he had that, he could ensure that these interlopers never tried such a thing again.

“Thank you, Sir Altair. I do not know what I would do without you.”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Bond

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Thanks once again to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump for letting me borrow Mariano and Bastian! This is for @augusnippets Day 8: Found Family/Friends.

Contains: Fluff, domesticity

~~~

The hearth was warm. Elze’ith’s heart was warmer.

The book was a comforting weight in his lap, but Elze’ith allowed his attention to wander from it. To the sight of Mariano preening Altair’s wings, both of them relaxed and content. To Cyllene, purring next to the fire. To Bastian’s arms wrapped around him, making him feel as warm and safe as he had ever felt.

Clawed fingers stroked through his hair, making him sigh. “You okay, Elze’ith?”

“Mmm.” He was more than fine. He was happy. Uncomplicatedly happy.

Bastian kissed the top of his forehead, making Elze’ith smile. “Good.”

He settled further against Bastian, resting his head against the dragon’s chest to hear the deep resonance of his purr. It was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds, alongside Mariano’s laugh and Altair’s singing. He could listen to it forever.

Later, they would make dinner together with the meat Mariano had hunted. They would go to sleep in the home they all shared. It was everything he had ever wanted. Hard-won peace and serenity, and he was grateful for every moment.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Drown

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Altair drowns. It doesn't stick, except for how it does.

A companion piece to this work by @whump-kin! (Go read it, it slaps) Also for @augusnippets Day 7

Contains: Drowning, temporary character death, resurrection, betrayal, panic and fear

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Altair and Elze’ith had talked, before, about what they thought dying might be like. Fond grief in his eyes, Elze’ith would wistfully trace constellations and speak of souls rejoining the tapestries woven by the gods and last breaths becoming the first breath of a new life. There was some solace in that, even if it didn’t sound real. A promise of peace, of something better.

There was no peace in this death. There was just the cold, and the fear, and the betrayal. There was just Cal’s eyes, looking at him with a thousand emotions but no mercy. There was just the water filling his lungs, no matter how hard he tried to hold his breath, an inescapable fate.

His heartrate soared, and then it slowed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Elze’ith screamed. And then, there was nothing.

Nothing but the fear and the dark and the soul-deep knowledge that he had failed.

A rush of magic that he shouldn’t have been able to feel wrapped around him so tenderly and pulled him back into an explosion of light and sound and sensation. His instinctual cry of alarm was instantly cut off as Altair choked on the water that hadn’t left him; eyes wide and unseeing, he spasmed and flailed until cold hands helped him onto his side so he could cough it all up. The touch made him terrified and grateful all at once.

Air had never tasted so sweet. Each breath was a miracle, a monumental effort that took all of his attention. He needed to keep breathing. The thought of anything else, of going back into the water, was fire and ice and lightning in his veins, overriding all else.

He had died. Wings bound and magic sealed, he had died. Killed with freedom just beyond his grasp. Killed without even knowing if Elze’ith was safe.

For the first time in weeks, he was alone in his head, and that made him want to cough up his own heart alongside the water that he spilled from his lungs.

Trembling and weak, he forced himself to look up at Cal. The man he thought might be able to help them. The man who had led Altair into the water to die. The man who had proved Altair’s every worst thought and fear about vampires correct.

Cal didn’t say anything. Altair didn’t either. There was nothing left to say.