#silly altair

[isa-belle1367]

Ok, so actually, the reason why altair couldn't swim in ac1 was because of a glitch in the animus. However, desmond doesn't know that. So imagine desmond just assuming altair can't swim *when he can.* Now, just imagine the chaos.

"Omg, altair, get away from the pool you're gonna drown!"

"Wtf no I'm not."

"Bs you can't swim for shit."

"YES I CAN TF?"

(In walks ezio.) "Did I just hear altair can't swim?"

"I CAN SWIM IDK WHY DESMOND THINKS I CANT."

"Omg, Altair can't swim!"

"Ezio I swear to fucking God"

"Be quiet. I can take you out with a hose."

*altair jumps in the pool to prove he can swim*

"WTF YOU CAN TOUCH WATER AND NOT DIE?! WHEN DID YOU LEARN THIS?!"

"Since, uh, idk BIRTH"

[evilbeing]

The Angel of death🪶

[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.

[byunniiis]

[OC] ⋆☾ Power couple ☾ ⋆

Our favorite local gods make an appearance again!

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ About the two losers ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Eikan is the clingy one in the relationship. He's needy and loves any kind of attention and reaction from Altair. While his behavior towards mortals and other gods is unpredictable, manipulative and often cold, to Altair he's gentle and loving. Treating him like a precious gem.

Altair on the other hand is more reserved. His love towards Eikan is immeasurable, sometimes lacking the words to express his feelings to him. Instead using his actions to show them.

Back when Eikan used to be around, the two of them were glued together like magnets.

(Also small fact: both of them like all the other gods are genderless. Eikan and Altair use he/him pronouns)

[rayno-minior]

being in the reverie audio fandom rn

[grease-weasel]

Arlo and Altair do not like each other.

[teddys-diary]

the unrendered silly

[day-night-darlix]

StARCROSS dynamic

The members of StARCROSS are quite close despite only meeting after being scouted. It’s part of how their moniker of “Baby Re:Vale” came to be - on camera they display what can only be described as a lovesick boyfriends act. The “act” bleeds somewhat into their personal lives, with frequent jokes about marriage and parenthood. The pair spend a lot of time together outside of work, and Altair is even helping Vega with learning another language.

[kiroonsmoon]

Long overdue redesign for Calamity.

Calamity is the older brother of my interceptor oc, Fate. He travelled through dimensions upon learning what really was the cause of her disappearance from their home dimension and world. Unfortunately, upon coming to Aevium the first people to find him was Clear and Kieran who used and manipulated him for their plans. By the end of 13.5v he’s been captured alongside Mosely and Regina to be used against Fate.

[write-kin]

Augusnippets - Drowning

Not doing the full challenge, but I wanted to write something short to clear my mind. This is not proof-read, my brain is kind of melting from finals. Hope this makes sense :)

Prompt by @augusnippets, Altair belongs to @just-a-silly-little-whumper!

CWs: Drowning, Temporary Character Death (magical revival), implied/referenced mind control, reluctant/manipulated whumper, panic.

--

Vampires can’t drown. 

Their lungs could fill with water, sure, and Calamine knew from experience that coughing it up was unpleasant when one needed to use their lungs to speak. 

But they couldn’t die from lack of oxygen. 

Unlike living beings. 

Unlike Altair, who was currently clawing at him, wings tied behind his back. Using his limited oxygen to try and get free.

It wouldn’t be forever. Montresor had promised him that, when he brushed his hair back, sitting in the study before all of this. Calamine could revive him right after.

Altair had just been too reactive. He had every right to be, of course, but it had concerned Montresor. He’d nearly broken Cal’s arm in a panicked attempt to get any information about Elze'ith. 

Montresor had taken Cal aside. Told him that this was why those two couldn’t see each other yet. Told Cal that he couldn’t tell any of their other guests.

Vampires couldn’t drown. But Montresor could make Cal chain himself to the bottom of the lake, make him stand there until the sunlight filtered through the water and he turned, agonizingly, to mist. 

So Cal had taken Altair by the hand, wings bound. Walked him to the dark, glassy, pitch-black lake beside the castle. Held on tighter when Altair started pulling away, walking them both down to the bottom of the lake. Letting one’s lungs fill with water on purpose did have its uses. As did the vampiric strength he was only just getting used to. 

Altair was fighting. For his perceived life. Their eyes met, and he stared at Cal, and the betrayal in his expression hurt. More than his nails against Cal’s skin as Cal held him in place. More than his kicking against Cal’s chest as he floated upwards. But it was Altair or Cal facing these consequences, and no matter if he’d come back to life, Calamine wasn’t brave enough to show him mercy. 

Altair’s struggling slowed, and then stopped. He went limp, floating upwards. Eyes still open, the fight that had been slowly dying down gone. 

That was Cal’s sign to turn around, hand still around Altair’s wrist. Walk the two of them out of the lake, disturbing the mirror-smooth surface. Lay him down on the ground, hands on his chest, once they were in the entrance of the castle. Prepare to resurrect the man he had just been forced to betray. 

[blue-howlite]

Going non-verbal

Doom breaker headcanons

When you get so overwhelmed you just stop talking altogether, how are they reacting?

Warnings: ooc, self indulgence, temporary non-verbal issues, very short piece because it's very spontaneous and I'm tired.

Author's note: going through one of those rough patches, so of course writing a comfort piece is a solution! Very fluffy thing, I should get to Ned's NSFW alphabet poor guy, he gets zero attention yet he's my favourite...

Knows how to comfort you without even asking, knowing by heart all your likes and dislikes, can even guess what overwhelmed you: Zephyr, Altair.

Prefers to check every time with a simple "yes or no" question system, asking what you need and letting you answer by shaking or nodding your head: Ned, Lucius, Dariel.

Is pretty much lost, leaves you alone to deal with it thinking you need space, but will stay if you manage to communicate that you want them close: Fade.

Is pretty much lost, stays by your side to comfort you and wait for you to give them directions somehow, will leave if you manage to let them know you wish to be alone: Ophelia.

[isa-belle1367]

What do you think would happen if Connor, Altair and Ezio all travelled in time to before Desmond died? Can you list some headcanons on how they would all interact with one another and how they would react to modern day stuff?

Omg I'm so sorry this took so long to respond to. I have notifications for Tumblr off, so sorry but I will absolutely do this. 😈

Desmond's brain due to the bleeding effect, defaults to "This isn't real, so it doesn't matter what I say." so he is extremely honest and unhinged around them.

Connor would HATE fast food, like with a burning passion. He would think its gross, oversalted, etc.

they would all be protective of Desmond. Like he needs to go on a field mission and all of them are just like. "You're doing WHAT?" "No, you're not going." "Desmond. You. Are. Not. Doing. That."

Ezio would be so scared at how expensive everything is.

They would bond over their trauma and talk about gruesome topics like they are nothing. "Yeah, so I watched my father get hanged." "Omg no way, I watch my father get murdered by templars." "My dad was a templar, so I had to kill him."

Connor hates all technology, thinks its loud and annoying. Ezio's fine with it, but doesn't use it often, probably has a flip phone. Altair would love technology, mostly bombs, he def loves how far bombs have advanced. Desmond has yelled at him for blowing up the kitchen multiple times.

Altair would teach them the best way to keep their blades in top condition.

Altair and Ezio would basically adopt Connor and make him super unhinged. "Manners? Throw that shit away. Now, have you heard of arson?"

Desmond would mention that Altair didn't know how to swim to Ezio, and Ezio would immediately start pulling water-based pranks on Altair. Bucket of water in the doorway, shoving him in the pool etc. Altair is extremely confused.

Desmond makes broke boy spaghetti and Ezio has an aneurism.

They would all hate bill but for different reasons. Altair hates him because Bill reminds him of Al Mualim. Ezio hates him because no mentor should hit their student, he thinks he is a disgrace to the brotherhood. Connor hates him because he just gets bad vibes from him.

When they discovered air conditioning, they nearly died.

Altair nearly died of heat stroke due to humidity.

Altair would be good at using technology, because he spent his life studying Isu tech.

One time they all went on a mission together and they spent the entire time trying not to laugh. Nothing was accomplished.

All of them absolutely despise the animus. They will smash it to bits given the chance.

They all teach each other their native languages so they can talk shit and not be discovered. Desmond finds this amusing.

Ezio is scared to look at price tags.

They all have silent footsteps and don't realize until they have snuck up on like 5 people and its only noon.

Altair has a coffee addiction. He also has the diet of a pre-med student. red bull mixed with espresso, hopes and prayers, and a small thing of stale fries.

[evilbeing]

Tami and Altaïr!!! @tamiisnthere

[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.

[sunset-mp4]

REDRAWN ALTAIR!!!!

oh and from yesterday; REDRAWN SUNRISE!!

[nem0-nee]

NEEMO U NEED TO STOP MAKING HOT GUYS THAT CAN AND WILL KILL US 😩 /J

Altair be slaying fr

I also wanna hug him but I don't wanna die so lets hug from a safe distance

"Still want that distance? Fair enough. I suppose you won't need me when you're falling at terminal velocity!"

[ Altair takes you skydiving.png ]

SHFKBSKFS I didn't intend them to be hot, bUT HERE WE ARE?!?!

Altair has slayed and will continue slaying (literally...)