How about some Robert/Altair noncon with a tiny bit of bonus Alt/Mal angst? Hope this is what you were after, anon.
~
A heavy rock cracked into the plaster above Altair, showering him with dust. Angry shouts drifted up from far below and he cussed under his breath. It was early morning and Altair was distracted, troubled after visiting the Jerusalem bureau. A stone smacked into the back of his head and for the first time that day, his body betrayed him.
Against his will Altair’s fingers loosened their hold and his vision blurred. Too stunned to find purchase to stop his fall, the assassin crashed heavily onto the ground and lost consciousness.
He forced his heavy eyes open, feeling someone dragging him up by the scruff of the neck. The pain was so immense that he wretched before his vision faded out again.
Something slapping against Altair’s cheek, almost gently, roused him from the darkness. Before he opened his eyes he tried to bat it away, but found he couldn’t move his arms. Finally he mustered the strength to raise his head and look about.
Altair growled at what he saw.
‘Well...’ Robert de Sable smirked, looking over Altair leisurely, gloves in hand.
Altair wriggled in his restraints experimentally. His hands were shackled to the stone wall above his head and his feet were bound with weights. His gauntlets were gone, as was the familiar weight of the leather brace around his torso.
‘You’ve been quite the petulant child, Altair. It’s your own carelessness that brought you here, and I’ll see to it that you’re punished for it.’ Robert smiled in a way that Altair found troubling. Why wasn’t he dead?
His head was pounding and he was confused. Although he could feel the blood caked on the back of his neck, which split open and trickled down his collar whenever he moved, he seemed mostly uninjured
The templar tucked his gloves into his belt then set about unfastening Altair’s robes slowly.
‘What are you doing?’ Altair spat, hating himself for the edge of panic entering his voice. Why wasn’t he simply run through with the Templar’s blade?
Robert chuckled and moved his hands down to free Altair of his breeches. Robert leaned in close but Altair twisted his head away.
‘I’ll kill you!’ Altair yelled, still unwilling to believe what was happening to him, what he was helpless to stop, feeling his face flush with shame.
The smirk dropped from Robert’s face and he frowned. He stepped back and punched Altair in the face sharply. When the white spots crowding his vision faded, Altair could feel his teeth loosened, and taste his own blood in his mouth.
‘No talking.’ Robert said flatly.
Robert trailed his hands along the inside of Altair’s thighs; there was no denying his intentions now. ‘You are quite beautiful. Like a fine Arabian stallion.’
Altair glared at him with such intensity that a lesser man may have feared bursting into flames, but Robert held his gaze steadily.
‘But like a stallion you must be broken in. I won’t have any lip biting coyness from you’ Robert demanded.
He moved out of sight and returned with a device made of straps of leather and metal.
Robert lifted it up to Altair’s face but the assassin writhed uncooperatively. Without hesitating, Robert punched him again in the stomach, winding him. As Altair panted to catch his breath, Robert grabbed his head roughly and placed the hard wooden bit gag in Altair’s mouth.
Altair continued to stare at him defiantly, immolating him with his eyes whilst Robert fastened the straps over the top of his hood.
Robert breathed into Altair’s ear and he felt nauseous.
Walking away again, Robert rummaged in a wooden drawer, and Altair noticed for the first time that the room he was locked in was sparsely though finely furnished, and must serve as Robert’s private quarters when he stayed in Jerusalem. The templar returned with a bottle of oil, a smooth, highly polished stone object and an infuriatingly smug grin.
‘This is rather...modest compared to myself.’ Robert contemplated aloud whilst lathering the stone generously with oil.
‘But it will do, for the training of stubborn assassins.’
Altair thrashed and struggled and screamed around the gag to no avail.
Broken wings [1/3]
Hope this is what you were after, anon.
~
A heavy rock cracked into the plaster above Altair, showering him with dust. Angry shouts drifted up from far below and he cussed under his breath. It was early morning and Altair was distracted, troubled after visiting the Jerusalem bureau. A stone smacked into the back of his head and for the first time that day, his body betrayed him.
Against his will Altair’s fingers loosened their hold and his vision blurred. Too stunned to find purchase to stop his fall, the assassin crashed heavily onto the ground and lost consciousness.
He forced his heavy eyes open, feeling someone dragging him up by the scruff of the neck. The pain was so immense that he wretched before his vision faded out again.
Something slapping against Altair’s cheek, almost gently, roused him from the darkness. Before he opened his eyes he tried to bat it away, but found he couldn’t move his arms. Finally he mustered the strength to raise his head and look about.
Altair growled at what he saw.
‘Well...’ Robert de Sable smirked, looking over Altair leisurely, gloves in hand.
Altair wriggled in his restraints experimentally. His hands were shackled to the stone wall above his head and his feet were bound with weights. His gauntlets were gone, as was the familiar weight of the leather brace around his torso.
‘You’ve been quite the petulant child, Altair. It’s your own carelessness that brought you here, and I’ll see to it that you’re punished for it.’ Robert smiled in a way that Altair found troubling. Why wasn’t he dead?
His head was pounding and he was confused. Although he could feel the blood caked on the back of his neck, which split open and trickled down his collar whenever he moved, he seemed mostly uninjured
The templar tucked his gloves into his belt then set about unfastening Altair’s robes slowly.
‘What are you doing?’ Altair spat, hating himself for the edge of panic entering his voice. Why wasn’t he simply run through with the Templar’s blade?
Robert chuckled and moved his hands down to free Altair of his breeches. Robert leaned in close but Altair twisted his head away.
‘I’ll kill you!’ Altair yelled, still unwilling to believe what was happening to him, what he was helpless to stop, feeling his face flush with shame.
The smirk dropped from Robert’s face and he frowned. He stepped back and punched Altair in the face sharply. When the white spots crowding his vision faded, Altair could feel his teeth loosened, and taste his own blood in his mouth.
‘No talking.’ Robert said flatly.
Robert trailed his hands along the inside of Altair’s thighs; there was no denying his intentions now.
‘You are quite beautiful. Like a fine Arabian stallion.’
Altair glared at him with such intensity that a lesser man may have feared bursting into flames, but Robert held his gaze steadily.
‘But like a stallion you must be broken in. I won’t have any lip biting coyness from you’ Robert demanded.
He moved out of sight and returned with a device made of straps of leather and metal.
Robert lifted it up to Altair’s face but the assassin writhed uncooperatively. Without hesitating, Robert punched him again in the stomach, winding him. As Altair panted to catch his breath, Robert grabbed his head roughly and placed the hard wooden bit gag in Altair’s mouth.
Altair continued to stare at him defiantly, immolating him with his eyes whilst Robert fastened the straps over the top of his hood.
Robert breathed into Altair’s ear and he felt nauseous.
Walking away again, Robert rummaged in a wooden drawer, and Altair noticed for the first time that the room he was locked in was sparsely though finely furnished, and must serve as Robert’s private quarters when he stayed in Jerusalem. The templar returned with a bottle of oil, a smooth, highly polished stone object and an infuriatingly smug grin.
‘This is rather...modest compared to myself.’ Robert contemplated aloud whilst lathering the stone generously with oil.
‘But it will do, for the training of stubborn assassins.’
Altair thrashed and struggled and screamed around the gag to no avail.