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notknickers · 7 months

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synopsis: the winged elf auviron has been captured and sold into slavery while away from his snow-peaked eyrie and in foreign lands. his new owner, after the rakshasa merchant responsible for his captivity, is a dark elf scion by name of molvayas, sole male child - and not-so-secret-shame - of illustrious ilharess adamantia faerlintar. and a wealthy and capricious one, at that, as often is the case for those such as he.

tags/warnings: dead dove, slavery as a narrative device, noncon, injuries, blood sports, magic creatures death, chained to the reverie chaise, undressed while unconscious, unwashed top, face raping, forced deepthroating, throat bulge, non-consensual breath control, raped to near death, cum swallowing, fainting

audiences: 18+, no exception

word count: 5994

a/n: a one-shot, background story of my avariel and drow blorbos from my never-to-be-published novel, set in non-canonical forgotten realms underdark in a nameless dark elven city of my creation accessible only through the shadow plane with the appropriate tokens. have this, while i lag behind on my call of duty fics. they're in the making, i promise.

Auviron’s spear is still fast in the drake’s eye socket. It protrudes through the back of its skull from the force with which the winged elf drove it, russet scales gleaming in crimson. He dislodges it. One foot holds down the dead beast’s neck, arms flexing decisively as the weapon snaps free, becoming his own again.

«Your turn now! Coward!», still panting, he screams to the ceiling. Grip on spear painful, arms sharply flailing. As if to make himself even more visible in the empty arena. As if it weren’t already impossible to ignore him even without the waving and the howling.

Auviron challenges the dark elf. The flying elf knows he has been watching, enjoying the spectacle from the shadows, hovering just out of sight. After calling to him, voice increasingly hoarse from shouting, the dark elf graces him of his presence.

He always reappears after the test is over and won.

«Coward! It must be your name, you wretch! That is when you show your face!»

The dark elf’s teeth flash briefly in the parody of a smile: he does not know those words without employing the translating magic in his insignia. Nor does the dark elf need to know them: the bitter expression, the defiant tone, the aggressive posture barely subdued by common sense… those are all Molvayas needs to understand without wasting the sorcery trapped in his emblem.

The dark elf ignores him, feigning curiousness about the drake carcass. He crouches by its head and examines the deadly wound, not minding his unwilling guest, even when his back is turned to the armed aerial warrior.

By now, Molvayas knows the avian elf will not attack unless the dark elf is the one to draw weapons first. And it’s not solely because the winged elf requires a break to recover after each beast he battles. To Molvayas, the refusal reads more as a sort of code the prisoner displays, even when dropping any semblance of foolish honour and taking his chances while the dark elf is – or at least does all he can to look – elsewise preoccupied would better serve him.

How quaint!, the thought forces Molvayas’ lips to stretch thinly again.

«How many more?»

Molvayas glances at him, but does not satisfy his question. He produces his double-edged dagger, instead. A calmly-uttered word later, what he holds is a two-bladed sword, cool blazing of keen crystals fizzling to veins of bright blue run the blue-grey length as the metamorphosis completes.

«Only one left, then…», Auviron mutters darkly and changes stance to attack.

The lesser wyrm is but the most recent in a series of beasts Auviron has been pitted and prevailed against. The reason, unstated still, has become apparent in time: the dark elf must have wanted to assay the winged elf’s mastery in combat. Perhaps the underground-dweller has plans to enrol Auviron in some competition. Perhaps he merely aims to amuse himself with the entertainment the gauntlet provides his one-elf-audience.

Perhaps racking one’s brains to understand the reasons behind the actions of so alien – and vile! - a creature, hoping for a glimmer of clarity and sensibility, is a waste of time.

Before the wingless drake was the set of paired manticores. Dangerous beasts in their own right that turn even deadlier when the mate they choose for life is murdered before their eyes for sport. Auviron’s left wing still smarts from the one quill of the many that rained towards him, strong and thick like his spear, that he failed to elude in flight. Taking a few seconds to tear it out almost got him in the trajectory of the spiked-mace of a tail the rushing manticore flailed his way.

Before the manticores, came the nest of wyverns; nest, the avian elf thought, because the variously aged and sized specimens, from the elder one to the ones on the cusp of maturity, fought like a flock defending their lives and territory. Keen talons and venomous stingers striking in concert. Auviron had to dodge countless times before even landing an attack of his own.

Not at all like the bumbling, rampaging fleets that breach out of their rocky dwellings or swampy hideouts during their first few ruts. When they might wreak accidental havoc in inhabited areas and need to either be put down on the spot, or hope a kindly ranger will arrive in time to lead them back where they belong and ensure the hormonal young not stray again.

And before the draconid family Auviron had to slay, was the turn of the basilisks. Three nasty six-legged crawlers with scales as hard as the stone the last of them managed to turn the avian elf to, just as his spear felled it with an aerial attack. The assault from above compelled the beast to turn its neck enough that Auviron could lance through its open maw. Yet, at the same time that his spear lacerated through the soft tissue of the hexapod’s throat, Auviron felt himself grow stiff.

Guess the blasted beasts were four, not three.

He has no idea how long the dark elf left him posed in the killing blow, wings arched and spear stuck under the basilisk’s brow. For when he was returned to flesh, the dead reptile was still under his boot. A half-petrified feather he must have shed lay on the floor. Neither seemed to have been moved.

All the way back to Auviron’s first trial. A gaggle cockatrices. The gobbling reptilian turkeys of the depths, whose droopy wattles he can still remember whipping against his cuirass as they tried to peck at him. Each failure turned the assailing birds to contagious frenzy, which only made their moves less calculated, easier for Auviron to dispatch even if outnumbered.

Auviron has triumphed over every artificial asperity presented. Now, he waits for the volatile dark elf to decide what to do of his issuing.

On his end, Molvayas is enthused at what he has got in his hands. He wished to verify whether the draconid-killing fame of the latest entry into his Menagerie was true. Whilst Auviron was pitted against no true wyrm, Molvayas considers himself well-pleased that his riches were not wasted on some puny creature incapable of withstanding the planned regimen.

Auviron’s body is that of a warrior. Shorter than he and barely more graceful, yet solid and packed with full, rounded muscles. Not unlike his own. And with wings powerful enough for him to manoeuvre himself in the air, weighed by spear and armouring, yet unhindered by either.

This intrigues the dark elf: perhaps this one will not, indeed, break that easily in his care. Or lack thereof.

The dark elf accepts Auviron’s dare, of course. Like he has done every day since the first trial was won. He lets the winged elf hold on to his arms and war regalia and extends him yet another chance to win his freedom. If he manages to best the dark elf in armed combat. Or so Molvayas leads Auviron to believe, before recurring to underhanded tactics and outright cheating to make sure the winged elf can never truly succeed.

After all, it would be a waste to sacrifice his vantage on the fickle altar of fairness. If the flying elf wishes to prove himself not just Molvayas’ equal, but his better in combat prowess, then coming up with a way to outdo the dark elf’s physical might, tactical wit, as well as practical advantages is very much up to him.

Nevertheless, every few days Molvayas has consistently been showing up for his sparring adversary with or without raging beasts in tow as overture to the main event. And every few days they fight. Glassteel against adamantine. Fist against fist. No quarter ceded if not at hard price. Before the winged elf is deprived once more of his battling implements and protections and given back to his confinement upon defeat.

iii

It is noon and the sun is scorching down on all beneath it, blinding and unabating. Or dusk, shadows sharpening and air growing crisp. Perhaps it’s the dead of night and only silence and thin, resplendent flecks of moonlight reign unusurped. It is all of those and more, just somewhere that is not there. Time has lost most of its meaning for Auviron since his abduction and sale.

The last thing he remembers, before darkness, soreness and passing in and out of consciousness were the only things left to give feeble substance to the liminality of his days, is the carcass of a squamous land beast. A duel and another crushing loss.

There is a figure walking on the ceiling, suspended, fire trailing below. He rolls on his belly, aching of muscles forced into dormancy accompanying the slothful movement. Wings barely curl out of the way and the figure merely rises from the floor.

The figure tiptoes inside to make their delivery. Water is poured in the basin in the room. Perfumed steam quietly rising from it, empty pitcher clinking on a surface. His gear thuds and clangs near Auviron’s head, the sound of his spear, precariously rested against a wall, clatters to the floor. The intruder flinches, distracted feet stumbling on a plate from which he must have eaten, at some point. Sound of breath catching before being forcibly drowned and muted until it feels safe to breathe again.

Will that happen to him, too, in the end? Will sound carry nothing but fear, soon?

Keys jingle and scrape in the lock of his restraints. The figure hastily leaves before the winged elf has accepted the lie of his deliverance. Only the fiery halo of hair remains in Auviron’s vision. He rises and repeats the vacuous gesture of wiping the staleness of days-old sweat from skin. He pretends it serves any purpose other than delaying what awaits.

His tunic is clean. The glassteel gleaming. The leather underneath supple from a fresh coating of oils. They are kept in such conditions as if the avian elf were allowed to mind their upkeep himself. He dons his war attire in front of the mirror with a morose, unfaltering grimace. The only event that gives a modicum of purpose, restores a flicker of hope to the greyness of a present that melts into the sameness of future has arrived with punctuality.

He leaves, knowing very well where to go in his lack of reasons to stray.

No beasts this time. No beasts proper, at least. Only the beastly elf.

The two elves shed arms and parts of their guards to go from duel to hand-to-hand combat. Outcome unfavourable this time too. Auviron is once more being given the option to choose between a humiliating yield in the dark elf’s choke hold or awakening alone and in chains after fainting rather than admit defeat.

Prideful – for what else but pride has he left? – when Auviron’s body submits to the superior elf in ways that his mind never allows him, he is left the loser once more. His chance at freedom grows ever farther in sight.

The winged elf jolts awake, head jerking left and right to understand where he is. Still sore from combat, he remembers his predicament. Deflated, he moves carefully, soon finding he cannot freely command his limbs. Tethered by manacles that spread him on the soft, padded surface that has become both recovery cot and reverie chaise, his wings span beneath him. Stretched out. Pinned at their root of flesh, tendons and plumage by his own weight.

He must have been stripped while blacked out, for he is nude. Something the avian elf has slowly grown accustomed to. After every match between him and his unpredictable tormentor, his equipment is taken from him. What is new is how he was arranged while unconscious. A chain around an ankle or a hollow-boned yet tough wrist is yet another one of those vexations he has had to endure since he was unlawfully acquired. This, however, is new. It does not bode well.

The first conversation Auviron had with the dark elf flashes in his mind and his mouth feels drier. He stirs his tongue around, from cheek to mouth roof, trying to counter the unpleasant xerostomia, swallowing on nothing still while parts of that conversation replay in his head. Teeth gnaw the inside of a cheek.

He remembers the strange, leading questioning to which the dark elf subjected him, even then stripped shamefully naked and tied – by rope, not metal – to a chair, arms folded behind him; ankles held well apart. He sat there, forced to defencelessly present throat, chest, stomach and loins to any offence the self-styled interrogator decided to inflict.

For good or ill, Molvayas was too fascinated by Auviron’s majestic wings and fleecy down here and there on his body to pay mind to those. The memory of the dark elf’s rough yet revoltingly delicate hands lingering on his warm-toned feathers makes him shudder even now.

After the strange exchange, Auviron recalls being allowed – encouraged, really - to question the dark elf in turn about his fate. His purpose. From what little the avian elf managed to gather, the dark elf’s demesne seemed well-satisfied in its defensive needs. He doubted his purchase had anything to do with bolstering the numbers of the militia.

The way the dark elf peered at his bound figure, the inebriated look in his eyes as he devoured it, while Auviron’s questions danced at the sharp end of his ears without being allowed entrance, the uncomfortable insistence with which the dark elf’s fingers toyed with his feathers… All those made Auviron afraid the underground-dweller might have more sinister uses planned for his captive.

Facing off deadly beasts, deadlier endeavours in their own right, had a calming effect on the gloom-greyed paths Auviron’s mind wandered when compared to the unsettling alternative.

Auviron feels transported back to that moment again: the present holds no appeal in this state. Even if it did, the pull of how their exchange ended already floods his remembrances. He feared what would happen to him. Practical and blunt, after being for so long ignored, he demanded to know what his war-captive status entailed. A title he bestowed upon himself entirely, as there was no ongoing hostility happening between his race and that of his abductor. Only vanity driving to cruelty. He did, much preferring an honest, if gut-wrenching, answer to torturous speculation.

He hesitated until Molvayas’ gaze focussed enough to indicate he might take upon himself the burden of candour, of being forthright, considering how meandering, easily distracted and deceitful he already came across as. Then he asked his question.

The dark elf abruptly leant in, palms pressed down on thighs, as if for balance. Or merely to feel the winged elf balk at the imposed vicinity through the startled palpitation of muscles. The tips of their noses almost touched as Molvayas spoke words uttered with such crisp lucidity, that it betrayed the whiff of spirits his breath carried, warmth of herbal bitterness collapsing against his philtrum at every precise enunciation.

«Nought for you to decide. Nought for you to fret. I liberated you from such burdens and made them mine.»

The weight of the assertion crashed against him at once. As if despite the obvious circumstances, Auviron had yet to surrender to what being captured, sold, held in chains made him.

The claim is seared in the flying elf’s mind to this day, months after those bilious words wore first vomited at him. Sometimes they come to him in the feverish afterglow between consciousness regained after battle and the reveries he forces himself into, the melodious crooning of the dark elf in stark contrast with the bleak implications.

Lying there, bruised, fettered, Auviron fears the time to discover what further uses the dark elf has unilaterally assigned him might have come, at last.

A rustle compels his attention away from his dreary musings and back to the room. He dips his head, already half-hanging uncomfortably from the frame of the padded surface, further backwards.

There, with his back turned, the dark elf rids himself of his remaining padding. His skin, his snowy hair glow wet in the dim light. Yet the balsamic scent of subterranean mosses and root bark his captor uses for his ablutions, nor the scented oils Auviron sometimes still catches on his skin during their fighting, when vicinity is once more forced in the guise of enmity, can be detected in the air.

Only the burning oil in the brazier nearby that sees to the scant chamber’s illumination and heating at once. And the spice of their skin blending in a penetrating mixture of pungent and cloying that covers any other fragrance. If it is sweat and not water dampening the dark elf’s short hair and trickling down his nape, then it is not long after their fight that he has revived, Auviron reflects.

Molvayas notices his guest has come to. He removes the last of his garments – a silk cloth neatly tied around his waist – and drops it to the floor, letting it slip with little care as to where it will end. It joins the padded breeches already discarded.

Time and luck have, indeed, exhausted at last.

Auviron feels a hot burden pervade his chest and rush painfully towards his extremities, perfusing his every cell with nervous electricity. He should be able to breathe freely, unhindered, yet his exhalations grow laboured. Bile pools in his throat.

The dark elf moves, almost indifferent. Almost, if not for those spiteful crimson eyes that study the avian elf’s every tense reaction of painstakingly, if vainly so, subdued fright. Molvayas pulls a wide, high-backed seat and drags it to face his captive a fair distance away, the grating sound of metal legs on stone tiles only adding to the winged elf’s sensory torment.

The dark elf makes himself comfortable, sinking in the upholstered seat. He rests on it a bent knee, his other ankle dangling to the side from an armrest. Nervous motions animate it every now and then, like the tail of a cat with nothing but mischief on its mind.

He begins to stroke his cock. Thick fingers curve around the sizeable, multiply-pierced shaft, imposing a languid rhythm that is just enough for the protruding organ to grow turgid without any expectation to find immediate relief. Dew already pearls at the tip. The dark elf wipes it with another sensuous stroke.

The avian elf’s throat feels locked unto itself. He cannot easily breathe. He cannot swallow. He wishes he could bring himself to look away. Yet he does not dare take his amber eyes from the rapacious dark elf poised on his luxurious throne as he indolently readies himself.

He can see a depraved grin part the charcoal grey lips of a sliver. Throaty, deep-toned cries begin to cross them at the languorous pace with which his rugged hand drags along his organ. Hips barely buck into the fist when it descends to close around its root.

The only thing Auviron can do is lie there, teeth gritting and grinding as the sweat cooling on his skin prickles it, soon joined, but not replaced, by another wave of heat that nevertheless makes him shiver. Mattress damp under him.

When Auviron manages to tear his eyes away and fix them to the ceiling, the stark shadow fluidly moving above his head abruptly stills. He watches it rise.

Molvayas closes the modest distance between them and it is then that strength, or at least self-possession over his body, returns to Auviron. He begins to thrash against the metal cuffs, pulling at the chains attached to them that are just the right length to keep his body taut and trapped. There is not enough give in the restraints for him to slip away, not enough might on his part to shatter them. The green glow of occult glyphs impresses on his slitted pupils at every unsuccessful tug, forcing his muscles to wilfully relax.

A gasp trembles in Auviron’s throat when the mattress gives and bends under a weight that is not his own. The fury that animated his limbs just moments before leaves him in frozen stillness. The shadow of the hateful glower carved on his face goes unanswered, fully ignored by the looming dark elf.

There is a voice in the winged elf that commands him not to break. Not yet. But he senses the heat blazing in his cheeks even when he cannot see it. Auviron knows that soon, that very heat will melt into bitter tears. He can already sense them scar a path across his cheekbones, his forehead – upside-down as his head is forced to hang; clump his lashes once his eyelids will not be enough to contain them. He sobs once, lowly, pride demanding the avian elf collect himself. He does with a fierce if disheartened grimace, letting a brisk intake of air flare his nostrils before turning to tremulous exhalations.

Molvayas sits astride his chest, his bulk aggravating the burden the avian elf already felt. He takes a good, satisfied look down at the winged elf, spread-eagled and at his mercy. Only appropriate for the avian elf to be splayed, as if caught in flight. Like one of the giant birds his kind keeps for hunting and company in their eyries.

Not that the dark elf even knows what exactly those flying creatures look like. That hardly stops him from finding the predicament apt. Not even when his knees press down on Auviron’s wingtips, sheer weight crumpling the feathers in the pull, before planting on the nerve-rich top of the wings proper. The avian elf growls in response, to no avail.

Something cold and wet smears the winged elf’s chest, dripping on his neck, then his chin for last. When Auviron dares find out what that is, pang pulsing in the wing lacerated by the manticore spike, the vertical split of his strained pupils captures the sight of a viscous, clear strand that leaks from the dark elf’s cock. It trails on Auviron’s tightly-sealed lips, disgust twisting them even more.

The dark elf gathers it in his fingers, stretching it between thumb and first few digits while he lightly strokes himself again. He attempts to rub the fluid in the winged elf’s mouth, who jerks his head frantically to the sides, trying to evade them.

In the end, it matters little. Or perhaps, his resistance only makes it worse. Because now, Auviron can feel the dark elf’s arousal smudge his lips and cheeks as it congeals on them, marking him all the same.

He gasps again, his resolution just beginning to waiver when his face is roughly pressed on its side. Molvayas’ cock glides on his right cheek, unhurriedly savouring the sensation. One hand presses down on his own shaft, low, sultry groans leaving his lips at every stroke.

As his enthusiasm grows, so do the dark elf’s movements. They switch from slow and relaxed to staggering as they pick up pace, soon feeling more like slapping hard and heavy, rather than rubbing. The last thing Auviron sees before having to close his eye to avoid the head of the dark elf’s cock carelessly aiming towards it, is the detestable gloating stamped on his conqueror’s countenance.

When the avian elf can reopen the eye and straighten his head, the weight on his chest is gone. So is the grip in his hair that held his face crooked to the side.

Instead, he is grabbed by his downy shoulders and pulled backwards as far as the chains allow. A small clump of plumes catches between frame and padding and strips off, leaving hot stinging where there was softness. His head falls further backwards, smeared throat on offer. The metal frame digs in his nape more than it did, discomfort quickly turning to a full-on ache that ebbs and flows in the back of Auviron’s skull.

The dark elf crouches, firm hands still framing the winged elf’s face. They hold it in place until sure gravity will do it for him. The surface on which Auviron lies being low puts the squatting dark elf’s groin right in line with his gaze. Again, the winged elf feels the oversized organ press on his face before he can react, the metal platelets crowding its underside smooth and warm from friction.

Auviron senses creased, fleshy skin brush over his contorting lips, the peak of his nose. The dark elf’s musk, already strong and demanding, utterly overwhelming as the winged elf is forced to breathe him in.

He takes to shift his face away. The presence of Molvayas’ solid body, the uncomfortable position making him dizzy, with all the blood rushing to his head, prevent him from finding the wanted freedom. As claustrophobic panic sets in, two fingertips tamp down on his nostrils, cutting his airflow. Two more press at the hinge of Auviron’s mandibles, the pointed pain forcing them open against his refusal.

Auviron breathes, quick, shallow, as the fingers that brute-forced his mouth open explore it. They paw at teeth and tongue, push farther down until Auviron can feel himself dry-heave.

Any attempts the winged elf might engage to snap his mouth close and bite are forestalled when Molvayas adds more fingers from the other hand. The small mercy of freed nostrils comes at the cost of mandibles painfully pinned wide.

Ragged breaths, driven by dread and effort, leave Auviron’s throat often now. They choke to a wheeze when Molvayas dips his full, heavy sack in the winged elf’s mouth. He pops one ball in after the other with his fingers, stretching his cracked lips to a snug fit.

Molvayas delights in how the winged elf accidentally tongues them, presses against them, spittle pooling in his mouth. It drools sloppily out of it when the dark elf plunges deeper, the winged elf’s nose tip pressing on his perineum – or rather, the opposite – to titillate yet another metal jewel that nestles there when the dark elf grinds down, rocking back and forth on it.

Tears of effort and defeat gather at the corner of Auviron’s eyes, thickened by saliva that copiously streams towards his forehead. The large scrotum retreats, leaving behind only the fingers that prised and still keep his mouth open and useable.

Auviron barely has time for another loud gulp of air when Molvayas uses one of his thumbs to align the tip of his cock with his abused mouth. He unceremoniously shoves past Auviron’s scowl and slides his whole length steadily in, parting the avian elf’s jaws even wider than before. It is an unbearable thing to endure, the slow yet inexorable invasion Auviron cannot but accept.

His neck instinctively strains backwards, the movement so subtle and inconsequential it scarcely bears any fruit. Yet the intent must be obvious, because Molvayas frees a hand from the winged elf’s mouth to fist his hair, pulling the roots harshly enough to wring another bout of tears from Auviron’s eyes. He pins the head in place.

Even conscious of his undeniable powerlessness, Auviron tries to shake free, barely capable of breathing with the dark elf’s cock so fully lodged in him. But the dark elf is unmoved. The hand pulling on hair and feathers returns to Auviron’s nose, snuffing out the only sure way for air to reach his lungs.

Molvayas punitively holds his fingers on his nostrils until Auviron’s priority becomes to survive. The understanding that surviving and complying are one and the same sink in Auviron’s consciousness more slowly than desirable. He is skirting the last of his limits, out of wind and of space to withdraw, when the winged elf has to surrender to the lack of options.

He at last understands the unspoken, yet clearly-put intentions and resigns to accept them. He always imagined his death at the end of an unfavourable dragon-hunting mission. Something he worked to accept, consoled by the fact that his sacrifice could keep the fangs and deathly breath of his people’s sworn enemies away from their eyrie.

Here, however, there is no greater call. No heroism made necessary by hardship. No chance at glory both in victory and death. There is only a nameless corpse to leave behind, dying at the mercy of the vile captor, with his seed in his throat.

Auviron finally decides to stop defying the dark elf, lips timidly pursing, cheeks hollowed in invitation as his mouth tries to suck him inside of what little is possible. He lets the dark elf sink deeper, his focus all on breathing around the invading organ as he forces the supple flesh of his throat to yield enough to turn the intrusion from physically insufferable to just soul-crushing.

Molvayas accepts Auviron’s submission, cognisant of how much it must have cost the proud warrior to stop fighting. His hand releases his nares, a couple of fingers hooking the side of his mouth and pulling slightly for no other reason than not knowing what to do with them.

The winged elf is still struggling to lean into it when Molvayas’ cock starts pressing in too deep. Impossible to resist the convulsion that seizes him as his airways fight back against the unavoidable hilt-deep sheathing. Molvayas pulls his remaining fingers out. At this point, the thoroughly defied winged elf could not use his teeth against the dark elf’s meaty girth even if he wanted to.

The dark elf nevertheless returns them to press on the juncture of the avian elf’s jaws as he holds Auviron’s head steadily cupped in his callused hands. Hair and feathers the colour of autumn, flecks of ruby and copper and chocolate, tickle the fingertips that drag through his scalp. This time, they leave no pain behind.

Molvayas is welcomed a second time by the delightful spasming of the back of the winged elf’s throat. His flesh glides way past his uvula, the silhouette of his cock now bulging visibly on the front of the avian elf’s neck.

Molvayas burrows himself there, unmoving, letting the flying elf’s frantic muscles massage its cloven dome. The pressure is lighter than what he relishes, yet tantalising enough to indulge in it a bit longer, until he feels the winged elf exhaust his reserves of air. The dark elf brusquely retreats at once. Warm saliva connects their bodies in a thick, gooey strand that hangs from the dark elf’s fraenulum jewellery to Auviron’s tremulous lips. They slack as if the fleshy length had carved a permanent chasm between them.

Auviron gags and drools on his own face. Wet sounds of desperation, not muffled enough to escape the dark elf’s notice, lurch through his stretched lips as his amber eyes water. Agonising tears stream down his purpled face. The mixture of fluids mattes the feathers in his hair yet again.

When Auviron thinks he has reached the point at which he cannot bring himself to endure any more, Molvayas kneels up. The dark elf leans forwards to rest his hands on Auviron’s chiselled thighs, so as to put the whole of his brawny haunches into his thrusts.

Auviron’s mind races to find the words to a heart-rending plea for respite and compassion. His mouth has not recovered enough for his unspoken prayers, let alone for the renewed, pointed assault that awaits him. The dark elf is already aligning his hips with it, leaving the winged elf’s eyes to sting in feeble protest before his throat is captured again.

Molvayas pulls back, just to immediately stab down in Auviron’s mouth. The jewels pinned under his cock scratch the roof of it. His sack smacks the winged elf between the eyes repeatedly as he regains that tender spot that makes his organ visible through the wiry, swollen neck. Hips pause at every downward thrust to grind deep before reprising their relentless rhythm.

The dark elf keeps thrusting, the metallic sound of his platelets scraping against the winged elf’s teeth rivalling his gagging, wet and gravelly at the same time. Molvayas relishes in the twitching muscles of the smothered cavity, the look of it bliss, the feel of it even more so. His hand goes to Auviron’s neck, fingers brushing, then curling around it in a hold. He thumbs the slide of his own cock, so sunk inside, while he enjoys the slick velvet of his captive’s seizing throat.

Not many are capable of taking the demanding dark elf how he relishes. Those few who could are nothing but cherished dreams from the past. It is a thing of true beauty to have a plaything resilient enough to endure the potentially fatal claiming. Glorious, to twist and break the proud and disdainful winged warrior, to feel his whole body surrender and supplicate even when his voice is prevented from it.

Molvayas’ half-lidded eyes keep returning to that dense shadow, the heft that warps the winged elf’s neck. He hums approvingly at the sight, thumb squeezing harder to feel himself better. The wheezing audible under him reminds the dark elf that his ecstatic torture has a strict time limit.

This specimen is too alluring to waste at the first taking, before that pale, powerful body that bruises so wonderfully has been aptly subjugated to his capricious desires. Again, the dark elf reluctantly holds himself back, allowing Auviron just the hint of reprieve before putting his silky slick airways under siege again.

A dusky thumb frets at a glossy feather on Auviron’s groin, the finger distractedly toying with it, the dark elf barely aware of his own fussing. Pad and knuckle smoothen then fray it faster and faster as he cannot bear to run ahead of his pleasure to delay it and let it build even stronger.

Molvayas growls, long and low, Auviron’s throat muscles twitching around his cock for breath as it stills to swell and throb in turn. Pearly seed spurts in wild and vehement eruptions of glittery silver, soiling the violated throat at last, showering and coating it thickly. His rushed, energetic movements shift to sensuous as the dark elf chases that overstimulation that will have him wince and jolt back from excessive intensity, leave him no choice but to fall back.

The odious organ is lodged so far back in him that Auviron cannot even taste its fruit as he yet gags, face runny with sweat, spit and tears and ever purple from effort. Ephemeral grace that does not last. Some of the spilt seed trickles out as Molvayas finally retreats his dire length. He pushes his cock against Auviron’s tongue a few times to lave it of its spend, the salty taste and treacly feel unpleasant in the avian elf’s mouth. Nothing he can fight.

Hunger still rumbles in Molvayas’ depths in spite of it all. It stirs and pulses and wants and demands. Like it always does. It begs ever more inside of him, now that it’s been awoken. He spares the avian elf from more of it, leaving him to hoarsely pant and cough around the emptiness left, barely aware that he is free to corral as much air as his strained, burning lungs sorely need.

There will be time to quench it, Molvayas reassures himself as it still urges and stings from inside. Every day after today can be used to try until it is reduced to nothing more than a soft, alluring mewl from its ever-present roaring and rumbling. Although, surrounded by such yielding beauty… it is unlikely the unforgiving craving will ever abate.

Auviron’s voice is barely more than harsh suspirations. His ravished cavity aches searingly, even the panting he cannot repress too much to endure. Vision flickers in the daze. Mercy answers the avian elf, cruelly belated but here, now. He loses consciousness, velvet dark to embrace him after his role has been fulfilled. The only fading sensation that of insistent fingers stroking his feathers from quill to wingtip.

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stormcloudzz · 2 months

Text

HUNTER - OC Intro

General Info

Name: Hunter Age (Biological): 123 Age (Appearance): 26 Birthday: 13th November Gender: Transmasc Pronouns: He/Him Race: Avariel (elf) Class: Ranger Occupation: Village Guard Residence: Windsvale Orientation: Bisexual

ToyHouse: Hunter on Toyhouse Playlist: Spotify Moodboard: Pinterest Source Media: DnD

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Hunter is my first DnD character that I have created for an on-going campaign I am playing in with a group of friends. He is an Avariel Ranger who has a golden scar on his left wing, near the base. He speaks his mind, although is relatively quiet. Especially compared to some of the other party members he is traveling with.

Hunter grew up in a village that resided in the mountains. It was tough terrain, but the avariels that lived in the village dealt with it well as their wings allowed them to navigate the landscape with ease. The village was very community driven and everyone knew everyone else within the village. It was a kind community where it could be said that the village as a whole helped to raise the children, not just the parents. Hunter was never as social as the other avariels his age, preferring to play by himself as a child, and later growing up to prefer taking solo shifts when he joined the village guard. He tried to get better at socializing as he grew up, but from a young age he found it hard to connect with his peers and often stuck to himself most of the time, but had made one very close friendship with another child his age called Mika and the two quickly grew inseparable.

As he aged and grew up into a young adult, he had become a bit more social and had made a few more friends within his village, but was still pretty quiet and often needed time alone to recharge his social battery. One day, a new Avariel had come to the village and was welcomed in by the community as they chose to settle down and live there. He was soon approached by the newcomer and they introduced themself to him as Eldrin, and they soon began flirting with him and asked him out on a date. Hunter, although reluctant at first from being shy and not used to this type of attention, agreed to try it out and go on a date. One date turned into several more until they officially became partners, and Hunter was very happy. However -over time- Eldrin become a lot more critical towards Hunter, putting him down and slowly becoming more and more abusive towards him. In hindsight, Hunter knew this was wrong, but figured he was just as bad as he would argue back with Eldrin, causing the two to fight often. Despite this, Hunter and Eldrin stayed in this toxic relationship for a while, with Eldrin being nice again after every fight,making Hunter feel guilty for secretly wanting to break up with them.

It was almost three years later when a large green dragon attacked the village one day, the dragon eating as Avariels it could find as the guard force tried to fend it off. But with just a small village's worth of supplies against a huge, hungry dragon, it was no use and soldiers were picked off one by one. One such victim was Hunter's father, Caleb, who was fatally injured and dying as Hunter rushed over to his fathers side. With his dying breath, Caleb gave his bow to Hunter, which was a family heirloom, and begged Hunter to escape the village and stay alive. Hunter's mother, Ester, soon found them and tried healing her husband but it was too late as Caleb died, leaving Hunter and Ester to grieve together. Their grieving was cut short as the dragon soon caught sight of the vulnerable family and lurched to eat the three of them, when Ester shoved Hunter out of the way of the attack out of instinct to protect her son, leaving Hunter to stare in horror as his mother and father were eaten by the dragon.

Just after that, Eldrin appeared behind him, taunting him as they revealed this was their plan the whole time. Hunter then moved to attack Eldrin, overcome with anger as he learnt they were responsible for this the whole time. The two fought and although they were normally evenly matched in strange, the strain Hunter wasunder, physically and mentally, took its toll on him as he soon become worn out, allowing for Eldrin to take advantage of that weakness, pinning him to the ground and hacking off his left wing with their dagger to stop him from messing with their plans any longer. Hunter had managed to gather enough strength to kick Eldrin off of him, but it was too late as his wing was completely torn off from the force of it as his wing had only been hanging on by a thread at that point. Hunter almost immediately passed out from the blood loss and pain, leaving Eldrin to assume he'd probably die and they took off with the green dragon after it had finished its rampage throughout Windsvale. Briefly becoming conscious again, Hunter was helpless to watch as Eldrin and the dragon flew off in the distance, presumably moving on to their next victim. After that, he had just about managed to get up and stagger his way from the ruins of his village, looking for anything he could to stop the bleeding, before he passed out again on the floor of his parents house, falling into a numb and dreamless sleep.

After that horrific day, Hunter set out to try and do anything he could to track down Eldrins location and kill them and that green dragon to make them pay for what they had done. He lived with the assumption that everyone from his village, including his childhood best friend Mika, was dead and wanted to get justice for them all. After just over a year of traveling alone, he became lost in a forest as he was more used to traveling through mountains. He eventually came across a kinda Witch Doctor Centaur who let him stay for a day to gather his strength before continuing on his journey. Perhaps it was the way the centaur worked with the magic ofnature and tended to her garden, but Hunter couldn't help but liken her to his mother, and he found himself opening up to her quickly. After telling her want had happened to his wing and how it felt painful not being able to fly free in the sky, she took him down to her basement where she for some reason had a lot of preserved body parts from all kinds of races. Arms, legs, wings, horns, tails. Almost everything. One any other normal day, Hunter would have perhaps seen the glaring red flags with all of this and left. But today, after being exhausted for months, desperate to be able to fly again and probably not being in the right frame of mind- he agreed to let her heal his wing with her magic, attaching another black wing in place of his severed wing. He was suddenly able to fly again and he couldn't be happier as he gratefully thanked the Witch Doctor for helping him.

Almost another year passed after this and Hunter was still searching for Eldrin, having not come across any leaders for a while, he soon came across a small village and crossed paths with several other adventurers, each on their own personal mission just like he was. Soon, the five of them joined up together, slowly growing closer together as they traveled and went on adventures, trying to help each other get to their own goals. Who knows. Maybe they'd be able to do things together they couldn't have dreamt of doing alone.

Art

Last image was made by @wizard-nishkii

#dnd #oc #ranger #avariel #dnd character #dnd ranger #hunter

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