asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

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assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

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... can be really bad for assassins' brains. No kidding.
Prompt is here: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=4365816#t4365816

Long story short: Altair is 'trolling' around at the bureau and knocks Malik's incense pot. And he had to go and buy some more. Of course, he manages to mess up and end up buying some highly aphrodisiac incense instead. (Which none of them realize at first...) And topping Altair was a plus...

I said I was on it like a month ago, and I apologize for the delay. I hope you anons will like it still.

...

Malik huffed for the umpteenth time of the afternoon, watching Altair lounge in the Bureau. It was annoying enough that the assassin had to work in 'his' city, but he had to stay here as long as he could, right? Meaning, as long as Malik doesn't threaten to manhandle him out of the Bureau. And Altair himself knew better than to tempt Malik into throwing knives at him – the man was a master at aiming after all.

However, such considerations never quite entered the ex-Master Assassin's mind as he got up and made it to the desk, as if to say something. But he kept silent and his only presence made Malik want to slam his head into the wood – either Altair's or his own, at this point he did not even care. The dai really hated to have someone peering at him when he was working. Actually, the only thing he hated more was Altair tipping his incense pot over...

“If you have nothing better to do, I suggest you leave. As far as I know, there are no templars here.” A polite way to tell him to get the hell out of here. Or not so polite. But he did not need to be polite or anything – it was Altair, after all.

A sigh – and a dull thud. Ashes on his map, catching in the still-wet ink. He could hear the assassin smile, even though he did not say anything. It was too much. Slamming his hand on the desk, Malik threw just about every curse he knew at his 'brother's head, until it sounded like a sandstorm. Undistinguishable but still scary. And that alone made Altair stop dead in his track. Part of Malik smirked inwardly at the unguarded flinch in the assassin's posture, making it clear that he expected something to be hurled at him. In search of incense, he found none – and then, he felt like he should make Altair pay – not only the map was ruined but he had no more incense. Sometimes, Malik wondered if the man did not follow courses about 'how to infuriate a dai in 10- minutes' – knowing him, it must be an innate quality.

“Altair... come back here, please.”

Malik rarely asked anything, let alone said please but it was all the more why Altair turned around and slowly stepped toward the fuming dai. Maybe tipping the incense pot one more time was a mistake? Oh well...

“Since you haven't started your investigations, I have something for you: go to the market. You can find informations but... I will have you buying me incense. Sandalwood and Benzoin, if you can recognize them. Otherwise just ask – if they don't have any, just come back, and I will deal with it later.” Just as Altair nodded and went to the door, the dai called after him: I'll reconsider kicking your sorry ass into next week if you come back before the next round of the guards.” And with just this, he sent the eagle out. It was actually of telling him to be wary of the guards. He did not need to have to tend to Altair's wounds before his mission started.

It was only when he was out that Altair noticed that Malik did not supply him with the money to pay. Meaning he will have to pay for the incense himself. As he bemoaned his fate, he scanned his surroundings, carefully getting down the roof. No need getting spotted and hunted down because he simply used the roof to get to the market. Thanks Allah that he remembered where the market was. It was all too easy, no one actually caring about him – despite all that Malik seemed to think he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and to go about unnoticed in the streets. However, the stealth was not everything and when he finally got to the stall with the incense seller, his memory chose to betray him.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Huh...” He was at a loss about what to do – he did not recall the name and thus tried to trust his nose. After a while, he thought he got it right and was glad he managed to find anyway, though when the man named his prize, he could not help but cringe. No wonder Malik was such a money pincher at times, nagging about uniforms and all. Those things were damn expensive! Slouching in discontentment at having been played, he went back to the Bureau, not even in the mood to try to listen to conversations. Not that anything was interesting to him anyway – he should be in Damascus running after Jubair but he could not help dropping in Jerusalem. And he was fairly certain that Malik knew it perfectly well. What was strange was that the dai did not even say a thing about him being here rather than in Damascus. Or maybe he sent a message to Al Mualim and he will get an earfull when coming back to Masyaf. Anything was possible where Malik was concerned after all.

Once near the Bureau, he silently climbed the ladder, letting himself fall through the opening. He had avoided all the guards and while he really wanted to rub it in, he did not say a word when approaching Malik. He was still working on a map but the light was starting to fade and Altair had to bite his tongue not to make a snide remark about rafiqs ruining their eyes for nothing. Instead, he laid on the desk his purchase,

Malik only cast him a sideway glance, nodding ever so slightly upon recognizing the sandalwood. Indeed, Altair's nose rarely fooled him. He let the assassin prepare the incense and place it carefully on the burner. Unbeknownst to him, he kept an eye on him, silently noticing the strange grace of Altair's movement as he slowly put just the right amount of incense in the cup. It should have been a surprise but Malik could not but surmise that Altair must have observed him doing this countless times by now. Actually, it had always been something he did – burning incense. It soothed him and helped him concentrate. The content varied but for the sandalwood, a scent he found to be light enough not to make him want to air out the place every hour – as frankincense would do. When the fragrances started to rise, he failed to recognize that which underlined the sandalwood, though it was far from being unpleasant. Actually, it would even raise his spirits.

As it would be inhospitable not to feed a fellow assassin – even who was not supposed to be in Jerusalem at the moment – Malik let Altair eat with him, though in silence. The night was still warm, though not as stifling as it would get in a few months. In fact, it was rather pleasant – and the smoke from the incense kept the insects at bay, something for which Altair was grateful. He abhorred mosquitoes just about as much as Templars must hate their hidden blades – sneaky, not quite silent and relentless things they were.
Malik then retired to sleep, leaving Altair to make himself a nest out of the pillows sitting in the corner of the outer part of the Bureau. The moon was but a thin crescent and shed barely enough light for him to go about without falling right on his face. But the comfort of the pillows was well-worth it. After a few minutes, sleep's arms wrapped around him, making him sigh in contentment at being safe and well-fed.

It was not before the middle of night or so that sleep began to shift around him. Something was off – as if the night was suddenly growing hotter. As he jerked awake, Altair scanned the darkness around him. The external temperature could not even be that high... at the back of his mind, he could feel the tendrils of something he saw in his sleep but could not remember. Propped against the wall behind him, he tried to figure out what this feeling was when a sound caught his attention. It was very faint, muffled, but he still heard it. It made him spur into action, momentarily forgetting about the fact that he was walking on a heap of pillows and carpets, which made him stumble forward. Regaining his composure, he crept toward the Bureau – the sounds were growing louder but something else caught his attention. The incense was still burning – he did not really smell it from outside but now it was really overpowering. Maybe it was the smell that seemed to make Malik uneasy? Deciding that his own skin was less important than checking on the dai, Altair peered into the room where Malik stayed. Well, stayed was not the right word. The normally dignified and stoic dai was tangled in his covers – for where he stood, Altair could make out sweat forming on his 'friend's' forehead in what looked like a very strained sleep. Actually, Altair's one internal temperature rose to an entirely new level when he understood what it was that make Malik this restless. The shallow, erratic breathing, arm wrapped around himself, in a protective way or as if to hold someone – and those pants escaping his lips. It made Altair froze on the spot, unsure as to what to do with this. When they were younger, sure, there had been those moments – but they were grown men and he was not certain that the dai would appreciate such a breach of his privacy.

Again, Altair was not the best assassin for nothing – precisely, it was because he managed to use his adversaries weaknesses that he was this efficient. Though not an enemy, Malik deserved a payback for the incense he had to pay. He suddenly stopped, unaware that he had stepped forward until he was within reach of the trashing dai – normally, he would not have thought about it and would have gone his own way, only to tease Malik about his having interesting ways of spending his nights in the morning. Instead, he stared down at the man – his brows furrowed, eyes squeezed shut and body apparently uncontrollable. Indeed, he was helpless – and Altair thought it would be perfect for him to use. He knelt next to Malik, only to nearly jump out of his skin when the man caught his arm, eyes suddenly opening, unfocused. After a few seconds only did Malik seem to regain his own senses, staring at Altair. They were so close that the assassin could catch a glimpse of his eyes – not pitch black as some would have it, but instead a very dark brown, which he knew to look lighter when staring at the sun. Old memories slammed into him like a mad horse – the scent that was uniquely his, the feeling of his skin... He found himself staring at him, his shirt and breeches suddenly quite uncomfortable, chaffing and coarse.

“What are you doing?” It was not a real question, since Malik himself was not sure he wanted to know the answer – he felt like he was literally burning, his whole body shaking from exertion. The sheets only added to his uneasiness, the still and almost hot night air refusing to settle in his lungs. His vision was hazy, as if he had just put his head underwater – sweat?

“I...” Altair's voice trailed off, unable to answer. What was he doing here indeed? Checking on him – that was the normal and acceptable answer. And though he would normally just shrug off the question and leave, he found himself rooted on the spot. He knelt next to Malik, unsure as to why he did – but as soon as his knees hit the ground, he felt light-headed, to the point that he had to grab onto the side of the bed not to fall. It was bad – and that stupid temperature that was still rising. He swallowed heavily, his throat dry – eyes catching Malik's.

It should not happen – here he was, staring at Malik as he remembered doing when they were but novices. Old times long since gone. And still present – and he wondered – did he change this much? His chest was distinctly rising and falling, skin gliding over taut muscles – when did the dai get this attractive? His mind suddenly shut down, leaving him staring at the man with his face inches from his own. This was bad – he could feel the heat radiating from Malik, his breath almost scalding his lips. He could smell something in the air, without being able to place it. And he was utterly unaware of the effect his proximity had on the rafiq. That is, until a pair of lips crashed against his own, awkwardly at first, then in a more domineering way. Taken aback, he could not help opening his mouth – apparently in protest. Maybe he should not have because his friend took it as an invitation. While Altair's mind was flailing and swearing to whatever God there must be that it was utter madness and that he had no part in it, he found himself leaning into the kiss. Leaning so much that when he managed to catch his breath again, he was hovering above Malik. And the smouldering look the man sent him went straight south, not even consulting HIM! Now, that was awkward... and Malik looked so out of it that Altair was at a loss – should he shake the rafiq until he came to? Reaching for Malik's shoulder to do just that, he almost yelped when an arm shot upward to wind around him neck, bringing him downward. A whisper, hot against his face – almost like a whimper, if he did not know Malik so well. But maybe it was – memories of teenage experiments flooded his mind, blurring and blending into his face. He had to brace himself not to crush Malik, right knee digging into the mattress for support. Perhaps it was a terrible move when he felt the dai nothing short of grinding against said leg, his back arching from the mattress. He looked so lost that Altair's mind flew out of the window. The consequences, he knew, would be dire. But he would be a liar if he denied this burning sensation that invaded his every cells. Crushing Malik's lips with his, he rocked against him – fabrics coarse, almost painful.

It was intoxicating, worst than anything he could have tasted in his life, that much was certain. Through his foggy vision, all Malik could see were the piercing eyes of a bird of prey. He knew whom those eyes belonged to and he cringed at the thought of having Altair seeing him like this. He could not explain it – not why he needed, yes, needed, to bring Altair to him and not letting go. Malik felt as if he was drowning and the only thing he could cling to was the assassin – and when the man kissed him again, he did not even try to repress the groan that escaped him. It was hunger, a greedy desire that made him yearn for the man, despite all that they have gone through and the rancour – past the bitter words – back to the days when they were younger. Back then, it was a thrilling new experience – part of him knew something was wrong with this whole situation. The tug on his hair made him look up, vision slowly clearing into seeing the man towering over him. But that was not what he wanted. He wanted Altair all to himself, he wanted him so badly that if the man kept on staring at him without moving, he was going to go ballistic. Apparently, the message passed between them because Altair went back to plunder his mouth, leaving him breathless. Lips inches from his own, lick the lighter scar, wondering where this came from once more. Hands running over his sides, pulling his shirt up – uncovering tanned, scarred skin. Normally, he would cower from anyone's gaze but not now – because Altair knew most of those scars, he had helped him bandaging them. Those fingers left embers in their wake, making him shiver under his touch. It was almost gentle, something that Malik would never associate with his friend – Altair was not tender to anyone. Whispers forming against the moist air, like a plea – stop playing, bastard.

Altair could not but get the idea, though he could barely hear Malik's voice – when did his heart start to beat this loudly? He got rid off of his remaining clothes – after all, they both knew that it was the logical step to take, though logic apparently deserted them. He latched his mouth to Malik's neck, tasting, licking and biting, teeth marking the flesh. A hand on his head, as if trying to break his skull – pulling him closer. He let his hands roam, gripping the dai's hips – all his weight forcing Malik down. Chest to chest, he slid down Malik's body, smirking on his skin – the man would have hit him and forced him out normally – he did not. The feeling of this scalding body under him made his sanity flee, leaving bared to those primal desires he thought were buried. But they were killers – instincts were never too far. “Malik...” His tone surprised him, sultry against Malik's chest – lips catching a nipple, teeth biting mercilessly to force a response from the man. A strangled protest answered him, encouraging him further. His arm sneaked around Malik's waist, so he could have access to his back – the large scar left by an old sword blow. Altair never let go off Malik as he went about, tracing every single scar he found with his lips and tongue, until the other man writhed in his arms. It was not until a hand caught his throat that he looked up. And felt his mouth go dry under Malik's stormy stare – he knew that look. And he knew that if he valued his life, he should do something instead of teasing the dai of Jerusalem. No matter how enticing it was. His erection was painfully brought back to his attention as he involuntarily bumped into Malik, sending jolts of electricity down both their bodies. As he caught his breath, he noticed his friend's looking at the small table nearby – and something that suspiciously look like a vial of something. Now was not the time to question Malik but he stored it at the back of his mind, just in case. Rolling – falling – from the bed, he zeroed in on said vial and would have run back if it weren't for the whole situation.

“Altair... if you don't do something now... I swear... I'll make you pay!” The threat would have been much more effective hadn't he been struggling to catch his breath. He wanted to scream when Altair came back to him, wearing that infuriating knowing smile of his. And he recalled why Altair rarely ever did so – his smile would send anyone looking running for cover.
“So... where was I?”

“Nowhere, that's the problem, idiot novice!” Allah, he still had the breath to argue... his mind cleared for a moment, startling him – as if a veil was lifted from his senses, before a painful heat washed against him. Like a dream his body was trying to reject. The feeling was not unknown but he could not place it. A cold hand on his burning flesh halted his thoughts for good as a groan tore its way from his throat. Reflexively, his wrist was brought to his mouth and he bit down, hard. From the pain, he knew there will be blood but he did not care. His whole body did not answer his mind anymore, trembling under those rough hands that played him like an instrument. No one ever dared to touch him like this – only one master assassin was reckless enough to send all consequences to the hell they belong to. He was secretly grateful for this – this opportunity to finally let himself go. Never mind if it was Altair, never mind he was supposed to want to throttle the man. Those devilish hands kept on moving down his body, strong, relentless – it was maddening. A feather-like touch on his straining flesh had him arching his whole body upward, teeth gnashing his wrist, tearing at the skin. His eyes were scrunched shut but he still could hear the smirk playing on Altair's lips. Pressure on his arm made him look up, blinking under the smouldering stare of the master assassin towering over him. Noticing his gesture, he let go of his wrist, not even caring about the dark purplish indentations his teeth made – it may not have been wise as Altair took this opportunity to invade his mouth, while his hands momentarily moved from his body.

(I'm sorry, fill 5 got in twice - I have to fight with LJ to post this... sorry about that)

-

Malik was not an idiot and such unsubtle diversion did not work on him – but he had to wonder – why was Altair being sneaky? He knew what was to come next, and he was prepared for it. He barely heard his name, carried by a husky whisper in the suffocating air encircling them. The urge to scream at Altair to do something died when a sharp, white hot pain shot through his body, splitting him in two. And scream he did, though not exactly in the way he wanted to. He was lying, he was not prepared – and his body instantly reacted in jerking away from the source of his pain. The strong grip holding his hip prevented him from going far though and he suddenly was aware of lips brushing against his ear. Like affection shown at the wrong moment.

“You would have hated me if I had prepared you, and you know it.” There was a hint of sarcasm in Altair's voice as he said that – as if he were savouring some well-timed revenge. Of course, he was careful to liberally apply the oily substance from the vial on his own erection, as to avoid needless pain for Malik. But he also knew it would be painful, and he had to pause. He was not heartless but his whole body was shaking from the restraint he put himself under. Littering kisses and bites along Malik's neck, he resisted the urge to tell him just how much he wanted to have him now and not waiting. Patience was not something the dai had in great quantity, and thus he decided to shut it. A large scar ran on his collarbone to the shoulder and he followed it, until he knew he was reaching some off-limit place. He knew Malik well enough to know that touching his amputated arm would have the dai go ballistic. But he was curious – wanted to ask him if it still hurt. It had to. He felt Malik's forbidding gaze on the side of his face and he would not be surprised if the dai suddenly showed red in his eagle vision. He preferred leaving it alone now, despite this nagging want to touch his scarred his skin – easing his pain – he knew it would aggravate Malik if he did. One glance at the dai told him his life depended on him making a move and he did. Slowly, almost carefully – so much he cringed at the feeling. If the room was previously hot, it was now stiffling, his breathing catching his lungs, racking his throat. He knew he was hurting Malik, he felt his hipbones under his fingers, he saw him clenching his jaw, trying to ward off the pain – without a word. But it was not what he wanted. Bending, he licked his partn- lover's... lips, coaxing him into letting go. His eyes widened when a pair of scalding lips crashing against his, a tonguer sneaking in and dominating him. He did not mind – he fought back, because he could not bear the notion of being passive. The earlier near-mistake with Malik's arm seemed forgotten as the fiend started to suck on his tongue. Something pulled at his bloodstream, drawing him to Malik helplessly, only to be cut off when teeth mercilessly bit down. A sharp whimper escaped him as he could not keep his hips from snapping forward, forcing his way deeper within the apparently willing body of the dai. It was too much at once, the both of them panting at the sudden move. Altair's heart was beating wildly and it was as if Malik's was mirroring it. He wanted to apologize, but could not speak, the words locked in his throat, lost against the heavy breath of the assassin. A hand caught the back of his head, keeping him there – a silent way of telling him not to move. Or was it?

There was nothing Malik hated more than being treated like a fragile being. No matter the pain that momentarily racked his spine, as if his bones suddenly started to melt, he did not want Altair to stop now. His fingers clawed at the nape of the assassin's neck – a vulnerable spot for them all – and to feel Altair froze was rewarding in itself. But the man still did not move – it was unbearable, if he did not do something soon, he will just suffocate. The pain made his breath shallow and erratic but it was nothing he could not handle. He wanted it – wanted him – more than he ever did. His fingers racked through Altair's short hair, slithering between their two bodies to move across his strong back. He could feel the some scars criss-crossing the tense muscles he found – nails biting into the skin, back arching as much as he could to get Altair to move. And it worked, the heavy weight of his lover seemingly leaving him, as if to allow him to breath more freely, only to slam back into him. It was almost enough to send his head reeling backward, a breathless sound breaking through his barriers when he could hear it again. The eagle was losing it – it made him smile, to think that finally Altair was letting go. He had no idea why it pleased him so, but the feeling of this strong man holding him, filling him, had something to do with it. It was maddening – no one had ever gotten this close to him – even less after the temple's débâcle. The pain still cut through him but it was starting to fade with each thrust, pleasure building up – his free hand leaving marks, gliding on the sweat-covered skin. A hand had sneaked around his waist, as if to hold him closer, forcing more of his weight on his shoulders – lips kissing and caressing his chest and neck – devouring him. He was not used to this – to be preyed upon – but here he was, ensnared by a predator he knew too well. He would be lying, he needed this – this pain, the almost violent embrace – the only way he could feel alive. Fingers brushing against his lips – catching them, on a whim – sucking and licking, only to relish in the sounds this drew from the assassin. Scorching heat against his skin – the drowning sensation that had him clutching to Altair for dear life as he met each thrust with one of his own, as if his own body refused to let the man take over. It was useless, but he would be damned if he did not love that feeling. It was not enough – those fingers were not enough – it was not forceful enough. He wrenched his head on the side, forcing Altair to look at him. A smile crept on his features as he used his full weight to make them roll on the mattress, barely avoiding a rough fall on the ground. There was a bit of unhealthy victory in his stance, he knew it – to have the eagle lying under him on that bed. Until said man decided to sit, his arms preventing him from falling backward, only to draw him in a bruising kiss. Their teeth met and he could taste blood when he bit down once more. He knew Altair did not mind it – in fact, welcomed it. From his current position, Malik could get more – more of this man he craved, more of his touch – just more.

It was something Altair had often wished to see – to have the usually dignified and gruff dai of Jerusalem – in his lap, impaling himself on his hardened body, his eyes fluttering shut one moment before they crucify him once more to the spot. He never expected Malik to wait for him to do all the work – in fact, he would not have wanted it any other way. His fingers could run on the strong back of the once-assassin, mapping those planes and hollows, digging were bones met muscles, down his spine. Smiling inwardly, he clutched the dai's buttocks, which he knew was the thing to do to aggravate Malik. And an infuriated Malik was just what he wanted. He could feel those strong legs tense at his sides, forcing the dai's body upward, only to have him fall back onto him. The sensation had him crying out – forget it, angered Malik made for an evil Malik. A man who was now trying to literally plunder his mouth – and succeeding. The eagle let him adjust and find a better angle, before he took over and set their pace.

He would never say it but it was intoxicating, the feel of this body closing around him choked him, the taste of his skin and mouth – all that was so particular to Malik – it was a drug. More powerful than renowned Persian saffron. His hands slipped on the damp skin, caressing the dai as if he wanted to imprint his image in his mind forever. Oh, he was close – it had been way too long. With a deft hand, he stroked the weeping erection of the man who was now drawing him into his hellish furnace of a body – a jerk, a stop – and something akin to an angered glare. As if daring him to actually go on – which he dared. Their mouths met again, neither yielding whatever advantage they had, if they were fighting, each doing their very best to make the other cry out. His strokes matched the now fast pace Malik had set, though he was sometimes barely touching him, forcing the dai to press himself against him. He could feel sweat coursing down his back, Malik's hand clutching his shoulder for leverage – which forced him to crane his neck not to break the kiss. The boiling desire that had been coiling constantly in his lower body was slowly starting to break free, sizzling his nerves and veins in a rush that made him question his own resistance. And still Malik was kissing him, dominating his mouth just as he let Altair control his every move. Who was using who was a question without answer at this point. Fingers coiled against the dai's flesh, making him let his head fall to the side with a feral growl. An hungry sound was heard from Altair at the sight – relief at not being the only one. His fingers tightened, inarticulate sounds pouring from Malik's mouth – some of which he suspected to be profanities. Altair lost it, rising to meet Malik, moans wrenched from their throats before being muffled by another searing kiss. I want to see you lost... king of swords...

It was as if Malik heard him, a sharp cry echoing as bliss washed over him – he knew more than felt his back arching backward, his head snapping as well – he knew because a mouth caught the joint of his neck. His whole body tensed, as if he was going to lunge, before all the pent up force was unleashed – breathtaking moment where he was absolutely free, without any attach – only the eagle's name to be heard. A choked sound followed, said eagle meeting his own demise, the overpowering wave of restrained lush breaking free as he felt Malik clamp on him. The coppery taste of blood invaded his mouth as his hands held the dai so close he could have broken his bones. He did not have time to process anything that happened, his orgasm having robbed him of his tendons, turning him into a boneless structure of flesh. Still, as he fell back, drawing his lover with him, he whispered his name – a late-call but he just found his voice back. Hoarse, throat chaffed by air and cries. Altair's mind was drifting off, barely noticing as Malik lazily moved to the side like a well-fed wildcat. He found himself stroking the back of the other man absent-mindedly. As his thoughts were darkening toward sleep, he let his hand creep toward Malik's stump, hesitant. He knew he was being watched but the lack of reaction made him grow bolder and he lightly touched the sensitive scar tissues. A wound that will never heal, a wound he himself inflicted to the only person he never wanted to hurt. Regrets were sterile, he knew it. But sometimes he wondered... how things would have been.
All the while, Malik was left wondering... how did it come to this? To him losing it completely? And how come the air suddenly felt much lighter? How did it even started? He barely remembered anything until Altair came to him. Well, now was not the time to ponder, he will do it tomorrow.

The day after, Altair woke up to an absolute silence, if not for the light scraping of quill on parchment. Looking around, he briefly wondered where he was – he was pretty certain the batch of pillows outside did not transform themselves into a proper room with a bed. Wait... bed? A quick glance around told him that he was indeed in Malik's room. And that he was as naked as a newborn babe. Something was wrong – then memories came rushing in.

Heat pooled in his face at the thoughts. Not that he really minded but... how? Wait... Malik was sick, he remembered – feverish and incoherent. He took his head in his hands, as if to draw the reason through his skull.

“I know you are awake.”

Meaning, I know you are awake so get your sorry ass over here. And something in Malik's tone had Altair fearing for his life. He remembered what happened but by now, all he could do was praying that Malik did not remember as well. Though when he stepped into the Bureau in his breeches and shirt, he knew for a fact that hope had no place in the room. He caught a fruit from the basket hidden behind the desk – Malik always had kept them here in case a passing assassin would need something before going back to work. The sharp glance sent his way had him stopping in his track and wait.

“Malik...?” Something was off with the man, it was plain to see but he did not know what.

“I told you sandalwood and benzoin.” Malik looked Altair over, making sure that he was being clear. “I, however, did not ask you to get amber on top of that.”

The question, though silent, was written all over Altair's face and Malik had to resist the urge to smile at his cluelessness – at least the fool did not do it on purpose.

“Amber, Altair, is known to be a mix of different elements, Benzoin among them. It is also known to be a powerful aphrodisiac to be used in small quantities.”

At this, the master assassin wanted to run and hide away to Acre. So not only he messed up the incenses but he used a fairly large amount of the stuff. That was bad. And worse yet, Malik had not made a single move to kill him. How could Malik keep a straight face about it when he was positively panicking?

“Malik... I...”

“You are?”

That was bad, when he was stared at like this. Despite what people said back in Masyaf, he knew better – out of the two of them, Malik was the most terrifying when he was staring down at people with that murderous aura. “I'm sorry... I didn't mean for any of this to happen.”

“And how do I know that you did not indeed? I would be more inclined to think you did it on purpose – even you can't be stupid enough to mistake amber for benzoin.” Malik already knew the answer to that. He certainly was not letting Altair off the hook so easily – he made a mistake and he was going to repay it in full. With interest. His back hurt – part of him would have wanted to stay in bed but that nagging feeling that he had been drugged would not leave him alone. However, Altair's expression showed him what he wanted to know: the assassin did not mean it to happen. As the man kept silent, staring at him with a frozen dread etched on his features, he decided to be magnanimous.

“I believe you... what do you remember?” Careful, I might reconsider letting you leave if your answer doesn't please me.

“I woke up around the middle of the night, I don't know why. The air felt weird... and I heard sounds, so I went to check on you.” And you looked like you had some really bad fever. “I remember I tried to ask what was with you but... it started to get fuzzy afterwards.”

“What do you remember?”

“Bits and pieces but nothing coherent.” He saw fury slowly brewing behind Malik's eyes and the snarky part of his mind finally woke up. “Look Malik, I think you remember too. Do you really want me to lay out for you all the embarrassing details?” I know you don't want me to.

“You're right, idiot novice. Let's not talk about it.”

“Malik?” He sweatdropped – whenever Malik dropped matters, it did not bide well for the rest. Not that he would have liked to talk about it with him. It was embarrassing, more than if they had been teenagers – they did not have the raging hormones to accuse anymore. And though his skin was still tingling faintly from the man's touch, he knew Malik was off-limit. It was a mistake.

“I am wondering though... was it all the incense's fault?”

“If you are trying to frame me, may I remind you you scolded me and told me not to treat you like some virgin?”

“I never said that!”

“Not with words.”

“Don't start playing on words, novice.”

“Start? You are the one accusing me! I am not the one who launched myself at you practically begging you to take me!”

“I didn't- WHAT?” Malik was partly shocked, though he faintly was aware of the fact that Altair was right. He remembered that time and though it was strange and looked as if he were out of his own body, he knew what the other man meant. He just was not going to acknowledge it.

“Look, there is an easy way to find out.”

“Oh, so you actually use your head? What, pray tell, is that brilliant idea of yours, little eagle?” Banter was easier to handle for Malik, though he had a hunch that he was not going to like it.

And he was right as Altair's face suddenly appeared way too close to his own. Before he had time to yell at the idiot to get the hell out of his personal space, lips pressed against his. He was frozen on the spot, not daring to move. A tongue darted to try and pry his mouth open but he kept his jaws resolutely shut.

With a last, slow swipe of his tongue, Altair sauntered away. Reaching the door, he briefly turned around to look triumphantly at the unmoving rafiq. “You can start and think about that, brother.” And with this, he ran to the exit, silently jumping to the roof. Time for clue hunting. Happy to finally have found a way to shut Malik up, Altair strutted down the streets of the Jerusalem like a big cat who got the cream. He knew he will be getting hell for this but he did not mind. Better fighting than being ignored.

--------

There it is... please, don't throw rocks at me - I finished it today at 4am... Yeah, I'm crazy... wuuub!!!

I only hope that I will do the terrible things justice when writing them!

Holy shit, writeanon, I need this. Like more than I need a caffiene fix.
Please write more tiny Ezio. ;-;

Take as long as you need to; this fill is fucking fantabulous and I don't care that isn't a word, I'm making it one.
My F5 key. It is breaking.

Please don't give up on this! :(

I hope you're still continuing this write anon!

This is soo awesome *____* Anon, please continue, I have never seen lady hawk movie and I'm very interested where this will go :D

Prompt: (forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=4156664#t4156664)
Prompt Summary: Teenaged Altair and Malik are transported into the future and see their post-game selves having sex.

A/N: A million hugs and kisses to my beta who is entirely responsible for making the fic coherent and fit to be seen in public. :’D

---

They had been sparring when the world suddenly turned over their heads in a dizzying sweep of colors and lights. At first, Altair thought he had switched to his second sight, stunned into the grey vision as Malik slammed into him, knocking the both of them to the ground. There was a sudden burst of gold unlike anything Altair had ever seen, vast and all-encompassing instead of the single silhouette he was used to—but when he blinked, there was only Malik on top of him, the flat of his palm tucked under Altair’s chin to force his head back. Had there been the hidden blade strapped to Malik’s wrist, Altair would have been dead.

“What was that?” Malik had asked, pulling his hand back. He glanced down at Altair, seemingly displeased that his victory was only because of the distraction that overtook them. Not waiting for an answer, he looked around, the frown on his face deepening.

Altair scowled, more bothered by the heavy weight straddling his chest. “Get off-“ but Malik was already doing so and he did not bother to offer Altair a hand up, which suited Altair just fine. He’d rather have Malik’s thoughts elsewhere than on the fact that the other novice had just won their sparring match, distraction or no.

“The trees,” Malik began, sounding unusually confused for a moment before he swatted Altair’s arm, snapping, “Look, Altair.”

Altair stood up, taking the time to brush the dust from his robes to annoy Malik further. He was making quite a show of it too, until he noticed the shadow of leaves that fell across his arm and the cool air that blew against his damp skin—strange, for he remembered the sun being unforgivably hot and bright while they fought. Looking up, he was surprised to see leafy, overhanging branches above him.

“Where are we?” he asked, bewildered. As far as he knew, they had not ventured outside the fighting ring, and even if they had, Altair was sure he would have at least remembered vaulting over the barricade to chase down Malik—and it would have been to chase Malik, who had been retreating before he had taken advantage of the strange golden flash to knock Altair to the ground.

“Idiot. We haven’t moved,” Malik said, but his hesitant tone suggested that he had been thinking the same thing. He turned, observing their surroundings with a fixed expression. “The trees have grown,” he muttered, putting a hand to his left temple to rub the spot viciously.

And it was true. Altair could recognize the courtyard easily enough—the layout, the buildings that surrounded it—but everything appeared to be just a little bit off. The trees, as Malik had pointed out, were still at the outer edge of the courtyard, but had suddenly grown to provide shade that reached all the way to the sparring ring. The area smelled of fresh hay and grass instead of rusting metal and sweat, and even the grey cobblestones beneath Altair’s feet felt different, softer, more worn and cleaner too, devoid of muddy boot prints and old bloodstains. It was strange, almost overwhelming, to see the whole place in a different light—and a much warmer one, though Altair was not going to admit it.

“Malik,” he said, annoyed, “What did you do?”

Malik whirled around, incredulous. “What did I do? I am flattered, Altair, that you think I am capable of such sorcery that would clean the entire courtyard and make the very trees grow bigger, and not to mention-”

Malik’s rising voice had drawn the attention of an Assassin, possibly one of the instructors, though Altair could not identify him through the hood and mask.

“What are you two doing out?” the man called as he approached them. He did not sound angry, and his good-natured tone struck an odd note of familiarity. “Students should be inside the library, studying. Latin, I believe.”

Beside him, Malik had gone quiet and still, but Altair stepped forward, meeting the stranger with a sharp gaze that made the instructor pause.

“We have permission to be out,” Altair said, only stopping when Malik murmured something under his breath that made him tense.

“Master Rauf, if you would be so kind as to humor me,” said the older man, overhearing. He stared at them with a puzzled look, but Malik had grabbed on to Altair’s arm and begun pulling him away as realization slowly dawned on them both.

“Apologies, master, we were just heading to the library,” Malik said, and they both hurried away, even as they looked over their shoulders to gawk at Rauf—who should have been shorter than either of them, with a higher-pitched voice, and certainly not wearing the robes of higher-ranking white.

But his eyes, Altair thought as he followed Malik up the curved stairs to the library, his eyes had not changed. They were still friendly and bright, and he absently wondered why Rauf had not gotten himself killed yet because of it.

The library’s tables were occupied with novices and teachers, most of them strangers to Altair, though there were a couple of faces that stirred the back of his mind. Malik did not say a word, though his steps faltered once when his gaze turned upwards for one quick moment, somewhere at the second floor where Al Mualim’s desk should be, before he pulled up his hood and continued walking. No one paid them any attention, but Altair did the same, smoothing the cowl over his head, grateful for the excuse to look around without seeming to. It was clear that Malik intended to go to the garden sanctuary, one of the few areas within the busy fortress that hardly anyone frequented. Why he wanted to go there was beyond Altair—they would certainly find no help within the bushes and weeds—but Malik’s hand was tight around his arm, threatening to drag him like an unruly child if he did not keep up.

He was panicking, Altair realized, in his own silent way, and it was only because Altair himself was so unsettled that he allowed Malik to pull him to the gardens.

They stumbled across the grassy field and Malik veered off the main path, into a junction where a corner of the fortress met with the cliff’s edge, hidden from view and hard to find even without the wild tangle of leaves and vines that crept up the stone wall. This, Malik regarded with irritation, wrinkling his nose at the thick smell of jasmine. He let go of Altair’s arm and sat down, lips moving without a sound, but Altair heard the Creed nevertheless: nothing is true, everything is permitted. Everything is permitted.

“Why are we here?” Altair asked, recognizing the spot as one of Malik’s haunts, though without the overgrowth of jasmine the last time he came. He had discovered it some time ago, just as Malik had discovered his secluded awning on top of one of Masyaf’s towers, both secret and treasured places to be alone in peace. He wondered then if his awning had fallen into ruin like Malik’s hideaway, filled with dust or broken wooden planks and nothing to be remembered by in the years to come.

“Because I need to think,” Malik hissed, livid for no reason Altair could see, except that, somehow, they had ended up in the near future, which Altair thought would be less angering and more mystifying—and that was especially telling, given his equally volatile temper.

He knelt down, not caring if he was disturbing Malik—and what was there to think, anyway, in this situation?—and prodded his shoulder. “I saw you looking at something in the library. What was it?”

It was like he had a talent for exposing the sources of Malik’s fury—even those that were not of his own doing. Malik stiffened, even going so far as to grab onto his left shoulder where Altair had touched him, mouth curled into a bitter smile.

“Back there, I thought saw myself,” Malik said, “but I do not think it was me.”

“Really?” Altair prompted when Malik fell silent. “And what are you so furious about? Robes still grey?”

“Black,” Malik replied flatly, giving Altair a rough shove out of habit. He did not elaborate or gloat, but glanced at Altair, brow furrowed as if looking for something that he had little hope was there to begin with. “And I thought I saw you, too, but I have my doubts.”

“Disappointed I’d still be alive?” Altair asked, though he was more interested in his future-self than Malik’s opinion. “What color were my robes?”

Malik remained tightlipped before dropping the hand from his shoulder to curl it upon the grass. He opened his mouth, half a syllable already formed when a laugh sounded behind them, followed by a pair of hushed voices.

They exchanged a glance, eyes darting to the jasmine bushes, and in an unspoken agreement, scrambled behind the thicket, pushing the vines and leaves so that they draped over them like a green and white-speckled blanket. Altair couldn’t explain the need to hide like this, or their unwillingness to be discovered when hardly anyone could blame them (or even believe them). All he knew was that they weren’t supposed to be here—in this spot, in this time—and maybe Malik felt the same way, closing his hand around Altair’s wrist once more to pull him further back.

As the voices grew louder, Altair saw the flutter of black fabric, lined with red and a white-patterned design at the feet, a Grandmaster’s robe. His thoughts went to Al Mualim, assuming that their master was conversing with another dai, but as the two figures came into view, slightly obscured behind the white petals of flowers, Altair saw that it was not Al Mualim at all. This Grandmaster was far too young, with calloused hands that were not yet withered with age and a strong gait that was too restless to mirror Al Mualim’s own stately footsteps. The dai with him was also strange, if only for the familiar way he walked and gestured, playfully shoving the Grandmaster with one hand, while the other-

-well, there was no other hand, but the dai was leaning in close to the Grandmaster, saying something that did not reach Altair’s ears, but made the Grandmaster duck his head, the hood of his robe hiding his expression.

The grip on Altair’s wrist tightened, almost painfully, and he heard the absence of Malik’s breath, could feel the other freeze up so that not even the tiniest rustle sounded between them. Altair risked pulling his arm back, and noticed how Malik seemed entranced by the scene taking place before them. Light filtered in through the leaves and he saw the anger surface in Malik’s eyes again; trailing behind it was a flicker of disappointment. Slowly, his fingers uncurled from Altair’s wrist and went to clutch at his left forearm, drawing the grey sleeve in a tight bind.

The dai laughed again, more like a scoff than a chuckle, and Altair abruptly understood, because it was that wry laugh he was so accustomed to, even before the Grandmaster took hold of the dai’s shoulders and said, “Malik,” in a growl that sent a chill down Altair’s spine— that was his voice, low and dangerous and full of command.

Despite everything, a surge of pride washed over Altair, making him giddy and unable to suppress his grin. It was him wearing the Grandmaster’s robes, tall and fitting, him grabbing onto the older Malik’s arm without a word of protest from the dai, who only looked at the Grandmaster with something that might have been respect, not like the Malik Altair knew now, with all his exasperated retorts and smacks to the head.

The future was a good one, he concluded smugly, even though Malik would somehow lose his left arm; at least he would become a dai, and Altair would become Grandmaster.

As if reading his thoughts, Malik reached over and flicked his ear without looking. Altair bit down a curse, clapping his hand over his stinging ear before mouthing, ‘what?’

Malik ignored him, still watching as the Grandmaster and dai continued to talk. Their heads angled in certain ways that were puzzling, right up until the dai fisted the front of the Grandmaster’s robes to yank him close, pressing their lips together with a grin.

Altair’s mouth fell open at precisely the same time his older counterpart’s did, though for an entirely different reason. He could feel his face heat up, embarrassed and confused, unwilling to turn to Malik to check if they were both seeing the same thing. A part of his mind refused to acknowledge it, the way he leaned into the kiss, pushing forward like he could not get enough of the dai’s mouth. Altair could see it, the flash of teeth and tongue, and how it almost gave distraction from the hands that left the dai’s shoulders to brace against the stone wall, both arms trapping the other man, though trapping may have been the wrong word to use. Altair had the feeling that it was the Grandmaster who was trapped instead, sliding slowly to the ground as if in defeat, except for the way Malik, older Malik, slid down with him, back pressed against the wall and a leg hooked around the Grandmaster’s waist to keep from falling too fast.

They settled on the grass, breaking off to quip at each other, all of it inane but not entirely meaningless. The rustle of cloth and metal carried beneath their voices, belts and crimson sashes loosening with practiced ease. Altair did not understand how Malik could smile like that, or how the Grandmaster dipped his head to allow a hand to run across his forehead, pushing the hood back to show flushed cheeks and an expression so open with affection, it and made Altair’s chest grow tight with unaccustomed want and jealousy. Jealousy, despite the fact that the Grandmaster was him, because Altair was not sure if they were really the same person in the end.

He found himself breathing through his mouth, trying to block out the heady smell of jasmine. It became worse with the sight of the Grandmaster’s robes fanning over their bodies, revealing little of what they kept on or took off. Altair’s imagination involuntarily filled in the rest, spurred on when the Grandmaster arched his back, the hem of his long robes lifting to momentarily expose Malik’s bare thigh and shadowed angles of his hip. They were quiet, but the small gasps, the soft, wet noises of their mouths were loud to Altair, and even louder to him was the sound of Malik, his Malik, breathing next to him, stirring the thick air and scented flowers. He could swear he felt every soft exhale, hot against his cheek, and he wanted to look—to see Malik affected by this too; he had to be, if not for the way the Grandmaster rocked against the dai, then for the way their gazes met and held on in the brief seconds their faces pulled away.

There was a murmur, indistinct, but Altair read the downward tilt of the Grandmaster’s head, the tiny shifts of his body, and knew what every motion meant. The gestures were all his, though Altair could not remember the last time he left himself so vulnerable, and could not believe he would put ever himself in that position.

“Please,” the Grandmaster was saying, burying his face into the dai’s left shoulder as the other man’s arm disappeared within the folds of their robes, doing something that made their rhythmic movements jerky and uncontrolled.

A sharp intake of breath beside him drew Altair’s attention away. He turned and saw Malik with a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle whatever noise was lodged in his throat, noises like the one the dai was making, low and on the verge of breaking. Malik’s eyes flitted towards him, widening when he saw that Altair was watching him.

Though he felt his face burn at the implications, Altair held Malik’s gaze until the moment broke with a shuddering moan, distant but impossible for either of them to ignore. They turned away at the same time, unable to face each other to the sounds of their own names being choked down and cut off. He closed his eyes, wanting it all to stop— his growing fascination, the shiver running up his spine, those noises— and forced his hands to stay at his side, balled into fists so that he did not use them to cover his ears as Malik did to cover his mouth.

When the silence finally came, Altair opened his eyes, shocked by the suddenness of it, and stared at his clenched hands in disbelief. For all the thought he put into not wanting any of it, he was straining to hear more, and when he could not, he looked.

The Grandmaster was resting his head on the dai’s shoulder, languid even as he slumped against the other man. He tilted his head, smirking at Malik’s dazed expression, and planted lazy kisses along the dai’s jaw until he was pushed back by a hand that was far gentler than the grumbling complaint.

It was the contentment written on their faces that stole the rest of Altair’s breath, made it rush out before it caught in his throat and cracked as loud as the jasmine branches when he sat back and bought his hand up to clamp over his mouth. At the same time, Malik was reaching forward to silence him as well, fingers clutching beneath his jaw. The Grandmaster and dai stiffened, and the Grandmaster looked over his shoulder, eyes vacant and staring in a way Altair knew that it would be no use to hide.

It was as if Grandmaster’s gaze was a physical blow; the air burst from Altair’s lungs as a heavy weight slammed into his chest, knocking him flat on his back. Bursts of gold flashed before his eyes, and his head spun. The smell of jasmine was overwhelming, for all that he could not breathe because of the hand that pressed against his throat.

Struggling, Altair gasped and the pressure eased, though the weight across his chest was as heavy as ever. The golden spots faded from his vision and he opened his eyes to see Malik over him, chest heaving and his face damp with sweat.

“What was that?” Malik asked, and it seemed so long ago since Altair last heard those words.

They were back in the courtyard. The harsh sun was beating down of them, the ground burned, and the air was too hot without the shade of the trees. For a moment, Altair could not answer, swearing he could still smell the jasmine flowers. He grabbed on to Malik, alarmed by his question.

“You saw it too, right?” Altair did not dare move with Malik on top of him, all too aware of Malik’s thighs at either side of his body, straddling him without conscious thought.

“What?” Malik looked down at him, drawing his hand back from Altair’s throat, but Altair reached out and dug his fingers into Malik’s left arm.

“You were there,” he said fiercely, nudging Malik off, yet refusing to let go of his wrist. “You were there with me.”

“Altair-”

Standing, Altair pulled Malik to his feet, and this time it was him dragging Malik up the stairs, through the library and into the gardens. Malik wrenched his arm free several times, protesting, but Altair took hold of his hand, gripping tightly, and Malik quieted.

“Here,” he said to the empty corner of the fortress and cliff’s edge, filled with dry grass and weeds, and strangely barren without the tangled overgrowth of jasmine vines. Altair breathed in, imagining the cloying scent that followed him. “We were here.”

Malik glanced at him, exasperation written all over his face. “Of course we were. Yesterday.”

“No-” Altair began, almost desperately, but Malik reached out, brow knitted.

“And tomorrow,” he continued, fingers brushing at the top of Altair’s head.

Despite the lightness of Malik’s hand, Altair started, the tiny movement causing something to fall from his hair, and they watched as the tiny white flowers fell, drifting to the ground. Malik’s hand lowered, hovering over Altair’s shoulder before plucking a leafy sprig of jasmine that had snagged in his robes. “Or maybe in a couple of years.”

Altair stared, first at the vine twirling between Malik’s fingers and then at Malik, who was regarding him with a half-smirk.

“So you knew?” Altair hissed, feeling his face heat up. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

Malik folded his arms across his chest, his reply coming a little too slow with not enough smugness to match his smirk. “It was funny to see you panic.”

Altair bristled. He stepped forward, grabbing on to Malik’s shoulder — a faraway echo of something that would, could happen — but instead of turning with him, Malik held his ground. The smile disappeared from his face, and he shrugged off Altair’s hand.

“Whatever it was we saw,” he said, as if it were something he needed to clarify, “does not mean it is going to happen.”

His jaw was set, stubborn and determined, and there was something in his expression that was new to Altair — solemn as ever, but there was a look of ease in his eyes, even as the color rose in his cheeks and the tension set his shoulders into a rigid line. For all of Malik’s disappointment and apprehension, maybe there were parts of that future that were not entirely disheartening. And it showed, in the way he frowned at Altair, thoughtful and searching, and tossed the sprig of jasmine away, not looking to see where it landed.

“It didn’t seem all that bad,” Altair said, lightly enough to withhold an argument for once.

Malik’s speculative gaze turned sour. “You would say that, being the grandmaster-”

“Yes, there’s that, but I meant the other thing,” Altair interrupted, words coming out in a rush. Somehow Malik must have known what was going to happen; he stepped back in alarm just as Altair came forward to press his mouth against Malik’s.

It was curiosity, more than anything, that made him part his lips, just to see if Malik would push back, shoving his tongue between Altair’s teeth so that it was more of a fight than a kiss. They had been taught, as Assassins, to take advantage of every opening and seek out any weakness; this was no different. Malik took Altair’s challenge with a little twist in his expression as if to say, fine, might as well, it is too late now.

It was uncoordinated and uncompromising, heads tilting the wrong way, teeth clacking, biting too much, too hard or not enough, and there never seemed to be enough time to breathe before one of them would dive forward again, demanding and without thought for the other. They should have stopped, just from the awkwardness of their hands tangling as they tried to claw over their robes, hair, or neck, but Altair was persistent, as was Malik, because they knew that they could get it to work — the open-mouthed kisses, the timing of their breaths, and the push of their bodies — because they had seen it happen, so it was obvious to Altair that they would get it right, eventually.

He was forced to break away, gasping, but Malik chased after him, hand gripping the back of his head, refusing to let Altair pull away completely. Altair took a quick breath, knowing that it was not nearly enough to fill his lungs, but Malik stayed put, the air playing over Altair’s damp lips as the other boy exhaled, waiting and staring.

When Altair leaned in again, it was careful and deliberate, but no less eager. Malik made a pleased noise, the soft sound making Altair’s mind turn blank. Before he knew it, he was pushing Malik into the wall of the fortress, tripping over his own feet and stumbling into the older boy. Hands bracing against the warmed stone, Altair stilled at the familiarity of having Malik trapped between his arms, the image sharp in his mind, of Malik hooking a leg around his waist to bring them down, red sashes being taken off, and long, black robes hiding what was already obvious. Had he given it any real thought, Altair would have recoiled at how much he wanted it, all of it — the easy, open affection, the contentment — not just Malik, crowded into the wall under him. Without meaning to, he glanced up, expectant, and was met with Malik’s annoyed expression.

“Predicting the future?” Malik asked, flushed and panting, but decidedly more mindful than Altair. He kept his position, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.

“You seemed to like it well enough,” Altair replied, smirking and moving closer until Malik put a palm over his mouth, stopping him.

“I did like the sounds you were making,” Malik conceded, grip tightening when Altair would have pulled away, scowling.

“That wasn’t m-” Altair began, only to be cut off by a short gasp as Malik lowered his hands to Altair’s waist, slotted his thigh between Altair’s legs and nudged upwards. Hips jerking, Altair pressed his face into the curve of Malik’s neck, muttering breathlessly, “That wasn’t all me.”

Intending to prove it, he slid forward, leaning his whole weight against the other boy. Altair let out a shaky breath and dug his fingers into the gritty stonework. He could feel Malik shift beneath him, lining up their bodies and letting the rough fabric of their robes do what their hands were too occupied to manage. Altair lifted his head, watching Malik grit his teeth for all of two seconds before Altair brought their mouths together again.

Even if Malik was determined to believe that future was not theirs, Altair was not above exploiting what he had seen -- that Malik liked to be kissed long and deep, that his eyes would slide shut, and that he would like it even more if Altair made a wanting, drawn out moan from the back of his throat. In some ways, it was easy to imitate, but it was difficult, too, when Altair did not, should not, might not love Malik the way the Grandmaster did.

In the end, it was better to not think of anything at all, not with Malik’s hands fisted behind Altair, body arching. This had nothing to do with love or the future; it was just the simple physicality of heat and friction, the taste of salt on their skin. He pulled at the ties of Malik’s robe with one hand, growling in frustration when the cords knotted and refused to loosen.

They were impatient, and like all their fights, it was only ever over on a misstep; Malik moved forward when Altair thought to lean back, overstepping in each other’s way while simultaneously trying to maintain some semblance of kissing -- which they had silently agreed would only be awkward if they stopped. Malik’s eyes flew open, eyelashes tickling Altair’s cheek as he moved to suck a spot beneath Malik’s jaw. A sharp intake of breath gave away his surprise before he slipped over the loose dirt and dried grass.

With a small yelp, Altair overbalanced, feeling Malik’s grip tighten and drag him down as he fell. His palms scraped over the stone wall, burning from the roughened edges and cracks that bit into his skin. He landed on Malik, nearly hitting his forehead on the other boy’s drawn up knee.

They laid there, stunned and unable to move or speak. Malik was slumped against the wall, and he slowly brought hand over his face in a gesture that was a mix of mortification and exasperation. Clearing his throat, he twitched his leg, and Altair noticed that he had been sitting on top of it.

Blushing furiously, Altair shifted into a crouch, but kept his hands on the ground near Malik’s waist. A part of him had half a mind to continue, while the other half was in total agreement with Malik, wanting nothing more than to slap his hand against his face. He leaned forward, still giddy with the fragrant flowers crushed under them, but Malik’s boot against his chest brought him up short and nudged him away.

“I think we’re done,” Malik said, still covering his face as Altair fell back. He dropped his hand, glaring for emphasis.

Altair met Malik’s stare. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees with more force than necessary. Malik remained where he was, and Altair saw that his hair was in disarray and his robes were skewed to one side, exposing a reddening mark low on his neck.

On impulse, Altair smirked, anything to ignore the growing embarrassment and sudden appeal of Malik looking so disheveled. He held out his hand, offering it with a flippant air. “At least we will have something different to practice tomorrow.”

Malik’s brow raised and his laughing scoff was one of disbelief. “One day your head is going to burst from all those presumptions.”

Altair lifted his chin in challenge, hand still outstretched and waiting-- because he was not blind to the way Malik was looking at him either. “Tomorrow,” he repeated, unwavering.

Malik tilted his head, but instead of taking Altair’s hand, he smacked it aside and stood up on his own. There was a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth, growing into a grin as Altair withdrew with a scowl.

“What are you so impatient for?" Malik asked, reaching out to flick the last of the white jasmine petals from Altair’s shoulder, and giving him a small push out of the way before he walked off, calling over his shoulder.

“We’ll have time.”

This? THIS WAS SO GOOD, PERFECT, holy lord. /fans self 8DDD

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS PIECE OF BRILLIANCY, writer!Anon! ♥!!!

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Page 11 of 27

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

[FILL] Incense 1/

Re: [FILL] Incense 2/

Re: [FILL] Incense 3/

[FILL] Incense 4/

[FILL] Incense 5/

[FILL] Incense 5/

[FILL] Incense 6/

[FILL] Incense 7/

[FILL] Incense 8/

[FILL] Incense 9/10

Re: [FILL] Incense 10/10

Re: FILL [5/?]

Re: Adopted 14/??

Re: FILL [5/?]

no subject

Re: Altered Flight Pattern

Re: A Long Time in Coming- Favorable Chance Encounters 12/?

Tomorrow Was Not Dull [1/?]

Tomorrow Was Not Dull [2/?]

Tomorrow Was Not Dull [3/?]

Tomorrow Was Not Dull [4/?]

Tomorrow Was Not Dull [5/?]

Tomorrow Was Not Dull [6/?]

Tomorrow Was Not Dull [7/7]

OP