Under any normal circumstance Altaïr wound have easily been able to see that the name was a mere anagram of 'Malik' and everything would have crashed around them. But this was not normal circumstances, and Malik was grinding himself in a slow circle, losing what little patience he had left and sending Altaïr into a fit of moans and short, soft keening sounds. The young assassin's brain scattered. The soft head of Malik's cock pressed fleetingly over his prostate and stole his breath. He bucked back onto the cock splitting him open and all was undone.
Head against Altaïr's neck and arm holding him above the young and prone form, Malik thrust, and with a moan Altaïr bucked back to meet him a moment too late. He met the next one dead on and violently, moaning louder as pleasure spiralled from his prostate to the tip of his hardened arousal, which dribbled precome to the flagstones. Malik watched as the muscles shifted in Altaïr's back with increasingly gruff groans and forceful thrusts. Next to his ear he could hear everything from the hitched breath and harsh pants of his lover to the moans and curses and the whimpered, 'Fuck me' that pulled from him a full-bodied moan. The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in the room, echoing off the stone walls, floor and ceiling and mixing with their moans and the wet sounds of their meeting. Sweat was in Malik's eyes and he wiped it away on Altaïr's shoulder, only to find that also slicked with sweat and not at all effective. On Altaïr's next moan and whispered plea his hand scrabbled away and down to his cock, jerking it once more. Malik took the lobe of his ear into his mouth and sucked it before murmuring quietly and huskily to the other various obscene promises.
“I'm going to make you come again, Altaïr.” He panted, and Altaïr hung his head and replied with another sound, desperately tugging at his erection and bucking towards the harsh meeting of their bodies. “Going to make you moan. Going to make your legs useless. Fuck-” He broke off and grit his teeth, straightening up and gripping Altaïr's hip with bruising force, pulling him back to meet each forceful thrust. “Going to make you howl.”
Altaïr's voice bounced off the wall in front of him, loud and breathless. The hand on his erection squeezed gently. It pumped desperately. Jerkily. It was no longer about rhythm but about release. Pulled back on the cock that was fucking him and feeling the intensity of his orgasm build and build he gave himself over with a long moan. Come spilt from Altaïr's cock and fell to the floor. It joined his older seed in painting the underside of his desk. His voice broke. Malik had pulled out, still hard and close – very close – and his hand was tugging at Altaïr's side, forcing him onto his back and bruising his hip on the side of the desk. He stroked himself quickly over Altaïr's slowly softening cock until, with a moan, he too came, painting white stripes over Altaïr's lower stomach. It beaded in the tangle of his coarse public hair and dripped slowly and lewdly down and over his sac. Caught in the aftermath of his climax and captivated by the stunning sight Altaïr made he smeared the viscous fluid with his fingers. The skin under his fingers jumped. Through tired eyes he looked once more at that barely scarred chest.
A hand, tentative and barely shaking and warmer and smoother than he could remember, touched his hip. Drawing away Malik stumbled over to the bedroll and collapsed onto it, his legs tied by his breeches tangled around his knees and caught by his boots.
2; The wound [11/13]
Head against Altaïr's neck and arm holding him above the young and prone form, Malik thrust, and with a moan Altaïr bucked back to meet him a moment too late. He met the next one dead on and violently, moaning louder as pleasure spiralled from his prostate to the tip of his hardened arousal, which dribbled precome to the flagstones. Malik watched as the muscles shifted in Altaïr's back with increasingly gruff groans and forceful thrusts. Next to his ear he could hear everything from the hitched breath and harsh pants of his lover to the moans and curses and the whimpered, 'Fuck me' that pulled from him a full-bodied moan. The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in the room, echoing off the stone walls, floor and ceiling and mixing with their moans and the wet sounds of their meeting. Sweat was in Malik's eyes and he wiped it away on Altaïr's shoulder, only to find that also slicked with sweat and not at all effective. On Altaïr's next moan and whispered plea his hand scrabbled away and down to his cock, jerking it once more. Malik took the lobe of his ear into his mouth and sucked it before murmuring quietly and huskily to the other various obscene promises.
“I'm going to make you come again, Altaïr.” He panted, and Altaïr hung his head and replied with another sound, desperately tugging at his erection and bucking towards the harsh meeting of their bodies. “Going to make you moan. Going to make your legs useless. Fuck-” He broke off and grit his teeth, straightening up and gripping Altaïr's hip with bruising force, pulling him back to meet each forceful thrust. “Going to make you howl.”
Altaïr's voice bounced off the wall in front of him, loud and breathless. The hand on his erection squeezed gently. It pumped desperately. Jerkily. It was no longer about rhythm but about release. Pulled back on the cock that was fucking him and feeling the intensity of his orgasm build and build he gave himself over with a long moan. Come spilt from Altaïr's cock and fell to the floor. It joined his older seed in painting the underside of his desk. His voice broke. Malik had pulled out, still hard and close – very close – and his hand was tugging at Altaïr's side, forcing him onto his back and bruising his hip on the side of the desk. He stroked himself quickly over Altaïr's slowly softening cock until, with a moan, he too came, painting white stripes over Altaïr's lower stomach. It beaded in the tangle of his coarse public hair and dripped slowly and lewdly down and over his sac. Caught in the aftermath of his climax and captivated by the stunning sight Altaïr made he smeared the viscous fluid with his fingers. The skin under his fingers jumped. Through tired eyes he looked once more at that barely scarred chest.
A hand, tentative and barely shaking and warmer and smoother than he could remember, touched his hip. Drawing away Malik stumbled over to the bedroll and collapsed onto it, his legs tied by his breeches tangled around his knees and caught by his boots.