It was something Altair had never forgotten – Malik was still an Assassin, even if the black robes falling over his shoulders and brushing his thighs were that of a scholar, and as an Assassin, he was as much a master of stealth as he was of the pen. Admittedly, Altair did choke a little when he opened his eyes and found Malik's fingers snaking around his erection, brusquely pushing his own fingers away to take charge, and he instinctively backed up against the chair he had been reclining against, face still flushed and mouth half-open in short, hurried pants.
Malik quirked a brow.
“You were busy,” Altair breathed out quietly, the ends of his words degenerating into hums as Malik stepped in and began stroking, the circle of his fingers rough and tight as it slid against heated skin. There was very little gentleness in it, because gentleness is not what they needed from each other, and in a world where men bartered and traded with the lives of others, gentleness had nothing to do with love.
“As if you let that stop you, Altair, when you began calling my name loud enough for me to hear from the other room,” Malik shot back with a scoff as Altair, apparently having recovered from his uncharacteristic bout of shock, reached up to slide his dai robes down his shoulders, reached back to undo his sash and belt, reached down to tug his tunic up and off. The Grandmaster himself was already stripped down to just his breeches, hanging low on his hips in the privacy of his personal study, and when Malik put one knee on the edge of the seat, Altair raised his legs obligingly, letting the other man's legs slip underneath him and crowd into what little space the chair had to offer.
Malik was not surprised when he pulled open the first drawer of Altair's desk and found what he needed there. “You have laid a trap for me, Altair,” he remarked, half-amused, half-exasperated, as common in most of their interactions these days, leaving Altair's arousal in favor of dipping his fingers into the viscous oil. Altair made an impatient, gutteral grunt, but his hands were too busy bracing themselves on the armrest, threading into Malik's hair, blunt fingernails dragging across his scalp and tightening into a fist once he found purchase in the short strands.
“And you have fallen into it,” Altair replied, pressing his smile against Malik's mouth to hide it, for it was in his nature to conceal everything, just as it was in Malik's to notice, and just because Malik could not see it, didn't mean he couldn't feel it under his tongue, in the beating of the heart pressed against the right side of his chest, in the muscles straining just so that Altair could push himself higher toward, closer to, and around him. He let out a sharp exhale as fingers slid into him, and a louder one as Malik followed suit shortly after, both sounds that the other man swallowed and drank of, hand slick now against Altair's length with lubricant and beading evidence of the younger man's pleasure.
“By my choice,” Malik forcefully pointed out, punctuating it with a sharp jerk of his hips, until Altair had no choice (by gravity) nor desire (by heart) but to fall against him, and he bit and chased his way along Altair's strong jaw until he found his mouth, and even then he nipped and forced his way through, because Assassins only went down fighting. The hand in his hair went lax, slid down his nape until Altair hooked it around his neck, fingers pressing four-point bruises into his spine. There was a killer's strength in that hand, and it was dangerous to have it anywhere close to his throat, but Malik could only feel the thrill in his veins, the rush of heat that spirals down from every point of contact to pool under his stomach, and he loved this, this feeling and this person, even if he didn't love them enough to say it out loud, or even if he loved them too much to.
SOB WITH RIGHT HTML THIS TIME IGNORE THAT FIRST ONE
Malik quirked a brow.
“You were busy,” Altair breathed out quietly, the ends of his words degenerating into hums as Malik stepped in and began stroking, the circle of his fingers rough and tight as it slid against heated skin. There was very little gentleness in it, because gentleness is not what they needed from each other, and in a world where men bartered and traded with the lives of others, gentleness had nothing to do with love.
“As if you let that stop you, Altair, when you began calling my name loud enough for me to hear from the other room,” Malik shot back with a scoff as Altair, apparently having recovered from his uncharacteristic bout of shock, reached up to slide his dai robes down his shoulders, reached back to undo his sash and belt, reached down to tug his tunic up and off. The Grandmaster himself was already stripped down to just his breeches, hanging low on his hips in the privacy of his personal study, and when Malik put one knee on the edge of the seat, Altair raised his legs obligingly, letting the other man's legs slip underneath him and crowd into what little space the chair had to offer.
Malik was not surprised when he pulled open the first drawer of Altair's desk and found what he needed there. “You have laid a trap for me, Altair,” he remarked, half-amused, half-exasperated, as common in most of their interactions these days, leaving Altair's arousal in favor of dipping his fingers into the viscous oil. Altair made an impatient, gutteral grunt, but his hands were too busy bracing themselves on the armrest, threading into Malik's hair, blunt fingernails dragging across his scalp and tightening into a fist once he found purchase in the short strands.
“And you have fallen into it,” Altair replied, pressing his smile against Malik's mouth to hide it, for it was in his nature to conceal everything, just as it was in Malik's to notice, and just because Malik could not see it, didn't mean he couldn't feel it under his tongue, in the beating of the heart pressed against the right side of his chest, in the muscles straining just so that Altair could push himself higher toward, closer to, and around him. He let out a sharp exhale as fingers slid into him, and a louder one as Malik followed suit shortly after, both sounds that the other man swallowed and drank of, hand slick now against Altair's length with lubricant and beading evidence of the younger man's pleasure.
“By my choice,” Malik forcefully pointed out, punctuating it with a sharp jerk of his hips, until Altair had no choice (by gravity) nor desire (by heart) but to fall against him, and he bit and chased his way along Altair's strong jaw until he found his mouth, and even then he nipped and forced his way through, because Assassins only went down fighting. The hand in his hair went lax, slid down his nape until Altair hooked it around his neck, fingers pressing four-point bruises into his spine. There was a killer's strength in that hand, and it was dangerous to have it anywhere close to his throat, but Malik could only feel the thrill in his veins, the rush of heat that spirals down from every point of contact to pool under his stomach, and he loved this, this feeling and this person, even if he didn't love them enough to say it out loud, or even if he loved them too much to.