(no subject)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Kink meme request: finding out what they like; surprises abound.
Altair balked. “What?!”
Coloring miserably, Malik shoved him hard in the shoulder with the flat of his palm, looking affronted. “What do you mean, 'what?'” he snapped, pulling away from the loose cocoon of the other man's arms to shoot Altair an incredulous look. “How are you even allowed to be the one to say that? You just admitted to enjoying it on your back! With me over you! And you are the one surprised here?”
Still looking stunned, Altair lay half-sprawled, their legs still tangled as he blinked up at Malik. Surprise, rare as it was, was not unbecoming on him, but given the current topic in conversation, Malik was relieved when it began to ease back into Altair's usual countenance, more measuring and calm than shell-shocked. For that reason, and that reason alone, Malik allowed him pull him back down against the side of his chest, until the back of his head hit the pillows and Altair's forehead brushed up against his temple.
“It was unexpected,” Altair said quietly, and he smoothed his palm down Malik's arm, over the bend of his inner elbow, the taper of his wrist, to his palm. “More so for you. I thought you would say something like...biting, or scratching, or just insulting me every step of the way,” he said, spreading his hand, nails scraping lightly over the inside of Malik's palm, until his fingers fell into the cracks between Malik's, creating a contrasting pattern that alternated between the dusky brown of Malik's skin and the slightly lighter tan of his.
Malik glanced down and gave a huff of amusement. “I enjoy that also,” he agreed, “But I already do that as it is. I did not feel the need to mention it.” He raised his arm, and subsequently raised Altair's, holding their threaded fingers over their faces, and gave the younger man a pointed glance out of the corner of his eye. “But you do this now, only when we are already done? Late as always, novice.”
Altair turned their hands this way and that, as if inspecting an unfamiliar artifact, almost more eluding than the Apple, and just as difficult to acquire. “Not 'only'. And if you mind so much,” he began, tightening his grip and intelligently not commenting on how Malik squeezed back. Altair tilted his head into the curve of Malik's jaw and pulled him closer with his other arm, still wound around the dai's waist. “We do not necessarily have to be done.”
Malik scoffed, incredulous but not entirely surprised. Though their bodies were only just beginning to cool, this newly-acquired information was too precious not to exploit. He rolled onto his side, pinning Altair down with his weight and the hand he pressed down into the ground with his own, looming over the younger man with a superior smirk.
“On your back, was it?” he mused, rolling his hips and grinding down against Altair's straining efforts to arch up, until the heat that had not quite left their bodies from their previous bout licked at their skin again, spiraling down to pool below his navel. Altair began to make low, rumbling growls from the base of his throat, every motion he was allowed dictated by the man on and above him, who seemed all too content to match Altair's impatience with his leisure. “What is the matter, Altair?” Malik asked imperiously. “I thought you said you liked this.”
Altair grit his teeth, using his other hand to grab at Malik's lower back, fingers digging into flesh and forcing him down against him. “I don't like teasing, Malik,” he ground out, quieted only by the sudden, strong kiss Malik crushed against his mouth, uncontrolled and forceful enough that their teeth clacked together before they reached a push-and-pull equilibrium.
Malik nipped his bottom lip as he pulled away, leaning down and forcing Altair to recline, and he smiled, eyes alight with promise and the headiness of arousal. “Ah,” he tutted, still holding Altair's hand against the floor. “But I do.”
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Kink meme request: more fluff.
By necessity, Altair had learned to tell a great many things from a man's posture alone. People were wily; they could school their expressions into any myriad of false emotions, but there were few on this earth who could forcefully stop the beating of their heart when seized by fear or halt the flush of their skin when taken with anger.
What he saw now was frustration. It was written across the stiff, tense line of Malik's shoulders, in the straight, rigid line of his back, in the jerk of his hand as he stabbed the paper just to watch it bleed black with ink. Even if the man had not been half-bare, sitting on the edge of the bed in only his breeches with his head bowed over his work, Altair would have been able to tell. This was a back he was very accustomed to reading. He had perfected this skill long ago, back when he had not yet earned the right to face him.
But times were different now.
Slowly, languidly, Altair stretched out an arm, sliding it across the bed until he could brush his knuckles down Malik's lower spine, a bump of bone against bone. Malik jerked and looked over his shoulder, face still knit with irritation, but Altair had learned to tell the difference between anger directed at him and anger for the world in general, which Malik seemed to hold in great reserves. “Do not bother me, Altair,” he chided, easing slightly against the back of the Grandmaster's hand. “I am working.”
“That is bothering you,” Altair pointed out, nodding at the scroll on Malik's lap. “Not I. It is early yet, come back to me.”
Raising a brow, Malik let out a breath of amusement at Altair's blunt, undecorated speech, but they were alone here, and sometimes love was difficult enough that they hardly needed more barriers to add to the confusion. He did not put down his quill, but his hand stilled, sparing the paper of its messy murder. “Perhaps you would like to answer this correspondence while I put it off? I do warn you - this dealer has been known to swindle at every opportunity if you are not particular enough with your words. One possible misunderstanding, and he will be trying to rob the very carpet from beneath our feet.”
Altair reached up to make up for the hand that Malik couldn't reach back to touch him with, smoothing his palm over the ridges of muscle that led up from his back to the gnarled skin that began at his left shoulder. He did not push, he did not pull, but this was a luxury already, secret indulgences stolen in the late hours of the night or the early ones of the morning, and try as the dealer might, he was not going to steal this from him. “Try?” he prompted, shifting his head against the bed, angling it towards Malik in question.
“Well, he would not succeed. We are Assassins, after all,” Malik responded with a smirk, and just when it looked as though he might give in and retire, his eyes slid back to the letter, and he heaved a great sigh. Dropping his quill to the ground, he kneaded the skin between his eyes and fell back against the bed, his head pillowed by the flat of Altair's stomach. The world and all its treachery lay beyond the boundaries of this warmth, in the conniving words of the dealer, in the very hours of the working day. Sometimes, even sharing the burden of rebuilding a city was a great weight to bear.
“I can go speak with him,” Altair offered, brushing back Malik's bangs idly with his fingers.
Sometimes, it was worth it.
“We need him alive,” Malik said, by means of refusal. He could sense the vibrations beneath his head as Altair chuckled in response, and so busy was he in listening to the deep echo of that sound that he didn't even notice the scroll sliding off his knees. He turned his head to look up at Altair, pressing his ear flat against the planes of his stomach, and relaxed, easing into the quiet, comfortable energy that followed the Grandmaster into rest. It enveloped him, pulled him away from the world outside and into a lull of nested time that Altair had gathered for Malik and himself, a collection of all the stolen seconds he had accrued while racing men to their ends, perhaps.
“That is more difficult,” Altair acceded. “But not impossible.” He sat up, and Altair bent down just as Malik raised his head. His hand raised to cushion the back of Malik's neck, and Malik's hand raised to guide Altair down. They met each other halfway in a slow, familiar motion that would have been easier had one of them simply stayed where they were, but they had always chosen equality over ease.
“I will help you write it, but in the morning,” Altair said, a compromise, and this time he did pull, but only so much that it spurred Malik into action, who kicked back on the bed and rearranged himself alongside the other's body. Altair half-rolled over him, shackling him there, and sought his hand out with his own. His fingers trailed down the inside of his arm, tickling over the dip of his elbow, until he reached Malik's palm. Gently, they began to rub the ink off his skin, though the motion only succeeded in staining both of their fingertips, but that, in a sense, was quite all right too.
“I hope you realize what trouble you are causing Masyaf right now by doing this,” Malik muttered, moving to face him only to find resistance when he did so. Altair had lay his head close enough that their foreheads bumped against each other when he turned.
“Masyaf would be nothing without trouble,” Altair replied, smiling.
Masyaf would be nothing without you, Malik interpreted, and he almost opened his mouth to scoff at that, to mock Altair for his inflated sense of self-importance, except this time, it was true. “It would be peaceful, I suspect,” Malik answered instead, injecting mock-wistfulness into his voice, pulling his face into an expression of indifference to mask his content and hide his heart, but like anger, frustration and fear, Altair could read it anyway, in the steady rhythm of his heart, in the tangle of their legs and the gentle push of Malik's fingers before he threaded them with his own.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Kadar Al-Sayf
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Kink meme request: Kadar ---> Altair ---> Malik. It's complicated. What was I thinking?!
His world is narrowed to what blurry images he can see from between the cracks of Altair's fingers, and the sharp pricks of pain that come from Altair biting at his mouth, digging the talons of his free hand into his waist, grinding his hips into the uneven stone floor. He takes it, soaks it all in like there is nothing in him but room for this torture, until even his heart begins to inevitably hurt in the cage of his chest. Nonetheless, he reaches forward, reaches back, reaches for more, because Assassins have been taught to weather pain, and this, at the very least, makes him feel like he stands a little more on par with his brother and the great Eagle of Masyaf, who are otherwise always so unreachable because he is too young, too unskilled, and too much not Malik.
Altair, normally a man of few words, speaks at him, but not to him. He is so furious; everything about that calm, aloof demeanor is gone. He is always angry when they do this, always so forceful, and always aching, but that makes them more alike, Kadar figures, and he revels in that too. “Why can't you look at me?” Altair growls, pressing his palm and fingertips against Kadar's brow, until color blooms behind his eyelids. “Why won't you look at me? I have done everything even Al Mualim would want, and you still turn away? Damn you, you are not too good for me! I have bested you at everything! Why is that not enough? Why am I not enough?”
Kadar pants against the inside of his wrist, back arching off the floor, and he doesn't say anything, because his voice is not deep or dry enough to pass for his brother's, but he lifts his hands, even if Altair is keeping him pinned down far enough that he can only brush the tips of his fingers against the older man's chin. He can already feel the edges of a scowl there, the dampness of sweat and the wrinkle of skin as Altair pulls his lips back over his teeth, but Kadar cannot get past that, his reach limited as it is. Altair shoves him off with a rough push and a roar, down and away from him, “Why am I not enough?” he snarls.
Kadar's fingers flex in the air, grabbing at nothing. I don't know, he thinks,I don't know, Altair. Why? Why aren't I?
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Kink meme request: finding out what they like; surprises abound.
Altair balked. “What?!”
Coloring miserably, Malik shoved him hard in the shoulder with the flat of his palm, looking affronted. “What do you mean, 'what?'” he snapped, pulling away from the loose cocoon of the other man's arms to shoot Altair an incredulous look. “How are you even allowed to be the one to say that? You just admitted to enjoying it on your back! With me over you! And you are the one surprised here?”
Still looking stunned, Altair lay half-sprawled, their legs still tangled as he blinked up at Malik. Surprise, rare as it was, was not unbecoming on him, but given the current topic in conversation, Malik was relieved when it began to ease back into Altair's usual countenance, more measuring and calm than shell-shocked. For that reason, and that reason alone, Malik allowed him pull him back down against the side of his chest, until the back of his head hit the pillows and Altair's forehead brushed up against his temple.
“It was unexpected,” Altair said quietly, and he smoothed his palm down Malik's arm, over the bend of his inner elbow, the taper of his wrist, to his palm. “More so for you. I thought you would say something like...biting, or scratching, or just insulting me every step of the way,” he said, spreading his hand, nails scraping lightly over the inside of Malik's palm, until his fingers fell into the cracks between Malik's, creating a contrasting pattern that alternated between the dusky brown of Malik's skin and the slightly lighter tan of his.
Malik glanced down and gave a huff of amusement. “I enjoy that also,” he agreed, “But I already do that as it is. I did not feel the need to mention it.” He raised his arm, and subsequently raised Altair's, holding their threaded fingers over their faces, and gave the younger man a pointed glance out of the corner of his eye. “But you do this now, only when we are already done? Late as always, novice.”
Altair turned their hands this way and that, as if inspecting an unfamiliar artifact, almost more eluding than the Apple, and just as difficult to acquire. “Not 'only'. And if you mind so much,” he began, tightening his grip and intelligently not commenting on how Malik squeezed back. Altair tilted his head into the curve of Malik's jaw and pulled him closer with his other arm, still wound around the dai's waist. “We do not necessarily have to be done.”
Malik scoffed, incredulous but not entirely surprised. Though their bodies were only just beginning to cool, this newly-acquired information was too precious not to exploit. He rolled onto his side, pinning Altair down with his weight and the hand he pressed down into the ground with his own, looming over the younger man with a superior smirk.
“On your back, was it?” he mused, rolling his hips and grinding down against Altair's straining efforts to arch up, until the heat that had not quite left their bodies from their previous bout licked at their skin again, spiraling down to pool below his navel. Altair began to make low, rumbling growls from the base of his throat, every motion he was allowed dictated by the man on and above him, who seemed all too content to match Altair's impatience with his leisure. “What is the matter, Altair?” Malik asked imperiously. “I thought you said you liked this.”
Altair grit his teeth, using his other hand to grab at Malik's lower back, fingers digging into flesh and forcing him down against him. “I don't like teasing, Malik,” he ground out, quieted only by the sudden, strong kiss Malik crushed against his mouth, uncontrolled and forceful enough that their teeth clacked together before they reached a push-and-pull equilibrium.
Malik nipped his bottom lip as he pulled away, leaning down and forcing Altair to recline, and he smiled, eyes alight with promise and the headiness of arousal. “Ah,” he tutted, still holding Altair's hand against the floor. “But I do.”
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Kink meme request: more fluff.
By necessity, Altair had learned to tell a great many things from a man's posture alone. People were wily; they could school their expressions into any myriad of false emotions, but there were few on this earth who could forcefully stop the beating of their heart when seized by fear or halt the flush of their skin when taken with anger.
What he saw now was frustration. It was written across the stiff, tense line of Malik's shoulders, in the straight, rigid line of his back, in the jerk of his hand as he stabbed the paper just to watch it bleed black with ink. Even if the man had not been half-bare, sitting on the edge of the bed in only his breeches with his head bowed over his work, Altair would have been able to tell. This was a back he was very accustomed to reading. He had perfected this skill long ago, back when he had not yet earned the right to face him.
But times were different now.
Slowly, languidly, Altair stretched out an arm, sliding it across the bed until he could brush his knuckles down Malik's lower spine, a bump of bone against bone. Malik jerked and looked over his shoulder, face still knit with irritation, but Altair had learned to tell the difference between anger directed at him and anger for the world in general, which Malik seemed to hold in great reserves. “Do not bother me, Altair,” he chided, easing slightly against the back of the Grandmaster's hand. “I am working.”
“That is bothering you,” Altair pointed out, nodding at the scroll on Malik's lap. “Not I. It is early yet, come back to me.”
Raising a brow, Malik let out a breath of amusement at Altair's blunt, undecorated speech, but they were alone here, and sometimes love was difficult enough that they hardly needed more barriers to add to the confusion. He did not put down his quill, but his hand stilled, sparing the paper of its messy murder. “Perhaps you would like to answer this correspondence while I put it off? I do warn you - this dealer has been known to swindle at every opportunity if you are not particular enough with your words. One possible misunderstanding, and he will be trying to rob the very carpet from beneath our feet.”
Altair reached up to make up for the hand that Malik couldn't reach back to touch him with, smoothing his palm over the ridges of muscle that led up from his back to the gnarled skin that began at his left shoulder. He did not push, he did not pull, but this was a luxury already, secret indulgences stolen in the late hours of the night or the early ones of the morning, and try as the dealer might, he was not going to steal this from him. “Try?” he prompted, shifting his head against the bed, angling it towards Malik in question.
“Well, he would not succeed. We are Assassins, after all,” Malik responded with a smirk, and just when it looked as though he might give in and retire, his eyes slid back to the letter, and he heaved a great sigh. Dropping his quill to the ground, he kneaded the skin between his eyes and fell back against the bed, his head pillowed by the flat of Altair's stomach. The world and all its treachery lay beyond the boundaries of this warmth, in the conniving words of the dealer, in the very hours of the working day. Sometimes, even sharing the burden of rebuilding a city was a great weight to bear.
“I can go speak with him,” Altair offered, brushing back Malik's bangs idly with his fingers.
Sometimes, it was worth it.
“We need him alive,” Malik said, by means of refusal. He could sense the vibrations beneath his head as Altair chuckled in response, and so busy was he in listening to the deep echo of that sound that he didn't even notice the scroll sliding off his knees. He turned his head to look up at Altair, pressing his ear flat against the planes of his stomach, and relaxed, easing into the quiet, comfortable energy that followed the Grandmaster into rest. It enveloped him, pulled him away from the world outside and into a lull of nested time that Altair had gathered for Malik and himself, a collection of all the stolen seconds he had accrued while racing men to their ends, perhaps.
“That is more difficult,” Altair acceded. “But not impossible.” He sat up, and Altair bent down just as Malik raised his head. His hand raised to cushion the back of Malik's neck, and Malik's hand raised to guide Altair down. They met each other halfway in a slow, familiar motion that would have been easier had one of them simply stayed where they were, but they had always chosen equality over ease.
“I will help you write it, but in the morning,” Altair said, a compromise, and this time he did pull, but only so much that it spurred Malik into action, who kicked back on the bed and rearranged himself alongside the other's body. Altair half-rolled over him, shackling him there, and sought his hand out with his own. His fingers trailed down the inside of his arm, tickling over the dip of his elbow, until he reached Malik's palm. Gently, they began to rub the ink off his skin, though the motion only succeeded in staining both of their fingertips, but that, in a sense, was quite all right too.
“I hope you realize what trouble you are causing Masyaf right now by doing this,” Malik muttered, moving to face him only to find resistance when he did so. Altair had lay his head close enough that their foreheads bumped against each other when he turned.
“Masyaf would be nothing without trouble,” Altair replied, smiling.
Masyaf would be nothing without you, Malik interpreted, and he almost opened his mouth to scoff at that, to mock Altair for his inflated sense of self-importance, except this time, it was true. “It would be peaceful, I suspect,” Malik answered instead, injecting mock-wistfulness into his voice, pulling his face into an expression of indifference to mask his content and hide his heart, but like anger, frustration and fear, Altair could read it anyway, in the steady rhythm of his heart, in the tangle of their legs and the gentle push of Malik's fingers before he threaded them with his own.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Kadar Al-Sayf
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Kink meme request: Kadar ---> Altair ---> Malik. It's complicated. What was I thinking?!
His world is narrowed to what blurry images he can see from between the cracks of Altair's fingers, and the sharp pricks of pain that come from Altair biting at his mouth, digging the talons of his free hand into his waist, grinding his hips into the uneven stone floor. He takes it, soaks it all in like there is nothing in him but room for this torture, until even his heart begins to inevitably hurt in the cage of his chest. Nonetheless, he reaches forward, reaches back, reaches for more, because Assassins have been taught to weather pain, and this, at the very least, makes him feel like he stands a little more on par with his brother and the great Eagle of Masyaf, who are otherwise always so unreachable because he is too young, too unskilled, and too much not Malik.
Altair, normally a man of few words, speaks at him, but not to him. He is so furious; everything about that calm, aloof demeanor is gone. He is always angry when they do this, always so forceful, and always aching, but that makes them more alike, Kadar figures, and he revels in that too. “Why can't you look at me?” Altair growls, pressing his palm and fingertips against Kadar's brow, until color blooms behind his eyelids. “Why won't you look at me? I have done everything even Al Mualim would want, and you still turn away? Damn you, you are not too good for me! I have bested you at everything! Why is that not enough? Why am I not enough?”
Kadar pants against the inside of his wrist, back arching off the floor, and he doesn't say anything, because his voice is not deep or dry enough to pass for his brother's, but he lifts his hands, even if Altair is keeping him pinned down far enough that he can only brush the tips of his fingers against the older man's chin. He can already feel the edges of a scowl there, the dampness of sweat and the wrinkle of skin as Altair pulls his lips back over his teeth, but Kadar cannot get past that, his reach limited as it is. Altair shoves him off with a rough push and a roar, down and away from him, “Why am I not enough?” he snarls.
Kadar's fingers flex in the air, grabbing at nothing. I don't know, he thinks,I don't know, Altair. Why? Why aren't I?