[ AC: fortune favors ]
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: A kink meme request: #88 of a list, climax without touching.
They are both close, in the middle of sliding wet and warm against each other's sweat-damp skin, when Malik suddenly makes an impatient noise and shoves Altair onto his back, dragging himself up his body and settling firmly below Altair's navel, above the jut of his hip. Altair is left ragged-breathed and suddenly bereft, swiping his tongue across the uneven line of his mouth, tasting the evidence of their messy kissing and the slight salt of sweat. It is hot and humid in Masyaf during the summer afternoons, even with the cool slat of stone floor at his back.
He tries to pull Malik back down.
“No,” chides Malik, tightening the bracket of his legs to clamp Altair's sword arm to his side. Altair's left, though formidable, is no match for Malik's right when he presses his weight down on its wrist, especially when Altair has it extended above his head. He tries anyway, of course, being no stranger to impossible situations, but both fortune and logic seems to favor Malik better today - the muscles in Altair's arm and shoulder shifts under the skins as he strains, but to no avail. It's a small loss, but a loss nonetheless, and Malik's smile, when he angles it down at the other man, is both pleased and smug.
“I quite like having the Eagle of Masyaf spread like this for me,” he muses, not above adding insult to injury. In fact, it's rather indicative of him.
“Malik,” Altair warns, voice already deep and sandy-rough with arousal, pitching deeper yet with danger. “What's the meaning of this?” Altair attempts at first, before he remembers that indignation is never met well with this particular opponent. He tries appealing to rationality instead: “I can't touch you like this.”
For his efforts, Altair earns a toothy, playful kiss to the tender skin underneath his jaw and a laugh that rumbles quiet and low against his chest. He flexes his fingers in Malik's grip, only to have them stilled when Malik leans down, sliding his hand up the inside of Altair's arm until his fingers slide perfectly into the crevices between Altair's own. That's three for three - rationality is clearly not on Altair's side today either. “But you can,” Malik argues, before pointedly shifting up further, until the hot, damp skin of his inner thigh brushes up against Altair's ear, bringing his intention very pointedly to Altair's attention.
Altair looks up, brow raising with his gaze. “Straightforward,” he comments.
“You are not arguing very well today,” Malik points out, ruthless. “Put your mouth to better use.”
“Since you asked so politely,” Altair drawls, nevertheless raising his head to lick a thick stripe up the underside of the length, mixing the slight bitterness of the bead collecting at the tip with the other flavors in his mouth. With his now-free hand, he kneads at the muscle to the right of Malik's lower's spine, pushing him up as his mouth swallows over the tip.
Malik sucks in a breath, perhaps having not expected the easy obedience but clearly enjoying it as he curls forward, thumping their clasped hands against the floor. His body goes instantly taut, trembling like a stretched wire. They had been close before and it will not take much more, but he holds on to the last vestiges of his composure like it's a lifeline. The sound he makes is indecent and drawn out, long and soon lost past the small bubble of time, space and privacy the assassins have carved out of the day for themselves, but Altair hears it clearly enough, groaning in answer around the swollen head in his mouth.
Altair smiles when he begins to hear Malik growl out a repeated litany of the three syllables of his name. Malik's nails are digging crescent-shaped crevices in the soft skin between Altair's knuckles and the visceral sound, scent, and violence of Malik's reaction makes it impossible for his own neglected need to flag. His hips jerk instinctively up a minute fraction, searching for a friction that is not there, thought it might as well have been, for all the blood churning in his veins, the fire set aflame by the sounds of his partner falling to pieces on the cushion of his tongue, his weight bearing down in counterpoint to the frantic beating of Altair's heart. Altair's fingers are pressing fingerprint-shaped bruises into the dips of skin between the bumps of Malik's spine, his mouth pressing forward and down, like he would swallow this moment whole to keep for himself if he could.
Malik lets out a shuddering breath. When Altair opens his eyes and looks up, Malik's eyes are dark and hazy, a smile made languid by pleasure playing on his lips. “When I kiss you after this,” he mutters, hissing when Altair hollows his cheeks and sucks in a breath around him (because he must not be very efficient if Malik is still talking in coherent sentences) and picking up after only a stuttering exhale. Malik lets go of Altair's hand and reaches down, raking back the sweat-matted close-cropped hair above his forehead. “I will pick out your taste from where it is mixed with mine, and then I will flood my mouth with it, to see if you can do the same.”
All the sound rushes out of Altair's ears.
Malik leans his head back and lets out a quiet, relieved sigh when he comes, a sound that recedes into a low murmur of a hum until Altair falls back, swallowing before swiping his tongue over his lips. They are usually louder, but sometimes they surprise each other with the softness of their release, the ease and the fearlessness with which they plunge over the edge. It never ceases to steal the breath from Altair's lungs in the rare moments when he sees how well they fit into each other now, and it only becomes harder yet to breathe when Malik lifts himself up and proceeds to make good on his promise, covering Altair's mouth with his own.
A hand slides down between Altair's legs, slow but crafty. Malik is ruthless but not always cruel, so he raises a brow in silent question when Altair reaches down to still it by the elbow for a reason that only becomes clear when he notices the tips of his fingers have come away already damp. Malik glances down, eyes lingering ravenously on the image he sees before he drags his eyes back up to the attractive flush Altair now sports from the tips of his ears down to the curve of his collar. He smiles and Altair cringes, perhaps already knowing what's coming next (or, at least, thinking he does).
“Altair, you-”
Altair surges up and pushes him onto his back, climbing onto his stomach, one hand splayed possessively, warningly, at the base of Malik's throat. It is a dangerous position in battle, a dangerous position to give an assassin, armed or no, but though this may have competition and power, this is no fight, so Malik hardly lets it sway him. He laughs, swiping again at the milky wetness now pooling on his lower belly, smeared across his front from their shift in positions. “I didn't even touch you,” he muses, taking no secret pleasure in the offended growl Altair lets out at that, before he proceeds to lift his fingers to his mouth and suck each one clean in quick succession.
Altair is watching with wide, rapt eyes as he does so and when Malik licks his lips and falls back against the pillows with an expectant quirk to his brow, saying, “Well, come, then. The challenge still stands - let us see if you can do the same,” Altair doesn't hesitate to find out.
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: A kink meme request: #88 of a list, climax without touching.
They are both close, in the middle of sliding wet and warm against each other's sweat-damp skin, when Malik suddenly makes an impatient noise and shoves Altair onto his back, dragging himself up his body and settling firmly below Altair's navel, above the jut of his hip. Altair is left ragged-breathed and suddenly bereft, swiping his tongue across the uneven line of his mouth, tasting the evidence of their messy kissing and the slight salt of sweat. It is hot and humid in Masyaf during the summer afternoons, even with the cool slat of stone floor at his back.
He tries to pull Malik back down.
“No,” chides Malik, tightening the bracket of his legs to clamp Altair's sword arm to his side. Altair's left, though formidable, is no match for Malik's right when he presses his weight down on its wrist, especially when Altair has it extended above his head. He tries anyway, of course, being no stranger to impossible situations, but both fortune and logic seems to favor Malik better today - the muscles in Altair's arm and shoulder shifts under the skins as he strains, but to no avail. It's a small loss, but a loss nonetheless, and Malik's smile, when he angles it down at the other man, is both pleased and smug.
“I quite like having the Eagle of Masyaf spread like this for me,” he muses, not above adding insult to injury. In fact, it's rather indicative of him.
“Malik,” Altair warns, voice already deep and sandy-rough with arousal, pitching deeper yet with danger. “What's the meaning of this?” Altair attempts at first, before he remembers that indignation is never met well with this particular opponent. He tries appealing to rationality instead: “I can't touch you like this.”
For his efforts, Altair earns a toothy, playful kiss to the tender skin underneath his jaw and a laugh that rumbles quiet and low against his chest. He flexes his fingers in Malik's grip, only to have them stilled when Malik leans down, sliding his hand up the inside of Altair's arm until his fingers slide perfectly into the crevices between Altair's own. That's three for three - rationality is clearly not on Altair's side today either. “But you can,” Malik argues, before pointedly shifting up further, until the hot, damp skin of his inner thigh brushes up against Altair's ear, bringing his intention very pointedly to Altair's attention.
Altair looks up, brow raising with his gaze. “Straightforward,” he comments.
“You are not arguing very well today,” Malik points out, ruthless. “Put your mouth to better use.”
“Since you asked so politely,” Altair drawls, nevertheless raising his head to lick a thick stripe up the underside of the length, mixing the slight bitterness of the bead collecting at the tip with the other flavors in his mouth. With his now-free hand, he kneads at the muscle to the right of Malik's lower's spine, pushing him up as his mouth swallows over the tip.
Malik sucks in a breath, perhaps having not expected the easy obedience but clearly enjoying it as he curls forward, thumping their clasped hands against the floor. His body goes instantly taut, trembling like a stretched wire. They had been close before and it will not take much more, but he holds on to the last vestiges of his composure like it's a lifeline. The sound he makes is indecent and drawn out, long and soon lost past the small bubble of time, space and privacy the assassins have carved out of the day for themselves, but Altair hears it clearly enough, groaning in answer around the swollen head in his mouth.
Altair smiles when he begins to hear Malik growl out a repeated litany of the three syllables of his name. Malik's nails are digging crescent-shaped crevices in the soft skin between Altair's knuckles and the visceral sound, scent, and violence of Malik's reaction makes it impossible for his own neglected need to flag. His hips jerk instinctively up a minute fraction, searching for a friction that is not there, thought it might as well have been, for all the blood churning in his veins, the fire set aflame by the sounds of his partner falling to pieces on the cushion of his tongue, his weight bearing down in counterpoint to the frantic beating of Altair's heart. Altair's fingers are pressing fingerprint-shaped bruises into the dips of skin between the bumps of Malik's spine, his mouth pressing forward and down, like he would swallow this moment whole to keep for himself if he could.
Malik lets out a shuddering breath. When Altair opens his eyes and looks up, Malik's eyes are dark and hazy, a smile made languid by pleasure playing on his lips. “When I kiss you after this,” he mutters, hissing when Altair hollows his cheeks and sucks in a breath around him (because he must not be very efficient if Malik is still talking in coherent sentences) and picking up after only a stuttering exhale. Malik lets go of Altair's hand and reaches down, raking back the sweat-matted close-cropped hair above his forehead. “I will pick out your taste from where it is mixed with mine, and then I will flood my mouth with it, to see if you can do the same.”
All the sound rushes out of Altair's ears.
Malik leans his head back and lets out a quiet, relieved sigh when he comes, a sound that recedes into a low murmur of a hum until Altair falls back, swallowing before swiping his tongue over his lips. They are usually louder, but sometimes they surprise each other with the softness of their release, the ease and the fearlessness with which they plunge over the edge. It never ceases to steal the breath from Altair's lungs in the rare moments when he sees how well they fit into each other now, and it only becomes harder yet to breathe when Malik lifts himself up and proceeds to make good on his promise, covering Altair's mouth with his own.
A hand slides down between Altair's legs, slow but crafty. Malik is ruthless but not always cruel, so he raises a brow in silent question when Altair reaches down to still it by the elbow for a reason that only becomes clear when he notices the tips of his fingers have come away already damp. Malik glances down, eyes lingering ravenously on the image he sees before he drags his eyes back up to the attractive flush Altair now sports from the tips of his ears down to the curve of his collar. He smiles and Altair cringes, perhaps already knowing what's coming next (or, at least, thinking he does).
“Altair, you-”
Altair surges up and pushes him onto his back, climbing onto his stomach, one hand splayed possessively, warningly, at the base of Malik's throat. It is a dangerous position in battle, a dangerous position to give an assassin, armed or no, but though this may have competition and power, this is no fight, so Malik hardly lets it sway him. He laughs, swiping again at the milky wetness now pooling on his lower belly, smeared across his front from their shift in positions. “I didn't even touch you,” he muses, taking no secret pleasure in the offended growl Altair lets out at that, before he proceeds to lift his fingers to his mouth and suck each one clean in quick succession.
Altair is watching with wide, rapt eyes as he does so and when Malik licks his lips and falls back against the pillows with an expectant quirk to his brow, saying, “Well, come, then. The challenge still stands - let us see if you can do the same,” Altair doesn't hesitate to find out.