A/N: Inspired by this wonderful picture on DA: enduro. deviantart com/art/AC-possessive-BL-warning-192609157 .
I've been lurking 'round the AC fandom for awhile, but felt an intense need to write something when I saw the above pic. Not really sure of the time-frame in this. Warnings for slight sexual content. (P.S. Everyone should go check that link out because it's just so amazingly glorious.)
Possessive
Beneath him, Altaïr's robes are splayed innocently white—white like the possessive curl of his hand along the side of Malik's neck; like the unnaturally pale cut of his throat, arched back with a lazy pull of mouth and bared teeth; like the eagle-sharp, predatory gaze slowly boring into his own narrowed black, half-lidded with desire so white-hot and sensually insatiable that Malik yearns to break the inch that separates them and claim those parted lips as his own.
The quiet caravan is filled with the brunet's breathless exhales, soft, lewd whispers pressed as airy kisses against Malik's nose, golden irises never straying from the half smile on his face. His body is enticingly warm over the Da'i's spread legs, and it is with effort that the other man resists pressing his growing hardness closer against his back. Altaïr is as majestic as he is teasing; the subtle bend of his body nonchalant in a way that expresses his utter lack of care, his infinite control of the current situation.
But his gestures, the heated touch that sends the slightest of shivers down Malik's spine, speak otherwise.
Those long, incredibly powerful legs are slow to part with each murmured word, but part they do. Bright golden eyes narrow with explicit implication; the sharp press of his fingers on the Da'i's neck, pulling him lower – more and more – until he can see the specks of hazel within their arresting depths, deviously calculating.
There is no shame in the invitation.
The Assassin's lips pull back wider, grinning, as his partner shifts ever so subtly against him. "Where are we now, that you would still hesitate?" His voice is like sweet absinthe to Malik's ears, thrumming smooth as liquid, reverberating, irritatingly smug. "You are more than welcome," Altaïr continues, and the blackness of his pupils expand until his eyes grow as dark as the shade of the raven's robes, "to do as you please with me."
Malik pauses for a short, thoughtful second – surprised – before he shakes his head and smiles.
Their temporary stay at Tyre will end upon tomorrow's sunrise, filled with only vague impressions of loud, bustling venues and a small, shockingly pleasant countryside, where they are currently sojourned for the night. Amidst the chaotic pursuit for the Templar messengers fleeing Masyaf, there had barely been a moment of respite up until today. He hadn't been afforded the luxury of physical intimacy – of a compliant, unresisting Altaïr – for what felt like months now.
Who is he to miss out on a chance like this?
Before Altaïr can utter another word, Malik presses a light, soothing kiss onto his mouth. It is brief, chaste in a way that the possessive flow of his fingers at the brunet's throat can never be. Altaïr arches into the touch – eyes fluttering briefly with satisfaction – and leans forward to reciprocate. He slides his tongue across the bottom of Malik's lips, tasting a burst of desire so feverish and domineering that his body betrays him—his legs involuntarily unfurl, trembling in anticipation.
The Da'i, even before their unsteady recovery toward friendship (and something more), had always held a mean sadistic streak. He reveled in the way Altaïr came apart so easily beneath him, whether during one of their more heating sessions on Masyaf's training grounds or while locked tight within a lustful embrace in the privacy of their bedchambers.
So it hardly fazes the brunet when he feels the tell-tale creep of fingers at the base of his white robes, diving beneath the fabric of his breeches to curl under his stiff erection and into the searing ring of muscle between his ass. There is no warning—only a rapid invasion of heat and initial discomfort, coiling like lava in the pits of his stomach. He doesn't flinch, though, returning Malik's smirk evenly; but his pupils are blown to oblivion, his breath coming out in short, erratic puffs, his grip tightening on the raven's neck.
The fingers are sharp, experienced, and they burn. Malik moves in steady rhythm within him, probing and stretching the soft, tense cavern until he's forced to close his eyes to maintain composure. When he finally breaches that wonderful, wonderful place deep inside, Altaïr can't help the cry that tumbles from his lips, eyes snapping open in desperation. "Malik—!" He finds a pair of lovely ebonies gazing down at him with barely concealed hunger, avaricious like the embers of fire stirring within his chest.
"You're mine," the Da'i's whisper brushes against his nose, trailing down his lips to the crook of his neck, arched back impossibly, impossibly far to accommodate the possessive skim of fingers. Altaïr shivers, need liquefying into a curious warmth that slides straight up his groin to the hollows of his stomach.
Breathless, he presses forth to catch the other's lips again, smiling. "I'm yours."