The Lying Game.

Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft. Obviously.

Altair x Malik.

Malik always seems to be "uke-fied" in the fan fiction here, so I thought I'd write a more plausible, less fluffy story that better suit these two manly men. Also, I'm sorry for those that write Altair as the older one, but I always thought Malik came off as more mature so… Yeah. Age is not important in this fic, but people seem to get so hysterical over minor details, so I simply wanted to give a warning to those that like Super-seme!Super-nice!Altair x Young!Super-uke!Whiny!Malik fluff about daffodils.

A childhood mishap or a pubescent grudge could have been the base on which rivalry was established. However, Altair could state without hesitation that their relationship had moved far past the friendlier planks of rivalry.

Every time Altair caught sight of Malik's amputated left arm, he felt a lancing pain in his heart and unease flooded his entire senses. He would feel breathless with utter remorse, feeling that both their lives have been crippled.

Their friendship was strained before. Now it was dead – ruthlessly buried into a grave without consent from the corpse. They only spoke when it was absolutely necessary, and even then Malik refused to make direct eye contact. Altair was brash then, brash even now, yet he better understood the weight his actions had on others. It wasn't irrational abhorrence Malik held for him. It was perfectly justified. Altair understood all too well that his younger brother Kadar was dead due to his arrogance.

The novice had fallen to the blades of Robert de Sablé and his soldiers in the depths of Solomon's Temple. Even Malik had barely escaped alive and had nearly bled to death within the fortress. He was outnumbered, bleeding heavily and equally impaired by the abrupt death of his brother. In spite of being weakened, he still managed to fight them all off valiantly, escaping with the sacred treasure. Altair had mouthed his surprise when he found out that the fellow assassin was alive, but the change Malik underwent afterward was tragic.

Malik always had that lace of irony in his voice, yet now, his outlook on life matched his bleak humor. He was always temperamental with the proud Altair, but now, he seemed to lack any sense of control whenever the two met face. Malik's brown, muddy eyes previously held life, now being dead, even worsened with the darkening bags under his eyes. The loss of his left arm was a heavy blow for he could no longer continue to be a fully fledged assassin. The emotionally depleted man had been forced to endure a shameful demotion at the hands of the brotherhood's Master, Al Mualim, the man he so zealously defended before.

When Altair tried to make amends during Malik's distressing amputation, he had merely screamed at him, demanding fiercely that he leave or that he die by his hand, left arm or not.

Altair had been in a state of shock: Malik had always disliked him, sure, but there had been unadulterated hatred in Malik's deep brown eyes, something that had never been there before. It felt disgustingly unnatural, and Altair would always feel a sick sense of shame whenever those glaring brown eyes would meet his own gold-silver ones.

Malik had never truly gotten over his brother's passing. From a young age, he was cautious about Kadar's involvement in the Order, making sure that he maintained a safe position away from the more dangerous missions. And all his past concern was for nothing. Others had mentioned it quietly to Altair that the older assassin had wilted like a parched wildflower, losing all life and color. He had been known to carry a hint of joy in his condescension but all happiness had vanished after that fateful mission to the Temple.

And it was all Altair's fault.

That older assassin – doomed to a life living in the shadow of greater assassins – was currently stationed as Jerusalem's Bureau Leader, an advisor amidst the brotherhood.

Altair would always feel a crushing sense of pity when he saw the older assassin in the bureau's building: it was so quiet down here, so dusty and dim. It seemed a crying shame, he thought, that Malik was doomed to suffer silently down here, seeing other assassins come and go, and never being able to follow in their footsteps ever again. Never would he again feel the thrill of the hunt, the glory that was the assassination itself. He had shown remarkable talent that near mirrored his, but now he was a prisoner of his own impairment, struggling hopelessly through life and all the difficulties that seemed to have been thrown at him. In the time they had been friendly rivals – through childhood and adolescence - Altair had always been aware of how loyal to the Creed Malik was, how stoic and calculating he was in any dire situation, a realist to a fault yet so ideally brave. Altair had covertly admired that about him.

It made sense that Malik hated him. But why did Altair loathe him? It was a question Altair thought over endlessly, an obsession, a sick yearning to know why he longed to tear the man apart. Even when he slept, his dreams were wracked with blood, brown eyes and burning desire. Each morning began with the same whispered words: "Why do I despise you so?"

The master had assigned Talal as his new objective and obediently, Altair made his way toward Jerusalem's bureau. He flexed the fingers of his left hand reflexively, looking forward to the moment where he would slam the blade into the throat of his target. He would dip the white feather into the puddle of wretched blood that only an equally wretched man could possibly leave behind. And he would relish in it.

However, his face fell when he realized he had to face Malik once again. Altair ran a gloved hand slowly over his face, shutting his eyelids in the process and exhaled raggedly. He knew he had to confront the bitter man sooner or later. But he had been keeping hopeful that it would be much later that he did so.

Unfortunately, his whole mission was determined on him returning to the Bureau with the information he had gathered. Sighing and free running up the wall that connected to the bureau building, Altair stepped lightly on the paneling that concealed the entrance and leapt down. He was considered the greatest assassin in the brotherhood (not just to himself), making virtually no sound while landing, but Malik could sense the hooded figure from a distance. The atmosphere immediately turned compact, stained by his sordid presence. Malik continued to fiddle the sharp compass over the yellowing papers of the map.

Altair, although his junior, had a presence that was frankly unnerving, Malik feeling like prey caught under the steely eyesight of an eagle. He forced himself to restrain a reflexive shudder when Altair walked through, with his familiar air of command and arrogance.

Despite his stern attempts to calm himself down, his heart was still hammering. Malik frowned at himself. His breathing was too loud. Altair did not deserve any reaction other than spite from him, especially since fear was a mix of respect and cowardice. Altair seemed more occupied with the scroll that hung near the bookcase and nodded a half-hearted greeting. Malik tried to curl his lip to the best of his ability, putting down the compass over the counter.

"So I am given the pleasure of your company once more," the one armed assassin said sarcastically.

"No need for that tone of voice, Malik…" said Altair quietly.

The brunette snapped, "I'm allowed to do what I wish here." He lowered his eyebrows as he glared over venomously, "Because luckily, I am no longer in the shadow of a… Better." He purposely delayed the last word, glancing over for the other's reaction. Malik immediately felt a stab of victory as Altair's face fell.

He began to grind his teeth slowly. Altair hated it whenever the memory of his embarrassing demotion was brought up. And Malik relished taunting him, pouring out all his frustration and his loathing for the man with under the belt blows and insults. He observed as Altair seemed to curl and uncurl his fists at least fifty times, digging his fingernails into his palms before releasing the bloody hold and making eye contact with Malik.

"Stop bringing that up," growled Altair, malice dripping off every stilted word. "You disgrace yourself and me by stooping to insults so tawdry."

Malik shrugged his shoulders, looking infuriatingly nonchalant. "I have already been disgraced. Besides, I have a right to show proper gratitude to the man who ruined my life. In a matter of one day no less," he said curtly.

Altair bared his teeth. "I'm not to blame for your loss…" He refused to lose face in front of the other. Nobody would ever be granted the gratification of seeing Altair drop composure.

"Oh," crowed Malik, looking on the verge of hysteria. "I must have you mistaken with another arrogant bastard, whose recklessness and insubordination cost me my entire rank as well as my innocent brother!"

"Quit with the theatrics, Malik," barked Altair. He readied a venomous curse: "Kadar was always –" Before cutting off his sentence immediately.

"Was always what?" breathed Malik, brown eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Go on, you might as well strip my late brother of his honor too while you're at it."

Altair cursed himself inwardly: He had no right to bring up anything, to bring about any past memory of Kadar to Malik. He was just re-opening old wounds and rubbing salt into them for cruel intent. "I'm sorry," he started to say.

"Liar!" Malik yelled, thumping his right fist on the desk, startling Altair terribly. "You'll say and do anything to get the upper hand, isn't that right, Altair?"

"I'm not a liar," he whispered. An insult flowed out of his lips before he could quench his anger, "At least I'm not the one who licks the boot of the master that so coldly dehumanizes the dead."

"You've already bad-mouthed me, my brother, and now you stoop so low as to insult our master? Just who is the pitiful one here?" Malik's anger was coming to a boiling point.

"I'm not as thoughtless as you make me out to be," Altair roared. "I am not a liar!"

"No, you're a murderer," Malik spat.

And that's when Altair lost it.

He had tried.

He had tried to keep his temper and not slam his fist into the brunette's face, but an insult that low was unforgivable. The work of an honor-bound assassin was to never be equated to that of a vile murderer.

Malik stumbled, his balance thrown off by the feeling of a brick against his cheek. Snarling, Altair had vaulted over the wooden desk, lips curled back and his teeth grating. Before Malik knew what had hit him, he had been thrown violently against the wall, his lips bloody and his mouth cut up from the inside.

He was pinned by a livid Altair, right hand wrapped around his throat. His left hand was inches away from his face, with the hidden blade's tip caressing his skin perilously. Panting with the adrenaline, both assassins stared at each other, chests heaving until Altair spoke.

"I hate you," Altair finally hissed with venom. "I hate you so much." The blade dragged across his cheek, pricking the skin open just barely, so that tiny beads of blood welled up. Malik refused to flinch and met Altair's steely gold eyes resolutely, even as the metal was dragged lower down his face. "And killing a defenseless amputee like you…" He scoffed, "It would be child's play."

Goosebumps ran all over his skin as Malik realized that the blade had moved down to his mouth. Stiffening, the brunette tried to calm down his hysterical breathing, which was far more difficult than he had originally thought, thanks to Altair almost choking him. His ears rang and his vision grew blurry. Malik attempted to kick him off with his free legs but they were numb from being smacked about against the bookcase. This kind of paralysis was something utterly foreign to the usually impervious Malik.

His hot breath condensed on the cold blade, fogging the metal up. Malik licked his lips involuntarily, missing how Altair's gaze zeroed in on the action.

"Killing me solves nothing," Malik gasped, suddenly realizing that his feet weren't touching the ground. He struggled against Altair's grip, wrapping his hands around the younger assassin's wrists, trying to pry himself away but Altair's grip was like a vice. He had to strain the next words out, "… You'll just be adding more blood to your pool of guilt."

Altair turned grim. The tip of the razor sharp blade dragged slowly across Malik's soft lips, cutting them open without a shred of remorse. Crimson drops of blood welled like liquid rubies on his mouth, and trickled down his chin but still Malik didn't show the pain. "Flinch, damn you…" Altair hissed, increasing the pressure on the younger assassin's throat. "Scream. What's wrong with you?"

But Malik shook his head, almost laughing. "I've honored you as a worthy rival in my earlier years… And you've repaid me with the pitiable life of an amputee. And my past efforts to keep Kadar safe are all down the drain, thanks to you."

Altair's eyes widened.

Running low on air, Malik sputtered one last sentence, "You can't possibly make my life any worse."

Altair's eyes flashed. In the space of a few blurred, confused seconds, the hidden blade had been withdrawn, strong hands cupping Malik's face, tilting it violently upwards, only to place a kiss so fierce upon the older assassin.

There was an explosion of pain as the brutal kiss sent waves of stinging agony through Malik's numb frame. His mystified mind tried to groggily make sense of the sudden chain of events, and his body came to the conclusion that this unexpected show of sadistic affection was appalling, to say the least. He tried to struggle and shove the man away, but it was a futile task. Altair was pressed against him so fervently, his hands pinning Malik against the wall, the tip of his tongue running against his bleeding lips. The metallic, almost addictive taste had Altair yearning for more and he deepened the kiss, ignoring the brunette's moans of disapproval.

Malik heaved a bodily shudder as the agonizing kiss was broken and pants for air broke the quiet of the bureau. It seemed Altair wasn't finished yet, as his tongue was licking up the last of the blood and trailing downwards.

The brunette was out of practice in combat. Malik, in a helpless position, was pathetically pinned down by the stronger man, muscles trembling and all.

Malik's breath hitched as Altair bit down on his neck, laying painful, sucking bites on the skin that would later develop into conspicuous bruises.

As he tried to squirm away, tilting his head, he accidentally exposed the tender part of his throat, Altair immediately using this to his advantage and running his tongue down it, tugging at the material swathing the brunette's neck to bite at his collarbones. Malik's nerves seemed to be on fire – this sensual, taboo torture was going to drive him crazy with his ambivalent emotions. He was slammed against a wall, being ravaged by the man who he was supposed to hate with the very fiber of his being. It was absurd.

Malik bit down on the sides of his tongue, but despite his constant protests, there was a part of him that secretly enjoyed this.

Trying to hold onto his sensible thoughts, Malik was concentrating so much on not enjoying it that he didn't realize that Altair was undressing him with a skilled amount of speed, using his hidden blade to great effect by slicing through the seams of his clothes, and running those rough hands down sensitive skin. His black outer robe slithered to the floor, along with the white uniform of the assassins, red sash pooling amidst the circles of blood that were splattered on the ground. Shivering at the sudden onslaught of the cold, Malik tried his hardest not to tilt his head back and just moan as Altair ran those killer fingers of his down the muscled contours of his chest, mouth evidently preoccupied with his hardening nipples. His sculpted, tanned body was left bare for the ravenous Altair to devour.

Small gasps and disgustingly lewd noises escaped his parted lips as Altair continued the torture with his tongue. The younger assassin was tormenting him in the worst ways possible, Malik's head throwing back and fingers of his right hand curling over Altair's hair. He wanted to rip out all the (nonexistent) locks from the treacherous scalp, yet his touches fell tenderly over the other's skin. This was on the opposite end of the spectrum concerning revulsion and scorn, and Malik had no clue why he seemed to be reacting the way he was. All he could do was stare at the ceiling and try to ignore what was happening, along with attempting to stifle his imminent arousal.

Needless to say, his complete and utter denial of the situation wasn't working at all, and Malik belatedly realized this as he felt rough hands trail up his bare legs, making his muscles tense reflexively. Sucking in a startled breath, the brunette jerked away from the preoccupied Altair, wide-eyed and panting.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded breathlessly.

His lungful seemed to have fallen on deaf ears until the other finally decided to acknowledge him. Altair fleetingly looked up at his flushing face from where he was crouching on the floor, hood thrown back. He was panting too, hands on Malik's hips, unmistakable lust in his platinum-gold eyes. Malik had truly underestimated Altair's speed: within seconds, the brunette had been forced up against the bookshelves that lined the bureau's walls, had his arm pinned up and tied to the posts with Altair's red sash. Blinking rapidly and trying to assess how on earth he managed to get himself into such a predicament, Malik squirmed weakly, trapped, but gave up as he realized escape was futile. He sighed wearily. There was no positive way to assess this situation: He was stark naked, tied up, and in the presence of a silent killer.

Suddenly, he made a strangled sound that was a combination of both pleasure and dismay as he felt his thighs being pushed apart and his length being enveloped in a moist heat. Groaning, he begged him to go faster with goading noises, pleading for such a vulgar cause. All rationality had been thrown out of the window.

Altair ran his warm tongue against his skin, leaving provocative bite marks on his inner thighs. Malik felt like he was enveloped in a shroud of murky, hot air, writhing each time the actions went straight to his groin.

"Oh God," he moaned shamelessly, eyes fluttering, feeling the immense heat buildup in between his legs. "… I… I'm –"

Altair instantaneously understood what Malik was trying to communicate through incoherent gasps. And with a wicked sneer, did something despicable.

He raked the edges of his teeth along the brunette's already dripping length, dragging his fingernails slowly along his thighs. The pain and pleasure built up until Malik couldn't take it anymore. Rocking back, he came forcefully, the intensity of the orgasm washing over him like a flood. There was the unmistakable sound of splintering wood as the bookcase he was tied to simply broke under his weight, and the older assassin's knees buckled, eyelids fluttering and lips parted as he panted for air. He crumpled to the floor, sweat trickling off his skin, breathing deeply.

"You…" Malik gasped, wrist aching from being tied for so long and chest heaving. His legs felt like wet string, and his heart was hammering from the overload of emotions. "You bastard…"

"Mm-hm," Altair mumbled slyly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. It seemed that the bureau leader's threats were either lost on him, or completely ignored as they were so insignificant at this point. He felt Malik's muscles tense against him and attempted to still them by running his tongue against the sweat drenched skin, lapping up beads of perspiration, rampant trickles of blood and rivulets of semen.

"Malik, I'm not finished with you yet…" Altair cocked a supercilious eyebrow down at Malik, looking down at him as he's previously had.

Malik attempted to look enraged, but at this point, he had lost all power in his face muscles. His arm was still tied up and the sash was making sure no blood flowed to the tips of his fingers.

"You're not going to glare at me?" he taunted, running his hands down the older assassin's flanks, caressing the curves of his thighs and buttocks. "Your sharp tongue seems to have dulled in finesse…"

Malik merely huffed in exhaustion, head tilted back, eyes closed. He had even stopped struggling against his binding around his wrist. Yet his pride remained as high as ever. "… I have… Little to say… At this point."

Bored with the reply, Altair almost lazily pushed the brunette's thighs apart, licking his right fingers languidly before running the saliva-coated digits near his rival's tight entrance. "Scream," he ordered and slowly pushed his forefinger in.

"Ah…" Malik hissed at the sudden intrusion, rocking his hips forward, but stubbornly refused to emit another sound, out of dignity.

Altair frowned. "Yes?" he enquired, chuckling, and pulled out slowly, only to grudgingly a second finger in.

"Ngh…" The older assassin groaned a second time, sweat streaming down his face, instinctively trying to squirm away, but make the digits go deeper at the same time. His conflicting emotions were driving him mad. "Mm... Haaah… S-So full of yourself…"

Altair ignored him, smirking and pushing his fingers further in and scissoring none-too-gently. Malik saw sparks fly across his vision; he didn't even hear the animalistic moan that he let loose, thanks to the white noise that had deafened him temporarily. He hardly felt Altair grip his hips and twist him onto his front, forehead cold against the floor, grimacing. Thankfully, the bindings around his right wrist had been loosened, but Altair had violently pinned his sole arm to his back, so he was trapped once more.

Malik growled, out of anticipation, frustration and humiliation. "Just finish this," he hissed, lungs aching and the muscles in his back flexing.

He regretted his words almost instantaneously, as Altair paused in his task to lay biting kisses along Malik's spine. "Dry?" enquired the older assassin amusedly. "Very well…"

"No, don't you dare—" Malik's sentence was cut short with a half agonizing, half gratified moan as he was suddenly filled with heat and firmness, and oh God, it felt so disgustingly good. Excruciating pain shuddered through him as his thighs trembled and sweat streamed off of his body like salty rivulets. He was almost grateful that was face down on the floor, with Altair holding him up mostly: if not, he would have been a quivering heap on the ground by now. The brunette blinked frantically, staring down, fingers curling into a fist in Altair's grip. "Haaaah…" he exhaled raggedly, in so much pain, but he desperately wanted it to continue. "M-Move…" What a pathetic sight he had become, begging for the impure pleasure those unclean prostitutes offered, and all at the hand of an arrogant, younger, yet undeniably skilled assassin.

The younger assassin's heavy breathing could be heard, even over Malik's gasping, but still Altair managed to keep up his conceited, superior façade by leaning down and raking his teeth over his sweat-beaded skin, evidently none the worse for wear. The brunette shivered as a warm tongue was run over his ear, and puffs of warm air cooled the moisture down. "Beg for it," smirked Altair.

Malik gritted his teeth, blinking sweat out of his eyes. If it was any other situation, had he not have been completely under Altair's control, he would have slammed his fist into his rival's face for daring to be so arrogant. In this scenario however, he would unwillingly relent.

A surprisingly agonizing minute passed as Malik ran his choices over one last time. He could either humiliate himself for this fleeting bliss…

… Or he could refuse it and save what little remained of his honor (which was practically nothing as he had let himself be sexually assaulted by another man), just to have the smug Altair later stare over the counter and wait for Malik's erection to die down.

He shuddered and licked his lips, "P-Please…" he hissed. "Move…"

Altair had a sinister aura to him. "Of course," he said condescendingly, before pulling back a fraction of an inch and pushing back in slowly, as to prolong the bittersweet torture. The loud moan Malik let loose was worth it though, and the younger assassin resisted the urge to just pound the brunette into the floor. Instead, he kept the movements slow and steady, noticing how Malik was trying to grind back instinctively into his thrusts and grinning. He sped up then, groaning as the flames of arousal flared in his loins. Malik, in turn, released his gratification and agony into aching moans.

Feeling his climax rapidly approaching, Altair gritted his teeth, his thrusts becoming irregular and erratic. Sweat was dripping down every muscled contour of his body, and he dimly realized that Malik was still bleeding from the wounds he had inflicted earlier. Dizzy on pleasure and pain, he snaked a hand underneath his rival and gave his neglected length a few firm strokes, feeling his seed pool on his fingertips. All the sensations and tastes combined into an overwhelming climax, Altair moaning as Malik finally, finally screamed his way through his orgasm. Panting in the afterglow, both of them were locked together in a single breathless moment, before Altair begrudgingly pulled out, wincing at the brunette's quickly stifled whimper from loss of touch and pain.

Feeling unnaturally possessive, Altair dragged Malik up from his submissive position on the ground and wrapped his strong arms around his rival's heaving chest, breathing heavily together for a long while. Malik, strangely, didn't complain about the sudden affectionate gesture. He seemed too exhausted to make any stabs or snarks. When time started making sense to them, as well as what had happened, Malik swallowed dourly as Altair absent-mindedly began pressing kisses against his neck and shoulders.

"This meant nothing," Malik murmured coldly, his voice hoarse yet having vastly recovered from the previous state. He silently cleared his throat as he readied another sentence, "This doesn't excuse anything from before."

"Liar," Altair repeated that one word over and over, tenderly ghosting kisses over his rival's tanned skin.

"Liar."

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