"Hey, old man."
Altair set down the scrolls and sighed, expecting to see the other lazily perched on his desk and leafing through his papers in absolute boredom, perhaps even situating his boots onto the nearby chair. Yet, as he let go of his quill and turned around, fatigue clouding his eyes, he was greeted by a pair of hungry lips that molded over his own, assertive in manner and definitely eager to please. He gave no resistance to the tongue that deftly swiped across his bottom lip, and emitted a noise of satisfaction at the hand that pushed back the hood of his robe, cupping the back of his head and drawing him closer to the younger male—a nip at the corner of his mouth, a caress along the line of his jaw, a breath, and the Grand Master reached out and buried his fingers into the assassin's hair, never stilling his movements as he continued the heated exchange sans comprehension or thought:
With one more kiss on the middle of said being's lips, Altair pulled away and fluttered his eyes open in contentment, slouching languidly in his seat while his student walked around the table and sat in front of him on the polished surface; his arched brow was significant enough to voice his question without words: head cocked to the side, gaze slanted, lips quirked upwards in silent invitation. And, much to his amusement, his pupil answered the inquiry by the plastering of a sly grin on his face, folding his arms against his chest in complacence to hushed curiosity and a welcome gale that ghosted across his nape, so similar to the warmth he experienced not so long ago.
He asked unvoiced.
To have such a reply:
He shook his head in incredulity.