"You are insufferable."
Breathlessly laughing, Altair skimmed his lips across the other's nape, his hands fixated on the dips and angles of Malik's torso. "You like me that way."
A frown. "Vanity posses you, my friend." The Dai hissed when said male bit down none too gently onto his clavicle. "And stop this nonsense—I had thought the previous fulfillment of your proposition was enough to keep you sated."
"No, it is not enough."
"It is never enough."
The Grand Master firmly, but gently, grasped said being's wrists and ran his fingers over the veins, stopping minutely to loom over the tired man; he smothered the halfhearted protest with a teasing kiss, prying his lips open with his tongue, his chest pressed tight against the other's as he languidly rolled them over until Malik hovered above his mouth. Though the latter shot him another glare and reached for his sirwal, he was undeterred, and soon, a hand clasped the boneless forearm and brought it back onto the rug sans restraint. His counterpart's struggles were halfhearted, posing a minor scuffle at best, allowing Altair to perceive the ridges of a spine and the curve of his buttocks, to bury his face into the crook of his neck. Slowly, he mapped the contours of his companion's facet in lucid familiarity: the high nose, his cheeks, brushing along the angle of the line of his jaw, adamant in memorizing how the slope of his brow accentuated eyes that bore into his.
His gaze spoke volumes. "I must have you once more."
"Zarba," the other responded, grinding his teeth when the assassin trailed his lips lower and lower. "You have had me."
"I will have you." A breath. "Again and again."
"Thus, speak your last."
"And only feel."