One Way or Another

by SeventhStrife

Summary:

Altair can sniff out a conspiracy in a second, and the Grand Master's son has his singular attention; Desmond's just trying to make it through the week with a vague, hopeless prayer that he'll be left alone.

Chapter 1

Notes:

ever since I discovered bdsm AUs, I've never been normal. not that I've ever been normal LOL

"How long must we stay here?"

Transparent distaste colored Malik's tone; Altair smiled.

"We've only just landed, Malik," he reminded his friend with a clap on his shoulder.

Malik scowled. "And?"

Altair shook his head as a rush of fondness swept over him.

Bags in hand, they continued their good-natured bickering, elbowing and smirking as they walked through the seemingly endless halls of JFK airport in their pursuit of the exit.

Altair could admit, privately, that he wasn't thrilled about the nature of their trip. Missions, he was more than happy to travel abroad for—he had actually just finished one in Hong Kong. Target eliminated, intel gathered, it had ultimately resulted in a very satisfying, educational trip.

Here, though, summoned to the Assassin headquarters for the indoctrination ceremonies—he understood the necessity of it all, of welcoming new brothers and sisters in a joyful gathering, witnessed by Mentors the world over, but it was also a lot of talking, a lot shaking hands, a lot of politics. 

Altair much preferred his little slice of home, surrounded by his work and his people and the assurance of a never-ending list of tasks awaiting his hands. But being Mentor meant he had to make these appearances, at times. He did not begrudge them, but he did not greet them happily, either. He was grateful he was allowed a guest and that Malik had been gracious enough to accept being pulled away from his own duties.

Though he seemed determined to complain every moment of every day until they were back home. Altair found he did not mind this.

As they stepped outside, Altair made his peace with his situation. Socializing and getting to know his brothers and sisters across the world—there were far worse things that could be occupying his time. He needed to keep that in mind.

"Altair?"

A man was striding up to them, and though his voice had been questioning, he looked sure and confident as a genial smile stretched his lips.

Altair knew the man was an Assassin, sent to retrieve him, but he did not love how some stranger approached him by name while he knew nothing. 

But it's something I will have to get used to, Altair sighed to himself.

"Hello," he greeted calmly, and then they shook, in the Assassin way—hands clasping at the inner part of the upper arm, where they could feel one another's hidden blades.

"It's nice to meet you," the man greeted pleasantly enough. He was older than Altair by a decade or two, hard to place other than 'middle-aged'. His beard was flecked with grey, but he was tall and his handshake was strong and firm, and while there were wrinkles at his eyes, there was an air about him that was youthful, that meant he could be anywhere between his late thirties to early fifties, even. 

He met Altair's eyes, but didn't do any posturing or seemed to challenge him; a Switch, Altair was sure.

"Welcome to America," he continued, giving Malik the same handshake. Malik just nodded and he stepped back, gesturing over his shoulder with a set of keys he pulled from thin air. "I'm Gavin, Gavin Banks. You need no introduction, obviously, but who's your friend?"

"Malik," Mailk introduced himself simply.

"He is my second," Altair clarified. 

That earned him a brief raise of the eyebrows, but no comment.

"Well, nice to meet you both." Gavin strode quickly down the sidewalk where a dark green jeep was idling with the caution lights blinking. His pace was swift, but he didn't seem tense or particularly urgent, just as if he was used to forward momentum, of going from one task to the next as efficiently as possible. Altair was familiar with the feeling. "I'm to take you to HQ, get you settled before you meet the Grand Master—unless you have any other stops you need to make?"

"No."

"Good, good; you can just throw your stuff wherever."

Gavin kept up a steady stream of chatter as he drove them away from the bustle of the city and into more rural areas. Altair did not speak much, but Gavin did not seem to mind, giving Altair the idle hope that word of his reticence had spread even here, and that he would be spared any expectations of small talk. 

Even as the buildings grew scant and the trees more prevalent, Gavin did not stop. In fact, a dirt road took them through a heavily forested area that opened, quite abruptly, to the sea at large and a ferry. Altair's eyebrows rose as Gavin drove them right up the small, lowered ramp of the boat.

He parked and turned off the car in a few quick movements, then flashed Altair a smile. "Okay, almost there. I'm gonna talk to the captain real quick." He glanced back at Malik and said, "If you guys want to stretch your legs, feel free. Ride's gonna be another half-hour or so before we get there."

They took his advice and climbed out of the car as Gavin headed across the wooden planks to where a small captain's cabin abutted the landing. He disappeared within the tinted windows.

"I wasn't expecting a boat," Malik said thoughtfully. He moved to the side of the ferry and rested his arm on the railing, gaze on the horizon, where the water seemed to stretch endlessly.

"Neither had I," Altair admitted, joining him. It made sense, however. In a city as big as New York, basing the Assassin compound on a private island was exactly what he would have chosen. The last time he had come to such a gathering, it had been in a completely different part of the country, but in a location just as remote.

"How long do we have to be here?"

Altair's lips curled at the swift return of his friend's pessimism.

"A week." He paused, remembering the last time he'd come to an Initiation ceremony, years and years ago when he'd just started rising through the ranks. The Assassins had only grown since then. "No more than two."

"Two weeks," Malik echoed unhappily. He frowned across the water, then sighed. "I can hardly imagine the kind of trouble you will stir up in such a time."

Altair shot Malik a look, half-exasperated, half-indignant. Malik met it with a rather flat expression.

"Am I wrong, Mentor?"

"You are," Altair said, voice hard. Sometimes it felt like Malik still saw him as the impulsive, brash man he used to be. Years had gone by since then. He had changed—they both had changed. "We're among allies, anyways. Our time here will be nothing but peaceful."

Malik sighed like Altair had just said something terrible. 

"I know," Malik agreed grimly. "I give it two days before you're climbing the walls or challenging novices to fights. Nothing good follows when you are bored."

The urge to snap at Malik, to remind him that he was, in fact, Mentor, was great, but he pushed it down—if for no other reason than to not prove Malik right.

Instead, he turned his gaze forward, where the opposite end of the ferry was pointed to an island that slowly grew larger and larger as they crept ever closer. 

"You worry too much."

Malik huffed. "I worry just as much as I should. I've known you my entire life."

Altair decided not to dignify that with a response.

In the silence that settled, he instead turned his attention to the gentle lap of water against the ferry, the chirp of birdsong and the rustle of wind through his hair when he lowered his hood. The moment was calm and pleasant, and he knew to appreciate the quiet and the tranquil stillness around him. His brother was at his side, and he was soon to be enveloped in the welcoming walls of his Order. He led a good life.

Malik and Altair lingered outside, comforted by the companionable silence, until footsteps approached and drew them from their contemplation.

"Almost there," Gavin announced, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, where the island, and the structure upon it, loomed. It looked like a fort of some sort, crawling with thick, lush vines that allowed brave peeks of gray stone to peek out. Altair already itched to explore it. 

Perhaps this was the 'trouble' Malik referred to, but what harm could be found in walking the grounds of an Assassin compound? None, that was the answer. 

Malik really did worry too much.

Before long, the ferry began to dock, and Gavin called them back over to the car. Altair lingered for one last moment at the boat's edge, knowing the next time he'd get to enjoy it, he would be returning home.

That was when his eyes caught on a figure near the shoreline.

As far as he could tell, it was a man. He was dressed plainly in dark shoes and jeans, and wore a bright white jacket with a hood pulled low over his face. He was reclined on the beach, posture easy as anything, but his head was turned Altair's way, tracking the boat's progress. 

Altair watched him back, curious, but though it had to be obvious he was looking over, the Assassin did not raise an arm in greeting or acknowledge him at all past the staring.

"Altair, time to go!" 

The call pulled his attention away and he climbed back into the passenger seat of the jeep before Malik could chide him. When he glanced back at the beach, the man was gone, even though his back had only been turned for a few scant seconds.

Strange. 

Altair supposed they would meet in time.

Notes:

the compound described in this fic was inspired by Fort Montgomery Island. for a mere pittance of 1.4 million, YOU can be the owner of this beautiful piece of history~

Chapter 2

Desmond didn't say anything when Layla climbed up and joined him just a branch down in the tree he was lounging on, but her greeting words made him frown.

"Your dad's looking for you."

"He say why?"

Layla shifted where she sat, swinging her leg over so she straddled the tree limb. 

"Meet and greet, I think. Some more big shots came in."

Desmond knew, he'd seen the ferry coming in. He'd fled to the beach in search of a quiet place to be alone and had even managed a solid half-hour or so, but then he'd seen the boat coming in, the latest members of their order to join the merry celebration.

He'd stayed there long enough to gauge numbers, see if it was anyone he'd recognized. But all he'd seen was Gavin's jeep, the guy sitting in the back, calling out to his friend at the ferry's side, and the other guy who'd caught sight of Desmond and seemed for a moment as if he was sussing him out just the same. 

He'd turned away, and Desmond used the opportunity to flee. He'd tucked himself up into the biggest tree he could find, hoping to be gone long enough he could skip the umpteenth introduction to this-or-that Assassin, Mentor, Apprentice, whatever. 

But, of course, his father knew him well enough to know he'd try to duck out of it. Of course, he'd sent Layla to find him.

And because only Layla was around to judge him, Desmond groaned, whiny and aggrieved. He let his head thunk against the rough bark at his back, barely cushioned by his hood.

"I know," Layla said sympathetically. "I could say I couldn't find you?"

It was a nice offer, but Desmond didn't want to put her in that position. Besides, while he hated the posturing, he wasn't a baby. He could do his duty, even if he didn't much see the point.

"No," he sighed. "It's fine. I'm coming."

So, back down to Earth he went. Layla walked back with him into the fort, and even though he already felt bored to tears, knowing he'd be stuck here for the next few weeks, he was glad the scenery, at least, was nice.

Okay, it was actually really fucking cool. An old fort, converted into an Assassin compound, and quickly rising the ranks as one of Desmond's favorite bases to date. It had been built in like, the 1800s or some shit, and while the gray stone exterior was weather-beaten and half-covered by thick ivy, it was still strong and an impressive sight to see. Desmond had explored it as much as he was able between his duties around the keep and dodging unwanted attention, but inside and out, there was so much to see, so much to discover. 

Even if he had to put up with a fair share of bullshit, he loved this place. He loved the giant courtyard in the heart of the fort, with its plush carpet of green grass, where Assassins of all ranks trained and sparred at all hours. He loved the rich red brick that domed the ceiling inside and the matching arches that kept the place from feeling too militant or sterile. He loved the forest that covered every available inch of the island, where he could disappear within a matter of seconds and hear the gentle lap of the sea from anywhere he stood.

It sure as shit beat the old compound in South Dakota, that was for fucking sure.

"You eaten yet?"

Desmond thought about it as their feet met concrete and one of the large, open gates to the fort welcomed them. "No."

"Meet me for lunch after, 'kay? You can give me all the hot gossip."

Desmond laughed, a short bark of amusement. "You got it."

Inside, the thick stone walls kept the fort a cool temperature and warm light fixtures in the ceiling helped it feel a bit more welcoming. He and Layla split up not far out and she gave him a salute before heading towards the large cafeteria, where faint notes of cooked meat greeted his nose. 

He forced his reluctant feet in the opposite direction, deeper into the fort and towards the entrance, keeping his eyes peeled for any movement lurking in the shadows, wary of any...surprises.

But he made it through the fort without any interruption, nodding politely or waving to passersby who greeted him. He didn't relax, because lulling himself into a false state of security was just asking for trouble, but he was glad he didn't have to deal with any bullshit right before seeing his dad. Something would show on his face, his dad would ask questions, it would suck.

When he got to the open archway of the fort's entrance, his father stood near the main gate, already shaking hands with two men Desmond didn't recognize. Gavin stood to the side, smiling as amiably as ever, but when his gray eyes glanced up to meet Desmond's, his smile grew a few degrees warmer and more genuine.

Gavin held his arm slightly away from his body, fingers closed in a fist, and Desmond bumped it with his own when he was close enough. 

"Desmond," his father greeted, turning slightly to the side as Desmond came up behind him. He clapped a broad, warm hand on Desmond's shoulder and smiled at him, small and slight, but no less genuine.

He might hate all the talking and politics, but it wasn't the worst thing he'd been forced to endure. Not by a long shot.

"Just in time," William Miles continued, and he gave Desmond's shoulder a little squeeze. "This is Altair, Mentor of the Syrian Brotherhood. And his second, Malik. Gentlemen, this is my son, Desmond."

Desmond fought the instinct to dislike them on sight, purely because they were both Doms. It wasn't obvious, but Desmond just knew. He always did.

But, that wasn't fair, judging someone based on their orientation. Besides, it was interesting that this Mentor had another Dom as his second-in-command. Almost unheard of, actually. His dad was the Grandmaster, out-ranked every single Assassin within the Order, and even his second, Gavin, was a Switch. 

Desmond made sure his face didn't show an ounce of his curiosity, though, only held out his hand and shook like he was expected to.

"Welcome," Desmond said amiably, and made sure he didn't cringe or break eye contact with either handshake; he was well-practiced at pretending he wasn't a Sub. 

It was still a struggle, though, not to bristle as the other two seemed to size him up. The Mentor—Altair—met his gaze neutrally, but there was something a bit too searching in his amber eyes, like he could tell something was off with Desmond.

That was just the paranoia talking, Desmond knew. He still dropped Altair's hand the second it was socially acceptable to do so.

His SiC, Malik, was marginally more tolerable, inclining his head and adding a polite, "A pleasure," where his friend had been completely silent. 

Desmond would be so glad when all of this would be over and he could go back to the steady, calming routine of hiding his secret from a small team instead of the entire Order.

Introductions over, Desmond stepped back while William spoke a few moments more, cordial and distant. Nothing Desmond hadn't heard dozens of times already, but his dad was interrupted by Gavin not far into the pleasantries, lowering a hand from his ear.

"William," he said, quiet, and his dad turned his head slightly Gavin's way with a nod.

"Yes," William acknowledged, and he gestured to Desmond. "Desmond will escort you to your rooms. If you'll excuse me?"

Less of a question than a statement, William strode away, Gavin just a step behind. Desmond repressed the urge to sigh. Sure, there were plenty of people who could play tour guide, who'd probably be happy to do it, but there were politics involved here, even he could see that. Being shown around by the Mentor's son communicated a certain esteem.

Desmond really, really hoped these were the last two.

He jerked his chin back the way he came. "This way."

Feeling like an underpaid museum docent, Desmond gave them a brief tour, showed them where they ate, the courtyard where they sparred, the hall where they would hold the induction ceremonies. There were countless more rooms, but as Assassins, there was a certain expectation that they would seek out the entire layout of the island on their own, no need for Desmond to spoil the thrill of discovery.

"And this is it," Desmond said, lightly tapping the final doorway with his fist. This wing of the fortress was all sleeping quarters, and he pointed first at the door he stood beside, and then the one opposite. "These two are yours."

Altair nodded while Malik considered the first room with a curious glance. 

"Dinner's from—" Motion caught his eye, made Desmond glance over their shoulders and down the hall. A shadow, already retreating around the corner. Desmond's brow furrowed. The sensation of being watched crept over him. "Uh, five to eight," he said, smoothly moving past the slight hiccup. "If you need anything, just ask, I'll be around."

"Thank you, we'll keep that in mind," Malik said, and with a nod, he slipped into the room across the hall. Probably eager to sit down and be done with all this formal stuff. 

When Desmond looked at Altair, he was glancing back at Desmond, away from the same hallway that had drawn his own attention. 

Shit. This guy was pretty observant, even by Assassin standards.

"All right, well, I've got to go." Desmond backed up, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. This dude was weird. "I'll see you."

"Hm," was all Altair said. His eyes were narrowed in an otherwise unreadable face, thinking who knew what. 

Desmond turned around, made himself walk at a casual, normal pace. Between the shadow he'd seen and the eyes on his back, the urge to sprint from one problem to the next was hard to ignore.

Whatever, Desmond thought, dismissing Stare-y from his mind. He had another, far more immediate problem to focus on.

The hallway ended at a T, back the way he came on one end, and to the more public, open areas like the courtyard on the other end. The shadow he'd seen had slinked away towards the latter.

Desmond had only walked a few feet when the sensation of being watched sharpened all at once, and then he was being grabbed.

It wasn't a particularly harsh grab, nor did red flash in his vision, but the instinct to retaliate had him moving, bringing up his free hand for a punch since his hidden blade was trapped—

The yank pulled him into a cold, empty room. Pressed him close to a warm body, the fading sunlight from the small window bouncing off the familiar glint of a piercing.

Daniel Cross smiled at him, sly and smug.

"Hey, Desmond."

Fucking...!

"You tryin' to die?" Desmond asked, trying to will his heartbeat to slow, keeping his face calm so Daniel didn't get the satisfaction of seeing him scared.

"Every day," Daniel said, easily. His hold shifted, releasing Desmond's arm so he could settle a hand on his waist. Loose. Possessive. "You're not living unless you're about to die."

"Wow. You're so profound. Did you get that from a fortune cookie or something?" Desmond tried to shove Daniel away with an elbow, scowling. "And let go of me!"

"What's the hurry? You're done babysitting, right?"

Had Daniel been watching him?

Stupid question. But for how long? Cold unease prickled his skin. 

"That doesn't mean I want to babysit you."

Daniel chuckled, like Desmond's attempts to get away were cute. He reeled Desmond in a little more, mouth brushing over his ear. "I had something else in mind."

"Absolutely not," Desmond shot down immediately. He managed to break Daniel's hold on him and take two quick, big steps back. He glared so Daniel would know he meant it. "That was one time, Daniel."

"Ugh." Daniel's head rolled back with the force of a groan. "Yeah, and? You're here, I'm here, why not take advantage?"

"Goodbye, Daniel."

Desmond marched back out, grateful no one was around to witness him leaving an empty room with Daniel fucking Cross soon to leave after. 

"Can't run forever!" Daniel called behind him. Desmond's shoulders met his ear; he picked up his pace.

He didn't slow until he reached the cafeteria. He scanned the room and when he found Layla in the far corner of the room, eyes glued to her phone where she sat alone eating, he went straight to her table and plopped down at her side with a weary sigh.

"Oh, hey," Layla greeted. Her dark eyes searched Desmond's face and a slight frown turned down her lips a moment later. "That bad, huh?"

In answer, Desmond sagged against her, head on her shoulder. He pulled up his hood, craving the peace the slight shadow would give him.

Daniel on his ass, and this new guy who looked at him like he'd never heard of blinking. 

I just have to make it to the ceremony. I can last that long. Then it was back to the bliss of solo missions and silence.

"You have no idea," Desmond muttered.

Chapter 3

Notes:

today's update was brought to you by a very cool person (you know who you are lol)! thanks for your patience and I hope you enjoy! <333

For the first few days at the compound, Altair took the time to familiarize himself with his new surroundings.

The Assassins had always been an organization that prioritized self-sufficiency, so he and Malik were quickly drafted to help with the workload around the island. They were simple tasks, cleaning and helping to cook the meals, supervising the training grounds when the younger recruits ran through their drills; simple, yet satisfying work, menial tasks he hadn't performed in so long it made him nostalgic for his days as a Novice.

But he still found himself with a lot of free time since there were so many people at hand to share the burden. As Assassins, it was only natural that they accepted the unofficial invitation to explore, so that was what he and Malik did, mentally mapping out the old fortress, walking the shoreline as far as the forest would allow, and shaking many, many hands in the process.

He lost Malik quickly, however, when the archive room was discovered. One corner was a mass of computer banks, old hardware and servers that required a certain level of clearance to even access. But besides that, the rest of the open space was home to dozens of mismatched bookshelves, all of them crammed with books and documents, with only the vaguest attempt at organization, all devoted to history and languages and philosphy and old research—it seemed never-ending.

Malik had taken one step into the room, frozen, and then turned to Altair with a familiar gleam in his eye.

"This is where I leave you, my friend," Malik said simply. "Come find me if you're suffering from some mortal injury."

The warning to not bother Malik unless he was dying was heard loud and clear. Altair smirked. 

"Is there a reason we can't share the room?" Altair was no stranger to books, either.

Malik arched a brow. "You can't expect me to spend two entire weeks with you always at my side?" Malik sounded as if just the thought disgusted him. "Altair, you are not just my friend, but my brother as well." He clapped a hand on Altair's shoulder. "And if I'm forced to see your face for too long, I will punch it."

"You know, you're hardly such great company yourself."

Malik shrugged affably, a sly smile on his lips as he walked away. "My point exactly. If you must weep in my absence, be courteous enough to do it somewhere quietly."

After that, Altair's schedule altered slightly to include a few extra trips to the archive to pry Malik away from his books and the new, like-minded friends he'd met since. He'd scowl so mightily until Altair reminded him that he had to eat just like the rest of humanity.

Altair settled quickly, enjoying the brief respite. Away from his usual duties as Mentor, it was almost as if he was on vacation and he had every intention of enjoying himself until the ceremonies were over.

Everything about being within the fold of his people, normally flung across the world and now gathered in one place, would have felt completely idyllic—if not for the Grand Master's son.

His first few days in the compound, Altair only caught fleeting glimpses of him. Desmond Miles was a man always on the move, always engrossed in conversation with someone though Altair hardly ever caught him speaking to the same person twice. He'd flash a smile, a wave, and he'd be gone just as fast. Altair wondered what could keep an Assassin so busy when he was stranded on an island, away from any of their typical work.

And there was also Desmond's strange behavior when they'd first met. A glance was usually all it took for Altair to know someone's designation, but Desmond proved...gratingly elusive. Sub, Switch, Dom—he exhibited traits of all, yet didn't neatly fit into any of those boxes. He'd lowered his gaze in his father's presence, yet looked Altair and Malik straight in the eyes when they'd shaken hands. He'd been easy-going yet wary, friendly enough but always looking over his shoulder, like he was waiting to be attacked even though he was surrounded by allies.

He was hiding something, certainly, and while part of Altair knew it was none of his business, the mystery intrigued. Besides, what sort of secret did the son of the Grand Master need to guard? Surely it affected the whole Order, but Altair could hardly guess the nature of it.

The only thing that stopped Altair from taking a personal interest and actively investigating was how it would look if he were caught. A Master, prying into the affairs of the Grand Master's son? It wasn't a good look, and just the thought that someone might assume he had aspirations to replace William—no, intriguing or not, no one was worth that attention, not even the Grand Master's son.

That was what Altair had resolved, and then one day he found his curiosity was too great to deny.

Altair and Malik made their usual trek to the cafeteria as they did each morning, yawning and trading half-hearted jabs to wake the other up. The cafeteria was already full by the time they arrived even though it was barely morning. Plenty of people sat at the tables or perched sleepily on the thick cushions placed on the floor; lethargic Subs being happily fed at their Dom's knees. A familiar and comfortable sight, but one that also made him miss the comfort of his own Bureau.

"Altair! Malik! You're here!" 

The greeting came from a friendly face and they by-passed the line to meet her near the register, accepting their trays with grateful smiles. 

"Thank you, Layla."

"Thanks."

Layla handed them their food with a shrug, smiling. "We gotta look out for each other, right?" 

It was what she always said, and even on days when she wasn't working in the kitchen she still ensured the three of their meals were prepared halal; she seemed to enjoy eating with them, too, and had been the first to make the effort to break the ice with them past the usual greetings.

"Will you be joining us, Layla?" Malik asked politely as she handed them their trays. 

"Ah, not today," she said, surprising them. "Next time, for sure."

Layla had eaten with them every day since their arrival and didn't seem to be on friendly terms with anyone else in the Order. They both blinked at her, but Altair recovered first.

"Then we'll see you later," he said, nodding.

"Yeah," Layla agreed, smiling. She gave them a two-fingered salute. "Later."

They found a quiet corner to eat—Malik kicked away the pillows near his seat irritably—and passed their time mostly in silence, early enough they were both still waking up. And without Layla around they felt no need to make small talk. 

Altair surveyed the room out of habit, taking in how all walks of life had sworn the creed of their Brotherhood, taking in everyone from the hardened veterans to the bright, nervous youths who were excitedly awaiting the induction ceremony. 

He frowned when he saw Layla duck away from her duties at the serving line with a tray. It was near over-flowing with food, far more than he'd ever seen her eat in one sitting, and the fact that she found a small, two-person table to sit at when she'd rejected his and Malik's offer of companionship was just as baffling.

A harsh nudge made him glance aside. 

"You're staring," Malik commented, not looking up from his own meal.

"It's weird," Altair said, glancing back up. "Why sit alone? I doubt we've offended her."

Malik shrugged, but he darted a quick glance of his own. Altair recognized the concern in his gaze, even if he didn't admit as much out loud.

"It's not so strange that she would want to eat in peace. Try not to take it personally."

"I'm not," Altair said honestly. "It's just...weird."

"True," Malik agreed, "But still not our business. If—"

Malik cut himself off, eyes narrowing, and Altair followed his sightline.

What caught his gaze was no one other than Desmond, ducking into the cafeteria like a ghost, hood up, ducking and weaving past people, making every effort to go unnoticed. If not for the fact that Malik's attention was already directed that way and Desmond's obvious bee-line to Layla, they might have missed him, too.

They were some distance away, but it was easy to see the way a wide, pleased smile pulled up Layla's lips when Desmond dropped into the seat across from her. She'd jumped, slightly, when he'd flopped against the table, which only proved Altair's earlier observation that he'd moved through the room with every intention of being overlooked.

But his body language and air changed the moment he sat down. He roughly shoved his chair so that they sat side-by-side and he swiped an apple off her tray, throwing himself into some animated story. He sagged in his seat as he spoke, looking almost comically weary as Layla laughed at his side.

It was no easy feat to hide one's presence amidst this many Assassins, yet Desmond had done it with ease. How had an Assassin of his caliber gone unnoticed for this long?

The mysteries surrounding this man only seemed to grow.

Another jab, this one much harsher, made Altair look away with a scowl.

"Stop it," Malik scolded.

"Stop what?" Altair asked, scowling right back. "I am just sitting here."

Malik looked disgruntled.

"You have that look on your face. Leave it."

"What look?!"

Malik only frowned harder. "I know you, Altair, and I know that face; it means nothing but trouble. For my sake, leave it."

"Have I said anything?"

Malik shook his head. "And that is supposed to appease me? You've always been a man of action, Altair."

Stabbing at his food, Altair made a private note to set Malik up with some sort of therapist when they got back home; he foresaw disaster in the slightest things.

But the subtle warning wasn't without justification; they were here as representatives, nothing more, here to witness the newest generation of Assassins join their ranks, to socialize and meet with Brothers and Sisters across the world to forge even stronger bonds. The Grand Master's son couldn't serve to be anything more than a dangerous distraction.

But even though Malik had been the one to advise caution, Altair noticed he kept his eyes on Desmond and Layla just as much as Altair did. Malik pretended to be uninterested, but he could not deny being just as intrigued by the strange paradox that Desmond presented, especially now that it seemed he was close with Layla, a woman they'd recently befriended.

As Altair ate, he took careful note of the way Desmond easily polished off a good portion of the food from Layla's overfilled tray, yet never made a move to retrieve his own. A habit, probably, that spoke to the closeness of their bond, that Layla would simply grab extra food rather than expect Desmond to grab his own. His smiles were easy and happy around her, completely different from the friendly yet distant ones he'd given Altair when he'd given them their tour. Desmond kept his hood up, however, and never seemed to stop moving, always tapping his foot or shifting his seating position or tapping a hand against the table.

And then, barely ten minutes into his observation, Gavin Banks entered the cafeteria. It was clear he had business with Desmond, who straightened at the sight of the man like someone had yanked on an invisible rope. It took Gavin a few moments to reach him, however, pausing almost every other step as nearby Subs arched towards him for affectionate touches, their Doms nodding at him in greeting. Gavin seemed to be regarded as some exotic creature, but as a Switch, Altair supposed he was used to the treatment. One in fifty, wasn't it? 

Desmond watched him approach leisurely, still eating; perhaps he was used to this sight, as well. And then Gavin was there, and as he spoke to Desmond, Desmond nodded calmly, taking the paperwork Gavin offered as he licked some last traces of food off his thumb. He stood and Layla, still seated, frowned unhappily, a bitter twist to her lips.

Altair wished he was closer so he could hear, but all he could glean from Gavin's apologetic expression and Layla's annoyed one was that his interruption was unwelcome, but not uncommon. And Desmond appeared to placate them both with raised hands. He winked, and then Desmond was gone.

Barely a second later, a man rose from a seat near the doorway and followed, a dark hood hiding his features. It was obvious he intended to shadow Desmond without his knowledge.

Altair stood. "Malik."

Malik sighed wearily. "I'm with you."

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

Ugh. More fuckin' files.

Desmond understood the necessity of not calling someone the wrong name during the initiation, but was it necessary to memorize all the Mentors, their SiCs, and any persons of interest?! His brain was gonna explode.

Still, it beat the last few days of having to introduce himself and shaking hands for the hundredth-thousandth time. Forcing himself to make enough-but-not-too-much eye contact over and over again was exhausting. He'd take studying and getting some actual peace over that any day. 

I need to find a better hiding place, he grumbled to himself. Between Gavin and Layla, they always managed to find him eventually, and moving around would only get him caught faster. It figured though, between his best friend and the man who'd raised him more than his actual father had, no one knew him better.

A challenge would be good for all of them, Desmond thought, brightening. He'd have to demand they give him a prize for every hour they searched, too. Their desserts, for sure. Bragging rights, of course. A favor, even? Favors were among the hottest commodities Assassins could trade amongst each other, and if he could get one from Gavin, maybe he could get an honest vacation after this circus as a reward for good behavior.

He was so focused on coming up with a good enough line to get his dad to send him to the Bahamas that he almost forgot why he was so stressed in the first place.

Desmond came to an abrupt halt in the middle of an empty hallway. Thin, narrow windows cut into the stone overhead let in the morning light, but this side of the compound was mostly used for storage. 

Fuck. He'd automatically headed for the quieter side of the fortress and only realized now that he'd perfectly isolated himself without even trying to obscure his trail. Nice one, Miles.

Desmond turned around. "What do you want?"

"Damn," Daniel said, smiling. From beneath his hood, the glowing ember of his cigarette flared briefly as he slinked from the shadows, his usual, sly smile on his lips. "Was hopin' to find out where your little hiding place is."

Desmond glared as Daniel threw back his hood and ran a hand through his hair. Every step closer that Daniel took made Desmond lock his knees against the urge to step back. Couldn't give himself away.

"You think I'm hiding? From you?" Desmond scoffed.

"I know you are," Daniel pressed, grin widening. "It's cute." He came closer, his gray eyes flinty and focused. "Never pegged you as the type to play hard to get."

Unseen where he held them at his side, Desmond's fist clenched around the files. 

"What part of 'fuck off' is playing hard to get?"

"All of it?" Daniel blinked at him like he was being stupid.

He was so exhausting...but part of the reason Desmond had hooked up with him was because he was so...Daniel. Insufferable, but at least not in a Dom way. 

And it seemed like Daniel was deadset on making sure he regretted that choice for the rest of his life.

Desmond sighed, covering his face for a moment. "Daniel. Stop, seriously."

It was his fault for looking away. Daniel was in his space in a heartbeat, snaking a hand around Desmond's waist. The searching look Daniel was giving him, like he was an animal in a zoo, was freaking him out.

"I'll stop when you stop running."

"Daniel—!"

Desmond tried to elbow him away, but the grip at his waist grew tight enough to hurt.

"Shut up," Daniel said, and that steely, commanding tone made Desmond lock up for one horrifying moment, like his body stopped belonging to him. "And stop fighting me."

No! 

His wrist blade came out in a knee-jerk, panicked movement, but he made no move to attack. Instead, he pressed his thumb against the edge of the blade, hard.

The sharp sting of pain snapped him out of it and the warm trickle of blood over his skin kept him in the present.

"Don't try to order me, you fucking asshole," Desmond ground out as evenly as he could, forcing any fear from his voice. No one could know. "And quit grabbing me!"

Desmond managed to wrench himself away, his paperwork scattering on the floor. He glared, heart racing as he stared Daniel down. He needed to get out of here, now.

Daniel was scowling at him, a rare expression; he always seemed to be smirking, telling the world he was unbothered by anything thrown at him—but it seemed Desmond was a special exception. Lucky me.

Daniel took a threatening step forward. "I know—"

Footsteps nearby made them both snap their heads to the side.

Fuck. It was those two Assassins from the Masyaf branch, the ones Layla had been hanging out with—Mentor Altair and Mailk. Seeing Altair especially right now, eyes as piercing as ever, staring straight through him, made Desmond's stress levels reach new heights. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

There was a beat of tense, awkward silence as they all watched each other. The scattered paperwork, the hostile body language were easy enough to understand, not to mention the guilty, obvious way Daniel and Desmond had snapped to attention.

Altair crossed his arms, eyes cool.

"Are we interrupting something?"

Desmond glanced away, forcing out a slow exhale. "...No. No, Daniel was just leaving."

He could feel Daniel's gaze burning the side of his face. After a few seconds, Daniel scoffed. 

"Yeah, I guess I was."

Desmond kept his eyes on the ground as Daniel walked away, his shoulders slumping once even the footsteps were only a faint echo. He was going to have a heart attack before this fucking ceremony was over.

Annoyed and exhausted, Desmond knelt and awkwardly started gathering the scattered paper with one hand. The sooner he got away from here, the better.

"Make sure our friend finds his way," Desmond heard Altair say, and then Mailk's footsteps faded away too.

It was painfully awkward with Altair just watching him, probably expecting some sort of explanation, but Desmond ignored it. He was going to climb the highest tree on the island and his dad would have to drag him back down.

"Here," Altair said, and suddenly he was right there across from Desmond, sweeping up the papers deftly, eyes downturned.

Desmond froze for a split second, then jerked, hand half-raised to stop him, but he didn't dare actually touch.

"Oh, no—you don't have to—"

"It's fine," Altair said dismissively. It was a faster job when one had both hands to use and he plucked the pages Desmond had gathered to join his much neater stack. He stood, holding out his palm.

"Your hand."

"Uh—"

"You were obviously not using it for a reason." Altair's sharp eyes narrowed. "Let me see it."

This fucking guy, Desmond thought sourly, but he stood and raised his hand, showing his sliced, dripping thumb.

"It looks worse than it is," Desmond reassured quickly. It's nothing, it's nothing, it's nothing, he willed Altair to believe. He had enough on his plate without adding Altair on top of it all.

"A strange place for him to attack you," Altair mused, eyebrow raised.

"It was an accident." The throbbing was so minimal it didn't even count as a real injury.

"Hm." Altair stared at him like if he watched long enough, all of Desmond's secrets would reveal themselves. It made Desmond want to run for his life.

"Yeah, um. So." Desmond held out his hand. "I'm fine. I'll take that."

"You have bandages? A medic here?"

Desmond blinked. "Uh—yeah, there's someone, but the first aid kits are just in the other room," Desmond said, jerking a thumb back the way he came. "I can take care of this."

"Show me."

"What?"

Altair gestured the same way Desmond had pointed. "Show me the supplies."

"That's—you really don't—"

Altair walked away.

Desmond gaped at him for a few seconds, lost for words. But Altair walked confidently, like he had every intention of opening every door until he found the room, with or without Desmond's guidance.

Oh for fuck's sake!

He couldn't even ditch Altair since he had the fucking files. 

Desmond half-jogged to catch up, scowling. "You're a real hardass, you know that?"

Altair glanced at him. His lips twitched up the slightest bit. He didn't say anything, and it took Desmond a few seconds to realize he'd locked himself into some weird staring contest.

He looked away hurriedly. He really didn't like the way this guy looked at him.

"It's—it's over here."

When they got to the medicine closet and Desmond pulled out a kit and showed Altair with a See? expression, of course Altair had to be difficult about that too.

He took the small box, leafing through everything with an approving nod. "Good."

Altair said it calmly, he was saying it to the fucking box, but the satisfaction in his tone made a shiver race down Desmond's spine.

What the fuck? 

Altair was so obviously a Dom—he was confident and self-assured and didn't take no for an answer, but still. It wasn't like Desmond to be affected by something so slight...

He needed a drink.

"Hand."

Desmond, still mentally reeling, offered it without a second thought. Then, his actions caught up with him and he felt his cheeks burn. He tried to yank his hand back but Altair already had him in a firm grip, cleaning up the blood on his hand with a wipe.

"I can—"

"It is difficult to treat hand injuries by yourself," Altair said. "It will only take a moment."

Desmond opened his mouth. Closed it. He could argue more, but Altair had said it so flatly that it made him feel like a fussy, ungrateful kid to protest anymore. To Altair, this was just the logical thing to do.

That was the mindset Desmond tried to mirror, but it was...weird...having someone holding his hand so gently, fingertips light and surprisingly warm as they held Desmond's own. He found a shelf to focus on and glared at it uncomfortably. Making eye contact seemed impossible when they were so close; he felt like Altair would know everything at just a glance.

When Altair was finished, Desmond quickly pulled his hand back, just barely resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his pants to chase away Altair's body heat.

"Thanks." He sounded so tense and awkward, so unlike himself, but he was severely unsettled. He needed some alone time to clear his mind, desperately. "Am I allowed to go now?" he asked sarcastically, gesturing to the shelf where Altair had put the papers.

Altair made a low, considering sound under his breath, then reached over to pluck the files. He offered them silently.

Desmond grabbed them, eager to get out of here, then jerked to a stop when Altair wouldn't let go.

Desmond glared at him.

"Does that man harass you often?" Altair asked.

Wrong-footed, Desmond just looked at him for a moment, surprised. After the first few minutes, he'd figured Altair wasn't going to ask at all.

"No offense, but it's really none of your business."

"So, yes," Altair decided. The way he nodded, eyes focused on Desmond like he could read him so easily, pissed Desmond off.

"Look—"

"Are you not even going to say thank you?" Altair clicked his tongue, his tone scolding. "My friend and I intervened out of the kindness of our hearts, after all."

Desmond resisted the childish urge to kick Altair in the shin—but it was so, so close.

"Thank you so fucking much for sticking your nose in my business and dragging me here against my will," Desmond said acidly. A part of him felt bad for being such an asshole, but this guy made him defensive. He couldn't relax around Altair. "We good?"

To his mixed annoyance and surprise, Altair smiled. He released the files.

"See you later, Desmond."

The way he said it, like a promise, made a strong wave of—something—pass through him, making his breath catch. It almost felt like anticipation; he decided it was indigestion.

He suddenly felt in danger.

Desmond spun around, walking so fast he knew it made him look like he was running away; he didn't even care.

"No, you won't!" he called over his shoulder. He could feel Altair's eyes on him until he rounded the nearest corner.

Layla wasn't going to believe this shit.

Notes:

there's something so healing about writing a modern Assassin Order that is THRIVING. ubisoft could never lol also malik and altair's friendship is so funny to me, they deserve each other <3

 

 

desmond: i'd really like it if you accepted we just had a one-night stand and left me alone
daniel:

Chapter 4

Notes:

WHAT A FREAKING TIME I'VE BEEN HAVING!!!! JESUS!!!!! LOL

working a ton of overtime was one thing, but I had a family emergency pop up and I had to fly across the country on extremely short notice lol! this is just my second day back, but I'm hoping going forward, I can settle into a better writing schedule. we'll see. thanks so much for your patience! 💖

"You research this man as if he is a target," Malik pointed out, eyebrow raised.

Of course he is, Altair carefully didn't say. He saw no need to go out of his way to give Malik a reason to judge him. He'd already been treated to Malik's patented look of annoyed consternation when he'd accepted the files on Desmond he'd requested—there was no need to encourage Malik further.

"There is no harm in learning what I can," Altair said reasonably, leafing through the paperwork. Distantly, he was aware of Malik's grumblings, but he paid them no mind.

But after their last encounter, Altair's fascination, his focus, could very well be compared to the same attention he gave his assassinations. Just as with his targets, he wanted to know every detail possible before he saw Desmond again, he wanted to know where Desmond might be at any given time, who he spoke to, and who he trusted. If he had answers, if he could solve this, he might know peace.

So much of what he'd observed of Desmond was riddled with contradictions. He was the Grandmaster's son, yet seemed trusted only with grunt work. He had a flawless mission record, but had never been granted a rank above Novice. He seemed to know every Assassin on the island, yet no one could claim to know more than the most basic information about him. And Mailk, who had a talent for research and uncovering even the most well-hidden research, had barely been able to find any hard files on Desmond Miles at all.

The entire conundrum maddened and intrigued in a way that kept Altair from sleep. He didn't want to sleep. He couldn't recall the last time a person had interested him so much. 

Dominant, Rank 5. There it was in bold, stark ink, staring Altair in the face. Mid-level, Dominant enough to explain away all the times Desmond had argued with him, chin raised defiantly, eyes staring straight into Altair's. 

But there were the other things, too. The way Desmond obeyed commands if Altair gave them casually, without preamble. The distant, half-mast lid of his gaze when he didn't argue. The wary way he watched Altair, so desperate to seem unaffected. And when Desmond did challenge him, Altair didn't feel threatened, strangely enough. He felt more compelled to meet the challenge, to prove himself. He'd never wanted to go out of his way like this for anyone before.

Something was disquieting about the entire situation, something that hinted at more—not to mention the fact that Desmond was the Grandmaster's son; was this just a simple misunderstanding, or were these hints of something far darker? Altair was determined to find out. He had no tolerance for corruption.

Desmond's file was annoyingly sparse as well. Going back about five years, there were plenty of mission records and the like, but before that? Virtually nothing. He'd been raised among Assassins, then disappeared when he was fifteen, only to reappear again at age eighteen with no explanation to be found. Too young to have been undercover, but the files didn't mention anything about desertion... 

Three years, gone just like that. Whatever secret Desmond had, Altair would find answers there.

Without preamble, Alair closed the folder Malik had given him and slid it across the table as he stood.

"I am going for a walk," he announced. 

Malik frowned at him, dark eyes knowing and exasperated. He looked at Altair as if he foresaw disaster.

"Try to avoid any fights you can not win."

"There are no such fights," Altair smirked. 

Malik scowled at him.

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

"This is everything?"

"Yep," Layla agreed, plopping into the seat across from Desmond. Between them was the tablet and a flash drive she'd dropped off. "Everything I could find, at least, and it's a lot."

"You're telling me," Desmond muttered, already scrolling. He'd wasted no time plugging in the drive and pouring over the information, but his eyebrows flew up barely seconds into it.

Altair's files were—impressive, to say the least. They went back pretty far, this guy had been in the fight since he was a kid. He had a near-perfect record; no target had ever escaped him, and enough bloody feathers back in the Masyaf Bureau to stuff a California King. His dad making him greet Altair in person despite showing up so late made sense, now.

That was fine, but what worried Desmond was his designation—he was on the highest end of the Dominant spectrum, Rank 9.

Holy shit, Desmond thought, swallowing. No wonder he was so affected by Altair's slightest glance; they were perfect compliments.

Being around Altair was even more dangerous than he'd realized; not that he'd needed more convincing.

I just have to stay away, Desmond told himself. Beneath the small table, his knee bounced with rapid agitation. Easy. No problem.

"That bad, huh?" Layla asked, interrupting his pep talk.

With a groan, Desmond shoved the tablet away and rubbed at his face.

"Worse," he sighed. "But thanks for getting this. If I just—"

A faint sound alerted Desmond, and a moment later his vision washed gray.

He immediately snapped his head up, looking around Layla's room for the nearest exit—and his eyes landed on the window just a few feet overhead.

His eyes narrowed. It was long yet thin, but he felt confident he could squeeze through.

Without a word to a very bewildered Layla, Desmond raced across her room, used her bedside table as a springboard, and scrambled up and out of the window in the time it took to blink.

Outside, Desmond pressed himself against the wall in a crouch, his vision fuzzy as he watched a familiar silhouette step into Layla's room not a moment after he was settled.

"Cross?" he heard Layla ask, tone somewhere between surprised and annoyed. "Ever heard of knocking, asshole?"

"Yeah, yeah, my bad." Desmond could only see the general form of Daniel through the wall, but it was enough to make out the way he shrugged, and he knew enough about Daniel to know he was rolling his eyes. "I was just lookin' for someone."

"Right." Layla, glowing a bright, comforting blue, crossed her arms. "Now that I'm thinking about it, he told me to give you a message if you stopped by."

Desmond's brows came together. 

"Oh, yeah?" Daniel sounded amused. "What was it?"

Thank god Desmond's weird ability let him see through walls; Layla's reply was silent, but Desmond had no trouble seeing the finger she raised.

God, I love her.

Daniel huffed. "Funny."

"I thought so," Layla replied cheerily.

Daniel left just as quickly as he'd come, but Desmond still waited a few beats before sliding back inside, just in case.

He landed with a soft thump and looked up to meet Layla's Raised Brow of Judgement.

Desmond felt his shoulders bow sheepishly. "Sorry about that..."

Layla leaned against the small table she was seated at, cheek pillowed on a fist.

"You can't keep this up forever, Des."

"Sure I can," Desmond said blithely, dropping down with a little bounce on her neatly made bed. He gave her a winning smile. "I'm getting better at it every day."

Layla seemed far from impressed. 

"Why don't you just kill him?"

"HA! Don't tempt me..."

Layla cracked a smile. "If I didn't know Daniel better, I'd think he knows about you. Like, really knows."

"Ugh." Desmond fell backward on the bed, glaring at the ceiling, arms spread wide. "I know, it's been stressing me the fuck out."

That was his one saving grace in this whole clusterfuck of a situation. If Daniel really knew Desmond's secret, he wouldn't be bothering with chasing Desmond around the compound, trying to pressure him to hook up again; he'd just order Desmond. 

But all this relentless stalking was taking Desmond's paranoia to a whole new level. 

I'll just—avoid him, too. Easy.

Trying to keep one hell of a secret, and stuck on an island with two Doms on his ass. It sounded like the setup of a bad joke.

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

Staying on the move was key, and being alone was even better. Aside from studying the files his dad sent his way, he didn't have much to do until the actual ceremony—and since he could study anywhere, a tree was just as good a place as any.

Not that Desmond had brought any work with him any time he left the compound; but if he wanted to, he could. He just...didn't want to. It was nice seeing his fellow Assassins and being surrounded by people who were like him, but it was also a lot when he was so used to doing things solo. Sure, he joined teams for the odd mission here and there, but he mostly worked alone. And being the Grandmaster's son put him under a lot more scrutiny than he'd been prepared for. Any time he could snatch away from everyone was far too precious to waste on work.

Besides, it was so peaceful out here. Just the wind in the trees, the call of birds, the faint sound of the gentle waves lapping at the shore, only a short walk away—it was only when he got away like this that Desmond felt like he could finally breathe.

Desmond wasn't sure how much time he'd lost to relaxing, idly daydreaming of a good drink and a safe little hideout far, far from anyone, when he heard the faint sound of footsteps close by.

He assumed it was Layla, here on his dad's orders to drag him back. He cracked open his eyes and looked down, a wry smile on his lips—only to freeze, wide eyes staring straight into Altair's.

For a moment, there was only silence, surprised and tense.

Recovering, heart racing, Desmond frowned. 

"...Go away."

To his never-ending annoyance, instead of frowning back, Altair smiled. It was just a tiny quirk of the lips, but it was there all the same, taunting Desmond.

"I didn't realize this was your personal forest," Altair said mildly. 

Desmond just frowned harder. "I was here first."

It was such a childish thing to say, but Desmond was here first, dammit! He'd had to be one of the first people on this stupid island to help his dad out, and he'd be the last to leave; he was stuck here working all the time, trapped between his dad and Daniel fucking Cross, stealing what time he could away from it all so he didn't scream. Having to deal with Altair on top of it all just wasn't fair.

Instead of replying, Altair just stared up at him, his smile already gone. With that usual inscrutable expression on his face, Desmond felt the urge to run away. He never knew what to do when he was looked at like that...

Altair crossed his arms. "What are you? Really?"

"...What?"

"Your rank," Altair clarified, making Desmond's heart stop. "You don't strike me as a Five. Nowhere close."

Mouth dry, Desmond stared down at Altair with wide eyes. No one had ever suspected, before. He'd slept with Daniel, and even he didn't.

"That's," Desmond forced the words out, struggling to stay calm and not panic, give himself away. "That's pretty fucking rude, telling me I don't fit my designation."

"It is," Altair acknowledged. His eyes flashed up to meet Desmond's, unrepentant. "You don't seem offended." His eyes narrowed. "You seem scared."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fucking fuck!

Altair was way too fucking observant for his own good. Just the thought of being found out made Desmond feel sick. All this work to hide it, only to be found out so easily...

Wiping his face of emotion, Desmond glanced away. 

"You're overthinking it," he said flatly. "If you think I'm weird, I'm probably just shifting."

If Desmond really was a Rank 5, he'd be well within the range for a shift. He was getting close to thirty, and his last "test" had been a few years ago. Most people who fell within the median ranges of Ranks tended to shift more than once. Factors varied, simply personal growth, or the influence of a partner, maybe nothing in particular, but being mid-ranked meant a person was a lot more flexible. Any number of things could influence someone to stray more Dominant or Submissive, it was all pretty subjective—unless they were ranked on the highest level, like Altair was.

Like Desmond was.

"Perhaps..."

Luckily, Altair sounded like he believed Desmond—and why shouldn't he? That made much more sense than Desmond being a complete Submissive and hiding it; after all, who did that? As far as Desmond knew, he was the only person dumb enough to try. 

Their conversations had been consistently brief, but they never failed to completely upset Desmond's equilibrium. He leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, one leg stretched out on a thick branch, the other swinging free in a deceptively idle motion. His plan was to ignore Altair, leaning in on the 'offended' thing, and wait for him to leave.

That was the plan, but as the seconds stretched into minutes without so much as a footstep to signal Altair's leaving, Desmond had to glance down, confused and annoyed.

A frown marred Altair's normally calm, blank expression, something like genuine concern on his face.

Eye contact seemed to pull Altair from his contemplation.

"It...bothers me," Altair said, and his voice was quiet and troubled, like he was confessing something.

Despite himself, Desmond found his curiosity winning out over his need to be alone.

Wary, Desmond asked, "What bothers you?" 

Desmond had given him a pretty air-tight explanation, what else was there to be bothered by?

The furrow between Altair's brows grew deeper.

"All of it," Altair said heavily. "What I have seen of you around the compound. The harassment you face alone, the way you are always hounded by someone, always working, never—" Altair gave a short, frustrated sigh. "Never happy. And, for some reason, that. Bothers me." Finally, Altair glanced away—which was good, because Desmond couldn't control the way his jaw dropped. "I am not used to concerning myself so much with someone else, but each time I see you I am overwhelmed with this urge."

Heart racing, knowing he shouldn't ask, Desmond couldn't help but press, "...What urge?"

He regretted asking, being greedy, when Altair met his eyes again. No trace of hesitance or frustration to be found, only steely determination.

"To help you," Altair said, making Desmond's chest ache. "In some way. Any way."

Asking was a mistake. This entire conversation was a mistake. Desmond had to look away, but he couldn't help but feel like he'd already given himself away somehow.

But that offer of help, just because Altair felt the urge to—Desmond had to swallow. People didn't often look at Desmond and feel the urge to help him. Desmond was here to serve a purpose, that one point had been hammered into him so many times it felt like all he was. Desmond was the Grandmaster's son, expected to inherit an incredible legacy. Desmond had to complete his missions successfully, and be agreeable, and be a leader, and adaptable, and an Assassin above all else. He was useless if he needed help, his dad had raised him to not need anyone.

But even if he'd gotten really good at hiding it, at his core, Desmond was still a Sub. Even though he couldn't have it, he still wanted help, at least sometimes.

This also showed Desmond that Altair truly was Rank 9. Even if Altair didn't know the truth, his instincts were picking up on Desmond's true nature perfectly. He was the biggest threat to Desmond's life he'd ever encountered.

"I'm fine," Desmond said, voice perfectly calm. He gave a small affable shrug, even smiled. "Yeah, I'm busy right now," he admitted, "But it'll get better after the ceremony, so you don't have to worry about me, seriously."

"Then prove it."

The provoking words, as well as the hard, challenging way Altair said it, made Desmond look back down at him sharply, surprised.

"Huh?"

Altair uncrossed an arm and pointed at the ground. 

"Repeat yourself. Come down and look me in the eye when you say you are fine."

Desmond sputtered, unable to believe this guy.

"No!"

Altair just watched him, one brow raising. "Why? Because you are lying?"

Desmond glared. Why did he have to be so stubborn about this? He barely knew Desmond, why couldn't he take his word? Didn't Altair have any shame?

Evidently not, that fact became apparent the longer their glaring contest stretched on and Altair refused to budge even a little. He looked like he'd stand there all night if he had to.

Desmond broke eye contact, blowing out a harsh sigh. "For fuck's sake," he muttered, but he climbed down, if only to get Altair out of his hair sooner, willing to do whatever it took to get Altair to forget about him and move on with his life.

He landed on the forest floor with a muted thump, and as he straightened, he took a furtive breath, steeling himself.

Then he turned around and Altair was right there in front of him, barely a foot away. This close, it was easier to see Altair's eyes were more of a hazel color, almost a light gold. It just made his staring all the more intense.

"I appreciate the concern," Desmond said, and he meant it. Aside from Layla, maybe even Gavin, no one had ever bothered to worry about him. "But I really am fine, okay?"

There was a long pause, where Altair glared at him and Desmond forced himself to look completely normal and not at all like someone whose biggest secret was on the verge of being exposed.

And then Altair clamped a hand around Desmond's wrist.

Flinching, Desmond tried to pull back, but Altair yanked him closer, keeping him off balance so he couldn't escape.

"Hey—!"

"Say it again," Altair demanded, and his thumb swiped across Desmond's skin, pressed firmly on his pulse point. "And look at me."

A tangled riot of emotions erupted within Desmond; a hot flush of excitement from the commanding tone Altair used, the merciless eye contact, the firm, unrelenting hold Altair had on him, controlling his body, making him stay. It got worse when Desmond tried to pull free, how Altair kept him from escaping with one easy, inescapable tug, really cementing that Desmond was at his mercy.

Fuck.

Once the initial wave of pure instinct washed over him, indignance, embarrassment, outrage—all of that swamped him next, just from the sheer audacity of Altair.

Tell him to fuck off. Tell him to FUCK OFF!

Desmond opened his mouth, but to his mortification, he couldn't speak. A wave of arousal had robbed him of the will to do anything but obey and it was a struggle just to keep his knees from buckling.

Oh, god. Just imagining being on his knees for Altair wasn't doing his willpower any favors.

Silently, panicked, Desmond desperately tried to tug his wrist free. He was in danger.

"No." Altair said that one word with such absolution it made Desmond shiver. Altair pulled again, stretching Desmond's arm past him so that they were standing practically on top of each other. "Look at me, Desmond."

Resisting the first order had been difficult enough, but he was too shaken to resist a second time. 

Looking up at Altair made him want to claw his own eyes out because he knew in that moment he wasn't hiding anything, that every awful, vulnerable emotion going through him was plain to see. But even worse was the rush of pleasure that coursed through him when he obeyed; his skin felt like it was burning, a shiver of delight prickling every inch of his skin, and against his will, it felt like his muscles all unclenched at once; he swayed.

Desmond couldn't tell if going so long without dealing with a Dom had made him more susceptible, or if his rank was making the effects so potent; it was probably both.

He was absolutely fucked.

Altair's eyes went wide for a moment, his surprise obvious.

"Desmond," he started, expression alarmed. Whatever reaction he'd expected, this clearly wasn't it. "Calm down. I won't hurt—"

"N-no," Desmond shook his head, trying to pull away even harder. "Let me go!"

"I will," Altair promised, and his voice changed, went a little lower, attempting to soothe him—pointlessly. "But first I need you to take a deep breath, now."

The urge to obey hit him hard, but so did the panic, the fear of how much more he'd reveal if he let himself listen. 

A sharp crack filled the air. Altair stumbled back, cradling his jaw, and Desmond stared at him, shocked. His fist hovered in the air between them, knuckles throbbing.

I'm sorry, Desmond meant to say. What came out was: "S-stay away from me!"

His voice trembled with emotion, his blood running cold. He hadn't meant to do that. Disobeying left him feeling physically ill, almost more than he could stand.

Altair's expression was clouded, brows drawn. Desmond couldn't tell if he was worried or pissed or about to swing back.

Then Altair's lips parted. He said, "Desmond—"

Desmond turned around and ran.

Notes:

I love writing desmond in his natural element: *avoiding emotional vulnerability by running for his life*

about rankings: bdsm AUs are just the precursors of omegaverse, and just like omegaverse, everyone writes them differently! I'm kinda winging it for a lot of it, basically just doing what I like haha, but I thought I'd explain my thought process a bit

so, rankings look like this:
[SUBMISSIVE]                                                  [SWITCH]                                                     [DOMINANT]
<9——8——7——6——5——4——3——2——1—|—1——2——3——4——5——6——7——8——9>

basically, ranks skew from 1 to 9, and the lower the number, the less dominant or submissive a person is, with someone falling in the middle being known as a Perfect Switch, though plenty of people in the lower brackets have no issue switching. this is less something you're born with, and more something that evolves with time as you age and preferences change—of course, excluding those who are born as either Perfect Switches, Doms, or Subs. there are cases where those individuals DO shift on the spectrum, but it's INCREDIBLY rare, just as rare as it is to be those extreme ranks in the first place.

this is by no means the rule for writing bdsm AUs, I literally pulled this out of my ass haha! I just wanted there to be SOME structure instead of just people inherently being Doms or Subs, and this is what I came up with

hopefully that makes sense! if not, don't worry, I won't get too technical about this in the future, just enjoy the angst and smut LOL

Chapter 5

Notes:

I haven't updated since november......this is literally so embarrassing 😭

hopefully the egregious length somewhat makes up for the wait, and if you've been frustrated by the lack of updates, just know: me too 😭across all my fics, I'm finding myself writing longer and longer chapters, rewriting huge chunks, or having to re-outline the entire fic. the writing process is the stupidest thing on planet earth fr. but yeah, I want to get these chapters up asap, they just tend to run away from me. thanks for understanding! <3

trying to post about updates more on tumblr, so feel free to check there or send asks about fics!

Altair lingered in the woods until nightfall, angry.

Angry with himself, for misreading the situation with Desmond so badly, for so clearly scaring him. Dom he might be, but that look of sick, wide-eyed panic on Desmond's face didn't sit well with him, made him feel guilty.

It made him feel like a bad Dom. There was no worse feeling.

Part of it had to be because Desmond fell right in the middle of the spectrum, swinging at random between Dominant and Submissive tendencies; if he wasn't on the verge of a shift, Altair would fall on his own blade.

He'd wanted that confrontation, had hoped to goad the truth out of Desmond by being forceful. Airing out his feelings had been uncomfortable—these strange impulses that had plagued him since he'd first seen Desmond, the often overwhelming, fierce protectiveness; a nagging, persistent fixation—but all of his wants had been forgotten when he'd seen Desmond's fear up close.

He'd deserved that punch. He deserved worse. And now he could only pray Desmond would allow him close enough to apologize.

Altair stayed in the woods until his turbulent emotions settled, not trusting himself around others. One wrong glance, a single word misspoken, and he might react—poorly, if for no other reason than to vent his frustration. But he'd learned his lesson, a lesson he'd thought he'd already learned by now. Acting on instinct wasn't the answer, he needed to regain his control. He needed to stop acting like an impatient Novice, and more like the Mentor he was.

When Altair re-entered the compound, the hallways were mostly deserted. A glance at his watch told him that most would be in the cafeteria at this time; he wasn't hungry, so he made his way to his room.

All he had on his mind was retiring for the night, to wake up the next morning clear-headed and with a much better plan of attack to have a productive conversation with Desmond, but his steps faltered outside his doorway by a call of his name.

"Altair! There you are."

Altair turned around, eyes landing on Malik as he left his own room. He'd been so deep in thought, he hadn't even glanced at the open doorway across from his.

"You were gone so long, I was beginning to wor—"

Malik cut himself off as Altair turned to face him, eyebrows flying up.

"I did not think you would actually get into a fight when you left," Malik said, tapping his own jaw with significance. "What happened?"

Surprised, Altair lightly pressed his fingertips to his cheek, felt the sharp sting of tender skin. He would have a bruise tomorrow.

"There was no fight," Altair assured. "I...saw Desmond again. And he did not...appreciate my approach."

It was the mildest way he could put it, shame making him reluctant to go into detail.

Malik blinked. Then, a smirk began to curl his lips.

"I like this man," Malik decided. "You've been in sore need of a punch for a good while now, but no one's ever been able to land one until now. He must be more skilled than I realized."

Altair scowled at his friend. "As my second, the sight of me harmed shouldn't bring you so much joy," Altair pointed out sourly.

In response, Malik waved away Altair's words.

"I'm sure you deserved it; did you fight back?"

"No..."

"There you have it," Malik shrugged. "You knew you deserved it, then." Altair could not overstate how much he hated it when Malik was right. "Think of it less as me taking pleasure in your pain, and more that I am rejoicing in this opportunity for personal growth."

Altair scoffed, but despite himself, he found himself smiling, just a little. No one gave him a harder time than Malik, but he sincerely couldn't picture his life without Malik at his side. How much lesser of a man he'd be.

"Well, clearly your talk didn't go well." Malik rested his hand on his hip. "What will you do now?"

Malik asked the question affably enough, but the expectation in his voice—that Altair would resolve this—made Altair straighten.

"I will speak to him again," Altair said firmly. "Properly. And," Altair glanced away, brushing his fingertips against his jaw again, "I'll take care to be more considerate. He was...genuinely scared of me, Malik." Altair could feel his expression darkening. "I don't ever want to see that look on his face again."

Malik sighed, though a wry smile tugged on his lips. "It just had to be the Grandmaster's son, too..."

Altair wanted to shake his head at himself as well. It wasn't like him to be like this. Attracting attention, involving himself with other people's personal problems. If it did not concern Masyaf or his people, he had no patience for it.

But so much about Desmond did not sit well with him. Avoiding entanglements was one thing, but Altair drew the line at willful ignorance.

Malik clapped Altair's shoulder, finally bringing his gaze back up.

"Luckily, there's never been a lesson you've had to learn twice," Malik consoled him. "You will work this out, I'm sure of it."

Buoyed by Malik's faith, Altair nodded. "Thank you. I will."

"And if Desmond continues to avoid you," Malik continued, smiling. He reached up and gave Altair's bruise a tap. "You will at least have this parting mark to remember him by."

Altair shoved Malik away. "Why do I call you friend?"

"You wound me, Mentor," Malik smirked.

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

Desmond barely slept that night.

It was almost impossible. He'd felt more hunted than ever, wary of bumping into anyone when he felt so raw and exposed—Altair, Daniel, his dad, even Layla—facing any of them felt like too much. He'd already given enough of himself away, he needed to just be alone. Get his bearings, remind himself of his place in the grand scheme of things.

Altair had just been caught up in his feelings, instincts. All he needed was some space, and even if he had meant what he'd said—Desmond didn't want what he was offering. That support, being able to let go and let someone else just take over—that stuff wasn't for Desmond. He had to be stronger, better than that.

In the end, he'd refused to risk being found by anyone by sleeping in his room, or even anywhere on the compound. But aside from that, most of his other options involved camping, basically, sleeping outside and in the open.

So Desmond compromised, and that was how he was found the next morning—uncomfortably crammed inside the small captain's cabin of the docked ferry, legs tucked up in the seat, arms crossed, and cold as fuck.

Knocking on the glass woke Desmond up in an instant and he jolted, cursing when he upset his balance and almost crashed face-first into the very pointy control panel.

Dread had him swallowing, but to his relief, it was Gavin standing on the other side of the glass, dark eyes warm and sympathetic.

"Rough night?" Gavin's voice was muffled, but it managed to carry through the glass.

The question made Desmond's shoulders drop. He was busted, but of all the people who could have discovered him, he was grateful it was Gavin.

Desmond settled his feet back on the ground, smothering an exhausted yawn as he shoved open the door. He left it open and made no move to step out, sagging in his seat. He scrubbed at his face.

He felt like hell.

"Rough night," Desmond confirmed hoarsely.

Gavin's hand landed on his shoulder, rubbing with a bracing, soothing pat. Normally, Desmond hated being touched, but coming from Gavin, it actually felt nice. It reminded him of the past, but of the better memories. Gavin always there with a kind smile, a listening ear. Desmond rarely took him up on those offers, but Gavin seemed to be the only person in the world who didn't expect Desmond ever to be anything other than himself.

Other memories helped, too. Especially the ones where Gavin had gotten into lengthy, loud arguments with William on Desmond's behalf. No one had ever, or since, stood up to William like that. Not for Desmond.

"Anything I can do?" Gavin asked.

Desmond sighed. The thing about Gavin was that he meant that. If Desmond asked him for help, he would—which was why Desmond couldn't. Caught between the Grand Master and his son, there couldn't be a more awkward place to be in. Besides, Gavin had fought for Desmond before, on the only thing that really could have made a difference in his life. He'd failed, but at least he'd tried. Desmond couldn't ask for more.

So instead of begging Gavin to ferry him back to the mainland, responsibilities be damned, Desmond just shook his head.

"No. I have to figure this out myself." Desmond raised his head, staring at the treeline past the shore, at the glimpse of the fort he could see from here. Where all his problems waited, eager to swallow him whole. "But thanks."

Gavin squeezed his shoulder, then finally let his hand drop. "All right. No one's looking for you, by the way," Gavin added, gifting Desmond another wave of relief. "I dropped by your room just to check on you, but when I saw you weren't there, I figured it wouldn't hurt to find you before you were noticed."

"Thanks," Desmond said. Gavin had gifted him precious time, time enough to be where he should be instead of making his dad send out a search party or something, before he could make Layla worried. He seriously owed Gavin.

Gavin smiled. "Come on, let's get you washed up and decent. And breakfast, too. I've never faced a problem that wasn't easier to handle with a full stomach."

Desmond screwed up his face doubtfully, but he got out of the cabin anyways. "I hope you're right..."

Gavin chuckled, reeling Desmond against his side with an arm around his shoulders. He roughly rubbed Desmond's head, mussing his hair, and Desmond was too tired to protest.

"I'm always right."

Gavin escorted Desmond to his room, pretending he wasn't playing guard while Desmond showered and dressed, his smile wide and honest when Desmond rejoined him. He kept up affable chatter as he half-dragged Desmond to the dining hall, light things like what he'd seen around the compound, which recruits were the most likely to piss themselves during the ceremony, stuff like that. By the time they got to the cafeteria, Desmond was smiling.

"Welp, this is where I gotta leave you," Gavin announced when they reached the double doors. "But if you need anything, give me a shout, all right?"

"Yeah...yeah, thanks." Desmond already felt a lot better, just from Gavin's easy, non-demanding company. The future looked maybe ten percent less bleak.

"Big breakfast today, Desmond," Gavin insisted, pointing his first two fingers at his own eyes, then aiming them at Desmond. "None of that just grabbing an apple bullshit, all right? You don't eat enough, I swear."

"Yes, mom," Desmond replied, grinning.

"That's Sir Mom, to you," Gavin countered with a wink, and he strode away without another word.

Desmond shook his head, still smiling as he pushed open the door. Not for the first time, he wondered how his dad had lucked out enough to get Gavin as his SiC.

Just for Gavin, Desmond made sure to get a decent breakfast, probably the first since he'd come to the island. Not that Desmond had anything against breakfast, or meals in general, but he was in a pretty constant state of fight-or-flight. Relaxing with a meal just hadn't seemed like an option, not when it was easier to grab something he could eat on the go.

But, as usual, Gavin was right. Not eating properly was hardly doing him any favors.

Pancakes, bacon, eggs, toast—Desmond didn't realize how hungry he was until he'd let himself pay attention to it, and suddenly he was starving. Now that he was taking the time to think about it, had he eaten anything besides an apple yesterday?

...Whoops, Desmond thought, and then, Oh, well. He was doing something about it now, right? No harm, no foul.

A quick scan of the tables told him that no one he knew was around—which was both good and bad, since that meant no Altair or Daniel, but also no Layla.

He chose a table against the wall, small and secluded, with a good view of the room as a whole. He kicked away a few pillows—Desmond only knew Doms, or Gavin, so it wasn't like he'd need them—and settled with a wary eye around the room; he'd be quick.

He'd thought he was keeping an eye on the room, but filling his stomach was more distracting than he'd expected. So when someone suddenly spoke at his side, Desmond jumped.

"Can I sit here?"

Jolting, Desmond's head snapped up to see—

"Oh." A raised brow had him hastening to say, "Um, yeah. Sure. Malik, right?"

"Yes," Malik answered, taking the seat across from Desmond and setting his tray down. "I'm impressed you remembered my name. You must have greeted dozens of Assassins by now."

Desmond had one compelling reason for remembering Malik in particular, but he wasn't going to bring Altair up if he didn't have to.

Ugh. God. Altair. Desmond had no idea how he was supposed to face him again, not after his freakout.

Just—breakfast first. Everything else can come later.

Belatedly, Desmond realized he was getting The Eyebrow from Malik again. Shit, he'd gotten lost in thought.

"Um, yeah," Desmond finally said lamely. "Part of the job, that's all. Plus, you guys were one of the last ones to show up, so that made remembering easier."

"That was my fault," Malik admitted, starting on his own food, lifting a falafel off the tray. "My mission ran longer than expected, and I didn't see the necessity of my presence here if I'm being honest."

Desmond blinked at Malik, then smiled. "I get it," he said. "If I didn't have to be here, I wouldn't."

Malik's eyes flashed with surprise; which made sense, in hindsight. Desmond was William's son, the last person anyone would expect to complain about tradition.

Malik and Desmond shared a moment of eye contact, the understanding of two wallflowers passing between them.

Desmond relaxed minutely, finally seeing Malik as his own person instead of just an extension of Altair.

"Tell me," Malik said once they'd eaten in silence for a few moments, "What exactly will be your role in the ceremony? The Grand Master made a point to have you greet everyone at his side, so surely he has some task for you?"

"Oh." It was a logical deduction, but no one had asked Desmond anything like that. Malik was clearly just as observant as Altair. "Nothing big. My dad will still do the rites, but I'll be in charge of the actual hand-offs, the brandings."

The physical parts of the initiation, basically. His father had ulterior motives for making Desmond part of the ceremony; in the future, if anything about Desmond came to light, he'd have an entire generation of Assassins who wouldn't be able to separate Desmond from their own connection to the Brotherhood. The subtle coercion of it all made Desmond uncomfortable, but he understood the necessity.

Plus, he didn't have a choice.

"A big responsibility nonetheless," Malik pointed out. "Your father trusts you a great deal."

What a loaded assumption. Desmond couldn't even argue that his father trusted him to some degree, but at the same time, it didn't feel like it was Desmond he was placing his trust in. More like, what Desmond represented, the role he was going to inherit.

Instead of voicing any of that—how the hell could he even begin to put his fucked-up relationship with his dad into words?—Desmond just smiled weakly.

"Yeah..."

Malik's glance at him felt loaded and searching, but instead of pressing, he said, "I'm impressed with the archives kept here. Is this not a temporary base?"

Glad for the change of subject, Desmond latched on, saying, "Kind of? We change locations each year for the ceremony but since the island is a lot easier to defend, we keep a lot of the physical files here..."

Talking with Malik ended up being surprisingly nice? At Altair's side, his only expressions had seemed to be either surly reluctance or vague disdain, but now, engaged in a topic that interested him, he was a lot wryer and chill than Desmond had expected. Plus, he talked to Desmond like he was interested in what Desmond had to say, like what he said had value, which—wow. Desmond wasn't even in that kind of position, might never be, but he wanted Malik as his SiC. He might never get away with anything, but the trade-off seemed worth it.

When Desmond had finished his food and a natural lull came to their conversation, Desmond began stacking used napkins on his tray, ready to leave.

He rose from his seat. "I'll see you around?"

"Wait." Malik raised a hand, discomfort furrowing his brow for a brief moment. "You seem like a decent person. I wasn't going to interfere with Altair's business—"

Thump! went Desmond's heart.

"—and I still don't intend to. But I've known Altair all my life. He isn't a bad man, not by any means. What you do is up to you, but you should know that, at least. He would do right by you."

Malik's gaze was steady, his words simple and without the pressure of expectation. Just telling Desmond like it was, giving him the relevant information and leaving the final decision up to him.

"I...Yeah." Desmond dropped his gaze, feeling an odd sort of shyness rising up with him. It was suddenly hard to keep eye contact when his last memory of Altair was of decking him in the face. He felt the strong compulsion to tell Malik that he was the asshole, here. "I'll...keep that in mind."

Malik watched him with sympathy, and even though he was Altair's SiC, Desmond had the overwhelming feeling Malik was on his side.

"If you can't trust Altair, at least trust that I am not the type of person to be blinded by bias. I mean what I say."

"...Okay. I believe you. I, uh," Desmond rubbed the back of his neck. "Honestly, I owe him an apology. I know he's a good guy." Desmond wasn't even going to touch the rest of Malik's statement; a future, of any kind with Altair just wasn't happening.

"I won't keep you," Malik said, holding up a palm. "But I enjoyed our conversation. I hope to see you again, Desmond."

Desmond muttered something similar back, even meaning it, but he was much more focused on escaping.

He was definitely overthinking it, but getting something like approval from Malik was making his stomach do flips.

Don't think about it, Desmond told himself as he dumped his tray and ducked out of the cafeteria. It didn't mean anything.

Distracted by Malik's parting words, when someone suddenly snatched at Desmond's arm, yanking him into a side room, his first instinct was to attack—and then just as quickly, to repress the urge. He was in the heart of Assassin territory, he couldn't risk lashing out without thinking, even if it did end up being Daniel.

His hidden blade was out, but he stopped himself from raising it—and just in time, because when he found his footing, he found himself pressed close to a grinning Layla.

Desmond sagged in her hold. "Layla," he breathed soulfully. "What the fuck?"

"Oh, don't be such a bitch." Layla dragged him even closer, grinning wickedly. "If you've got plans tonight, no you don't. Okay?"

Layla's smile was familiar to Desmond, wicked and giddy, promising nothing good.

"Whyyyy?" Desmond asked, not protesting, just curious.

"Me, you, drinks," Layla started.

"So far, so good," Desmond agreed. He'd wanted a drink from the moment he'd set foot on this island.

"Just a few others; the Rome branch, some people I've vetted, and a lot of alcohol." Layla's eyes were practically shining with excitement. "The beach. Tonight. You'll be there, right?"

The thought of getting drunk around strangers made him nervous, but...Layla would be there. He could trust her, at least.

Desmond smiled, nudging Layla back. "Fuck yeah, I'm there!"

A few hours where he didn't have to think? It was a no-brainer.

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

Malik was already well into his meal when Altair came to the mess hall.

A quick glance confirmed what he'd already suspected—Desmond was not here.

Desmond wasn't anywhere. Altair had been searching the keep since dawn, but didn't catch so much as a glimpse of him. It made Altair realize he'd been quite lucky the last few times he'd bumped into Desmond. It seemed when the man wanted to avoid someone, it was impossible to find him.

So it was incredibly annoying when he took his seat across Malik, fork barely raised, only to be confronted with Malik's knowing smirk.

"How goes your search, Mentor?"

"Poorly," Altair replied shortly.

"Now that is a shame," Malik said, and he sounded so mournful that Altair eyed him warily. "If you had been but a moment sooner...!"

Altair set his fork down, hard.

"He was here?"

"I rather enjoyed our conversation," Malik agreed. "This is why you shouldn't neglect your mealtimes, Altair."

Rather than look at Malik's smug face, Altair stood from his seat. Desmond couldn't be far, not if Malik hadn't finished eating—

"Eat, Altair." Malik was giving him a stern look, all teasing gone. "In case it slipped your mind, we are on an island; you will see him again soon enough."

"But—"

"I said it was a good conversation, didn't I?" Malik waved vaguely at Altiar. "Because you are hopeless, I put in a good word on your behalf. But all of that will be ruined if you continue to seek him out when he wishes to be left alone."

Altair hesitated, torn between the urge to see Desmond now, immediately, and confirm Desmond's state with his own eyes, and the sage advice of his second, who had never once in his life steered him wrong.

"Have faith," Malik counseled, gaze falling back to his meal as he ate. "And be patient, Mentor."

That final jab did it, and Altair sat back down heavily, displeased but resigned.

"I feel as if I am losing control of myself," Altair told his plate wearily. "Have I not learned at all?"

Malik's scoff surprised him.

"There is no need to be so dramatic. Some privacy, a few candles, some soothing music," Malik shrugged, "And I'm sure everything will work itself out."

Altair gaped at Malik, felt his body flush with indignance and embarrassment.

"That is not—I don't—"

Malik shot him a look so withering it made his sputtering protests die in his throat.

"Spare me your pathetic denials. No matter his rank, he clearly caught your attention, and what else could make you fixate on a stranger like this? And why else would he feel so guilty for attacking you?"

"He felt guilty?"

"It was obvious," Malik said with a roll of his eyes. "You're both lovesick fools, too stupid to realize it. Which is why," and here Malik pointed his plastic fork at Altair, eyes narrowed. "You will not stalk this man as you so clearly planned to. You are going to wait, and spend your time going to a party and socializing instead of pining like a fool."

The conversation felt like it had spun completely out of Altair's control, his mind reeling.

It seemed so ridiculous that something as basic as...desire...was the reason why Altair had fixated on Desmond as he had—yet the moment Malik had brought up the possibility of them being together, Altair didn't find himself rejecting the idea outright. Far from it, the thought of Desmond welcoming his touch, of his brown eyes going warm and soft with trust and affection, his shoulders sagging as Altair uttered a single command and lifted all the burdens from his shoulders—

Face burning, Altair deflected.

"Party?" he asked with distaste. It sounded terrible, and it wasn't as if either one of them enjoyed such things.

"Yes. Layla was so gracious as to invite us."

Altair sighed. Anyone else, and he could have made his excuses, but Layla had been kind and welcoming to them both in a singularly genuine way; they had to go.

"Very well."

Malik smiled at him, nudging Altair's plate a bit closer.

"Cheer up, Altair," Malik soothed. "Aside from your arrogance, impatience, and pig-headed stubbornness, I am sure Desmond will realize you are a great catch."

Altair pushed aside his food and drained his coffee instead.

 

 

---

 

 

 

Heeding Malik's advice was a much harder exercise in restraint than Altair had counted on—which only highlighted how right his friend was.

It had felt as if his ability to step back and assess, to observe and take action only once he had all the facts, had deteriorated rapidly in the last few days. He'd been allowing emotion to rule him, no matter how much he'd convinced himself otherwise, and it was only Malik's galling, blunt words that had made him aware of it.

Attraction was almost...foreign to him. That was not to say he did not feel it at all, there had been a few times when he'd thought he'd found someone—but they were never Submissive enough for him. Even as a child, he'd never faltered from Rank 9, and meeting a Perfect Sub? Calling the odds impossible was being generous.

That was why, he reasoned, this entire situation with the Grandmaster's son had upset his usual balance so greatly. Now that he had the words for this feeling, he could confront it, reason with it, and understand that he had no proper defense against emotions and sensations he'd never experienced before. Desmond was clearly in flux, so near a shift that Altair was simply sensitive to it, perhaps subconsciously influencing the shift to better suit himself.

It was no excuse for his actions, of course, and he would still apologize—but it was a relief to finally understand something since he'd first come to this island. He'd make his amends, then move on. Everything would return to normal soon enough.

Altair found himself drifting to the training grounds, at first just watching, but soon enough joining the mock battles that had been set up, his mind clearing with each bout. There was something infinitely reassuring and comforting about a simple fight, moving his body in motions he could perform in his sleep, working up a sweat as he mopped the floor with each Novice that challenged him just to be the one who lasted the longest.

It was entertaining, at the very least. Even better, most had a good attitude about them, listening respectfully when Altair offered advice. He'd missed teaching, he'd realized as the day went on. It was in his nature to always be on the move, to use his own two hands to make sure a mission was successful. It made him contrast sharply with the previous Mentor, but that was all the better in his mind; but as a consequence, he did not spend much time within Masyaf. He left the training to the countless, skilled Assassins who'd made their lives at their base, but in his eagerness to remain a field agent, he hadn't quite understood what he'd sacrificed until now.

It was something to think about, a far better distraction than what had been occupying his thoughts as of late.

But eventually, the sun sank. The moon rose high, and Malik came to collect him.

"Do you feel better after beating up several dozen innocent brothers and sisters?"

Altair nodded, accepting the towel Malik offered.

"They show promise," he said, satisfied. He wiped his face, gaze lingering on the few still outside, catching their breath across the grassy clearing, desperately gulping water or lying sprawled in exhaustion. Altair knew he was skilled, more skilled than most, but rather than the expected pushback of cocky, young Assassins trying to prove themselves, there had been far more who were just happy for the challenge, the chance to learn. Exactly the sort of people their Order needed. "I look forward to the ceremony."

Malik's brows rose. He shot his own glance across the clearing, expression mildly impressed.

"They must be something after all, for you to say so," he murmured. Then, he shrugged. "Well, now that you've graced them with your kind attention, it is time for you to get cleaned up, Mentor." Malik smiled at him, the kind of smile Altair knew to be suspicious of. "We have somewhere to be, after all."

For a beat, Altair blinked at him. Then, memory came. ....Right. The party.

If it wasn't for the fact that Layla was the host and had personally invited them, Altair would have refused. But after the kindness she'd shown them, he could hardly decline.

And Malik's smile was more than aware of the fact, amused as always by Altair's aversion for most social gatherings.

"The mighty Eagle of Masyaf," Malik mused, clasping Altair by the shoulder and steering him inside, "Scared of a little party?"

Altair scowled. "Let's get this over with."

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

He showered quickly, eager to put this night behind him. Assassins or not, being surrounded by a bunch of intoxicated fools was not his idea of a good time.

"You are in a good mood," Altair pointed out, glancing at Malik out of the corner of his eye.

Malik merely shrugged as they trudged their way through the trees, leading the way to Layla's secret, clandestine party.

"It is only common courtesy," he said. "Besides, unlike you, I do not abhor any and all human interaction. Any friends of Layla's must be people worth meeting."

Altair grumbled, but couldn't argue; they trudged on.

Their destination eventually revealed itself to be a secluded part of the beach, a small clearing where the treeline abruptly ended to become the rough sand of a beach. A few fallen logs surrounded a firepit, and just feet away the water lapped in soft, gentle waves against the shore. Two logs seated several people, sitting on top or leaning against them, while one was singled out to hold an impressive spread of food—sandwiches and crackers and a few bowls of fruit; Altair already knew where he'd be spending most of his time until he could leave.

To his relief, it really was a small gathering. At a glance, he counted just barely over a dozen people, and rather than the typical, over-excited energy he was used to seeing at most parties, this was far more subdued and comfortable, a somewhat large, yet intimate group of friends, unwinding away from the public eye after a long day, calmy and happily spending time together.

Not what Altair had expected, but he was grateful for it.

"Oh, hey!" Layla stood up from where she'd been seated on the sand in front of the fire, waving with a warm smile.

She made her way over, but Altair didn't move. Malik didn't notice his hesitation, stepping forward to greet Layla, but Altair's attention was completely riveted on the person who'd been seated next to Layla on the sand.

The sight of Desmond made Altair freeze for a brief moment in shock. All this time, first searching for him, then forcing himself to stop, only to stumble upon Desmond without warning; what were the odds?

Desmond glanced up, and their eyes met.

Immediately, everyone and everything else fell away. Altair's vision tunneled, only aware of the shocked, flustered look that dropped the smile from Desmond's face. The arresting sight of his skin, flushed from alcohol, the sudden shift of his body language gone small and shy. Barely a day since they'd last seen one another, yet Altair felt starved for the sight of him.

Even better, Desmond didn't move. Every inch of him looked uncomfortable, yes, but he also didn't run away, either.

Telling. Promising. It meant that Altair had a chance to make this right. He wouldn't waste the opportunity.

But before he could take even a single step, Layla spoke, suddenly there—so focused on Desmond, Altair hadn't noticed her approach.

"You guys made it!"

She smiled, wide and happy. Behind her, Desmond's eyes fell to the ground, face red. Altair wanted.

A small part of him was bewildered and unsettled by his feelings; his earlier resolve, to make his apologies and dismiss Desmond from his thoughts, was like dust in the wind. Another sign of that disturbing lack of self-control, turning him into someone he didn't quite recognize.

But instinct ruled him now, and things like his self-image, his pride, were suddenly of little consequence the moment he'd seen Desmond in the flesh. What else mattered other than being closer to this man? Knowing him, truly?

A harsh nudge—Malik's elbow—roused him. Slightly.

He replayed the last few seconds of conversation, only absently noted.

"Yes," Altair said, unable to peel his eyes away from Desmond. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Uhhhhhh," Layla began.

"You'll have to excuse Altair," Malik said quickly, smoothly. "Aside from missions, he does not get out much."

Altair had enough presence of mind to shoot Malik a glare.

"It's—it's cool," Layla said, recovering. She shot a teasing smile at Desmond over her shoulder, tapping her cheek pointedly. "That pretty face gets him into all sorts of trouble these days."

Desmond glared at her, cheeks red. "Layla!"

Layla's grin turned wolfish. "I'm just sayin'!

Layla turned them loose not long after that and Desmond scrambled up and followed like her shadow, adamantly avoiding Altair's eyes. Not that Altair blamed Desmond, he was staring rather blatantly. He just...couldn't stop, or at least care enough to try. It was just as Malik had said before: Desmond might as well have been a target. Nothing else mattered, not when what he'd sought was right before his eyes.

But it was obvious enough that he was only making Desmond uneasy. So he pretended his attention was elsewhere, pulling his gaze away even though every other part of his being was incredibly attuned to Desmond's every breath and movement.

And when, an hour or so later, Desmond pulled away from the fire and disappeared within the darkness of the trees, Altair didn't hesitate to follow him.

At last.

He hadn't gone far. Only enough so that the fire was only a faint light in the woods, everyone's voices fading away until only the lap of the shore and the wind could be heard.

Desmond had taken a seat on the beach, and for a moment, Altair hung back just to observe him.

Head tilted back slightly to look at the sky, Desmond looked...tired. Exhausted, even. And alone. Alone in a way that troubled Altair.

"Just come out," Desmond finally said. "I know you followed me."

Altair obliged, stepping out. Didn't stop until he stood just beside Desmond. And when Desmond didn't blink or flinch, he sat down next to Desmond and joined him in contemplating the waves.

Away from the others and the light of the fire, this part of the beach felt hushed and intimate. Made it easier to think they were the only souls on the island.

Desmond seemed calm, but Altair knew he was guarded, could tell by the tense line of shoulders, the silence that stretched, fraught with nerves. Wariness.

"I...wanted to apologize," Altiar began, and felt gratified by the way Desmond's head snapped to him, eyes wide. "It wasn't my intention to make you scared of me," Altair continued, looking down for a brief moment in remorse. "I pushed too hard. I am sorry."

Finally, Altair let himself glance Desmond's way.

Desmond's face was so—conflicted. Pained, that much Altair could discern, and when their eyes made contact, his brown eyes dropped.

"I—it was my fault, really. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hit you."

Altair brushed his fingers against his jaw, lips quirking up.

"This?" Altair shrugged. "No less than I deserved. You were right to push me away. I went too far."

Tentatively, Desmond looked at him, eyes falling to Altair's flowering bruise. His hand rose halfway before stopping, hovering. "I...Still..."

Altair leaned closer, angling his head so that Desmond could better see the mark he'd left.

"It's okay," Altair murmured. "Go on."

Another brief hesitation, and then Desmond's touch came, fingers brushing against the darkened skin of Altair's bruise. Altair's eyes slipped closed. He couldn't recall a softer touch.

"Does it still hurt?" Desmond asked, voice a whisper.

"Yes," Altair answered honestly. "And I am glad for it." His eyes fluttered open to meet Desmond's, so close. "It is a good reminder. I won't underestimate you again."

The silent bob of Desmond's throat shouldn't have been so enticing.

"Altair..." Desmond trailed off, seemingly lost.

Altair took the opportunity, pressed, "Will you tell me?"

He'd kept his tone low and soft, without pressure, but Desmond saw through him. He finally pulled away, didn't do anything obvious to give himself away. He didn't flinch or wince, just trained his eyes on the water and kept them there, his gaze perfectly calm.

"Tell you what?"

"The truth," Altair pushed, unwilling to let Desmond feign ignorance. "It can't be worth everything you're going through."

Desmond sighed; leaned back, fingers sinking in the sand. "Haven't you considered that you're overthinking this whole thing?" Desmond's voice grew quieter. Distant. "I told you, it's not your business."

"I am an Assassin," Altair returned simply. "Secrets are my business."

Desmond scoffed, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip.

"Well, there's no secret."

"Bullshit."

Desmond jerked, head snapping to Altair's in surprise.

"Wha—"

Altair leaned close. Repeated: "Bull. Shit."

Desmond's mouth dropped open, but nothing came out.

"Do you think I am stupid?" Altair scowled. "I know you're being harassed, yet for some reason you haven't informed your father—and who knows how long you've endured this."

"Not that—"

"And your files; they make no sense. You have enough experience to be a Master within the Order, but you're kept at a low rank."

"Well—"

"I am not interested in excuses," Altair cut in, tone firm, but not harsh. He would not scare Desmond off. Not again. "I only want to help you. If you will let me."

"I don't—I'm fine—"

Desmond insisted this, but if he could see his expression, he wouldn't have bothered lying. Alcohol had loosened that iron-tight control he'd kept over himself and his eyes shone bright with open distress, a siren call Altair was helpless to ignore.

He'd only just made his amends, but Altair dared to push his luck.

"Come here," he said gently.

Desmond flinched at the first brush of Altair's fingers against his side. Altair paused, met Desmond's wide eyes openly and honestly.

"It's okay," Altair told him. "I won't hurt you."

"I-I know," Desmond was quick to say. He seemed embarrassed by his reaction. 

"Then prove it."

He tried again, this time snaking a hand around Desmond's waist, watching carefully for even the slightest sign of distress as he urged Desmond closer, closer, until Desmond was seated securely in Altair's lap. Desmond had looked uncertain and tense the entire way, his hands stiffly and very lightly coming to rest on Altair's shoulders, but he still went along with Altair's coaxing. He was at least willing to hear Altair out.

"I know you must have been struggling for a long time," Altair murmured, stroking a hand up and down Desmond's back. "It can not have been easy enduring as you have. But you must rest, do you understand? You take on so much with no proper outlet."

He couldn't help himself, a stray hand brushing first across Desmond's side, his waist, his thighs. Between his legs.

Desmond shuddered in his hold, a full-body shiver that made Altair's mouth water. He had to be near a shift, Altair had never been so arrested, so fixated on another person.

"I can't—" Desmond shook his head, visibly wavering. "Altair—"

"Please," Altair murmured, voice low, and he brushed his lips against Desmond's ear. He'd thought having Desmond in his lap would be enough, but suddenly it felt unthinkable to settle with that. He needed more. "Let me do this for you. I promise you will like it."

Desmond's eyes slipped shut for a brief moment, breaths uneven. The sight of him made Altair's mouth dry.

"We-we shouldn't," Desmond breathed against him. "I'm not—I'm not supposed to—"

"It's okay," Altair soothed him, and he pushed his luck even more, touch firming to better feel Desmond, the hardness rising to meet his palm, and Desmond's breath caught. "You're shifting; let it happen."

"I-I'm not—" Desmond cut himself off with a moan, rolling his hips into Altair's touch. "Fuck," he breathed, and then he seemed to give up on resisting entirely. His lips brushed against Altair's, firmed, and it didn't even occur to Altair to pull back or question it, he just sank into the touch, the hot slide of Desmond's tongue against his own as their mouths fell open, as any and all reservation fell away from them both.

A simple kiss, but the pleasure of it felt overwhelmingly good. Part of it was satisfaction, to have Desmond in his grasp at last, to be the one Desmond was clinging to, to be the one who was bringing Desmond pleasure. But the way Desmond sank into the kiss so immediately, his small, wrecked sounds and his pliant, warm, eager body—Altair had never felt so totally the focus of another, had never felt so in control of a Sub. It was a sense of power that was quickly growing addicting.

It would have been easy to get swept up in the passion of the moment, but Altair forced himself to breathe deep through his nose. He took Desmond's face in hand and broke their kiss, breaths mingling in the scant space between them.

Altair had pulled back to get his bearings, to reassert rationality. But Desmond's face.

His warm brown skin was flushed, his lips kiss-swollen and enticing as they parted with each pant. His dark eyes seemed as if they could barely focus, hazy with pleasure, and Altair could feel his fingers digging into his shoulders, clutching Altair as if to keep him from escaping.

The sight of him wiped every thought from Altair's mind. All at once, they were simply Dom and Sub.

"Do you want to feel even better?" Altair asked, voice already slipping into a lower register. But not an Order. Not yet.

The question made Desmond blink a few times. Watching him struggle to concentrate, to claw himself back from the dazed space Altair had put him in with just a kiss, was incredibly gratifying.

"I..." Desmond hesitated. He searched Altair's face, biting his lip.

It was so obvious that he wanted to say yes, but it seemed ingrained in him to deny himself.

It took every ounce of self-control Altair had not to press, to just show Desmond how good Altair could be to him.

But he couldn't. Altair would not force himself. He would not be another Daniel plaguing Desmond's life.

Desmond glanced away for a split-second, then met Altair's eyes. His grip tightened.

"...I do," he finally agreed, mouth-wateringly shy.

Triumph made Altair's heart soar. His lips twitched, the slightest smile the only thing that betrayed him.

He thumbed at the corner of Desmond's mouth, confidence flowing now that Desmond had surrendered himself.

"You do...what?" Altair prodded. "Ask me nicely, Desmond."

Desmond visibly swallowed. He seemed suddenly aware that as of that moment, he had shifted control entirely into Altair's hands. 

Altair was a Dom, had always had vague assumptions that any Sub he might choose would be obedient to a fault. But Desmond was making him discover an entirely new facet of desire, of watching someone war within themselves, of knowing the strength of his presence could sway a Sub into his grasp.

It felt...vaguely sadistic. Altair couldn't get enough of it.

Hesitant, Desmond glanced up. "Please?" he whispered, uncertain, but trying.

"Good," Altair said, and Desmond shivered all over. "All you have to do is ask, Desmond. Can you stand for me?"

"Uh, yeah..."

Fumbling, Desmond untangled himself and stood. He took Altair's offered hands, his grip tightening when he was upright and he swayed—still very much feeling the effects of Altair's praise.

Sadly for him, Altair was only going to make his condition much worse.

Somewhat cruelly, Altair waited until Desmond seemed steady on his feet. Waited until Desmond turned curious eyes his way.

Altair smiled. Desmond's eyes widened.

"Kneel," Altair commanded.

Desmond's knees buried themselves in the sand the moment the word had left Altair's lips. He sucked in a shocked, audible breath, trembling.

"Wh-what—?!" Desmond turned shocked, huge eyes up to stare at Altair.

Altair blinked down at him, equally shocked—he'd expected Desmond to stagger, to balk, to have to wear him down with a few more orders before he let himself succumb. He hadn't expected such instant, overwhelming obedience.

...Shit. Just when he'd thought it impossible to covet Desmond any more than he already had.

Altair mastered himself quickly. What kind of Dom would he be if he left Desmond floundering like this, left him to panic?

"Perfect, Desmond," Altair praised calmly, heart racing. He stroked Desmond's cheek, drinking in the way Desmond leaned into the touch, his breaths growing more labored as arousal overtook him. The shock was already leaking from Desmond's gaze, his entire being riveted on Altair.

The surge of heady power and satisfaction was nearly crippling. Altair was well aware of how accomplished and skilled Desmond was, knew he was hardly the only person who coveted such a man, yet Desmond chose to kneel at Altair's feet. Being a Dom had never felt more gratifying.

Especially when Desmond looked up at him, aroused and scared and awed.

"A-Altair?" Fear tinged Desmond's voice, breathless. A hand shot out to grip the fabric of Altair's pants.

"Shh." Altair took his time comforting Desmond, caressing his cheek, running fingers through Desmond's hair and around the shell of his ear. His thumb rubbed Desmond's bottom lip where he tugged, ever so gently, prying his mouth open. "Relax, Desmond. I have you."

Desmond's eyes were blown wide, but he still managed to hesitate.

"I've never..." Desmond shook his head, a hint of bewildered fear still apparent in his gaze. "I don't know how to do this."

Altair tugged Desmond's face up.

"All you must do," he said, "is what I say. I will take care of the rest," Altair promised. "Subs don't need to think."

Desmond swayed further into his touch, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. "I...I don't?" he asked, so so confused.

Altair held Desmond's face in both hands, leaned over him so the space between them was nothing but breath and shadow.

"What do you want, Desmond? Tell me." There wasn't a thing on this earth Altair wouldn't do to grant Desmond's wish.

"I...I want..." It was as enticing as it was disturbing how Desmond was able to hang on to a thread of self-consciousness, when there shouldn't have been any thought in his head other than the compulsion to obey.

It was the kind of resistance that would have frustrated any other Dom; Altair found himself uniquely excited by the challenge Desmond was presenting. His surrender would be so unspeakably rewarding...

Altair's fingers dug into Desmond's face. Clutching too tight, but he couldn't control himself; he wanted.

"Yes?"

"I want..." Desmond swallowed, blown eyes staring into Altair's. "I want to...make you feel good."

Altair had to repress a shiver. This man...!

The few times Altair had indulged a Sub, they'd fawned over him, of course, but they'd also begged to be touched, desperate for some sign that Altair craved them just as intensely. Altair had only disappointed them in the end, able to keep a level head no matter how hard a Sub tried to seduce him.

Yet Desmond didn't beg for anything of the sort. His eyes were honest, only wanting to bring Altair pleasure, no matter his own body's aches.

"Beg me," Altair insisted, because he was greedy.

"Please," Desmond complied immediately, brows coming together. His fear and hesitance were completely gone, replaced with longing and lust, the need to fulfill his role and do it well. "Please, let me, Altair...!"

He is so perfect...

"How could I say no?" Altair ventured. "Not when you asked so nicely." He ran a hand over Desmond's head, stroking his hair. He pulled Desmond closer, bringing his face level with his crotch. "Do your best."

Desmond's swallow was audible. He stared at the bulge of Altair's pants like he was hypnotized, but after a moment, he raised his hands.

Deft fingers flicked open the button, slid down the zipper. Desmond paused for a brief second just from the sight of Altair straining against his clothes, but just for a second. He pulled down Altair's pants and underwear in a slow, endless tug. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the sight of Altair's dick, bobbing in the open air, hard and flushed and already beading with pre-cum.

Pleased, Altair pushed his hip forward in a light nudge, dick just barely brushing Desmond's lips.

"Go on," he encouraged softly.

One furtive, burning glance up, and then Desmond obeyed. He wrapped a warm hand around the base of Altair's dick, gave it one long, trailing lick from base to tip, then took it in his mouth.

The warm, welcoming heat of Desmond's mouth was all Altair knew for a moment, arrested by the sensation, the single-minded effort and devotion Desmond put into taking Altair as far as he could, stroking what wouldn't fit, the way his cheeks hollowed with each suck. Even better was the sight of how much Desmond was enjoying himself, eyes falling closed as his expression smoothed with relief, the eager urge of his hand coming to rest on Altair's ass, pulling him even closer.

Fighting to keep his voice even, Altair ran a hand through Desmond's hair, running his thumb over the shell of Desmond's ear.

"Yes, Desmond," he murmured. "Just like that. You're doing so well."

A breathless noise left Desmond, a strangled, desperate sort of moan that barely made it out when his mouth was so full. But slight and quiet as it had been, the sound of him only riled up Altair even more.

Altair grasped a handful of Desmond's hair; gripped tight, without quite pulling.

Desmond stilled anyway, eyes fluttering open with confused arousal. Eye contact while his dick was in Desmond's mouth was nearly enough to finish Altair right there and then.

Altair grit his teeth. A tense, suspended moment stretched as Altair tried to control himself and Desmond stared at him with blatant, unashamed desire, the look in his eyes screaming his desperation to keep going.

Slowly, Altair sighed, nearly a whistle as it passed between his barely parted lips in a hiss of breath.

"Hands down," he ordered, and Desmond's touch fell away, fingers clawing into the sand. "Good. Open your mouth."

With obvious reluctance, Desmond pulled back enough to let Altair slide free, panting. He swallowed, then raised his head again, mouth stretched wide.

With such temptation before him, Altair was quick to grip himself at the base, the tip of his head sliding against Desmond's tongue.

"Mm..." He gave himself a few moments of just that, of indulging in the sight of Desmond sitting so obediently and willing, his dark eyes blown with desire and his skin flushed, chest heaving. Using Desmond's tongue to make himself feel good, teasing them both.

"I'm going to fuck your mouth now," Altair told Desmond.

Desmond shook; tried to open his mouth even wider.

Altair would be cruel if he ignored such an invitation.

"You—" Altair cut himself off. There were no words for what Desmond was doing to him. Instead, he decided to reward Desmond's obedience, angling Desmond's head at just the right position, fist clenched in short, dark hair.

Altair didn't waste any more time with words. He gave himself over to the sweet temptation of Desmond's compliance, his eagerness. He shoved Desmond's face forward, burying himself in wet, hot heat.

Desmond took him with a muffled, pleased sound. Went so boneless that it was practically only Altair's grip in his hair that kept him upright at all.

Altair fucked Desmond's mouth with an abandon he hadn't thought himself capable, but Desmond didn't even try to resist, seemed to delight in being treated like a tool that existed for Altair's pleasure. And Altair was far from gentle, bobbing Desmond's mouth on his dick with only the thought to get off, using this perfect Sub in the way he so clearly wished.

It surprised him, how quickly he reached the edge, but with Desmond on his knees, happy and pliant and behaving so well, he couldn't imagine how he could have possibly lasted.

It was tempting to make Desmond swallow, but Altair jerked Desmond's head back with a yank of hair when he came, pleased by the sight of milky white cum dribbling over Desmond's lips, down his chin.

Desmond had gasped for air the moment Altair had pushed him away, but he didn't fight the too-tight hold, only flinched, then moaned at the first splash of cum against his panting mouth.

His hazy, blown eyes stared up at Altair, half-lidded and trusting.

"Altair...?"

Altair smiled. He brushed his thumb across Desmond's lips, smearing his cum. Dipped his thumb inside to rub some against Desmond's tongue.

The way Desmond whined just made his smile grow.

"How do you feel?"

Desmond blinked a few times, swallowing. Trying to come to his senses so he could answer.

"...Amazing," he breathed, brows coming together in an expression of bafflement. "I didn't," he shook his head, eyes shutting briefly, "I didn't know it could feel like this..."

"We're not done yet," Altair promised.

Desmond's head snapped to him, mouth falling open.

"We're not?" he asked with endearing confusion, as if Altair hadn't noticed the very obvious tent in Desmond's pants. "But—"

Altair gripped the back of Desmond's neck in a firm hold. Enjoyed the way the simple touch made Desmond's words dry up entirely, an almost drunken haze of pleasure already clouding his eyes.

"You'll behave, won't you," Altair didn't ask, tone expectant.

"Y-yes." Desmond nodded quickly. "Yeah. I will."

Altair leaned closer, angling Desmond's head up. "And what did I say about thinking?"

Desmond shivered. "To...to not. I just have to do what you say," he recited, blushing.

"Exactly." Altair released Desmond all at once and straightened, smiling again at the disappointed look on Desmond's face as he tucked himself back into his pants.

Altair raised a brow, looking Desmond over for a moment. He had a tantalizing number of options here, but tonight was about showing Desmond not only was shifting into a Sub something he shouldn't fear, but that Altair was the only possible Dom for him.

Still kneeling, dazed and one word away from cumming in his pants, Altair felt confident that Desmond was beginning to understand this.

But there was no harm in making certain.

"Present for me, Desmond."

Desmond made a low, strangled noise like he'd been gutted. He fell forward, hands clutching the sand, and shuddered with his entire body.

"F-fuck!" he whispered.

A few panting breaths, and then Desmond turned around, back to Altair. He pillowed his head on his folded hands, arched his back, and spread his knees wide, settling into perfect position like he was born to do it.

Altair's dick gave an interested twitch in his pants; he exhaled, silently and slowly, and reminded himself that mounting Desmond and fucking him for the first time outdoors was not what he wanted to do tonight.

Later, he promised himself. Once he'd proven himself. Desmond might not have fully realized it himself, but Altair was very aware that everything he did tonight would decide where their relationship would go from here. If he failed to properly take care of Desmond, if he put his own needs ahead of Desmond, they would have no future.

But Altair was a good Dom, a great one. Putting Desmond's needs first was all he'd wanted to do anyway.

Altair knelt behind Desmond, smirking at the way Desmond trembled at the first touch. Teasing Desmond with light brushes of contact at first, Altair slowly, firmly, pressed himself against Desmond, his hands stroking Desmond's waist as he hunched over him.

"Perfect, Desmond," Altair praised, voice low and pleased, lips brushing Desmond's ear. "I'm so lucky to have found such a beautiful Sub."

"Altair!" Desmond gasped out, twitching in his hold.

"Mm-hm," Altair hummed absently. His hands slipped beneath Desmond's shirt and jacket, mapping out a few scars against otherwise smooth skin, lingering over the promising indents of abs and muscle. "You've done so well, so I should reward you, shouldn't I?" Altair pressed a kiss to Desmond's neck. "Good boys deserve rewards."

It would have been kinder to let Desmond recover from the praise, praise that had clearly hit him hard, moaning and shaking like he was.

Instead, Altair used the moment of distraction to slide his hands to Desmond's hips, where he thumbed the button of his jeans, unzipped him, and reached inside to stroke him directly.

Desmond cried out, body jolting. "A-Altair!"

How sweet his name sounded, coming from Desmond's lips, agonized and needy and desperate. It was a sound he would never grow tired of.

Altair pulled Desmond free of his pants, stroking him faster.

"Do you like it when I touch you, Desmond? Like it when your Dom gives you what you need?"

"Ngh, yes, god!" Desmond sounded like he was seconds away from sobbing. He ground his forehead against the back of his hands, the words wrenched out of him with each stroke of Altair's hand.

"No one else has ever made you feel so good, have they?"

"No, no one—"

"And no one will," Altair stressed. He tightened his grip, determined to wring Desmond's dry. "Because you are mine. Say it. Say who you belong to!"

He was losing himself at an alarming rate, a distant part of Altair realized. Desmond wasn't actually a Sub; he was in flux, on the precipice of a potential—albeit increasingly likely—change, but that didn't stop instinct, his will.

But with Desmond so beautifully obedient and pliant in his grasp, it was impossible to convince himself that Desmond wasn't anything other than his perfect match.

Altair twisted his hand at the end of a stroke, harshly pressing on the head of Desmond's dick with his thumb. Just teasing the hole there.

"You!" Desmond groaned, pained, chest heaving with gasps. He managed, words slurred, "'S you, I belong to you, I'm your Sub—"

There were no words to describe the euphoria that overtook him to hear that. Altair's heart thudded, nearly tore its way free of his chest in its shocked leap.

Altair grit his teeth, eyes screwed shut as he buried his face against the back of Desmond's neck and stroked him furiously.

Desmond's cry was cut short, his voice failing him for a moment as white-hot spurts of cum covered Altair's fist.

"Nnh—" Desmond's voice was a weak thread, "Please, please!"

Altair didn't know if Desmond was begging him or God, but it was Altair who answered his call, who didn't slow his pace for a moment, prolonging Desmond's pleasure for as long as possible.

Pleasure that Altair had given him, that he'd found at Altair's hands. It was the kind of satisfaction that only a Dom could understand, to have taken care of their Sub, made them feel safe and wanted and desired above all else. Altair had never felt more like a Dom than he did with Desmond in his arms.

Ah, Altair thought, gently coaxing Desmond through the aftershocks, pressing his lips to Desmond's neck.

Altair understood at last. He'd never truly had a choice in the matter. From the very moment he'd spotted that white figure on the beach, he'd been lost.

Notes:

me pointing to the imaginary relationship dynamic between gavin and desmond that exists only in my head: people don't talk about this enough fr.

anyways. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I HATE WRITING SMUT SOMEONE KILL ME PLSSSSSSSSSSSSS

and this. fucking chapter. DOUBLED the fic word count. again: PLEASE KILL ME OTL

originally, this chapter would have been an opportunity to introduce more assassins. but then desmond and altair made eye contact and that was it lol

I'm also really bad at tagging, so if you have any to suggest that I might have missed, let me know!