I can marry 10 year olds if I want to - Live Forever, Or Die Trying Chapter I

This story happened to be one I stumbled on months ago, and I distinctly remember that it was based on child marriage with heaps of Dragon Age style mythology. The author backs her work with loads of fanart, drawings of the environment, and heavy characterizations - with a heavy dosing of smut. Of course, someone with an IQ above room temperature would see the fact that Malik was married at the grand old age of nine and say, 'Wow, author. You sure are fulfilling those Muslim stereotypes of them being paedophiles!' Luckily for the author, there is no real world religion here. I will be taking another shot at this monster of a fic, and it'll be skewered with all the salt and fire you know me for.

And here we go.

Altaïr rules his body but cannot rule himself.

Let this opening sentence dictate the entire theme and tone of the fic. Altair will become one of the nastiest, despicable people you are going to have the pleasure of reading, so sit tight. The opening sentence will always set the tone for the plot you set out to make, and if you unintentionally make it revealing, well. I'll let the reader decide whether that's good or not.

He listens to eager shouts and hustle of life on the streets and they arm him with a ceaseless reminder of what he had fought for. When he left, he brought with him expectations, and returned with a litter of scars. These he bears like trophies—his statements of allegiance to the cause that had led him away from home when duty and creed called for sacrifice. Here, far off the battlefield, song and laughter have swapped place with tears and blood.

The author, mykonos, isn't skilled in the art of actual world-building, but when it comes to ripping off other plots from other games, she's pretty good. Altair goes off to war, to fight a battle which isn't explained and is in an army which serves no functioning nation. At least in the first game, it took place during the Crusades; players knew which side they were (and weren't) on.

This monster of a fic has around 15,000 words per chapter. Now, I love details, but I like to think literary uses of metaphors, allegories and other tools are like adding salt and spices to your dish: a nice amount will add great flavour, too much will make the dish sour. Mykonos is guilty of the latter. It takes her paragraphs to establish a single point; the first being Altair returning from war and him being reunited with his ‘bride’, Malik.

Desmond taunts. He often does these days.

He backhands Altaïr’s naked flank with a convivial slap to staunch a potential retaliation before Altaïr can misinterpret his intentions, “What if he’s dead? Worse, what if he’s been letting other men between his legs—“

Altaïr stomps the ground none too gently, rooting his boot to the pavement, turns to Desmond fiery-eyed with nostrils flared, enraged, and Desmond momentarily knows that Altaïr is terrified.

Imagine this: you’re returning from a battle from God-knows-where, and you left behind a young bride. In Altair’s case, he left behind a child bride. He’s afraid said child bride took other lovers during Altair’s time away, and Altair is terrified (read: infuriated and ready to kill) said actions of the one he supposedly loves. One would think Altair would be more concerned about said lover being okay, let alone alive, rather than being unfaithful. As I said, let that form the overall tone of this story.

“He’s not a whore. He’s not skinny,“ Altaïr falls into a whispery growl, lest someone overhears him, “And he can’t be dead,“ he adds, hastily, to assure himself rather than Desmond, then resumes on his way with an angry tightening of the burlap sack across his shoulder—a crude sack brimming with gold and other riches—his spoils from war. He shifts his shoulder and rolls it back into the weight of the sack to stifle the chink of coins.

Good to know! We learn Altair flares his nostrils when he’s aroused or angry, so expect those to be common reactions from him. You also must appreciate how Desmond, who is not related to Altair in this iteration (nothing remotely ‘Assassin’s Creed’ happens in this story), fights alongside him and thinks it’s cute to mock the guy’s – ahem – child bride, who now happens to be of age. Is that really something a friend would do, ask if another dude’s beloved has had gangbangs?

People live on this island as its inhabitants, they live in this city-state as its citizens, but most importantly, people live as members of their community. A trifle steps up the hill and to the left is where Altaïr’s community is comfortably nested.

Yes...that’s how communities work. That’s how city-states are formed...what’s this author’s education, again?

When Altaïr left for duty, he—perhaps foolishly—left behind his newly-acquired home in the hands of Malik, a mere child when he was wed to Altaïr. But Altaïr had no one else. And nothing else.

In this world, child marriage is perfectly acceptable. I want to point out that these authors are the first to condemn such marriages when they are done by FLDS adherents and other cults in the US and elsewhere. What this author doesn’t realize is that she is writing a world where children are forced into marriage and forced to love their husbands and how she is more or less writing the Islamic world at its absolute worst. She apparently does not understand child marriage kills little girls – but in her work, it’s mostly little boys who are getting married to older men. This pederastic slant goes unnoticed by the readership because they enjoy this type of world building.

Altaïr craves something easy on the eye to obey him till the rest of his days. He wishes for Malik’s beauty. And his loyalty.

This is the hero of the fic: a man who wants others to obey him, but sets no standards for himself and inspires no others. Again, I would like to say these same authors condemn the Bible for saying wives must obey their husbands, yet they write such subjects with adamant enthusiasm. They are blissfully unaware of their hypocrisy.

One a male, a fetching young man, attractively built, with the wire of slender muscle competing with occasional gentle softness of curves, and a bronze of skin most pleasing to the eye. This isn't the boy of ten that he had left behind, and his heart quickens at such a vision. A surprise beyond all surprises. Altaïr’s wish, though far from being dull, has lacked the terrific vigor of the image before him.

Women who write men having ‘softness of curves’ tend to be unaware of how men are shaped. Men can be tapered, slender, wiry or stocky, but it is women who have the softness of curves based on our body shapes. Mykonos is writing Malik with feminine traits, and the more insulting bit is that Altair is looking on him with sexual eyes after he married him at the ripe old age of ten. I cannot see him as anything other than a pederast.

Everything on him appears healthy. He is pretty, less dramatically than some gorgeous women, but easy on the eye.

Annnnnnnnnnnd this confirms it.

Seven years after, Altaïr’s second impression of him is a breathless one. Finding his husband a domesticated creature and in good looks keeps thrusting his joy to unimaginable heights.

This kind of language and attitude always irks me. I always have to wonder why the people who write this garbage – and they are always the type to abhor such marriages and relationships – glorify it in fiction. They’ll squawk to me, ‘But it’s just fiction!’ which happens to be the shittiest excuse for shitty writing anywhere. If a character refers to their beloved as a ‘domesticated creature’, it says a lot about their personality and how they view others. As this story goes on, Altair will become one of the most disgusting, heathen of beings.

Seven years, one month, two days.

That long since he'd applied for a special dispensation to marry Malik, a child of ten falling into this agreement in order to evade certain death, with salty residue of tears fresh on plump cheeks and whispers of revenge upon his lip. The child’s notion of obedience had been fantastically poor, but his sense of loyalty unrelenting, and rare for someone his young age and tragic circumstance.

Tragic, my ass. There’s a thing called ‘adoption’. You didn’t have to marry him, but the author decided she’d be the most tolerant person ever and write a pederastic fic with all the elements of Dragon Age lore. If you have a grown man marrying a young child, and being attracted to said child, he is a paedophile. No ifs, ands or buts. That is what he is. And if he has to marry the child to ‘sow some obedience’, it marks him even lower in my books. The people liking this fic are either aware Altair is a paedophile, or they simply don’t care. Going off AO3 standards, my guess is the latter.

Of mind but also flesh. To Malik’s lips, unsmiling but untouched—lips he shall have occasion to taste to full extent later. 

Says volumes when you married a ten year old and now you can have him suck your cock at the ripe old age of seventeen.

Malik’s appearance in the eyes of his husband depends on Altaïr’s fickle mood. For a moment, he looks fierce in Altaïr’s eyes, with a threatening scowl equaling Nokem’s, and a thick frown contorting his lips. Only a moment after, Altaïr’s tongue darts out to lick across his chapped skin, his head bursting with the image of Malik’s full lips, the heat of his mouth, of his fiery gaze turning soft. A meek and loyal husband to obey him is all Altaïr has fought for. A taste of domesticity all he desires in exchange for years of sacrifice. To find Malik loyal to their home and marriage swells his head with pride and his body with a constant thrum of pleasures to come. Pleasures he's remained patient for years on end.

Imagine seeing a similar post on Twitter, Tumblr or other forms of social media. Mykonos and her ilk would throw an absolute fit: a man seeking an obedient wife to keep his house clean, cook him meals and wait on him hand and foot. Those 1950’s style views are listed as ‘sexist’, because they label women as second-class citizens who cannot be trusted with autonomy. It apparently is fine when it involves a kid married at ten years old to a ‘husband’ who forced him into it, and one who considers him a domestic slave beast who exists for his pleasure alone. Under normal circumstances, a person with a normal state of mind would call out this future domestic abuse issue. But since we’re on the edgier, ‘creative’ route, well then it’s perfectly fine, because no women are demeaned.

He introduces the warm skin of his shoulder into the cold stone of the tunnel and falls into anticipatory reverie of reaping his husbandly privileges, and his cock begins to stir at the thought of stripping the frown off Malik’s lips between picking him up and carrying him up to their bed. Peace pervades this daydream for a few more undisturbed moments, until one of the eccentric characters of the community whom Altaïr recalls through hazy memory strolls into it, carrying an assortment of flowers. This fair-haired intruder—a man of calling Altaïr had failed to decipher seven years ago—comes to kneel beside Malik as they exchange hushed words before the frown is erased from Malik’s face and the flowers entrusted into his wet, gloved hand.

When pointing out terrible writing in terrible fics, I always see to it to quote the text itself. That way, no one can accuse me of misrepresenting it – it is there for all to see. Let’s reiterate what we’ve learned so far: Altair went to war to fight a battle the reader hitherto does not know of, and he returns to find his ‘husband’ domestic and ready to serve his every want and need. When Altair sees Malik interacting with other people, he explodes in anger. Is this really someone you want as a husband?

He thrusts forth like a wounded beast, flinging the tunnel drapery aside, saturating the shout of Malik’s name in accusation. 

Altaïr’s sudden presence is given notice by the entire community and because of this he shows far greater restraint than he would on the battlefield.

Malik’s gaze staggers to the source of his booming voice, loud and unpleasant, and tainted with filthy allegations. Altaïr watches how Malik’s confusion takes a shape of panic, a wet cloth still dangling from his hand, frozen in this act of collapse. When Malik sets tongue to purpose at last, his face is dangerously close to terror.

You should never be terrified to see someone you love return from battle, unless you have something to hide. In this case, Malik, a child bride, had his years of freedom without being raped in bed, and now he’s being accused of being a whore with a man who is there speaking with him. Public humiliation is a great way to show your dominance, Altair. It also shows what a great and loving husband you are. 

“I trusted the word of an unfaithful husband!” Altaïr roars for all community to hear, drawing the above-dwelling people from apartments onto balconies, “I have given my word—the fault lies in you for breaking yours, whore!”

Malik’s mouth remains agape, he scowls feverishly, and Altaïr, wounded, takes the advantage to pounce on Malik’s state of confusion to hurl offense and insult and balm his own cracked pride.

“You've abased and shamed yourself while bearing my name—!”

“You’ve shamed yourself, by accusing me of imaginary slights!”

Malik snaps back, rises, piling up on growing courage, but Altaïr’s keen eyes dig into the spot where Malik’s pulse hammers beneath the skin of his neck, and it’s all the evidence that he requires.

I really have to wonder: what proof does Altair have, really, aside from hearsay that his teenage bride was sleeping around? He doesn’t. He should’ve asked around, see what others had to say. He’s taking rumours at face value, and is publicly accusing his significant other of doing things they didn’t actually do. Despite these outbursts (and countless more) Altair is always forgiven. Do you think Mykonos is aware of such horrible character development? No. If they had such self-awareness, this horrible fic would’ve never been written.

As it is later found out, Malik was lying flowers at his brother’s grave. Altair, instead of asking, immediately aims to kill him (and kill Leonardo in the process) because of his rage. Canon Altair is one stubborn son of a bitch, but even he doesn’t take rumours at face value seriously without investigation.

Now, there’s another detail in this chapter I don’t think Mykonos noticed. She writes that carpets are a rare commodity, yet there’s enough fabric for cushions, sofas and other furniture. If you have the textiles to make cushions, you can make carpets – you just need thread and fabric.

With Altaïr away, Malik—a child turned orphan overnight and left to fend for its own—transformed the space within Altaïr’s four sorry walls into a cozy home worth of flattery. This proves to be Altaïr’s second unexpected surprise of the day. His third—that Malik has been as loyal as he had promised once, at the tender age of ten.

Altair the pederast expected a child to be homemaker and future pleasure-giver, always a promising sign for a titular character. Note again Altair never adopted Malik as a brother; he chose to marry him. What benefit could there be to marrying someone so young? No answer. Don’t expect one.

He ceases his inspection of the bedroom now that his attention has been drawn to awaiting duties. Of his home, he had expected far less. Of his husband, he had expected more. Foolish as he might have been in blind hope, Altaïr had expected his husband to speed to his arms to greet him, to hold his parched hands and smile with teary eyes and thoughts of affection and loyalty. A wrinkled brow and distrust had not been part of his prayers to Gdila.

I don’t think calling your child-bride a ‘whore’ in front of your community and expecting him to get on his knees and suck your cock is worthy of respect. What more did you expect from a child you left behind to grow up alone? What does it say when you left him and expected him, upon return, to treat you as a god?

This character development is awful, and this is only the first chapter. 

Altaïr has a not-so-distant memory of a child's fretfulness on a bleak day when he first asked for marriage, and of a child’s thirst for revenge that screamed louder than the yes it whispered in front of priests. In the expanse of time that stretched from the Massacre of nobles up to this point, Malik’s thirst for revenge has not withered as Altaïr hoped it might. His loyalty to Altaïr remains a matter of probity, far-removed from any personal devotion. The knowledge does not surprise, but offers little comfort and provides reason for worry. Altaïr sweeps this intricate matter aside for now.

Mykonos runs on the premise that because Malik was filled with revenge, he was of the mind to consent to something serious as marriage. Most ten-year-olds don’t even like the concept of kissing, let alone something as serious as marriage. The fault, then, lies on the adult who made the proposal. Altair was 20. He should’ve done the actual adult thing and adopted Malik, raising him as a brother – not marrying him as a child bride.

Malik has been born a noble, a descendant of god Nokem. One of the last remaining few. Before the Massacre, he had been unused to work that the majority of the population performs. In its aftermath, mundane labor foisted itself upon him.

Altaïr does not empathize.

Of course not. You’re a soldier who married a kid. How can you empathize with his work and lineage, when you couldn’t empathize with the concept of consent?

“I deliver joyous news to be met with tempered response.”

“Your money is not fucking wanted. I’ve long learned to fend for myself.”

A hint of ire roams Altaïr’s face for a split moment and Malik is sure that they will revert to a crossfire of filthy yelling.

“I am the master of this house and you will follow in my lead.”

I wonder what the status is around divorce in this world. Malik never consummated the marriage, so he should have by all rights annulled it. Of course, given Altair’s attitude, he never would have allowed it to happen. I assume that divorce does not exist in this perfect world, despite such marriages being well deserving of them.

Altair would, in other scenarios, be a misogynist with that talk. Since no women are involved, it cannot be called such.

“You find my orders amusing?”

“No. The stupid fuck that speaks them I do.”

‘It don’t be like that, but it do’.

Despite these shortcomings, Malik is an alluring sight. Altaïr feels an abrupt bark of lust in the pit of his belly, and his nostrils flutter, immediately followed by a drawing of a deep breath to calm his body and tame the fast-growing craving that has been systematically repressed for years on end.

I’ll never understand the allure of these bipolar characters. Mykonos and most slash writers believe that writing male characters who are ready to murder each other one minute and then love each other the next is adequate character development or the fulfillment of the ‘friends to lovers’ trope. It doesn’t work like that. If anything, it speaks of a sociopathic mindset: you think you’re talking to a fully functioning human, until you look long and hard into their eyes and see what they really are like.

“After the meal, I would also enjoy your body,” Altaïr fixes his helmet into place, and this vision wakes unwanted memories and gives Malik no less grief than Altaïr’s preposterous implication.

“Are you asking for sex?” Malik rushes to ask as Altaïr turns to take leave, barely keeping his voice from falling apart.

“I ask nothing. That is how it will be.” From beneath the steely beak of an eagle, Altaïr’s eyes are menacing, and Malik has no doubts he will do as he desires, “And clean yourself, I don’t want to soil my cock.”

Wow. I’ll remember to mention these sentences whenever someone on the Internet asks for an example of bad writing. Imagine telling – nay, demanding – that your S/O needs to get ready for sex right this minute and that’s an order. The ‘cock clean up’ remark seals the deal. I suppose I should give mykonos a nod for admitting that anal sex requires some form of colon cleansing, but in this context it borders on insulting. I feel bad for Malik. I really do. No one deserves a ‘husband’ like this.

“Fuck  you!” Malik shouts after him as soon as his mind has bridged the gap to his frozen mouth.

For the fraction of a moment Malik considers the location of his hidden sword, but Altaïr remains standing and shows no signs of lashing out at him.

“Talk to me again in such tone and I’ll give you a lesson in manners,” a moment of silence and then, “Make supper. Make me a bed. And we’ll revisit that remark.”

The shuddering shock-wave that ensues after the bursting clap of door is felt long after Altaïr’s departure.

The warrior leaves taking Malik’s hard-earned happiness with him.

Do you know what I have to say to people like this? Make your own damn food. Make your own bed. You’re the ‘superior sex’, you do it. Your S/O is not your slave; they are meant to be your equal. Malik is accused of being a whore in front of his community, has his autonomy taken away, and is now told he needs to cook, clean, and suck dick at Altair’s whim.

If I remember correctly, Altair’s personality does not change throughout this fic. He gets worse, as does everyone else. To call it a ‘clusterfuck’ is an understatement.

He revels in this find for a mere moment and considers taking the entire shelf with him. This notion he discards as soon as it arises, aware of the blame that would fall on Leonardo for poisoning Altaïr, should this evidence be found in another’s home.

Poison is said to be a woman’s weapon, and is considered to be an equalizer before firearms were invented. What does it say when Malik hates his husband so much he wants to poison him? To break into a friend’s home to steal it? Does the community know how much he hates his husband? Did they all turn a blind eye?

This would be a murder scene in real life. In fanfiction, it’s a ridiculous conundrum of shitty gods, overblown descriptions of scenery, and horrible characters. This could easily be solved if Malik took the first step and killed Altair. I wouldn’t blame him one bit.

“I wished him dead before I went. He would put me in shackles, Leonardo. He ordered meal, ordered my body like a piece of meat. I hate him—“

“And for hatred you would give your own life?” Leonardo bends to seize Malik’s hands that rest on the boy’s knees and fastens his hold on them, “Where in the city will you hide where Altaïr won’t find you? He is as alone as you are. You are all he has besides his home.”

This is the worst possible advice you can give to a victim of domestic violence: ‘You have to stay with that person, you’re all they have’. No. Malik is a person; he is the agent of his destiny. He never consummated the marriage, and even if he did, I’d think the progressive author has a thing called ‘divorce’ in their books. Malik is telling a friend he’s being used as a broodmare and Leonardo is angry at him for...choosing to run away and find a better life.

I really do have to wonder how the author thinks they aren’t insulting.

“You may carry your hatred inside you like Nokem did before slaying his enemy, but be obedient to Altaïr, show him affection—“

“Never.” Malik protests in shrill outrage.

“Malik, listen,” the clutch on Malik’s wrists constricts and Malik is compelled to consider Leonardo’s ensuing words just to ease his grip.

(...)

“They’ve grown tired of blood and dust, and poor rations. They hunger for a warm home sweetened by the attentions of their wives and husbands and family, they hunger for a warm meal and warm hands to caress and soothe their battered spirits,” Leonardo takes pause as he notices Malik mulling over his words, and uses the chance to allow Malik’s hands into his lap, “Altaïr wishes to be attended by his husband. Your affection and obedience is all he wants.”

This is the equivalent of telling a woman forced to marry against her will she needs to shut up and be the emotional support to a man she barely knows, all because he wants someone to wait on him hand and foot. It is deeply insulting. You do not earn affection by calling the one you love a whore and telling them to ‘clean themselves out’ before you fuck them. Altair is a pederast and abusive, and Leonardo’s best advice to to tell Malik to stay with him?!

Affection has to be earned. Obedience is earned through respect. Altair has earned either; he merely expects it. With advice like this, no wonder there’s a severe lack of domestic violence related murders here.

“I don’t want his brutish hands upon me,” the very thought makes Malik sick to the stomach, “I’ll have to tolerate his presence in my home.”

“An unavoidable concession, Malik.”

I feel bad for Malik here. Really, I do. No human being deserves to be treated like this, regardless of where they’re from. These ‘relationships’ always end in horrible, gruesome deaths. Telling the victim to stay in such an abusive relationship is signing their death warrant. You’d think Leonardo would know this, but he doesn’t care.

Here’s another sample of such ill-given advice:

“Play a loving husband. Submit to his will. He will never know that you hate him, he will never know you’re lying, Malik. The day will come when you’ll lose sight of hateful intentions.”

Right. As if this ever works.

Ezio’s humphs in mock anger but falls readily into this doting, allows Claudia to maneuver his head up for an onslaught of sisterly kisses.

Altaïr swings his gaze from this odd display of affection to Desmond who sits hunched again, with a hint of a smile on his face while the hum of Claudia’s pleased noises and the soft smack of her kisses peppered across Ezio’s face permeate the lack of conversation. Desmond can probably grasp the essence of sibling affection as good as Altaïr can, which is to say far from good. For one adventurous moment, Altaïr’s mind attempts inserting himself into this picture, with Malik in Claudia’s stead. It doesn’t come as a surprise when this image resists imagination and wrestles itself from Altaïr's mind, claiming improbability.

That’s awfully affectionate for siblings. Are we sure this doesn’t take place in Alabama? 

There’s a moment between Altaïr’s methodical cutting of space and his low-spoken words, in which time Abbas manages to hoard salt for Altaïr’s open wound. A wound that seems to be familiar to all those who should not meddle with it, which is everyone.

“What gnaws at you really, Altaïr?” Abbas’ unsightly grin widens, its weight feels like a stone in the warrior’s empty gut, “Do you truly care for the money? Or do you care for how your whelp managed costs of living?” Abbas’ grin is brazen and ugly and growing as he leans in to wound pride in whispers, “I will tell you how, Altaïr. Your little husband, fucked to madness by a thousand cocks—“

Abbas is the go-to Big Bad here, but this level of villainy is cartoonish. One has to remember that it was Altair who called Malik a whore in front of his community based on little more than hearsay, and now he is getting offended at Abbas saying the same. Altair started this, and Abbas is doing him a favour reminding him of it. Besides, need I mention Malik would’ve been just a teen? A gangbang on a teen doesn’t score you brownie points. Even PornHub has an 18+ rating.

Altaïr feels the grip of his fingers on Abbas’ neck long before he hears his own snarling growl—the sound of a wounded animal with rabid hunger for vengeance, and it feels as if Nokem himself is guiding his hands as he drives Abbas’ choking form into the base of the nearest column and rams the back of his skull into the stone, once, before he inclines his face towards the bulging one, misshapen with slow swelling and blotches of purplish-red.

A very odd way to put it. A wounded animal with a need for vengeance? Usually, when you compare someone to a ‘wounded animal’, they’re striking based on whatever they have left in them; they are not at full strength. It means they are desperate. Mykonos isn’t just bad at story-telling, she’s bad at writing.

The kitchen is hot, sweltering as a result of the cooling oven and recently snuffed fire, and Malik covers the excess dough with clean cloth and cleans his hands, dabs the sweat from his face. The table is laid out, table linen spread, and Altaïr sits wrapped in silence, awaiting meal. Altaïr has an ax to grind with his husband on several issues weighing heavy on his mind, but this wish is halted by a great, redeeming hunger.

Kitchens need to be well ventilated. Warm, yes. Sweltering, you have an issue. You want to cook food, you don’t want to cook yourself. Did Mykonos ever look up Medieval kitchens? They needed pipes, you know.

His husband’s hands look clean and soft, unalike his toughened and rough ones, and his arms smell of scented balms and dough. His tunic has a soapy scent. Altaïr is promptly reminded of Malik’s line of work.

I want to know what kind of lotion Malik is using, because anyone knows from even washing dishes that long exposure to hot water and soap will crack your skin. Laundry before the invention of laundry machines was hard work. Malik would be quite the buff kid, and his hands would be chapped. There is no ‘smooth’ hands in laundry work.

A page or two is devoted to the meal Malik cooks for Altair. Mykonos is known for this: she bogs down entire chapters with endless descriptions of events. While descriptions of food are always a welcome bonus, there’s a difference between a nice helping of it and a full blown McDonald’s buffet Mykonos is offering. Might as well call it the ‘Heart Attack Grill’.

Less spice next time. All his work reduced to nothing in a moment, an instant. The remark equal to writing his cooking off as bosh. His hours of sweating in the kitchen were for naught—evidently, his effort is worth nothing.

Altair is welcome to cook the food himself. But Leonardo’s advice to Malik was to ‘be a better husband’. Translation: submit even more to your beast of a husband in the hopes he won’t rape you in the night. Some friends you have.

It takes a colossal amount of restraint to not run the blade through the mouth that’s formed these words. He had been full of vain hope, and things are marching badly. He is silent because it’s no use arguing. He had seen people attempt to argue with warriors, a task that did not bear desired fruits of labor. As further insult, Altaïr abandons his spoon with a clatter and doesn’t touch the rest of the food. Stew and bread. Stew is all he bothered to taste.

These chapters are an utter chore to read, but I feel it is necessary. Authors think adding the most detail as humanely possible makes them better writers, and 90% of the time it doesn’t. There’s a reason why editors cut down as much ‘meat’ as possible from the story. If you feel you’re writing things that have no bearing at all to the story, cut it out. Keep it short and sweet. If a chapter needs more details, go all for it. But for the love of God don’t choke me with inane details. You’re going to make me vomit in your lap.

“No, you don’t understand,” Altaïr says in full height, and Malik refuses to face him, however asinine this move, “You may cease lead now. Ever since I returned you do not take lead here. You follow.”

If your S/O is dictating to you where you should go and whether you have any personal choice in where you should go, it’s time for them to be divorced or dead. To think this story has the tag of ‘power bottom’.

“My prayer and my devotion, my life and my death—all belong to you. But my sorrow belongs to me. As does my hatred. When a single innocent being is killed, it’s as though all have done the crime,” his heart drums with excitement and loathing as he cushions the blade’s sharp edge against his wrist and holds there, “Strengthen me with my dead brother, Father, and see me to proper path. And see my husband swept from it.”

This quote has some basis in the Koranic quote of, ‘If a single innocent is killed, it is as if all have done the crime’. Now add some idolatry and some wrist cutting goodness without Nine Inch Nails and you get this.

Women stood elevated in the eyes of gods for their recurrent bleeding, exempt from spilling blood to seal a blessing or curse. They need only voice it during their monthly sacrifice of blood, their word alone needed to seal divine pacts, which makes them more powerful. This is the power they wield, and they wield it with utmost care.

And yet women don’t feature prominently in this fic, and despite women being the ones bearing children, there is marriage equality (if there can ever be a thing here), where older men can marry young boys and girls.

 That’s how he justifies it to himself. He takes a grudging step forward into his old sanctuary and new prison, pointedly keeping his head free of ideas and unsoiled by thoughts of the other man’s presence. Altaïr has probably discovered the secret corner during his investigations.

I’d tell you to take the money and run, but the author insists you two are star-crossed lovers, so what the fuck do I know?

Malik knows his time for evading the bed grows short, but he pours libation into Nokem’s bowl and makes a show of praying to the god. Upon ceasing what he’s never began, Malik remains standing, with brooding silence and tightening grip on the pitcher of water, the notion of sex hovering around him like a bad stench.

Sex, even if it’s hate sex, rough sex, or a one-night stand, should always be made on mutual agreements. Forced sex will never sit well with me. The author might think she’s cool and smart and creative adding some ‘tribal’ elements in here, but what she doesn’t realize is that she’s crafting a weird Sharia law type society with Hindu elements in which women are ‘powerful’, yet adult men can marry young boys and force them to have sex. This doesn’t sound like a functional civilization at all. It sounds like a hellhole.

“I am to lie with you?”

“It’s your duty as my husband—“

“I will not do it.”

Altaïr’s demand is not met and it colors his face into a heavy frown, “You misunderstand. I do not ask, I command you—“

“Command? You mistake me for a slave,” Malik barks back while the untrue bravado still moves him to backtalk.

He’s right. Malik is not a slave. He’s a free born man. Yet, it appears slavery is alive and well in this society, considering Malik, a high born, has to sleep with someone below his station and consummate a marriage he ‘consented’ on the basis of revenge. I don’t think a ten-year-old can consent to that. Can you?

He stands tall and Malik sees what he chose not to fully acknowledge until present. His husband is not from an army of amateurs but professionals whose sole profession is warfare.

Wow...200 IQ writing right here.

I’ve fought for seven years giving body and soul to the defense of my city. Your security and that of the people is all I ever bled for.” Malik assumes that Altaïr is counting him among the your, but his sacrifice is ill-received, unwanted, “Seven years of watching others enjoy sex and spoils. My generosity has been boundless. And this is what I get in return.”

You are not entitled to sex. You earn it. What battle was so important that you won where your people were not at threat at all? They seem to be living the high life, considering food is aplenty and the economy is doing well. Altair is acting like an incel who feels he is entitled to sex because he saw other people have it. If he can’t get it willingly, he’ll force it.

“I expect you to behave like a loyal husband. And you defy me, still.” Altaïr accuses. He hovers above him, and Malik is staring at his husband now, into his intricately flecked hazel eyes touched by a bloom of faintest amber. Altaïr’s lashes are thick and dark, like a child’s, and there is nothing child-like in the hardness of his face. Nor in the arousal distorting his visage, the brief flatter of nostrils combined with dilated pupils.

This is how women die in real life. This is how domestic violence begins. Maybe Mykonos has some wonderful redemption plot in store, but you will not convince me that a man who married a ten-year-old boy, came back after seven years of war, and demands sex from his ‘husband’ under a subtle threat of rape is worthy of respect. He’s scum. Kill him now, and spare me this disastrous plot.

“You expect me to be your slave,” Malik hisses in low growl because louder is not necessary, because he’s keeping his anger at bay, until Altaïr unleashes a flood, undeterred by Malik’s lack of interest.

“You will bend to my will, or be punished in the denying of it. My generosity demands correction in the face of your behavior.”

I’ll be reminded of these quotes as this story continues; of how Altair tells Malik he will obey him...or else.

Malik recovers from this savagery only with a short delay and manages a single kick to Altaïr’s shin and a misdirected swing of elbow before Altaïr flings him onto bed. He bolts in panic, but in vain—he has scarcely rolled over when Altaïr’s grip shackles his wrists to the soft bed, the heavy bulk of the man’s body chaining his legs, and he is frozen for a second, an instant perhaps. Then the sheer weight of Altaïr’s lower body on his joined thighs comes as a stab of pain and he parts them to aid relief, attempts a vigorous, growling struggle to throw the man off but feels trapped with arms nailed down his body and left thigh pinned between Altaïr’s with the man’s knee pushing against his groin in agonizing pressure.

Yeah. You know what this is, right? It’s a would-be rape. I see what you’re doing, Mykonos.

In some saner world, devoid of assault and harassment and curbing of freedom, Malik might have drawn the line at the sudden grotesque sight of this man’s fury. In the calm of another time and place where warriors don’t marry children to abate their hunger for loyalty, Malik would have thought twice before setting a warrior on anger.

Oh, it sounds like you live in a perfect world, doesn’t it? No divorce or the right to consent in a marriage, but hey, women are treated fairly by the gods! Feminism!

At this, Altaïr’s face divests itself of ire and dons a new cloak of arousal. He expects Malik to resist at first but progressively accept the pleasures of sex. He anticipates conceited resistance out of principle and then expects Malik to open up to him and accept him between his thighs, to allow Altaïr to sink into the shape of his smaller body and taste the sweetness of his lips while he fucks into him.

Cue the ill-named ‘rape fantasy’. I’m sure the boy you forced yourself on is going to accept your eager touches and tongue-fucking. I really have to thank these slash authors: not only do they test my patience, they test my intelligence.

Altaïr envisions Malik on his back with thighs spread for him. That’s how he wants him. This way or no other. Where he can watch the nuance of pleasure on his husband’s face and gauge Malik’s arousal on the state of his cock. Altaïr had tried women once, and they divulged nothing of their real pleasure. Men are easier to decipher. If Altaïr can’t see the reflection of his own pleasure in his partner, he finds himself unable to perform. A secret long known and never shared. He requires Malik to give in to pleasure.

What was that about women being hailed by the gods as the superior sex? Good to know Altair sees them as ‘complex’ beings he can’t figure out, so he turns to men boys. Also, I am quite sure you dragging someone who fought you off to escape back to your bed to rape have surprise sex with is a sure comfort.

Victory to him who fights the longest.

He moves quickly, quicker, shunning fear and bolting for the door again, his sole purpose to get away or alarm the community.

The door bangs and he is half-way out shouting for aid, alerting the community his sole way into safety now, but a rough palm slams against his mouth in mid-shout, muffling his voice before he is hauled back inside with a shiver of half-terror and half-panic searing through him.

Oh yeah, I’m totally wet at this. This is such fantastic smut, uh huh.

“No words?” Altaïr mocks.

“Shock seizes my tongue,” he snarls, untruly.

“Then perhaps my cock will aid in untangling it. Seeing as many others did,” Altaïr barks back, standing immune to Malik’s tone.

The more Altair speaks, the more I wish Timur the Lame would add his head to his collection of skulls.

In a moment of insanity Altaïr seizes him by the throat, tight. Malik struggles, he is trying. Life seems to be playing another extraordinarily unamusing joke as Altaïr holds fast, forcing back his head and staring down into Malik’s pained face with a feverish snarl, the adult face with a stupid, wrathful face of a child beset by jealousy. Altaïr presses down on him until his head begins to buzz through throes of pain, fingers tighten around his neck until the grip coaxes a choking sound from Malik’s throat.

Think long and hard about this: this is the first chapter, and this is the Altair Mykonos wants to sell to her readership. A man who calls his ‘husband’ a whore; who married him when he was ten; and who kidnaps him and strangles him at the hint of defiance. Imagine if a man was doing this to a woman. It’d be a ‘Law and Order’ episode. It wouldn’t be an ‘epic’ smut tale.

“I stopped hurting you. I don’t want to hurt you. Why do you cry?” He sputters out, feeling momentarily revolted at this violence of his own creation, waits for Malik’s body to recover from the shock and abuse.

Maybe...you shouldn’t have tried to strangle your so-called beloved? Pretty sure that’s a good thing to start with.

“Brush away your tears. I don’t want to look at them,” Altaïr tells him then, “You will have to face away. I don’t wish to look at your tears while I fuck you.”

“Fuck  you!”

People actually liked this story. Gave kudos and everything.

Altaïr’s crotch, pressed to his clothed rear as the man holds him down, is making him dismally uncomfortable. Several fruitless attempts of twisting away later, Altaïr stoops down catching the fabric of Malik’s tunic between his teeth and pulling up. So wild and convincing is his pull that the ripping of fabric paralyzes Malik for a moment, long enough for Altaïr to wrap one hand round both his wrists and allow his other to clasp his bared thigh and smooth up his tensed cheek and knead into the plump muscle.

Not everyday you see a dude using his teeth to rip apart another guy’s pants. Florida Man material, for sure. By the way, this is prefaced with an attempted rape and strangulation.

“You are afraid...” Altaïr realizes with puzzlement, the light of his arousal muted by Malik’s fear. Altaïr has a fear also. Altaïr knows he can’t maintain his erection if his partner is in pain, fear, discomfort. He had hoped Malik’s struggle to be born out of prideful resistance to the new role in household. He had hoped that Malik will shed pride when persuaded into the pleasure of sex.

Your husband, whom you kidnapped and prevented from escaping, strangled, and tried to rape is afraid of your very touch and presence? You couldn’t have possibly have fooled me!

“You flinch as if a man never kissed you, caressed your skin, or slipped inside you. Have you been penetrated?”

Malik gives a silent shake of head.

Malik struggles because he isn’t ready.

Naw, it’s not like him trying to flee from your advances at every minute indicated he’s an experienced sex fiend ready for the BDSM session, dude.

Altaïr is a savage brute. But he’s a man of word. Malik is plunged into the unknown while Altaïr is doing whatever he’s doing behind his back, but he lays trust into his promise.

Can you really say this to a man who called you a whore in front of everyone and demanded you obey his every word? How can you possibly trust someone like this? Fuck it, I guess we need to turn off all logic here. This is a long 14,000 word chapter.

When Malik had set out into the day this morning, he had never expected to end it with a man thrusting his lubed penis between his thighs, a sensation turning stranger as Altaïr’s aim begins to climb until his cock settles right below Malik’s crotch, bumping and sliding against his sack with each slow, shallow rock of Altaïr’s hips advancing against his body.

Neither did I, but we live in a small world, eh?

By implication, this means that Altaïr has not tasted them thereafter. By implication, it means that Altaïr abstained from sex as a gesture to honor their mutually-promised fidelity. By implication, it means that this is Altaïr’s first sexual encounter after seven years of war. That makes two firsts. It is also Malik’s first sexual encounter.

If he was having sex while married, he was already breaking his vow. This highlights the double standard of men being the ones able to have sex with whomever they wish, while women (or in this case, the ‘bottoms’) are forced to remain chaste and virginal. It’s not a healthy dynamic to keep.

His eyes stare beyond his own thickening shaft to inspect Altaïr’s length, appearing recurrently in his sight after each push. Altaïr’s cock is of impressive size when engorged. His girth is more noticeable than his length, thick enough that Malik can feel it nick into the tendons of his inner thighs whenever Altaïr presses forward. His balls feel heavy and a handful.

I don’t care how big his cock is. If he strangled you and tried to rape you, I’d rather see the appendage be cut off Lorena Bobbitt style. Hell, I might as well dedicate this fic to her; God forbid her spirit is lurking around in it.

Altaïr finds sexual pleasure in his partner's arousal, but Altaïr can't perform if his partner is in pain. It is a great relief to know that Malik has this influential knowledge to fall back on in future. Altaïr will not bother him if he finds him unwilling. Though Malik has been underfed pleasure from the start and doesn’t hope for release, but he fights this battle with means available to him, by making this moment of tedium into something bearably enjoyable, and something to extract knowledge from.

Compare this paragraph to Altair’s actions previously: he dragged Malik back into the house when he tried to escape, choked him to the point of unconsciousness, and now acts as if cannot be aroused until his partner is aroused. Mykonos’ attempt to add consent is contradicted by her own writing.

This is what happens when you don’t have a beta/editor who is willing to tell you when you’re writing bullshit, and a readership who is too stupid to notice any glaring contradictions in your work.

Malik feels a stranger in his own bed.

He lies in darkness feeling a leash tighten around his neck until he is suffocating from the suddenness of this arrangement.

This chapter can be summed up as followers:

- Altair comes back after seven years of war to find his child bride all grown up.

- Altair demands said child bride cook, clean, and suck his dick as his domestic slave.

- Altair dictates to Malik what he can and cannot do in all aspects of his life.

- Leonardo tells Malik the best way to ‘tame’ the would-be rapist is to be nice and serve him good food.

-Altair is never appreciative of what his teenage husband does, and forces himself on Malik.

- Malik refuses sex, and even tries to escape from his clutches, but is caught repeatedly and forced on the bed.

- Altair ‘cannot feel pleasure’ unless Malik does, even though he strangled Malik for defying him and tried to force himself on him.

- It took 14,000 words of exposition and shitty plot to write something 1,500 words could accomplish.

This will be a trend in this fic. Mykonos does not know how to trim the ungodly amounts of fat from her work, and she thinks her world-building and sex will make up for it. The thigh fucking in Chapter 1 was almost clinical in its boorishness; I almost fell asleep reading it. As far as sex scenes go, it reads like it belongs in a California-style consent class. It’s not sexy, but there’s a lot of semen, lube, and big dicks.

I think by the time I’m done with this damn thing, Brazzers will have more appealing plotlines. Can I ring up Johnny Sims anytime soon?