You can have kitchen nightmares if you want to - Live Forever, Or Die Trying Chapter III

Given all the descriptions of food in this fic, I figured it was time to make a reference to Gordon Ramsay. I find it very fitting, for this expert chef went above and beyond to show people just how bad restaurants can be managed, and how ill-prepared food can ruin your reputation as well as give a final farewell of food poisoning. If you are wondering what this allegory alludes to, it means that you can set up a nice facade of pleasantries and quality, but once someone sits down to digest what you’ve presented, the end result will not be the one you wanted. You are then forced to accept that what you did, and no amount of drama or denial will hide the fact that you did a major disservice.

Saying the food is ‘raw’, Ramsay style won’t even come close to my true thoughts on this fic. We’re back at Malik’s home, where he is praying to the god of revenge and singing. Now, I do have to wonder why the god of revenge is associated with revenge and not, say, the god associated with music or poetry. Revenge doesn’t need singing or music; it simply is. Hera was the protector of women, but she was also known for her vindictive curses for women who crossed her or seduced Zeus/were seduced by Zeus. It helps to have consistency.

He wishes he could ask many more things. He had hoped for an easier exchange of words between them, yet all Malik’s given him so far is an expensive indiference—expensive to maintain after all that’s passed between them that night—and Altair extracts only disobedience through observance of this behavior.

It has been established in the past two chapters Altair is struggling to fit in with his community after being away at a war which still has not been explained. I can understand soldiers have a hard time fitting in with civilian life, but I don’t think the author even knows how the military works in the first place, let alone domestic issues. Altair could’ve easily started re-kindling his marriage by using the wonderful tactic of talking. Things like ‘Hey, how are you?’ and ‘How are things?’ is a great conversation opener. Altair admits he came back from war to expect his ‘husband’ to be obedient while serving him hand and foot. I do not know the true stance of marriage equality in this story yet, but along with child marriage, it is clear the ‘lesser’ subject in the marriage has no rights. There was almost a marital rape scene and that was passed off as no big deal.

You get disobedience for a reason, and Altair’s reason is him being a colossal dick. You aren’t God, so don’t expect people to pray to you every night even though you want them on their knees.

There’s a series of quotations that I feel need to be highlighted. They are as follows:

“It’s time to release your hold on past. The past can’t be changed. Let us turn eye towards what could lie ahead.”

(...) “Why would I place my love into the hands of a warrior who won’t aid my efforts?”Altaïr hasn’t mentioned love. But he hadn’t struck too wide off-mark.

“Do you think me a fool?” Altaïr says. From this vantage point he holds advantage, towering as he is over a body he could subdue with some negligible struggle, “I know what you were aiming to do. You’d see me the instrument of your vengeance against Al Mualim. I’m a warrior, but not your warrior.”

The first quotation smacks of ‘Do as I say, not as I do’, a common attitude and practice held by hypocrites. Altair came home from war expecting obedience, thinking that the past – Malik being obedient and cute – would be the same. He doesn’t really think ahead; he’s telling someone else to do what he doesn’t do himself.

The second highlights how quick Malik is going to change his worldview and how he’ll take advantage of his would-be rapist husband to get what he wants. You’d be hard pressed to find a real-world example of a woman accepting her abusive husband into her arms if he promises he’ll do a great deed on her behalf. It’s prefaced by trickery: they are not doing it for the good of their heart, but to weaken your resolve. Malik, who hates Al Mualim and views Altair as the one who stole his freedom, suddenly doesn’t hate Altiar when it is convenient and is pleased to use him to kill Al Mualim, even when such a murder would throw their society into an uproar.

And yes, Altair. I do think you’re a fool, but you’re not the only one. The next set of quotations prove it.

“You are no warrior,” Malik mocks, with lip wrinkled by ridicule, “you are a soldier, a dog listening to the commands of a master—”

“Yes, I’ve gladly obeyed orders—”

“Obedience is a word forged by monsters like Al Mualim who seek to enslave people into lies and order—!”

“I burn for no cause but my own!” Altaïr snarls back in kind, “What I did was to protect my people and my husband.”

I sense I am going to grow very tired of hearing the word ‘my husband’, especially since Altair, in order to protect his ‘people’, participated in a massacre of nobles and married a ten year old child out of the ‘kindness of his heart.’ If you’re following orders, Altair, like a blind dog, you’re not being selfless. You’re acting because someone else told you to, knowing full well what you did and what it does for your people’s security. Don’t bother using the ‘I’m just following orders’ thing. You always have a choice. If you don’t, then the politicians who sent you into battle are to blame.

Altaïr glares out of sheer sense of duty. He shoves himself up above Malik’s body out of uncontrollable need to get closer to it, and shackles two unresisting wrists to bed out of need to tame the craving, or unleash it. “That’s not loyalty,“ Malik persists despite this turn of events, as if Altaïr is not straddling him, “You’re like a dog trained when not to shit, you’ve never been faced with decisions heavy with consequence, you always fall to your knees absent mind, but you, a slave, wound turn me into one as well, only for your own pleasure.”

You know what? Malik is 100% right. It says a lot when your own characters lampshade the plot you’re crafting and how shitty another character is acting. Let’s not forget mykonos wrote Altair marrying a child, and who continues to beat and berate the one who supposedly loves. Malik is absolutely Altair’s slave. And like any good slave who fears the whip, his outbursts of defiance are clamped down once leather meets skin – or, in this case, when Altair’s cock comes out.

Malik doesn’t even resist. He knows. He knows Altaïr can’t force himself onto him, into him, he knows any threat of punishment is impotent.

This is in direct contradiction to the first chapter, where Altair strangled Malik nearly to the point of unconsciousness and dragged him back into the house after his botched escape attempt. That is absolutely force. There is a total difference between play fighting and fighting as if your life depended on it. The intention of the characters matter, too, and Altair’s mental state at the time was to prevent Malik from leaving.

The ‘you’re such a whore’ comments cements this.

“Oh you’d love that, would you not? Falling to my knees before you. To enslave me as you’d like to enslave my body by shoving your cock inside? Try if you can.”Altaïr takes the sting well, doesn't dwell on the insult, but his grip tightens nevertheless and Malik resists by means of a contemptuous growl but leaves his body absent any physical resistance.

It’s never a great thing to mock rape, and having a character use it as an insult when their ‘husband’ was all too willing to do it is more of an insult to readers like me who have a brain that it is to a story based on pixelated characters. The medium is the message. This message leaves behind mixed signals, and I’m never sure what to make of them.

Altaïr feels fiercely out of place. If he struck his husband violently now, he’d gain little and lose whatever little he’s acquired until now. Rape he won’t consider as an alternative. If only Malik would let Altaïr persuade him into the pleasures of sex. If only he would allow Altaïr to show what he could offer in bed. If only he would allow closeness. If only he were not blinded by vain vengeance. If only.

And what was that about not threatening rape? If a character is even seriously considering it, it’s time for them to get their dick chopped off. Altair is thinking of beating and raping his ‘husband’, and thinks it’ll soften the blow if he could ‘persuade’ Malik to like it. I honestly wonder if mykonos realizes she’s writing one of the most toxic gay relationships there is, but given the amount of work put into this, I reckon no. It was probably the last thing on her mind.

“Go on and take my body—beat it, rape it, conquer it. You’ll never have my unconquerable will.“

Malik’s words are a mockery but his implication is truthful. His face swollen with pride he scolds Altaïr for. Malik is a husband placed forever beyond Altaïr’s grasp, unattainable. A forbidden fruit he wants to taste. Altaïr is as fickle as him tonight, and Malik catches a glimpse of the brief, telltale flutter of his nostrils, reads its warning, but the trajectory of the lust-filled impulse upon which Altaïr acts is too quick, too swift for him to prevent, and Altaïr plummets to take Malik’s lips before anything can be done to halt it.

These quotations were prefaced by the revelation that the nobility class had conspired against the city and were justifiably killed for it. Why this was not put in the first chapter along with the basic world-building is beyond me; mykonos prefers offering me sickly sweet food descriptions.

This is a psycho marriage. I have no clue as to how the author is going to try to repair it, but I want this down for posterity’s sake. There are scores of stories like this, and every one of them deserves to be criticized (of course, in literal terms there is no possible way to get to them all, but it helps to criticize the ones which stand out).

He’s on trial for a mere moment but turns assertive as arousal stabs deeper into his gut. Malik answers in growl when Altaïr parts his mouth and shoves himself in, like some bully shouldering his way into a room. He might as well have fucked him with the manner in which he enters his mouth.

When people ask me, ‘What are some examples of bad sex in fiction?’ I’ll offer them these.

The warrior keeps his lips clamped firmly onto his husband’s and probes inside his mouth like he wants to engage Malik’s tongue into some action of its own, absent Malik’s consent.

And....what was that about being focused on consent?

Something that could partially resemble a moan tears from Malik’s throat and Altaïr bucks into his belly—too hard to be for pleasure, too tame, too painless, to be for punishment. The weight of Altaïr’s cock draws less attention. The grind of Altaïr’s ass against Malik’s own clothed cock and the subsequent bolt of pleasure that follows from it is what throws him off balance.

I don’t get this position. If you’re kissing each other, how’s your ass rubbing against someone’s cock? Unless you’re kissing them from the spooning position?

Altaïr kisses on, enduring the dull thudding of fist below his clavicle, for the simple reason of knowing that Malik has not yet put real fight into it, has not ripped his tongue out with his bare teeth, has not swerved down between their bodies to rip his cock off, has not thrown him off as Altaïr is sure he is capable of, and he is hoping that Malik struggles for some other completely inane reason.

Just because someone isn’t doing this from the get go doesn’t mean they explicitly enjoy you touching or kissing them. Malik is pounding against Altair’s chest and tries to shove him away, yet Altair refuses. Even if Malik were to do something as drastic as bite off Altair’s cock, this story would end too quickly and mykonos wouldn’t have time to inject her awful story-telling.

Malik’s bed-tunic is riding up and his calves digging into his husband’s narrow waist, pressing the warrior to himself until Altaïr’s stiff cock sidles up along his own, nothing between them. Altaïr’s body tightens. Arousal begins to prod him all over, whatever thoughts have been left depart from his head leaving no place to investigate the underlying motives of all this.

I’d have to wager it takes mykonos 1,500 words to write a sex scene, and whenever she does it I am inclined to yell at my computer screen for these wingnuts to ‘get on with it’. I don’t mind build-up at all, but there is no much of it in these sex scenes I have to force myself to read them. This is not a sign of good writing, but a sign where the author just doesn’t know when to quit.

He revisits his latest lesson. If Malik drops any sign of consent, it’s usually gods playing tricks on him.

So...is Malik getting a #MeToo moment anytime soon?

He fades out for a moment, but soon returns to the sight of Malik’s nude form, relaxed, melted belly-down into the mattress, with arms pulled up but slack and burrowed beneath each side of his pillow. His head is facing away, but the sight of him keeps Altaïr’s veins hot.

He doesn’t budge, feels his eyes nearly bulging out during the shrieking chaos that ensues in his mind. Malik naked. Naked. Naked. Naked.

I’m still surprised Altair didn’t fuck Malik as a child. It wouldn’t shock me at all if this was the ‘norm’ in this culture.

The images he used to conjure up to guide himself into the relief of a climax, a figure of his husband as inviting and enticing on their bed as he looks now, waiting for his return, until the day when Altaïr could claim him and bind him to himself.

Well this answers my question. Reminder Malik is only 17. This entire scenario could’ve been fixed if Malik was 17 when he was ‘married’ to Altair. The creep factor would disappear.

His body is increasingly flushing with arousal and his face reddening with obstructed possibilities. Malik wouldn’t allow the solid press of Altaïr’s warmth to touch him. He wouldn’t allow Altaïr to commence a slow journey of kisses from his nape and down the valley of his lower back, but Altaïr puts his worn out fantasies to prolonged use anyway and imagines setting lips upon skin and gliding down his spine, and quickly shifts to more baser thoughts, like kneading his rough grip into the plump mounds of the ass on display, preparing him for cock, having him wake filled to brim with his husband and moaning from the pleasure of it.

I have to tell myself, over and over, that this is the only reason people are reading this garbage; that and the pairing. They apparently don’t give a shit that an adult male married a ten-year-old boy, nor do they care that all Altair can do is fantasize about shagging a teenager’s ‘plump ass’. There is more effort put into these masturbatory fantasies than the work itself. Shameful.

It isn’t so much about fucking—a fact attested by his years of disciplined abstinence from sex—as it is about coming that close to his husband to share the intimate bond and thrusting Malik closer into his own embrace. There is now a different sort of tint to his reverie compared to the one he used to have during war, and compared to the one he’d savored while peeking at his husband through the tunnel for the first time after seven years. His husband is not a meek creature he had hoped to find and his fantasies are shifting accordingly. Instead of blind obedience, he now wants Malik’s trust. Instead of unquestioning admiration, he wants genuine closeness.

Bullshit. This whole thing could’ve been avoided had mykonos introduced a thing called conflict resolution. It was too much effort to actually add humanity to these ‘husbands’ (and I really should start a word counter for the use of ‘his husband’) and have them talk out their issues and actually build a relationship like normal people. Don’t sit there and write about how badly Altair wants intimacy when he was prepared to rape the one he supposedly loves.

You want to piss me off? Get me an author who insults my intelligence by thinking I can’t remember what they wrote.

Some 500 or so words is spent describing silverware and how important they are to Malik. I’m also treated to this little description:

Altaïr refuses to divulge any expression at this point but knows that Malik could jerk him around by his hard-on anywhere he wants with that look of sleep saturating his pouty face.

This is why betas are useful. In AO3’s case, though, betas will rarely tell you if your story is shit. This one should’ve never made if off the runway. Now it’s bloated, filled with noxious fumes and should really be shot down from the sky. A Hail Mary won’t be enough to save it.

As for the bread, he’d felt uninhibited enough to appropriate all of the remaining bread after spotting Malik make preparations for new bread, and because he would spend half his sack of war spoils on nonsense before he’d allow a waste of food.

I’m seldom inclined to give a shit. Make the fucking food already, it’s your only selling point.

He eats his portion while waiting for the group of elderly women to return, these carriers of information who wake before sunrise and gather all kinds of tidings from across the city. From who has the freshest fish on the market, to what events are to be held, and what news travel the forum—they spread out like apprentices of Sheker to get hold on every talk and gossip before they return to their communities. Altaïr awaits their return to inquire about the best artisans, best shops to visit on market, to give his house adornment of his choice.

In this universe, you can have expensive silver goblets, nozzle-powered showers, and food aplenty, but you don’t have heralds or some form of writing system. I am inclined to belief illiteracy is high on this isolated island which stresses gender equality but not marriage equality. If mykonos is trying to make it comparable to Ancient Greece or Rome, even there you had literacy among the noble classes and those who could afford it. Having a completely illiterate workforce will only dampen your city-state’s standing. There’s a reason why slaves in the Roman era barely made it past twenty, you know.

The children are sparse this morning. The majority seems to have decided to collectively attend school today. Altaïr had preferred going to school almost every day. He’d decided from early on to focus primarily on physical training and attend mandatory courses in-between, according to a schedule which was less evasive and more inclined towards his personal predilections.

Alright, so children and adults are educated. So why do you need a gaggle of old women to get your news? Or is that the only occupation women are needed for? Maybe that’s one reason why I don’t see female characters feature prominently in these stories, despite said authors considering female characters ‘good bros’ or ‘BAMFs’ which is the case with Natasha Romanoff in the Marvel fandom.

Altaïr is one of the rare warriors who are committed to marriage.

You married a kid, fuckface, and fucked other men while ‘married’. You’re committed as a mosquito is committed to blood: sticking your prick everywhere and infecting people with disease.

Desmond loves women. He adores them. On one occasion, Desmond had put great efforts into assuring him that he’d rather go down on ten women than receive one blowjob, which Altaïr couldn’t understand, but it hadn’t been his place to understand.

Well this is a first, considering Desmond is in stories where he fucks his own ancestors.

Salai sits on the far end of the room, lodged deep into the sofa yet inexplicably able to look beyond graceful, with a bare foot peeking beneath the folds of her navy dress. There’s a rattle of needles as she switches tools and recommences her stitching without rushing to fetch the baggage from Malik’s arms. It is a debatably rude thing to do, unless it is Salai who does it. Her hair is untamed and spread across bared shoulders in loose curves framing her smirking face.

Tick off those diversity boxes, because for whatever reason Salai, the male prostitute who helped Leonardo da Vinci get arrested, is transgender. I suppose in mykonos’ view we can’t have over-the-top gay characters, so it’s better to make them trans so they can be ‘straight’. If you felt the need to create a transgender or intersex character, nothing is stopping you from creating one. Why the need to trans established characters?

Diversity. Diversity, that’s why. Tolerance.

He doesn’t hide his grimace. It is something a foreign man would wear. Salai cares as much for foreign taste in fashion as she cares for men’s clothing. She presumably cares to make herself attractive to influential or wealthy foreigners that have been growing in numbers and flooding the city after the war, as if dragged along by Al Mualim’s return. Malik is struck with his own frankness as he decides to share opinion.

This story has everything: transgender characters and an allegory as to how foreigners are bad for an isolated population. Are these foreigners going to start demanding welfare and representation in society soon? How about out-breeding the populace? Remember: it’s not replacement provided they have the same politics as you or if you chant that diversity is your greatest strength.

The whole matter leaves Malik with a sour afterthought, and it upsets him that he is compelled into implicitly telling Salai that adapting to a more foreign type of clothing and conforming to the standard of foreigners in order to attract potential benefactors is playing a role she is not made for. Beneath the comely dress, Salai is a man. In his heart, he is a woman. It is how the community has known her. It is how Salai has been living for years. It is who she is.

The admission that Salai is male but is ‘female’ because of his dress would be ‘Transphobia 101’ to the Twitter mob. How you dress doesn’t always define you, because it’s a piece of clothing. Importance can be attached to it if you choose. You can be gender non-conforming and still be happy in your body. A man who likes to dress as a woman isn’t automatically a woman. I am pleased to see that this society allows child brides and open transgender expression. Do they offer sex reassignment surgeries, too?

He combines some shreds of knowledge to remember the purpose of this invention, since they are as fickle and wayward as Leonardo’s appetite for discovery, and likely to drift into oblivion as Leonardo turns from one invention to another between tailoring and preparing herb medicines. A water pump, it is craftily called.

Pretty sure I just read that kids were using shower nozzles in the public baths a chapter ago. How is water being pumped to said showerheads if the water pump wasn’t invented yet? How is pressure generated? Ah, who knows. I don’t think the author does, either. You need water pumps to get water out of wells; how do you expect me to believe you have fancy water nozzles for showers?

What you are doing invites calamity. He will retaliate.” Leonardo tells him at last.

Malik sets his chin into joined palms and leans onto his knees looking at the pump rather than the clear blue of Leonardo’s eyes, “What could he do to me what already hasn’t been done?”

“He could beat you. Rape you.” An expression of mockery asserts itself on Malik’s face at the latter proposition and Leonardo continues to lecture him, “His mind and heart have been touched by war, do not think him incapable of such a thing.”

I want to reiterate that Leonardo’s advice to Malik in the previous chapter was for him to be quiet, obedient and placate Altair’s stomach so he wouldn’t rape him in the night. Now, Leonardo tells him Altair is well within his means to commit sexual violence. In this society, it appears there is no judgment or punishment towards men who beat and rape their spouses and there are no protections for victims. Why else is Leonardo telling Malik to stay? He’s sitting there telling the kid that Altair ‘has seen war’, so rape isn’t alien to him. Who in their right mind offers this advice to a battered wife/husband? Who?!

Malik holds tongue even as he gives Leonardo’s first proposition a thought. He hadn’t truly considered the notion of Altaïr giving him a beating. He considers it, yet, somehow, even that seems as unlikely as rape by now. He doesn’t share his musings with Leonardo but the stark contrast to the possibilities he found to be imminent only two nights ago gives food for thought.

Bullshit. You know it’s well within your ‘husband’s means’; you just so happened to experience not two chapters ago when he forced himself on you. Mykonos truly must believe her readership is filled with dumbasses not to notice these contradictions and slips. No one with a brain above that belonging to a slug rationalizes their husband’s rape willingly. There’s no mental manipulation here – Malik is candidly admitting it as if he’s plucking sunflowers out of his backyard.

There’s a tidbit about the mythology here after Malik goes silent about his marriage’s future. Ya’ar, god of forests, grew a forest on top of Hiba’s grave so his soul could be at peace. Ga’ash (really, these names are absolutely ridiculous) split the mountain so a proper burial could be given. This is all due to the fact that Hiba trespassed on an island and was playing on the sand while his brother (lover? I honestly forget) was having a nap. The least you could do is look up Hindu mythology and make it interesting, yeesh.

I have to remind myself of what happened in the chapter earlier, because all these useless details make me forget. Altair wakes up, has a boner seeing his naked teenage husband, looks around the kitchen and finds some nice silver, and Malik has a chat with Leonardo over his failed marriage. Claudia enters the picture and has a better repertoire with Malik, telling him that he was a child when this all went down and how he never really had a choice in the matter. This is supposed to be encouraging to the reader, but it’s another failed promise. No corrections are going to be done, and Malik will go back on the same broken path as before. It’s all he really knows, and it’s all mykonos is capable of.

Ezio’s manwhoring is more annoying than usual. It’s all there is to his character. In Chapter 3 there is the setup to his eventual romance with Leonardo, because Ezio is such a manwhore he’ll fuck men and women indiscriminately. As with other wonders of this world, there are no STDs. Ezio will escape the wrath of the Fuck Flu.

It is fatal to look desperate, it makes the people want to dump you.

Must be why Ezio, the manwhore, has such difficulty talking to the hot blond who won’t spare a minute of his time to talk to him.

Ezio pauses at the realization that his own selfish interest in this man precluded any conscious interest in the man’s person. He endeavors to form a coherent picture of this man, but the task eludes him. He appears a humorous, high-spirited man who has in him a strain of adventurous restlessness when piqued properly, and apparently this is his way of doing the business of flirting.

Apparently no one in this story is capable of the art of conversation. All these characters see each other as sex objects and not as people. Here, we see that Ezio saw Leonardo as a collection of holes to fuck versus a person with dreams and ideas. Is Leonardo really flirting here, or trying to brush Ezio off? You decide.

Later, Altair heads to a market where he will buy trinkets to bribe Malik with. Plenty of detail is given to these markets, with literal tonnes of precious gemstones and marble being used in the masonry. It gives the impression this island is massively wealthy and swimming in jewels. Why, then, is war so important? Who knows.

Altair decides to buy a human-sized statue of black granite and gold, and no thought is given as to how it’s going to be brought to his house. Other statues are made of onyx, and in case mykonos isn’t aware, onyx is very fragile and while it can be used for shower tiles or counter tops, as the base for a statue it is a poor choice. It can be stained and etched easily, while granite can withstand wear and tear and most household cleaning supplies.

He also mulls over buying lingerie for Malik.

Altaïr regards the clothing item as costly. Between his fingers slips the pure luxury of finest fabric designed not to warm the flesh, but solely to please the eye. It’s an expensive offering. One done for a spouse or a lover soon to become so. It’s delicately-wrought, a silken see-through fabric made to lure the observer into sexual temptation, made to entice lovers.

Add on that ‘fancy oil to enjoy your husbandly privileges’ and you have a situation where that special, expensive silk is going to be soiled.

In this mythology, the Sun came after the trees, mountains and birth of the other gods. This doesn’t make a lick of sense, because gods/goddesses associated with the Sun are usually some of the oldest and are responsible for most of creation. Even God created the heavens first, and then added plants and animals to the Earth. For Greek Gods, the primordial gods came first: the sky, sun, darkness and earth dominated before the rest.

No one gets fine materials like this for a good price. Two pant legs spread out, pruned attractively at ankles, dyed an expensive purple, hiding nothing. Altaïr has brought him what is felicitously called ‘the gift to lovers’. Anger strips off Malik’s face to make space for heavy confusion.

“I won’t wear this. It’s made to entice partners,” he realizes with puzzlement, incapable of caring for anything that revolves around incentives of sexual pleasure. It’s an investment misplaced, though the fabric could yield some gain if sold, which renders Altaïr’s clumsy purchase a little less damaging in terms of cost. Malik considers the price it would fetch when sold, considers if the recompense would be large enough to cover the expenses, when suddenly the shift in Altaïr’s face draws his attention as he catches glimpse of it through one transparent pant leg.

Usually, you buy fine clothes or jewellery to entice someone to you. Buying lingerie and perfumes is a sign of intimacy. Note that these items are Altair’s way of bribing Malik; to make him forget all the misdeeds Altair brought upon him. He just spend an ungodly amount of money on things the couple didn’t need, and didn’t think they needed to buy food and essential supplies. Plus, I have to mention that even though Malik is 17 and is the age of majority in most countries, wearing sexy, see-through clothing smacks of the Bacha Bazi practice. A sadder part is that these clothes likely would’ve been bought for him had Altair stayed home.

“Well... yes. I was hoping you would wear it.”

And the full realization of Altaïr’s intention—so clear but made obscure by Malik’s innocence—plummets upon him driving him into a dark-faced fury.

“Fuck  you!”

Man, Malik really does get the short end of the dildo. Guy just can’t catch a break.

He feels his gorge rising, and a tide of dark, hellish anger, whatever civility has gathered in him turns frail as he watches his husband, intolerably arrogant and tucked into the bed, until his fists tremble with the want to be used. An anger which ends, somewhat disappointingly, in growing slack. Malik remains stony and hardhearted. To have him but not have him feels like a curse beyond repair.

Yes, there’s nothing like your bribe being thrown back into your face and you threatening to rape and beat the one you love. That absolutely sounds like something a normal, well-functioning human would do. ‘Hellish anger’ isn’t something you want to project onto your ‘husband’. But hey, this is what mykonos wrote. You can’t misquote me.

Altaïr’s chest is hurting. It’s a sudden shift in the way he feels physical pain. It’s not the stab of blade or arrow, not the flesh parting beneath sharp weapon but heart splitting with the revelation of being unwanted. Unwelcome. Undesirable.

Boo hoo. Cry me a river. You’re going to learn you can’t rape your way out of this one.

His initial impulse was to punish Malik for injury inflicted. To retaliate against the agony of rejection. Until he starts to tell pains apart to find it not of flesh but of sentiment, undeserving of retaliation with violence, as it would only serve to further sever whatever is there between them. It would serve to cut bonds between him and the community too. All would take Malik’s side if he were to punish his husband with savage violence. They would tear him apart.

You probably should’ve thought of this before:

A) Drag your husband back inside after hit you in the side of the head with a pitcher in order to escape

B) Covered his mouth so he wouldn’t scream

C) Choked him out of disobedience

D) Called him a lying, cheating whore in front over everyone.

But hey, I’m sure this was all done for the plot.

The problem of his relations with Malik is that he needs a laborious amount of time to have his heart mended and an appallingly brief moment to have it cracked open by the same person that holds the means to sew it shut.

His chest feels inhumanely carved out with nothing but bones left inside.

This is written after Altair got touchy-feeling with Malik, untying his clothes and leaving kisses along his neck. When Malik gives him a look that screams ‘Don’t fucking touch me’ Altair again has his heart broken. I find myself not giving a shit. How hard is it to read body language? Where is this elusive consent the author stresses is so great for her sex scenes?

He says nothing, offers no insight into his thoughts. Unreadable, like from the first moment Altaïr returned to set eyes upon him. Reserved. Unwelcoming. Detached. Altaïr desires him. Despite his shortcomings, regardless of flaws, even with his snotty reserve. Altaïr wants him. He had allowed his affection recognition and food. And found it severely underfed by the boy that lies wrapped in his cocoon, on their bed.

So? Get the fuck over it, groomer. Admit you married a fucking child. Of course, the author won’t ever admit she crafted a story around a literal pederast, because the creep factor needs to be put aside for her grandstanding plot.

What happened in this chapter?

- Altair wakes up with a boner at his naked teenage bride.

- Altair finds some shiny silver platters.

- Altair goes to a market and buys things he and Malik don’t need in order to bribe Malik into loving him.

- Ezio gets sprayed in the face with a jet of water that doesn’t rip the skin off his face in order to impress Leonardo.

- Altair buys Malik a scandalously sexy outfit he refuses to wear, because it’s inappropriate.

- Altair leaves because he cannot stand being rejected by his teenage bride.

That’s it. That was the entire chapter, 14,000 or so words later. If you can’t grasp that it takes forever for mykonos to get her Goddamn point across, enjoy nearly 300,000 words from 21 chapters. I’m taking a bullet for your entertainment. Hope you enjoy it.