A/N: Yo.
So I was on 4chan (for the first time in my life, don't judge) and I found a picture of a pole-dancing Altair.
…So this happened.
Yeah, I wanted to explain myself and everything but now I just can't because I don't know how. There are a few things that I do need to justify though, so I'll make it known that this is very much an alternate universe. As far as we're concerned, they're all still assassins, but are from the same area and differ little in age to each other. Also, instead of having been allocated different duties as a part of whatever war they experienced in their cities at their time, they are instead part of a universal assassin's guild (like in ACI), are about the same rank as each other and are assigned with similar tasks. Meaning no one is a master assassin, but they are still quite skilled. I'm not detailing everything because this is only a short story (expect something around 7 chapters) so as to where this is set, what time is this is at (assume something around Ezio's time period, I guess) and how they came to know each other, I have no relevant answer and so I'll let you make it up for yourselves. That said, such information isn't important to the plot of this fiction anyway.
Additionally, I had originally planned to make this a yaoi but later decided to keep it more natural than not. There will be… moments, but nothing hugely blatant/no resulting sexual intimacy. Expect a lot of descriptive fanservice though. I'm gonna leave you guys to read this for yourselves now.
Enjoy… or at the very least, try to. xx
Disclaimer: I do not own the Assassin's Creed franchise (because if I did, Desmond would not have died), and I own none of the relevant ideas nor characters with exception to the articulation and plot of this story. Amen.
How To Make Your Fellow Assassin Hate You:
The warm, yellow glow of the tavern's hanging lantern lights glinted off of sweaty skin. Hips shifted and spun with a fluid grace, gyrating around the wooden pole they teasingly neared but never touched. Toned muscles rippled as they dexterously stretched his gleaming form to and fro. His red sash, knotted loosely at his waist, flounced about his swerving legs, its embroidered end dropping silently to the ground as his slender hips did. His lips were slightly parted, cowl pulled far forward and secreting his arcane upper features from view. Everything else though, at least from his waist up, was revealed about him; well-defined pectorals, a many-sectioned abdomen shifting gracefully in time with every bend and twist he took, solid, sexy biceps flexing sharply beside him, tough, large-looking hands sliding temptingly over his scarred form as he swung about with mindless ease. And every eye…
Every wary eye was on him.
He didn't know it, his face tilted as far back as it would go, eyes skyward and the smooth contours of his neck exposed to all, but he had captured the attention of every person in the room without doubt. They were mesmerized by his attractive figure. They found it captivating how this was the first and only time they'd ever seen this man dance, and yet he moved himself like a professional, as if he made men and women gawk and swoon for him all his life. Even the musicians had stopped playing, their eyes drinking in a performance choreographed to a silent tune. The man moved like a cobra to the resonance of a flute. His chin brushed lightly against the pole, sliding down, down, down against it, and- Was that his tongue? the tip of his creamy tongue hovered, just hovered, above the surface of the pole as he travelled parallel to the wooden shaft. He shifted his body with no sound, leather boots muffling every pivotal movement of his against the polished floorboards. Occasionally he would bring himself closer to the surrounding fascinated individuals; a bold courtesan reached a trembling hand for him as he neared, but he was too quick. Her fingers swiped through his afterglow as the man fluidly drew his sleek form away again. He left her feeling like she had him, sated on the narcotics of his presence, when really no one owned this slivering, snaking body in the least. This was a man, an enthralling dancer who knew exactly what he was doing, and yet… perhaps…
Perhaps he didn't know what he was doing at all.
Ezio sat in his chair nothing but a few meters from this occupied pole, one leg crossed over the other, a full mug of beer clenched tightly in his hand, untouched. The other hand was raised, covering the flaming red of his cheeks and nose as russet eyes followed every tempting move of the striking man before him. The empty chair beside his form had once seated the twirling figure, the goblet beside his own, drained of beer, was now replaced with a wooden post. He felt his gaze skim from side to side, snagged on deliciously-shaped shoulder blades, the flat, bronze plane of a back, a dark navel positioned inches above the 'V' of the lower torso, dipping, slanting until mockingly concealed by a scarlet waistband and off-white breeches. The way the man moved allowed the Italian only glimpses of what he had to offer, before a spin of his hip obscured prying eyes of their focus, right until he smoothly raised his alluring body towards his audience again. It couldn't be denied, how magnificent this man had become, but…
Didn't Ezio just hate what he was seeing too? It ailed him to observe his friend in such a manner, for it was wrong to witness him like this… He wasn't supposed to, he knew the guy would loathe him for it, and yet a lot of him, far too much of him in fact, couldn't help but relish in what he saw either. He was prey to an unbidden licentious nature he'd never thought suited to this particular man, and still he knew it was wrong, but he was just like every other rapt individual within the tavern that night; he was absolutely enthralled by him.
And by Dio, he hated it.
'I… I'm sleeping,' the Florentine had hopelessly tried to coax himself after minutes of watching the man perform, his attention lost to bending knees and twirling wrists. 'These dull lights have lulled me into a daydream, and the alcohol… It's causing me to see impossible things…' But every time Ezio solidly kicked the toe of one boot into the ankle of the other, he wouldn't wake despite how much the dull ache grew. He only saw more and more of a lustrous body as it danced itself into oblivion, and really now, this was all because of what he did…
No matter how hard he tried, Ezio couldn't put out of his mind just how it got to this. Just how it ended up so this man, this… fellow friend, acquaintance, assassin, take it how you like it, how he had ended up in this ridiculous and yet overly attractive state at his own expense. Never could the Italian have ever imagined seeing THIS happen before him, for no matter what he had intended to occur this night, pole-dancing was just not it. Sure, he had meant to get the guy drunk and all, but that was because he wanted the man to relax. He didn't mean for him to grab at the nearest post, strip his shirt and start grinding. Ezio didn't even know that the assassin knew how to dance in such a way! But damn him to Hell, he was so bloody good at it and that wasn't something the Florentine man would bother to deny. Those were motions that left him completely stunned, so much so he could barely tear his enraptured gaze away… and…
And now…
Ezio swallowed, dread settling into the pit of his stomach as the blood in his body rushed somewhere else.
Just how in the world was Ezio supposed to face Altair now?
Anxious words strained to leave the Italian assassin's throat, but when they managed to, they were an almost inaudible groan under his breath;
"Ahh, merda."