New Year:D Happy New Year's, everyone!
Title: Hunting Eagles
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr x OMC
Rating: NC17
A/N: I'm fond of Maximilian. :3
Maximilian's house, set so close to the port of Acre, somehow managed to smell persistently of sandalwood instead of fish and human refuse. The heat of the afternoon sun was only partially shuttered out by the heavy curtains; the noise of the street half drowned in folds of cloth. He could make out the distant shouts of hawkers at their stalls, the shrill cries of beggars, and susurrus murmur of street level conversation.
The walls were rough under his palms, and Altaïr was sweating under his clothes, his teeth bared, a tongue wet against his ear, his hood folded against his back. Maximilian grunted, behind him, shifted, and began to move again, slow and maddening and deep, Altaïr's flesh between his legs held in a pleasant prison within hot, slick fingers, an arm wrapped around his waist that bent him back against the spymaster.
The clamor of alarm bells had long faded, and yet Maximilian was taking his time, mouthing at his neck, wet and teasing; his body was numbingly hot, the room stifling, his labored breathing in heavy pants as he curled fingers into claws against the wall, braced himself, the folds of his breeches uncomfortable against his knees, and bucked. Maximilian growled, deep and liquid like an animal, and rolled his hips, deliciously harder, making him moan, breathless.
Altaïr knew he was due back in Acre's Bureau hours ago, but under the other man's skilled attentions that had already long become as abstract as his instinctive questions; all he could concentrate on was moving against Maximilian's rhythm, trying to force it, learning. If he moved sharply, pushed back, Maximilian would hiss; if he clenched, there was that rumbling sound that was so much like a purr, a growl; if he whispered the other man's name, there would be a breathy snarl. Altaïr had never felt so much pleasure.
Still, the shreds of his discipline kicked his mouth into obeisance, as much as the rest of his body was by now quite beyond his control. "Max… Maximilian. I have to go."
"What, when you are like this?" Maximilian grinned against his neck, slow and lazy, and tugged lightly at swollen flesh, making him shiver and thrust desperately into the fading pressure.
Altaïr considered protesting, but (and this despite the opinion of some of his compatriots, and certainly his late Master) the assassin was actually quite intelligent, and could guess that any further complaints about the pace would merely slow it further.
Instead, he took a shuddering breath, pitched his voice lower, rougher, and said, "What am I supposed to say to… to have you take me harder?"
"Merely that," Maximilian growled, next to his ear, and snapped his hips forward. Altaïr listened to breaths and moans and fleshy slaps, closed his eyes, sank his teeth into his arm to mute his cries, as his body began to sing.
--
He made his report first thing in the morning, slipped out as the sun began its slow ascent. Maximilian had but yawned and turned over in the bed when he had completed his absolutions, but had grinned and sat up, later, when he returned, somewhat irritated with himself for doing so. Richard's spymaster for the Holy Land was handsome even in dishabille, his short russet hair tousled, scratching at his trimmed beard, the sun having baked his skin bronze even past his broad shoulders.
Maximilian beckoned, with an inviting smile, but Altaïr sat stubbornly at the corner of the bed and folded his arms. He still ached from last night's shared intimacies, but it was pleasant. He didn't want to know if that was why his feet had brought him back to the sandalwood-scented house.
"What is your business in Acre?"
"Technically Acre belongs to the Lion," Maximilian pointed out, settling against the headboard. "My business in Acre happens to be legitimate, unlike yours."
"You seem little inclined to turn me in to the guards."
"Your target was a slaver who owned half the pleasure houses in Acre, and men sometimes speak matters to whores that are best left unsaid. Your silencing him took a little weight off my mind. Besides, I am sure that the last night would have been far less enjoyable for the both of us were you consigned to a cell than to my bed."
Altaïr glared at the spymaster, who smirked, and drawled, "Though I admit to having some issue with your 'Creed'. You assassins have a quaint notion of innocence and guilt."
"We investigate each target before acting." Altaïr said, a little more coldly than he had intended. He was the best of his kind, and he remained somewhat unnerved (and yes, annoyed) that both King Richard and his spymaster continued to view him as a moral curiosity rather than anyone dangerous. "We do not harm innocents."
"No man is innocent. And besides, how would you then see the guards? Many guards and soldiers enter their occupation for the sake of coin for their family. Does that make them any different from the merchant on the street?"
"If they raise their blade against mine-"
"Do they always do so first? Or do you kill some simply because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time? Assassins oft kill the archers on the towers and the battlements before stalking their targets, after all. Preparation is everything." Maximilian's smile was now chilling. "Do not take this as criticism, merely as my personal curiosity."
"Then by what reason do you kill? Do you blindly follow your master's orders?"
"Of course not. King Richard appreciates criticism from his spymaster. And as far as I can tell, he does nothing without a reason." Maximilian leant forward as Altaïr looked away, biting absently at his lip, and carefully put a hand on the assassin's thigh. "You are a good man. That surprised my King."
Altaïr blinked at him. "It did?"
"Enough that he did not kill you on the spot for butchering your way into his camp," Maximilian said dryly. "Men with a good heart amuse him greatly. He told me as such afterwards, when he called me to his side and bade me and mine leave Masyaf alone."
Altaïr narrowed his eyes.
"I merely felt that, with its leader dead and many of its men scattered or confused, it would be a fine opportunity." Maximilian continued, unconcerned. "But my King was of the opposite opinion. Though if you were to ask me truly I would think my poor King far more interested in war than in governance, and that where possible he is happy to spare anyone with a pretty face. So we are to observe. I did think you would become Master, though."
"I did not think myself suitable," Altaïr said stiffly, ignoring the underhand compliment. Perhaps they had been infiltrated. He would have to find out.
"Men who do not think themselves suitable are often the most suitable," Maximilian's stroking hands had wandered up to his cheek. "But I confess myself pleased. Were you left to govern at Masyaf… breaking into your little fort simply to meet you may be beyond my capabilities."
"So you came to Acre to observe?" Altaïr noticed that speaking to Maximilian was often difficult. The man changed subjects so smoothly and quickly that it was often several conversations after that one even realized his original question was still unanswered.
"Certainly. I heard that you were about."
"King Richard-"
"Has, as you have no doubt observed, a rather loose interest in governance." The hand pushed back his hood, the thumb tracing his ear.
"He also seemed to have little interest in the Piece of Eden," Altaïr said, watching Maximilian carefully. Richard the Lionheart had been more curious about Altaïr's notion of morality and his reason for living the way he did than in Robert de Sable's dying ramblings.
"My King has no use for superstition," Maximilian said easily, and in those cold eyes Altaïr read ironic amusement. "And if he has no use for it then neither have I. Keep it safe, or destroy it, I have no interest in what you have chosen."
"Some would call that a shallow choice, for a spymaster."
"The Sword of Excalibur. The Holy Grail. Pieces of Eden. The Ark. The world is full of superstitious artifacts, Altaïr. But my King charges me to watch the world of men and feed him information about their movements."
"A Piece of Eden would make King Richard victorious in any war."
"Would it? You certainly killed its last bearer easily enough." Maximilian grinned, tracing his jaw. "King Richard has little interest in 'magic', and besides, what use is an artifact that would end all wars to a warrior-King? He has no interest in such methods of control. Nor have you, I see."
"So you would have me believe that you care not what happens to the Piece."
"Aye. I give you my word that other than professional concerns, my only interest in Masyaf's assassins regards your immediate whereabouts and schedule at any point in time." Maximilian favored Altaïr with a searching, lascivious stare that made the assassin cough hurriedly and instinctively cross his legs.
"I am expected in Masyaf."
"So it would seem," Maximilian said agreeably, and pounced.
-fin-
Title: Sales
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII, Final Fantasy Tactics
Pairing: Basch x Balthier, Zalbaag x Balthier
Rating: NC17
A/N: This was actually kupoke's dream, strangely enough.