Hey all!
Sorry the last chapter sorta sucked...
a lot
But thanks to your reviews, and my being an attention whore, I've found new inspiration, and vow to finish this!
-cheers
Read, review, repeat!
Ubisoft owns
Stay lovely,
juno57
Altaïr's fingers were steadier than he expected them to be, given the circumstances. Maria had stripped down to her under wrappings, as she had anticipated changing to hardly be strenuous, and could therefore be done herself. Try as he might, his digits defied him, proving to have a mind of their own; occasionally they grazed over an exposed patch of skin, with the excuse of trying to offer assistance.
Beneath his feathered touches, Maria resisted her urge to shiver. At the first occurrence, she had passed it off for happenstance; the second time, clumsiness. After a third, lingering brush, she raised an eyebrow to herself, and wondered if she should perhaps be concerned for herself, or for him.
Either way, someone is going to get into trouble.
She slowly turned around to face him; the tiny, smug grin that was pulling his lips vanished, replaced by a forced expression, which failed to hide his equal pleasure and apparent discomfort. "Are you in fact helping me? Or are you just molesting me under the pretence of aid?"
Altaïr mumbled something about speaking too fast.
Maria huffed; trying to see his failing as more humorous than annoying. "Then perhaps I should learn your language– you appear ignorant to mine."
His brow raised, "And yet it is you who cannot say any but one word in my tongue. How is it that I become ignorant?"
"You are ignorant– and I do believe you are pushing the boundaries with how you've been exploring me."
Altaïr stammered, "I… pardon?"
She gave him a playful smile, and tilted her hips to the side, thrusting her curves out under his fingers, "You know perfectly well what you're doing– there's no use in playing dumb."
He held her gaze, trying to figure out the sudden shift in her attitude, debating between sliding his fingers over the tempting curve of her hip, or to pull them to his side.
"I should think you of all people would be hesitant at any contact with a woman who isn't your chattel. And your mistress above all." She waited, watching his face intently, trying to decide herself just how far under she would allow herself to drift. Shifting her focus from his eyes to his mouth, she pulled the corner of her lip under, pinching it slightly with her teeth.
How much would his scar have hurt… would he growl if I were to bite it…
"I… I am sorry if I disturbed you." He sighed heavily, closing his eyes to allow himself the luxury of not worrying as to where to look. "Do you wish I leave, or do you need help?" A soft grasp on his jaw prompted him to open his eyes, slightly shocked by her tenderness.
What hell is this woman planning?
"If you want to touch," her heartbeat pounded through her veins, "then you only need ask."
Altaïr tried to back away, but she held him by his jaw, tugging down slightly. Though the nature of her grasp was intimate, her hold on him warned of dangerous strength beneath the gesture. She followed the motion of his Adam's apple as he swallowed in discomfort. "Why would I want such a thing?"
She smirked, "Perhaps you don't know it, but your fingers seem to." She grasped one of them, pulling it from where it rested near her breast.
He lowered his gaze, not yet fully trying to separate himself from her hold, "I already apologized– release me."
"And what if I ordered you to touch me?"
His eyes widened, "Me? An Assassin? One who you insist upon calling base and unfeeling– you would want me to…"
"I said touch, habibi– not fuck me." He raised an eyebrow at her diction, "I see that word you understand." She laughed.
"I have heard it before– although not from the lips of a woman."
"I'm sure you think me other than a woman." She huffed, "I do fight as a man– it is the only way I could find a teacher."
Altaïr felt her grip loosen, and he straightened up to his proper height, "And what happened?"
She shrugged, "He found out eventually, and I was sent home, tail betwixt my legs. I managed to learn quite a bit before I left– keep that in mind Alt– Assassin." She turned her back to him again, hiding her shame at her tongue's slip.
Altaïr allowed himself a smirk at her expense, his pulse still quickened from her suggestion, and every possible consequence it could have had.
I can do nothing to risk another injury– mine have only started to heal.
"Are you just going to stand there, or what?" she quipped, the usual tone of disapproval slipping into her voice.
"If you wish me to, I shall continue."
"Just keep your hands to yourself this time."
"Of course."
Maria paced across the room to her polished bronze mirror, gazing into it with a small frown.
A pool of muddy water would work better than this. Whenever will father consent to purchasing a higher grade of metal?
She turned around, looking at Altaïr, who reclined in a chair, head down. "Am I keeping you awake?"
His head snapped up, and she nearly grinned at the sheepish look on his face before
he banished it with one of boredom.
No… I wouldn't quite call that boredom. Although I suppose a bored man might stare at my chest like that.
She cleared her throat, eyebrow raised in an inquisitive look, "Habibi, how does this look– my mirror fails to show me anything but its own poor craftsmanship."
Altaïr stood, and approached her slowly; eyes trailed over her body appraisingly, His lips parted, finally, "You… bring the colour alive."
"That's a new one." She blinked, watching his hips as he walked over, "Is the colour too dark? I never liked anything like this– much too hot in the sun."
"Wear it when you are inside. Not for walking around the souk."
Her pulse faltered at the way his voice purred over his native word, "And why ever not? What good is this bloody thing if I can't even wear it? I don't lounge around the house all day."
"Perhaps keep it for your husband."
She narrowed her eyes, "What exactly is this? Should I be hiding it in with my stockings?" Her hands traced over the outfit, pleased with the feel of the material, but confused as to its cut. "If you refuse me answers, I shall return it. I don't think it fits properly anyway–" her hands cupped her breasts, stressing her point. A strangled noise escaped Altaïr's throat, and he dropped his gaze to his boots. Maria covered her guffaw with a hand, forgetting that she was not alone.
Oh bollocks– look at his face! It is not my fault– I've only ever had help dressing from other women.
"Ahh… what do you think? You apparently seem to know everything about this… costume. Is it supposed to fit like this?"
Altaïr glanced at her quickly, and gave her a quick nod, "Fine."
Her brow creased, "Fine? What no comment about the colour or, perhaps maybe, a reason for why on earth I feel like a spectacle in it?"
Altaïr sighed, still refusing to look at her directly, "It is an eastern style of a Raks Beledi dress."
"What?"
Altaïr smirked, "Now it is you who requires repetition." Maria scoffed at him, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
Altaïr inhaled deeply, trying to resist lingering on her chest emphasized by the ill-fitting strophium.
Why was it again I thought this a good idea?
"In your language, Raks Beledi means… 'folk dance', or 'dance of the country'. 1 It is worn for dancing, or entertaining."
"A woman is expected to dance in this?" Her fingers pulled at the laces holding her strophium together.
"Please– do not pull on those!" Altaïr grabbed her hand to stop her.
Maria gave him a quizzical look, and dropped her hand, "My apologies. I won't try for it again."
Altaïr sighed as she rolled her eyes, "It is meant for dance, but this kind has been made more… ornamental. Now, perhaps, it is meant only for show."
Maria's voice lowered in a way that sent a shiver through Altaïr, "Then you mean that I would wear this, only for my husband?"
He nodded once.
"And yet," she moved closer, dragging her eyes up from his chest to his honeyed eyes, "I stand before you now– my slave."
Altaïr swallowed roughly, "I shall leave then– I only wished to–"
Maria placed a finger over his lips, "No, the damage is done." Altaïr tensed, not knowing what new twist his mistress would throw at him next, "I suppose you might as well instruct me on this Raks Belei then. If I'm to dress the part, I might as well know–"
"Beledi. It is Beledi, not Belei."
She raised a brow at his presumptuousness, "Yes… your Raks Beledi."
Altaïr stopped short of a laugh, " I would not know it– I am not a woman, and am not instructed in their dance."
"I'm sure you've seen it before– look, I'm not asking for a routine, just," she paused, stepping closer to him, "some basic moves."
Out of the pan…
Altaïr stood back further from her, not quite believing what his day had turned into. He watched as her hips swayed softly, moving to the rhythm of some unheard drum. Uncharacteristically, he allowed himself to focus entirely on her sinuous movements, feeling his pulse race as her hips tilted and undulated. Her breasts strained against the unyielding material, and like his own, her chest soon began to heave. A light dusky pink burned under her cheeks, and her lips parted; her breath coming in little pants.
The longer he stood, watching, the more he regretted his decision to teach her. Unlike other occasions he had been privy to said dances, others would have been involved, many more dancers, many more patrons. However, the one to one ratio had turned a commonplace event to an intimate show– one that should never, nor should be allowed to happen between the two.
Assassin and Templar.
Mistress and Slave.
This needs to stop.
"Mari– uh… Habibit, this needs… you must be tired, why not sleep?"
Maria looked at him quizzically, a slight laugh in her tone, "Have I dishonored your culture or something?" she huffed at his lack of explanation, "And here I thought I was doing well…"
He shook his head, "No, your dance was pleasing, it is only the hour is late, and you should sleep now."
"I'd say you're trying to get rid of me." She placed her hands on her hips staring coyly at him. Her eyes drifted south and a smirk tugged her lips up, "Or perhaps, there is another reason, habibi." She sauntered towards him, eyes never leaving his.
Altaïr's breath seemed lost to him, and he was reduced once again to merely staring back at her.
Why can't I move? Just leave– get out of her damn room. Do you honestly expect her to follow through with her suggestions?
Perhaps only to see the beating I would earn.
Is it even worth it?
Her hand slid down his chest, head tilting to the side approvingly.
If I do not return as soon as I am able, Al Mualim will surely double whatever punishment this would have garnered.
Flicking her tongue out to wet her lips, she continued slowly dragging her hand down, slowing slightly as she neared his hips.
But then, how would Al Mualim know one day of recovery from unnecessary injuries. I did not give him an estimate for when I would come–
A throaty growl reverberated in Altaïr's throat as his mistress' hand found what she had been searching for. He heard a silvery laugh from her, but dared not look down, lest she suddenly change her mind, and leave him panting for her.
P…perhaps thi...s is only a new tah–AHH– tactic.
His breath started coming in rasps. Somehow, his arms had found her body; his finger dug into her shoulders, steadying himself from her motions.
Another… form ooooh– of t…torture.
Maria leaned forward, pressing herself against his chest, inhaling deeply. Altaïr's breath caught suddenly, and his frame twitched involuntarily when he felt her breasts flush against him. Unsure of how he should be interacting with her boldness, all argument vanished as her hips came to rest with a teeth-clenching wriggle over his. Her languorous deep breaths, and the subsequent movement of her hips, he felt himself quickly loosing the ability to control his body.
Maria's soft, murmured laugh resonated through both of them, and she moved her hand back down along his prominent hipbones, slipping a finger under the waistband of his leggings.
Altaïr's eyes opened, and, in no way kindly, did he push her from him.
"Well, then…" Maria started, her mouth left open as Altaïr cut her off.
"Khara– You must not do this– it is wrong. Not only for me– what would happen should your father–"
Maria scoffed, "I am the one in charge of you– whatever I order you to do, is my will, and mine to judge." Her tone softened, "Besides, my father will not return for several hours. Now then, Assassin, perhaps you should be the judge on how my dancing has improved. "
Maria sauntered over to her window, leaned out, and firmly closed the shutters in one fluid motion. In the darkened room, she turned back towards Altaïr, who remained standing, watching her. The candlelight glinted in his eyes; in the low light, his golden irises looked only inky black, as his pupils had opened fully, rimmed with the slightest bit of amber.
"Sit."
The simple command hung in the air, and Altaïr obeyed, not content to be treated like some dog, but unable to defy his mistress in her current state.
Maria reached an arm back to where her thick braid rested between her shoulder blades. As she released her dark curls from their confine, she gazed at Altaïr intently, slowly tilting her head back to shake out the braid's hold on her hair. Her pale neck seemed especially highlighted from the nearby candle, and he watched her with rapture. She had not lifted her head back up when she felt his slender fingers ghost over the cords of her neck.
Her eyes slid open, "I thought I told you to sit."
His tongue flicked out, wetting his bottom lip slightly, "Does your earlier order still stand?"
'What's with the change of heart?"
An excellent question.
He lowered his mouth to her ear, the timbre of his voice a deep rumble, "Moomkin almiss bizazeek?"
Maria grabbed onto his shoulder, attempting to hold herself stable while appearing merely amused.
Altaïr traced up her neck with his nose, inhaling deeply when he reached her hair. "Did I do wrong? Your grip is tight."
"… wha– what did you say… before?"
Unable to resist a simper, his lips pulled up, revealing his teeth, "Not so easily will you learn." His free hand slid down to where her breast swelled from the tight strophium, "…That requires," he slid one finger over and down it, "practice."
Maria bit her lip to prevent the moan building in her throat to be released. She could feel his gaze cast over her face, watching as her features changed on account of his ministrations. She leaned forward, hoping he would get the message of her need to kiss him, to feel his lips against her own. She parted them slightly, but kept her eyes closed– not wanting to open them. –waiting instead, for the sweet satisfaction in the uncertainty as to when it would occur.
It never came. Instead, she opened her eyes to see him slowly blink, watching her, slightly amused at her own lack of said feeling. "Do you not understand what it is that's happening? Do they not teach you Assas–" her question was cut short when he pulled her head back, fingers full of her black curls.
"You said yourself, only touch– nothing else."
"You can touch with your mouth…" she whined.
"You would like me to, wouldn't you?" He lowered his head back down to rest near her shoulder, listening to her soft pants in his ear, he whispered to her again, "Aiza ta'mili hagat wiskha ma'aya?"
"…Please- I can't unde–" she moaned as his fingers trailed under her skirt's hemline.
"Then we are at last, equals." With a smirk, he watched her eyes flutter, and her lips part as his fingers brushed over her inner thigh.
A/N
1 Taken from . , great reference for belly dancing culture and facts about it.
Khara– shit
As for the other Arabic– interpret it as you'd like. Personally, it sounds… cheesy if you know what it means– obviously, if you speak Arabic, then kudos– you know what it means. I wish I could speak Arabic. But if not, interpret it as Maria would– it works better when you don't know truly what he is saying.
Make it up!
Sigh…. Although, if you REEEEAAALLLY want to know, then PM me, and I'll tell you.
But honestly
...don't.
K thanks bai