"Damn it! They're here, somewhere!"
"Search the premises! Don't let them get away!"
"Maestro," Ezio breathlessly rasped, biting into his inner cheek, "God, maestro."
Altair wordlessly braced his elbow on the ground before pressing his body to his student's own, a confident hand grabbing the leather thong around rich locks to set them free. He watched his pupil pant and squeeze his eyes shut, feeling the obvious ecstasy, rebellion, wariness, fear, caution, and it brought forth a thick surge of enigmatic arousal to cloud his pupils, bleeding into the cage around him, the wood encasing their forms, the crimson curtains, the aura of skewered apprehension. There's nothing else to describe, nothing at all, how the ground hurt, how the heat was unbearable, how stupid the guards were, how stale the air was, how obviously he was out of his mind to initiate such a tryst.
In a fucking gondola.
Ezio hisses, and he snaps back to attention.
Slowly, he continued his steady motions, up and down, a tug here, a tug there, maybe a bit of a swipe on the head, cup the base after five or six sets. Both of their members were in his grip, being treated erotically amidst a wild rampage of Teutonic knights, while they were panting and grabbing for each other in a shady hiding spot, but he found it hard to concentrate on his task when four Templars were yelling obscenities, two feet away. And he was sweating, straining, cursing, grunting, dying—grappling for calloused hands and a soft face, burying his mouth into the curve of an angled nape that boasted of sandalwood and the Mediterranean Sea. If his length wasn't proudly complaining of his sluggish pace, perhaps he would've shown the haughty fools what it mean to—
The Grand Master groaned, feeling a warm mouth latching onto his jaw.
Leave it up to the ignorance of youth.
"Merda, I'm close … s-so close—"
A hitch, a gasp, a moan.
"S-Si … like that … go faster, damn it."
Yes, he too wanted a bit more pressure on his—
"Come out, you bloody heathens! I know you're all out there!"
Five seconds, they still.
The older assassin looked into watchful eyes. Not a word.
"There was movement here, I swear!"
"You sure he's here?"
"This is where he disappeared: I know it!"
He could tell that the Italian was tensing up, the incline in which those sepia orbs dilated into deep earth, his breath that became more labored and the itch in his fingertips transferred into the furnace of Altair's flesh. But the anticipation of confrontation and the limit of time only stimulated them further, the brutal exchange a tad too frantic to be anything but quiet, languid, dazed: instead provocative, showy, primal. The bastards were getting close, too close for the nonexistent comfort—sweet torture—they shared, affecting the style he surveyed, took, gave, pulled, pushed, thirty more steps that echoed much too loud, much too overbearing, much too near to set his mind wired—in a cursed gondola, for no one else's sake. It would be much too easy for a wayward sentry to lift up the flap and see the compromising position: hands and teeth as competitive as the attention to their cocks, grinding and twisting, this way and that, all in a sense that they wouldn't know anything but to reach that blinding peak. And, oh god yes fuck he can feel it yes just a bit more hell god faster harder almost—
And he's done.
He comes first, fisting the younger male's hood with his teeth scraping a lobe, flattening himself like a doming blanket over dry gratification and muted groans; true to seven more flicks of his wrist, Ezio follows in second, encircling his fingers around them, jerking furiously for a good bout of blackening spots until he gave in and collapsed with a heave. Nothing was said, nothing was felt, nothing was perceived.
But then, again, they realized this bout.
Was nothing but nonsensical.
That they soon found to be a bit strange, since the calls of pleasure sounded like a great commotion of swords—
"Damn, we found them!"
"I'll get you!"
God, he absentmindedly thought, leaping into the air with his serwal around his knees, Not again …