Front

Groaning deeply, Altair felt a playful set of teeth scrape down his collarbone in a languid fashion, a tongue too dexterous for its own good and the stinging sensations that were interfaced with the most teasing sparks of pleasure. He could hazily perceive an explorative pair of hands snaking down his back to grip onto his buttocks, burning hot trails into his skin, the reverent worship that was more of something carnal, violent, disastrous, wanting, and it takes all of himself not to lose control.

This was dangerous.

What they had.

Yet, he finds that he ignores the ramifications and the steady breathing of the rafiq in the next room, biting into the ear of the aggressive man as much as he wanted them to begin rutting senselessly towards the heavy shadows, catching plays of lost light dancing over the plane's of Ezio's front. His lungs are poisoned with the other's scent, his fingers scorched by flesh, his eyes sealed, perhaps relying too much on his instincts and not enough force of will to remember them gyrating on the floor.

This was hazardous.

What he had.

And he doesn't give a damn about it.

Swallow

He can't believe they're doing this.

This.

This.

Fucking over a dead templar's body.

And he moans darkly when another thrust drove him further into the wall, his hips clamped by steeled hands, sweat dripping into his brow, the potent stench of death and victory staining the front of his clothes and his muddled mind. Ezio had never been one to desecrate a corpse—much less, in such a manner—or have sex right after an assault, yet he found himself too haywire to think or comprehend the spill of blood on the ground, the screams of citizens running to alert the guards of the murder, the last gurgling cries of the finished soldier. Maybe it was the way the old man was pounding into him so viciously, or the remembrance of the Grand Master's lust-filled eyes, but the sole memory he recalled was of him cutting the throat of their enemy in a clean slash, expertly lowering him onto the ground, before his body was slammed into a window—not too long for hungry lips to devour his own.

When Altair speaks, the tone is so primal that he forgets to breathe.

"Zarba, little one," he begins, fisting the younger male's member thoroughly, "do you know how much that kill turned me on?" A muted groan. "Do you?"

Ezio scrabbled for a ledge to hold onto. "Maestro! The guards—"

Once again, he's cut off.

"Let's see how long we can fuck without a sword up our ass."

Surface

They're doing each other nonsensically.

On top of Malik's desk.

That, Ezio finds to be both beneficial and exciting for the both of them—it was a wonder how the grumpy rafiq had not ever fornicated on top of such smooth wood, the lumber beautifully smoked and aged to perfection, rounded with high gloss and soft hues of deep brown. Currently, though, not in a great situation to further analyze the intricate details, he desperately surged his hips forward and planted his hands on either side of Altair's face, reveling in the husky groans and grunts of pure sex that radiated a strong heat about him. Dio, not only was the getting off on the tightness around his length, but the wood itself was driving him crazy with the reflection of him driving relentlessly into the Grand Master; at this rate, he'd—

"Did I not say to go faster, boy?" the older man barked into his ear, dragging him forward by his hair. "Malik could be returning any second, now."

Ah, si, leave it up to maestro to line up calculations. "Merda, not with you tightening up and controlling my tempo; my cock will snap off if you keep doing that—"

And before he knew it, he was slammed down onto the hard floor, his back pressed against the leg of the stand, emitting a choked moan to the sensation of the irritated person pounding himself onto his member.

Ezio gulped.

"Think you're too young for this old-timer?"

Aggression

"God, maestro, " the younger man rasps, scrabbling for a purchase on the folds of his sweat-drenched cloak. "God, god, god!"

As for that, Altair growls in urgency and pulls on the base of Ezio's hair, marking the angle of his neck before grinding up against him, all smothered on the muddy surface of the armoire. "God is not here, boy—only I am."

A hidden grin.

"To fuck you into the wall."