He kisses him without thinking.

Acutely, his demanding mouth slants over Ezio's own, who was currently shocked—but not displeased—at his aggressiveness, placing his hands on the other man's shoulders while he gave in to the conflicting sensations inside his chest and the all too clever tongue that reciprocated sans complaint. There is no thought, no, not at all, the two of them crammed inside the back of Michelangelo's storeroom, initiating a heated exchange that conveyed more of his take than he knew, never knowing the smart glint in the assassin's eyes that spoke of amusement and acknowledgement. All he wished for was to release the enigmatic fire within himself that blazed every time his friend and Ezio were near, him watching in the shadows, wanting nothing but to wrench them away and show his agitation. One breath, two tongues, and three harsh tugs, and he pulls free and looks to the side.

Pride was the only thing that kept him from morbid embarrassment.

But Ezio knew, he knew everything, the style in which the pout was formed, the envious smoldering in those honeyed eyes, a tad too responsive when his rival would throw appreciative glances at his way and invite him to stay longer. A strange sort of happiness and pride had swelled within him, then, his old dislike for petty envy turning into a favored treat: To know that the great da Vinci was jealous for him! To incite anything other than the public smiles and courtesy!

Was it truly a wonder that he had fallen for him so?

"Maestro, I think you've just forgotten that my ass belongs to you."

A smile.

"For more purposes than one."


"Pleasure yourself."

How long as it been since he's said that?

The answer, Leonardo does not know, now bracing one hand against the table while he bites into his inner cheek in carnal desire, breathless as always, boiling like he lived for it, his hunger as selfish as the shadows that swallowed the dying lamplight. There's something disastrous in the way he craves the attention to loathing it, a gasp from his lips, before he suffocates himself under close scrutiny of the darkness, jurisdiction out of the question when he runs his thumb over a sensitized area. To anticipate, shy, lock, do: those things, those very things that plague him, they run under his veins, over his lips, blending into muted pants and groans that vibrate to his silent rhythm and his hand on his length.

He's watching him.

Leo feels it.

Even if the distance between them is great.

—because he then remembers that it was Ezio who told him to sit on the chair, touch there, obey, open his breeches in record time to grip his member in an unrelenting hold and stroke si fuck do it harder you know you want it no you can't come yet until I say so—strain, bridge, pull and tease like no tomorrow, displaying his actions in short bursts of tension. Across from him, that's where the observant man is, scrutinizing the fashion in which he arouses more than his body, a judge on how well he writhes and torments and submits to blinding lust, too much of an eagle to hide that he was near, dwindling on the border of release, his movements frantic. Already, he breaks down, sobbing for completion, knowing that denial would come from those lips that forced him to beg, surrender, thrash about, hoping that the other male had enough, to perceive the tightening in his belly and the lunacy in his actions: that just a mere flick of his wrist could end this—

"On your knees, da Vinci; I want you on your damn knees, crawling over here, while I'm fucking your mouth."

And he crashes without descent.


Ezio was having a heart attack.


Exasperatedly, the doctor peeled off his metal mask and rearranged the various charts on the wooden table. "You have a penile fracture."

Pigeons on the crate cooed in delight.

"Unlike bone fractures, it means that the interior walls have a tear of some sort—though, I have to say, Sir Auditore, I am not in the least surprised to hear of this."

Vieri must've been laughing his sorry ass off in the grave. "What do you mean?"

"Said injury," Roberto continued in a nonchalant voice, "is caused by several factors: all, of course, dealing with a physical force. The most common?" A small pause. "Overuse of the organ and—or, but not in your case—placing the penis in a channel that clamps down on it too tightly."

'Scarred' was an understatement.

Wait until Leonardo heard this.