Malik was not too happy.
"Untie me this instant, novice!"
Casually, Altair leant down and kissed the corners of the grumbling man's mouth, sliding his calloused hand down the other's chest without breaking his worship on the Adam's apple that rapidly bobbed and protested under his teeth; with the restraints on Malik's wrists taught and expertly crafted, the impish assassin did not waste another second in languid daze, instead tracing his way towards a dusky nipple to bite down and lave it without the fear of dismemberment. "See? He likes it." One more nip, not long before he buried his lips into the shell of a heated ear. "Appreciates my ministrations."
Maybe—if his face didn't project a visible oath of castration: that, which Ezio found a bit intimidating, other than experiencing a taste of man for the first time. "I don't know, Maestro—he doesn't seem to appreciate—"
"His intelligence rises above yours," the older male hissed at his ignorant counterpart, his attempts at choking the Grand Master with his legs in vain. "Zarba, if I had known what you were planning with the Damas Bureau leader, you would be getting latrine duty—God!"
The taller man grinned, first at the source of his entertainment, then at the fidgeting Italian, who was now transfixed on his hand that was currently gripping onto Malik's flushed length, relentless in giving sensory overload. "Mm, I find that statement debatable, rafiq: Don't you, little one?"
"I … " God knew how much he wanted to say, to touch, to feel, to simply walk up and rake his fingers over every inch of that flesh, challenge pleasure and sanity through a good rutting into the ground, overlook the possibility of complications in simply feeling—not thinking; he could already feel the painful pulls of arousal that stirred his blood, and it stung him as much as his superior's recent intimidation tactics. "I … Si … "
He couldn't take it anymore: Not if the epitome of sensuality was served at his feet.
A step, another, one more, pull back his hood, and he cups Malik's cheeks in his hand, looking for signs of serious disapproval or protest, a tad too wary for the arch of Altair's brow. Initially, he meant to pull back, seeing a cloud of enigmatic agitation in those piercing orbs, but tossed that thought away to mold his lips over the older male's, perhaps even wilder than he perceived when the strong signs of stimulation were masked by that rebellious scowl, denials crushed at the back of his throat; without a doubt, it was that such contact that could rob his breath, to make his passions fan into aggression, to bite, chase, swallow, hunger—comply with his teacher's command to delve his tongue deeper, harder, faster, grip onto that weeping arousal and give wet gratification that was equal to a hesitant hand that was now snaking into his breeches to return the favor. And, dio, it felt so damn—
Altair suddenly smacked his ass playfully. "On your knees, with his cock in your mouth, while I'm fucking you from behind."
His breath hitched.
"And make it good; I might just give you a turn, later on."
How could he refuse such a deal?"