"Crawl over here."
"On your knees."
And Ezio complies, denying a break in the heated contact as he bends forward and flattens his palms on the wooden surface, inhales shallow, brow tense, his lips sinking into a silent litany without comprehension; slowly, he sets one hand out, a test of waters, and begins to move, one movement at a time, eyes still locked onto those of his expectant target, bleeding sensuality with each flick of his wrist that complimented the predatory air about him. There are too many trails, too many ways, too many possibilities to name in the following painful ticks of the clock, the sound of his actions an unforgiving pull, and he drags each and every millisecond out as if he was tied to a crucible.
When the younger man is a mere foot away from him, he nearly loses his control.
But the impetus is never dismissed. "Open my breeches."
Again, he tugs on the buckskin material with deft fingers and works, questionable on whether or not the brushes upon the bottom of his abdomen are deliberate; yet, as the other slides his clothing lower to bunch around his buttocks, Federico finds it hard to acknowledge that this is not enough, not enough to feel that damn touch seared into his skin, his prayers trembling, legs open, digits digging into the armrests of the large chair he is situated in. One inhalation—such breathlessness is all it takes to pant like a hungry dog and demand said figure to go faster, anything to alleviate the strain that pulsated into his very core.
It is done.
And it is not enough.
Submission is the root: Obeisance is the catalyst in their little game: Alacrity is the soul—and madness is the fuel to the hinterland that crashed before him, due to a single stroke of his thigh. He dares not inquire what something else could shake him so, not when cool air ghosts upon the exposed part of his length, his sanity catching in the back of his throat, not if he can help the pressure on his legs. He swears he is not the victor, anymore.
Because it is as such: that sure hand around his cock, freeing them from its confines with a touch too subtle to be considered real, that face, that nose, that mouth—swollen and ready, compliant, all for taking him in; and, oh, he can just feel that tongue darting across those lips, the hotness of wet engulfment. Because he is drowning in thirst, he aches for consolation, his fingers burning when Ezio looks up, straight into his eyes, challenging his supposed authority, vulnerable in flesh and mind—because he imbues his lead, because he shakily nods in confirmation, because he hisses at the contact.
Because his appetite overrides it all.
"Suck," he rasps, digging his fingers into thick hair with a growl. "Let us see what that pretty little mouth can do."
But he wonders when he submitted.