"M-Maestro …"

Altair keenly regarded his hesitant pupil through a sheen haze of sweat, his mouth quirked upwards in amusement while he continued his savage activity. "What, now, child?"

"I … the messer …" Such apprehension. "He does not … no favors—"

"Ah, you worry about trivial matters," the older man huskily rasped, beckoning the curious youth forwards with a mere glance of potent sensuality, "when you could taste the apple for yourself." Aggressively, he dug his fingers into the hair of the being below him and jerked him upwards, his impish teeth nibbling onto a sanguine ear, as he snapped eager hips to the sound of harsh pants and the loud protests of the mattress underneath. "Right, Malik?"

The loss of room to answer—and then: "D-Do not test me, novice!"

—which had automatically blended into a carnal growl, his tempo desperate enough to fuck himself by using the Grand Master's expert fist. Said reactions were not lost to the troubled being on the opposite side of the massive bed, his eyes indubitably creased with wariness, still seeking out the approval of the rafiq more than his grinning snake of a teacher. He could not bring himself to touch him so, not when that nagging streak of doubt clung to his skin, tight like the urge to undress hastily and indulge the itching palms of his hands. That fine line of sensibility, no matter how much the hunger to shred it imbued his nonexistent poise, was established; he could not cross it, and he would not.

But that did not mean he did not strive to.

And he waited, and waited, driven mad by the man on his knees, long fingers clutching onto the damp coverlet, with all bared to see, wishing he could just lick that one bead of perspiration off of the curve of his spine—the old geezer was testing his patience, as such, relentless in his carnal jurisdiction, no better than a bitch in heat as he smothered his cohort and breathed into that hot mouth: Would he fall for the bait? Feign ignorance? Keep his watch, like the good lapdog he was while his master had the chance to display his victory? He could not—

Altair smirked at the growing erection in Ezio's breeches, the sight a catalyst in the increased roughness of his drives. "Come here, boy."

A hitch.

"Now. On your knees."

"Signore … the rafiq, he—"

Three seconds, and Malik found release, his choked moan reverberating toxically around the immediately congested room—it is all it takes for his strength to abandon his limbs, groaning as he fell forwards sans rationality, and the other to ground out an archaic syllable at the sheer solemnity of the sight. A breath for the gathered form, a clench for an exchange for teeth and tongue, four gulps at the jerks of his cock, everything lost at the grinding of Malik's chest against Altair's back as the latter spreads his legs once more to the all too open audience: There are no recollections of when he already peeled off his clothing and tossed his tentativeness at the other side of the chamber.

And the pressure on his head is more than he could account for.

"Use that pretty little mouth the way I taught you to."