"What are you doing, old man?"
And Altair flickers his gaze toward the other, allowing a satisfied grin to spread across his face, as he nips at a tender collarbone in languid ease—there is much appreciation displayed through every quirk of his lips and eyes, a shadow drawing sensuality over his brow, and he portrays each and every thought with the tip of his tongue along a nape presented to him eagerly. "What does it look like I am doing?"
" … that hurts, you know," Ezio says, squirming under the older man's rough gropes on his buttocks. "You have been fixated on such a thing for a good while." A groan. "Messer."
"A thing?" Squeeze. "A mere thing?"
Deliberately, he weaves his fingers through the mass of sepia locks and tugs him forward, molding his mouth against a responsive one to the flutter of lashes and breaths: the younger assassin gives no protest, except for a few rolls of his hips and a grunt, everything permitted sans hesitation, thus the break in the exchange for an all too knowing deviance Ezio swore he lost. Altair grips once more, holds his bottom in calloused hands, raking his digits across the toned surface, as if he could extend each breathy sigh by prolonging the imprints on the flesh—and the only thing said being can do is yield. Once there, once here, perhaps another gratuitous clutch, those that sum up the oscillations of his chest, the erratic rhythm that speeds through him through the pressures on his underside—such were the factors that maintained the primal awareness in his features.
"They are indeed ideal, you know." He gives one cheek a playful smack. "Symmetrical, smooth." A grin. "They cover the expanse of my stretched fingertips, like they're made for them."
"Aye … you speak—oh!"
The Grand Master purposefully brushes against his entrance, massaging the end of his cleft in bold movements. "Just the right size to handle this."
"And perfect for bending you over my table and taking you raw."
There is no further argument as Altair descends.