"Who's controlling who, Auditore?" the smug man gutturally rasped, tightening his hold on Leonardo's hair, as he rolled his hips "Who is, hm?"
At that, Ezio could not answer, much to his chagrin, groaning in need the same way the blond was, his nonexistent control overriding the sensibilities of his curses. The fine line, if there even was any, between snapping and primal want was bleeding over his eyelids, and nothing seemed to matter, except to urge the bastardo faster si yes move your hips merda fuck Borgia. Questions, he wanted to ask, demands he wished to reiterate, but from the way Cesare plastered on that sultry grin and continued his ravenous onslaughts on his cock, his rationale was rendered as useless as his companion's mindset.
A smirk. "Do you see where the power lies?" Three flicks of his wrist. "That man can never deny such a basal necessity?"
Da Vinci crumbled, and it was over.
The Spaniard proceeded with his torture, impaling himself even quicker on both of their cocks, as he jerked himself off to his own accelerating rhythm—he taunted, he jibed, he proved their original plan to completely backfire, that false fraternization with the enemy could make them bend to his carnal will. And it worked, because as he growled for order, said Templar tugged harshly at his hair, pressing fake kisses into the hollow of his throat while he raked his nails down the curve of Leo's buttocks. There was solely anarchy—once more written in blood to the sound of desperate pants and reversed punishment.
"And I can take whatever you fools give me." Another slam downwards. "I can: All of it."
There was no doubt.