XVI.

See him.

Hear him.

Smell him.

Touch him.

"Should you deserve such a reward?"

Taste him.

"I shall resort," he breathed, "I shall resort to begging, if I must."

Behold him.

"Then do so."

Make him his, and his alone.

XVII.

"Who do you spread these legs for?" Ezio demanded, pulling his hair back as he pushed in deeper. "Who do these legs belong to?"

You.

"Who can make you hunger like this?"

You.

"Who can give you hysteria above any other?"

You.

Then came the most selfish endeavor of all, that wicked hand smoothing itself over his body, only to rest over his bosom, the cresting of the wave.

"And who owns the depths of this heart?"

XVIII.

Give him more, and he will plead like the greediest whoremonger ever set onto this Earth; give him less, and he still plead—only for more.

He can take it: He was meant to take it. Spread his legs, fuck him over the edge of the bed, the window, on the hardness of the ground, against the wall, any place to sate his unquenchable thirst for more carnal satisfaction. The presumption that he is a pure saint who bestows kind smiles and happiness is naught but the outward assessment of his niche—for here, where his mouth and the curve of his buttocks make up the entirety of his obsession, he is an ravenous bitch that is eager for the taking. He will trade that veil of incorruptibility for a cloak of darkness that leaves him aching for more of the brink of more, the last of giving more.

And Ezio is all too kind to give it to him.

XIX.

"It … it will n-not fit …"

"Yes, it will."

"Ezio."

Removing the trembling hand on his forearm, Ezio plunged inside of the older man and held his wrists on either side of his face, his grip unrelenting. "It will fit."

"N-N-No, I cannot—"

"You wanted more; thus, you shall receive more," the other commanded, positioning the ivory phallus next to his already embedded cock. "So open your legs and put your ass up."

How could this be?

"You will enjoy this more than you think you will."

XX.

It is a game they play.

Leonardo always makes the first move—he smiles at Salai; he smiles and laughs and shows him the quirk of his lips at the smallest of comments and innuendos; he does not shrug off that touch on his cheek and chest, the touch of the devil on his skin. He acts shamelessly—shamelessly innocent, that is. He makes the first move and waits for the countering.

Which Ezio does.

Ezio plays the outward nonchalance perfectly; he does not remark upon anything; he does not throw petty fits like the others; he waits and waits and waits; he is a patient man for the sun to go down. The candlelight in the darkest of nights is his companion.

That is where he strikes.

He is merciless. He reciprocates wildly; he is a voracious tyrant that takes what he wants, what has already been his; he is unforgiving, and he drives into Leonardo endlessly as he rips the bed off of its hinges and crashes the windows as well as the workshop around them; he is an unappeasable beast in heat; he is ruthless in this little game.

"Salai, how good to see you!"

No one can best him.