Fic: Bright and Clean
Title: Bright and Clean
Fandom: Assassin's Creed 2
Pairing: Ezio/Leonardo
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which Ezio stays still long enough to become artwork.
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'pervertibles' square
Ezio wakes when a weight settles on his back. He tenses, fingers stretching carefully, testingly, should it become necessary to defend himself
A familiar hand cards through his hair, voice murmuring to him to be still.
Leonardo.
His body relaxes again, rests in the slow stretch of time which isn't quite sleep. Other sensations prickle at the edge of his awareness. There's a tickling, curving line, cold and damp, sweeping across his left shoulder, and then down through two vertebrae. It repeats, wider each time, as if someone is drawing lines - painting lines.
"Are you painting on me?" Ezio murmurs, sleepily.
Leonardo hums, weight swaying forward a little. The tickling drift and press of a brush continues.
Ezio tries to twist his head over his shoulder, but all he can see is the pale, rounded curve of Leonardo's shoulder, where his shirt has slipped down. Still, Ezio has known Leonardo long enough to have come to understand a few things about paint.
"Leonardo, beautiful though your pictures may be, I have seen your studio, I have seen your hands. Your paint does not come off."
"I am not using oils," Leonardo's voice is soft, and there's laughter hiding underneath. "The paint will wash off." He uses a hand to turn Ezio's head back round, fingers tacky and sweet, leaving flecks of white and blue in his hair. A damp press of paint against his chin.
Ezio sighs out a breath. "This is why we stay near your studio. Because you find sleep as vexing as I do, and because you are always a breath away from making something, painting something."
"Yes," Leonardo agrees. "I had a thought, while I was sleeping, something magnificent."
"And you thought to use me in place of a canvas?" Ezio can't help but smile.
"I did not want to leave you." Leonardo admits to everything so easily. As if he has never learned how to lie.
Ezio can find nothing to say to that. Or perhaps he is simply not brave enough.
"And you looked very beautiful," Leonardo adds, paintbrush paused above his skin, as if the realisation has just occurred to him.
Ezio stretches under the attention.
"Stay still," Leonardo says firmly, demanding in a way he doesn't get to see very often. Ezio fights a smile and does as he's bid. There are fingers, spread on his skin, drifting slowly from one bare, ticklish spot to the next, adding tiny lines of paint, wherever he sees fit. Ezio's skin prickles and twitches, and Leonardo's quiet laughter is fond and delighted.
"You are teasing," Ezio decides with a growl.
"I am an artist," Leonardo confesses, voice low like he regrets the necessity of it. "I have to go wherever I am taken."
Ezio doesn't believe it for a minute. The stroke of a brush is firmer, more focused, tight little curves of colour where waist becomes buttock. It is...a very distracting sensation. Ezio bends an arm, reaches back.
There's a brief, bright sting across his left buttock, accompanied by the wet spatter of paint.
"Ai!"
"You are a most wilful canvas." A thumb digs into his skin, as if to hold him still, if he should try to rise.
"And you are a most demanding artist," Ezio complains with a laugh, but obediently lays his arms back against the bed. "You cannot touch me like that and then demand I remain still."
"I will touch you however I see fit." Leonardo is smiling, Ezio can hear it. There's a pause, and then a noise, soft and curious. The rounded end of a brush, trailing through newly painted skin, a strange, blunt sensation after the flickering of bristles, and the wet press of paint.
Ezio inhales when it slides a path between his cheeks, slowing when it reaches the warmth of him, stopping. His thighs twitch, knees digging into the mattress, and then relaxing, spreading, just a little.
"You are a most wilful muse." Leonardo's voice shakes.
"And should I submit to your whims?" Ezio tenses a thigh muscle, listens to Leonardo's slow exhale.
"I would never ask for your submission."
Ezio smiles into the pillow. "A master does not ask, a master demands. Do they not call you a master, my friend?"
"And now you are teasing," Leonardo says thickly. Ezio thinks Leonardo likes the idea. There's a faint application of pressure, the slightest push, and the brush, hard and unyielding, edges just inside. "What would you do if I asked."
Ezio breathes out, toes curling in the sheets. "Anything."
"Ezio." It's soft but firm, a demand not to tease.
"Anything," Ezio repeats, louder, certain.
There's a thumb, pulling him open, just a little, and he's surprised at how sharply intimate that one gesture is. By how much it makes him desire to be exactly what Leonardo wants. The brush slides in deeper, delicate and strange. Daring and curious, and the thought that Leonardo would use him as he sees fit. That he would take whatever he wanted. It steals Ezio's breath from his chest.
"Leonardo, please," Ezio manages.
He hears the choked-off curse, and then the clatter of expensive brushes hitting the wooden floor.
Ezio's empty, suddenly, expectant, heart thudding inside his chest. He's hard against the sheets, an ache that demands his attention. But instead he pulls his hands into fists and waits. Instead of wood there are fingers, long and slender, and tacky-wet with paint, pushing in, rushed and apologetic. Ezio forgives with a long, low moan, rises to his knees. The soft sound of cloth stripped from skin is followed by a flutter of white, and when Leonardo's arms slide round him, his chest is bare. Ezio breathes his name.
Leonardo is careful, always careful with him. The press in is slow and easy. Ezio would tell him, if he could, that he has been bruised, and cut, burned, beaten and stabbed. He is no stranger to the different flavours of pain. Ezio would tell Leonardo that he could be rough with him, if he wanted to. But he never quite finds a way to say the words. To admit that he has already given Leonardo permission to hurt him. In all ways.
Leonardo doesn't stop until he has Ezio completely, until he's buried all the way inside him, and then he exhales.
"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever painted." Leonardo's voice is soft and reverent, but breathless, cut through with arousal.
Ezio fists his hands in the sheets and bends, pushes back into the cradle of Leonardo's hips. He can still feel the burning ache of being filled, but he wants to hear more in that wrecked and desperate tone. He thinks if he pushed hard enough Leonardo would break, and Ezio thinks he would be beautiful in his savagery.
Leonardo folds over him, helpless noise drawn out of him. His work, whatever it was, is smeared out on his own skin, paint transferring from Ezio's back to his chest, the tacky press of them together slick-warm and strange. Blue, white and red paint spots the hand Leonardo has braced by his head, and Ezio cannot help but imagine clouds and sky. Leonardo has his waist too, long, slender fingers grasping at skin, firm but still careful. Slippery when he catches too high, leaves his thumbs sliding through paint. Leonardo doesn't seem to mind though, reacting to the messy spread of it with a groan, and a sharp dig of fingertips.
Ezio can feel every rolling push, that leaves them tight together. Leonardo's wandering hands leave smears of paint on Ezio's thighs, buttocks, stomach, and - the slippery grasp of Leonardo's hand, where he needs it most, leaves him panting. All he can hear is the rush of his own blood, and Leonardo breathing his name, over and over. The low pull of release is impossible to fight. Ezio can only let it own him. Leonardo's hands slide up his back, destroying what's left of his art, to grasp Ezio's shoulders, and press in hard, where he's hot and open, almost over-sensitive. There's a moment of stillness, and a long, shaky groan of bliss.
Leonardo collapses next to him, chest, hands and thighs streaked with blue-white paint. There's a smear of red across one cheek. He looks utterly debauched, it suits him rather well.
Ezio falls, with little grace, into the ruined sheets. Before he finds Leonardo's narrow waist and drags him close, nose buried against his throat, cheek resting in the damp curls of his hair. He wonders, in that long, dazed moment, if he truly would do anything for Leonardo. If he would kill a thousand men, for this madness that is love.
"Is your creativity sated?" he asks instead, voice breathless and amused.
Leonardo tuts quietly at him. "I am never sated when it comes to you. You are a demon."
Ezio throws a leg over one pale thigh.
"I am not the one who covered us both in paint, mi amico."
Fandom: Assassin's Creed 2
Pairing: Ezio/Leonardo
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which Ezio stays still long enough to become artwork.
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'pervertibles' square
Ezio wakes when a weight settles on his back. He tenses, fingers stretching carefully, testingly, should it become necessary to defend himself
A familiar hand cards through his hair, voice murmuring to him to be still.
Leonardo.
His body relaxes again, rests in the slow stretch of time which isn't quite sleep. Other sensations prickle at the edge of his awareness. There's a tickling, curving line, cold and damp, sweeping across his left shoulder, and then down through two vertebrae. It repeats, wider each time, as if someone is drawing lines - painting lines.
"Are you painting on me?" Ezio murmurs, sleepily.
Leonardo hums, weight swaying forward a little. The tickling drift and press of a brush continues.
Ezio tries to twist his head over his shoulder, but all he can see is the pale, rounded curve of Leonardo's shoulder, where his shirt has slipped down. Still, Ezio has known Leonardo long enough to have come to understand a few things about paint.
"Leonardo, beautiful though your pictures may be, I have seen your studio, I have seen your hands. Your paint does not come off."
"I am not using oils," Leonardo's voice is soft, and there's laughter hiding underneath. "The paint will wash off." He uses a hand to turn Ezio's head back round, fingers tacky and sweet, leaving flecks of white and blue in his hair. A damp press of paint against his chin.
Ezio sighs out a breath. "This is why we stay near your studio. Because you find sleep as vexing as I do, and because you are always a breath away from making something, painting something."
"Yes," Leonardo agrees. "I had a thought, while I was sleeping, something magnificent."
"And you thought to use me in place of a canvas?" Ezio can't help but smile.
"I did not want to leave you." Leonardo admits to everything so easily. As if he has never learned how to lie.
Ezio can find nothing to say to that. Or perhaps he is simply not brave enough.
"And you looked very beautiful," Leonardo adds, paintbrush paused above his skin, as if the realisation has just occurred to him.
Ezio stretches under the attention.
"Stay still," Leonardo says firmly, demanding in a way he doesn't get to see very often. Ezio fights a smile and does as he's bid. There are fingers, spread on his skin, drifting slowly from one bare, ticklish spot to the next, adding tiny lines of paint, wherever he sees fit. Ezio's skin prickles and twitches, and Leonardo's quiet laughter is fond and delighted.
"You are teasing," Ezio decides with a growl.
"I am an artist," Leonardo confesses, voice low like he regrets the necessity of it. "I have to go wherever I am taken."
Ezio doesn't believe it for a minute. The stroke of a brush is firmer, more focused, tight little curves of colour where waist becomes buttock. It is...a very distracting sensation. Ezio bends an arm, reaches back.
There's a brief, bright sting across his left buttock, accompanied by the wet spatter of paint.
"Ai!"
"You are a most wilful canvas." A thumb digs into his skin, as if to hold him still, if he should try to rise.
"And you are a most demanding artist," Ezio complains with a laugh, but obediently lays his arms back against the bed. "You cannot touch me like that and then demand I remain still."
"I will touch you however I see fit." Leonardo is smiling, Ezio can hear it. There's a pause, and then a noise, soft and curious. The rounded end of a brush, trailing through newly painted skin, a strange, blunt sensation after the flickering of bristles, and the wet press of paint.
Ezio inhales when it slides a path between his cheeks, slowing when it reaches the warmth of him, stopping. His thighs twitch, knees digging into the mattress, and then relaxing, spreading, just a little.
"You are a most wilful muse." Leonardo's voice shakes.
"And should I submit to your whims?" Ezio tenses a thigh muscle, listens to Leonardo's slow exhale.
"I would never ask for your submission."
Ezio smiles into the pillow. "A master does not ask, a master demands. Do they not call you a master, my friend?"
"And now you are teasing," Leonardo says thickly. Ezio thinks Leonardo likes the idea. There's a faint application of pressure, the slightest push, and the brush, hard and unyielding, edges just inside. "What would you do if I asked."
Ezio breathes out, toes curling in the sheets. "Anything."
"Ezio." It's soft but firm, a demand not to tease.
"Anything," Ezio repeats, louder, certain.
There's a thumb, pulling him open, just a little, and he's surprised at how sharply intimate that one gesture is. By how much it makes him desire to be exactly what Leonardo wants. The brush slides in deeper, delicate and strange. Daring and curious, and the thought that Leonardo would use him as he sees fit. That he would take whatever he wanted. It steals Ezio's breath from his chest.
"Leonardo, please," Ezio manages.
He hears the choked-off curse, and then the clatter of expensive brushes hitting the wooden floor.
Ezio's empty, suddenly, expectant, heart thudding inside his chest. He's hard against the sheets, an ache that demands his attention. But instead he pulls his hands into fists and waits. Instead of wood there are fingers, long and slender, and tacky-wet with paint, pushing in, rushed and apologetic. Ezio forgives with a long, low moan, rises to his knees. The soft sound of cloth stripped from skin is followed by a flutter of white, and when Leonardo's arms slide round him, his chest is bare. Ezio breathes his name.
Leonardo is careful, always careful with him. The press in is slow and easy. Ezio would tell him, if he could, that he has been bruised, and cut, burned, beaten and stabbed. He is no stranger to the different flavours of pain. Ezio would tell Leonardo that he could be rough with him, if he wanted to. But he never quite finds a way to say the words. To admit that he has already given Leonardo permission to hurt him. In all ways.
Leonardo doesn't stop until he has Ezio completely, until he's buried all the way inside him, and then he exhales.
"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever painted." Leonardo's voice is soft and reverent, but breathless, cut through with arousal.
Ezio fists his hands in the sheets and bends, pushes back into the cradle of Leonardo's hips. He can still feel the burning ache of being filled, but he wants to hear more in that wrecked and desperate tone. He thinks if he pushed hard enough Leonardo would break, and Ezio thinks he would be beautiful in his savagery.
Leonardo folds over him, helpless noise drawn out of him. His work, whatever it was, is smeared out on his own skin, paint transferring from Ezio's back to his chest, the tacky press of them together slick-warm and strange. Blue, white and red paint spots the hand Leonardo has braced by his head, and Ezio cannot help but imagine clouds and sky. Leonardo has his waist too, long, slender fingers grasping at skin, firm but still careful. Slippery when he catches too high, leaves his thumbs sliding through paint. Leonardo doesn't seem to mind though, reacting to the messy spread of it with a groan, and a sharp dig of fingertips.
Ezio can feel every rolling push, that leaves them tight together. Leonardo's wandering hands leave smears of paint on Ezio's thighs, buttocks, stomach, and - the slippery grasp of Leonardo's hand, where he needs it most, leaves him panting. All he can hear is the rush of his own blood, and Leonardo breathing his name, over and over. The low pull of release is impossible to fight. Ezio can only let it own him. Leonardo's hands slide up his back, destroying what's left of his art, to grasp Ezio's shoulders, and press in hard, where he's hot and open, almost over-sensitive. There's a moment of stillness, and a long, shaky groan of bliss.
Leonardo collapses next to him, chest, hands and thighs streaked with blue-white paint. There's a smear of red across one cheek. He looks utterly debauched, it suits him rather well.
Ezio falls, with little grace, into the ruined sheets. Before he finds Leonardo's narrow waist and drags him close, nose buried against his throat, cheek resting in the damp curls of his hair. He wonders, in that long, dazed moment, if he truly would do anything for Leonardo. If he would kill a thousand men, for this madness that is love.
"Is your creativity sated?" he asks instead, voice breathless and amused.
Leonardo tuts quietly at him. "I am never sated when it comes to you. You are a demon."
Ezio throws a leg over one pale thigh.
"I am not the one who covered us both in paint, mi amico."