I'm sorry, OP, I tried and tried but this was all that wanted to come of your wonderful prompt. Hopefully someone else will come along and do it justice!
There were nights he dreamed of him; the assassino. Dreamed that he might run his gloved fingers over his neck as he did the woman in the square. Dreamed he would nibble his jaw, his tongue in his ear, and then down, down, down. Dreamed of shivering skin and trembling moans. And then dream of those harsher times with the bite of his teeth and the scratch of his nails, voice loud and strong and echoing. There were nights where he dreamed of him clothed. There were nights he dreamed of him naked. There nights he dreamed of him kissing and nights he dreamed of him talking. There were nights he dreamed of a willing partner beside him in bed, rather than his wife Julia who lifted her chemise with boredom and disgust as if a terrible chore. And then there were the days.
The days when dreams were abandoned and paled.
The days he would hear of his presence whispered amongst the crowds. When he would hear from a gossiping customer of a guard found dead in the streets. The days Julia would become a trembling mess and bundle of nerves, her rosary clutched between her fingers until the small, broken figure of Jesus Christ was imprinted in the cold, hard skin of her callouses. The days he would come; saunter up to the shop front with a posture that commanded respect and begged for admiration. Slide his hand over the wooden surface between them. Ask for the stock in a rumbling voice, heavily accented with a Florentine drawl.
He had asked that it stop. Prayed for strength from God every Sunday for a month, and then prayed for forgiveness every Sunday for a year. Taken lovers, a female and a male, and regretted it. Felt, then, the strong punch of the assassino's fist and the hard of his knee when it drove up into his stomach. He remained faithful from then on.
But...he still could not sake the dreams. Could not shake the want. Could not shake the overwhelming need that shook him to the very core and warmed him from the inside out when he caught a flash of them.
He swallowed thickly and clenched his sleeves in his fists, leaning on the counter and calling out. Sales, sales. They must be crazy not to buy. Finest fabbro in Italy. No greater discounts.
The guards were restless and on edge. They mumbled to each other and cast glances at the people. Pointed to those in richer attire, and made jokes at the expense of the courtesans. He would be here.
A familiar shadow fell over the counter. A glove fell to the wood and smoothed over it.
“I am looking for a sword.”
He looked up, eyes finding those beneath the assassino's hood. His eyes softened and his face crinkled into a grin. Lust welled up from his groin, distorting his mind and thought.
“I am sure I have just what you need. Somewhere in the back, perhaps.” He curled his grin to a smirk, passed his tongue over the top of his lip, cursed himself for falling to temptation once more and congratulated himself on giving an offer.
“The stock list?” They were sucking on their teeth, their brow raised, expectant and perhaps shocked. In the shop the wielder stopped hammering at a blade and watched on, disapproving.
“Right here.” He pushed the archive towards him, and pointed to the Captain's sword. “This one is light, cheap, and well made – should you take it.”
“Well made?”
“I have some of the best...equipment in the distretto...I think. Perhaps you would like to take a look? I would very much enjoy a second opinion.”
He gained another look, lingering, questioning, and bordering on angry. The creak of a leather glove reached his ears.
“I think that I will pass.”
“Oh...another time, then.” His heart sunk. The flame in his belly was extinguished.
“...Perhaps.” The assassin shrugged, repeating his own words.
He watched as the assassin disappeared into the crowds.
Fail!fill
There were nights he dreamed of him; the assassino. Dreamed that he might run his gloved fingers over his neck as he did the woman in the square. Dreamed he would nibble his jaw, his tongue in his ear, and then down, down, down. Dreamed of shivering skin and trembling moans. And then dream of those harsher times with the bite of his teeth and the scratch of his nails, voice loud and strong and echoing. There were nights where he dreamed of him clothed. There were nights he dreamed of him naked. There nights he dreamed of him kissing and nights he dreamed of him talking. There were nights he dreamed of a willing partner beside him in bed, rather than his wife Julia who lifted her chemise with boredom and disgust as if a terrible chore. And then there were the days.
The days when dreams were abandoned and paled.
The days he would hear of his presence whispered amongst the crowds. When he would hear from a gossiping customer of a guard found dead in the streets. The days Julia would become a trembling mess and bundle of nerves, her rosary clutched between her fingers until the small, broken figure of Jesus Christ was imprinted in the cold, hard skin of her callouses. The days he would come; saunter up to the shop front with a posture that commanded respect and begged for admiration. Slide his hand over the wooden surface between them. Ask for the stock in a rumbling voice, heavily accented with a Florentine drawl.
He had asked that it stop. Prayed for strength from God every Sunday for a month, and then prayed for forgiveness every Sunday for a year. Taken lovers, a female and a male, and regretted it. Felt, then, the strong punch of the assassino's fist and the hard of his knee when it drove up into his stomach. He remained faithful from then on.
But...he still could not sake the dreams. Could not shake the want. Could not shake the overwhelming need that shook him to the very core and warmed him from the inside out when he caught a flash of them.
He swallowed thickly and clenched his sleeves in his fists, leaning on the counter and calling out. Sales, sales. They must be crazy not to buy. Finest fabbro in Italy. No greater discounts.
The guards were restless and on edge. They mumbled to each other and cast glances at the people. Pointed to those in richer attire, and made jokes at the expense of the courtesans. He would be here.
A familiar shadow fell over the counter. A glove fell to the wood and smoothed over it.
“I am looking for a sword.”
He looked up, eyes finding those beneath the assassino's hood. His eyes softened and his face crinkled into a grin. Lust welled up from his groin, distorting his mind and thought.
“I am sure I have just what you need. Somewhere in the back, perhaps.” He curled his grin to a smirk, passed his tongue over the top of his lip, cursed himself for falling to temptation once more and congratulated himself on giving an offer.
“The stock list?” They were sucking on their teeth, their brow raised, expectant and perhaps shocked. In the shop the wielder stopped hammering at a blade and watched on, disapproving.
“Right here.” He pushed the archive towards him, and pointed to the Captain's sword. “This one is light, cheap, and well made – should you take it.”
“Well made?”
“I have some of the best...equipment in the distretto...I think. Perhaps you would like to take a look? I would very much enjoy a second opinion.”
He gained another look, lingering, questioning, and bordering on angry. The creak of a leather glove reached his ears.
“I think that I will pass.”
“Oh...another time, then.” His heart sunk. The flame in his belly was extinguished.
“...Perhaps.” The assassin shrugged, repeating his own words.
He watched as the assassin disappeared into the crowds.