Connor fidgeted uncomfortably, lacing his fingers together. Surely his father wasn’t actually interested in him? Such a thing was unheard of.

Haytham was looking out at the snow covered wilderness. “We had better set off after Church,” he said finally. He paused. “Connor, I – I apologise for making you relive such... unpleasantness.” He started walking.

“Wait,” Connor demanded. Haytham stopped.

“Yes?”

“Why were you touching me, if not to harm me?” Connor asked.

“Forgive me, Connor,” Haytham replied uneasily. “A moment’s madness, nothing more.” The guilt was slipping through now, as much as he tried to block it out.

Suddenly Connor was right in front of him, stance uncompromising, voice insistent. “Explain.”

Haytham swallowed a venomous retort and instead said simply “Why do you think?”

Connor was thinking very fast but everything he knew seemed to contradict itself. Two people only touched each other in such a way when they desired each other, but for a father to touch his son in such a way was called incest and that was taboo. Surely Haytham knew that? Perhaps he was so depraved he didn’t care. Was such a man truly his father?

“Do you desire me?” Connor asked finally. “Or is this just another intricate Templar scheme?”

Haytham snorted. “Do you actually believe the Templars would stoop to such methods?”

Connor’s unwavering gaze said it all.

The Templar sighed, “No, it is me. For a moment there you looked rather a lot like your mother.”

Connor hissed in a breath at such an admission. How dare he bring his mother into this?

For the second time that day, Haytham found himself with his back against the wall. “You disrespect my mother’s memory,” Connor snapped.

Haytham would have questioned his phrasing – it was not until later that he learned of Ziio’s fate after all – but for the sudden insistent mouth angrily ravaging his own.

The cut on Haytham’s bottom lip soon reopened under the force of Connor’s mouth, but Connor paid it no heed. Rather it seemed to fuel his sudden bloodlust as he swiped a tongue over the wound, tasting copper.

“What are you doing?” Haytham demanded, regaining his senses.

Connor paused, as if to consider. “Teaching you a lesson,” he decided.

That made as little sense to Haytham as anything the boy did, but he found himself quite enjoying the “lesson.” Presumably, Connor was just making it up as he went along, not so much kissing him as ravishing his mouth first with his lips and later with teeth and tongue added to the mix.

Haytham responded tentatively at first, not wanting to frighten Connor off. That seemed less and less likely however, especially once he felt dexterous fingers fiddling with his clothing fastenings.

This is unwise, this is unwise, this is very, very, unwise, Haytham’s conscience chided him. He ignored it in favour of thrusting his tongue down his son’s throat.

Connor made a noise of surprise, but recovered quickly, his own tongue coming back into play as he successfully untied the fastening on Haytham’s cloak and let it fall from his shoulders to the floor. He moved onto the heavy coat without pause.

Haytham pulled Connor’s hood down to tangle a hand in his son’s unruly hair, his other hand dropping to struggle with his assassin robes.

Connor pulled back out of the kiss, slapping Haytham’s hand away so he could begin unfastening the robes. Haytham simply watched for a few moments, before beginning to undress himself.

Connor undressed much more efficiently than his father – Haytham was wearing rather more layers and had folded them in a neat pile rather than scattered all over the floor. Once Haytham was down to his breeches and undershirt he looked up and found his son in nothing but his thigh high boots. His already frayed control snapped. He had to have him.

“Have you any oil, Connor?” he asked, voice rough with want.

“Oil?” Connor repeated, puzzled. “For what?”

Haytham was fossicking through his clothes and armaments and soon found a smallish bottle of weapon oil. Bringing it back over to Connor, he guided him closer to the wall, this time with noticeably less fear involved.

Connor wasn’t sure when his father had taken control again but he was secretly glad of it, being unskilled in such matters. If the wooden wall had been uncomfortable before, it was doubly so now, the rough timber chafing at his bare back. He leaned lightly against it, waiting apprehensively to see what would happen next.

Oiling up his fingers, Haytham carefully placed the bottle on the floor. “Are you ready?” he asked, his dark eyes gleaming.

“Yes,” Connor confirmed, though he wished he knew what it was he was ready for. He was shivering in the cold air and noted with mild annoyance that Haytham was still more or less clothed.

“Now listen,” Haytham ordered, stepping closer. “These,” he showed Connor his glistening fingers, “are going up here,” he pressed a finger gently against Connor’s rear.

“What?” Connor all but squawked, jumping at the cold finger.

Haytham smiled slightly. “My fingers will stretch you so you can properly take me,” he explained.

Connor thought about that. It was the use of fingers that had confused him – he knew how sex worked, he saw animals reproducing in the Frontier all the time. It made sense. He nodded consent.

It was an odd sensation, feeling a finger enter him. He shifted uncomfortably, willing his body to accommodate the intrusion.

“Relax, Connor,” Haytham said softly, kissing him. Connor loosened his muscles and at once he felt a bit more comfortable, his entrance widening around the finger. Haytham warned him before inserting a second, and later, a third finger.

When Haytham felt that Connor was nice and loose, he carefully curled his fingers, seeking the boy’s prostate. After some careful exploration, Connor suddenly arched with a surprised moan, tensing around the fingers in pleasure.

Stroking him a few more times, indulging him, Haytham withdrew his fingers, reaching down to pick up the oil once again and unlace his breeches. Swiftly oiling up his erection, the Templar pressed his knee against his son and rubbed slowly, teasing him. Connor’s hips jerked forward of their own accord, rubbing sensitive flesh against clothed knee.

Haytham slowly pushed under Connor to rest his knee against the wall behind, his foot up on a raised plank of a wood so his knee was at a right angle. Pulling Connor closer, he pulled his hips towards him, Connor wrapping his booted legs around Haytham’s waist and his arms around his shoulders. Now Connor was more or less sitting on his father’s knee, his back resting against the wall. He could feel Haytham pressing at his entrance, and gasped as he slowly pushed into him. He was quite a bit larger than his fingers had been.

Haytham pulled back out, and then thrust back in, starting off slow but gradually gathering pace. Connor forced himself to relax, concentrating on his own erection pressing against his father’s firm stomach muscles, making them glisten with his own precome.

His position wasn’t the most comfortable, his back digging into the wall as it was, but all that was forgotten as soon as Haytham hit that spot inside him again. He cried out in pleasure, one hand pulling at his father’s silvered ebon hair.

Haytham had reached a solid rhythm and now concentrated on hitting Connor’s prostate. The glorious picture of rapture his son made each time he managed to hit it was worth his concentration. Soon he found himself reaching his peak and his thrusts grew uneven and less accurate, as Connor rode him to ecstasy.

He came with a muffled shout, breathing heavily against the Assassin’s sweat-slicked skin. Connor panted, watching through half-lidded eyes as some of his father’s seed trickled from between his legs onto Haytham’s clothed thigh.

Still catching his breath, Haytham pulled out from Connor, but kept him balanced on his raised knee as he was. Keeping one hand grasping his hip, he used the other to take his son in hand, slicking him up with own precome.

Connor thrust wantonly into his experienced hand, a needy whine escaping his throat.

“Hush, Connor,” Haytham whispered, drawing him into a hungry kiss. He swallowed his cry of pleasure as Connor reached his own climax in his father’s fist.

Connor stiffly climbed down from his perch upon Haytham’s knee – much to Haytham’s relief; the boy was heavy after all. Haytham straightened his leg, wincing a little at its stiffness from being held in one position for so long.

Cleaning themselves up, they dressed in silence, the icy wind whistling through the old church.

The reality of the situation suddenly struck Haytham and he laughed quietly to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Connor demanded, looking over from where he was tying his robes.

“I just buggered my own son in a church,” Haytham forced out, shoulders shaking with black humour.

To be fair, it was only the structure of a church, there was not even an altar present, but still, the sheer wrongness of the situation was not lost on Connor.

“I... am sorry,” he began, unsure of whether his father regretted his actions or not.

“Oh no, Connor. I am sorry. But,” he plucked his bottle of oil from the floorboards and tucked into his coat somewhere before straightening “what’s done is done. A need was satisfied. For both of us, it would seem...” he glanced appraisingly over at Connor.

Connor looked down, but nodded slightly. It may have been wrong, but it had been good. He found he did not particularly regret it.

“Well now,” Haytham dusted himself off as he strode towards the doorway. “Let’s be off.”