Uh... I have no idea if this is what you were after, but I started writing and could not stop and this is the result. --- It's still snowing outside, and Connor takes another sip of the foul, burning alcohol Haytham handed him about half an hour ago. He's not so cold now, and his head is pleasantly hazy. Although in all honesty, his new warmth is probably more to do with the fact he and Haytham are hugging, thanks to the draught seeping through the small cabin. It's basic survival, something Connor learnt at a young age. His mother would always usher him under her blanket when the winds were especially icy, and so did the other families in the village. It was harder after the attack, there were so few people left.
"I can't feel my leg," Haytham says, accusingly. His voice is too loud, too close to Connor's ear.
Connor sighs. He'd just gotten comfortable in this position. He shifts his arm and scoots his hips to one side and lifts Haytham's numb leg out the way. He arranges their arms so they will be warmer- Haytham objected to this earlier, saying it was inappropriate or something. Now, he's too tipsy to care about being chest-to-chest. Connor rests his head against Haytham's neck.
"Tell me about how you met my mother," he says, taking another sip of the alcohol.
"Why do you care?" Haytham says, sullenly. "Oh, all right. She was among some Native slaves I freed. God knows what would have happened if I hadn't come along. A British general had claimed her for his own."
Haytham pauses to drink a little more, and Connor can't help but think about the last time- oh, a good fifteen years ago- he'd been close enough to someone to hear the buzzing of their vocal cords in their throat, to feel their heartbeat.
"Can't say I blame him," Haytham continues, his words sounding a little slurred. "She was gorgeous. Stunning. A goddess. She was so beautiful. And it wasn't just her looks, as wonderful as they were. She was clever, too. Cleverer than most men, most civilised men, even. And I swear her eyes could see everything. She would always give me this look. This 'I know better' look."
Connor isn't sure what the weird feeling is at first, on the inside of his thigh. A kind of pressure.
"She always did. Know better, I mean."
Connor shifts his hips a little and Haytham's words stutter slightly.
"What are you doing?" Haytham says, sounding annoyed.
"What?" Connor snaps. "I'm uncomfortable."
"Stop that." Haytham hisses, sounding irate, as Connor shifts his hips again, harder this time.
"Oh," Connor says, realisation dawning. It makes sense what that pressure is. Haytham must've liked something about his mother to fuck her, after all. He grins, and starts rocking his hips up and down, gently enough to stay upright, forcefully enough to make Haytham gasp and arch his back.
He's not going to pretend to like his father. All this talk of taking control away from people, how does he like being on the receiving end? His heart beats faster and he knows that if he was not well on the way to getting drunk he would never do this. It's exhilirating. Perhaps too exhilirating. He can feel himself getting hard.
"No," Haytham murmurs, quietly. "Stop. Not like that."
"Not like what?" Connor says, confused.
"Use your hands, you stupid boy." Haytham hisses into his ear, grabbing one of his wrists. "Do you know nothing?!"
After that, things get blurry. Neither of them seem to care much about the cold outside when there is warmth to be had underneath their layers of clothing. In the morning he has vivid memories of Haytham ripping Connor's hair out of its ponytail, of smooth pale skin turning reddish-pink beneath his earth-coloured hands, of hot friction, the strange sensation of another man's penis inside and against his mouth and of the noise Haytham makes when he spurts white onto Connor's face and neck, in his long hair. He remembers blinking it out of his eyes, and forcing a kiss onto those chapped lips, worming a tongue into an open mouth, the semen smearing and drying between their skin before Connor sees stars.
Hours later, when dawn's light is harshy reflected into their eyes, neither can stop shivering, and they rub and comb flakes of evidence from their skin and hair before adjusting their mostly-undone clothes and pointedly not speaking of the previous night. That morning's travelling is quiet, and they do not speak until they buy brunch at a tavern in New York. Today there is no passive-aggressive sarcasm nor heated accusations of treachery or ignorance.
A fill. A very short fill.
---
It's still snowing outside, and Connor takes another sip of the foul, burning alcohol Haytham handed him about half an hour ago. He's not so cold now, and his head is pleasantly hazy. Although in all honesty, his new warmth is probably more to do with the fact he and Haytham are hugging, thanks to the draught seeping through the small cabin. It's basic survival, something Connor learnt at a young age. His mother would always usher him under her blanket when the winds were especially icy, and so did the other families in the village. It was harder after the attack, there were so few people left.
"I can't feel my leg," Haytham says, accusingly. His voice is too loud, too close to Connor's ear.
Connor sighs. He'd just gotten comfortable in this position. He shifts his arm and scoots his hips to one side and lifts Haytham's numb leg out the way. He arranges their arms so they will be warmer- Haytham objected to this earlier, saying it was inappropriate or something. Now, he's too tipsy to care about being chest-to-chest. Connor rests his head against Haytham's neck.
"Tell me about how you met my mother," he says, taking another sip of the alcohol.
"Why do you care?" Haytham says, sullenly. "Oh, all right. She was among some Native slaves I freed. God knows what would have happened if I hadn't come along. A British general had claimed her for his own."
Haytham pauses to drink a little more, and Connor can't help but think about the last time- oh, a good fifteen years ago- he'd been close enough to someone to hear the buzzing of their vocal cords in their throat, to feel their heartbeat.
"Can't say I blame him," Haytham continues, his words sounding a little slurred. "She was gorgeous. Stunning. A goddess. She was so beautiful. And it wasn't just her looks, as wonderful as they were. She was clever, too. Cleverer than most men, most civilised men, even. And I swear her eyes could see everything. She would always give me this look. This 'I know better' look."
Connor isn't sure what the weird feeling is at first, on the inside of his thigh. A kind of pressure.
"She always did. Know better, I mean."
Connor shifts his hips a little and Haytham's words stutter slightly.
"What are you doing?" Haytham says, sounding annoyed.
"What?" Connor snaps. "I'm uncomfortable."
"Stop that." Haytham hisses, sounding irate, as Connor shifts his hips again, harder this time.
"Oh," Connor says, realisation dawning. It makes sense what that pressure is. Haytham must've liked something about his mother to fuck her, after all. He grins, and starts rocking his hips up and down, gently enough to stay upright, forcefully enough to make Haytham gasp and arch his back.
He's not going to pretend to like his father. All this talk of taking control away from people, how does he like being on the receiving end? His heart beats faster and he knows that if he was not well on the way to getting drunk he would never do this. It's exhilirating. Perhaps too exhilirating. He can feel himself getting hard.
"No," Haytham murmurs, quietly. "Stop. Not like that."
"Not like what?" Connor says, confused.
"Use your hands, you stupid boy." Haytham hisses into his ear, grabbing one of his wrists. "Do you know nothing?!"
After that, things get blurry. Neither of them seem to care much about the cold outside when there is warmth to be had underneath their layers of clothing. In the morning he has vivid memories of Haytham ripping Connor's hair out of its ponytail, of smooth pale skin turning reddish-pink beneath his earth-coloured hands, of hot friction, the strange sensation of another man's penis inside and against his mouth and of the noise Haytham makes when he spurts white onto Connor's face and neck, in his long hair. He remembers blinking it out of his eyes, and forcing a kiss onto those chapped lips, worming a tongue into an open mouth, the semen smearing and drying between their skin before Connor sees stars.
Hours later, when dawn's light is harshy reflected into their eyes, neither can stop shivering, and they rub and comb flakes of evidence from their skin and hair before adjusting their mostly-undone clothes and pointedly not speaking of the previous night. That morning's travelling is quiet, and they do not speak until they buy brunch at a tavern in New York. Today there is no passive-aggressive sarcasm nor heated accusations of treachery or ignorance.