Ahahahah, this is pure PWP. I wasn't able to fit in your last request, but I think I managed to cover the other two points. ...Enjoy? /face in hands
***
Day and night, night and day, the thought plagued him in a way that no other had: he wanted the Assassin at his mercy in the basest, most humiliating way possible. Too many times had that brat ruined the Order’s plans, too many times he had hurt their cause. Charles knew all too well that Connor sought his head, and while many individuals would have been frozen with fear by the prospect of having such a trained killer after them, he found it terribly arousing.
In this way, Assassin and Templar were similar: they were obsessed with each other.
Drawn together in conflict time and time again, he had bided his time and waited for the opportune moment, waited for when he could strike, and now, at last, Charles had his chance. Connor had arrived, like a neat package, on his doorstep earlier that day, courtesy of Hickey’s side activities and the trouble that it had earned him--not that he particularly cared for what the man did on the side, so long as he completed his tasks for the Order.
Six hours later found Connor naked in his room, hands bound to the headboard with the red sash he wore as a belt. The Assassin was slow to rouse from his drug-induced sleep, and briefly, Charles found himself wishing that they had used less of it. The medication had been necessary, see, for transport, but he doubted anyone else would have thought he’d use the effects for such nefarious purposes afterwards...
“Wake up, boy,” he muttered, now tired of waiting. Charles brought his hand down, hard, against his cheek, and Connor yelped, eyes flying open, body jerking against the ties that bound him. His lips curled into a sneer as Connor struggled, drowsiness all but evaporating from the lines of his body, and his smile only broadened when those eyes finally settled and focused on him.
There was anger in his gaze--a bright and fierce fury--but he found only delight in it. What was the point of breaking something already broken? Connor had spirit, and that would bring him far more delight to take.
“Lee. Release me,” Connor growled, pulling against the sash to the point that it bit into his wrists. Charles did nothing to discourage him from doing so and merely pressed his hands against his thighs, just in case he got the wise idea to try kicking him. The Assassin, he had to admit, had a beautiful body: all bronzed skin and powerful muscle--all untouched, too, he imagined. After all, what time would he have to play when he was so busy ruining their plans?
“I’ll do no such thing.” He leaned in, hovering inches away from Connor’s face, who frowned and looked as if he would try to bite if he got any closer. “I’ve yet to have my fun with you, boy.”
“You will not break me with physical torment.”
He almost had to laugh at the comment. Here he was, bound and naked, and Connor was thinking of an entirely different sort of torture. Such naivete! Oh, Charles had no doubt that the Assassin had a high pain tolerance and would keep his lips sealed should a blade be applied to his skin, but what he had planned... Well, Connor would have no training for this.
With no preamble, he grabbed Connor’s cock, which earned him a startled noise and eyes wide with surprise. The verbal protests started a moment later, shifting fluidly between English and Mohawk, and at the risk of getting bitten, Charles bent and kissed him--hungry and demanding, tongue pushing into the other’s mouth. And when he could not vocalize his discomfort, Connor took to shifting beneath him, a writhing mess that only went to arouse Charles all the more. Clothed though he was, he relished the press of hips and chest against him, brief it might have been, and the warmth that he felt...
He needed to speed up his plans, if only to satiate his own desires.
Hands fumbling about, he managed to find the tie in the Assassin’s hair and pulled it free. Charles sat back then, tasting copper on his tongue, but it didn’t really matter, didn’t bother him that the boy had drawn blood as he wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. Connor was staring at him now, eyes wide with disbelief, and Charles could see understanding slowly but surely dawning upon the Assassin.
And then there it was: the flicker of fear.
“You would not--”
“I would,” Charles answered, moving swiftly to straddle Connor’s abdomen. In hindsight, it would have been better to bind the Assassin’s legs, but it would prove to be a hindrance later--and later was the event he looked forward to the most. No, for now, he would tolerate the kicking and flailing, and it was with a calm touch that he took the hair tie he’d removed and circled it around the base of Connor’s cock and around his balls, knotting it neatly when he was done.
Connor stilled as he finished, and he could practically feel the tension radiating off of the Assassin’s body. The boy drew up his knees, tried to shift his legs into a number of different positions in hopes of shielding himself, but Charles would not be so easily put off, not when he wanted and craved and desired for so long. His own cock ached within the confines of his breeches, and he huffed in irritation.
“Desist your fruitless struggles,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder at Connor, who only redoubled his efforts to buck his captor off. Charles muttered an oath and took hold of the boy’s penis, his grip tight in warning. Connor stopped struggling then, breath catching in his throat, and while there was still anxiety written into every fiber of his being, he behaved for the time being. It was then and only then that Charles loosened his grip a little, even stroking his cock as if to assuage him.
Behind him, Connor bit his lip and turned his head to the side, ashamed, as his body betrayed him.
Satisfied for the time being, Charles allowed his free hand to slide down past the Assassin’s balls to toy at his hole. His fingertip circled the ring of tight muscle and then pushed at it, making a pleased sound at how little give there was; Connor shuddered, knees automatically drawing up and toes curling in the sheets. The boy squirmed oh so delightfully, but to progress further, Charles would have to stop teasing him--for now.
He slipped off the bed and rummaged through one of the drawers in his dresser, producing a small bottle of oil, which he proceeded to toss onto the bed; Connor’s eyes followed its path through the air with great agitation and proceeded to stare at it, as if it were a bomb, when it came to a rest between his legs. “Consider yourself fortunate,” Charles said as he stripped, easily discarding one item of clothing after another; they lay strewn across the floor as he returned to the bed. “I’ve half a mind to take you dry.
“Roll over.”
Connor did nothing, said nothing. His mouth was open, but it seemed that his shock had stolen his voice. Finally, Charles grabbed the Assassin by the hips and forcibly flipped him over. He cursed softly when, again, Connor put up resistance, tugging at his bonds and pushing with his feet, but when he applied his hand to the boy’s backside, he yielded. Though the skin reddened under his touch and his palm stung, Charles did not doubt it was the surprise that quelled Connor, not the pain.
“On your knees, boy.”
“No,” Connor bit out, but there was no force behind his voice. In fact, Charles was of the mind that there was a quiver to it, and his cock twitched at the thought that the boy was afraid--afraid of him. He delighted in being able to wield such power, and again, he pressed a finger against the Assassin’s entrance, threatening.
“Do as I say, or you’ll have nought for slick when I take you,” he murmured, his voice filled with dark promise. “And I will have you.” His lips split into a smile as Connor obeyed after briefly glancing over his shoulder. The embarrassed flush that had first appeared a few minutes ago had now reached his ears, and Charles pressed a hand to his spine, stroking in a mockery of gentleness. He could feel the boy’s body twitch beneath his fingertips, could feel the tension that strung him out.
Fill: A Sweet Litany on Your Lips [ 1/2 ]
***
Day and night, night and day, the thought plagued him in a way that no other had: he wanted the Assassin at his mercy in the basest, most humiliating way possible. Too many times had that brat ruined the Order’s plans, too many times he had hurt their cause. Charles knew all too well that Connor sought his head, and while many individuals would have been frozen with fear by the prospect of having such a trained killer after them, he found it terribly arousing.
In this way, Assassin and Templar were similar: they were obsessed with each other.
Drawn together in conflict time and time again, he had bided his time and waited for the opportune moment, waited for when he could strike, and now, at last, Charles had his chance. Connor had arrived, like a neat package, on his doorstep earlier that day, courtesy of Hickey’s side activities and the trouble that it had earned him--not that he particularly cared for what the man did on the side, so long as he completed his tasks for the Order.
Six hours later found Connor naked in his room, hands bound to the headboard with the red sash he wore as a belt. The Assassin was slow to rouse from his drug-induced sleep, and briefly, Charles found himself wishing that they had used less of it. The medication had been necessary, see, for transport, but he doubted anyone else would have thought he’d use the effects for such nefarious purposes afterwards...
“Wake up, boy,” he muttered, now tired of waiting. Charles brought his hand down, hard, against his cheek, and Connor yelped, eyes flying open, body jerking against the ties that bound him. His lips curled into a sneer as Connor struggled, drowsiness all but evaporating from the lines of his body, and his smile only broadened when those eyes finally settled and focused on him.
There was anger in his gaze--a bright and fierce fury--but he found only delight in it. What was the point of breaking something already broken? Connor had spirit, and that would bring him far more delight to take.
“Lee. Release me,” Connor growled, pulling against the sash to the point that it bit into his wrists. Charles did nothing to discourage him from doing so and merely pressed his hands against his thighs, just in case he got the wise idea to try kicking him. The Assassin, he had to admit, had a beautiful body: all bronzed skin and powerful muscle--all untouched, too, he imagined. After all, what time would he have to play when he was so busy ruining their plans?
“I’ll do no such thing.” He leaned in, hovering inches away from Connor’s face, who frowned and looked as if he would try to bite if he got any closer. “I’ve yet to have my fun with you, boy.”
“You will not break me with physical torment.”
He almost had to laugh at the comment. Here he was, bound and naked, and Connor was thinking of an entirely different sort of torture. Such naivete! Oh, Charles had no doubt that the Assassin had a high pain tolerance and would keep his lips sealed should a blade be applied to his skin, but what he had planned... Well, Connor would have no training for this.
With no preamble, he grabbed Connor’s cock, which earned him a startled noise and eyes wide with surprise. The verbal protests started a moment later, shifting fluidly between English and Mohawk, and at the risk of getting bitten, Charles bent and kissed him--hungry and demanding, tongue pushing into the other’s mouth. And when he could not vocalize his discomfort, Connor took to shifting beneath him, a writhing mess that only went to arouse Charles all the more. Clothed though he was, he relished the press of hips and chest against him, brief it might have been, and the warmth that he felt...
He needed to speed up his plans, if only to satiate his own desires.
Hands fumbling about, he managed to find the tie in the Assassin’s hair and pulled it free. Charles sat back then, tasting copper on his tongue, but it didn’t really matter, didn’t bother him that the boy had drawn blood as he wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. Connor was staring at him now, eyes wide with disbelief, and Charles could see understanding slowly but surely dawning upon the Assassin.
And then there it was: the flicker of fear.
“You would not--”
“I would,” Charles answered, moving swiftly to straddle Connor’s abdomen. In hindsight, it would have been better to bind the Assassin’s legs, but it would prove to be a hindrance later--and later was the event he looked forward to the most. No, for now, he would tolerate the kicking and flailing, and it was with a calm touch that he took the hair tie he’d removed and circled it around the base of Connor’s cock and around his balls, knotting it neatly when he was done.
Connor stilled as he finished, and he could practically feel the tension radiating off of the Assassin’s body. The boy drew up his knees, tried to shift his legs into a number of different positions in hopes of shielding himself, but Charles would not be so easily put off, not when he wanted and craved and desired for so long. His own cock ached within the confines of his breeches, and he huffed in irritation.
“Desist your fruitless struggles,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder at Connor, who only redoubled his efforts to buck his captor off. Charles muttered an oath and took hold of the boy’s penis, his grip tight in warning. Connor stopped struggling then, breath catching in his throat, and while there was still anxiety written into every fiber of his being, he behaved for the time being. It was then and only then that Charles loosened his grip a little, even stroking his cock as if to assuage him.
Behind him, Connor bit his lip and turned his head to the side, ashamed, as his body betrayed him.
Satisfied for the time being, Charles allowed his free hand to slide down past the Assassin’s balls to toy at his hole. His fingertip circled the ring of tight muscle and then pushed at it, making a pleased sound at how little give there was; Connor shuddered, knees automatically drawing up and toes curling in the sheets. The boy squirmed oh so delightfully, but to progress further, Charles would have to stop teasing him--for now.
He slipped off the bed and rummaged through one of the drawers in his dresser, producing a small bottle of oil, which he proceeded to toss onto the bed; Connor’s eyes followed its path through the air with great agitation and proceeded to stare at it, as if it were a bomb, when it came to a rest between his legs. “Consider yourself fortunate,” Charles said as he stripped, easily discarding one item of clothing after another; they lay strewn across the floor as he returned to the bed. “I’ve half a mind to take you dry.
“Roll over.”
Connor did nothing, said nothing. His mouth was open, but it seemed that his shock had stolen his voice. Finally, Charles grabbed the Assassin by the hips and forcibly flipped him over. He cursed softly when, again, Connor put up resistance, tugging at his bonds and pushing with his feet, but when he applied his hand to the boy’s backside, he yielded. Though the skin reddened under his touch and his palm stung, Charles did not doubt it was the surprise that quelled Connor, not the pain.
“On your knees, boy.”
“No,” Connor bit out, but there was no force behind his voice. In fact, Charles was of the mind that there was a quiver to it, and his cock twitched at the thought that the boy was afraid--afraid of him. He delighted in being able to wield such power, and again, he pressed a finger against the Assassin’s entrance, threatening.
“Do as I say, or you’ll have nought for slick when I take you,” he murmured, his voice filled with dark promise. “And I will have you.” His lips split into a smile as Connor obeyed after briefly glancing over his shoulder. The embarrassed flush that had first appeared a few minutes ago had now reached his ears, and Charles pressed a hand to his spine, stroking in a mockery of gentleness. He could feel the boy’s body twitch beneath his fingertips, could feel the tension that strung him out.