asscreedkinkmeme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
Entry tags:
Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only
Fill Only
Join or Die
✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.
✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.
✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.
✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.
✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.
✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.
✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!
List of Kinks
Kink Meme Masterlist
New Kink Meme Masterlist
(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
#2 (Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion
Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-01 03:55 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-01 04:46 pm (UTC)(link)In other words, seconded.
Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-01 09:26 pm (UTC)(link)seconded like woah.
Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-02 02:06 am (UTC)(link)Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-02 02:05 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-02 09:00 pm (UTC)(link)Someone drew an (awesome!) picture
(Anonymous) 2012-11-03 03:34 pm (UTC)(link)http://br0nn0r.tumblr.com/post/34903138329/oh-god-guys-im-so-sorry-a-pls-dont-hate-me
Enjoy.
Re: Someone drew an (awesome!) picture
(Anonymous) 2012-11-03 04:13 pm (UTC)(link)The same person drew moar!
(Anonymous) 2012-11-03 09:00 pm (UTC)(link)http://br0nn0r.tumblr.com/post/34922104565/ok-guys-what-the-fuck-am-i-doing-this-is-bad
A fill. A very short fill.
(Anonymous) 2012-11-03 08:08 pm (UTC)(link)---
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.
Re: A fill. A very short fill.
(Anonymous) 2012-11-03 08:52 pm (UTC)(link)And I also found a big guy like Connor nuzzling someone for warmth the most adorable thing EVER.
"All this talk of taking control away from people, how does he like being on the receiving end?" <-HNG YES. JUST. YES.
Re: A fill. A very short fill.
(Anonymous) 2012-11-03 09:14 pm (UTC)(link)Oh, that was perfect, Author!Anon! It was brilliant and funny and sarcastic and sexy, and I absolutely loved it! Thank you!
Re: A fill. A very short fill.
(Anonymous) 2012-11-04 02:37 am (UTC)(link)Someone wrote a fic to!
(Anonymous) 2012-11-03 10:55 pm (UTC)(link)http://docscratch.tumblr.com/post/34931407243/cabin-fever-haytham-connor-nc17
Now, if someone would be kind enough to write a fic where they go all the way.
More fic!
(Anonymous) 2012-11-04 04:46 am (UTC)(link)Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-04 03:35 pm (UTC)(link)-----
Conner couldn't shake the way that Haytham watched him while he changed—like the man was sizing him up, calculating how dangerous he was. Watched the scars on his body from accidents through the years, and then Haytham stepped closer just as he shrugged on the shirt that he had taken from the mercenary.
He felt the breath on his shoulder. By some happy accident of fate they were the exact same height, of similar build as well—although Conner's shoulders were wider. His breath was held—Haytham moved closer, another puff of breath on the side of his neck. A hand, not so much hesitant or unsure as curious, pressed against the base of his neck, fingers trailing down his spine over his shoulder, to the dip between his shoulderblades. Haytham's other hand, the same curiosity, sliding around his jawline and down his neck, over his chest.
Conner took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, and held very still. It was utterly silent—it was like the whole city, outside of this silenced island of an alleyway surrounded by fences, had just dropped out of existence. He curled one hand, as Haytham's fingers continued to move.
He waited, and breathed.
Haytham's hand continued, down over his spine, to the top of the breeches Conner had half-tugged on and not-yet fully laced, and slid over his hipbones. They had always stood out, no matter how strong he had gotten, or how much he had trained or tried to make them hide. Haytham sighed, and his breath warmed over the top of his neck, up against the shell of his ear.
"Are you eating well enough?" His voice was low and dark and Conner had a sudden desire to turn around or pull away. Haytham's accent had never weakened—even though he had been in America for Conner's entire life. Still strong, still British, and still this slow, smooth mix—like warm wine. "Your hipbones are—"
"I'm fine," his words were clipped. Haytham stopped that line of inquiry—stopped questioning. His hands just moved, further. Back to Conner's front, starting at his shoulders. Collarbones, down over his pectorals (Conner resisted the urge to make a quiet gasp of breath as Haytham's palms rubbed over his nipples, and he felt his eyes close, didn't even want to, but there were goosebumps on his back and his breath was held) and to the top of his stomach.
Haytham moved closer. They were close to back to front. His face was tucked into Conner's shoulder, breathing into his neck—his hat was off, they were close together.
Conner could feel Haytham's hot breath over his ear, and let out a shaking breath of his own as Haytham's hands continued down over his stomach, to the top of his breeches.
Neither of them breathed. Conner couldn't ignore it now—there was a sort of burning heat that ran over his skin, in the centre of his bones, heating in his marrow. A taste at the back of his throat.
This was not something he had felt before, not like this. Not as strong as this. Just occasionally and slower and deeper inside him—a burning he had slaked with a hand and the muffling of his pillow at the homestead.
Haytham slid closer. They were pressed tight together, and Conner was pushed against the wall, hands flattening against the brick and then he felt Haytham up against him. The lines of his coat, pressed against his skin. Hot breath still, the slight press of his lips (not purposeful) against his shoulder. Waistcoat and buttons and then—
Conner felt it, pressed up against him. In Haytham's breeches, thick and hot and hard.
That was most definitely not a sword or a pistol. Conner felt Haytham's fingers, sliding past the laces of his breeches, and then against the skin at the base of his stomach. Both hands, one pressed against the base of his length, the other wrapping around the side, pushing aside the leather to get it out of the way.
Conner felt almost like he should throw up. There was something twisting in his stomach but he was on fire and resisted the urge to let out a slow breath, a shaking breath, as Haytham's hand moved up over his length and Conner felt his whole body catch and twist. There was so much wrong here. So much that he didn't even want to think about it—he could easily have broken free, have thrown Haytham off, beaten him back, but instead he was frozen. Frozen and burning like hellfire.
But Haytham's hands—they were rough and warm and touched him where he needed to be touched. They were breathing in time as his fingers started moving and the silence was thick with air, as Conner curled his fingers into his palms and bit back any noise. Haytham's hands knew what they were doing—one, at his base, wrapped underneath his length, against his balls below and the other, moving with calloused skin over the sides. A pause at the tip, to twist around his head and then his thumb catching at the underside and running up over the head, a dip into the slit to wet his palm.
When his fingers rubbed at the notch behind the head and ground there Conner couldn't stop it, and the noise in his throat caught with his breath and bubbled out as a quiet groan.
Haytham groaned back, and his hips shifted closer, rubbed up against Conner's back, up against his backside, ground into him. Gasping harder, Conner felt his neck get loose and he leaned back heavily against Haytham. The older man made a quiet noise and his mouth was pressed against the side of his neck—not opening or sucking or biting—just there with burning breath, as his hand got faster. Conner clenched his fists more, shifting and rutting forward into his hand.
This wasn't it. This wasn't what he wanted but oh this was what he wanted. He wanted it more than anything else. The heat of Haytham's hand was fast and strong. He moved his hand faster, and Conner stopped thinking because he couldn't think. Not right now. He just needed—the touch. Haytham's hand went quicker and ground around his base and then back up, his breath got rougher, shifting and grinding and rutting toward Conner. The pressure dragged him forward but the press of the heat against his back did it too, a hot promise of something not given.
This was the first time this had ever happened, and Conner didn't even know how he was supposed to react. He felt another moan catch inside his throat just as Haytham dragged him further back, panting for breath and grinding against him hard and fast and Conner felt it inside him, coiling like some unknown power—he finished, digging his nails into his palms until he felt them break the skin, jerking forward to try to get more motion or anything and Haytham muffled whatever noise he was about to make on Conner's shoulder, moaned into his skin, grinding hard against him until the man froze, rocking desperately for one last fraction of friction and Conner almost thrashed against him, unsure of if his eyes were open or closed.
It had never been like this. Never in his life. Haytham held him, pressed tight against his chest, and then finally the other man loosened his arm and Conner felt himself slump against the wall, gasping for breath and bent over, boneless.
Haytham moved away, Conner's back suddenly cold, and he heard the man clear his throat. "Finish getting dressed," Haytham said, quiet. There was the sound of clothing being flattened, laces being opened, and something wet hitting the ground. Conner didn't have the energy at the moment to turn around and look. "We have work to do."
He sounded almost winded, voice still rough. Conner opened his eyes and stared at the bricks and the ground, now stained white, and his limp cock hanging out of his breeches, and let out a shaking breath.
"Of course."
He couldn't bear to look his father in the eyes.
Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-05 04:13 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Connor/Haytham <-- DOES NO ONE SEE THE AWESOME FIC RIGHT HERE????
(Anonymous) 2012-11-09 07:07 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-10 10:56 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-17 10:51 am (UTC)(link)This was just the right amount of deliciously hot with a dash of shameful. UNF. Thank you for feeding our terrible need for this pairing.
Re: Connor/Haytham
(Anonymous) 2012-11-05 05:27 am (UTC)(link)