Work Text:
It was early in the morning when Connor and Haytham left the small town they’d paused to rest in on their journey. Apart from an offhand comment or two, they spent the day travelling in companionable silence. The air of inhibition that frequently surrounded Connor when in Haytham’s presence was gone, replaced by a gentle peace. While his trust in his father was shaky at best, he felt significantly more at ease than he had in the past.
Even deep in the heart of Connecticut, sleet and snow continued to be a lingering problem, which was why, in early evening, Connor was quick to point out a ramshackle cabin nestled in the forest not far from the road. It appeared uninhabited. At one point in time it may have been someone’s home or perhaps a hunting lodge, however all Connor cared to know was if it would keep them dry.
Reining in his horse, Connor looked at Haytham. “What do you think?” he asked and then peered back into the woods. “It would be better than a tent, would it not?”
Haytham regarded the cabin with some suspicion, but he couldn’t help but agree. Besides, it did indeed appear to be deserted; they may as well take advantage of the available shelter. Dismounting from his horse and securing it to a tree, Haytham’s boots crunched in the fresh snow as he went to peer in the window – just to make sure.
Steering his horse into the woods after Haytham, Connor came to a stop alongside him by a thick oak.
“Empty,” Haytham commented, moving to try the door. It wasn’t locked but the doorknob was rusty with disuse and took a bit of force to turn. Eventually he succeeded in opening it and was able to step out of the cold and into the sparsely furnished room.
The first thing he noticed was the empty fireplace with a neat stack of dry wood piled next to it; whoever had lived there had probably intended to return some day. Either way, it certainly saved them the trouble of trying to find suitable firewood. There was also a table and chairs and a medium-sized bed; rather generous for a cabin of that size.
Once it became clear that it was unoccupied, Connor dismounted and looped the reins around a tree, tying them securely. He grabbed a few provisions along with their blankets and bedrolls from their saddlebags and, pausing to pat his horse fondly on the neck, followed Haytham inside.
Haytham waited until the door had closed behind Connor before stating dryly, “Definitely better than a tent.” He got to work building up a fire in the grate, and soon the flames were crackling merrily, casting warmth and illumination across the otherwise darkening room.
Connor was immediately struck by how musty and unkempt the small room was. A thick layer of dust coated every surface. It was obvious it had not been used in some time. It was dry, however, and free from animals and other pests— Connor had little room to complain.
Connor dumped their belongings on the table and pulled back his hood. Brushing the snow from his shoulders, he walked over to join Haytham by the fireplace. The warmth made him shiver unconsciously. “I am sure whoever owns this place will not mind if we borrow it.”
“If not, they’re hardly here to say otherwise,” Haytham replied, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. He could feel himself growing more relaxed every second, quietly relieved that they would be spending the night inside. The fire was a comforting heat against his back as he stood by it, Connor a solid presence at his side.
Though it was still relatively early, Haytham couldn’t help feeling rather pleased with the knowledge that they would be able to share a bed again. Connor too seemed calmer and more relaxed around him; it seemed they had managed to tear down many of the barriers that lay between them.
They were still not completely at ease, it was still too early for that, but with time perhaps they could truly come to trust each other. Although, Haytham thought, their status as Assassin and Templar could yet serve to obstruct them. Something to bear in mind, certainly, but he wouldn’t let it spoil his mood in that moment.
Connor made a muffled noise of agreement before lapsing back into silence. He watched the flames dance and flicker in the fireplace, glancing every so often at Haytham out of the corner of his eye, unable to help himself. He wanted to step closer, to close the small gap between them, but wasn’t certain how the gesture would be received.
In the end, he kept his distance, choosing instead to fetch two of the four chairs that surrounded the table.
He plunked one down on the floor next to Haytham out of politeness. The other, he swung around backward and set where he previously stood in front of the fire. After testing its sturdiness, Connor straddled the seat of the chair, crossing his arms over the back.
Haytham thanked him, sinking into the chair with a grateful sigh. He deliberately decided not to comment on the way Connor was straddling his own chair; verging on indecent really.
“It is a bit early,” Connor commented absently, pulling at the fabric of his gloves. The sun had not even begun to set. Normally, they would have ridden for another hour at the very least, but an extra hour was hardly worth spending the night out in the elements for. They would make up for lost time tomorrow.
Connor was right; it was rather early for them to have stopped, but it was worth it, Haytham felt. Yet, it did make him wonder what they were going to do in the extra time they had given themselves. He supposed it gave them more time to talk, to get to know each other better, though he didn’t even know where to begin with such an endeavour. At the beginning, perhaps.
“Connor,” he began, feeling inexplicably hesitant – this had the potential to touch on a sore spot for the young Assassin. “Connor is not your true name, is it. Not the name your mother gave you.”
He settled back in his chair, keeping his eyes on the fireplace. “Since we have some spare time, I wondered if maybe you’d teach me your real name. I can’t promise that my pronunciation will be any good, but I can at least try to learn,” he added, smiling wistfully to himself as he remembered his botched pronunciation of Ziio’s full name.
Upon being asked his Kanien’kéha name, Connor turned to stare at Haytham with an expression that bordered on incredulity. His look of surprise quickly faded into one of wariness, then briefly sorrow as he thought of his mother, before disappearing altogether. He resumed watching the fire solemnly.
There had been a pause in which Haytham began to think he’d made a mistake in asking and wished he could take his words back. Finally Connor began to speak, albeit with some reluctance.
“Connor was the name I was given when I left my village,” Connor explained, following several, long minutes of nothing but the sound of crackling logs. He was careful to leave out Achilles’ involvement in his assimilation to colonial life. It was trivial information, but he had already compromised the Brotherhood by becoming so intimately involved with the enemy. He would not involve Achilles as well.
“My mother-…” Connor trailed off, overcome by a sudden pang of grief that he refused to let get the better of him. He tried again. “My mother named me Ratonhnhaké:ton.”
Ratonhnhaké:ton.
That was his name. As glad as he was that Connor had agreed to share it with him, Haytham knew it would take some practice before he could pronounce the sharp syllables with the same smooth delivery that his son had just displayed.
Still, he certainly meant to try. However, when he tried to recall the name again, he found the pronunciation had all but slipped from his mind, leaving him with no more than a few hazy syllables. Though he knew he would hardly manage to say it correctly on the first try, he didn’t want to insult the boy by completely butchering his name either. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Could you say it again?” he asked finally, after trying and failing to sort out the pronunciation in his head. “Only... more slowly this time.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of Connor’s lips despite the lingering heaviness in his heart. His mother might be gone, his people may have fled— nothing would change that— but his father was here with him now, waiting and wanting to know more about him. They had a chance to truly bond in a way he had thought impossible before. The last thing Connor wished to do was ruin that possibility because he could not let go of painful memories. He did not want to spend the rest of his life mired in the past.
“Ratonhn-… haké-… :ton,” he repeated, a bit more willingly, enunciating each syllable slowly and clearly. Tilting his head in the Templar’s direction, Connor propped an elbow on the chair back and rested his jaw in the hollow of his hand. He could not help but be faintly amused by Haytham’s obvious difficulty in pronouncing his name.
“It is not that hard,” Connor reassured, a hint of mirth in his voice.
“For you maybe,” Haytham retorted, but was relieved to see Connor smile, the tension between them lifting slightly. He mouthed the sounds silently to himself, getting used to them before repeating obediently, “Ra-...tohn-....ha-...ké-...ton.”
He said it a few more times, keeping the syllables separate until he knew them well enough to piece them together. He occasionally got one or two wrong, his tongue mistakenly changing the ‘t’ sounds to hard ‘ds’, but he soon corrected himself and tried again.
Then he attempted them all at once.
“... Ratonhnhaké:ton. Is that right? Ratonhnhaké:ton?” He was sure he wasn’t saying it quite correctly, his accent lacking the same effortless glide that comes from familiarity with a word, but he felt it was at least recognisable, if stilted.
He looked at Connor for confirmation, feeling both triumphant and tentative.
It was strange, Connor thought, to hear his name spoken in Haytham’s thick, British accent. Even more so was how much he liked the sound of it.
“Mm,” he hummed as if in contemplation, too amused by his father’s struggle to feel downhearted. “I suppose it will do.” His smile betrayed his teasing, however, and Connor huffed a laugh, eyes crinkling with a fondness he couldn’t hide.
Haytham felt his own mouth twitch, enjoying Connor’s amusement far too much to care that it was at his own expense.
Connor sat up straight and twisted in his chair to face the older man. “You need to emphasise the ’é’ more.” His brow wrinkled in annoyance as he tried to explain himself further and could not, sorely wishing he had a quill and paper that he might try and show Haytham what he meant. Eventually, he settled on repeating his name a second time at his natural speed, accentuating the long vowel in question. He then looked at Haytham expectantly. “Sa'nikonhraién:tas ken?”
Haytham looked at him with some dismay. “I hope you’re not expecting me to say that too,” he responded doubtfully. “One thing at a time I think.”
He tried again, frowning in concentration as he corrected his pronunciation from a sharp ‘ke’ sound to the longer ‘kay.’
“Ratonhnhaké:ton.”
His curiosity was piqued by the added phrase, and he wondered at its meaning. “What else was it that you said?” he asked. “Earlier I mean.”
Connor considered withholding the words’ English meaning if only to torment Haytham for a while longer but ultimately gave in to the urge to please. As much as he enjoyed having something to hold above his pretentious father’s head, he found that he enjoyed sharing it with him more.
“I asked you if you understood,” he answered, chair scraping against the floor as he stood and pulled it closer to Haytham’s own. He straddled it once again before adding a, “I would say that you did.” Connor glanced at Haytham with a lopsided smirk. “Your pronunciation is good, raké:ni. For an Englishman.”
Haytham scoffed lightly at the praise but couldn’t help feeling pleased. “Thank you for teaching me,” he said sincerely.
He’d always liked listening to the Mohawk tongue. It had been enchanting to hear Ziio converse in her own language to her people, the words a soothing blend of soft unfamiliar sounds. He knew better than to mention any of this to Connor, though he certainly hoped to coax more words out of him if he could.
Connor had said that word again, he noted. ‘Raké:ni.’ In the context of his speech, Haytham felt it was safe to assume it was a form of address of some kind. The first time he had heard him say it had been when they were in bed together; if he wasn’t mistaken, Connor had been in the process of riding him into the mattress at the time. A theory as to its meaning began to form in his head, though there was only one way to confirm its truth.
Haytham gave Connor an appraising look, wondering if his son really was that perverse. It wouldn’t bother him if he was, but it would certainly be a surprise. He felt himself beginning to smirk.
“Connor,” he began, tone dangerously curious. “What does ‘raké:ni’ mean?” It was possible his pronunciation was a little off, but it was close enough.
Connor would have chuckled at Haytham’s messy pronunciation of a simple word like ‘raké:ni’ if he had not been so caught off-guard by the question that contained it. A blush rose unbidden to his cheeks, and he looked away as if burned. The embarrassment was palpable. He wasn’t so blinded by pleasure that he did not remember the first time, or all the subsequent times, he’d reverted back to his native language when crying out to his father in bed.
He should have known better than to call Haytham by that title— the Templar would likely think him depraved— but it wasn’t intentional. It never was.
“’Father,’” he mumbled, staring resolutely at the fire, “It means ‘father.’”
Just as Haytham had suspected. His smirk grew devious, feeling his body growing hot at his son’s shameful admission.
“Is that so?” he asked slowly, savouring the moment. If anything, he was rather impressed by this new level of debauchery he seemed to have uncovered.
Connor was looking away, red with embarrassment. That wouldn’t do. He had shifted closer earlier, so it was an easy matter for Haytham to reach forward and grasp his chin with one hand, compelling him to meet his gaze.
“You hoped I wouldn’t find out,” he said slyly, more of a statement than a question. “You thought you could keep it as your terrible little secret, didn’t you.”
He chuckled darkly, leaning in closer until they were mere centimetres apart. “My wicked son,” he murmured, and closed the distance between them to crush their mouths together.
Connor tried to argue, but all that came out was a muffled ‘mmph’ as his mouth was claimed in a demanding, brutal kiss.
Slowly, the tension bled out of him, and he parted his lips without hesitation, inviting Haytham further. It was hard to feel ashamed when there were fingers holding him firm and a tongue lapping at his teeth.
He reached up to clasp the back of Haytham’s head, knocking his hat to the floor. He started to turn, to tug Haytham closer, but was halted by the chair between his legs. Connor made a noise of frustration and pulled away with a wet gasp. He heaved for air, caught up in his father’s heady gaze.
That… was hardly the reaction he had expected.
“You are not disgusted?” he asked breathlessly.
Haytham grinned, eyes glinting in the light of the fire. “It would appear not,” he replied, voice growing husky with want. He felt quite the opposite in fact; the utter depravity of this newfound knowledge served only to spur him on all the more.
“I am surprised, however,” he continued, tone warm with lazy amusement. “I wasn’t aware you were capable of such deviancy. In retrospect, perhaps I should have, considering how terribly filthy you can be when we’re together.”
He didn’t give Connor a chance to protest, already leaning in again to recapture his mouth with his own. This time, he kissed him slowly and deeply, letting some of his affection for the boy bleed through. He hoped that it would silently reassure Connor that he really didn’t mind his use of the word, whether uttered deliberately or not. He didn’t enjoy seeing his son look so ashamed.
Connor flushed brilliantly at the words, even as he was drawn in for another kiss. It had not occurred to him that some of the things he did in bed might be considered vulgar or obscene. Apart from the glaring fact he was engaging in sexual relations with his father, nothing they did seemed out of the ordinary, and Haytham had certainly never complained.
Of course, it was not as though he had much to compare his experiences against. Connor simply did what felt natural. Fingers tangling in Haytham’s hair, Connor decided it didn’t really matter. Haytham could think what he liked, as long as he didn’t stop kissing him.
He licked at the inside of the Templar’s mouth hungrily, and dragged his hand through Haytham’s greying strands, tugging the hair tie free. The thin strip of red leather fluttered to the floor. Connor twisted in his chair, having to resist the base urge to palm his growing erection through the front of his breeches. He withdrew unhurriedly, trailing open-mouthed kisses along Haytham’s jaw.
“It has been days,” he murmured and lowered his head to suck languidly at the skin of Haytham’s neck.
Haytham groaned softly in approval, tilting his head back to allow Connor more room. He was pleased to note that Connor seemed as enthusiastic as ever, his mouth hot where it was pressed against his skin.
Two days was not such a long time, yet he couldn’t deny that he’d missed this all the same. So had Connor apparently, as Haytham discovered when he reached down to brush teasing fingers against him through the cloth of his trousers and found him already hard and aching in his chair.
Haytham smiled to himself, gripping him through the material and giving him a few light strokes. “Eager, aren’t we,” he purred, wondering idly how many marks Connor intended to leave on his throat.
Connor jerked at the touch of teasing fingers, his only response to Haytham's remark a low growl and a sharp nip to the underside of his jaw.
When feather-light touches turned to firm strokes, Connor could not suppress the groan of pleasure that escaped. His breath caught in his throat, and he rocked into Haytham's palm, legs spread wide, eager for more. The chair creaked precariously beneath him, but Connor paid it no mind.
Soothing one of several dark, purpling marks left on Haytham's skin with his tongue, Connor brought a hand up to tug deftly at the cravat around his neck.
"Off," he murmured in Kanien’kéha.
Haytham didn’t understand what Connor had said, but the hand pulling at his clothing was explanation enough. Pulling back slightly, he released Connor in favour of swiftly untying his cape and letting it fall from his shoulders, pulling the cravat free of his neck and moving onto his heavy overcoat without pause.
“You too,” he ordered softly, eyes raking his son’s clothed form pointedly. He had to stand to shrug off his coat, but remaining seated in their chairs was becoming less and less practical anyway. Haytham eyed the bed, deciding it would be a far more comfortable arrangement. He moved towards it, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he went, and trusting that Connor would follow.
Connor watched with a predatory gaze as, one by one, Haytham began shedding his many layers. It wasn’t until his father had stood that he did the same. Connor disarmed himself of his weapons and slung his array of belts, straps and holsters onto the table. Slipping out of his Assassins coat, he draped it over the back of a chair. The rest of his attire was not treated with the same amount of respect.
Connor stripped in record speed and followed Haytham over to the threadbare bed, leaving various articles of clothing strewn about in his wake. He waited for Haytham to finish undressing before pressing flush against him from behind, lips coming down to press kisses to his shoulder, a well-defined arm wrapped firmly around his waist.
Connor’s warm skin was a stark contrast to the chilled air as he pressed himself up against Haytham’s back, making him shiver slightly. Haytham twisted in his son’s grip so he was facing him, kissing him fiercely as he walked them over to the bed and pulled Connor down onto it with him. The flimsy mattress dipped beneath their combined weight; they would have to be careful the bed didn’t break beneath them.
Moving so Connor was pinned underneath him, Haytham fitted himself against the long, hard line of the Assassin’s body, relishing the coiled power he now held trapped. He paused to smirk down at Connor, eyes gleaming.
“Well,” he said slowly. “What are we to do with you, Ratonhnhaké:ton?” His pronunciation was decidedly smoother this time, he thought, secretly pleased.
The sound of his name, uttered in that sinfully smooth British accent, made Connor’s blood run hot in his veins, and he bucked his hips, grinding shamelessly against the body above him. Pinned flat on his back, completely at another’s mercy, was not a position he normally enjoyed being in, but here with his father, Connor found it easier than it should have been to let his guard drop.
He held Haytham’s gaze, dark eyes burning with desire. “Do not tease me, raké:ni,” Connor replied lowly, “You know well what it is I want.”
Despite his efforts to appear unaffected, Haytham’s breath caught in his throat upon hearing the word, his new knowledge of its meaning making it sound deliciously obscene.
“All too well,” he agreed breathlessly, lowering himself slightly so their cocks could slide together as they moved. He had been prepared for Connor to attempt to roll them both over, to try and wrest back some control, instead he seemed content to lie beneath him, eyes blazing with lust. His lack of resistance fuelled Haytham’s hunger for him, spurring him into lowering his head to drag his lips hotly against his throat and along his collarbone.
“Say more things... in Mohawk,” he commanded in between the kisses and bites he was littering across his son’s skin.
Baring his neck to the onslaught of bites and kisses, Connor’s lips curled in a feral smirk at the request. He rolled his hips, wishing he had better leverage, the lewd slide of their erections enough to make him dizzy with want.
“Raké:ni,” Connor hissed as they rocked together. The fingers of one hand fisted in Haytham’s hair while the other raked red lines down his back. He held his father close and continued on in his native tongue, “Do you like when I call you that?”
It was a question, but Connor already had his answer. “Does it please you, knowing I am your son?”
It was horribly immoral, but there was no denying there was a part of him that took pleasure in saying such vile and obscene things. The fact Haytham could not understand a word of it only served to amplify the feeling.
“If-…” He bit back a quiet groan. “If I had known… I would have taken advantage of your weakness sooner.”
If Haytham had thought he was aroused before, he was doubly so now with Connor growling Mohawk in his ear. He wondered what he was saying, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Connor could be describing the weather for all he knew; either way, his tone was filthy enough to send Haytham almost into a sort of frenzy, now licking and biting his way down Connor’s broad chest, marking him everywhere he could reach.
His son had a certain, unexpected level of skill in this, Haytham noted. Of speaking in that low tone that revealed his own desire, words a rough unfaltering stream that seemed to pass Connor’s lips without pause. It was surprising – Connor had never exactly been verbose – but even Haytham could never have predicted how impossibly hard it was making him.
Raising his head for a moment, he realised he had reached Connor’s abdomen. He hadn’t gone lower with his mouth since... the first time, he recalled. Well, Connor was indulging his own request; it seemed only fair to do something for him in return. Lowering his head again, he took the head of Connor’s cock into his mouth and began to suck.
Biting back a strangled moan, Connor jerked hard, growling something unintelligible, as his erection was suddenly and unexpectedly engulfed in wet heat. He propped himself up on trembling elbows and looked down the length of his body to where Haytham was crouched between his legs, desperate to imprint this moment in his memory forever.
Cheeks hollowed and flushed— brows drawn together in concentration— his lips stretched to the limit around the head of his cock— Spirits above, Connor had never seen anything more arousing in his life. His thighs shook with the effort not to thrust.
“M-More,” he stuttered once again in Mohawk.
Haytham let his lips drag further down along Connor’s length, lapping at him with his tongue as he took more and more of him into his mouth. He supposed he could see why Connor always seemed so eager to do this himself; it was immensely satisfying to hear his son grow so desperate beneath his ministrations.
Sucking harder and taking him yet further down his throat, Haytham’s hands settled firmly on Connor’s hips. The Assassin was doing a marvellous job at controlling himself thus far, but there was always a chance he would try and seek some recompense for the times Haytham had treated his own mouth roughly. Haytham felt no desire to be choked; he would do this in his own time or not at all.
Waiting for his throat to adjust to the intrusion, his fingers tightened their grip on Connor before he swallowed around him, causing the Assassin to practically keen.
Connor watched his father with half-lidded eyes, captivated by the indecent image the Templar made. The slow slide of lips along his engorged flesh had him fighting off breathless groans and hissing soft, broken words of encouragement in Kanien’kéha as Haytham took him impossibly deeper.
Connor clenched his fists harder in the bedcovers, instinctively trying to thrust up into Haytham’s waiting mouth and whining in frustration when his hips were halted by a steady grip.
Already, he was nearing release. Balls drawn up tight and heat coiling at the base of his spine, Connor would have been embarrassed by his lack of stamina were he not so distracted.
He let his head fall back against the mattress. “Father,” he gasped in warning, this time in English.
Slowly, Haytham eased his mouth up and off Connor’s straining cock, sitting back up with a smug look on his face. Connor made a sound that bordered dangerously on a whimper as cool air hit the saliva-slick skin of his erection, but Haytham wasn’t finished with him just yet. Climbing back up, he leaned down to kiss Connor firmly, relishing his frustration.
“Stay where you are,” he ordered, low and heated, then climbed off the bed and walked back over to where he’d left his coat. Connor could only watch dazedly.
From inside an interior pocket, Haytham withdrew a bottle of oil – whilst travelling he preferred to keep these things on hand, though usually the oil’s use extended only to the maintenance of his weapons – and brought it back over to the bed with him. He paused at the edge of the bed, taking a moment to admire the spectacle his son made, lying breathless and impatient upon the mattress.
Connor smirked, cock twitching in anticipation. “Were you planning on this, raké:ni?” he couldn’t help but quip.
“Hmm,” Haytham matched Connor’s smirk with one of his own. “It had crossed my mind. However,” he continued, resettling himself next to Connor with the bottle in his hand. “I thought we might do things a bit differently tonight.”
Pulling the cork free, he coated his fingers generously with oil, though rather than ordering Connor to spread his legs so he could begin preparing him, he instead twisted slightly on the bed and reached down to press one well-slicked finger into himself.
He glanced at Connor. “Unless you object of course,” he added lightly, now stretching himself with cautious efficiency – it had been quite a long time after all.
Connor was just about to ask what more could there possibly be left to try, but then he realised that Haytham was reaching behind himself with oiled fingers and the Assassin lost all ability to speak. Desire swelled within him swiftly, immediately, as well as a faint sense of apprehension. He swallowed audibly and shook his head.
When he felt he was able, Haytham swiftly moved onto two fingers, then three, biting down on his bottom lip to stifle his groan at the initial discomfort. It soon faded as his searching fingers brushed his prostate, replacing the slight ache with a sudden burst of pleasure that drew a gasp from him despite himself.
After nearly a week of nightly sex, Connor felt he had a good grasp on what to expect in the bedroom. The entirety of his experience, however, had come from his role as the receiving partner. This was different— it was as though he were a virgin all over again. Dominating was in his nature, he knew, but Connor feared that, in this instance, instincts alone might not be enough.
In the end, his lust for his father outweighed his anxiety, and Connor edged closer, wrapping questing fingers around Haytham’s cock. He stroked gently, his eyes following the movements of Haytham’s hand, his muffled gasps and moans music to his ears.
A hiss of pleasure escaped Haytham as he felt Connor’s hand on his arousal, hips jerking up into his touch. He was pleased that Connor appeared to be on board with the idea, but couldn’t help feeling rather apprehensive now that it seemed to be going ahead. He didn’t believe Connor would deliberately hurt him – certainly not like this – but... well, he wasn’t exactly small.
Still, the thought thrilled him more than it intimidated, his blood burning hot as he imagined how much fuller he would feel with his son inside him instead of merely his fingers. Impatient now, and stretched to his satisfaction, he withdrew his fingers and poured a bit of extra oil into his palm. Reaching over, he wrapped slippery fingers around Connor’s cock, making sure he was generously and thoroughly lubricated. Then he sprawled back out on his back, trusting Connor would take the lead from there.
Connor’s heart beat wildly in his chest as he crawled into position between Haytham’s legs. With one last parting stroke of his hand, he released his father’s weeping cock to run his palm up a tense thigh.
For several long moments he knelt there, hesitant and unsure of what to do. Haytham’s eyes bore into him from where he lay, and Connor tried desperately to recall the details of his first time but found his memory failed him. It seemed he would just have to proceed slowly. He did not want to do anything careless or foolish. If he did, Haytham would likely never let him near this particular part of his anatomy again.
Connor was nervous at first, noted Haytham, though he supposed that was understandable considering how suddenly he’d suggested this change in roles. Still, he knew the boy knew what to do, having been on the receiving end enough times by now. It was merely his lack of confidence that made him hesitate.
Despite knowing all this, Haytham still had to bite down on an impatient remark, more than ready to be fucked into and filled to the brim. It would do no good to snap at him; Connor would have to figure this out in his own time.
Hooking an arm under the elder man’s knee, Connor trailed a searching finger down the cleft of Haytham’s backside and circled the slick ring of muscle he found there, curiously slipping in to the first knuckle before withdrawing entirely.
Haytham held himself still and relaxed as he allowed Connor a brief exploration with his finger, watching with some satisfaction as he heard his son’s breath catch and saw his pupils dilate. He was ready.
Connor fisted his erection then guided it clumsily between his father’s parted cheeks to rest against his waiting hole. Bracing his knees on the mattress, he eased forward firmly but carefully until just the head of his cock disappeared inside. Connor’s breath caught in his throat and he groaned weakly, fighting the urge to drive home into the tight warmth.
Determined as he was to allow Connor to dictate the pace of the proceedings, it was all Haytham could do to not thrust back against the Assassin’s cock as he felt it breach him. He appreciated Connor going slowly (whether for his benefit or because Connor was still feeling tentative, Haytham didn’t know) and he knew he could hurt himself if he was too hasty, but he wanted Connor now.
“More,” he demanded breathlessly, spreading his legs further.
The Assassin’s head jerked in a fervent nod, releasing his hold on Haytham’s leg so he could grip both hands on his hips. Sweat beaded at his brow as, slowly, he sank in further, pausing in his movements every now and again to allow his father a moment to adjust.
Haytham exhaled slowly, deliberately relaxing his muscles as he felt Connor begin to push further inside him. Deeper and deeper he went, making Haytham exceedingly glad to have prepared himself as thoroughly as he had. He felt obscenely stretched, impaled as he was upon his son’s cock and spread wide by his girth. It was mildly uncomfortable at first, yes, but that was overshadowed by the pure satisfaction he felt, fit to burst.
Connor was shaking and breathless by the time he was fully seated to the hilt. Haytham was like a vice around him, his inner walls clenching and unclenching, sucking him in tighter and hotter than Connor believed possible. He rolled his hips experimentally, dragging a low groan from Haytham’s throat, and his chin dipped to his chest with a gasp. He glanced up at Haytham, brown eyes nearly dilated black. “Is this… is this all right?” he asked, despite all his senses screaming at him to go— to thrust— to take.
“I appreciate your restraint, Connor,” Haytham replied raggedly, trying to push back against his cock and get him moving again. “But I assure you I will not break.” He locked gazes with the boy, using his legs to gain extra leverage with which to thrust up. “Now move.”
All it took was that one sharp command and Connor’s wavering control over his urges crumbled. He rocked steadily into him, gentle at first, still wary of causing pain, but his movements soon grew bolder. He pulled out further and pressed in deeper with each pass, spurred on by the impatient thrusts of Haytham’s hips.
Panting, he glanced down to where they were joined, transfixed by the sight Haytham’s body made stretched around him. With a surge of primal satisfaction, Connor leaned over his Templar father to crush their mouths together in a hungry kiss. He growled against Haytham’s lips, a low, feral sound, and his fingers gripped hard enough to bruise as he set a punishing pace.
The change in position caused him to brush up against Haytham’s prostate, making the Templar arch and writhe against him, his breath stuttering in his throat. He snarled his approval into their kiss, answering Connor’s own growl even as he parted his lips to allow Connor’s tongue entry.
He rolled his own hips to meet each thrust, not so much seeing as feeling Connor’s resistance begin to crack and shatter as the boy grew increasingly rough.
The Assassin’s thrusts were harsh now, verging on savage as he plunged mercilessly into his father again and again. A hazy thought drifted through Haytham’s lust-filled mind, noting that he was certain to be sore afterwards, but in this moment it seemed very unimportant indeed.
Connor was nearly mindless in his pleasure, overcome with a ferocity he hadn’t known he possessed. He devoured Haytham’s lips until they were swollen and red and thoroughly claimed.
Haytham’s cock pressed, throbbing, against the sweaty skin of their stomachs, and— somewhere in the small part of his mind that wasn’t dominated by lust— it vaguely occurred to him that he should be doing something about it.
Relinquishing his hold on his hips, Connor pulled one of Haytham’s legs higher and reached blindly between their bodies, grasping his leaking erection in a firm grip. He slicked the beading pre-come down the shaft and jerked him in time to his thrusts.
“My name,” Connor husked with a harsh jab of his hips that made the bed creak in protest. “Say… say it. Like before.”
Haytham cursed under his breath, his head falling back against the bed as he pushed up into Connor’s grip. Lost in sensation as he was, it took a moment for him to comprehend Connor’s words, and several more to recall the name in question.
“Ra-... Ratonhnhaké:ton!” he gasped, sharp and desperate, too far gone to be concerned with trivialities like composure and self-discipline. Caught between his son’s hard cock and the confident hand on his own throbbing length, Haytham could feel his peak rapidly approaching. Given the way things were progressing, it was unlikely he’d last much longer.
One particularly hard thrust from Connor was it all took before Haytham’s back was arching off the bed, clenching around Connor as he spilled into his hand with a hoarse cry.
The Assassin could scarcely hold himself together as, shuddering and clenching around him, Haytham spilled over his fist. Slowing the thrusts of his hips, Connor stroked him through his orgasm, the sound of his name, uttered in that gasping, urgent tone, still ringing heavily in his ears. The pronunciation might have been off— not that one could blame him, given the circumstances— but Connor was undeniably certain he’d never heard anything so perfect in all his life.
He released his father’s spent cock and pulled him in for a short but possessive kiss.
Panting and breathless, Haytham was too languid to respond properly. Blissed out as he was, he was more than happy to remain sprawled out on the bed and try to catch his breath.
Now free to pursue his own release, Connor gripped the curve of Haytham’s hips and thrust into the tight heat with abandon. Already teetering dangerously on the brink, he lasted a whole of thirty seconds before, with a muffled curse in Mohawk, he shoved deep inside his father and came.
With both of them now satisfied, Haytham lay still for a few moments longer as he allowed the two of them some additional time to recover. Reaching up, he slowly brushed Connor’s hair from his face, letting his fingers linger against his skin before he drew his hand back.
Unfortunately the cold air had already begun to cool their sweat-slicked skin despite the distant warmth of the fire. They ought to move if they didn’t want to catch a chill. Haytham pushed feebly at Connor to dislodge him, too lazy to be especially insistent.
Despite Haytham’s half-hearted attempts to push him off, Connor lay still for several more moments, content to remain where he was until his breaths had evened and the air began to grow chilly around them.
Carefully, he pulled out, taking an animalistic pleasure in seeing his father’s hole open and abused. It filled Connor with a lewd sense of pride, knowing he was the one responsible for Haytham’s current state.
He rolled to the side with a huff, far too relaxed and far too satiated to worry about trivialities like cleaning up.
Already, he could feel the edges of exhaustion begin to creep up on him, and Connor shifted, nestling unconsciously closer to Haytham’s side. He tilted his head to regard the Templar hazily before mumbling, “Did I hurt you?”
Haytham stretched gingerly, already feeling the beginnings of stiffness starting to set in, and scoffed quietly at Connor’s question. “I would have informed you in no uncertain terms if you had, I assure you,” he replied shortly. Then he sighed, letting his tone soften slightly. “No. You didn’t. You did very well in fact.”
Sated and pliable, Connor couldn’t have stopped the lazy smile that blossomed across his face even if he had wanted to. It was such a simple compliment, bordering on brusque even, but to Connor, it meant so much more.
Haytham paused, torn between cleaning himself up and staying where he was, Connor a welcome warmth at his side. His body seemed set on making the decision itself however, his limbs heavy and his muscles tired. It would be all too easy to let his eyes fall shut and go to sleep, but they could freeze to death without some kind of protection from the cold air.
Haytham carefully rose from the bed with a muffled groan, walking over to the table where Connor had left their blankets and bringing them back to the bed.
Connor watched from his place on the bed, contemplating making a teasing remark about ‘old age’ but quickly reconsidered it. His father appeared to be in an agreeable mood— either from his recent orgasm or for some other reason—and Connor was not keen on ruining it, especially over an ill-thought-out joke.
Haytham unrolled one of the blankets to throw it over his son where he still lay, then settled back against the mattress and curled up next to him, his own blanket wrapped securely around himself.
Gratefully pulling closer the blanket that was tossed his way, Connor waited until Haytham had lain back down before shuffling nearer and throwing it over them both. He did not dare try and huddle too closely. Too many mornings of being pushed, elbowed and shoved away in his sleep had made him wary of pressing his boundaries while awake. “Konnorónhkhwa, raké:ni,” he whispered, mostly to himself.
Haytham did not reply, for he had already fallen asleep.