Ice Cubes
Title: Ice Cubes
Fandom: Assassin's Creed.
Author: write_rewrite
Rating: PG-16.
Pairings: Shaun/Desmond.
Warnings: Implied sex; drastic drabbling.
Notes: For hanakotoba_fic as everything can be put to rights with slash and slashy sex.
Summary: Desmond always has to say something that Shaun wishes he hadn't said.
Desmond’s back was a map of everything a young boy did, and Shaun chose to find it endearing rather than linger on those old, shiny scars.
The heat vibrated off the tiles, off the sheets, off Desmond’s body, and the sticky summer breeze gasped in through the window, and just below, the grumbling of gridlocked traffic was the most unlikely candidate to be the romantic background music to a bit of slap and tickle. Shaun was positive that this would not be appearing in any romantic movies, which was quite a shame. The main romance-going crowd might not approve of it, but old, cynical bastards that made up the rest of society would be appreciative. Romance movies needed a bit of nudity.
Gently, Shaun nudged the ice-cube down the knotted line of Desmond’s spine, and felt Desmond’s hips press lazily back, rock lazily up.
“Patience, you berk,” Shaun hated to admit it, but there was a smile on his face. “I’ll get there.”
The bartender’s low laugh didn’t sound over the traffic, but it made Desmond’s body shake beneath the ice, made the cube slip to the small of that smooth back. Humming softly, Shaun leaned down and caught it between his teeth, and painted a slippery line all down Desmond’s right thigh.
“Shaun.” That tight, lust-laden voice drew more than Shaun’s gaze; the hairs on the back of his neck probably had never straightened so quickly.
“Shush.” Shaun pushed it aside, dropped kisses to the back of Desmond’s knee, slipping the tip of his frozen tongue to the fullest, softest part.
Desmond moaned, falling face-first into the pillow, gripping it, grinding.
“Stop that.” Smack.
There was a bright red handprint on Desmond’s left leg, and Shaun didn’t even try to pretend like he hadn’t enjoyed that, and smirked at Desmond’s affronted glance.
“You bruise easily,” Shaun noted, with astounding clarity for someone whom had just used Desmond as the canvas for a very particular and painful type of finger-painting. “Sensitive much, Desmond?”
“You have no idea. Might make me cry if you keep picking on me like you do.” Desmond turned his head, peered over a nude shoulder as Shaun straightened his glasses. “Are you going to keep staring at me, or is something actually going to happen?”
“I’m waiting for you to roll over,” Shaun pushed his glasses up to the top of his head, thus forcing his hair into an odd sticky-out rooster crest.
Desmond refrained from laughing, and rolled onto his tingling back, cocking an arm behind his head.
“I don’t know what we have pillows for, your arm is certainly broad enough to support your fat head,” Shaun mumbled, digging another ice-cube out from the jug of cold water. He popped into his mouth, his hand stroking over Desmond’s thigh, and a faded imprint of a Bad Decision. The lock tattoo was a bit girly for this bloke, if Shaun was being honest with himself, but a knife would’ve been stereotypical - phrasing it to Desmond only got him the sort of blank look Americans seemed to be so talented at giving.
“Can you even see without your specs?” Desmond asked, avoiding the issue of ‘fat head’. It wouldn’t be very sporting to descend into an argument now, what with several areas of his body needing immediate cold relief, and quite a few demanding another kind of relief that Shaun should’v been well on his way to giving, by now, if he hadn’t stopped to snark.
Shaun dropped the ice-cube on his stomach, without any kind of hint as to whether that was a yes or no. Desmond’s breath dragged sharply, his head arching on the pillow.
That clever, smooth tongue was cool and wet and soft, and the faint lines Shaun drew on his stomach were driving him crazy, abso-fucking-lutely crazy.
He was so easy, Shaun thought, with the smug affection of a boyfriend in the right; hollowed out his cheeks, and fluttered air over the icy trails; enjoyed the sound of Desmond whimpering. “An odd kink, this.”
“Don’t give me a history lesson,” Desmond begged, “please, Shaun, not now, c’mon.”
“I was merely curious.”
Shaun had the remarkable ability to make his voice sound wounded without actually changing the tone, and as soon as the petulant sentence fought its way through the cloud covering Desmond’s brain (a cloud that very much insisted on more of Shaun’s head just there), the bartender reached out to pat an awkward, affectionate hand over the rooster crest and glasses.
Shaun bit him, which was a little more than he’d deserved.
“Ow!”
“Bastard,” said the pot, with a general disregard for the proper truth.
It was testimony to how good Shaun was with his mouth that Desmond did not reply back with some witty retort, and only glared fuzzily down at the historian.
And Shaun knew it, because there was a cocky, ‘I’ll do as I please’ smile that Desmond tried really, really hard not to find charming.
“I love you,” Desmond’s lips moved on their own, and then it was out, and Shaun stared at him for the longest moment before sneering.
“That’s not going to make me go down on you any quicker, Dessy,” Shaun taunted, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until I gather the mental fortitude to force a finely-tuned gag reflex to die for a few minutes."
“You don’t nee-”
The glint in Shaun’s eyes seemed to say ‘shut up’, so Desmond obeyed, and let the historian bend, let him slip out of sight. Closing his eyes, the bartender leaned back, supported by his elbows; moaned, gutturally, as Shaun’s tongue found that one spot on his inner thigh that turned his brain to mush; moaned again as the historian bit, sucked, as he trailed cold and heat and wet over there, and moved higher, to the crease of his thigh, then his hip, and back down.
“Me too,” Shaun mouthed against his thigh, and Desmond didn’t ask for clarification (only slightly afraid that the answer would not be what he imagined it to be) and just grinned.
His fingers carded through Shaun’s hair, gently removing the glasses anchored there and dropping them to the bed, and he pulled in a soft, teasing way, to indicate he had heard, and with that out of the way, Shaun went back to his tongue tricks, and Desmond went back to fully, and vocally, appreciating them.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed.
Author: write_rewrite
Rating: PG-16.
Pairings: Shaun/Desmond.
Warnings: Implied sex; drastic drabbling.
Notes: For hanakotoba_fic as everything can be put to rights with slash and slashy sex.
Summary: Desmond always has to say something that Shaun wishes he hadn't said.
Desmond’s back was a map of everything a young boy did, and Shaun chose to find it endearing rather than linger on those old, shiny scars.
The heat vibrated off the tiles, off the sheets, off Desmond’s body, and the sticky summer breeze gasped in through the window, and just below, the grumbling of gridlocked traffic was the most unlikely candidate to be the romantic background music to a bit of slap and tickle. Shaun was positive that this would not be appearing in any romantic movies, which was quite a shame. The main romance-going crowd might not approve of it, but old, cynical bastards that made up the rest of society would be appreciative. Romance movies needed a bit of nudity.
Gently, Shaun nudged the ice-cube down the knotted line of Desmond’s spine, and felt Desmond’s hips press lazily back, rock lazily up.
“Patience, you berk,” Shaun hated to admit it, but there was a smile on his face. “I’ll get there.”
The bartender’s low laugh didn’t sound over the traffic, but it made Desmond’s body shake beneath the ice, made the cube slip to the small of that smooth back. Humming softly, Shaun leaned down and caught it between his teeth, and painted a slippery line all down Desmond’s right thigh.
“Shaun.” That tight, lust-laden voice drew more than Shaun’s gaze; the hairs on the back of his neck probably had never straightened so quickly.
“Shush.” Shaun pushed it aside, dropped kisses to the back of Desmond’s knee, slipping the tip of his frozen tongue to the fullest, softest part.
Desmond moaned, falling face-first into the pillow, gripping it, grinding.
“Stop that.” Smack.
There was a bright red handprint on Desmond’s left leg, and Shaun didn’t even try to pretend like he hadn’t enjoyed that, and smirked at Desmond’s affronted glance.
“You bruise easily,” Shaun noted, with astounding clarity for someone whom had just used Desmond as the canvas for a very particular and painful type of finger-painting. “Sensitive much, Desmond?”
“You have no idea. Might make me cry if you keep picking on me like you do.” Desmond turned his head, peered over a nude shoulder as Shaun straightened his glasses. “Are you going to keep staring at me, or is something actually going to happen?”
“I’m waiting for you to roll over,” Shaun pushed his glasses up to the top of his head, thus forcing his hair into an odd sticky-out rooster crest.
Desmond refrained from laughing, and rolled onto his tingling back, cocking an arm behind his head.
“I don’t know what we have pillows for, your arm is certainly broad enough to support your fat head,” Shaun mumbled, digging another ice-cube out from the jug of cold water. He popped into his mouth, his hand stroking over Desmond’s thigh, and a faded imprint of a Bad Decision. The lock tattoo was a bit girly for this bloke, if Shaun was being honest with himself, but a knife would’ve been stereotypical - phrasing it to Desmond only got him the sort of blank look Americans seemed to be so talented at giving.
“Can you even see without your specs?” Desmond asked, avoiding the issue of ‘fat head’. It wouldn’t be very sporting to descend into an argument now, what with several areas of his body needing immediate cold relief, and quite a few demanding another kind of relief that Shaun should’v been well on his way to giving, by now, if he hadn’t stopped to snark.
Shaun dropped the ice-cube on his stomach, without any kind of hint as to whether that was a yes or no. Desmond’s breath dragged sharply, his head arching on the pillow.
That clever, smooth tongue was cool and wet and soft, and the faint lines Shaun drew on his stomach were driving him crazy, abso-fucking-lutely crazy.
He was so easy, Shaun thought, with the smug affection of a boyfriend in the right; hollowed out his cheeks, and fluttered air over the icy trails; enjoyed the sound of Desmond whimpering. “An odd kink, this.”
“Don’t give me a history lesson,” Desmond begged, “please, Shaun, not now, c’mon.”
“I was merely curious.”
Shaun had the remarkable ability to make his voice sound wounded without actually changing the tone, and as soon as the petulant sentence fought its way through the cloud covering Desmond’s brain (a cloud that very much insisted on more of Shaun’s head just there), the bartender reached out to pat an awkward, affectionate hand over the rooster crest and glasses.
Shaun bit him, which was a little more than he’d deserved.
“Ow!”
“Bastard,” said the pot, with a general disregard for the proper truth.
It was testimony to how good Shaun was with his mouth that Desmond did not reply back with some witty retort, and only glared fuzzily down at the historian.
And Shaun knew it, because there was a cocky, ‘I’ll do as I please’ smile that Desmond tried really, really hard not to find charming.
“I love you,” Desmond’s lips moved on their own, and then it was out, and Shaun stared at him for the longest moment before sneering.
“That’s not going to make me go down on you any quicker, Dessy,” Shaun taunted, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until I gather the mental fortitude to force a finely-tuned gag reflex to die for a few minutes."
“You don’t nee-”
The glint in Shaun’s eyes seemed to say ‘shut up’, so Desmond obeyed, and let the historian bend, let him slip out of sight. Closing his eyes, the bartender leaned back, supported by his elbows; moaned, gutturally, as Shaun’s tongue found that one spot on his inner thigh that turned his brain to mush; moaned again as the historian bit, sucked, as he trailed cold and heat and wet over there, and moved higher, to the crease of his thigh, then his hip, and back down.
“Me too,” Shaun mouthed against his thigh, and Desmond didn’t ask for clarification (only slightly afraid that the answer would not be what he imagined it to be) and just grinned.
His fingers carded through Shaun’s hair, gently removing the glasses anchored there and dropping them to the bed, and he pulled in a soft, teasing way, to indicate he had heard, and with that out of the way, Shaun went back to his tongue tricks, and Desmond went back to fully, and vocally, appreciating them.