Motorcycle
Title: Motorcycle
Fandom: Assassin's Creed.
Author: write_rewrite
Rating: PG-16.
Pairings: Shaun/Desmond.
Warnings: Implied sex; terminal pointlessness.
Notes: Enjoy some more porn-lite.
Summary: Seeing Shaun with his bike gets more than Desmond's engine running.
The garage is lit by three long rays of light, and Desmond watches Shaun inspect his motorcycle like he has never seen one - it's a vintage 1996 Harley Davidson, a real boy's toy, all sleek black lines and leather seating, and seeing Shaun's slender, white fingers against that butch black leather is doing wonderful things to his mind.
He imagines, no, pictures Shaun's delectable body slung over the front, his back against the handlebars, those eyes unseeing.
"I approve," Shaun says, and the quiet way he speaks shouldn't send that level of goosebumps all over Desmond, but Ezio says 'oh mamma', and Altair has to agree, and Desmond has to agree with all sentiments listed above.
"I'm glad."
Desmond doesn't remember moving, but he must've, because Shaun's bent back over his bike, and the shadows over his face hide those clever eyes, and Desmond's voice is choked and tight, "I've imagined you on this bike since I've met you."
"Judging by the tone of your voice," Shaun swallows to wet his throat, and tries to keep his voice from wavering as Desmond's hand skims over his hip, finds his zipper, drags it down with a sound that's much too loud, "I don't think it's for an amiable ride-along to a picnic somewhere."
Desmond's short, sharp laugh rings and rebounds in the darkness, "No. No, it's not."
The kiss is sloppy and wet and fierce, and Desmond's hands are everywhere (and it's not enough, he can never get enough of Shaun) and Shaun is breathing so hard, it must be hurting his ribs, his chest is moving like a wave.
"Amore mio," Ezio whispers it through him, blurs it into the column of Shaun's sweat-slick throat, and then, Altair has to add his own: "galbi".
Shaun's strangled laugh is a bit breathless and hysterical, and his voice is shredded with lust, "Desmond, my Desmond, not you two, tell them to bugger off."
While he's speaking, Shaun's glasses are fogging up, and there's another wet kiss, and clothing is flying through the air, buttons are pinging off clothing, and everything is a cacaphony of sounds that don't matter (the buttons striking metal, the squeaking of the rubber stand on the concrete floor) and the sounds that do (Shaun saying his name, Shaun moaning when he bites /that/ spot on a narrow shoulder), and Desmond lifts him easily, balances Shaun's ass on the leather seat, and straddles the bike.
Shaun leans back against the handle-bars, eyes glittering, face flushed, wicked, naughty, un-British grin making him so hard, it hurts. "Come on, then," taunting, and the words slide against Desmond's fractured nerves, "lost your bottle?"
"Looking for the lube, told you we needed one down here," Desmond babbles, and forces his jeans down to the mid-thigh, drags the tube out of his front pocket.
Shaun snorts, "we have one in every room of the house, mate; I'm starting to think you have a problem."
Desmond would've said, well you keep jumping me, but his fingers are slick, and Shaun is there, and the only natural response is to put two and two together, and Shaun grunts at the first finger, swears a bit, in pain, in discomfort.
"Careful."
"Can't, want you, can't wait." But Desmond does wait, and he moves slow, and he teases his thumb along a sensitive spot just at the base of his cock, watches Shaun's every quake, every open-mouthed whimper, every decadent, rotating movement of that long and supple body.
"You're driving me crazy, Shaun," Desmond groans, adds a second finger, watches him jerk and start to purr, and repeats it, because Shaun couldn't have heart, "Shaun, oh Christ, you're driving me crazy."
Shaun's rare, warm laugh is nice to hear on its own, and Desmond takes a moment to lay a kiss on his lips just soft enough to tend to the bruises from the prior ones, slow enough to taste the sweat on Shaun's neck, to feel the moan on Shaun's lips, and Shaun is ready all too soon, and his legs are tight around Desmond's waist, and his voice is a chant: nownownownownow.
Desmond obeys, thrusts in, again and again and again, until the world flashes white-grey-black, until it fucking rocks (or maybe that's the bike), until Shaun's little scream-sigh sounds; it's only minutes, and it feels like an hour, and he's winded and only partly sated, and he has the best boyfriend in the world.
The last fact is made audible, mumbled against Shaun's moving chest, through Desmond's dry lips, and Shaun chuckles again, and says, "damn right I am."
Fandom: Assassin's Creed.
Author: write_rewrite
Rating: PG-16.
Pairings: Shaun/Desmond.
Warnings: Implied sex; terminal pointlessness.
Notes: Enjoy some more porn-lite.
Summary: Seeing Shaun with his bike gets more than Desmond's engine running.
The garage is lit by three long rays of light, and Desmond watches Shaun inspect his motorcycle like he has never seen one - it's a vintage 1996 Harley Davidson, a real boy's toy, all sleek black lines and leather seating, and seeing Shaun's slender, white fingers against that butch black leather is doing wonderful things to his mind.
He imagines, no, pictures Shaun's delectable body slung over the front, his back against the handlebars, those eyes unseeing.
"I approve," Shaun says, and the quiet way he speaks shouldn't send that level of goosebumps all over Desmond, but Ezio says 'oh mamma', and Altair has to agree, and Desmond has to agree with all sentiments listed above.
"I'm glad."
Desmond doesn't remember moving, but he must've, because Shaun's bent back over his bike, and the shadows over his face hide those clever eyes, and Desmond's voice is choked and tight, "I've imagined you on this bike since I've met you."
"Judging by the tone of your voice," Shaun swallows to wet his throat, and tries to keep his voice from wavering as Desmond's hand skims over his hip, finds his zipper, drags it down with a sound that's much too loud, "I don't think it's for an amiable ride-along to a picnic somewhere."
Desmond's short, sharp laugh rings and rebounds in the darkness, "No. No, it's not."
The kiss is sloppy and wet and fierce, and Desmond's hands are everywhere (and it's not enough, he can never get enough of Shaun) and Shaun is breathing so hard, it must be hurting his ribs, his chest is moving like a wave.
"Amore mio," Ezio whispers it through him, blurs it into the column of Shaun's sweat-slick throat, and then, Altair has to add his own: "galbi".
Shaun's strangled laugh is a bit breathless and hysterical, and his voice is shredded with lust, "Desmond, my Desmond, not you two, tell them to bugger off."
While he's speaking, Shaun's glasses are fogging up, and there's another wet kiss, and clothing is flying through the air, buttons are pinging off clothing, and everything is a cacaphony of sounds that don't matter (the buttons striking metal, the squeaking of the rubber stand on the concrete floor) and the sounds that do (Shaun saying his name, Shaun moaning when he bites /that/ spot on a narrow shoulder), and Desmond lifts him easily, balances Shaun's ass on the leather seat, and straddles the bike.
Shaun leans back against the handle-bars, eyes glittering, face flushed, wicked, naughty, un-British grin making him so hard, it hurts. "Come on, then," taunting, and the words slide against Desmond's fractured nerves, "lost your bottle?"
"Looking for the lube, told you we needed one down here," Desmond babbles, and forces his jeans down to the mid-thigh, drags the tube out of his front pocket.
Shaun snorts, "we have one in every room of the house, mate; I'm starting to think you have a problem."
Desmond would've said, well you keep jumping me, but his fingers are slick, and Shaun is there, and the only natural response is to put two and two together, and Shaun grunts at the first finger, swears a bit, in pain, in discomfort.
"Careful."
"Can't, want you, can't wait." But Desmond does wait, and he moves slow, and he teases his thumb along a sensitive spot just at the base of his cock, watches Shaun's every quake, every open-mouthed whimper, every decadent, rotating movement of that long and supple body.
"You're driving me crazy, Shaun," Desmond groans, adds a second finger, watches him jerk and start to purr, and repeats it, because Shaun couldn't have heart, "Shaun, oh Christ, you're driving me crazy."
Shaun's rare, warm laugh is nice to hear on its own, and Desmond takes a moment to lay a kiss on his lips just soft enough to tend to the bruises from the prior ones, slow enough to taste the sweat on Shaun's neck, to feel the moan on Shaun's lips, and Shaun is ready all too soon, and his legs are tight around Desmond's waist, and his voice is a chant: nownownownownow.
Desmond obeys, thrusts in, again and again and again, until the world flashes white-grey-black, until it fucking rocks (or maybe that's the bike), until Shaun's little scream-sigh sounds; it's only minutes, and it feels like an hour, and he's winded and only partly sated, and he has the best boyfriend in the world.
The last fact is made audible, mumbled against Shaun's moving chest, through Desmond's dry lips, and Shaun chuckles again, and says, "damn right I am."