Please spare me. This is the first time I even remotely approach anything like male on male action. I really don't know what the hell I'm doing. I'm really just trying to use what other people've wrote as reference. It's a lot harder than you'd think.

This is obviously not finished. I plan on writing more, but I really need someone--at least one person--to tell me if this is interesting at all. Even if it... pretty much is just PWP. =w=;;;
Sorry for that but it's not like you guys don't like it fffffff.

Panting.

He's panting. It takes him a moment to realise why. It will take him even longer to register the event. It seems impossible--seems, feels, sounds. It all blur and mixes together into one insatiable desire. It coils low in his abdomen and crawls up. His skin is on fire. His eyes sting and no amount of air can remedy it. This condition is infectious. It spreads throughout his body as would his blood. It is unhealthy--so horrible, despicably unhealthy--but there isn't much he can do.

'Was there really ever a time when I could do something here?'

His bitter thoughts are interrupted by a warm hand on his shoulder. The night is well on its way. Midnight has passed not long ago. The moon is new and the stars are dim. Darkness is everywhere. An assassin's dream. He grins, nostalgia nipping at his very bones.

"Desmond." He says. "Desmond, wake up. Snap out of it." The voice pleads. He begs. Begs for him to wake up and stop the incessant moaning and groaning and--

'What the hell have I been doing?'

The dream takes a moment to come back to him. It began with a book falling to the floor. Reaching for it at the same time as the Rafiq. Shouting ensued--it always did--and frustration and unnerving twitches won. One pinned under the other, one knife to the former's throat. Metal clangs to the floor. Neck craned, the latter--

"Oh."

He forces himself to shake the dream away. Images still flashing before his eyes. The sounds are what remain longer. The groaning, the pleading, the slapping of flesh against flesh. (Maybe even the splintering wood. He always had a grip of steel, missing left arm or not.) He tries to forget, tries and tries and tries. The sounds do not leave. The images, the feelings, sensations--those all leave. His voice lingers. His harsh, commanding voice still rings in his ears. This wanton lust disgusts him to his very core. This is unnatural and utterly repugnant. This is not what he has been longing for. He gropes from an image of Lucy--'Hell even Rebecca's ass would be fine right now.'--but nothing washes away the one image. Nothing seems to be able to pry his mind away from the Bureau of Jerusalem. His ears are stuck there, it seems. They don't appear to be making plans to come back any time soon.

"Desmond, come on. You're freaking me out."

He tries to open his eyes, he really does. He tries to calm the patter of his heart and the quick, wavering breaths. Nothing seems to do the trick. His panting resonates in the small room. It does not sound frightened or panicked. That is the worst part: it is uniquely sexual and anyone would be able to tell.

"I'm sorry." He mutters. He screws his eyes shut. Brings an arm over his eyes. This is torture.

One instant he has Malik squirming underneath him--For the love of god, don't stop or I'll run a word through you--begging, pleading. The next he has this-this boy trying to wake him. The uncanny resemblance to the former is terrifying. Why Shaun had been determined to pick up the stupid kid was beyond him. He was neither pleased or disappointed or upset. He was confused.

Completely, utterly confused.

The hand on his shoulder shakes him. For some reason, the movement does not quell the lust. It does nothing for the insatiable hunger. If nothing else, the almost-touch make him want to scream and ram the boy into the ground. 'What kind of a sick pedophile would I be.' A part of his mind he associates to Altaïr growls in approval. That is, really, all it is asking for. The part of him that is still his own--the real Desmond Miles--is still perplexed. Are these feelings his? Does he really want to, for lack of better words, fuck the brain out of a poor 17 year old? 'He doesn't know any better. He needs to get the fuck out.'
In a split second of lucidity, he tears the hand away from his shoulder. But as quickly as it appeared, that moment of clear thinking is gone. The boy's hand is still firmly clamped in his hand. It feels warm to the touch. He can feel the teen's blood pulsing faster and faster in his hand. He can only imagine how fast he can make that heart go once he--

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"Get out." He grinds his teeth. Forces his fingers to uncurl. Altaïr, somewhere nine hundred hears ago, screams and kills whatever gets in his way. Desmond exhales shakily. "Now."

He hears nothing. Either the boy is exceptionally stealthy or he just didn't get the me--

"No."

Strike one.

His hand reaches out before he can fully comprehend what he is doing. Fist full of what he assumed is a shirt, the teen is soon laid flat again him. His breathing is erratic. The poor thing sounds like a mouse about to be eaten by an owl. 'Or a chickadee being hunted by a fucking eagle.' He flinches at the thought. His ancestry never chose the right moments to impress its thoughts on him.

"D-Des. What are you doing." The teen sounds uncertain. Not scared. This confuses the older man to no end. Not scared?

"I don't know." The teen's breath splashes deliciously across his face. His own heart begins to beat erratically. He only turns his head by an inch. But that wasn't a good idea; lips brush, even if only the slightest bit.

FUCK.

Strike two.

Without giving it any second though--he's well resigned to his fate by now--he clamps a hand at the back of the teens neck. He gasps, and that is more than enough. His tongue slips inside the other's mouth. 'He tastes like apples.' The thought of the teen staying up all night waiting for Desmond to wake up is almost troubling. Almost troubling but the taste is too sweet and-
The teen, surely unknowingly, shifts his hips. The friction is insanely enjoyable. He groans and leans his head back. How long has he been aroused? For the first time he is aware that his lower half is just short of being on fire. He growls. Captures the teen's mouth again, and teeth almost collide. Almost. A fluke of fate made the teen open his mouth wide and--

The brat grinds his hips. 'That was fucking deliberate.'

Strike three.

"All bets are off, kid."

17 year old brat is meant to be 2012!Malik, in case a few of you didn't follow that.
PLEASE give me some form of review. ;A; I really need to know if I'm doing something decent here.