IV: Desmond Miles

Desmond Miles hated him.

There was nothing more he hated than Shaun Hastings, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Desmond was a tolerant guy, or so he'd like to have thought, but Shaun Hastings was pushing it where no man had pushed before.

It had all started in freshman year when Desmond had walked into his history class. He liked history and had done well at it in middle school, but as soon as he saw his professor he knew he was going to have a shit time.

Desmond was tall-ish, with dark hair and sun-kissed skin. Like his cousins Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and Ezio Auditore, he had a thin scar running down over his lips. He habitually wore grey jeans and a white hoodie. He had a nice facial structure, and he sure wasn't unattractive, but he'd never had much luck with girls. His first (and last, he grudgingly guessed) girlfriend, Lucy, had moved out of town at the end of last year and he hadn't heard from her since. He'd gone into a chronic state of depression and Ezio and Altaïr seemed to be the only ones who could shake it off him.

Desmond liked his cousins. They could both be major pains in the ass, but they were good guys all the same. Altaïr had a brain the size of a planet and an ego to match, whereas Ezio concentrated more on girls and partying than anything else.

Desmond preferred to focus on school. He liked learning, but by God, Shaun Hastings was making it an effort.

Shaun Hastings was Desmond's history professor. He was sure that Shaun hated him back, too; he could see it every time their eyes met. He wasn't quite sure why – he hadn't done anything wrong, had he? He hadn't wronged Shaun in any way… he soon moved past the bafflement and settled down in his bed of hatred.

Shaun made a point of making fun of Desmond whenever he got the chance. He made it sound as if Desmond was stupid, so much so that Desmond was beginning to second-guess his own intelligence.

And so Desmond had decided to purposefully fail Shaun's class, just to piss him off.

And piss him off it did. Shaun knew that Desmond was clever, and if the boy had been failing because he was stupid he would have been delighted. Instead Desmond was doing it on purpose, which annoyed Shaun more than salted tea.

Shaun put Desmond into detention whenever he could. Each time he'd make Desmond do something even more stupid than the last time, and he'd laugh internally. Desmond wanted to do nothing more than knock those glasses off his orange-tufted head.

"Miles, my desk," Shaun told him after his class had finished. Desmond stood up grudgingly, having heard the line fare too many times.

"You failed your test again last term, so I'm going to have to give you this." Shaun held up a slip of paper which Desmond snatched, his mouth set and jaw locked. Without a word he turned and stalked out of the classroom, not bothering to even look at the paper before he folded it up and shoved it in his pocket.

That afternoon he reconvened with his cousins. Ezio lazed on his couch and Altaïr sat with his elbows braced on his knees and his face downturned. He was thinking and certainly somewhere other than Desmond's living room.

Meanwhile, Desmond stood and begun to pace, lashing out and releasing all his hatred for his teacher.

"He sounds like a real figlio di puttana," Ezio replied, putting his hands behind his head.

"He is," Desmond grumbled as he continued to pace.

"Be careful, cuginetto, you'll put tracks into the carpet."

Desmond sat down and fished out the crumpled slip of paper from his pocket. It was, as he'd guessed, a detention slip.

"Tomorrow, an hour and a half. Fuck." He crushed the paper in his fist and then threw it to the ground. "Why does this always happen to me?"

Ezio's eyebrows turned up. "He probably just hates you."

Desmond scoffed. "He does." He had noticed that Altaïr hadn't moved. "Hey, man, you all right?" he asked. Altaïr looked up sharply, leaning back.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Desmond narrowed his eyes. "Right."

The next day, after school, Desmond made his way towards the detention room. Shaun was there waiting for him, his expression to opposite of amused.

"I trust you know why you're here, Mr Miles," Shaun said evenly.

"Yes, sir," Desmond replied sulkily, letting his bag drop to the ground noisily beside his seat. "So, sir, what do have planned for me today?"

Shaun wrinkled his nose irritably, pushing his glassed up his nose. "I do not appreciate your disrespect, Miles," he snapped. "You're going to write lines."

Desmond almost laughed. "Lines?" he asked in disbelief. "What are we in, elementary school?"

Shaun shot him a withering glare. "Just get on with it."

Desmond stood grudgingly, snatching up a piece of chalk from the tray beneath the board. The fuck – why did they even have blackboards anymore? Weren't whiteboards the standard issue now? Or overhead projectors?

Still, he wanted to get this shit over with. "What do I write?"

Shaun pretended to think. "How about 'I will not fail history?'"

Desmond eyed him over his shoulder and then turned and began the first line.

I will not fail history…

Desmond suddenly felt weird. He felt a heat spread up his back and he supressed the urge to shiver. He realised that it was because Shaun was watching him. Of course he was… there was nothing else to look at… right?

Still, Desmond felt uncomfortable.

I will not fail history…

Desmond heard the sharp tap of the hard soles of Shaun's shoes as he approached, looking up at the one-and-a-half lines of white chalk. His eyes flicked back to Desmond, who had a very curious expression on his face.

I will not fail history…

Desmond felt long fingers slide up beneath his hoodie and over the sharp curve of his hips. They fingered his waistline, traced the hard metal buckle on his belt, slid down into his pockets. He felt the heat of a body behind him, the washing of breath over his neck. He did shiver then.

I will not…

Kisses were pressed to the back of his neck, those long fingers unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans, running ever so sensually over the material of his (blue) boxer briefs. Desmond let out a strangled noise.

Fail…

He could feel hips grinding against him, a fervent mouth attached to his neck, sucking and lapping and marking. One hand slid up over his stomach, under his hoodie and his shirt. The other slithered inside his briefs and found its rock-hard goal. Desmond moaned, and then bit down on his arm to stifle the noise. "Fuck…"

He heard Shaun chuckle lowly behind him as his nose skimmed up the warm skin of Desmond's neck. "Of course."

Desmond's hips were bucking into Shaun's hand, as much as he didn't want them to. He felt so conflicted… he hated Shaun with every fibre of his being, but there was a welling passion inside him that just didn't seem to quell. "Shaun, fuck, please," Desmond's hand was trembling so hard he dropped the chalk. He leaned back into Shaun's arms, his own calloused hands tracing down the other's arms. "By God…"

Shaun kissed the side of his head, squeezing Desmond's rock-hard cock and stroking it a few times. Desmond's hips quivered, and he let out a strangled groan as he came harder than he ever had before. Even Lucy hadn't consented to give him a handjob. It was absolutely magical… except for the fact that it was Shaun.

"Fucker…" Desmond pulled away as soon as he regained his head, shoving his dick back into his trousers and doing up his belt hastily.

"One more thing," Shaun said passively. Desmond looked at him inquisitively as Shaun held up his hand. Desmond set his jaw angrily, but still he was drawn forward. He took Shaun's wrist and tentatively drew his tongue along the inside of Shaun's index finger.

"Good boy." Shaun smiled, running a long finger over the mark he'd let on Desmond's neck. Desmond, all of his own accord, dropped to his knees. He had been seized by a desire so powerful it threatened to blind him. He worked with numb fingers at the buckle of Shaun's belt, unzipping his trousers and reaching through the slip of his boxer shorts.

Shaun was honestly amazed at just how fast Desmond was on him. In less than five seconds he was on his knees with Shaun's cock in his mouth, sucking like a baby. He wasn't too good – he'd definitely never done it before, that was for sure – but he wasn't bad. Shaun grunted and twisted his fingers in Desmond's short hair as he came, satisfied to hear a choking noise come from Desmond's throat. He drew his hips back, his flaccid member connected to Desmond's red, wet lips by a glistening string of saliva. Desmond swallowed and got to his feet again. Almost languidly Desmond kissed him, still possessed by the same lust that had forced him to his knees, his lips still hot and wet and salty. Shaun wound his arms around Desmond's waist, and felt the other's strong fingers grip the front of his grey pullover.

"You'd better get going, Mr Miles," Shaun told him lowly. "Your time is over."

Desmond's eyes flicked to the clock. Realising the time – how it got to be so late he'd never know – he grabbed his bag and bolted out the door. Shaun smiled to himself, zipping up his trousers and doing up his belt. He shook his head. He knew it would come to a head sooner or later… he knew he wasn't the most cordial person on the planet, but such an attitude sometimes – and very rarely – drew in someone – like Desmond Miles – who mistook passion for hate. Or, perhaps, there was a bit of both. Shaun knew he was a dick, but he couldn't stand idiots.

Desmond sat in his car, fretting. He hastily drove home and was glad that his dad wasn't back from work… or maybe he'd gone out. Desmond didn't care. He crashed into the living room and made a beeline for his room, slamming the door and leaning against the wall, quite out of breath. Holy shit. What had just happened?

He replayed the memories in his head. Right… he was in detention, writing lines like some fucking four-year-old, and then… then… the next thing he knew he'd gotten a hand-job from his history professor and was on his knees with a dick in his mouth.

Just the thought of the afternoon's events made Desmond's cheeks grow warm. He fingered the zipper of his hoodie, drawing it down to let out the heat. His fingers lingered at his belt. He could feel himself growing thinking of what happened, and his hand slipped below his waistline to grasp his cock, willing it not to grow any harder. He could hear Shaun's little laugh in his ear, and he began to slide his fingers around. He bit down on his lips as he began to move fast, his head tilted back to lean against the wall. "Fuck…" He came all over the inside of his jeans, and then promptly went to have a shower.

Italian:

Figlio di puttana = son of a whore