One night, there was this guy in a bar. A gay bar. Altair was his name and he was god-all-mighty-is-that-a-scar-on-his-lip-drop-dead-hot. But don't get you panties on a bunch; he's as gay as a daisy. So unless you have a penis he'd never give you much of a second glance, no matter how much you claim he looks -asajasgdjashsgdj-. He's been there before. Okay, where was I? Oh yeah! He was in this bar, all by himself, just chillin', cause his obviously-not-gay friend Malik had decided to ditch him to go cuddle his obviously-not-gay-either little brother who had his penis 'caught in the fucking video player again!'.
He drank down his cosmopolitan and set the glass with the little umbrella on the counter with a bang and turned around dramatically, surveying the crowd of sassy gay men and hoyden lesbian women, all dancing ridiculously or assaulting each other sexually on the apparently not enough feet of wall available. His golden eyes lazily wandering from face to face –obviously looking for somebody to hook up with-, discarding the ones whose chromosomes were XX or the XY subjects who were already sucking face with another.
In the middle of his eye contact quest, he suddenly came across someone who was staring right back at him. Altair focused in this person and he could feel as his manly but homosexual blood muscle seemed to skip a beat, to then run a fucking marathon, sending all that blood to two very original places. Yep, you guessed right; his face, and his crotch. The man from across the room noticed Altair's face heat up and smirked, one of those upwards-lip-motions that had anyone melt to a puddle of goo in less than a blink. Oh, and half of the room filled with sassy gay hombres did just that, sighing dreamily in the process. Altair just cursed he did not have his hood up in that moment.
The fine specimen, whose hair was long but tied back, and had a very similar scar across his lips just like Altair, and emitted 'sex-god' from every pore of his flawless body, left his leaning position on the wall to walk across the dance floor, gently pushing the hideous dancers aside, who didn't mind much just because they'd give anything to have their oily, greasy skin barely caressed by those hands again. Altair couldn't explain it, but it was just like someone else was controlling his toned, sexy, arab body, making him feel the urge to go and meet this oh-so-sexy stranger half way.
By this point everyone had stopped what they were doing; whether it was dancing, dry humping or saliva exchanging, the whole bar –which by now resembled something more like a pub- stepped aside and watched silently as these two smashingly handsome pieces of meat approached, never breaking eye contact; gold irises versus hazelnut orbs, in a sexy staring contest where it didn't matter who won because everyone was just expecting the same thing you are right now.
Right when they encountered in the middle of the dance floor the record player made that tacky sound of the needle scratching the vinile and the music stopped. None of them noticed the circle formed by the crowd of pillow munchers and strap-on bearers and that they were in the middle of it. All they cared for was each other and the next words that were to be breathed out in a haze of alcohol and kiddy-bubblegum-flavored toothpaste.
The sexy piece of ass attached to the stranger Altair was standing in front of parted his lips, ready to make the statement of a life time. The whole bar –Pub? Disco? Casino? Never mind that, only that is full of drunk, gay people- gasped quietly and held their breaths, expectant to hear whatever it was that this guy was gonna say to that other guy, though it was Altair the one who tensed the most, the blood still persistent on his cheeks and groin.
And it was then, at 2:08 am on a Friday night of February that this stranger spoke his first words to him,
"Your zipper is down," he whispered, in a sultry grave voice, tinged only with the sexiest Italian accent you could ever picture in your homoerotic fantasies. One of those voices you pay for; to promote something sexy like deodorant or tuna cans, or narrate one of those cheesy romance novels. The thing is, Altair was too caught up thinking these things someone seemed to be typing in his head to actually catch what this hot Italian stud was saying, so all he could retort with was, ladies and gentlemen,
"Uh… what?"
He could practically hear the crowd cheering for his brilliance and picture Malik face palming so hard that his left arm grew back out so he could double facepalm. Real smooth, novice, he would tell him.
The gorgeous Italian only smiled wider, making his clean shaved face glow like a virgin ovulating.
"Here," he said reaching out to grab Altair's zipper –brushing oh so much more than that in the process- an pull it up, making that zipping sound that everyone knew meant clothes falling off, and Altair to stand on the tips of his toes as the pleasant shiver ran from the bottom of his spine upwards, following this audacious man's strong hands and- maybe he was making too much of this.
Still. It was weird. Altair was never one to be embarrassed about anything. He was always this stoic and serious type of sexy guy all the moving things desired but could never have 'cause he's just too good for any of them –come on, you know how it is-, but suddenly, under the penetrating –oh my- gaze of this stranger he met in a bar/pub/disco, made him feel exposed. And naked. And hard. This was not necessarily a bad thing, but still.
"My name is Ezio," the scalding European said, stepping a little back. Just a little. Less than an inch, so don't freak out, Altair, focus on the contents of his words, not on how his eyes shine, nor how his eyebrows twitch the slightest bit when he speaks, or how deep and raspy his voice is and—What did he say again? "Ezio Auditore," he repeated looking amused at the trail of drool that Altair's parted lips were letting escape. Ezio lifted his right hand and dried the corner of Altair's mouth with his thumb, lingering just the slightest bit. "Can I get you a drink…?"
And that was when Altair's currently shrinked, pea-sized brain seemed to snap out of its homosexual trance, slapping Ezio's sexy-calloused hand away and stepping back, with a frown on his forehead and a lot of sassy gay men and hoyden lesbian women booing his behavior.
"Altair. Altair Ibn La Ahad," he said giving his musclular-but-not-ArnoldSchwarzeneggerish-brawny Syrian back to a slightly confused but fine Mediterranean man and walking towards the bar with that sexy trademark hip swing you-could-all-recognize-anywhere of his. He was halfway there when he halted and addressed Ezio, "and if anyone is going to buy someone drinks here" he turned slightly to find the Auditore man staring at him, astounded, with almond shaped eyes wide open and his oh-so-kissable lips slightly parted, "it's me".
Ezio could feel his crotch tightening like never before, his cock no doubt tenting in his jeans, aching for that man, Altair, with the deepest golden eyes he had ever seen and the most defying attitude he had encountered when flirting with someone. Normally it would be just him being his charming exotic Italian self to seduce and reduce anyone to nothing more than a bunch of pudding, and it had been working perfectly with this man.
Ezio's face was a poem. It was now his turn to be blushing like a toddler saying 'secks, giggle', and he decided that being the one being treated to a drink wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Neither it was him going home with a hot-as-flying-fucks piece of Syrian ass that didn't just fall into his (read with 'itsa me, Mario' accent) look-at-me-I'm-Italian-and-foreing-and-we-should-have-an-orgy-in-your-living-room trap and proved to be a little more than a challenge when it came to swooping him off his feet. Besides the fucker kissed like a fucking God, Ezio decided.
Nice to know kissing wasn't the only thing they'd use their mouths on that night. Or the next morning. Or the rest of the weekend. Yep, you guessed right. And they still do it like rabbits, much to Malik–Altair's obviously-not-gay-friend/roommate-'s dismay.
Finito, I'm free.