A/N: this is my first story upon my return, and I want to know what you think! take five seconds to read and reviewand I'd really appreciate it!

I: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad

It had been a long night.

Altaïr woke up in his bed like any other morning, despite the fact that he felt as if he'd been hit by a truck. The sunlight was like stadium lights, and as much as he wanted to roll over and go back to sleep he knew he should get up.

And so get up he did, checking that he had pants on before wandering any further. He knew that when he woke up feeling like this that some serious shit had most likely gone down the night before, and it was always good to check if you had pants on. He was met with the sight of a college guy lying on the floor of his apartment face-down in a puddle of what seemed to be a mix of vomit and whiskey, and as he rolled onto his back Altaïr saw that his left arm was taped to the floor by about a dozen strips of duct tape. Altaïr's head beat like a drum, his vision fizzing dizzily as he struggled to keep his balance. He felt like absolute shit. Looking around, he saw nobody. Not a soul was in his apartment… well, none that he knew, anyway. There were about fifty people alone in the living room, either completely passed out or well on the way to being so. There was a mix of scantily-clad girls in leather boots and college boys wearing their pants on their heads. Streamers were everywhere, and Altaïr suspected that half of them were toilet paper; taking a look in the bathroom proved his theory correct. Some girl was vomiting into the toilet and the smell was atrocious.

He dragged himself to the kitchen and messily poured himself a glass of water and set about dissolving whatever it was that his friends had given him for hangovers. His amber eyes flicked over the commune of drunken high school kids who were slowly coming to, wondering where they were and how the fuck they got there.

The whole place was cleared out by noon, giving Altaïr the joyous task of cleaning up the mess that was left. He first set about tearing down the toilet paper.

As he cleaned he tried to remember what had happened that night. He remembered going clubbing with his friends, and he also remembered bringing the party back to his apartment… he also vaguely remembered something in between, but he couldn't say what.

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad was certainly not your average frat boy. He was hardly a boy, being much more of a man, with sandy-brown hair and molten gold eyes. He had a thin scar running over his full, Syrian lips and he always seemed to have stubble, but never a beard. He was handsome and he'd had more girlfriends than he'd care to admit, and even more one-night stands. He didn't mind, though. He couldn't even remember their names.

Altaïr also lived alone. His parents had died in a car accident just after he was born, and he had no relations that he knew of. He'd been raised in an orphanage and had raised enough money to go to high school through cage fighting and doing menial tasks that required climbing tall structures.

The fact that Altaïr lived alone became very relevant when he walked back into his bedroom and saw a man lying in his bed.

A man.

A naked man.

An attractive naked man.

Altaïr's hand went to the back of his neck as he sifted through his deck of memories.

Ah. That's right.

The music pumped so loud that the Altaïr had to half-shout over it just to be heard. He was having a shit time, if he was going to be honest with himself. There were loads of women, that was true, but the ones who didn't have boyfriends were making out with other guys anyway. Altaïr could have easily wooed any one of them – boyfriend or no – into his bed, but as soon as he approached a girl she disappeared. Eventually, as he got into the swing of things, he found that his advances became more successful.

He had decided to go out with his cousins, EzioAuditore and Desmond Miles. Ezio was dripping with females, as usual, and Desmond had retired to the bar where he was chatting with the bartender about how to mix martinis. Altaïr was on his own now.

It was then he saw an empty stool at one of the tables between the bar and the dancefloor. He ordered a drink and headed towards it.

He didn't bother to ask if the seat was taken – by the look on the man's face it obviously wasn't, and the music was too loud to ask from that distance anyway. For anyone to hear you properly you'd have to be practically kissing their ear.

"You look like you're having a good a time as I am," Altaïr told the man. He had black hair and deep brown eyes, dusky skin and a tuft of black hair on his chin. Altaïr noticed that one of his arms had been amputated just below the shoulder, and the sleeve of the man's shirt was pinned up. "I'm Altaïr," he added, holding out his hand.

Seeing as the man only had one hand, Altaïr would have expected him to have put down his beer and shaken it. Instead the man took a long sip of his beer and didn't pay the slightest mind to Altaïr's hand.

"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" the Syrian asked, smiling despite himself.

"No," the man replied in a voice pleasing to Altaïr's ears. "Why would I give my name to a stranger who decided to intrude so rudely upon my company? For all I know you could be a serial killer."

Altaïr was glad when his drink came; he slugged it back in one go, earning an impressed look from his companion – or maybe it was disgust. It was too dark to tell, and the flashing lights didn't help. Golden eyes met brown ones, and Altaïr leaned across the table until he was practically kissing the other man's ear.

"Want to join me outside?"

He didn't really expect the man to take him up on his offer, but he did. Ezio saw him leaving and gestured to what seemed and sounded like half the club, thinking that Altaïr wanted to take the party home.

And so the house party had begun, with thumping music and flashing lights and alcohol and streamers made from toilet paper. Altaïr's liquor cabinet was being mercilessly raided by the mercenaries of the frat house, but by that point Altaïr was too busy to notice or care.

He and his friend had slipped through the partying throng of people and to the back of the apartment. Altaïr had a firm hold on the one-armed man's sleeve, and as soon as they were both in his room he kicked the door shut and flicked the lock.

They slammed against the wall in a mash of lips and a tangle of tongues and limbs, hands groping blindly and fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers. This man's mouth was so hot and tasted so sweet – Altaïr couldn't get enough. He had never felt this way before, and he was almost positive that it had nothing to do with the alcohol. But he was too drunk to tell. His strong hands tore open the front of the man's shirt and he moved his mouth down his neck, sucking and biting and lapping with his tongue. He made sure to leave a mark… a nice dark hickey, perhaps, or a very obvious bite mark. As he roughly grabbed the man's hips he heard him moan. It was a delightful, solid sound that ached with lust and was almost as wet as Altaïr's tongue. With a wide turn Altaïr spun his companion around, giving him time enough to throw his single arm around his shoulders before they went crashing down onto the bed.

Altaïr had a bit of a bad habit of rutting like a bull until the bed was all but broken – ruined furniture had been the reason for more than a few breakups. He felt like that now, his mind overtaken by the sheer force of lust. The man below him was moaning and writhing, their skin slick and slippery. Altaïr lifted his legs, sinking his hips forward. He grunted.

Suddenly the man's eyes flashed, and with an unexpected burst of strength he flipped them both over so he was straddling Altaïr, who had landed unceremoniously on his back. He could barely think straight when the man rode him like he was, rolling his hips and clenching his muscles. It caused every muscle in Altaïr's body to tense, and as he thrust his hips up the man slammed down to meet him. Altaïr grabbed his hips and held them tight enough to leave bruises, hammering them down even harder as he slammed upwards. The man above him was moaning and panting, his erection raging between his legs. Altaïr's mind had turned to water and was trickling out his ears with every blind thrust. He wasn't sure if he was moaning or grunting – the only things he could hear were his own heartbeat and the man's voice, murmuring through his moans.

Suddenly Altaïr slammed the man's hips down, burying himself inside his companion as he came with a loud hiss through clenched teeth. He felt the thick ropes of his partner's release land against the hard planes of his chest, burning like fingers of lava. Every nerve was tingling, every pore as sensitive as possible. He felt the man above him rise before he slid down Altaïr's chest and dragged his tongue up the traces of his own release, keeping eye contact all the while. There was something instantly arousing about his gaze… the sultriness shot straight to Altaïr's cock. His tongue continued, tracing a long trail up between Altaïr's pectorals and throat, about his jawline and over his chin, ending with a salty kiss upon his lips. "So," panted Altaïr with a grin partly hidden by the darkness. "Now that you know I'm not a serial killer, what's your name?"

"Malik," the man replied drowsily as he lay down beside Altaïr. "Malik Al-Sayf."

Altaïr almost groaned. Being severely hung over and remembering a one-night stand was probably not the best way to start any morning. But… he hadn't made a bad choice. He smirked. The guy wasn't ugly, that was for sure.

As he was thinking, the man – Malik – woke. Altaïr wasn't gay. Besides… sleeping with a random guy while you're drunk doesn't make you camp, right?

Wrong.

As Malik rolled over and their eyes met, Altaïr felt a shock of electricity shoot straight to his groin. He was horrified to feel himself react, and thanked Allah that he had the heavy denim of his jeans keeping him down. The man's – Malik's – eyes had a certain shine to them that made Altaïr want to melt into the floor. It reached him even though his hangover-clouded mind, and he found that Malik could remedy him better than any supplements ever could.

Without even an exchange of words, Altaïr put one knee up on the bed as Malik sat up. The black-haired man, who Altaïr assumed to be a little older than himself, grabbed the front of his waistband and, with a surprising show of strength, yanked the man down.

Again, Altaïr ended up on his back. He didn't like being on his back most of the time, but this time was different. With every girl he slept with he'd been the dominant one, making them mewl and squirm and beg. He liked that – no, he loved it. But there was something undeniably sexy about the lean, muscled man who sat astride him, one hand on his chest. There was something dominant about him… something that made Altaïr want to fuck him all over again.

Malik slid down between his legs, nuzzling at the rock-hard bulge between Altaïr's legs. He undid the zipper and slid the jeans down his companion's thighs to his knees and began to tongue at the erection that had sprung up right before his eyes.

"Like a puppy, aren't you?"

It was the first time Altaïr had heard Malik speak while he was sober. It was even better than when he was drunk. He bucked his hips involuntarily, biting down on the back of his hand to stifle his moan. "Shit –," he sat up, rolling Malik onto his back before pushing him onto his stomach. Altaïr lifted the man's hips, sliding his thick nine fingers over the hard cords of muscles, and ground against the cleft with a hiss.

With only spit to guide the process, he hammered into Malik with a violence he had never felt before. Just like last night, every nerve was more sensitive than usual. Malik seemed to be weathered, though, and he didn't scream or cry as some of the girls did. He just made hoarse noises, his hips twitching spasmodically. It took less than five minutes for them both to finish, and Altaïr let his head tip back with a sigh.

Malik stood first, dressing and leaving with only a glance and a little half-smile at Altaïr, who lay with one arm behind his head. He thought he heard something like 'novice' leave the older man's lips as he left, but he couldn't be quite sure. Picking himself up, Altaïr went to shower.