Author's Note: Warning: may contain sexual references, demolition of the fourth wall, poking fun at bad slash fics, and overall insanity. Enjoy, my friends! I know I have. (This is just me fucking around. I love slash when it's written well xD)

Impromptu Sexy Time

Desmond had a massive case of the "What the fucks," and that wasn't even the tip of the ice berg.

He had just returned to his apartment in this bizarre alternate (yet strangely normal) dimension after a long night at work. Oh, how he loved his job. Please note the sarcasm. Mother fucker. He didn't get paid enough to clean up somebody else's puke night after fucking night.

But anyway, he was getting off track. Not that this train actually had one anymore. He had just returned home, after all. That was usually the part where every story stopped even pretending it was about something and turned to hollow smutty-sexy time. Which is where his case of "what the fuck" came in. You'd think he would have the experience to stop being surprised by now, but alas. It was not to be.

Because seriously. What the hell. What the hell was he supposed to make of this?

"Altair."

Said assassin-turned- whatever he was supposed to be in this alternate dimension, opened his eyes, lifting his head from the arm of Desmond's beat up old couch. That would have been standard enough. If he'd had any clothes on.

That's right. He was seeing this correctly. Altair was stretched out upon his couch. Stark naked. Giving him bedroom eyes that would make any fangirl worth her weight lose half of her blood supply.

"I was waiting for you. My love."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I noticed. What'll it be this time? Are we in a committed relationship? Having a one-night stand? Have we met before this, or are you a complete stranger who let himself into my house so he could have his way with poor unsuspecting me?" He snapped his fingers and grinned with feigned enthusiasm. "Wait, I know! You're my cousin. Or maybe my dad. Eww."

Altair wrinkled his nose. "Dude, no. Gross. Has that one happened before? I'm starting to lose track."

"God, I hope not."

"Ugh. Let's just get this over with, okay?" Altair groaned. "You know it's inevitable."

"Damn it. Fine. Go on. Back to the script."

"Right. Where were we then?" he purred, tone smooth as silk. It was seductive. Captivating. Everything anyone with a pulse could ever want. His naked flesh rippled as he stretched his arms above his head, those damn bedroom eyes lingering yet again upon Desmond's face.

"Draw me like one of your French girls, mon amour."

"Isn't that a line from Titanic?"

"It'd make me really happy…"

"Wait. Why are you speaking French?"

Altair scowled with frustration. "Because I'm…French in this story? I don't know. I don't write this crap. Stop interrupting me, I'm trying to get through this God-awful dialog."

Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Sorry. It just…it hurts. Go on."

"It's your line now."

"Damn it. Uh. Of course I'll draw a portrait of you, creepy naked man whom I'm supposed to be in love with."

Altair shrugged. "Eh. Close enough."

And so, the two settled into a sexually-tense silence. Well, he supposed he shouldn't have said 'silence.' Rather, what would have been silence were it not for the appropriately dramatic background music. Desmond sat clutching a sketch pad that he was forced to believe he'd just had lying around, and Altair lay motionless, pretending to blush. It was really weird. God, why did people do this to them? The sheer diabolical evil contained in these stories made the Templars' misdeeds look like they'd stolen a pack of gum from a convenience store, or some crap.

Finally, after what seemed like an entirely inappropriate amount of time, Desmond was done with his half-assed sketch and Altair finally decided to put some clothes on, if a towel around his waist could be considered clothing.

"You've made me very happy, Desmond. Thank you." He slipped his arms around his waist and hugged him from behind.

"You're going to kiss me now, aren't you?" Desmond asked, dread mounting. (Hehe. Mounting). He already knew the answer, so he wasn't sure why he bothered questioning in the first place.

"Kinda have to."

"Fuck. All right, but don't choke me with your tongue like last time. That was unpleasant."

Altair frowned. "I said I was sorry about that."

"Yeah, sure you are. Just do it already."

Altair's gaze darkened with lust as he slammed Desmond up against the back wall, because this wouldn't be a make-out scene otherwise. And then…..

They made out. The end.

What? Don't you see enough of this in the thousands of other stories about Altair and Desmond?

Anyway. Yes. Back to the story. That was actually relatively painless. Desmond could almost feel a part of his mental scarring recede. Almost.

"Carry me, my love! A feast awaits us on the balcony!" Altair exclaimed with a flourish, leaping into Desmond's arms without another second of warning.

What irritated him the most was that his arms were already waiting to catch the son-of-a-bitch. Fucking fanfics.

"You're joking," Desmond dead-panned, even though he knew he wasn't.

"Not in the least. Now come on, carry me across the threshold. There's wine too. With luck, we can just blot this whole thing out."

"Hmm. It's worth a try."

So, damn it anyway, Desmond obeyed and carried Altair out to the balcony, which he somehow had despite living in a broken-down apartment building. Sure enough, a table for two sat waiting, candles lit, wine glasses full and an abundance of food Desmond didn't even feel like touching decoratively served upon gold and silver platters.

Also, because this scene wouldn't be picturesque enough without it, the moon was full in the midnight-black sky, the stars alight. The ocean waves crashed against a shore in the distance, and Desmond set Altair onto his feet, though the other man clutched him still and leaned into his embrace.

Desmond moaned. No, not the good kind. Sickos.

"Oh my God, this is so cheesy. Is it over yet?"

Altair chuckled from where his face was pressed into Desmond's shirt. "Wait for it."

"What…" Then, without further ado, yet another background song abruptly assaulted his ears.

He gasped in horror.

"Is that…Celine Dion?"

"Near, far, wherever you are…" Altair droned, tone high pitched and mocking.

"I hate you so much."

"No you don't. Mon amour."

Desmond shook his head, grabbed a bottle of wine from the table and started chugging. He needed to be drunk if he wanted to blot out the approaching sex scene.

This is what happens when you leave me alone with caffeine, bad slash fiction and Assassin's Creed after a long day of work. I think I'm delirious. Oh God, what did I just write? I can't stop laughing xD. I don't even know how Titanic ended up in there. Oh, the lols. I should go to bed now, before I hurt myself.