Author's Note: Hey guys! Thanks for all of the kind words. Honestly, I'm so flattered. I don't think I really expected so much attention when I first posted this. I'm glad I was wrong and that somebody other than me can get a laugh out of this shit.

Your wish is my command, my lovelies. And so, without further ado, I give you: Shaun/Desmond. Enjoy :D

Oh yeah, and there's a very minor spoiler for AC III mixed in. Nothing that would truly spoil anything, but it's referenced in vague terms. Just thought I'd put that out there.

Shaun didn't say this often. Okay, scratch that. Shaun never said this, but there were some things even he just couldn't understand. They were few and far between, mind you, but they existed all the same.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop? Was disco ever coming back? Where was Waldo? Why was Desmond sitting on his desk in the animus room wearing nothing but ripped up gym shorts and a nipple ring?

For the sake of his own sanity, he was going to forget that last sentence had ever existed.

Shaun dropped the stack of books he was holding and locked eyes with the bane of his existence, unamused. "Desmond, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

Hold on. This wasn't the animus room at all…no. Something was very wrong here. There was an animus in the corner, but why did his office look like a classroom? Why hadn't that stricken him as odd until just now? Had Rebecca snuck something into his coffee again? Was this all a hallucination?

Oh, bleeding fucking Christ, what was going on here? Why was Shaun wearing blue jeans with his signature sweater, and why were they in a high school class room? This was all starting to look like the setup for a bad teen movie.

"Okay. I know this is going to sound strange, but Shaun…I need you to fuck me."

"…I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. Say again?"

"I need you to fuck me. Or I suppose I could fuck you. Whichever you'd prefer."

There was an awkward silence of about ten seconds, in which both men somehow managed to keep a completely straight face. Shaun was the one who finally broke it, in a voice that could only be described as 'deadpan.'

"Desmond, if you don't get the hell off my desk right this second, I swear to fuck I will castrate you."

"Careful, I might…you know what? No. I can't even joke about this. I wouldn't like that. I wouldn't like it at all."

"Is this some kind of stupid joke, or do I need to check you into a mental hospital?"

Desmond gave a put-upon sigh, rolling his eyes in a way that suggested he'd explained this far too many times before. He cocked his hip and placed a hand upon it, irritated. "Look. I don't like this any more than you do, but I don't really have a choice, so please, for once in your life could you just sit down, shut up and let me give you a lap dance?"

Shaun was having a really bad nightmare. That was it. In the morning he would wake up and forget all about Desmond in a nipple ring threatening to give him a lap dance. Right?

Right.

"Mental hospital it is then. Got it."

"I'm serious. Okay, I'm sorry. I know this is all very confusing for you. Let me back up for a second. Have you ever heard of…"

"Wait. Don't tell me. Don't you fucking tell me this is…"

Desmond nodded, not looking sorry in the least. "You understand then."

"What? But I…this is unexpected, I have to admit. I'm just here to be the sassy British sidekick. People aren't supposed to..."

"Dream up sex-crazed fantasies about you?"

Shaun paced the length of the room and waved his arms emphatically as he spoke. He imagined he must have been a comical sight, and why not? Somebody might as well laugh at this because he was not fucking laughing. "Yes. That. And what's more, why the bloody fuck does it have to be you?"

Desmond looked appropriately insulted. "Wow. Thanks."

"I mean, seriously! No offense, mate, but I hate you. Why would I want to do several unnamed positions with you?"

"Don't ask me. From what I understand though, the more we hate each other, the more likely we are to be pared together."

He hid his face in his hands, more confused than he'd ever been in his life. "That doesn't make any sense!"

"Funny. That's what I thought when I saw what they did to me at the end of Assassin's Creed III."

"What?"

"Nothing. You don't wanna know."

"…right."

"So, anyway. Here we are. What should we do about this?"

"You know what? Fine, what the hell. Desmond, do your worst."

"Wha…really?"

"Yes really, do I look like I'm kidding? If these lunatics are determined enough we're going to have to do the dirty eventually anyway, so we might as well get it the fuck over with."

Desmond shot him a shit-eating grin Shaun was sure would haunt him for the rest of his miserable existence, then lunged forward, grabbed his arm and ripped off his sweater in one smooth motion. No really, one move and his shirt was just gone. How does that even work anyway?

Some things were best left unknown, even for Shaun Hastings. And so, he calmly let the son of a bitch shove him back-first onto the desk; let the bloody fiend lock lips with him. Let him suck on his neck for God's sake (honestly, the things he did for a laugh).

Then he promptly smashed the back of Desmond's head with a paperweight, laughing merrily as he rolled him off the desk and used him as a stepping stool on the way down. By accident, of course.

Maybe he should say something cheesy about naughty students staying after class, like in the soap operas. He wanted to stay in character after all.

Whistling a happy tune, he picked up the remains of his sweater and slung it over his shoulder, vowing to find some way to mend it as he skipped his way over to the door. He pushed it open and made to walk on through, but before he could do so, Desmond's voice shouted to him from where he'd left him, face down on the floor.

"Well played."

Shaun gave an uncharacteristic chuckle. He figured he might as well. He was already out of character in the original version of this story anyway, because Shaun absolutely refused to believe any sane version of himself would ever touch Desmond. With a thirty foot pole.

"Thanks! I thought so too."

"I'll pay for the sweater."

"Damn right you will."

Okay, I'm sorry. I couldn't resist the jab at AC III's ending. I'm still bitter. But, anyway. God, I'm still laughing. I laugh at my own jokes. What does that even say about me? I thought the end was a nice touch. Glad I decided to add those last lines about the sweater ;)

Hope you guys enjoyed! Any requests for the next one? Maybe it's time for Ezio/Leonardo.