#DesLucy

[fanfenomenon]

desmond miles is a male feminist who hates period cramps i said what i said

[clingyduoapologist]

Lucy I appreciate the effort but as far as glass houses go you’re rocking a mansion

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: Slowburn – Malik hates rich playboy Altair, and starts a blog to educate the tweens on what a sexist dick he is. He just didn't expect Altair to find it and become its fan. Taking place over three years, we follow how both characters become better people, before they even meet in person.

Author: @bewareofchris

Note from submitter: This is my favourite slowburn, and despite how insanely long it is, I've read the whole thing three times, and I'm always thinking about starting that fourth time. It doesn't have much to do with AC apart from a few references and using the characters. Please, go read it if you like slowburn!

[quietwingsinthesky]

I think we should let lucy do hypno stuff to desmond or clay. For her enrichment. Totally normal animus subject protocol absolutely-

i have. after like a month afkljsakldja. brought to you brotherhood era deslucy hypno things. which i hope are interesting >:3

Lucy’s back has hurt for a week and counting, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Her bedroll can’t mask the hard ground they have to sleep on in the Sanctuary below Villa Auditore well enough. She didn’t know that she could miss her bed within Abstergo’s walls, but at least there, she felt like she could focus. Her body aches, and her mind feels bruised, and it feels like something essential is slipped from between her numb fingers without her realizing it.

She’s too deep in her own head to hear the footsteps approaching over her shoulder. When there’s a hand on her arm, she freezes. Her thoughts flush from her head like a vacuum, and she can’t move and can’t breathe.

And then Desmond shakes her gently and takes his hand away. She swallows before she rolls over onto her back.

They leave most of their lights on in the Sanctuary when they try to sleep. It doesn’t help, but it’s better to know if they have power issues sooner rather than later. Lucy scans the room around Desmond. Shaun and Rebecca are still out, then, meaning what had felt like hours of Lucy trying to lull herself to sleep might have only been much less. She pushes herself up. Her lower back twinges.

”What do you need?” she asks, and she does a poor job of hiding her exhausted irritation. Desmond grimaces. He’s got a week of stubble rough across his jaw and dark circles under his eyes to match her own. 

If nothing else, that softens her a little, to see that he’s suffering the same as she is. 

“I can’t sleep,” he says. “I thought you could help.” He’s fidgeting with his ring finger, squeezing it tight around the base. He can’t quite meet her eyes as he adds, “That maybe we could do… that thing.” Lucy crosses her arms over her lap.

”Do you want me to hypnotize you again?” Desmond’s head jerks eagerly.

”Yes.” That’s what she needs to hear. 

”I can.” Desmond’s on his feet before she’s gotten out of the bedroll. She draws back instinctively from his offered hand when it falls into her line of sight, but then she takes it. The feel of it hasn’t changed much from the day they left Abstergo, but it will, given time. Desmond can’t sit still when they get him out of the Animus, and he always comes back from his excursions through Monteriggioni with his palms scraped raw from climbing.

She lets go first when she’s standing. She goes to get her chair to drag it over to the side of the Animus. The noise grates on her ears, but when she’s done, Desmond’s already sitting down on the Animus. He raises his arm, hovers it just outside the armrest port, then drops it back to his lap.

Lucy yawns. She ducks her head into her hand, eyes shut around the force of it, before looking up again.

Desmond is staring at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says as he pulls his gaze away, but it comes back like he can’t help himself. “I could probably count the number of times I’ve seen you with your hair down on one hand.” On mention, Lucy goes to tuck it back behind her ear. Her hair feels limp and oily, and she’s not surprised to feel the whisper of dead strands tangle around her fingers and come loose. She shakes them off.

She’d like a bath, a bed, a place to catch her breath. Wanting things doesn’t mean she gets them.

“Sit back,” she says, and there’s no need for her to press her hand over Desmond’s collarbone to guide him down. He’s already leaning into the familiar backrest of the Animus. Her index finger slips under the dip of his t-shirt’s collar to rest against warm skin and the soft curl of his chest hair. She can’t tell if the pulse echoing up through her fingertip is her own or his. She could take her hand away now; it’s already overly indulgent. She doesn’t.

“We could-” There’s a tired attempt at humor that fails his voice. Lucy presses down firmer, though there’s nowhere else for Desmond to go. He doesn’t protest. “We could turn it on. Get some work done. Since I’m already here.” Exhaustion’s already clinging to him like a waxy coat.

Otherwise, Lucy might have said yes. She’s supposed to say yes, to move this mission forward.

She’s supposed to keep Desmond intact. She can choose what to prioritize without her judgment being questioned, so long as both objectives are completed.

“No, Desmond,” she says, for the sake of saying his name one last time. He shifts his legs, settling more comfortably, and tips his head to look at her. Every sound amplifies itself against the walls of the sanctuary. It’s unnatural to be near the Animus without hearing the growl of fans and feeling the room heat around its towers, but it’s just as silent and harmless as any computer when turned off. The only thing that interrupts them is the soft buzz of the lights. Soon, Desmond won’t be able to hear that either.

“Subject seventeen,” Lucy says, and Desmond’s brow furrows even as a sigh escapes him and tension leaves his shoulders. Lucy’s tone is practiced, clear and calm. “Eyes forward, hands at your sides.” Desmond drags himself to heel, resting his hands prone on the Animus and his eyes straight ahead.

The image of Altaïr unsettles him, even as a statue. It’s a mirror test equally passed and failed. Aggravating Desmond won’t help her right now, so-

Again, there’s no reason to lift her hand over Desmond’s eyes and cover them herself. Just commanding him to shut them would be quicker and easier. She feels the tickle of his eyelashes on her palm, the rub of his brows as they settle.

She takes her hand back. With his head tilted into the seat and his eyes shut, he looks like he could be anywhere, anyone, in time. But he’s here with her. The unconscious flex of his fingers reminds her of that. If the Animus was on, he’d be limp, heavier than sleep, even misfired nerves halted before the impulses could reach his muscles.

“I’m going to guide your breathing,” Lucy says. Desmond’s eyes flicker beneath his lids, but they don’t open. “You will inhale for the count of five, and then exhale as I count back down. Do you understand your instructions, subject seventeen?”

“It’s breathing,” Desmond mumbles. “I can’t mess up breathing.”

“Refrain from speaking out of turn, subject seventeen,” Lucy admonishes, but if she can hear her small smile before she can restrain it, so can he. “Exhale now.” His breath escapes him in one sharp huff.

“One,” Lucy begins. Desmond inhales through his nose. “Two. Three. Four. Five.” Each number follows in an even rhythm, slow enough for his lungs to fill completely.

Lucy pauses. Desmond holds his breath, waiting for her permission.

“Five,” she grants it, “four, three,”—Desmond matches her speed, chapped lips parted around the slow release of air.—“two, one. Good job, subject seventeen.”

Desmond’s eyes flicker beneath his lids again. A shudder works its way up his spine and out of his shoulders, and it takes the tension clinging to his muscles with it.

“One,” Lucy begins again. Desmond breathes in deeply. When she hits five, she stops a second time, lets him feel the pressure of his own full lungs inside his chest, lets him get used to the reminder of her control that comes as they ache to release his breath.

She counts down. Desmond lets go. His shoulders slump a little heavier. “Good job, subject seventeen,” she repeats, same cadence. Desmond shivers again.

Feedback for Animus subjects was easy to control. Desynchronization simulates pain. Success directly stimulates the mind’s reward centers. An overcomplicated Skinner box. Desmond doesn’t have to be inside the simulation anymore for his body to remember how to respond to praise.

It was her voice that guided him in and out of the Animus initially. It’s her that he knows to respond to.

(What shouldn’t exist is the pit that opens in her stomach whenever she remembers Desmond doesn’t only associate her voice with the Animus. But Warren isn’t here. He prefers other methods, besides, he wouldn’t do this with Desmond. This is Lucy’s. This can be just Lucy’s.)

“Now, with every breath in, you will let my voice deeper into your mind. With every breath out, you will let go of your own thoughts.” She stops. “You will let go of everyone’s thoughts inside your head.” She’s never had one of these sessions with Desmond end prematurely because she triggered a bleed by sinking him too deeply, but she won’t risk it. If Desmond sleeps, then Altaïr and Ezio must, too. “Do you understand your instructions, subject seventeen?”

“I do,” Desmond answers, groggily. “No thoughts.” Lucy lets that slide. He wants to prove he’s listening, and he’s doing so well.

Lucy begins to count again. Desmond follows her, completely trusting.

Despite herself, she can feel a reassuring calm wash over her as she repeats the steps again and again. Desmond lets a little of his conscious mind fade away with every exhale, but Lucy is clearer, more in control than she ever gets to be.

She holds his breath. Desmond obeys until she begins her slow countdown again. She watches his stress trickle away in every little detail of his face—his slackening jaw, the tightness around his eyes giving way, the lazy swab of his tongue across his dry lips before he goes still again and waits for her voice to tell him what to do.

“Well done, subject seventeen,” she repeats again. Now, Desmond only tenses for the moment the praise hits his ears and then becomes as malleable as- as-

He’s not all the way gone. Lucy guides him, in and out, in and out, each time giving a little more of his mind away for her.

Lucy puts a hand on his thigh, leaning closer to observe him. Desmond doesn’t react except to exhale in time with her voice.

“You’re going to continue breathing without me,” Lucy tells him. “Inhale, and listen to my voice. Exhale, and let your mind empty. Do you understand your instructions, subject seventeen?”

Desmond’s head lolls in half of a nod. 

She understands the obsession with the Apple of Eden, if the control over another mind it gives is even more powerful than this.

She wonders if Desmond, if she had the Apple, if he would-

“You can feel that emptiness spreading out of your mind and into your body,” Lucy tells him as he breathes deeply. “Down through every limb, leaving you so heavy. Down your neck, and into your chest”—She can’t help herself; she reaches up to trace the imaginary path of her instructions through him. Desmond lies so obediently still beneath her hand.—“and down your arms. All the way to your fingers. Without my permission, you feel too heavy to move, and you don’t have my permission, subject seventeen. Do you understand?” Another lazy nod. 

“Would you like to try?” she says. Desmond shakes his head slowly. She persists. “Try to disobey me. Try to lift your arm.” Desmond lays still, the smallest wrinkle of a frown crossing his face before it melts into his next exhale. “Try to move your fingers. Try to open your eyes.” His eyelids flutter heavily but don’t even crack a millimeter. The effort alone seems to exhaust him even more, sending him further down into her control.

Lucy swallows. He only even tries to disobey because she asks him to. She splays her hand across his chest again to feel it rise and fall, steadying herself.

You don’t deserve this, whispers a little voice in the back of her head. She ignores it. She’s gotten very good at that. It had never helped her to survive Abstergo, only judged her no matter what she had to do, and she just hoped that one day, it would go quiet forever and leave her alone.

“It’s spreading down through your torso, down your legs, into your feet. It’s spreading into every corner of your body until you feel so empty and so heavy.” Desmond asked her to do this. He wanted her help. 

She can keep him safe. No one else can. Just her. 

“When I give you permission, you may do exactly what I say, subject seventeen,” she commands. Desmond doesn’t nod, but his obedience is right under her hands. “And whenever you do as I say, you will be rewarded. You’ll feel so good whenever you obey.

“Now open your eyes. Look at me.” Desmond does so with effort. He gazes up at her like she’s the only thing he can see.

She could do anything to him.

“Tell me a secret, subject seventeen,” Lucy says. Sometimes, those are things she can put into use, like Desmond telling her that the days he wakes up and struggles to remember who he is are becoming more and more common. Sometimes, those are things she has to keep for herself, like Desmond whispering how cold it was the night he ran away.

“I hate being called that.” Desmond’s voice comes out sleepy and soft. “I let you- I trust you, Lucy, but I’m barely holding on to myself,” Desmond mumbles, a barely-there frown managing to distort his placid expression. And then, a shaky breath, “I still don’t even know his name.” It isn’t hard to guess who he means.

She almost tells him. She almost names their ghost in the machine. Lucy’s jaw tightens, and faster than she has ordered him to do so every time she’s done this before, she says, “Desmond, forget that you told me that.”

Desmond’s frown melts. He blinks at her, and she can watch his mind emptying out completely again.

“Subject seventeen,” she corrects herself, “you will not forget yourself.” She’s not sure if that’s an order he can follow, but she gives it, and he doesn’t have a choice, here, but to listen.

She takes his hand. Desmond watches without objection as she turns it and runs her fingers over his palm. She raises it further. It’s warm against her cheek, fingers yielding as she guides them to cup her face. She presses into his stolen touch. 

It’s so easy when Desmond can’t want anything from her.

“Well done, subject seventeen,” she remembers to say after a minute. She has to let him go eventually, but her cheek holds his warmth. Desmond shivers under her praise, his eyes unfocusing even more.

There was a point to this, Lucy needs to remember. This is for Desmond. 

“Stand,” she orders. She rises next to Desmond to help him up, taking as many excuses to touch him as possible. Desmond sways on his feet. “Come with me. Good. That’s it.” She bites back what very nearly comes out as ‘good boy, Desmond’ and tells herself it’s because she isn’t meant to be using his name right now.

She leads Desmond to his own bedroll and guides him down into it. His has thinner bedding than hers does. Desmond had his choice of any of them and picked this one anyway. He lays down easily and he relaxes again with each steady breath. Lucy slips down a slope, from crouching over him, to sitting next to him, to laying beside to him.

She pillows her head on the bend of her elbow and watches him because no one can stop her. Desmond’s breathing is still rhythmic, just like she ordered. 

Hypnosis is not magic. There’s only so far she can push before Desmond’s unconscious mind would push back. Otherwise, it would all be so easy. She wouldn’t have to be alone in this if she could whisper into Desmond’s ear and take him back to the Templars convinced and converted. 

If- When they find the Apple-

Her stomach rolls nauseously at the thought, and she sits up so that she doesn’t have to look at his calm expression. She shakes her head, dragging her hands up her face. 

It’s not something she has to worry about. With his ancestry, the Apple’s mind-altering effects would probably slide off of him like water, even if his body was more willing to do whatever harm was ordered of it.

Not harm. Or, no more harm than he would do as an Assassin. Or- She’s so tired. 

“Desmond,” she calls, guiltily, and he doesn’t stir but his inhale hitches just slightly to let her know she’s been heard before it evens out again. “Come here, Desmond.” He follows her, pushing himself up off of his bedroll.

She hesitates.

But not for very long.

”Put your arms around me,” Lucy says. It sends a sharp spike of fear up her spine to feel him move in behind her. Then, his touch follows, and it isn’t demanding, but clumsy, obedient, eager to please her. Even the hug she’s prompted is loose enough for her to escape from without much effort, if not just by telling him to let go.

“Say you understand,” she whispers. Desmond lifts his head, settling his chin on her shoulder like it’s the most natural place in the world for him to be.

”I understand, Lucy,” he mumbles. She puts her hand over his and rubs her thumb over his ring finger. He doesn’t have an Assassin’s hands. Not the ones lost to time that he expects to see when he looks down some days and not the earned and rough-worn calluses of fighting and climbing that he might have had if he’d never run from the Brotherhood.

Neither does she.

He can make himself into a member of the Brotherhood again, and some of them might even call that redemption for leaving. She could cut her own finger off, and it still wouldn’t be enough for more than a quicker death than she’d probably earn now. 

Say I forgive you, gets caught in her throat. Desmond’s chest rises and falls against her back. She can feel his stubble rub against her neck as he shifts.

Her chest goes tight.

“That’s enough,” she says, releasing his hand. “Get away from me.” Desmond doesn’t react at all to the way her voice shakes or the harshness of the command. He lets her go and sinks back into his bedroll, waiting.

Lucy needs to catch her breath.

“When I count down from five, you’ll fall deeply asleep. You won’t remember anything from your trance. And you won’t dream.” It’s the least she can give him. “Get some rest, Desmond.

“And when you can’t sleep again, you’ll come find me,” she says. “You’ll ask for this again.” She swallows, clasps her hands around each other tightly. “Do you understand your instructions, subject seventeen?” She doesn’t look back. “Out loud, Desmond, do you understand?”

”Yes, Lucy,” he obeys. She turns to him. The sheet meant to cover him got tossed aside earlier, and he makes no move to correct it on his own. She pulls it up over him as she starts to count. “Five.” Desmond lets out a heavy exhale. “Four.” She doesn’t want to let him go, to leave it up to chance and a whispered command that he will come to her again. “Three.” She imagines Shaun or Rebecca walking in on the two of them and flinches. “Two.” It’s going to be over soon, she keeps telling herself it’ll be over soon, but it doesn’t make things better like it should. “One.” She holds her breath. Desmond’s head tips to the side heavily.

She puts a hand on his chest. He doesn’t stir. 

“Good night, Desmond,” she says, more for herself than for him. 

Lucy drags herself up to her feet. Her back aches. She reaches in her pocket for a hair-tie that isn’t there. There would be one by her computer. 

It’s a long night.

[zromby-archive]

'well i've lost it all, i'm just a silouhette, a lifeless face that you'll soon forget. my eyes are damp from the words you left, ringing in my head, when you broke my chest.'

[bewareofchris]

R | Desmond/Lucy | Implied Violence, Implied Character Death

Desmond had two lives: the future he remembered living in and the present he woke up in.

From @dreamingcellardoor‘s prompt

Character A time travels back to the past to kill Character B. It's necessary because Character B has turned into a monster (metaphorically or literally) that will end the world or something equally terrible. But you know, Character B wasn't always like that...

[clingyduoapologist]

The thing about Desmond miles and Lucy stillman is that as characters they are so badly written that they’re accidently compelling if you look at it specifically through the lens of a dynamic I’ve constructed for them in my beautiful mind

[quietwingsinthesky]

sleepily written deslucy angst ft The Bad Implications

Lucy has Desmond pinned on his stomach the first time the desire makes itself known.

It’s getting harder to keep him down, but she still manages it, always. Desmond sucks in air beneath her as she drags his arm up behind his back and leans her weight into it to keep him down.

Desmond squirms. “Fuck, Lucy,” at first just this hiss that escapes him when he can’t get away. Then, Lucy pulls his arm further back, bears down harder, and suddenly Desmond’s voice is louder, broken with pain and panic, “Stop! Lucy, stop, you’re hurting me!”

And there’s nothing he can do about it.

That realization hits her so hard that it knocks the breath out of her, and she does release him. Desmond knocks her off, and he cradles his arm, wincing at the leftover ache of her hold. Lucy stares.

Nothing he could have done about it, and- Accidents happen when you’re sparring; Shaun and Rebecca wouldn’t question it, much. Desmond might even believe her if she said she didn’t mean to.

“For a minute there, I thought you weren’t going to let go,” Desmond says, and his smile is- Brittle. Wavering.

Lucy can still feel him under her hands. The easy way she could have forced it. Desmond’s waiting for her to say that she wouldn’t hurt him.

Lucy is trying. She’s trying, and she can still feel the way he was struggling under her, and she can still hear those sharp, pained gasps he was making, and it’s in her now, the idea that she could break him and barely have to try. (She’s trying, and there’s a hot stain of hands gripping her shoulders, and her voice comes from far away like an echo when she says stop, you’re making me uncomfortable, please can we focus on our work, and she hears all the promises that it will never happen again that are forgotten by the next day.) Desmond is good at keeping that smile together. It takes practice. Lucy has put in the hours.

He’d take her promises, and she could get him under her again. He’d fight, and he’d lose, and Lucy could hurt him.

“I wasn’t.” Lucy watches his expression collapse in on itself. She can barely hear herself speak, but maybe it’s louder for Desmond, maybe it’s above the ringing in her ears.

“Jesus,” Desmond says, quietly, “what did I do?” Like there’s any answer she can give which makes this okay.

The fear she’s caused has a bitter aftertaste. It lingers in her mouth like worse memories. What made her is what she is, deep down. Desmond would have figured that out eventually.

She’s weaker for letting him go, can’t think straight, can’t breathe right. She would have control if she’d taken it.

“You trusted me,” she warns him. Desmond squeezes his sore arm. It might bruise, might ache for days.

“I still do.” And how far would she have to push before-

She chooses to believe he’s lying.

[transmasc-rose]

i am so sorry for dragging you guys into the assassin’s creed hole to suffer with me 🤝🤝🤝

Its ok we are suffering here together 🤝🤝🤝as a Yugioh fan I am. Well versed in enjoying Extremely Mid Media. Its catnip to me. My favourite Final Fantasy game is the one known for being disappointing.

...but oh my god.

The characters have compelling concepts! And not a single thing is done about them! Every day I am sitting here thinking "do the writers even know what they did to Lucy" and given how much they change her every game, the answer is no, BUT I DO.

Which just makes me more invested. Unfortunately. I am looking at how the narrative treats her, and Clay, and Desmond, and I am chewing at the walls like "YOU HAD INTERESTING IDEAS. COME BACK HERE AND RESOLVE THEM."

But I know. I know. If they resolved them. They would be so terribly mid. They would have done deslucy space wedding. They would have made Clay a Daniel Cross 2.0.

But I can dream.

And more importantly, I can spend hours digging through game text and supplemental material to find evidence for my pet theories instead of being productive.

[caiminnent]

glass houses [Shaun & Lucy with mentions of one-sided shaundes & deslucy, rated T]

Prompt(s): sleep deprivation (BTHB, 2/25) + 14

Summary: “We’re in love with the same person. Friendships have been built on less common ground.”

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Tags: College AU, Bonding, Pining, Unrequited Crush

2.3K || Also on AO3.

Forty three—no, forty two minutes left to have lunch, get his essay printed and rush to Leonardo’s office on the other side of the campus—and Rebecca is still droning on and on about the part next Saturday, because clearly the life he doesn’t have is more important than the grade he won’t be getting unless they pick up the pace already. Murder on school grounds would probably get him expelled, among other things, which is why he’s only contemplating it; but an under-slept, under-caffeinated man has his limits and he is approaching his fast.

“No, Rebecca,” he repeats on a deep sigh as they finally get in line behind a couple in matching PJ’s, seemingly having a heated argument through sharp looks and contained gestures in that way only couples can. “I do not want to come to the party, thank you very much. I’m not even invited, remember?”

“I could ask Lucy,” she offers, unfazed. “We’re having lunch with her anyway, I could mention it then—”

His stomach drops.

“—I’m sure she won’t mind. I mean, the more the merrier—”

Taking a deep breath through his nose, “We’re what?” he cuts in. The Couple glance over with raised brows and pursed lips, as if he sullied their petty issues by having his own.

She frowns. “What?”

He just shakes his head. Lunch with Lucy, Christ. Today just keeps giving. “You won’t ask her to invite me,” he says, pinning her with his I Mean It, Rebecca look. “Or don’t even hope for a single page from my notes ever again.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll swear on anything, Rebecca.”

Fishing her phone out of her pocket, “Whatever,” she throws, fingers already dancing on the screen. His own remains suspiciously silent in his bag. “What’s your beef with Lucy anyway?”

The Couple aren’t even pretending not to listen in, half-turned in their direction as they are. He glares steadily at them until they get their noses out of his business and back into their own, although some of those meaningful looks are probably about him this time. Hell if he cares.

“I don’t even know Lucy,” he points out, rubbing at the throbbing spot over his brow—not that that’s ever helped. “Why would I have a problem with her?”

“You get weird whenever I mention her, man. Coulda thought you had a thing for her if I didn’t know better.” Pockets the phone again, shrugging a shoulder at his look. “It’s either that or hate.”

Oh for the love of— “I don’t hate her, either,” he says—the truth, too, no matter the disbelieving face she makes at him. He has no real reason to hate Lucy. He just... doesn’t prefer to share space with her if he doesn’t absolutely have to.

If he sometimes goes out of his way to make sure he doesn’t, well.

By some miracle—more likely, because they’re finally within reach of food—she drops the subject, shoving a tray into his hands and grabbing one of her own. His stomach curls into itself at the sight of half the containers, the other half he can’t even recognise beyond had it before and didn’t die.

He accepts a serving of each and trails off after Rebecca.

Once they push past the growing crowd towards the tables, scanning the sea of heads, “You should try to get along with Lucy, you know,” she pipes up—because Rebecca leaving anything alone would’ve been too much like good luck to happen to him. “You know who she’s friends with.”

“Rebecca.”

“I’m just saying. Sheesh, someone’s touchy today.”

And whose fault is that, he’s about to snap when he spots Lucy off to the side, dumping an ungodly amount of sugar into her coffee—from Creed Coffee, no less. His first stop as soon as he drops off his essay; he’s earned a treat.

Because it’s just that kind of day, Lucy chooses that moment to look up and catch him staring like a buffoon. She beams at him like there was no one she would’ve been happier to see, waving them over.

“There she is,” Rebecca says, taking a sharp turn in her direction. He follows suit, squeezing between tables she breezes through and almost spilling his chow all over people on three separate occasions until they safely take their places across from Lucy.

To his credit, when Lucy smiles at him again, he does try to return it. His face muscles ignore the command entirely.

The women have already jumped into conversation on nothing he particularly cares about; he tunes them out for the most part and buries himself into his ‘food’ instead, fielding Rebecca’s attempts to lure him in with one-word responses and the occasional grunt when he can get away with it. About twenty minutes left; he can make it if he hurries. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Ignore him,” she stage-whispers to Lucy—with ‘him’ sitting right next to them, thank you very much. “His coffee machine broke last night.”

The audacity. “She means she broke it,” he clarifies around his spoon. It’s not grumbling if he’s right.

“Semantics,” she waves it off, reaching for her coat. “I’ll fix it when I get back, promise.”

“Wait, where the hell are you going?”

Raising her brows, “To turn in our papers, like we talked?” Rebecca says, confusion so thick in her tone that he almost doubts his own memory—except he could recognise that glint in her eyes anywhere. “You’ll keep Lucy company while I’m gone, right?”

That meddling little—

“Right,” he says for Lucy’s benefit, who is glancing between them with polite curiosity, doing his best to convey you owe me so much for this with one look. “Of course I will.”

Rebecca dares to grin at him, dropping the pretence altogether. All of three seconds and she’s off, leaving only an unused fork behind.

Without her around, the table has gone alarmingly smaller, Lucy everywhere within his sight unless he stares straight down at his tray. Had he ever been alone with Lucy before? Alone alone, within speaking distance, without anything or anyone to hide behind?

He doesn’t even have coffee to hide behind now.

One slides in front of him.

Raising her hands, “You look like you need it more,” Lucy explains, that too-warm smile on her lips; he feels shittier the longer he looks at it. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He did catch a sight of himself on the way here—not his best moment.

The polite no, thank you he should say is on the tip of his tongue—almost impossible to get out with the warm temptation is sitting right there in front of him, right under his nose, smelling—well, sort of like a unicorn exploded in there and caramel. Not that he can afford to be picky.  

Besides, he’s survived vending machine sludge; it only goes up from there.

“Come on, take it,” she insists, honest-to-god batting eyelashes at him. “So that I can feel a little better about asking for your ComLit notes next week.”

He snorts and accepts the bribe, only too eager. It’s syrupy to the point of nauseating, not unlike those energy drinks Rebecca fills the dustbin with, except with a lot less immediate kick. He doubts there’s any caffeine in there, even.

Magic might be involved, however, given the way he’s already feeling a tad closer to human.

He nods his thanks. She returns it.

“You know, Shaun,” she starts slowly, with an odd sort of caution—or maybe he’s just not used to people who think before they speak anymore. “I don’t know what Rebecca threatened you with, but you don’t have to sit with me just to be nice. I know you don’t really like me.”

He can’t help a wince—then a deeper one, when it hits that this was probably among the worst ways he could’ve reacted to a statement like that. Leave it to him to put his foot in his mouth without even opening it.

“It’s fine,” she adds, saving him from himself. “I mean it. Not everyone has to be friends.”

That’s not it, not at all.

Thing is, under different circumstances, they could’ve been friends, he and Lucy. He doesn’t know her, not really; but by the electives they keep coming across each other in and the books she carries, he doesn’t doubt they could find plenty to talk about if, if, he could get his head out of his arse and get over—

Well. He obviously can’t tell her all that.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not you,” he allows, the closest thing to an explanation he can afford to give.

“It’s okay,” she says gently, those huge, impossibly blue puppy eyes of hers trained on his. “I know.”

Blood freezes in his veins.

It’s a simple phrase. It doesn’t have to mean anything beyond the face value. There’s no reason for it to; he’d been careful—more than, really—but that smile, all sadness and sympathy—

He swallows against the bitter taste in his mouth, a light burn all the way down his throat, pooling in the pit of his stomach. “You do?”

“I do,” she confirms, jerking her head somewhere to his far right. He follows her gaze to—

Oh, hell. She does.

“He doesn’t know,” she answers his unasked question, lowly enough that the rush of blood in his ears almost drowns out the words. “Don’t worry, you’re not obvious about it or anything.”

Clearly he is, if she noticed.

He risks another glance—he is sprawled on his seat with an arm resting on the other one, laughing at whatever bollocks story Cross might be telling, that stupid one-strap bag of his sitting on the table.

“You’re sure he doesn’t?” he has to ask, heart both at his feet and racing in his chest somehow.

She nods. “Positive. He’s the worst when it comes to this sort of thing, you wouldn’t believe it. He won’t notice unless you come at him with a brick that says I like you.”

Something at the back of his mind prickles like static.

See, past the initial shock, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where he’d gone wrong. As far as social circles go, his and his are on different planes entirely. They don’t have mutual friends beyond the tangential; they don’t frequent the same places unless Rebecca drags him out to Bad Weather; they hardly talked enough for him to develop this… thing he’s been saddled with, even. He’d thought—as long as he kept to his corner of life where he doesn’t have to face them, he’d thought he could pretend his feelings away.

It had never even occurred to him that someone might notice him not looking. That someone might have reason to care why.

He’s fairly certain of the answer when he asks, his stomach heavy with dread, “Speaking from experience?”

Her face goes carefully blank. It’s as good a confirmation as any.

He takes a deep breath, locking the irrational sting of disappointment down and away, where he can pretend it doesn’t exist, either. What does it matter if she is the competition? He had decided not to pursue that line of thought long ago. What does it matter if he’d already lost?

“You’re not obvious, either,” he tries. She smiles, if that rueful little curl can be called one. “He doesn’t know?”

She shrugs, too nonchalant to actually be that. “Or doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. I dropped, like, a lot of hints; no one’s that oblivious.”

Would it be awkward if he kind of sort of maybe wants to give her a hug?

It would, wouldn’t it.

What even is his life.

“Anyway,” she sighs, glancing at her watch. “Time to leave. Vidic’s class.”

Ugh. That he doesn’t envy her for. “Good luck,” he offers, reaching for the cup again—a bit sorry to have taken it from her, now.

She makes a face. “Thanks.” She drops her spoon on her mostly full tray, Rebecca’s abandoned fork with it. “By the way, it’s his birthday next Saturday. We’re having a party at our place; you should come.”

He almost chokes on the next sip, saved by a stray half second. “Me?”

She raises a brow, a perfectly arched duh.

His brain stutters. Why does she—why would she want him there, if she knows? If she—

It makes no sense.

Lucy is still seated across from him, calmly waiting him out like there’s nothing odd to this. Just two friends making casual weekend plans.

Not all that sure it’s not the exhaustion fucking with him, he licks his lips. “So you’re fine with…”

“That you’re on the same boat?” She shrugs again, zipping up her jacket. “We’re in love with the same person. Friendships have been built on less common ground.”

Huh.

Digging into her bag, she comes up with a blue marker, reaching for the other cup. “My number,” she says as she writes on the sleeve and puts it back, written part facing him—all neat, efficient lines, because of course. “Let me know if you make up your mind.”

He nods blankly, for lack of a better response. She smiles, standing up with her tray.

She’s already halfway to the door when he remembers: “I’ll bring the notes!”

She winks at him over her shoulder, fixes her bag and disappears into the crowd.

[desmondmlles]

I’M DESLUCY TRASH

[cpunkmagneto]

Lucy: what Desmond I know how to have fun

Desmond: I'd like to see that

Lucy: okay when we're finished saving the world I'll show you

Desmond: wait can I get that in writing

me: please get married

[kaschra]

Some DesLucy art again

[onlyonezenn]

Bonus:

Lucy knows what's going down.

[ask-the-moderns]

Eh.