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[personal profile] darkluna
I have this bad habit of keeping a list of kink meme prompts I totally intend to fill someday, but never getting around to it, or getting around to it so damn late that replying in the meme itself would just be stupid.

I was trying to take a nap today, and a fill started writing itself in my head. I blame the fugue-like state of sleep deprivation. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The original prompt went like this:
I'd really love to see Dave/Sollux. Like, either a human high school AU or something or even just everyone finally meets in person, whatever. Dave meets Sollux and finds him...too attractive. And his lisp is so distracting, and Dave isn't sure why, but it's incredibly sexy and Sollux himself is really adorable to boot. And Dave actually worries about his apparent lack of eating/sleeping regularly.

bonus if side mentions of karkat/john or john/vriska
s-sob this anon would really love a human AU but anything is fine anon just really want dave/sollux interaction and maybe eventual light smut and *dat lisp*.


So, anon long lost to the mists of time, here's part 1 for you. Humanstuck highschool AU, no title yet.

---

The hard thing about being a connoisseur of irony is that sometimes you can't tell whether something started out cool. You can judge to within a degree where a thing lands on that glorious circle of "cool" to "so cool it kind of sucks" to "sucky" to "so sucky it's cool." You can aim with unerring accuracy for a specific spot on that circle, like you do with your webcomic, which goes, in your expert opinion, around said circle six times before triumphantly straddling the line between "so shitty it's awesome" and "so shitty it's just shitty." You like to think it sits there on that line, wiggling its pert metaphorical ass impudently, daring anyone to guess how much of its shittiness is deliberate.

All of the shittiness is deliberate. All of it.

But sometimes you can't tell, and right now you're waiting in line in the cafeteria, thinking about a specific case. A specific person, in fact, that new kid, Captor or something, currently shuffling along four spots ahead of you. Is he a coolkid pretending to be lame, or is he so lame that he goes around to cool?

You've decided to make him a case study in this important and neglected branch of irony research. Over the last few days, you've observed his mismatched shoes, those stupid 3D glasses, and the way he takes notes, with his whole skinny body curled around the desk so he's practically writing upside-down. Why doesn't he just get a damn left-handed notebook? you wonder, but one of the things that makes him so defiantly uncool that he rounds the arc of the circle back into cool is that there's so many ways he could make shit easier on himself, so many, and he doesn't seem to do any of them.

Does he even comb his hair, for example? It's all cowlicks, four in particular standing up on top of his head like a crazy double pair of horns. His hair's so stupid that you can't stop looking at it. He's really just a trainwreck of uncool, and you're rubbernecking at it with your cameraphone out.

That's a good one. You make a mental note to remember that one.

Captor mutters something with all the downward-staring, slouch-shouldered awkwardness you expect, and you barge up to right behind him in line in time to hear the lunch lady bark, "What?"

Like you, he's mastered the art of rolling his eyes with his entire body, so that it's perfectly obvious that's what he does, even with the glasses. "The thoup," he says, and oh fuck, that lisp is too perfect, it's like the grace note to the trainwreck. (Can trainwrecks have grace notes? You unilaterally decide they can.)

It's also really weirdly sexy, a thought so profoundly uncool that you instinctively glance around to make sure no one can tell you had it. By the time you've ascertained your cool is intact, Captor's gone.

But not far.

Picking an ironic lunch from the choices available in your high school cafeteria is a challenge, and you doubt anyone appreciates the effort you put into it. You do it anyway. You're just committed like that. Your favorite, which you get today, is a veggie burger topped with cheese and bacon.

You probably need to refine that. It's too obvious. Though maybe it's obvious enough that it works on even more layers, which is always the goal.

You can get away with sitting at a table by yourself, because you own that shit, you sit there like you're holding court and no commoner's been granted the privilege of sharing the royal table yet.

Captor really, really doesn't own it. It's, like, fascinating how much he doesn't, slouched in the corner seat of his corner table all spikes and angles, like he's in the wild and that's his defense against natural predators. Hostile, do not approach, except if you got close enough to poke him, he'd just curl into a ball or something.

You approach.

"Why do you wear those? World's 3D already, or haven't you noticed?" Pretty good opener, you think. Nice mix of insolent and curious.

Captor's shoulders shift as if you've put a hand on his back and he's trying to shake it off, angular shoulderblades poking like wings at the fabric of his t-shirt. "None of your-- fuck off," he says, and you realize he's trained himself to avoid giving the lisp away as much as possible. Nope, can't have that.

You claim the seat opposite him. There's no place like 127.0.0.1, the t-shirt says, because of course it does.

"I need your cooperation in a very important project," you say. "For science." You take a bite of your burger. You don't point out its contents. Trying too hard is the death of irony. Most of the time.

"What ith it?" Captor says, and scowls. God damn, the scowl's almost cuter than the lisp. He's acting all absorbed in the task of crumbling about a hundred crackers into his soup.

"A web project. The coding guy, that's you, right?"

"Right..."

"I want to see how crappy we can make something and still force it to go viral." Which is totally off the top of your head and brilliant, if you say so yourself. Hide your real project inside a fake one.

Captor quirks an eyebrow behind the glasses, face otherwise blank. He's good.

"I want to see how low the lowest common denominator goes. Plumb the depths of irony, hold a mirror up to society."

Captor blinks. "You are tho full of thit," he says, and he's too busy trying not to grin to bother with scowling this time.

"I'm hearing a yes," you coo.

The grin breaks out, just for a second. "Yeah. Okay, yeah."

He scoops the crackers out onto the plate, all soggy like some sort of disgusting home ec project, like papier mâché slurry or some shit, and eats those. He doesn't touch the rest of the soup. He's so skinny, he's like bird bones thrown together anywhichway, and is that seriously all he's going to eat? Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and wrap a hand around one of his wrists. Your middle finger and thumb overlap.

Captor jerks his arm away. "Dude, what the fuck?"

That was so uncool. What the fuck, indeed, came over you? "You'll have to eat human food more normally if you don't want anyone to figure out you're an alien," you improvise, totally saving the situation. "Possibly from the future."

"Nah," he says. "I'm counting on everyone thinking you're crazy and not believing you." He gathers the wreckage he's spawned and picks up his tray to leave.

"I'll find your spaceship!" you call after him, pretending to pretend you don't care about the looks you're getting. It's all about the layers of irony. "We'll see who's crazy then!"

He flips you off behind his back as he walks away, and you've reached your verdict.

He is so, so cool.

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