You exchange an awkward glance with Karkat right before Vriska grins sadistically and slams the door shut. His face is locked in a scowl, and your heart sinks. Outside, you can hear how that crazy girl shoves something - probably a mop? - through the handles of the closet to make sure you won’t get out before the time is up. So, problem number one: You're quite literally stuck in here. You could swear that's not normally how the game is played... or is it? It's your first time playing, but isn’t this shit supposed to work on the honor system? Anyway, they’re all out there, so how she thinks either of you is going to be able to sneak out is beyond you.
This brings you to problem number two, namely all of them being out there, waiting, listening. After approximately five awkward seconds, Terezi screeches, “I DON’T HEAR ANY SMOOCHING, BOYS!” at the top of her lungs like a goddamn banshee. Five. Fucking. Seconds. If she’s so eager to hear boys making out, you’ve got some BL audio dramas to lend her absolutely gratis, free of charge, pro bono publico, no in-game purchases necessary. Except that won’t get her off your dick right now, so actually revise that, she’s not getting anything from you.
Which is as good a time as any to introduce your third problem. Your dick. Well, not necessarily just the appendage in itself, although it’s certainly one of the co-conspirators in this plot against your dignity. It’s just that you’re 100% head over frayed Converse for Karkat, and the moment you realized you were going in with him, you were already half hard. It’s mortifying how excited Dave Jr is about being confined in a small space with the dude, and about the dude in general.
Listen, Nepeta had with her sneaky ninja ways actually managed to snag a picture of him in his swim trunks, during the approximately .00005 seconds that he was visible above the water line on y’all’s last trip to the beach. He’s blurred like a cryptid, sure, but it’s a photo in which you can see his skin, his chest, his beautiful eyes and his nice soft tummy which you know he’s self-conscious about but you think it’s the prettiest thing ever. Anyway, she’d put it with the rest in one of the cute quote Furriendship Albums unquote she makes, and then... you’d stolen it. But in your defense, that was honestly an act of solidarity, since you’re sure Karkat had been planning to nick it and destroy the evidence anyway. He’s just not comfortable with being perceived, and you sort of get that.
... Yeah, so you’re not proud of this, but you used it to jack off once. Once. You felt like shit after and never did it again, indeed destroying the photo like you knew he’d want, but the one time you did it? You came within like 30 seconds. Just from a photo. So you’re not going into this experiment with high hopes, is what you’re saying.
Karkat elbows you in the side and you let out a sound like a deflating balloon, thoughts derailing. “Come on, Strider, let’s just get this over with. I know you’re ‘so straight you’ve never even used a turn signal’,” he manages to mimic your flat affect even though he’s hissing out the words, “or whatever kind of cringe shit you’ve come up with lately to tell everyone about your unassailable heterosexuality - as if anyone cares! As if being a straight boy isn’t the most boring no-news shit possible. But this is not about your preferences, or mine for that matter, this is about survival! Do you hear me? I’m not going out there to face the scorn of our peers because we both chickened out on a simple make-out session, so suck it up buttercup, because I’m about to kiss you.”
Problem number four: He thinks you’re straight. Or, if you’re as transparent as you sometimes feel, at the very least aggressively closeted. You’ve been lowkey making fun of him for being the openly, comfortably queer kid collectively raised by a bunch of hippies, as if that’s not just envy on your part. Shit, you probably would’ve bullied him outright if you weren’t both kind of parts of the same gang of friends via a slow process of plasmogamy, and that’s just not kosher in those circumstances.
Well, that is... as much as it’s ever kosher to bully people just because you’re an insecure little jerk and bullying is the only kind of semi-positive attention you’ve ever gotten growing up. Hm.
So yeah, that’s it. You have it so, so bad for this guy. Like glancing-in-his-direction-and-doodling-hearts-in-your-notebook kind of bad. (Though not really, because fellas is it gay to draw hearts while yearning? Of course it is.) But he thinks you’re a straight/in denial asshole and he doesn’t know that you’re already completely fucking hard and all your friends are out there listening to what is unequivocally gonna be the worst seven minutes of your life.
You try to play it cool. “Fuck, dude, I didn’t know you were jonesing for the Strider that hard.” You’re about to die. You hate yourself. You just referred to yourself in third person and you just had to use the word ‘hard’ because that’s literally everything you can think about right now. Ow. It’s actually really uncomfortable.
He lets out a frustrated growl, and you only just manage to register his hand groping around on the front of your shirt, before he balls it into a fist and forcefully yanks you down to his level. “At least kissing you will mean I won’t have to listen to the liquid excrement that pours out of your mouth every waking moment,” he says.
Karkat then proceeds to belligerently smush his lips against yours, and at first you think that hey, maybe you can manage this after all. He tastes more than a little like barbecue flavor chips, his nose bumps hard against yours, and his pointy-as-fuck eyebrow piercing somehow stabs your cheekbone. But then his other arm wraps around your waist and he pulls in closer, his lips soften slightly against yours as he lets out an almost inaudible sigh, and you know you absolutely cannot manage it. This is it. You’re in Hell. You would like to please return this important coming-of-age ritual, because its title severely misrepresents the actual experience.
Fuck, what are you doing with your hands? It’s absolutely a tool move to just stand here holding them rigidly at your side, stiff as a board in every sense, and you know he’s going to think you’re totally pussying out on him. You consider just putting your hand on his shoulders and holding on, but that’s barely better. On the other hand, you’re afraid that if you allow them anywhere near his body, you will immediately lose control of them. What if you slap his ass, or spontaneously grab a handful of tiddy? What then, Dave Strider? How are you gonna No Homo your way out of that one?
Okay, no, you can do this. What if you just... curl one around his soft, warm neck, and place the other one on the small of his b- okay, no that’s definitely his butt, you are touching his butt, but you can’t back down now. He lets out another small sound, licking your lower lip, and to cover up the way your soul might be ascending to the astral plane you take a firmer hold of his ass and pull him closer still.
Close enough that your bodies are in fact pressed against each other now. With you in your ironic 90s adidas pants, which are probably made from butterfly wings and gossamer threads, for all the camouflage they provide for a raging boner. He instantly freezes up next to you, and you know you’ve made a terrible mistake.
You can’t let him know you are panicking. You just can’t. It’s bad enough to have him not-quite-smirking at you in that hot asshole way over every little fucking thing you do that he perceives of as ‘gay’. If he actually finds out what you feel for him, what you’ve felt for him ever since fucking primary school? You’re done. Your life will officially be over. Someone might as well grab your useless meat sack and fire it right into orbit, there to be spiritually crucified in an eternal state of humiliation and despair; it’ll probably be a kinder option to what’ll happen to you at school.
So what do you do to cover up your obvious fear in the face of metaphorical death? You get angry, of course, and wildly overcompensate. You act like what’s about to happen is the most obvious course of action in the world, and charge right at it with little regard for dignity or common sense.
Fully aware that there’s no way for this scenario not to bite you firmly in the ass, you nonetheless grab the front of his stupid t-shirt, feeling the smoothness of the oh-so-ironic Barbie logo under your fingers as you pull him down. Not exactly being an expert kisser, nor particularly good at judging distances in the pitch black inside a stuffy closet, you of course make a horrid mess of it. You hear him make a strangled little sound which is probably a laugh, and your heart curls up in a painful little ball and whimpers, but then-
Oh god, you are kissing Dave Strider.
You are kissing Dave fucking Strider.
You can’t help yourself. This is what you’ve wanted for so damn long, it feels about as normal as breathing to you by now - more normal, if your inability to properly draw in breath at present is anything to go on. You’ve fantasized about this moment hundreds of times, if not thousands, rehearsing uncountable different scenarios and possible interactions leading up to this moment. Sure, being stuck in a closet surrounded by all your eavesdropping friends is not ideal, nor is the fact that you have to presume that the only reason he hasn’t shoved you away yet is that he, too, doesn’t want to be utterly dragged the moment those doors open. The circumstances could, in fact, be better in just about every conceivable way, save for the fact that the closet isn’t entirely full of spiders.
But it doesn’t matter. It’s still Dave’s lips pressed against yours, Dave’s breath fluttering across the face - it smells like gummy worms and that cheap apple gum he’s always chewing - and Dave’s body right in front of you. This is it. This might be the only chance you'll ever get. So how can you be blamed, really, for at least trying to enjoy it?
You are quite frankly astonished at your own boldness when you wrap an arm around him, drawing in close enough to actually smell his body somewhere under what you have to assume is off-brand Axe Bodyspray - cursed if true - and feel the heat of him so very close to you. That’ll have to be enough, or he’ll seriously think you’re trying something and deck you, but honestly? This is plenty. You only just hold back a happy little sigh, your heart fluttering and your pulse picking up, and you think hazily that really, what an apt name. This absolutely is going to be seven minutes in heaven. What comes after doesn’t matter, as long as you get to have this.
It’s just as well, really, that you’re so blissed out on the sensation of kissing him, or you might otherwise have actually screamed - or fainted, or... something - when he suddenly puts one hand on your neck while the other casually cradles your ass as if that’s normal. That must be a mistake, right? He probably doesn’t realize that he’s giving you a full-on ass massage with that hand. Fuck knows you’re just kind of squishy all over, so he probably thinks that’s your back he’s touching.
You’re not about to let your awful body distract you from what is actually happening to it, however. You straight up don’t know what to do with a boy - the boy, The One - gently fondling your ass, and you’re afraid to give away to him that that’s what he’s doing, so you try to ignore that part for now. But the hand on your neck, on the other hand... Fuck, he’s actually brushing his fingertips in little circles, seeming to play with the hairs at the nape of your neck. Is he aware that he’s doing that? You don’t know, but you never want him to stop.
Thinking that fuck it, might as well go all out while you’re here, you slightly part your lips and let your tongue flick out, testing the waters as it were. And it’s not your imagination, you’re sure of it; he definitely just made some kind of a sound, and you don’t think it was a grossed-out one. He... oh fuck, he’s leaning in more. His hand on your ass tightens and he’s pulling you flush against his body, and in a hazy state of panic you think this must be a prank, he’s having you on somehow. But you’ve suddenly turned into some kind of monstrous, Karkat-shaped aspic creation in his hands, and your arms don’t hold the strength to push him away.
You melt against him instead, pressing him against the back of of the stupid supply closet in the most awkwardly cramped embrace possible, thinking that if this is how you lose all your dignity then at least it died for a good cause. You’re full-on making out with Dave Strider, who is at least pretending to enjoy it right at this moment, and nothing can take this away from-
There are some things one can pretend at. There are some things that are possible to feign, and perhaps even really sell if accompanied, say, by grabbing an ass and not being nearly as terrible a kisser as one might hypothetically deserve. But then there are things like the incredibly obvious lump of hardness pressing right against your stomach in your current position, which does not belong in either of these categories. That’s not something in his pocket, that’s for damn sure.
No, that is very clearly a part of Dave Strider which is extremely happy to see you, even if he might disagree. That’s not just a bit of a half-chub, that’s a fully-formed hard-on and it’s pointing straight at you through his flimsy pants. You swear you can even feel the warmth of it as it pushes against you, and maybe you’re imagining that little twitch, but you wouldn’t completely rule it out.
Well, fuck. You're going to do something you’ll regret now, aren’t you?
You’re both standing stock still; if it wasn’t so fucking dark in here you’d probably be staring at each other. As it is you can only see the dim outline of the closet door, and the tiniest glitter of sparse light reflecting off a couple of the haphazardly attached safety pins on his ‘Punch your local nazi TODAY’-shirt. He’d arrived to the party in a hand-knitted sweater that read ACAB in beautifully curly script, and it had been just about the cutest thing you’d ever seen.
His breathing is uneven and fast, hitting your face in warm puffs. You close your eyes, pointlessly, against trying to imagine what he looks like right at this moment. His thick eyeliner is permanently smudged, but you wonder what state it might be in now. Before Vriska closed the door, he’d just pulled his hand through his hair, making it stand up more than usual. You think about that very faint hint of pink that suffuses his warm shade of brown skin when he blushes, and try so hard not to imagine that this is what he looks like right now, lips slightly parted, eyes wide.
Slowly, agonizingly, a small bead of pre is sliding along the underside of your shaft. How can you possibly be this horny right the fuck now? Why wouldn’t your boner have the good sense to self-destruct now that it has been detected, lest it be used against you by the enemy? Or, uh, not the enemy exactly, just the boy you’ve sort of treated in an unnecessarily antagonistic way because of the way looking at his long-ass eyelashes makes you feel like you’re melting.
“Okay, that was a good attempt,” says Terezi’s voice right outside the closet, “but since I’m not hearing any kissing I’m resetting the timer. Hey Siri, reset the-”
“W- No, wait, holdup,” you manage to squeeze out. “That’s bullshit, that’s not even the rules of the game. It’s seven minutes to do whatever the fuck we want, not seven minutes of nonstop tonsil licking to give one weird blind girl some spank bank material for later, what the fuck?”
“Her honor had heard your objection, and motions to immediately dismiss it as putrid cowardice,” Terezi cackles back. “Hey Siri, reset the timer.”
“Now come on, Tez, that’s not fai-” Jade begins, bless her, but she’s cut off.
“Maybe it’s not fair, but it’s so FUNNY!” Feferi is giggling so hard that she’s almost incoherent. Judging from the way she’s making a couple of muffled little sounds that slowly turn into laughter, Jade is being persuaded via some clever Tipsy Girl Clinging Ninjitsu. Absolutely fiendish.
“Yeah, I agree, proper make-outs or bust,” Eridan says, trying to sound haughty, but he’s clearly trying not to join the hastily spreading gigglefit.
“Absolutely,” chimes in Rose, because when the two of them do agree on something they’re a terrible force for diabolical chaos in the world. “Tick tock, boys. Time waits for no man, but Terezi’s timer just might.”
“Doooooooo it, doooooooo it,” Vriska takes up the chant, until they’re all going along with it to lesser or greater degrees of enthusiasm, and with lesser and greater amounts of giggle.
Traitors, the lot of them. And through all of this you’re expecting Karkat to explode with anger; maybe you’re even hoping that it’ll distract him from your unfortunate pants situation which still hasn’t fucking abated. For some reason, this doesn’t happen. He stands as still as someone trying to ace the human statue part of professional mime artist school, breathing sweet gusts of mild mesquite seasoning up at your face. The moment the outside of the closet falls into expectant silence once again, he presses against your body a bit more pointedly, damn near causing your eyes to roll back into your head.
“Best to just give the vultures what they want if we want to get out of here, Strider,” he growls.
Something about that just doesn’t ring right. Say what you want about Karkat, but caving to peer pressure really isn’t his thing. He’ll stand his ground and die on quite literally the world’s stupidest hills if that’s what he’s decided is right, come hell or high water, or even empirical evidence that he’s in fact just stupidly wrong about something. Even taking aside that he’s got the world’s prettiest eyes, and an absolute dump truck of a Pixar mom ass, that’s something you’ve always found really attractive about him. The guy is passionate about things, in the way you wish you’d dare to be, without five million layers of irony to disguise how you really feel.
Also, he’s got to be feeling your unreasonable Frankenrection; there’s no way he could be missing it. He’s got the perfect opportunity to just... just say something about it, let everyone know that you’re standing here at glorious full mast, flying your redwhiteandblues proudly because a cute boy kissed you on the mouth. He could destroy you in this moment and... fucking hell, is that making you even more turned on? You let out a stifled groan. What the actual shit is wrong with you?
Still, what else can you do? The torture won’t stop until you comply with the demands of the thirsty masses, so you might as well get on with it and pray. Not to anyone in particular, you don’t really believe in anything like that, but just pray like hell to any reasonably chill deity listening that this situation won’t get worse somehow.
As soon as you start leaning back in, he takes charge. You’re honestly grateful. He uses the arm around your waist as leverage to pull himself up against your lips, the other one landing on your face to tilt it firmly to the side, allowing him to more effectively lock lips with you. The hand in question is warm and a little bit damp, as if he too has been chewing at a bit made of his own nerves the moment he was thrown in here by the hand of an uncaring god and also an embarrassingly gung-ho Jake. Well, maybe that isn’t so strange. Karkat being nervous, you mean; you’ve got no idea why your big brother’s boyfriend was so chipper about tossing the two of you in a closet.
Karkat is not shy about getting some tongue in there this time around. At first it’s a little bit too much, really; he’s pushing in as if he actually is trying to polish your tonsils for you, or maybe even preform some kind of gastrointestinal surgery with the tip of his tongue. But at soon as you counter it with your own, gently pushing back at it to discourage him from finding out what your pancreas tastes like, he seems to get the hang of it quick. He makes a soft, unbelievably hot little sound, starting to explore your tongue and occasionally your lips instead.
The hand on your face slides slowly to your hair and stays there, grasping at it as if to hold you in place. Your own hand, the one that was previously chilling on his ass, has also wandered off on its own accord - see, this exactly what you were talking about, you can’t trust them! Now it’s running along the waistline of his beat-up jeans, and while that means it’s not inside his actual pants at least, it is on the inside of his shirt.
It feels like there’s way too many hands involved for one horny guy to keep track of, which is probably why there’s no warning at all when the one you’d though Karkat still had safely stowed around your waist suddenly is somewhere completely different. Specifically, it’s right on top of your dick.
You make a way too loud sound considering the circumstances, certainly loud enough to be heard outside the closet door even though you’re making it right into Karkat’s mouth. It would be nice if you’d be able to say that it was a NO kind of sound, and you’re sure that Karkat would’ve picked it up and respected it if it were. But alas, that is not the fate you’ve been cursed with by some kind of malevolent dick-witch, and you’re pretty sure that if your mouth wasn’t full of tongue, the sound would’ve been a fully articulated ‘PLEASE’.
Karkat apparently hears you loud and clear, because that hand is going nowhere. It’s still on top of your pants, sure, only resting against your out-of-control ramrod, but what does that matter when it’s so hard that it’s physically throbbing, full to the brim with borderline painful levels of teenage hormones with nowhere to go? The warmth of his hand, which had been comforting on your face, is like a fucking electric charge applied directly to your pocket rocket, making liftoff seem more and more likely for every second.
Like, really likely. Despite your feverish attempts to do the exact opposite, to tense your entire lower body and play dead like a terrified opossum, your hips are nonetheless twitching arrhythmically against his hand. Every little twitch brings on another shiver, another desperate palpitation, and now... now he’s rubbing it. Not much, almost cautiously, as if to say hi. But you are way past a polite hello at this point, you’re absolutely frantic, you’re not going to be able to take this. He bites your lip and you actually have to break away, outright panting against his face and no longer caring if you’re loud. The assholes out there can deal. Beep beep, all aboard the horny wagon, we're driving this motherfucker right off a cliff.
He starts kissing your neck instead, and you almost laugh in despair. Tilting your head back and screwing your eyes shut, one hand scrabbling frantically along his back and the other firmly buried between his pants and his boxers, you think this is it. It’s happening. It’s really happening. To be honest it’s all you can do to stop your legs from buckling, the hand on your crotch feels like it might actually be on fire, and it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s-
You lean forward and blindly bite down on his shoulder right before your hips lurch into his touch, at least slightly muffling the absolutely wretched little sound you make. He lets out a small hiss of pained surprise, but then seems to notice how your whole body is shaking against his, and how you can barely stop yourself from bending double, breath coming fast as you feel the cum soaking right through both boxers and pants. With the way he’s pressing right against your dick, there’s no way there’s not a damp spot.
His hand jerks to a stop, and you are no longer too proud to outright whimper in his ear at the lost friction. To his eternal credit, he immediately starts moving it again, and this time with more purpose. You shiver gratefully through the very last drops of your orgasm, your head swimming, and then almost topple over him. He mutters a couple of insults as he hurriedly catches you, helping you slide the rest of the way down to the floor in a more orderly fashion.
You’re now completely at his mercy. That's hot. Your dick attempts a tiny twitch and you think oh no buddy, no encores yet, it’s bedtime for you for a while. Still, somehow you don’t feel too worried. Probably just some post-orgasm shit, but hey, you never know your luck.
You’re not even surprised to once again find yourself falling victim to Terezi’s twisted logic, and as terrible as it might seem, this time around you’re even grateful for it. That’s probably not very nice of you, not when you hear the note of panic fraying Dave’s voice, the obvious discomfort at being so utterly busted. Yeah, you suppose you really could make his life hell now, couldn’t you? Completely turn the tables on it, see how he’d like being the butt of his own jokes for a change.
You won’t. Listen, you might be a petty asshole in oh so many ways; a completely insufferable, sanctimonious dipshit at the times when it’s the least helpful, and you wish being aware of it would help but it doesn’t. You are, however, not a complete dick.
First of all, turning that shit around on some closeted, insecure fool isn’t actually going to make him less so, now is it? Secondly, it’s not like you haven’t noticed him standing around shivering in the schoolyard because he hasn’t had a new winter coat in years, or the way he packs away school lunch as if he’s never seen food before, or how loud sounds always make him freeze to the spot like a startled animal. You’ve seen the way his older brother watches him like a hawk, mouth pulled into an unhappy line. You’ve... watched Dave a lot, possibly to a creepy degree, but certainly enough to know he’s got enough shit to deal with without you heaping on another steaming load on his plate.
Maybe it’s dumb, maybe it’s some kind of ‘I can Change the Bad Boy’ trip you’re on, except Dave Strider... isn’t a bad boy. Dirk might be edging closer to that line, with how many fights he seems to get into... if he didn’t also obsessively ace every test like a guy with something to prove. Dave, however, is a pretentious jackass and occasionally a right fucking pain in your neck, but apart from this he’s just a goofy dork who gets excited about art class, and who obsessively scrounges Audubon Society magazines from the library.
Anyway, tangent aside, the point is that you absolutely don’t mind spending time with him and his unexpected boner in a supply closet, so it would be ungrateful of you to give him a- well, a hard time over it.
What you do instead, however, is let up the brakes on the make-out wagon, since apparently you’re not the only one who is in fact enjoying this. You’re about to seize both the day and the boy, so help you, because how often does a chance like this come around? It’s like one of your favorite romantic movies, except for how it isn’t, because you’ve skipped right past the whole arc meant to ‘redeem’ you in the eyes of each other, and you’re going right for the kissing. You think dreamily that people in real life don’t need redemption arcs, they just need to be understood. It’s so simple. At the end of understanding there’s either compassion, or there’s the realization that you’re wasting your time. Or to put it another way, you either want to kiss the boy, or you don’t.
You really, really want to kiss the boy.
It’s a bit of a trial-and-error experience - like you said, you’re no expert - and it takes him a few seconds to figure out that covering his teeth with his lips makes the whole exercise more comfortable for both of you. But by now it’s plain that this is an endeavor you’re both invested in, and fuck, clumsy or not it feels amazing. Dave Strider isn’t just kissing you, he clearly wants to kiss you, a fact that is communicated just as much by his soft little gasps as the situation in his pants.
Also, there’s no way he doesn’t know where his hands are, or indeed where they’ve been. Disbelief can be suspended no further, not when he’s brushing so thrillingly against the waistband of your pants, shit, you think you can feel his fingers catching a bit on where there elastic of your underwear peeks out from underneath. He and you both know he was feeling up your ass just a moment ago, and now the light scrape of his nails on the sweaty skin under your shirt is raising goosebumps all over your body. Deniability has come and gone, and you won’t miss it.
Well, you think, if that’s the case then... why not? You can still feel how hard he is, he must know you can feel it, so you might as well show him how incredibly okay you are with it. It feels like the next logical step, though perhaps that logical leap is slightly influenced by the distinct tingling and acute warmth which is starting to pool at your own crotch. He probably can’t tell; you’re definitely nowhere as worked up as he is yet, though you’re sure you’re getting there. Also the advantage of being both shorter and fatter is that he’s not at a great angle to feel everything happening to your junk, not unless he shifts one of those long legs in between your legs.
So you grab his dick. Alright, ‘grab’ is a bit of an overstatement of how bold you’re prepared to be. You put your hand on it, and yeah, this time you do feel it jump on contact, no question about it. He moans, actually moans into your mouth, and well, okay then, that does speed up the process of you getting hard rather significantly. Holy fucking fuck, he’s just... he’s shaking. He’s shaking, making choked sounds against your lips, and you can feel his hand start to creep into your pants. You smile against his lips, unseen, as a wave of almost painful affection wells up in your chest, squeezing your heart tight. He really isn’t nearly as in control of everything as he tries to seem, huh? What a dumbass.
How are you supposed to not keep falling for someone like that?
Slowly, you start moving your hand, feeling up the not-very-subtle outline through the slick fabric. It’s obvious that he’s trying his best not to thrust against your hand, but to be brutally honest you can’t see why he shouldn’t, not when you’re clearly inciting to it. Wow, he feels so warm, and you think you can detect a bit of dampness that has nothing to do with your sweating hands as well. Precum? That seems like the obvious answer, but... enough for you to notice through his pants? Either you’re just imagining things, or you might’ve underestimated exactly how horny Dave Strider really is for you right now. Which... he probably shouldn’t be, considering you’ve still got an audience, and you certainly shouldn’t be encouraging him.
By you know what? Fuck your audience. This is what they wanted, this is what they asked for when they let Terezi reset the stupid timer, so this is what they’re getting. You hope you’re giving them a good show - or that they’re already deeply regretting every single decision that led them to this point. Whichever.
You think you hear Roxy giggle, only to be hastily shushed by someone, and the complete silence resumes. You decide you can easily ignore them. Dave is so much more interesting right now.
Feeling inspired, you give his lip a little experimental nibble. Every time you’ve seen people do that in porn - look, you’re only human, and puberty is hell - it has made you bite your own lip in response, trying it out on yourself and feeling an immediate thrill. It seems like such a sexy thing to do, and you’d like very much to do sexy things to Dave, just to see how he’ll react. Once again, however, it seems like you might’ve miscalculated just how strongly you might be affecting him. He breaks your kiss, something that doesn’t worry you when he’s breathing like that, slumped against the wall and still pulling you closer.
Screw it, you decide you’re absolutely going to leave at least one hickey on him, if this is how it’s going. Mind you, it’s a little trickier than movies have lead you to believe. His neck is slick with sweat and it’s hard to gain purchase with your lips, making you feel like you’re mostly slobbering all over him. Then again he’s digging his nails into your back and your ass, so you must be doing something right. Hell, he’s just outright rubbing himself up against your hand now, the hard shape of his dick sliding against your fingers. Fuck that’s so hot, you’re honestly kind of hoping that he will get a leg in between yours soon, because you think maybe you’d like a bit of that kind of action too. What if you just-
That’s when he bites you. Hard. Really fucking hard. The shirt in between his teeth and your skin honestly seems to only make the pain worse, less like being pinched and more like a blow. You’re just about to ask him what the fuck he’s doing, because if he wanted you to stop he could just tell you so, when the truth of the matter drops like a twenty-pound penny right on your thick head.
Dave can barely stay upright, that much is clear, and his pronounced tremble has evolved into a case of uncontrollable twitching and heaving that involves his whole body. His breathing goes from a quick haah haah haah patter of desperate inhalations, to almost inaudible gulps followed by harsh, explosive exhalations. Oh, and your hand is getting both a lot damper and a lot stickier very fast.
It’s shock that makes your hand grow still, and amused fondness that makes you move it again as he whines in your ear. You really hadn’t thought he was that close, or you would’ve... kept going anyway, who are you kidding? You have exactly no regrets. You just made the boy you like cum his pants just from touching him a little, and that is in fact deeply fucking satisfying, even if it’s driving you kind of mad at the same time.
What you’re saying is that you’re just as hard as he was not long ago, and you can’t help but feel like it would be nice if he did something about that. But first things first. As he finishes languidly against your hand, you can already tell he’s gone completely Bambi-legged with orgasmic bliss, and so you’re ready to catch him when he finally goes over. You help him to the floor, suddenly glad that your friends had emptied out all the fucking cleaning supplies before shoving you in here.
Wow, you’re really not going to think about them right now. Instead you make Dave as comfortable as it’s possible, given that the closet is still tiny and he’s a boy built entirely out of the leftover spare parts after some god put together the giraffe. After that, you sit down on the only spot available for you at this point, which is to say his lap. Your ass is on his damp crotch, your knees wedged into his armpits, and now it’s his turn to have an obvious erection pressed into his stomach; it’s not an elegant arrangement, but it’ll have to do.
You lean in to whisper in his ear, because you don’t think it’s necessary for the others to hear. “Get back to kissing me, dumbass, or they’ll just reset the timer again.” You’re not actually sure they would, not after the show you’ve already put on, but you’re not taking any chances. Also, well, you would like him to kiss you some more, so what? You’re not about to demand that he repays you any dick-stroking favors, not if he doesn’t feel comfortable doing that, but surely you’ve earned some more making out at least?
“Oh, yeah, right,” he says, dazed. You did that to him. The thought warms you, a happy little glow sitting at the pit of your stomach, because he sounds so completely blown away and that was all you. Because he, against all reason, must somehow think you’re hot. Amazing. He leans his head down and nuzzles your neck, sliding his lips against it, and you shiver happily. “I guess there’s still some time left, huh?”
“Probably around five minutes,” you tell him, and as he tenses up slightly, you snort out a quiet laugh.
“No way was that two fucking minutes,” he says, but less like someone who is confident to have the facts on his side, and more like a desperate man pleading his case. You grin to yourself, nipping at his earlobe, since it’s so readily available.
“No, you’re right, it was more like one and a half,” you mumble against the delicate skin there, the soft downs of his ridiculous sideburns. “At the very most. Trust me.”
He lets out a small, despairing groan, and you’re sure that if you weren’t both already so hot and sweaty, you’d be able to feel his face heating up in embarrassment. Well, one and a half minute is pretty fast, especially since you assume that he was trying to hold it back at least for a little while. But it only makes you prouder of yourself. Yeah, you realize that your awkward stroking wasn’t exactly some sort of virtuoso dick concerto by any way of measuring it, and getting another teenage boy off when he was already hot and bothered for you isn’t exactly an achievement, but... but it’s Dave, and he was stupidly turned on by you, and because of that you hardly even had to touch him before he blew his load right where he stood. That’s good enough for you.
You feel your own dick throb urgently in response, and as Dave once again presses his mouth to yours, you hesitantly rock your hips forward. If he minds, he can easily stop you from doing it again. But the hands that land on your hips aren’t hindering you, no, they’re pulling you closer in an encouraging motion that makes you bite down on his lip again, this time reflexively and out of shock. He shivers happily, and urges you against him again, arching his back slightly to meet the motion.
You’re not so lucky in your choice of pants, however, and the roughness of the jeans quickly grows uncomfortable against your now hypersensitive erection. The fly, in particular, rubs against the head in a way that is way too distracting for you to get off. You feel a bit stressed, you’ve never preformed well under pressure, and even though kissing him is so nice on its own, you now feel like you might just die a bit inside if you don’t manage to get off before the door opens.
You break away from the heavy mess of panting, licking, gentle sucking that your mouths have become, breathing fast in his ear from equal parts excitement and anxiety as you mumble, “Do you mind if I...?”
But you can’t quite get the question out, and so you guide his hand to your crotch so that he’ll feel it when you slowly slide open the fly, the sound of it seeming to echo in the enclosed space. His breath catches a bit, and he doesn’t answer, but he does help you out by popping open the button as well. That’s honestly plenty. You just push your pants down as far as you can make them go, which pulls at your underwear, makes them feel tighter, but doesn’t remove them. The much softer cotton feels so much better when you press against his stomach, and you instantly tremble, already feeling how a wet patch is starting to spread on the front of them.
Dave seems to understand that you’re not quite ready to take off more than this, and so he nudges his hand inside your pants instead, until the warm curve of it is gently cupping your balls through your boxers. That spares them against the worst of the friction, which was getting a bit intense down there too, and he’s also helpfully applying steady pressure to them, much like you do when you’re jerking off. You hurriedly put your mouth back over his, and just in time too, because it feels way too good not to let out a low, disjointed moan in response.
You rock forward again, finding that you’re sort of rubbing yourself half against his arm and half against his stomach now. The warmth of him is intense, and as he shifts his fingers slightly, massaging, exploring, pressing almost playfully against your perineum... well, you’re pretty certain that your first attempt at this isn’t going to take that much longer than he did. Which... is alright. It’s hard to be embarrassed when it’s just between the two of you, in the darkness of the closet.
(You know it’s not, but again, it doesn’t really bother you. Maybe it’s even kind of hot that they’re all obviously listening, probably a little bit turned on - or a lot - as well? You try not to think too hard about that part.)
You press in more urgently, your breath growing harsher, your kisses a lot sloppier, seeming to land wherever they want in between every gasp. You can feel your underwear slipping down a bit, the head of your dick poking out from under the elastic, and-
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” you hiss out, gripping hard at his shoulders, because his shirt must have gotten hiked up as he slid to the floor, and now you’re rubbing the leaking tip right across his abs. You can easily imagine what it looks like, and what it feels like is more intense than anything you’ve ever felt before. His hand tightens ever so slightly, shit, fuck, he must actually be able to feel your balls contracting and no wonder, because you’re so close. You’re definitely making a lot of noises, only slightly muffled by his mouth at this point, and when you finally feel yourself spilling right over the edge you tip your head forward and let out a short, sharp cry against his chest.
You manage to put a clumsy hand right over your dick just before the first load, and so you don’t actually get cum all over his stomach and his shirt. Instead it spills into your palm and onto your fingers as you writhe and mumble broken curse words, and his hand helpfully jerks you through the thin, sweaty barrier of cotton that separates him from your dick.
A beat, as you desperately try to catch your breath. And then... applause.
Yep. That’s right. Every single one of your shitty fucking friends are standing out there, applauding.
You’re never going to live this down.
An indeterminable amount of time passes before you hear the mop being slid out of the handles outside. Has it been seven minutes? You genuinely don’t know. If the alarm on the timer went off, you didn’t hear it. Shit, did Terezi even start the second timer? You remember her resetting it, but did that mean it restarted? The world is full of mysteries that you simply do not give a shit about.
The door opens only long enough for a shadow to appear and throw a rectangular object at the back of Karkat’s head. It hits him with a solid smack, returning him to the land of the living from whatever embarrassment-induced trance state he’s currently occupying, and making him swear loudly and with feeling.
“Clean yourselves off a bit,” Kanaya’s voice suggests as she closes the door, and amazingly enough she sounds thoroughly mortified too. Oh, right, her mom lives at the same commune as Karkat’s parents, so she must be the closest thing he has to a sister.
Personally you’re not too fussed, since you know Dirk always has his noise cancelling headphones with him, and you trust him to use them. Technically you’re related to both Rose and Roxy as well, but distantly enough that you’re not going to let it bother you. It’s fine. You grope around on your legs behind Karkat’s ass and come up with a full packet of wet wipes, and you’re not gonna lie, those might come in handy. But also you still can’t see shit.
“Could someone please just hand me my phone? I promise my hands are squeaky clean, you’ll catch no sinful hair growth from me.”
There’s a muffled debate, a sigh as someone is clearly chosen as the next tribute, and the door opens just a couple of inches. A hand reaches inside, flapping aimlessly back and forth in a a slightly exaggerated fashion, brandishing your phone like an implement. The impeccable red nail polish and the crisply ironed shirt tell you that it belongs to Jane.
“Here you go,” she says, and she clearly tries to sound disapproving, as befits her self-imposed role as the one ‘adult’ in the room. No one actually buys that, and you catch a hint of a giggle snagging on her voice like velcro on nylon; a hint of mischief that suggests that she in fact considers the situation a prank well executed. Because everyone you know is a bastard, and Jesus Douglas Christ, wouldn’t it be boring if they weren’t?
You flick the phone light on and direct it into your lap, thinking to get a look on the damage. It honestly isn’t that much, just a few little beads of scattered cum contrasted against your skin, and splattered across Karkat’s boxers. You’re almost a little bit disappointed, because the whole thing felt so dramatic - you weren’t expecting porn amounts, obviously, but this is a bit anticlimactic.
Then Karkat uncurls his right hand a bit as he reaches for the wet wipes, and hey, that’s where it all went. Nice.
You whistle quietly, impressed, even as you undo the flap on top, pulling out a couple of wipes for him. He sends you a blazing look under furiously lowered eyebrows. “Not one word, Strider.”
Your shoulders rise a bit, hands suddenly skittering nervously, but you have nowhere else to look except right at him, since he’s still in your lap. Okay, so you’ve obviously been getting wildly ahead of yourself here, and nothing has actually... changed between you. Well, of course it hasn’t. You haven’t done anything about how you’ve treated him in the past, or even apologized for it, now have you? To expect that getting him off will automatically make you closer than you really are is childish, and you’re a complete idiot to have done so for even a second.
Your heart plunges somewhere past your ribs and then appears to just keep falling. All at once, you feel horribly vulnerable. Being trapped with him in here hasn’t been a problem when the door was actually blocked, but now? Fuck, you wish you could go somewhere else, somewhere far away where no one can see what a fucking mess you are.
After a few second of meticulously cleaning his hand, his eyes dart toward your face, widen in alarm, and then close in exasperation as if some sort of revelation just dawned on him. You squirm and look away, ready to be lectured, or asked what you’re staring at, or worst of all, ignored. But after an awkward pause, he reaches out and gently touches your arm, his fingers still slightly damp. “Sorry,” he mutters softly.
“... What?” You startle at his touch, belatedly, as if there had been a five-second lag that hadn’t allowed you to feel it until now. “What have you even got to be sorry about? I mean, right now, not in general - I don’t know your life, maybe you’ve done terrible things, maybe you’re wanted in five different countries and the UN-“
He slaps your arm, much like someone thumping a misbehaving appliance to try to get it to work right. You shut your mouth, grateful that he stopped you before you made even more of an ass of yourself. “Shut up,” Karkat sighs, giving you an almost pitying look. “I meant sorry for snapping at you just now, piss-for-brains.” He grimaces. “And for calling you that, too.”
“Hey, no, it’s cool. I mean, I’d be kind of sad if you stopped saying shit like that, you know? I’d be all sitting at the kitchen table crying into a handkerchief as you come home, asking you why you never call me a mouth-breathing turd muncher anymore. What happened? Am I no longer your sweat-chafed ass blister? Sounds like the death of romance to me.”
The light from your phone isn’t that good, but you think his face darkens in a sudden flush, and he ducks his head. “You’re such an idiot.” He grabs another wipe, starting to rub it against the front of his underwear, the motions slightly mechanical. “Now will you please keep that garbage chute you call a mouth shut for ten consecutive seconds and hear me out? Do you think you can manage that?”
He glares, and you make a mouth-zipping motion. You’re still not sure you’re going to want to hear this, but sure, you can keep quiet if he feels he’s got something to say. He’s probably trying to let you down as gently as possible, because he’s just a nicer guy than anyone really deserves, and he doesn’t need you to make it any harder.
“Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.” He starts to clean you up too. There’s not much that can be done about your pants, really; that damp spot is staying where it is, and what’s inside will just have to remain a sticky mess until you have the opportunity to take a detour past the bathroom. “Listen, right now I’m mostly just embarrassed because that band of perverted freaks we call friends are still hanging around out there as if this was some kind of circus act-“
“We can still hear you,” Equius points out stiffly, sounding affronted.
“WHICH IS PRECISELY MY POINT!” Karkat yells back. It’s a strange kind of relief to see him yelling, even if him doing so approximately fifteen inches from your face makes you wince. “I don’t- If we’re going to talk about... things, then I don’t want it to be a fucking spectator sport, okay? I don’t need the fucking peanut gallery of no-life losers to weigh in on this. That’s what I meant with, ‘not one word’, though I realize that a rabid howler monkey could’ve probably phrased it better.” He draws in a deep, shaky breath, and he doesn’t seem able to meet your gaze. “So, please, let’s just... talk about this somewhere else?”
Well, that honestly doesn’t sound too bad to you. Maybe even... kinda hopeful? So you nod.
“So you’re just fine with losing your v-cards while we listen, but it’s embarrassing to talk about your tender feelings?” Vriska laughs, and the slight lisp she puts at the end of the word ‘feelings’ isn’t kind, causing you to squirm. It’s pretty unfair, you feel, especially coming from her, but you’d never say it aloud. There are some lines you won’t cross... and also let’s be real, she terrifies you. She could probably crush you like an egg.
“Does that count, though? I mean, ehhh, I guess we don’t actually know exactly what they did in there, but does making out in a closet really make you not a virgin?”
Ah yes, trust Egbert to get to what truly matters right now.
“Are you suggesting that penetration is necessary?” Rose sounds amused. “That’s terribly heteronormative of you.”
“What, no, I just- I mean, haha, I’m sure they didn’t try that in there! Can you imagine?”
“Sounds pretty fucking painful... and maybe not something for any motherfucker to attempt in just seven minutes.”
“Shouldn’t you, uh, at least take your- your clothes off for it to count as-“
“Thank you, Tavros, but I’ve been scarred enough already,” Kanaya interjects tartly. “Don’t give them any ideas.”
“Oh my fucking god, Karkat is absolutely right, I’m not listening to y’all doing a live commentary of whatever we need to talk about,” you say, while Karkat gives you an ‘I told you so’ kind of look. “Also no one is taking their clothes off in here. Well, we’re not, at least. If someone else wants to do a full closet striptease, hey, knock yourself out, but please allow us to evacuate the premises before you go at it, that’s all I ask.”
“I think that kind of thing more has to do with your feelings,” Nepeta muses, as if you hadn’t said anything at all. “I mean, I think if you feel you’re not a furgin, that means you aren’t, mewbe?”
“What, even if you’ve never done anything with anyone?” Sollux sounds skeptical. “Well, that’s good news for Eridan, at least.”
“Oh, fuck you. You’ve got no idea what I-“
“And thank god for that, because no one wants to know,” Terezi claps back, accompanied with a fake retching noise. A brief scuffle commences. “I don’t know what’s sadder, that you tried to fight a blind girl or that.. you’re... losing!”
“Ow! I wasn’t trying to fight you, it was just a little sh- Careful with my nails! That mani cost a lot of money!”
“Virginity is such an antiquated concept, anyway,” Aradia says, sounding sleepy. “It’s all about assigning value to women based on entirely debunked medical ‘facts’, so really, who gives a fuck?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Jade chimes in. “Just so our dads could sell us to the highest bidder. It’s stupid and lame!”
“Of course, depending how broadly you define it, couldn’t you technically argue that all participants in any sexual act have in that case ‘lost’ this specific quality?” Rose says, in her best shit-stirring voice. “And wouldn’t that mean, in a sense, that we have all lost whatever virginity we might’ve been in possession of, along with Karkat and Dave?”
“Steady on, there,” Jake says, raising his voice over scattered exclamations of disgust and hilarity. “I think that’s taking things a little bit too far.”
“Correct,” Dirk drawls. “Obviously I claim no part of this on account of how I was taking a sweet nap, but if Rose’s osmosis theory holds any water at all - and I make no such claims - then the rest of you were only involved enough to maybe get to first base, at most. So let’s all calm down.”
You and Karkat exchange glances. “I think it’s time,” you say, “to get out of this closet.”
“I’d say it’s definitely too late for that, Dave,” Kanaya says mildly, to another round of jeers and laughs. You don’t have an answer; your face is burning, but Karkat shyly leans in and kisses your cheek, and it’s not so bad.
At least there are plenty of rooms with no one in them, because the Ampora McMansion is stupidly huge, and you have honestly never seen Eridan’s shitty parents at home even once. So you and Dave have somewhere to talk things through in private, and no matter how much they’d teased you once you - ha fucking ha - came out of the closet, everyone nonetheless seems fine with giving you some space.
So you untangle your feelings for each other with hesitant words, fits and starts, lots of tangents and amendments. Dave apologizes a lot, and though you’d decided you didn’t really need him to, it’s still nice that he does. You hold his hand as he mumbles something about his dad, and the shit he says about ‘faggots’ and ‘pussies’, and then you hold him when he unexpectedly starts to sob. You say it’s going to be okay. And it is. You really mean it.
“So...” He wipes first at his eyes with the heel of his hand, then his nose, looking self-conscious. You hand him a kleenex out of a box on the nightstand, and pretend to be distracted as he blows his nose. “Does that- I mean, fuck, I don’t know how this works, but... I guess that makes us... boyfriends?”
You’re not sure if any other single word in the history of civilization has ever been uttered with such hopefulness, nor such naked anxiety. He looks like if you jostled him slightly right now, the pent-up tension might just catapult him out of one of the huge picture windows. You let out a strangled laugh, unable to help yourself, but afraid that he might take offense. Instead he relaxes slightly, looking sheepish as he flashes you a worried grin.
“You’re not even going to ask me out on a date?” you ask, but just so he’ll know you’re teasing, you give his hand a little squeeze. Yes, you want to be his boyfriend. More than anything.
“I’ll take you on all of the dates,” he promises you. “Every date you can think of, in alphabetical order if needed. Amusement park, aquarium, arm wrestling, bee keeping classes...er, opium den, orch hunting, parachuting, Paris, proctologist, pro wrestling... all the way to the yearly xylophone convention and the zoo. Obviously I shortened the list, but I can supply it to you in writing if you like.”
You roll your eyes at him, but nonetheless consider the idea of dates, and feel a warm little space open up in your heart as an idea strikes you. “Why don’t you take me with you the next time you go bird watching?”
He stares at you. “How did you know- I mean, are you sure? You’re not just fucking with me, right? Not to be dramatic but if you’re fucking with me it’s going to break my heart.”
“I’m not fucking with you.”
“You really wanna come?”
“Oh my fucking god, am I not being loud enough? Yes you fucking nerd, I want to come sit in a bog with you somewhere and get bitten by spiders while you prattle on about the ass-faced tittywarbler, alright? Because I think it’s cute as fuck that you pretend to be so fucking cool when you’re into ornithology of all fucking things, alright? Because I want to know more about the things that make you happy. Because I’m damaged enough in the head to think it sounds really romantic to watch the sun rise and drink hot cocoa together at ass-o-clock with no one else around, so sue me! Now will you take me or not?”
It takes him a moment to remember that he should shut his mouth again. Then he opens it to say, “The ass-faced tittywarbler doesn’t live in bogs. And it flies south for the winter.”
“Okay, smart guy, the bog is off. Where do you suggest we go?”
“... Don’t you kind of live on a farm? Maybe we could... shit, I don’t know, I could come over and we could watch birds somewhere nice in the morning, and then we could... hang out?”
You say nothing at first, just scoot closer until you can bury your face in his chest, breathing in deep. He still smells like his terrible body spray and kind of a lot like sweat too, not to mention how the cum stain on his pants is embarrassingly obvious. And he’s so fucking perfect.
“Yeah. Sounds good.”