Work Text:
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you’re mad.
You’re really really really fucking mad.
You’re mad because the temperature outside is literally Satan’s fiery butthole (complete with scorching heat waves you can see with your own two fucking eyes.)
Your mad because, despite the weather warning that flashed on your phone that told everyone with eyes to stay out of the light of the sun, your cross country coach said, “Fuck the weatherman!” and proceeded to make you and your teammates run laps around the school.
You’re mad because you can feel your white shirt sticking to your chest and hugging your body in a way that is not flattering to say the least (Damn your not so flattering body.)
You’re mad because you are going to die in the next ten seconds if you don't get any H2O in your system (You can feel your tongue drying up.)
You’re mad because your idiot friend John has already finished running (like the fast bastard he is) and is currently high fiving one of the jock soccer players (whoever said football players were jocks had clearly never met your high school’s douche-y soccer team) in a red shirt.
You’re mad because said jock-douche-fucktard-soccer player chose just this moment, this exact fucking moment, to decide that the heat was too much and do something about.
You’re mad because, as you run past John and the soccer player, said soccer player takes his shirt off.
And now…
You’re mad because Dave-fucking-Strider has abs.
Has serious abs.
Has abs that you could grate shit on.
Has abs that would make girls fall over and die.
Has abs that gay men would weep for.
Has abs that you know in a million years will never show up on your awkward looking body.
You’re name is Karkat Vantas and you have never felt more pissed off at seeing someone’s upper half before.
“Yo Vantas! Heads up!”
You cringe slightly as John’s not-so-quiet voice echoes through the hallway. He’s running (like he always does) towards you and you have just enough tact (and previous knowledge/experience) to side step to right before a flying water balloon (probably filled with shaving cream or some similar white shit) goes whizzing past your head and passes the spot where Karkat from middle school would have gotten nailed in the head.
(Rest in peace Karkat from middle school. You never knew what hit you until it was too late.)
John just laughs as the shaving-white-stuff-cream-stuff explodes on an unsuspecting different middle schooler’s face. (Rest in peace unsuspecting middle schooler. You came, you saw, you failed.) He apologizes quickly though (nice bastard that he is) and offers the middle schooler a hand towel and a lollipop before offering him some “life advice.”
(“Never walk down this hallway after three. Trust me, take the long way to the buses. And if you see a strange man in the parking lot offering cake to children…. that’s just my dad.”)
You roll your eyes and proceed to remove your sports bag from your locker. You half dread going to practice again but despite all the pain that it brings, there is something about pushing yourself to run that just feels good.
It’s like when you run, you forget what was bothering you and you can just concentrate on two things; the feeling of your feet hitting the ground and the oxygen escaping your lungs in short puffs. Sure it hurt like hell, but you felt good doing it.
That and (although you don’t tell any one) running makes you feel good and not like a lump of awkwardly formed skin that was arranged to resemble a junior.
You had decided, back in those dark ages of middle school, that you would change yourself. Change how you looked at least. And that all had been going well. Your freshman year you met John and together you two have run more than you’ve ran in the last sixteen years of your life. Sure, you can’t sprint through a 6K like some of your teammates (coughJOHNcough) can, but at least you can run through one without stopping, shitting your pants, or puking afterwards.
(Rest in peace random freshman from last year who shitted their pants and passed out during the first race of the season. You tried, you failed, you moved to New Jersey.)
At least, running made you feel good until yesterday.
Until the scorching fiery hellhole that was yesterday.
You’re surprised none of the freshman passed out due to the heat. You would’ve bet money that the short one (someone who was finally shorter than you) would’ve past out after the first mile. But then again, the only thing you remembered from yesterday was Dave Strider’s fucking abs.
Good god.
It wasn’t fair how a boy his age could have abs like that.
Where did he even get them? How did he even get them?
Did he consume celery sticks for breakfast and bench-press an elephant for lunch? What did he sacrifice to the toad lord of the universe to get that body?
You sigh and slam your locker shut. John shoots you a grin and casually slings his arm around you, chattering on about how he was so pumped for today and how he hopes the next race won’t get rained out.
You just hope you won’t see Soccer Star McShades today.
Guess who just saw Soccer Star McShades today?
And guess what Soccer Star McShades decided to do despite the temperature being ten degrees colder than yesterday?
That’s right. He decided to rid himself of the garment that’s main purpose was to cover the human body.
Well hello Dave Strider’s abs. Nice of you to make another unwelcome appearance.
You scowl a little, feeling your hands tug down the hem of your own shirt as Dave Strider tosses his over his shoulder before readjusting the shades on his face.
(How does his shades stay on his face while playing soccer? Why does John never get caught for pelting people with cream filled water balloons? You’ll never know the answers to these questions so why even bother asking them aloud.)
“Watch’a looking at Karkat?”
You turn your head to face John, who is brushing sweat off his forehead. He looks like an awkwardly drenched dog wearing glasses. You tell him he looks like an awkwardly drenched dog wearing glasses.
“Ouch, well someone’s got their panties in a twist.” John says, putting on a mock expression of hurt.
“I don’t know Egbert. What this guy said seems pretty accurate.”
You nearly scream your insides out (Nearly okay? Nearly) when someone out of the fucking blue suddenly just…talks. Like a ghost. Which is why you nearly scream. Nearly. (Shut up.)
“Oh shut it Dave! Also put your shirt on, the newspaper club isn’t here today remember?”
Oh crap.
You turn your head to the left and there, standing at six feet-definitely-taller-than-you is Dave Strider.
And Dave Strider’s abs. His hot, sweat drenched, after practice abs.
Fuck.
The fall season moves at a snails pace.
(Oh ha ha HA! Karkat can make an ironic joke, with him being on the fucking cross country team and the season moving at a fucking snails pace! Quick someone alert the media! Maybe said angsty anger boy will get a medal that says “FUCK MY LIFE” on it.)
At least, it feels like it moves at a snails pace.
Really though, the season has barely started (with only two races run, five more to go, and idiot Egbert literally crushing the competition while Karkat barely makes it into the top twenty, huffing and puffing) but it just feels like it’s been going on forever.
Maybe it was because of the practice time (everyday after eight hours of classes), maybe it was the exercises (sprinting back and forth across the school’s ridiculously large parking lot), maybe it was the weather (Four words: FUCK YOU GLOBAL WARMING),
Or maybe it was the soccer team.
Maybe it was one person on the soccer team.
Maybe it was one sunglasses wearing person on the soccer team.
Maybe it was one sunglasses wearing person on the soccer team who didn’t know the meaning of proper etiquette.
Maybe it was one sunglasses wearing person on the soccer team who didn’t understand the concept of keeping a fucking shirt on during practice.
You groan into your hands and mumble out a “fuck my existence” as John and no-shirt wearing Strider decide to converse in a stupid conversation next to you as both practices wrap up.
“Say something there Vantas?”
You glance up and shoot a quick glare at Strider.
“Just wondering why some prick wearing shades finds it entertaining to talk shit about movies with this idiot here.”
The words slide out of you automatically so you’re surprised at the shocked look Strider gives you. You can see his eyebrows pop up over his shades and,
Oh…..wait…..
You look quickly at John who is giving you a “You’ve never talked to him before and that’s what you decided to say?” expression.
(Congratulations John, you have now leveled up to “Expression Master”!)
Yup….you definitely feel embarrassed now.
The weather finally gets colder.
And with the cold weather, Dave Strider’s shirt stays on and you have never felt more relieved in your life.
You hated seeing those abs every fucking day.
You hated how they looked and you hated that your eyes would 100% unintentionally find them while you were running.
You hated that, on the days when the soccer team’s practice ran a little late, you had to crane your neck a little to spot Dave and his insufferable looking abs.
Damn….you really hated it.
With four races now completed (Egbert had crushed the last one but unfortunately was banned from the next race due to a water-balloon-cream incident that ended with the principle’s toupee being knocked off his very visibly bald head) the “mid-season slump” was hitting the teammates hard. With tests, school dramas, and parties becoming more of a distraction, your coach decided it would be a great idea to push you guys even harder in practice.
So now, standing even more drenched than you usually were, you Karkat were in dire need of a shower.
Because seriously, you smell like sweaty shit.
You mutter a goodbye to Egbert and a silent “fuck you” to Strider (who you haven’t actually talked to since your last “conversation”, but have begun seeing at your cross country races) before hitching your bag over your shoulder and going to wait for your brother to pick you up in his shitty car.
You flip through pictures on your phone to pass the time, ignoring the smell coming off of you and the crusty feeling of sweat on your neck.
You plug in your ear buds and listen to some of your favorite OST’s from your favorite movies.
You even read some of your friend’s shitty fanfiction.
And your brother still doesn’t show up.
And your phone dies.
And it’s basically pitch black outside.
And you still smell.
Fuck.
There are luckily still some students on campus as you begrudgingly walk back inside (Rest in peace you studying motherfuckers. May you succeed later in life…or at least get laid before your forty). You manage to call your brother via the librarian’s phone only to have him tell you that he has been stuck in traffic.
For the last two hours.
After leaving his boyfriend’s house.
You grumble out a “You’re the absolute fucking worse excuse for a brother,” while he apologizes and tells you to wait just a little longer before quickly hanging up.
You sigh.
You grumble.
The librarian crinkles her nose at you.
You decide to take a shower.
The locker room bathroom is (no surprise) empty as you hurriedly strip off your clothes and begin to douse yourself in hot shower water. You use some of the locker room’s dispense soap to clean at least some of you body (mostly your thick, black hair with it’s tendency to form knots) sighing as a new feeling overtakes your body: cleanliness.
It’s only when you’re done when you realize you don’t have a towel. Only a small hand towel.
And that towel is in your bag…. on the bench…. near the front of the locker room.
You sigh and knock your head against the tile of the shower. Fuck, were you going to have to do a naked run or some shit? Maybe it was how you were raised but nudity never was/is one of your strong points. You can’t all be like Dave Strider and prance around baring your abs. Some of you were like…. you.
Insecure…. and stuff.
Fuck.
The dripping of the showerhead stops as you attempt to shake some water out of your head, half preparing yourself mentally for the wet walk to your bag.
That’s when the shower curtain opens.
This time you really do give out a scream.
And damn it, it’s one of those high-pitched screams that you swear only people in movies give out when they are forced into an embarrassing situation.
Oh wait, that’s you.
Right now.
Right this very fucking second.
Because Dave Strider is right there in front of you and you can see his fucking eyebrows again.
And you’re naked.
You’re hella naked.
You’re as naked as the day you were fucking born.
And Mr. I-Have-Abs-Strider is standing in front of you witnessing all your nakedness.
He can see your 100% bare body.
He can see your hips, awkward and feminine looking.
He can see your chest, smaller than what you think is normal.
He can see your junk (which you will not go into detail about but you know it probably is messed up.)
And he can see your stomach…. and your lack of abs.
He can see the stomach that had led you to wanting to look better.
He can see the stomach that has its small curves on it.
He can see-
“Dave you in there!?”
The voice of Egbert breaks through the silence and all at once Dave is pushing you furhter into the shower stall and closing the fucking curtain.
“Wha-?!” Is all you can say before Dave pushes a hand against your mouth and turns the shower on.
“Yeah I’m in here Egderp.” Dave says, as water begins to stream down his shades and soak both of you. “This better be shaving cream I’m washing out of my hair and not jizz.”
“Eww! Gross Dave!” You can hear John’s footsteps and voice echo against the tiles of the bathroom. “Why do you always have to take the joke one step too far?”
“Says the guy who pelted me with a semen filled condom while I was trying to do my homework.”
“It was funny!”
“You got us kicked out of the library for life.”
You can hear John laugh in response. “Just hurry up with your pity shower so we can go home.” He hollers. “I’ll leave a towel on the bench for you.”
“Thanks you dork.” Dave answers back.
You listen as footsteps echo across the room and the sound of a door opening indicates that John has left.
Leaving you with a very wet and very close Dave Strider.
A very wet and very close Dave Strider who’s fucking shirt is sticking to his body.
A very wet and very close Dave Strider whose hand is still pressed over you mouth.
A very wet and very close Dave Strider who is looking kind of....
Wait?
What?
Is Dave Strider….
Blushing?
The hand finally removes itself from your face and slowly reaches over to turn the water off.
You’re both dripping. Him in his clothes and you in your stark-bare-nakedness. You really want to cover some part, any part, of your body with your hands but for some reason you can’t remove them from the small fists that you curled them up into.
The small fists that you curled them up into Dave fucking Strider’s shirt.
You two are close…. so very close. So close that one small misstep, one slip, one fall, one something could lead to….
He pulls back.
(You’re not so slightly disappointed.)
“Sorry.” He mumbles, turning away to give you some sense of privacy. You try to ignore the hammering in your chest and the breath that had once been ticking the side of your lips.
“You…. you should be.” You say, your face feeling hot. “Cocksucking, bulgemunching, soccer headed douche. Do you just pin yourself to all guys taking showers with your body or did I mange to royally piss off a space god or something?”
His body shudders a little and it doesn’t take a genius to realize that Dave Strider is laughing.
And that pisses you off.
You jab him quickly in the back before absconding out of the shower stall/awkward situation and back to the main locker room. On the bench, next to your bag, is the promised towel set out by John. You grab it quickly and wrap it around your chest, making sure it covers everything. Luckily it’s a large towel so you don’t have to worry about it arching too high.
(Not that it fucking matters because Dave-stupid-Abs-Strider just saw you naked. He saw you naked. He saw you naked. He saw-)
“You okay there Vantas?”
You turn back and subconsciously hitch the towel higher. Dave is standing, drenched and wet, with his shades still placed on the bridge of his nose.
You scowl. “I’m fine no thanks to you.” You say. “You no good piece of shit who doesn’t know the meaning of privacy and personal space.”
Dave just sighs.
“Sorry about that…again.” He says. “But it’s not like I was expecting to bump into someone with an ass as cute as yours at eight thirty at night in a school shower after being pelted with semen filled Egbert bombs. And it’s not like-”
He pauses and looks at you and you can’t help but take a nervous step back.
“Why you wearing that towel like a chick?” he asks suddenly.
“None of your business.” You snap back, a little too fast and a little too desperate. You fidget, feeling uncomfortable.
(Seriously why couldn’t this guy just leave you alone? All you wanted was a shower and now your in a teen shitstorm with a guy with abs and you blushing like a maiden after she just got caught naked and- No wait you did just get caught-)
Strider’s expression, though unreadable, flashes with a hint of….understanding? Concern? It was hard to tell with the shades obscuring his face but-
“So it is true.” He says, half to himself and half to you.
Your lips tighten. “What is?” You grit out, feeling pissed and tired and embarrassed all at once.
Dave sighs. “John said that you’ve had some mental image body insecurities or some shit like that.” You feel yourself bristle. (WHAT THE FUCK JOHN?! WHEN YOU GET THE CHANCE THAT GUY IS DEAD!)
“Which I can’t actually believe because it’s bullshit and you look fine and-” Dave continues.
“Well you have a fucking six pack so excuse me for feeling self conscious.” You spit out.
Dave actually looks surprised at this.
“Wait are you…seriously?” A look of surprise passes his face. “Are you jealous of….me?”
You groan, feeling even more pissed. “I’m not answering that.”
“Holy fuck you are.”
“Will you just shut up?”
“Dude you look fine okay? Hella fine. Like fine enough to make ladies swoon and make guys hearts go all doki doki or some anime shit.”
“Oh my god will you just shut the fuck up?”
“Nope, not going to. You look so fine that the sun rises up just to see you. You look so fine that animals follow you because they want to have weird mutant animal babies with you.”
“What the actually fuck is wrong with you?”
“You look so fine that cheerleaders have catfights over you and boxers will beat the shit out of each other just so they can be in your honorable presence.”
“Seriously Strider I will beat-”
“You look so fine that people will go out of their fucking way to get close to you. Like run on top of buildings or catapult themselves into the sun or talk to Egbert about -”
He stops himself short and you can see his face turning red, as if suddenly realizing he had said too much.
However you had clearly heard it.
“You talked with John….” You say slowly, watching Strider carefully. “About….me?”
Strider gulps and you can see his Adam’s apple move down and up as he nervously clears his throat.
“Yeah man…” He says, pausing slightly to lick his lips. “I mean…. well…shit…. ever since I saw you at preseason I was just like ‘Damn look at that guy! He’s hella cute!’ And I just really wanted to talk to you and stuff but you always looked pissed at me and I didn’t know why so I asked Egbert and he began telling me shit about you like all the good shit and bad shit and…Damn this doesn’t sound good does it? Fuck…. fuck I screwed this up. I’m sorry I’ll just-”
You can’t help but let out a snort of laughter as Dave looks you sheepishly. (God why is this idiot acting like this? And why is it kind of fucking endearing?)
“You’re weird you know that Strider?” You say.
Dave just grunts.
You sigh and close your eyes. “Movies.” Is all you say because hell, after that word vomit you might as well give him and his abs a chance.
Luckily, Dave Strider isn’t that much of an idiot.
You don’t see it but judging by his tone of voice he just lit up like a firecracker.
“Yeah sure! Movies are the shit man. Except for what Egbert watches. Those are actually shit. So movies, tomorrow then? Or the weekend? Or whenever! I’ll pay I mean. You know. First date and all. Wait shit is this a date? Did I just manage to trick you into-”
“Yeah you just did.” You cut him off. “Now get out of here so I can put some clothes on my fucking body before I freeze my nads off.”
You’re eyes are still closed as you listen to Dave shuffle around quickly and make his way to the door.
The shuffling stops though and you feel something soft press against your lips. Your eyes shoot open.
“Always wanted to do that.” Dave says lifting up his shades and winking a red eye at you. “Cute-ass.” He adds before absconding.
Your name is Karkat Vantas and fuck you’re smiling.
You’re smiling because you have a date with mother-fucking Dave Strider.
And his abs.