The bass drops. Your hips start swaying to the beat. Your heart comes alive.
These are the moments you live for; the opportunity to finally be seen by that prick gives you the incentive you need to be able to make your body move in ways you never would have believed possible. You crave the chance to be noticed by those shaded eyes, not even you know why. All you understand is the burning in your chest whenever his gaze seems to be pointed in your direction. The downside to those blasted mirrored shades is evident, for you can never actually decipher where exactly his attention lies.
You decided long ago that it was simply easier to assume that his stupid eyes were on your fine ass at all times. The pain is much less intense with these thoughts.
Regardless, you have been coming to this establishment every Saturday night since your first visit a few months back. Sollux did not yet know, nor would he ever know, that he had undoubtedly given you the best birthday present ever for taking you to this club for the first time. You had bitched at him the whole night, complaining that you didn't wish to drink, dance, nor socialize.
That is, until you saw him…
And now you keep coming back, all for the chance to introduce yourself to the hot-as-hell DJ? You figured it was probably 'hipster witchcraft' or some other stupid horseshit like that.
…no matter.
The crux of the matter lied in the fact that you were hooked to coming to this damned club, all in the hopes of getting the DJ, this "Turntech Godhead," to notice you. The only issue you continue to have is that he never seems to be interested enough to introduce himself, no matter how many times your hips gyrate in the direction of his signature turntables.
You know that you cannot continue to live like this, and so you made a promise to yourself that tonight would be your final night at this club. If you did not get his name before the end of the night, you would give up on him, return home, and resume your life as it was before you saw his fucking face.
You look toward your objective, the booth where his music is given life. As expected, the douche isn't looking at you, his head instead turned towards the buck-toothed imbecile he had been associating with for the past couple of hours. Well, the association was more of the asshat flirting with TG, giving the DJ his best bedroom-eyes behind a pair of rectangular glasses, while TG listened with the occasional ironic nod of his head.
Seriously, who did that other guy think he was, getting all chummy with your man?
Wait, what?
Okay, so he isn't your man, per se, but… you already called dibs, alright? This asshole couldn't have him! It didn't matter that you had never actually talked to TG, or that you had no idea if he was actually gay… or that you don't even know his real name… well... fuck.
Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you just now noticed that your reasoning has a clusterfuck of flaws…
However, one thing is certain: you cannot lose your chances of finally meeting TG at the hands of that pathetic lifeform currently capturing his interest!
You believe that it is finally time to hatch the plan you had been trying to avoid…
You were going to fucking do this.
You were going to make it fucking happen.
With a hearty "fuck this," you steel your nerves and begin to make your way through the crowd, using your elbows to cause bruises to whoever thought it was a good idea to get too close to you as you walk across the aged dance floor. You have places to be, damnit!
After finally making your way past those rowdy retards, your eyes meet your destination: a raised platform that can be easily seen by everyone in the club, where drunkards and attention-seekers alike have slowly lost their sense of hearing in the past to the music blaring from the amplifying speakers nearby, complete with a stripper's pole that looks like it had been exposed to far too much whore for its own good.
A little extreme, but drastic times call for desperate measures… and you are pretty damn desperate…
You look around at the other patrons taking occupancy on the dance floor, taking mental notes of their dancing styles and how they decide to "shake what their mothers gave them." Most of the moves, you decide, are too risqué and others are just simply impossible to do with a body like yours.
Some, however, just might work for the task at hand.
With some final cursories and a small prayer to whatever god is watching to please allow this to fucking work, you make your way onto the platform, getting your scrawny legs to cooperate as you raise one foot at a time to take each agonizing step up the stairs, until you are finally above all else in the club.
Before you can talk yourself out of the situation you put yourself in, you begin to mimic the dance moves you saw the other occupants of the dance floor doing, bringing your knee down to pop your ass out in what would be considered a sexual manner, then quickly bringing your body back up, to repeat once again.
After a little while, your rolls begin to come in more sensually, and your worries fly out the metaphorical window as you begin to add flair to each step. Your arms moving up your body in time with your legs and your hips swaying to the beat, you actually feel attractive for once in your life.
You become so lost in what you are doing that you do not realize the music has changed to better match your dancing. All you recognize now is the sick beats you're putting down with each strut you take across the platform. You continue your merrymaking until, after what seems like eternity, the music comes to an end.
Your eyes feel like they will pop out of their sockets with the shock that reverberates through your core as thunderous applause meets your auricular spongeclots. Everyone is applauding you, and you don't know what you're supposed to do other than stand there in astonishment. That is, until you recognize the person that's approaching the platform.
The blonde pixie-cut hair, the iconic record logo on his shirt, the mirrored shades…
TG is looking at you.
Turntech Godhead is coming within reach of you.
You can actually see his mirrored shades LOOKING AT YOU.
HE'S FUCKING TALKING TO YOU.
…wait.
"…I'm sorry, what?"
He smirks, the first form of emotion you've seen him make since you started coming here. "I asked what your name is. I see you here every week, but I've never actually caught your name."
Oh, dear lord. You resist the urge to swoon. Nice going, asshole. He probably thinks that you're a stalker out for his sweet ass! …well, you kinda are, but you don't want him thinking that!
Shit. He's waiting! You blurt, "Karkat, my name is Karkat."
He can probably see the blush peppering your cheeks, but if he does he isn't giving himself away. He holds out his hand, expecting you to take it. You're quickly losing your confidence, waiting until you trust yourself enough to not drench his hand in sweat to meet it. He helps you off of the platform, and your feet hit the floor with an inaudible thump.
"Well, Karkat, those were some pretty bitchin' dance moves you had goin' on. You were fuckin' enchantin' up there." You swear, that southern drawl is going to be the death of you. He starts walking, but the grip he still has on you pulls you forward until you both are far enough from the music for him to speak without having to unironically shout. "I have to say, you're somethin' special. I'm Strider, but you can call me Dave."
Fucking finally.
"Dave Strider…" you breathe the name, and strangely you like how sinfully sweet it sounds on your tongue. You waited for so long to get this man's name, and it certainly did not disappoint.
God fucking damn it, his name is Dave Strider!
He smirks once more. "Commit it to memory, cuz I don't want this to be the last time I get to see ya. Come back here next week, 'kay? I'll find ya, and we can… chat some more."
Your heart flutters in your stomach, and you can only mutter a "sure" before he raises your hand to make contact with his lips. His eyes lock with yours and heat fills your face as he finishes the kiss, then saunters back through the crowd of people with a final wink in your direction.
His name is Dave Strider, he seems gay enough to be interested in you, and he wants to see you again!
Hell. Fucking. YES.
Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are too preoccupied with suppressing your blush and your whoops of joy, along with the hidden implications of "chatting some more" with Dave Strider that you leave the club that night with an extra stride to your step, oblivious to the death glare thrown your way by a certain boy with rectangular glasses…
R&R, so that I can know if you guys like this, and if you would like this to be a multi-chapter fic.
Thank you for reading!