#I’m currently half-writing fics that’ll be shoved aside come morning

[happy74827]

[royalrastafariannaynays]

your writing!!! is so nice!!! if you're still taking requests for that send a number thing, would you mind writing davekat in 11?

omg ; - ; im so flattered, holy shit

i love ur writing too im 

hrrrrrg ok ill try to give u something good hehe! and yes im still taking requests for now! 

fic under the cut!! i tried to keep it short for times sake cause i have to get up at 5 tomorrow! so hopefully its not too short hehe, enjoy!!! 

Davekat in 11~!

You scowl.

That’s the fourth time you’ve had to pick your head up from your chest.

The hum of the washing machine in front of you is lulling you to sleep.

Page corners wrinkle under your fingertips.

Thunder tumbles and crashes outside, and your eyes are drawn to the door.

Paying attention to your studying feels impossible right now. It’s fruitless, you know. It’s good that you don’t need to read any of this until this weekend, but you’re trying to get a leg up on work to be done later.

It’s been a long day.

It’s dark out, now.

Raining, wet.

A little cool out, but you have a fleece-lined jacket for a reason.

No one is in this laundromat aside from you, and the woman sitting at the counter with a pile of change in front of her and a nametag.

You like to do laundry on rainy days. You bought a waterproof laundry bag specifically for this reason.

People don’t really like to wash their shirts when it’s pouring out.

A zipper slips to the outside of your first load, and starts to ping against the drum of the dryer to your right.

That’ll keep you up, if anything.

At this point, though, you’ve given up on studying. It’s alright, you can do it tonight.

The rain blasts off the road outside, making waves and dribbles of tiny waterfalls in the gutters.

You’re not too worried about getting wet, but hopefully it’ll calm down before you have to cross the street and get back to your dorm.

Lightning flashes, you blink, and just as thunder rolls once more across the city, the door to the laundromat opens.

Your suitemate in your dorm building almost stumbles into the room.

Tall, gangly, listens to loud music way too late, is probably fucking his best friend with how close they are. And apparently can’t match his socks, if his current state of half-pajamas-clad dress is any indication.

He’s got a bag of laundry across his shoulder, and a smaller, satiny bag under the other arm.

You watch as he shakes his wet blonde hair off like a dog, and plunks the bags of laundry down on the table next to you.

And lose interest as he proceeds to wave to the woman manning the desk, then starts separating his clothes.

So much for quiet. At least he’s not talking to you.

But. You’re really fucking nosy.

It’s a bad trait, but hey. It’s one you have.

So you end up glancing over again.

He’s got a pile of bras and silky underwear.

And you look away.

Eyes wide, clutching the sides of your textbook.

But it’s none of your business. None. Of your. Fucking. Business.

The bag was embroidered with “RL”.

So you know that it’s not his. Cause his name is Dave something. Right?

Dale? No, not redneck enough.

Derek? No, that’s teen wolf.

Gotta be Dave. And his last name starts with an S. You think.

So it’s someone else’s laundry. A girl’s, most likely. If the fancy bras and panties are any indication.

Your wash dings.

You sigh, distracted.

You go to change your load, and put it in the dryer. You’re too lazy to fold things that need to be flat-dried. Fuck off.

You grab your last load, mostly jeans and shirts, from your basket under the table, and shove it unceremoniously into the same washer from before.

A few coins, and you’re off to the races.

On your way back to your chair, you see that all of the lacy undergarments on the table are embroidered with those same two initials. Holy hell, how pretentious.

“Lost a bet to my sister,” a deep voice comes, and shit.

You stared too long.

“Uh,” you stammer, and look up, face heating.

The guy has his sunglasses hooked in his shirt, and he’s raising an eyebrow very carefully in your direction. With his lips pursed in a grin. Stifling something.

“Have to wash her unmentionables for a month,” he adds.

And of course.

“Sorry,” you manage, spluttering like a fart from the most constipated asshole this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.

You are the asshole. It is you.

He snorts, and goes back to his own shit.

You sit, and cross both your arms and legs.

The washing machines continue to roll, and the thunder continues to rumble.

A minute passes, you watch on the washer.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

“Oh fuck, where’d my sharpie go?”

Four minute– wait. What.

“What?” you ask, slowly turning your head to peer up at Dave. Because you’re sure that’s what his name is.

“My sharpie. Red one. On the table?” he says, looking at you suspiciously.

Like you’d have any reason to steal it or anything.

Unless it had fallen off the table.

And into your basket.

A sinking feeling fills you to the bone.

“Oh motherfucker!” you nearly shout.

Dave leaps back as you yell and scramble over to your wash.

Watching in horror as you press the button, and it slowly reels to a stop and drains.

At least the soap hadn’t gotten in yet, but.

Fuck.

You pull out your jeans. And sure enough, there’s the marker. Uncapped. And sure enough, there’s a huge, shit-brown stain in the seat of your favorite pants.

When you round on Dave, he looks ready to bolt.

Your eyes meet his eyes.

He crosses himself.

“Uh, I can uh. Pay for it?” he tries, and you take a step toward him.

“I’m sorry man, I didn’t do it!” he says, and you stand up straight, and stop walking.

No.

You’ve been working on your anger management.

Kanaya would be disappointed if you failed because of a stupid accident.

You can get the stain out with alcohol, right? And a bit of scrubbing. Hopefully.

You reach out, calmly turn to the washer, close the door gently, and turn it back on.

Wait a second.

Hear him rustling around, fishing in his pockets and shit.

And when the noise stops, you round on him again.

This time, he’s got a plan in his eyes.

“You need something to hold your ass nice and tight?” He says.

And you almost have to just leave on the spot.

Dave looks even more horrified than before, if that’s even possible.

”What?!” you screech, shrill.

He waves his hands around, flounders for something better.

“No, I mean, shit wait no, what Im trying to say is you’d look good in some skinny jeans,” he says next, and you might just blow the gasket you’re working so hard on keeping down.

“Excuse me???” you ask in shock, jeans hanging wetly from your hand.

“I mean I’m sure you look good in anything or without any pants at all, but,” he attempts.

And you can tell he’s crashing and burning faster than a building under demolition.

But you’re too surprised for pity. Is he flirting with you right now??

“I’m just trying to say I’ll get you some new ones,” he finally gets out.

And for some reason, the relief on his face when he doesn’t say anything else suggestive, makes you burst into laughter.

It’s the kind of ugly, doubled-over, borderline hysterical laughter. And you can only imagine what you look like.

“You okay, Mr. Karkat?” the lady from the counter calls, staring at you, and you wave a hand in her direction.

It takes a good minute to get your breath under control.

Dave is still standing there, hands out in a gesture of both confusion and defeat. Holy christ, and he’s dripping wet, what the fuck, this is so stupid. All of it is so stupid.

“You don’t have to buy me new pants yet, just fuckin.” More laughter. “Just. Give me your messaging handle and I’ll bother you about it if I can’t salvage this shit,” you tell him, wiping a tear from your eye and trying to breathe normally.

Dave picks up the sharpie from the floor.

It’s soaked, but somehow still writes as he spells out the letters of his screen name on your wrist.

He looks confused.

Like he doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed, or relieved that he’s not getting yelled at.

“I, uh,” he tries.

And you almost break down into giggles again. You barely manage to stop yourself.

“Nice to meet you, suitemate,” you tell him.

And he smiles.

Suddenly, you’re frozen.

His smile is. Wonderful.

You look away, heart pounding in your chest.

It’s almost worth forgiving him for the jeans.

“You know how to wash those, right?” you ask, pointing to the pile of underwear.

Dave shakes his head, and you roll up your sleeves.

——————

The next morning, you find something written on your whiteboard on your dorm room door. In red.

The same handwriting on your arm.

“same time tomorrow?” it says.

And you take out your own dry-erase marker.

And underneath it, you write.

“NOT A CHANCE.”