Chapter 22: Public Claim
The smell hit Dave first – that specific library cocktail of dust, decaying paper, and the faint, desperate tang of student stress. Sunlight, filtered through decades of grime on the high arched windows, slanted across the worn oak table, illuminating swirling motes and the dense text of Karkat’s heavy parasitology tome. Dave shifted, the plastic chair groaning under him. His own laptop screen displayed a blinking cursor on a half-finished track – some wobbly synth line meant to evoke existential dread, or maybe just a bad hangover. He couldn’t focus. Not with Karkat beside him.
Karkat was ostensibly reading, brow furrowed in fierce concentration. One arm rested casually across the back of Dave’s chair. Casual. Right. Dave’s thigh muscle jumped. The warmth through his jeans was a brand.
Then, the pressure changed. Karkat’s hand slid down from the chair back, landing heavily on Dave’s leg, high up. Too high. His thumb began a slow, deliberate rub just below the seam of Dave’s pocket, pressing in. Possessive. Dave froze, fingers hovering over his laptop keys. He could feel the rigid outline beneath the denim, the cold metal cage Karkat had insisted on that morning after Dave had grumbled about doing laundry. ‘Keeps you focused, Strider. Less… distractible.’ The memory sent a fresh wave of heat up Dave’s neck.
Karkat leaned in. Not much. Just enough. His breath ghosted over the sensitive skin below Dave’s ear, warm and intimate in the hushed library air. "Relax, baby," Karkat murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Dave’s bones. Loud enough. Definitely loud enough for the girl across the table meticulously highlighting her biology textbook to hear. "Just reminding you who you belong to."
Dave choked on nothing. His face felt incandescent. He ducked his head, pretending intense interest in his non-existent track. Baby. The word echoed. Possessive thumb. The cage. The sheer, brazen audacity of doing this in the goddamn silent study zone. He wanted to bolt. Wanted to shove Karkat’s hand away and hiss something scathing. But the heat pooling low in his belly, the insistent pulse against the unforgiving metal, the way Karkat’s thumb kept circling… it pinned him more effectively than any physical restraint.
He risked a sideways glance. Karkat wasn’t even looking at him. Still staring at his book, the picture of studious diligence. Only the faintest upward curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. The smug bastard. He knew exactly the chaos he was stirring. Karkat’s finger dipped lower, tracing the denim seam where it stretched taut over the top of Dave’s thigh, perilously close to the bulge. Dave sucked in a sharp breath. The sound was embarrassingly loud in the quiet. The girl across the table glanced up, her eyes flicking between them with mild curiosity before returning to her fluorescent yellow highlights.
"Karkat," Dave hissed under his breath, barely audible. It came out strangled. A plea and a protest tangled together.
"Hmm?" Karkat hummed, finally turning his head. His warm brown eyes met Dave’s, wide with feigned innocence. The thumb paused its torment, resting heavy and claiming. "Problem?" His voice was still low, but the challenge in it was clear. Go on. Make a scene. Prove you’re still hung up on what people think.
Dave’s jaw clenched. He could feel the flush spreading down his neck. The cage felt impossibly tight, a constant, humiliating presence amplified tenfold by Karkat’s hand. He remembered Rose’s words: Karkat invests significant effort. And what was Dave investing? Denial? Panic in the library? He thought of the folded laundry back at the apartment, the stupidly perfect pancakes, the way Karkat’s arm felt slung over him in sleep. Boyfriend defined. This – the possessiveness, the low hum of control, the sheer, terrifying intimacy of being claimed in public – was part of that definition. Karkat’s kind of quiet romance. It was flowers. Butt it was also this. A hand on his thigh in broad daylight.
Dave didn’t shove the hand away. He didn’t bolt. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his own leg, just a fraction, pressing harder against Karkat’s palm. A silent concession. A surrender that wasn’t defeat. He held Karkat’s gaze, the red hidden behind his shades burning. He saw the feigned innocence melt instantly, replaced by a flash of raw, predatory satisfaction that made Dave’s breath catch.
"Good," Karkat breathed, the single word thick with approval. His thumb resumed its slow circles, the pressure now deliberate, almost soothing. Possessive, yes, but also… grounding. A reminder that cut through the noise. He turned back to his book, leaving Dave hyper-aware of every point of contact: the warmth of Karkat’s leg pressed against his, the solid weight of his arm, the relentless, claiming touch on his thigh. Dave looked down at his laptop. The blinking cursor mocked him. He closed his eyes for a second, drowning in the scent of old paper and Karkat’s cheap, woodsy deodorant. The cage felt less like a restraint and more like a focus point, a secret shared. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for his laptop. He started a new synth line, something low and throbbing, a bassline that vibrated in his bones, mirroring the pulse Karkat’s thumb set off beneath his skin. He didn’t dare move again. He just sat there, claimed and strangely settled, listening to the quiet rustle of pages turning beside him and the frantic, silent rhythm of his own trapped heart.
The thrumming bassline on Dave’s screen pulsed in time with the pressure against his thigh. Karkat’s thumb kept tracing slow, maddening circles, a brand seared through denim. Dave swallowed, the dry library air catching in his throat. He typed a few nonsense notes, fingers clumsy. existential dread: add more cowbell? The cursor blinked, judging him.
Karkat shifted beside him, a subtle flex of muscle pressing his leg harder against Dave’s. The heavy parasitology book snapped shut with a soft thud. “This chapter was fucking useless,” Karkat announced, his voice low but carrying easily in the quiet. He stretched, the movement deliberately languid, pulling his t-shirt taut across his chest. His hand didn’t move from Dave’s leg. “Like wading through treacle made of jargon and despair. Need a break. You hitting a wall too, Strider?”
Dave grunted, not trusting his voice. He focused on the synth line, trying to layer a metallic drone over the bass. It sounded tinny, hollow. Like his bravado. “Peachy,” he finally managed, aiming for dry sarcasm. It landed somewhere near damp desperation. Karkat’s chuckle was a low rumble Dave felt more than heard. The thumb dipped fractionally lower, grazing the inner seam of his jeans. Dave’s knuckles went white on the edge of his laptop.
“Peachy,” Karkat echoed, leaning in conspiratorially. His breath was warm against Dave’s temple, smelling faintly of cheap coffee and mint gum. “Sounded more like ‘strangled waterfowl’. That the new aesthetic? Avian despair-core?” His fingers flexed, pressing in hard enough for Dave to feel the distinct, unyielding outline beneath the denim. The cage. A sharp intake of breath hissed between Dave’s teeth. Karkat tilted his head, feigning concern. “Problem? Leg cramp? Happens when you sit too tense. Like a statue someone pissed off.”
“Fuck off, Vantas,” Dave muttered, shifting minutely. The movement pressed him more firmly against Karkat’s hand. A traitorous warmth bloomed low in his belly.
Karkat watched him, that familiar mix of amusement and something hotter in his dark eyes. “Make me,” he murmured, the challenge soft, intimate. His thumb abandoned circles, instead dragging a slow, deliberate line upwards from mid-thigh, tracing the denim seam right towards the apex. The pressure was intense, focused. Dave’s vision blurred slightly. He slammed his laptop shut harder than intended, the crack echoing sharply off the library shelves. Heads turned. The girl with the highlighter stared openly now.
Heat flooded Dave’s face, a crimson tide he knew was visible even beneath his shades. Karkat just smiled, slow and predatory, completely unfazed by the attention. He leaned back slightly, gaze locked on Dave. “Library’s getting stuffy. Wanna bail? Grab actual coffee? Maybe… discuss your avian sound design further?” The offer hung there, loaded. Bailing meant walking out beside Karkat, under his arm, claimed for everyone to see. Staying meant enduring this exquisite torture under the fluorescent lights and curious stares.
The library’s quiet felt brittle, shattering under Karkat’s stare and the weight of his hand. Dave swallowed dryly, the phantom click of his laptop lid still echoing in his ears. "Coffee sounds... good," he managed, the words scraping out. "Lead the charge, General Vantas." He gestured vaguely towards the exit, hoping his shades hid the sheer panic warring with the insistent throb beneath his jeans.
Karkat’s smile broadened, victorious. He didn’t immediately stand. Instead, his hand slid up from Dave’s thigh, knuckles brushing casually across the taut cotton of Dave’s t-shirt. It wasn't accidental. His thumb found the small, hard nub of Dave’s nipple through the fabric, pressing in with deliberate, circling pressure. Dave jolted as if shocked, a strangled gasp catching in his throat. The sensation was electric, immediate, cutting through the fog of embarrassment straight to his core. He froze, pinned not just by touch but by the sheer audacity in the middle of the hushed stacks.
"Sure we can head out," Karkat agreed smoothly, his voice a low purr that vibrated against Dave’s ear. He didn't remove his thumb, maintaining that maddening, subtle friction. His other hand rose, fingers brushing a stray strand of blonde hair off Dave’s forehead with deceptive tenderness. The contrast – the claiming touch hidden below, the gentle gesture above – was dizzying. Karkat leaned impossibly closer, his lips hovering near the shell of Dave’s ear. "Give me a kiss first."
The words hung in the dusty air, a quiet detonation. Dave’s breath hitched. Karkat was close. Too close. Warmth radiated from him, a furnace against Dave’s side. The thumb resting just below his nipple felt like a live wire. The library’s silence pressed in, amplifying the frantic hammering of his own heart. He could feel the curious stares, especially the highlighter girl’s wide-eyed gaze burning into them. He wanted to sink through the floor. Or punch Karkat. Neither seemed viable.
Karkat didn’t flinch. His expression was a mix of challenge and something softer, almost hopeful. His eyes, dark and intent, held Dave’s captive behind the tinted lenses. "Come on, Strider," he murmured, the roughness in his voice barely a whisper now. "Don't make me beg." The demand was wrapped in velvet, a contradiction that short-circuited Dave’s usual sarcasm. The cage pressed insistently against his jeans, a stark, unyielding counterpoint to the heat flooding his face.
Dave’s mind raced, a frantic scramble for escape or wit. Nothing surfaced. Only static. Karkat’s thumb shifted infinitesimally, reigniting that sharp, electric spark beneath the thin cotton. A tiny, involuntary sound escaped Dave’s throat. He saw the corner of Karkat’s mouth twitch. The smug bastard. This was the game. Push. Provoke. Claim. Dave thought of the folded laundry, the perfectly browned pancakes, Karkat’s arm heavy over him in the dark. The sheer, terrifying comfort of it.
He acted on pure impulse, a surge of adrenaline and something deeper, hotter. He turned his head, a jerky movement. He didn't think about the audience, the fluorescent lights, the suffocating quiet. He just pressed his lips clumsily against Karkat’s. It was brief. Awkward. Too much pressure, teeth clacking slightly. The scent of Karkat – cheap coffee, mint, and that warm, earthy undertone – filled his senses. It was nothing like the practiced, detached kisses he forced with girls. This was messy. Immediate. Real. A jolt of pure sensation shot through him, obliterating thought.
Karkat froze for a microsecond, surprise flickering across his face. Then he surged forward, meeting the clumsy press with sudden, fierce intensity. His hand moved instantly from Dave’s chest to cup the back of his neck, fingers tangling roughly in his blonde hair. The kiss deepened, turning less clumsy, more consuming. Karkat’s other hand slid back down to Dave’s thigh, squeezing possessively, grounding him even as his head spun. The world narrowed to the heat of Karkat’s mouth, the scrape of stubble, the low groan vibrating in Karkat’s chest. Dave forgot the cage, the library, the students.
He forgot to breathe. His hands, hanging uselessly at his sides, finally moved. One gripped Karkat’s bicep, the muscle hard beneath the worn band t-shirt fabric. The other fisted in the soft cotton over Karkat’s ribs. He kissed back, a desperate, answering pressure. It felt like falling and flying simultaneously. A shudder ripped through him. Karkat’s grip tightened, pulling him impossibly closer across the gap between their chairs. The sound of rustling pages nearby cut through the haze, sharp and jarring.
They broke apart as suddenly as they’d collided. Air rushed back into Dave’s lungs, harsh and loud in the sudden quiet. He jerked his head back, blinking rapidly behind his shades. Karkat’s face was flushed, pupils blown wide, lips slightly swollen. He didn’t let go of Dave’s neck or his thigh. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face, wide and genuine, erasing the usual sharp edges. Dave stared at him, heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. His skin felt scorched. His lips tingled. The imprint of Karkat was everywhere.
The highlighter girl was gaping openly, pen frozen mid-air. Another student nearby discreetly looked away, pretending intense interest in a laptop screen. The library hummed with a new tension, thick and palpable. Karkat’s thumb resumed its slow, deliberate circles on Dave’s thigh, the touch now loaded with shared electricity. "Good," Karkat breathed, the single word thick with satisfaction and something warmer, deeper. His gaze held Dave’s, unwavering. "Now. Caffeination. Let’s go."
He stood, pulling Dave up with him by the grip on his waist. The movement was smooth, effortless. Dave stumbled slightly, legs unsteady. Karkat’s arm slid naturally around his shoulders, anchoring him, pulling him close as they navigated the narrow gap between the tables. Dave’s laptop bag hung forgotten from his other hand. He could feel every eye in their vicinity tracking them. The heat in his face felt permanent, a searing brand. Karkat’s grip was firm, undeniable. Possessive. He steered them purposefully towards the library doors, radiating a quiet, undeniable victory.
Dave kept his head down, focusing on the scuffed linoleum floor tiles passing beneath his feet. The cage pressed against him with every step, a constant, sharp reminder. But it was drowned out by the phantom pressure of Karkat’s lips, the warmth of his arm, the sheer, terrifying reality of walking out like this, claimed for the whole damn academic world to see. He risked a sideways glance up at Karkat’s profile. The triumphant smile was still there, softer now. Welcome. Dave’s chest tightened, a confusing knot of panic, embarrassment, and something else, something vast and terrifyingly warm, unfurling low in his belly. He swallowed hard, the noise loud in his own ears.
Karkat squeezed his shoulder. "Deep breaths, Strider," he murmured, his voice rough but gentle. "You look like you're about to pass out. Or vomit. Neither is the aesthetic we're aiming for on the quad." He pushed open the heavy library door. Sunlight and the noise of campus life flooded in, a stark contrast to the dusty hush behind them. Karkat guided him through, his arm a solid weight. The door swung shut behind them with a soft thud, sealing off the silent scrutiny.
They stood on the sun-drenched steps. Students milled past, oblivious. Dave blinked against the sudden brightness. The air smelled of cut grass and exhaust fumes. Karkat didn't remove his arm. He turned Dave slightly to face him, searching his face behind the shades. The smugness was gone, replaced by an intensity that was almost... questioning. Waiting. Dave could only stare back, his mind still reeling, body thrumming with the aftershocks. The flush on his cheeks deepened, spreading down his neck. He felt utterly exposed, yet anchored. Karkat’s hand slid down his arm to find his hand, lacing their fingers together. His grip was warm, strong. Certain.
Dave nodded. Cheeks burning.
The quad buzzed around them – shouts from a frisbee game, the drone of distant leaf blowers, the rhythmic thump of someone’s bass-heavy headphones. It all felt muffled, distant, compared to the roaring in Dave’s ears and the warm, solid anchor of Karkat’s hand gripping his. His palm was sweaty. Karkat’s was dry, calloused from guitar strings and maybe laundry detergent, holding firm. Dave kept his gaze locked on the cracked pavement ahead, the flush on his neck feeling radioactive. Every nerve ending still crackled from the library kiss, the phantom press of Karkat’s lips, the possessive grip on his neck. The cage was a cold, insistent counterpoint against his jeans with every step, a stark reminder of Karkat’s quiet control that predated the public spectacle. He tried to summon his usual arsenal of sarcasm, a deflecting one-liner about invasive campus wildlife or the architectural monstrosity of the admin building, but his brain offered static. Just the echo: baby. Belong to.
Karkat didn’t speak, just guided them across the sunbaked concrete with that infuriatingly calm certainty. His thumb rubbed a slow arc over Dave’s knuckles, a gesture that felt intimate, grounding, and utterly terrifying. Dave risked a glance upwards. Sunlight caught the sharp angle of Karkat’s jaw, the satisfied curve of his mouth. He wasn’t smug, exactly. More… settled. Like he’d finally confirmed a hypothesis after months of painstaking, annoying data collection involving pancakes and folded boxers. “Breathe, Strider,” Karkat murmured, not looking down. His voice was low, rough, but lacked its usual cutting edge. “Unless suffocation is part of the tortured artist thing now. Gotta say, it’s a bold choice. Messy, though.”
Dave choked on air, a strangled sound escaping. “Shut up,” he managed, voice raspy. He tried to pull his hand free, a token resistance. Karkat’s grip tightened fractionally, not painfully, just… definitive. “Seriously. Shut your whole… face-hole. Permanently. Cement it over.”
Karkat chuckled, a deep rumble Dave felt through their joined hands. “Too late for that. Saw the face-hole in action back there. Impressive lung capacity.” He finally looked down, meeting Dave’s gaze behind the shades. His dark eyes held a warmth that was unfamiliar, unsettling. “Didn’t know you had it in you. The public display of affection, I mean. The stubbornness? Yeah, that tracks.”
They passed a group huddled around a laptop, laughing. Dave flinched, half-expecting pointing fingers, whispered judgements. None came. Just students lost in their own orbits. The cage shifted, a dull ache blossoming. Dave adjusted his stride, trying to ease the pressure, acutely aware of Karkat tracking the movement. “Wasn’t indecent, it was tactical.” Dave muttered, focusing on a particularly aggressive dandelion pushing through the concrete.
“Tactical,” Karkat repeated, amusement thick in his voice. He steered them onto a shaded path under ancient oaks, the sudden coolness a relief on Dave’s burning skin. “Right. Strategic lip-lock in Parasitology Row. Bold move. High-risk, high-reward.” He squeezed Dave’s hand again. “Paid off.”
Dave swallowed, the memory of Karkat’s mouth – demanding, then yielding, then demanding again – flooding back. The way his own body had responded, pure instinct overriding years of carefully constructed denials. In public. People would know, now.
Good.