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“Karkat, stop being so stubborn! It’s your twenty-first birthday, or, uh, wriggling day. Look, it’s a human tradition! I want to give you a human twenty-first party!”
You feel your eyebrow twitch as John keeps his sky blue eyes as wide and innocent as possible. “Egbert you insufferable meat sack, I know exactly what that sort of shit entails! Don’t you fucking try to guilt me into another one of your ‘human experiences’ because I still remember my eighteenth sweep! You think I don’t remember bailing your worthless corpse out of holding because of one of your ‘master prank’ ideas?”
John feigns a wounded expression but you’re not buying it.
“No parties,” you begin, holding up your hand so you can tick off your rules, “no law breaking, no binge drinking, no silly hats, no—guh—buckets, no shouting at the top of your voice that it’s my wriggling day, and no god damn match making for ANY of my quadrants. Got it?”
John gaped, “but then what do I do for your birthday?”
You smirk, feeling extremely satisfied, “that’s for you to figure out.”
You left the conversation feeling safe. That was your first mistake. You should’ve known John Egbert would have found a way around your rules, found some sort of loophole, even if you’d gotten a god damn attorney to draft a list of Do-Not-Fucking-Dare rules.
This was how you found yourself standing outside a building with John grinning up at the bouncer, eyebrows wiggling and smile devious as you shake your head frantically behind him.
“Vantas, huh?” The body guard gives you a leering grin that makes your skin prickle angrily. He’s a troll, like you, but unlike you he’s almost eight feet tall and has another two feet of horn. His fangs glint in the street light as you both get waved in.
It’s only when you’re inside do you realize how bad this is. The place is dimly lit, pink and red lamps perched on top of tables that are placed around the large room. Sultry music pours from the speakers as trolls from every end of the hemospectrum watch the show currently going on. You gape as your follow their gaze, eyes finding the only brightly lit spot in the room.
It’s a stage, complete with catwalk that leads out into the audience. The pathway is lit up with neon blue lighting and, at the center of the stage, is a pole.
“John,” you manage to say, as he leads you to a table at the very front of the catwalk.
“John!” you repeat louder, as he sits you down at a table with a name card on it that says ‘Vantas’ in curly cursive.
“Karkat?” John replies sweetly, ignoring a blue blooded troll behind him who’s eyeing him hungrily.
“John,” you yank him down to a seat next to you and snarl at the blue blood. She sniffs in disdain and turns away.
“We need to go, you don’t know what this place is,” you half whisper half shriek as the song on the speakers begins to wind down.
“We can’t go, we only just got here!” John says brightly, waving a server over.
“Egbert, you useless twit this is a troll club! And not just any troll club, it’s—!”
You’re cut off when the server arrives. Your cheeks burn as the scantily dressed troll leans over towards you both, her rumble spheres almost spilling out of her top.
“What can I get you both?” She says, eyeing John and then focusing her attention to you.
“A gill burner for me,” John says, earning twin looks of surprise from you and your waitress, “and for my friend, well, it’s his twenty-first, so something strong!”
You groan as the waitress leaves, and then freeze when the lighting dims and a voice comes on over the sound system.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and everybody else, welcome to The Bulge. Tonight we have a special performer for the midnight dance, but for now sit back, relax, and enjoy.”
The stage lights up again, but this time it’s not empty.
A troll is on there, clad in a black and yellow dress that left little to the imagination. She began to make her way to the pole as music came on, fast and hard and pulsating. She twisted her body to the movement and bared her teeth, sinking low and pressing her back against the pole.
Your face is on fire as you catch a glance at her grub scars through a slit in her dress and quickly look away. It’s a black rom dance, all sharp movements and sneering smiles to the crowd. Some trolls in the back respond with their own pitch flirting, lowering their horns and baring teeth, but she eyes them with contempt as she slips around the pole.
This continues for most of the evening. Various trolls from all ranges of the hemospectrum get up on stage and dance, removing articles of clothing and picking a quadrant to taunt their audience with. There are exposed throats and open bodies, dirty displays of trust and pity that make you shift in your seat and look away. Then there are hot stares and glinting fangs, sharp as their smiles and filled with want.
You don’t know how much John understands. You glance at him from time to time, but he keeps the same grin on his face the entire time. Your drinks come and you gratefully grab yours right as a pitch dancer leaves the stage with an arrogant toss of his horns. Your stomach burns and your claws itch as you quickly gulp at your drink.
John turns to you as the music shifts again, something deeper and velvety, and wiggles his eyebrows.
“So? Having a good time?”
“You are never planning my birthday again you ignorant fuck. Do you even understand what’s going on? Of course you don’t. Your tiny brain and primitive instincts can’t possible compute all this stimulus. You need a literal road map for this shit, don’t you?”
John snickers, “Karkat, I know a strip tease when I see one. Anyway this isn’t the main surprise yet! Just setting the mood, heh. I’m going to get you a great present this time, and you won’t even have to go to jail for it!”
Your mouth twists down in distaste and you catch a purple blooded troll by the bar giving the both of you an appraising eye. You bristle and move closer to John.
“Egbert, while I appreciate your thoughtless gestures and aggravating existence, has it somehow escaped your limited and frankly underdeveloped mind that you are a human in an all troll bar?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, well I figured you’d prefer that,” John says, signaling their server for another round of drinks.
You pinch the bridge of your nose and make an irritated clicking noise, “John, you insufferable moron, the only reason humans would come to an all troll bar would be to sell themselves—”
“Ladies, gentlemen, and everybody else,” the smooth voice interrupts before you can finish, “it is almost midnight and you know what that means. Trolls, get out your boondollars because we have something special planed for you. Remember, claws to yourselves.”
There’s a few snickers from the audience and your ears prick up despite yourself. The music is changing again and many trolls have moved to the catwalk already. What sort of depraved, quadrant-dancing was it going to be this time?
John nudges you and shoves a wad of bills and your new drink into your hands, “come on! Let’s go see who it is!”
You follow him up to the front of the catwalk despite yourself. Owing to your small size and John’s ‘exotic’ presence, you both get up close without too much trouble.
The lights on the stage flare and music begins, a thrumming beat that sinks into your voice box and digestive sack. It makes your nerves hum and you take a quick sip of your drink, feeling it prickle and slip into your body. You’re starting to get curious, and even a little excited despite yourself. Would it be three trolls in the ashen quadrant? Something pale? You shiver despite yourself and grip your drink a little tighter.
Then, suddenly, a human emerges on stage.
He’s tall with long, pale legs that seem to carry on forever. He’s wearing black booty shorts that you would wager are a size too small. On his feet are a pair of red heels, strapped around his ankles with a golden clasp. He’s got a red button down shirt on with the sleeves rolled up and, synched around his neck, is a black tie.
Your eyes travel up past the tie and your blood pusher stops. He has white blond hair swept to the side and, perched on his infuriatingly smug face, are a pair of sunglasses.
John whips around to stare at you, mouth gaping as wide as your own, “oh my god.”
You think you’re about to die. Your blood is rushing in your ears and all you can see is Dave Strider’s perky ass in those tiny shorts.
“John,” you look at him, eyes huge, “did you know—?”
“No! No I swear I didn’t!” John looks just as stunned as you are.
You slowly turn to look at Strider, your mind a jumbled mess of shock and confusion. You had all gone to a co-species high school together called Skia, which you had graduated from two years ago with John. Dave Strider had been a year above you. He’d been infamous for his looks and his, as you put it once, ‘infuriatingly hot tool-bag charm’. You hadn’t known him well, but you’d stared at him enough to be able to pick him out from a crowd a mile away.
He’d fallen off the radar as far as you knew after he graduated, and you just assumed he managed to get the hell out of Texas and became some smug, millionaire model or something.
But here he was, right in front of you, grinding on a pole as trolls cheered and catcalled. And you couldn’t stop staring.
Strider leapt up and grabbed the pole, swinging his body up and hooking one of his legs around it so he hung upside down. Slowly, he spun down, all the while moving his body in time to the music. Once he reached the ground he curled himself back up in one, fluid motion. Gripping the pole, he swung his hips in tantalizing circles and your cheeks felt like they burst into flame when you saw the word Slut written across his ass in red rhinestones.
You could hear the tap of his heels as he began to strut down the catwalk, and you distantly heard John muttering to you about leaving. You didn’t move, couldn’t move, and suddenly Dave Strider was right in front of you.
You don’t know if he saw you, but if he did then he did a good job of not showing it. Such a good job, in fact, that he began to unbutton his shirt right in front of you.
“Oh my gods,” you whisper despite yourself, as inch after inch of Dave Strider’s body is revealed to you.
His fingers pluck the buttons open easily as he dips low and spreads his thighs open, giving you and the others around you a full view. You stutter wildly as other trolls reach out and tuck bills into his tiny shorts, and almost lose it completely when he gives all of you his trademark Strider smirk.
You glance around to see John has left, and you feel oddly relieved. Now nobody here knows you, except of course the main attraction, but that didn’t matter as much to you.
The next time Strider dipped down, this time with this shirt hanging open and his ass in the air, you tuck a twenty into his shorts.
It’s your wriggling day after all.
You watch as he walks back towards the pole, hips swaying as the music picks up the tempo. He rolls his shoulders and lets his shirt slip down, revealing the graceful curve of his back. Then he drops the shirt completely, kicking it to the side before mounting the pole again.
Gods have mercy he has a nice body.
You can see his tone body flex and work as he easily shimmies up the pole, legs wrapped around it in a way that makes you envious. His tie is still wrapped around his pale, elegant neck and you want to wrap your hand around it and tug him close to you.
His hips roll into the pole and he spins around it, dropping back down on his feet in a crouch with ease. You watch hungrily as he curves his body back and bares himself to the crowd, earning chittering approval and lustful growls. You might have been among those noises, you’re not too sure anymore. You finish your drink with a quick gulp and set it aside, enjoying the tingling running through your skin and the heat pooling deep in your thoracic cavity.
Strider tugs on his tie, throwing his head back and pushing his hips up in a submissive display that has you clenching your hands to your side. Where did he learn this? You don’t know or care, you just want it closer to you.
Almost like he was reading your thoughts, Strider spin on his ass and leaps back to his feet with remarkable agility, dancing his way to the front of the catwalk.
He stops right in front of you, and you look up as he sinks down onto the floor, lying back and raising his hips up. Your breath catches in your throat as he hooks his thumbs in his shorts and slowly pulls them down.
You can’t tear your eyes away as he slips them off, revealing a red thong stuffed with boondollars. It’s small and tight in all the right places and before you can stop yourself you add another large bill to the collection.
He twirls the shorts around his finger and then, with a little flick of his wrist, tosses them at you.
You catch the fabric and stare at him in shock as he draws himself back up and bows nice and low right as the music ends.
The trolls erupt into cheers and stuff a few more boondollars into his thong as he walks by, earning little smirks and cheeky waves.
You clutch the fabric of the shorts, ignoring the envious looks you’re getting as you make your way back to your table.
Holy shit.
They’re still warm, you realize through your shock, and you run your thumb over the rhinestones that had decorated his ass.
“Vantas?”
Your head snaps up, breaking you out of your shock to see your busty server waiting by the table, hip cocked and lips pursued in amusement.
“Uh, yes?”
“Dave Strider wants to see you in his room backstage.”
It takes a second for it to process but once it does you’re on your feet and following her without a second thought. You don’t realize what you’re doing before you’re stepping behind a thick black curtain and you’re backstage.
Trolls in various states of dress are lounging around, smoking and chatting with easy grins on their faces. Some are rushing around, snapping at others for moving their stuff or asking where some prop went.
They ignore you as you’re lead down a hall to a battered wooden door.
She leaves you there and you glance around uncertainly. You’re extremely aware of the activity bustling around behind you, of the soft shorts clutched in your hand, the smell of smoke making your skin crawl.
You knock, and the door opens.
Dave Strider is lounging against the side of the doorframe and it takes you aback how familiar it feels. He used to loiter around the school like this, hanging around with the same carefree smirk on his face as he talked to his group.
Now he’s a bit taller, his hair is a big longer, and his smirk isn’t so carefree. He’s wearing a robe and you try your damn best not to look at the strip of bare skin that shows through the folds.
He still has his sunglasses, and you stare fixedly at them.
“I fuckin’ knew it was you,” he says, and grins.
Your mind feels fuzzy and you put it down to those drinks Egbert shoved into your hand. “Strider. Are you going to play gate keeper or let me the fuck in? I assume you wanted to talk and not just leer at me from your ridiculous height god dammit are you still wearing those heels?”
“They’re comfortable,” Dave says, and then steps aside.
You walk in like you own the place, when in reality you can’t seem to take it all in fast enough. There’s a vanity with various types of makeup and brushes strewn across it. His outfit is tossed on the floor and you take great care not to look at the thong. You don’t see any of the money that had been stuffed in it, and figure he was quick to stash it somewhere safe before calling you in.
“Karkat Vantas,” he says once you’re done twisting your head around like a moron. “What the shit are you doing here? Didn’t think this was your scene.”
This you can handle. You take a big breath and unleash all your confusion and discomfort in your typical tirade.
“Well for fucking starters you asked me back here if that’s what you’re referencing. And unlike most rude shits I actually come to see people who ask me to because I’m not a complete tool. Speaking of tools, what the shit are YOU doing here you bulge munching asshole? I thought you and your tool-bag shades fucked the hell out of Texas and were making their debut on Broadway as the douche machine plus eyewear that fell out of fashion on the god damn fifties!”
Dave Strider stares at you for a minute and then starts snickering, “aw shit, I missed my god damn opening night. I guess that adds to the douchebag air I’ve been cultivating for so long. Better send a tearful letter to the fans, signed with the blood of my disappointed family. I’m sorry mom, I’m too busy leaping around stage in a tutu to be home for Christmas. Tell dad to knock back another beer for me, wouldn’t want to miss out on the annual family field trip to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.”
You snort and roll your eyes, “quit shitting around with me, Strider. What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t see you complaining about it,” Dave responds coyly, lifting an eyebrow at the booty shorts still in your hand.
You blush and throw them at him, feeling a surge of triumph as they hit him square in the face.
“Yo dude, returning my heartfelt gift so quick? Bet you didn’t even wear them around the house in shameful enjoyment. Shit is so soft it’ll make your ass feel like it’s died and gone to plush-rump heaven.”
He throws them back at you and you squawk in an undignified manner and catch them.
“Seriously you ass, what are you doing here?” You glare at him and his lips tug down ever so slightly at the corners.
He shuts the door and sighs, running his hand through his hair and moving over to a chair overflowing with outfits. He flops down in it and grunts in discomfort, reaching behind him and fishing out a red knee high boot. He tosses it on the floor and you grab his vanity bench, dragging it over and perching your ass on it as he pulls off his heels.
“Let’s go, Strider. Out with it.”
Your eyes flick briefly down where his robe was splayed open, baring his toned chest, before you quickly focus back on his face because dammit Vantas, control yourself.
“What do you mean? Didn’t I tell you every day that my dream since childhood was to be a stripper? Make all those fans swoon and go home to their unsatisfying lovers only to picture me when they get their freak on? Who doesn’t want that? I’m more popular than ever.”
You narrow your eyes at his rambling and reach out, poking him in the chest with the tip of your claw.
“Ow, hey, watch it, this what rakes in the big bucks,” Dave rubs the spot and you make a face at him.
“Talk, shit stain.”
“Wow, you really know how to get people to open up,” Dave says, drawling his words like he did back in high school. Damn motherfucker and his fuckin’ accent. All you ever got from Texas was the tendency to slur some words together and an addiction to sweet tea.
“Look, shit’s fine, really. I make a ton of money every night and I can pay my bills on time. Sure, waving my ass in the air isn’t the most ideal job, but it could be worse.”
You knew he was full of shit. No way would Dave Fucking Strider be satisfied with being the pailing-image for strangers. You reach out to jab him again, seeing as that worked last time, only to have him grab your wrist and yank you forward.
You yelp and fall face first into his chest. Your entire face feels like it’s on fire as you try and jerk back only to have him drag you up onto his lap.
“Strider, what the shit,” you sputter almost incoherently because shit he smells like sweat and it’s so good.
“Can’t have you messing up my money maker,” Dave says, and then his voice drops into something that makes your pupils dilate, “and I saw how you were looking at me out there.”
“I, what?” you manage to get out, blood pusher hammering against your ribs.
Dave’s smirk curls over his lips as he leans in closer, his mouth brushing your ear, “I saw how your eyes followed me. You couldn’t stop staring. Why do you think I put on such a nice show?”
You can’t speak and even if you could you don’t know what to say. His hands are on your lower back and his soft puffs of breath tickle the side of your neck. You have no idea what’s going on and you’re waiting for him to laugh and mock you for getting so worked up, but it never comes.
Instead you feel his lips press against your neck, and your mind white’s out. They’re soft, a little wet, and you can feel his teeth gently scrape over the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet. Far gentler than you ever thought Strider was capable of.
You don’t know how this is happening, but he’s biting your neck and his blunt human teeth are hitting that sweet spot in a way that makes your head spin. Some small part of your brain that isn’t swamped in alcohol or the awe of Dave Strider sucking on your neck murmurs that maybe this isn’t the best idea. But then Dave breaks away to look at you and you decide consequences be damned.
You kiss him without another thought and his lips are demanding against yours. He tangles his fingers roughly in your hair and kisses you harder, nipping your lower lip when you don’t open your mouth immediately. You feel one of his hands grip your hair, so tantalizingly close to a horn, and you respond with a small noise and force your tongue into his mouth.
“You never did tell me why you came here,” Dave says between breathless gasps, his other hand moving down to settle on your ass as you attack his neck.
You grunt, more focused on not accidently puncturing his fragile skin with your sharp teeth than answering. You feel his hand squeeze your ass and you growl, low and deep in your thorax.
He laughs, short and tantalizing, and you are done playing around.
You drag him down on the floor with you in an uncoordinated mess of limbs and swearing. His robe is infuriating you but when you try and rip it open he’s rolling you on your back and moaning in your ear, grinding down into your hips. You can feel your bulge start to twitch and curl behind your public bone and you grin with all your teeth because if Strider thinks he’s topping then he’s in for a surprise.
With a snarl you get your hands in his thin, soft blond hair and yank. He groans as his head his jerked up, exposing the soft column of his throat.
You run your tongue up it and press your lips to his fluttering pulse, making a careful point to scrap it with your teeth. Then, with another quick jerk, you pull him to the side and swing your leg over his hip. You barely notice him pulling your shirt off, too focused on exploring his body.
Dave squirms under you as your fingertips find those two small circles on his chest and pinch them, earning a high pitched whine that makes your nook clench. Never, in your wildest fantasies, did you ever peg Dave Strider as a sub. But holy shit, now you can’t think of him any other way.
You feel his hands moving over your body and moan as they find your grub scars, shuddering as he pushes his fingers into them and drags them along their natural curve.
“Who taught you how to play with those?” you growl breathlessly in his ear as you fumble with his robe.
“Taught myself—ah!”
You grin triumphantly as you finally get your hand on his bulge, silencing him with a firm squeeze. You’re still not quite accustom to its rigid, unmoving nature, but you are growing rapidly accustom to the noises you get out of Dave when you touch it just right.
His hands are fighting with your jeans and you’re fighting to keep him under you because despite his size, he’s a lot stronger than you thought. You almost lose your balance as he practically bridges, thrusting his hips in the air and grinning at you in that smug, obnoxious way that makes your blood boil.
You’re flipping quadrants so fast you don’t know how to color code this fling but at the moment you want to show Dave Strider the darkest pitch hookup of his short human existence. Then his hand is down your pants and you choke as his fingers pinch the tip of your bulge.
“S-Strider gods fuck, what are you doing?” you manage to get out between an embarrassingly loud chirr.
“Call me Dave,” he groans, shoving your pants down as you grab him by the shoulders and slam him back to the floor.
His shades are knocked askew and you shove them up and stare hungrily into his mutant red eyes, taking in the pinking of his cheeks and the slight scowl twitching on the corner of his mouth. Then his hands are in your hair and on your horns and oh fuck god yes.
You let out a whine as he firmly presses his fingers into your horn beds, rubbing and circling them around the base of your short, over sensitive horns until you can barely get out a coherent word. You feel your bulge wrapping around his and you both groan at the flash of pleasure.
Dave’s arms are around you, dragging you down against his body as you kiss him in a heated desperation. You can smell your own pheromones at this point and you have the sinking feeling the trolls outside of this room can smell them too.
Then Dave keens and it sends a shuddery, hot pulse to your nook and you need him too badly to continue messing around.
You push yourself up and settle over his hips, shooting him a clicking growl when he tries to speak. Your bulge guides his cock into you and you moan deep in your thoracic cavity as it fills your aching nook. You can feel yourself flutter around it before slowly beginning to clench and constrict around him.
“Ah, fuck, Karkat!” Dave’s hands fly to your hips as his head falls back, showing you his throat in such a lewd display of trust it makes you shudder. He’s gripping your hips so hard that little pricks of pain are adding to your delicious buildup of pleasure. You bulge is curling and twisting against the both of you and you abandon it for now in favor of bracing yourself on Dave’s chest.
Dave shifts his hips up, pushing himself deeper and moaning in soft, panting bursts as your nook tightens around him. You begin to roll your hips, trying to take more, deeper, anything to get what you need. You feel one of Dave’s hands sliding down your thigh, pushing your legs apart and earning a high trill from you as you settle lower on him. He holds you there as he begins to thrust up into your hot, wet nook, dragging noises from your lips with every move.
“Mngh, Dave,” you lean forward on him, letting him snap his hips up into you as you reach between your legs, letting your bulge finally wrap itself around your hand. You toy with it as Dave fucks you, gasping and moaning in his ear as he whispers obscenities and breathless words you can’t quite hear.
You’re getting closer with every buck of his hips, and you try to push it off for as long as possible. You want this to last, you want one more minute of being on top of Dave Strider while he’s bulge deep inside of you and moaning your name.
His hands leave your hips and grip your horns, messily fumbling with the base until he presses into them with the pads of this fingers and make you cry out. You can feel his legs trembling under you and your bulge is twisting itself into a knot in your grip, trying to get to him. You push his hips down and pin them to the floor, riding him hard and fast. His hands drop to the floor and he arches up, face flush and lips parted in a soundless moan.
He doesn’t make a noise when he finally releases inside you, but the feeling of him spilling his hot genetic material into you like you’re some common pailing whore is what sends you over the edge. You snarl, low and guttural, as you finally release. You know you’re staining his thighs red as you rock your hips slowly over his softening bulge, finally letting it slip out when you’re completely satisfied that there will be some staining.
“Fuck, Karkat,” Dave reaches for his shades first, clumsily plastering them to his face and then giving you a lazy grin. “You better pray this shit comes out before tomorrow’s show.”
“Why? It’ll probably add to your racy charm,” you fall to the side of him and grunt when your shoulder hits something uncomfortable on the floor. Probably another shoe.
“You think I’ve got charm, Vantas?” Dave wiggles his eyebrows at you over his shades and you snort as you begin to pull on your clothes.
“Don’t put words in my mouth you festering bulge blister,” you mutter halfheartedly as you get yourself situated. When you’re decent you finally look down at him again, only to see Dave is still sprawled completely naked on the floor.
“Good gods Strider, have some dignity,” you want to kick him, and for a second you can feel your foot twitch with the thought, but then you grab something glittery and purple and throw it at him instead.
He catches it and uses it to mop up your genetic material, which makes your lip curl in distaste. “So you never did tell me why you were here,” he says once he’s done.
“…it’s my wriggling day and John took me here.”
Strider sits up at that, “John Egbert?”
“Yeah, maybe you should give him a call sometime, seeing as you scarred him for life,” you arch an eyebrow.
Dave shrugs but begins to look around, finally unearthing a piece of paper and a pen. He scribbles something down and hands it to you.
It’s a receipt for pizza, but on the back is a phone number.
You glare down at him, “I said him, not me dumbass. Did I accidentally fuck your brains out earlier? You should come with a caution sign to protect your future mental health from completely decaying via shady hookups in the back of a strip club.”
“The number is for you, dumbass. And it wasn’t shady, I know exactly who you are. Give me a call sometime and maybe we can hang out somewhere that isn’t a strip club. Although I don’t know what sort of freaky shit you’re into nowadays, Vantas. Maybe this is just your first stop of the night. What’s next? Bingo with old ladies? Karaoke?”
“Ha-fucking-ha,” you spit, but shove the number into your pocket anyway.
Dave gives you a little grin and you turn to leave, but not before something soft hits you in the back of the head. You swear and catch it, turning around and glaring at him before looking at the offending object.
It’s his booty shorts, and you sputter indignantly as he says, ‘wear them for me next time, babe’ before giving you a sleazy wink over the rim of his shades. You leave quickly, with the shorts, and on the way back to your home you add his number into your phone.
You also keep the shorts under the pretense of a birthday present, rather than a souvenir from your most eventful wriggling day yet.
John Egbert might’ve just found a competitor for next year’s wild birthday surprise.