this looks like it was drawn by someone else?? it feels like another artist’s karkat but i can’t think of who. i wish my style was consistent :’) and i wish i could draw blood
OKAY. FINE. *FINE*. I WILL SILENCE MYSELF. IT’S A FUCKING WONDER YOU CAN HEAR ME OVER THE GODDAMN NOISEMAKERS ANYWAY. DO THESE HUMANS WANT TO BURN THEIR OWN FLESHMEAT AND SERVE IT FOR TOMORROW’S LUNCH. I SWEAR TO GOD.
UGH. I JUST FUCKING SAID I WAS SHUTTING UP, WASN'T I? I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN TO TRUST A GODDAMN KILLER LIKE YOU.
WELL.
> Karkat: Look up. The fireworks rumble across the rooftops like a fucking constellation in bright Blu-Ray. It's beautiful the same way a burst of lava flowing over the black crags of a mountain is beautiful. You stare for a while.
Wait. Wait! Hold the fuck up. Hit pause. Stop. Freeze frame. Take reign of those goddamn infernal hoofbeasts and corral them all in back to the motherfucking ranch.
Pulchritudinous?
Since when the hell were you anything close to beautiful? You look at her mouth moving, compliments flapping through her princess lips like those strange skeletal creatures you saw just after the sun set and you hadn’t gone to sleep yet, the ones with thick, tarry wings and squeakbeast faces. Stunned? You’re absolutely fucking frozen. Paralysed. Set phasers on bullshit.
You were fucking larvae. You were pushed through technicolour slime and mold as a goddamn egg. You’re small and runty and your shoulders are rounder. What the fuck is this girl into?
ARE YOU FUCKING ME RIGHT NOW? IS THIS YOU, BENDING ME OVER YOUR KNEE, ENGAGING IN THE MOST TERRIBLE ACT OF COPULATION KNOWN TO OUR COLLECTIVE KIND? IS THIS YOUR BULGE REACHING INTO MY EARS AND DICKING AROUND **MY MIND???**
I AM MOST CERTAINLY NOT PULCHRITUDINOUS, BREATHTAKING, OR - FUCK, ANY OTHER SYNONYM FOR BEAUTIFUL YOU CAN THINK OF.
You don’t know if it’s just your vitriol and disgust, but the lady looks a bit green around the edges. Maybe she has motion sickness? What the hell is she doing on the train, then? God, the stupidity of some people.
QUITE THE COZY FUCKING PILLOW RIGHT UNTIL I STARTED TALKING, RIGHT? LAST TIME I CHECKED, I’M SIMULTANEOUSLY THE WORST AND MOST EFFECTIVE FUCKING WAKEUP CALL ANYONE COULD EVER GET.
I’M KARKAT VANTAS.
The train screeches, lurching unnaturally. The guy standing and holding on to a handrail next to you nearly falls over his ass and catapults into your lap. You’re really glad that’s not what happened. You think you would just combust.
> Karkat: Keep her steady.
You dart out your hand and close a fist around her wrists, not too hard, and hold her in place as the train sways and bumps, left, right, left right, like it’s a fucking ship at sea instead of a fuckton of steel bolted to even more steel and traveling along a clearly defined circuit. You’re not going to deal with her puking on you. You are not.
WELL, NEVERM- WAIT. IS YOUR NAME ACTUAL FUCKING “NEVERMIND”? I GUESS YOUR
(what was it that humans had, again - )
PARENTS HAD A GODDAMN FIELD DAY HUMAN MARRYING EACH OTHER, DIDN’T THEY. I BET THEY WERE SO FUCKING READY TO BECOME THE LARGEST LAUGHINGSTOCK IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.
His way of speaking is just as unique as his appearance, though not as fascinatingly lovely! His voice is rough around the edges and his vernacular is definitely quite original. Somehow it compliments his grumpy face and Sonia suddenly can’t imagine him talking any other way. It’s not pleasant, but nothing is pleasant when a massive headache is throbbing within your sinuses.
She frowns as he belittles himself, visibly upset by the obvious lack of confidence. She wonders if he is the only one of his kind. She wonders if his different appearance is what discourages him.
"I assure you, I am not being dishonest whatsoever! I am a very sincere person! You are most lovely and it is truly a pleasure to meet you, Mister Vantas!" Sonia shifts in her seat, feeling a tickling sensation at the tip of her nose. She closes her eyes and sneezes a high pitched little sound into the scarf wrapped around her neck. "Aah! Excuse me!"
The princess feels the train jerk and gasps as Karkat grabs her by the wrist. She doesn’t find herself surprised that he would do something so gentlemanly. His words certainly suggest that he is otherwise; but judging a book by a first impression is never a smart thing to do.
Sonia smiles fondly at him, even laughing at the remark he makes about her last name.
"It is a strange surname, isn’t it! I’ve never had anyone say a thing like that to me before! Everyone automatically respects my name because it is royal. You are, perhaps, the most refreshing young man I have ever met!"
And it is certainly true — even if the sudden movements of the train are leaving her dizzy and weak, and she slumps in her seat feeling incredibly unhella.
Okay. You're feeling a little less wary now, enough to actually rest your back against the supporting cushion and take a bit of the weight off your feet. It always sends you a mild shock when you realise just how fucking tense you are; you should be used to it by now, since it's your own goddamn body and your own goddamn mind, but the level of bullshit you can give yourself is just too amazing.
You don't, however, slacken your grip on her wrist. She's really starting to look like she's actually... well, ill. Like how those dumbfucks looked back when that weird virus hit and everyone was scrambling for vials. Like how you looked when you were staggering around town coughing your lungs up and fervently denying that you were even slightly unwell (stupid decision there, Past Karkat, you could have fucking died). You peer into her face as she goes on about how well-crafted and amazing you are, then jerk back when she sneezes.
DON'T YOU HAVE A FUCKING HANDKERCHIEF OR SOMETHING? FOR GOD'S SAKE, WHAT IS WITH YOU HUMANS AND YOUR ARDENT DESIRE TO STEEP IN YOUR OWN FUCKING PROKARYOTIC MICROORGANISMS. TAKE THAT SCARF **OFF**.
You almost do it for her, but her next words stymie you. You halt in your attempts to reach over and pull that fucking germ-infested piece of fabric off of her.
Shit. Your eyes go wide and you look at her, as she slumps back down and looks like she may just wilt in place, skin shedding and hair falling out right before your very eyes.
HEY
Oh my god. You've got a sick royal lady right in fucking front of you. An actual person of metaphorical human blue blood.
HEY.
LOOK AT YOU. YOU'RE A WRECK. YOU NEED TO GET TO SOME. HUMAN CARE PLACE. I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.
justicescales replied to your post:H4PPY HUM4N N3W Y34R K4RK4T!!! [cheek smooch]
N3P3T4 S41D TH4T HUM4NS C3L3BR4T3 TH3 N3W Y34R BY G1V1NG TH31R FR13NDS CH33K SMOOCH3S. SO Y3S, Y3S 1T W4S
WHAT. WHY THE FUCK WOULD THEY START SOMETHING LIKE THAT UP. HERE’S TO THE NEW YEAR, I’M GOING TO GENTLY IMPRINT MY SALIVA ONTO YOUR FACE AND BEQUEATH UNTO YOU THE BACTERIA FROM ALL THE FUCKING SOPORIFIC SHIT I JUST DRANK.
OKAY. FINE. *FINE*. I WILL SILENCE MYSELF. IT'S A FUCKING WONDER YOU CAN HEAR ME OVER THE GODDAMN NOISEMAKERS ANYWAY. DO THESE HUMANS WANT TO BURN THEIR OWN FLESHMEAT AND SERVE IT FOR TOMORROW'S LUNCH. I SWEAR TO GOD.
justicescales replied to your post:H4PPY HUM4N N3W Y34R K4RK4T!!! [cheek smooch]
N3P3T4 S41D TH4T HUM4NS C3L3BR4T3 TH3 N3W Y34R BY G1V1NG TH31R FR13NDS CH33K SMOOCH3S. SO Y3S, Y3S 1T W4S
WHAT. WHY THE FUCK WOULD THEY START SOMETHING LIKE THAT UP. HERE'S TO THE NEW YEAR, I'M GOING TO GENTLY IMPRINT MY SALIVA ONTO YOUR FACE AND BEQUEATH UNTO YOU THE BACTERIA FROM ALL THE FUCKING SOPORIFIC SHIT I JUST DRANK.
For someone without a confirmed quadrant status with Terezi, you sure get kissed by her a lot. You don't remember her being quite this affectionate back when you were both six and stupid and trying out this shit for the first time.
This, at least, is manageable. You don't have to do anything but flinch away and rub hastily at your cheek with the sleeve of your jacket when she's done. God. Her mouth is so fucking cold but so fucking warm at the same time. It ruins you.
HAPPY FUCKING HUMAN NEW YEAR, WAS THAT *ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY*?? IS THAT REALLY AN ACTION YOU HAD *NO CHOICE BUT TO TAKE???*
You welcome 2014 feeling distinctly uneasy about everything.
:33 < happy human new year karkat!! [Here, have a new year smooch.]
> Karkat: Kiss Nepeta.
This situation seems almost horribly familiar, except this time you're standing outside your apartment, out on the street, watching the sky explode again and again and again, lighting up all the filth around you. Sector 003 is dappled in every single colour imaginable. Her skin is a fucking mishmash of the technicolour bullshit running down the edges of her arms as she kisses you.
While she does you're thinking of the crab shoved deep into the very back of your closet, of the mess you two have made of your lives, of the time you spend trying to get on each other's nerves. You think of this and realise that she still came all the way out here to see you, and if that's not fucking annoying, you don't know what is.
She kisses you. You find yourself gripping her arms as she does. You don't mind it, this time.
YOU'RE NOT GOING TO MAKE A HABIT OF DOING THAT IN PUBLIC, RIGHT.
It’s been about half an eternity, give or take a few paltry millennium, that you’ve gone twenty-four hours without the cosmos strewing your noble path with fucking landmines and throwing fresh firecrackers into your face. Today, fresh after the short break you allowed yourself to endure in honour of the holiday season, you’d returned to a peaceful day of traipsing through Hive City, delivering late Christmas packages to people all over the place.
In light of your recent good humour, or, at least, good humour’s grouchy and unlikeable third inclade-mate, the kind that made unwelcome and assholish observations at parties, you’d allowed yourself to take the train instead of walking. You think you can almost congratulate yourself for this decision; it sure saves a shitload of time. You sit your tired grey ass down next to someone who looks way too fucking rich and clean to be from your place, lean your cheek on the window behind you, and then jump about a solid foot when your seatmate slumps halfway down on the seat and juts her chin into your shoulder.
Oh my god, and you must smell like shit. You haven’t washed this jacket yet. Fuck. You do not fucking need a lecture on personal hygiene, or need the stares you’re getting from everyone in the train car with you, wondering why a veritable human highblood is rubbing literal shoulders with an alien mutant kid like you. Real smooth, Karkat Vantas. Real fucking smooth.
(You don’t notice how she’s about as warm as you are, with your extraterrestrial blood; she’s breathing heavily, eyelids flickering in a troubled slumber that hints at the absolute nuclear shit wrecking through her immune system right this very minute.)
So you prod her. With your cleaner hand. In case she’d yell at you for leaving a muddy fingerprint on her face, or something. You prod and prod until you’ve got no other choice but to actually wake her up by talking.
SHIT.
Yeah.
DO NOT FUCKING LEAVE ME IN THIS PREDICAMENT, I SWEAR TO YOU I WILL CURSE YOUR ANCESTORS WITH THE DISHONOUR THAT HAS PLAGUED ME FOR ALL MY SHITTY SWEEPS. WAKE THE FUCK UP!
And then she does. And then you think that maybe you should have just kept fucking prodding her.
Those heavy lidded eyes flutter open the moment she hears someone’s voice. While she doesn’t feel the touches, her sensitive head feels the words and it throbs and aches. It takes a moment for Sonia to register that she’s been using this young man’s shoulder as a pillow. Whatever her head is resting on is comfortable and warm, and that’s all that matters.
She turns and look up at him from under her eyelashes, cheeks flushing with fever. Blinking slowly, the blurry vision of this young man begins to clear and Sonia’s eyes widen in awe.
He’s… He’s… grey! A lovely shade of grey! There are flecks of ruby — or maybe an orange kind of yellow — in his eyes and she audibly gasps; having never seen anyone like him before. Are those… tiny horns atop his head?!
Despite her ill feelings Sonia smiles widely, eyes a bit glazed but definitely awake and sparkling in the kind of way they tend to do when something interests her.
"Wow…!" she breathes, voice airy and accented, reaching up to lazily touch his cheek. Unfortunately she disregards the concept of personal space; but realizes this and pulls her hand back quickly, a shameful blush mixing in with the feverish color of her cheeks. "You are most pulchritudinous! Beautiful! I am stunned!"
Sonia giggles and gathers her strength to sit up fully. Her surroundings spin for a good moment and she pinches the bridge of her nose. This exhaustion proves to be unyielding and her smile weakens as she turns to look at him again.
"I am terribly sorry if I bothered you at all, mister! You see, I am very… how would you say… drained! I am not feeling myself at all, and I suppose you made quite the cozy pillow!"
"May I inquire as to where you are from? I have never seen anyone like you! I am Sonia Nevermind, by the bye! It is most novel meeting you—! Erm—! …?!"
Wait. Wait! Hold the fuck up. Hit pause. Stop. Freeze frame. Take reign of those goddamn infernal hoofbeasts and corral them all in back to the motherfucking ranch.
Pulchritudinous?
Since when the hell were you anything close to beautiful? You look at her mouth moving, compliments flapping through her princess lips like those strange skeletal creatures you saw just after the sun set and you hadn't gone to sleep yet, the ones with thick, tarry wings and squeakbeast faces. Stunned? You're absolutely fucking frozen. Paralysed. Set phasers on bullshit.
You were fucking larvae. You were pushed through technicolour slime and mold as a goddamn egg. You're small and runty and your shoulders are rounder. What the fuck is this girl into?
ARE YOU FUCKING ME RIGHT NOW? IS THIS YOU, BENDING ME OVER YOUR KNEE, ENGAGING IN THE MOST TERRIBLE ACT OF COPULATION KNOWN TO OUR COLLECTIVE KIND? IS THIS YOUR BULGE REACHING INTO MY EARS AND DICKING AROUND **MY MIND???**
I AM MOST CERTAINLY NOT PULCHRITUDINOUS, BREATHTAKING, OR - FUCK, ANY OTHER SYNONYM FOR BEAUTIFUL YOU CAN THINK OF.
You don't know if it's just your vitriol and disgust, but the lady looks a bit green around the edges. Maybe she has motion sickness? What the hell is she doing on the train, then? God, the stupidity of some people.
QUITE THE COZY FUCKING PILLOW RIGHT UNTIL I STARTED TALKING, RIGHT? LAST TIME I CHECKED, I'M SIMULTANEOUSLY THE WORST AND MOST EFFECTIVE FUCKING WAKEUP CALL ANYONE COULD EVER GET.
I'M KARKAT VANTAS.
The train screeches, lurching unnaturally. The guy standing and holding on to a handrail next to you nearly falls over his ass and catapults into your lap. You're really glad that's not what happened. You think you would just combust.
> Karkat: Keep her steady.
You dart out your hand and close a fist around her wrists, not too hard, and hold her in place as the train sways and bumps, left, right, left right, like it's a fucking ship at sea instead of a fuckton of steel bolted to even more steel and traveling along a clearly defined circuit. You're not going to deal with her puking on you. You are not.
WELL, NEVERM- WAIT. IS YOUR NAME ACTUAL FUCKING "NEVERMIND"? I GUESS YOUR
(what was it that humans had, again - )
PARENTS HAD A GODDAMN FIELD DAY HUMAN MARRYING EACH OTHER, DIDN'T THEY. I BET THEY WERE SO FUCKING READY TO BECOME THE LARGEST LAUGHINGSTOCK IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.
The holidays had taken quite a toll on Princess Sonia Nevermind. Between working hard, buying gifts, and attending the ball, she was finding herself feeling quite exhausted. By the end of the day, she’d wandered onto the train that would take her home to Sector Five. Her body ached and her face was flushed from a slight fever — ailments she didn’t have time for.
Togami had taken quite a few personal days, leaving a lot of company tasks to her on top of her own duties as the head of public relations. Sonia took to them as enthusiastically as she would any task given to her and she’d completed everything to the best of her ability. Tomorrow, however, was another day. Another day of meetings and paperwork and managing her branch along with his. That left no time for Sonia to feel even slightly tired or ill.
Her journey through the train station was a blur. She’d purchased her ticket and sat in a seat; which felt more comfortable than usual for some reason. It was as if her body sunk right into it. A mixture of chills and hot flashes made her feel even more fatigued, eyelids suddenly falling heavy as she tried to ignore the aches in her muscles.
It was probably just the result of a hard day’s work. A cup of tea and a good night’s sleep would make her feel good as new come morning. That was what she told herself, what she repeated over and over again as she fell asleep on the moving train.
She was too out of sorts to notice that someone had decided to take the seat next to her, to even wake up as her head shifted to rest on their shoulder.
It's been about half an eternity, give or take a few paltry millennium, that you've gone twenty-four hours without the cosmos strewing your noble path with fucking landmines and throwing fresh firecrackers into your face. Today, fresh after the short break you allowed yourself to endure in honour of the holiday season, you'd returned to a peaceful day of traipsing through Hive City, delivering late Christmas packages to people all over the place.
In light of your recent good humour, or, at least, good humour's grouchy and unlikeable third inclade-mate, the kind that made unwelcome and assholish observations at parties, you'd allowed yourself to take the train instead of walking. You think you can almost congratulate yourself for this decision; it sure saves a shitload of time. You sit your tired grey ass down next to someone who looks way too fucking rich and clean to be from your place, lean your cheek on the window behind you, and then jump about a solid foot when your seatmate slumps halfway down on the seat and juts her chin into your shoulder.
Oh my god, and you must smell like shit. You haven't washed this jacket yet. Fuck. You do not fucking need a lecture on personal hygiene, or need the stares you're getting from everyone in the train car with you, wondering why a veritable human highblood is rubbing literal shoulders with an alien mutant kid like you. Real smooth, Karkat Vantas. Real fucking smooth.
(You don't notice how she's about as warm as you are, with your extraterrestrial blood; she's breathing heavily, eyelids flickering in a troubled slumber that hints at the absolute nuclear shit wrecking through her immune system right this very minute.)
So you prod her. With your cleaner hand. In case she'd yell at you for leaving a muddy fingerprint on her face, or something. You prod and prod until you've got no other choice but to actually wake her up by talking.
SHIT.
Yeah.
DO NOT FUCKING LEAVE ME IN THIS PREDICAMENT, I SWEAR TO YOU I WILL CURSE YOUR ANCESTORS WITH THE DISHONOUR THAT HAS PLAGUED ME FOR ALL MY SHITTY SWEEPS. WAKE THE FUCK UP!
And then she does. And then you think that maybe you should have just kept fucking prodding her.
Aside from that horrible woolen abomination, still lying dormant in a thick, messy heap of its own forgotten dreams, faceless horror, and festering hatred - you just know that one day it's going to fucking pounce on you, swallow you whole in its soft fabric and leave no trace of your existence - you've been left two other gifts, which you accepted from Nepeta and Terezi with a sense of deep, murky foreboding.
Now, three days after the raucous celebrations themselves, during which you baked so many fucking cookies and passed out endless glasses of warm cider (enough to permanently stain your hands with unsanitary levels of Christmas goddamn cheer) you sit down on your bed and use the pointy edges of your nails to tear off the wrapping.
Terezi has gifted you with a nice soft scarf in a deep red so predictable that you don't even bother looking at it before folding it back up and placing it in your closet. It's deep inside the bare cavern under the hanger rack that you hear the soft clink of ceramic, muffled under a couple of layers of fabric. You unroll the scarf and scowl.
Heavily.
Gently cushioned, and breakable as fuck, like the unsuspecting heart of a young lover caught in the agonizing throes of romance gone wrong, are two mugs. One is bizarrely deformed, dented, scratched all over like some shithead dropped it into a den of motherfucking meowbeasts and then decided that "desecrated bullshit" was the perfect look for his new product. You have to peer closely through slitted eyes to read what's written on it, which, by the way, makes you want to puke. Tacky fucking glurge. You resist the urge to crush it between your fingers and then write out your scathing opinion of it in blood on your wall. You don't think you'd have enough blood.
The second mug is not much better. You refrain from any sort of comment on it. Given your history, it's just fucking sick. As if, you think at it darkly, stomping downstairs to slam these cups into the goddamn trash bin. As if anything you'd ever do would please that unreasonable asshole. As if you'd ever be fucking proud of yourself.
It's in a black mood that you turn to face Nepeta's present, with which comes a note
:33 < merry human christmas and a happy 12th perig33 karkat!!
:33 < i got you this present! i thought it was purrfect fur you
that you crumple in one fist while viciously attacking the wrapping paper with another. When your nails scrape fluffy cloth and spring back you rip the object free from its glossy fucking prison. It's a stuffed toy. A violently red, clawed stuffed toy, with tiny black beads for eyes that stare at you in distant contempt. It watches you as you watch it. It watches you and you think it would completely support your new sweater's decision to absorb your life force while you sleep and then shit it back out the window, leaving you a pale grey husk doomed to sucking his own inhuman dick for sustenance.
For two minutes, you are an angry teenager sitting in a messy bedroom, heaving with exertion, paper in your hair and a huge-ass crab stuffed toy clenched in your left hand like you're trying to throttle the fucklights out of it and have approximately four seconds to do so.
For two whole minutes, you think very hateful thoughts and almost enjoy them.
And then you're clattering downstairs again, crab plushie folded between your fingers, and then it joins the mugs (carefully, so nothing gets broken, so you can salvage everything later and put them in their proper places) in the trash.
Your friends suck. You need to get them gifts as bad as yours were. You can't fucking wait to start work again.
Move the ‘X’ to the box that most applies to your character.
[ ] Lawful Good
Acts with compassion and a sense of duty. The type to uphold a sworn oath and will protect innocents at most costs.
[ ] Neutral Good
Acts with in a positive manner, although will not value tradition or rules to act as such.
[X] Chaotic Good
Acts with a rebellious, free-spirited nature but still quite positively. They do the right thing, but are often disorganized and/or not aligned with the rest of society.
[ ] Lawful Neutral
Acts with a strong belief in concepts like honor, rules, and code. Typically places a strong faith in order- they obey or give orders.
[ ] True Neutral
They don’t align strongly with good or evil, nor do they with chaotic or lawful. They usually are undecided between the 4 sections or just gravitate right in the middle.
[ ] Chaotic Neutral
Acts with strong individualist nature and they have a very ‘screw the rules!’ attitude. The individual will follow their heart and promote freedom, but theirs comes first.
[ ] Lawful Evil
Acts with honor, but don’t care in the slightest for the freedoms and rights of others. Very concerned with self-benefit at times, and will twist rules and codes to favor them.
[ ] Neutral Evil
Acts extremely selfishly with no problems concerning betraying others at a moment’s notice. They typically make allies just to further themselves.
[ ] Chaotic Evil
Acts with no respect for anything except their own desires and selfish goals. They place high value on freedom for the self, but do not care for others’ freedoms. Often associated with chaos and destruction.
It's weird to be on the receiving end of one of those lumpy packages wrapped in brown paper for a change. This one, left on your doorstep and tied in obnoxiously an bright green ribbon patterned with stars, is at least free from unsavoury smears and cigarette burns. You pick it up and tear through the paper with a willful abandon leftover from your years as a 5-sweep-old, when you'd run through your hive sticking your sickles into anything that'd fucking take them.
...
Y'know what. Maybe you should have just. Left this shit to rot out there. Let some dog take a running piss at it while foaming at the mouth. Let some drunk-ass fucker come toddling by from the brothels with his alien dick still out drip his semen onto it. This is, put lightly, terrible. Why the fuck would someone install glowing lightbulbs into their clothing? Why would anyone think that mounds of white circles with toothless demon grins look something close to inviting? What kind of poor motherfucker thinks that barkbeasts and antlerbeasts knit into a soulless tableau of shame and desperation help lighten the fucking aura? Why the fuck are you carrying this monstrosity in with you? Why aren't you leaving it outside? God fucking damnit, Karkat, why are you draping it over a chair like you're going to actually let this abomination become part of your wardrobe?
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
prguitarman
gamechangershow
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
