KARKAT VANTAS:

This is from an AU where The Disciple is miraculously still alive on Alternia and finds Karkat, the descendent of The Signless.

CG: I REFUSE TO REPEAT MYSELF FOR A THIRD TIME, YOU VOMIT-INDUCING BRAINLESS ASSCLOWN.
CG: I’VE ALREADY PROVEN MYSELF TO BE THE MOST GULLIBLE CROTCH-STAIN ON THE FACE OF ALTERNIA BY ENTERTAINING THIS NONSENSE FOR THREE HOURS.
CG: WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF?
CG: IF I HAD A LITTLE MORE SELF-RESPECT, I’D JUST BLOCK YOU AND BE DONE WITH IT, BUT NO. YOU’RE LUCKY I’M SUCH A FUCKING SAINT.
CG: LOOK AT ME. MY NAME IS GAMZEE, THE BIGGEST DOUCHEBAG ON ALTERNIA, COME TO MEANDER MY WAY THROUGH LIFE VIA MY STUPID CLOWN RELIGION. I WASTE EVERYONE’S TIME AND I’VE GIVEN MY SO-CALLED ‘BEST FRIEND’ THE WORST, MOST BLISTERING HEADACHE OF HIS LIFE.
CG: IT’S TIME TO QUASH THIS CONVERSATION BEFORE I BECOME AS BRAIN-DEAD AS YOU ARE.
CG: NO, SHUT THE FUCK UP.
CG: DON’T RESPOND! I CAN SEE YOU TYPING.
CG: PUT. THE. HUSKTOP. DOWN.
CG: FUCK.

“I hate that guy,” Karkat says, shoving his portable husktop away from him. With a small screech of frustration, he runs his fingers through his hair. It’s crusty, matted to his head with sopor slime, and in desperate need of his ablution block. He’d been awoken this morning by a vast series of messages from Gamzee, and had thus been sentenced to hours of torment. Listening to the other troll talk was like bashing his head against a stone wall, something he found preferable to the nattering of the other troll.

What time was it anyway? Glancing at his husktop tells Karkat that it’s just after noon. Somehow, he’d managed to waste his entire morning on the clown. It was ridiculous. They’d spoken for hours and accomplished nothing, just like usual. Karkat can’t help but wonder if his headache is actually an aneurysm, triggered by stress from talking to that moron. He needs to hose himself off, and put some grubloaf in his acid track. He wants to relax, to unwind through some coding or perhaps even gaming.

Drones had made an appearance earlier that month, and Karkat’s still reeling from the palpable fear of almost being caught. He doesn’t know what set them off, but he assumes it must be something a neighbor has done or seen. He can’t be certain, there’s no way to know, but after nearly a week of vomit-inducing anxiety, he’d finally crawled back out of his hatch and begun to lick his wounds. There’s so much to do and not enough time. Karkat isn’t ready to die, he can’t lose himself to the void or whatever shit-for-brains thing that happens when he dies.

With a yawn that makes his jaw crack, Karkat rubs his eyes. There are people to talk to, ones that don’t drive him up the wall with their inanity. He needs to hassle Sollux, to bug Terezi, and to check in with Kanaya. They’d been growing closer lately, and Karkat has half a mind to think that maybe there’s a pale quadrant for the taking. If only he doesn’t put his foot in his mouth and blow it up before it has a chance to develop. If his experiences with Terezi has taught him anything, it’s that foot-in-mouth syndrome can happen any time, anywhere. Karkat needs to —

Someone is peering into his hive. Holy shit, is that a fully-grown adult? Why is an adult troll with Nepeta's symbol even on Alternia, much less staring at him like he waxes poetic and puts it online for others to consume? Her horns are short, though not as much as his own. They’re pointed like cat ears, and blatant curiosity has him staring back, his ganderbulbs making out the delicate features of her face. She’s stupidly pretty, enough so that his bloodpusher is in his throat before he can stop to think.

When he does, panic becomes a riot in his chest. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and his stomach plummets, nauseating him in one fell swoop. Comically, dramatically, Karkat whirls around to point a finger at the troll peeping on him. “What the bulgesniffing Jegus fuck do you want?!” he demands, his voice high-pitched and cracking. He doesn’t know if she hears him, if she’s even capable of it through the window, but that doesn’t stop him from stamping his foot and shouting.

“CRABDAD, THERE’S AN INTRUDER!” There’s a loud crash from the floor beneath him, and Karkat is out of his respite block and running for the stairs in an instant. He skids to a stop, slamming his shoulder into the wall as he turns and scurries like a bat out of hell. He passes a protective Crabdad gearing up for a fight, and propels himself toward the underground passage he utilizes for drones. Adults are just as dangerous, if not outright worse. Karkat doesn’t know why she’s here, but he knows he has to hide if he wants to have a chance of survival.

The front door crashes open and Crabdad throws himself out of it with a loud cry, snapping his claws threateningly. Karkat listens with a fearful ear as he shakily kicks aside the rug covering the metal hatch. He pulls it open and climbs inside, prepared to hunker down for as long as it takes for the adult troll to leave. His hands are sweating, but he’s got electricity down here in the form of a plug to charge his device with. It’s small and cramped, without even the space for a ‘coon, but there are supplies, rations, and while it’s going to suck, he can do this.

Karkat’s a survivor.

*

This is from a human AU where Karkat is a nosy neighbor and works construction.

Was it so much to ask for a quiet night at home? Karkat didn't think so. He'd labored all day at his construction job, where he'd somehow managed to fall through the rotted wood flooring of a home renovation. He'd ended up flattened by a pile of hardwood, and it'd even managed to smash his thumb as well. Now, a few hours later, his nail was halfway off and his thumb was in a splint. By morning, it would be gone altogether and what a goddamn, awful mess all of this was going to be for HR.

Karkat had spent the rest of the afternoon wrapped in paperwork, and now he'd just gotten an email stating that he was on an unpaid, forced leave of absence. The company was obviously trying to cover its ass, but that wouldn't stop Karkat from calling in tomorrow morning to have words with his manager. All he wanted was to rest his sore back by laying in bed and watch sappy romance movies all night. Maybe he would have been able to salvage the night if it'd worked that way. Instead, his fucking neighbors are screaming at each other.

Even the assholes at the reception desk have to be hearing this, they're on the first floor and louder than a howling dog. Karkat doesn't want to know their business, something about an unplanned pregnancy, blah blah blah. He pulls out his headphones, intent to block the noise once and for all, when things start to get out of hand. There's a loud crashing noise, and Karkat is on his feet and storming for the door before he registers choosing to do so. Motherfucker, what kind of person put their hands on anyone, much less someone vulnerable and pregnant?

There's too much force behind Karkat's knocking, and the entire door rattles in its frame. His fist stings, but what does he care? It's not like he's using the one with the broken thumb. Sweats beads on Karkat's brow as he waits for someone to answer. He can only imagine what he looks like when the door opens. His hair is still askew and dusty from the day's events, the cut choppy because he'd taken scissors to it himself. Speckles of dirt are flecked all over his tanned arms and face and, thankfully, his injured back is covered by a shirt. No one needed to see the yellows and greens spreading across it right now.

"Shut up," Karkat says when the voice that sounds like "Dirk" opens the door. His voice is scratchy and deep when he says, "I'm not here for you," and forces his way past the door frame and into the apartment. His hands are gentle as he steps into Dirk's space and manhandles him. He picks up Dirk carefully, like he's fragile, and sets him down with ease and minimal pain. Karkat's eyes sweep over the room before settling on the tipped over chair; it's not hard to imagine how the night might have progressed had he not stepped in.

"You!" Karkat says, and it's half a shout as he threateningly steps towards Jake. "Of all the dither-brained crap that's been shat out of your mouth hole, you chose the wrong day to get violent with your pregnant partner. You're angry? Join the cue. We're all livid today, but your shitbaggery crossed the line. You don't want to be a father? Then, go fuck yourself. You're not the one carrying the fetus to term. You can't force an abortion on someone, and that you think you can speaks to the kind of waste of space father you'd be. You're not wanted here. You have one chance to get the fuck out before I introduce you to my fists." Karkat lifts them, and it's to his advantage that their battered state suggests he's already used them once today. "Don't come back, not unless this guy," Karkat hooks his good thumb over his shoulder at Dirk, "asks you to. I'll find out, and you'll be lucky to have teeth afterward."

*

From a demon AU roleplay, where Karkat is a demon hunter and his soulmate is a demon.

"— the completed contract, we'll be able to amass a small army of demons, bound to our hunters, to fulfil our bidding. They're vile, and the cost is high, but no one can discount their strength," a paladin says, tucking a stray piece of too-long hair behind his ear. He's leaning over a desk, making grand sweeping gestures with his hands all over the map they're poring over. They've been at it for hours, arguing over strategy and talking themselves in circles.

Karkat swallows a yawn of boredom, his jaw creaking and his hazel eyes stinging with the effort to not give in. It's not that he doesn't care about the happenings, but that it's been days, and there's been no viable progress. At least, none that he can see. Whenever the conversation gets interesting, he's ushered from the room like a petulant child up past his bedtime. They put guards on post to prevent him from pressing his ear to the door, and Karkat is given no choice but to leave. He's long since learned that acting like a spoilt child and demanding entry is the best way to lose privileges.

Karkat is an exercise in everything a man can lose before his mind goes ass over tea kettle with it. He has little in the way of support; he'd lost his family, his peers, any respect, and even his community when he'd been outed as being a demon's soulmate as a baby. It's the worst kept secret in the community, and the wide berth he's given prevents even basic common decency. Karkat had even lost his mother, the one person who'd stood up to his father and advocated for him, to a slurry of demons one terrible night that's etched inside his eyelids. He still regularly has nightmares about it, and the clawing helplessness has never left. Every day Karkat wakes gasping for breath, a pressure on his chest that never leaves like long-standing dread.

Clawful is the only living being at headquarters that Karkat knows, without a doubt, loves him. At nearly twenty-years-old, Clawful is the crabbiest cat Karkat's ever seen. She's the one constant in his life, with overflowing love for Karkat and a mean clawed arm for everyone else. Karkat misses her. He misses her annoying, scratchy voice and the weight of her settling into his lap. Soon, he tells himself, this mission will be over, and he can go back home to her. She'll welcome him with an ear-splitting yowl and tear up the length of his body to sit on his shoulder, as she's wont to do.

"You know," someone says, budding excitement in her voice, "we could — " Karkat never gets to know what she was going to say. Instead, three armed guards burst into the room without knocking, a dire offense if not for the utter importance of their statement. Karkat jerks upright to attention at the Dave's name, his interest piqued. Not much is known about that demon, only that he's been around for so long it hardly seems possible. There's been speculation about what kind of demon Dave is, but consensus is a powerful, long-lived incubus.

In the deafening silence following the guard's outburst, the room bursts into a bustle of activity. Karkat tries to follow it, but just as he's narrowing in on the Paladin's voice, two guards step in front of him. "Vantas," one says, his voice harsh and just shy of outright dislike. "Follow us." He turns on his heel and struts away, alongside the other guard, who looks down her nose at him. Bitter irritation bubbles up inside Karkat; this is nothing new, more of the same, and yet he never gets used to their treatment of him. Clenching his hands into fists, Karkat hisses between his teeth, earning a clipped, "Do not make me repeat myself."

"Heel like a fucking dog, Karkat," he mutters beneath his breath, and he knows they heard him from the sharp look thrown his way. "Do as I say, or else I'll lay hands on you, Karkat. I fucking dare you. I fucking dare you to even try, you pustulant, festering shitwhiff." The male guard is beginning to sweat, his pace fast and furious as Karkat follows him out of the room and down the hallway towards the basement. The woman keeps him in her periphery, her fingers clenched around her weapon as though she were prepared to draw it on him. It wouldn't be a surprise, people have done worse over the years; he has the scars to testify to that.

They descend into the basement, and Karkat's muttering grows louder the quieter it becomes. "I get it, you hate me. I hate me, too. In fact, no one hates me more than I hate me, but what does that solve here? Suck it up, keep your mouth fucking shut, and stop whining like some sort of clitsniffing crotchstain. We're all adults here — or is there something you'd like to tell me, Norris? I — " Karkat trails off as they one of the guards rips open a door, revealing a demon in dire straights.

Karkat gapes unattractively for all three seconds it takes to collect himself. "What — ?" he asks, and, okay, maybe he should have let them fill him in on the way down instead of stupifying and making a fool of himself. Karkat doesn't remember either guard grabbing his medic kit, but he grunts when it's thrust at him. Snatching it up with scrabbling hands, Karkat leans his hip against the door frame, his gaze still on the demon — Dave, his brain helpfully picks up from the tittering of the guards as they leave.

"Fuck me," Karkat moans unhappily, glancing heavenward as if one of the many gods will descend to give him all the answers he's looking for. He waits a hopeful moment, and when nothing happens, Karkat rolls his eyes so hard they hurt. "Of all the blithering douchebag demons I had to get stuck with, I get you." Hooking his medic kit under one arm, Karkat shuffles into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. This was punishment or a test, but likely both.

Despite his meager training as a medic, which had been about as horrendous as you'd imagine, Karkat's never actually had to test his mettle against a demon, not in a way that didn't involve weapons. Neither has he ever tried to heal anyone before, because who would ever want a "demon apologist" touching them? No, this was a last desperate hope that he'd get himself killed by Dave, or at least "give into temptation" so they could kill him themselves. "Fucking bullshit. Setting me up like this and trying to sign my death warrant."

Sighing deeply, Karkat drops into a crouch and opens his medic kit. He digs around inside of it, keeping half an eye on Dave so he can't reach out and attempt to grab him. Some demons are strong, and this one is old enough that he must have been to have survived this long. Even Karkat's muscle would strain against this demon at full strength, and he'd never met anything before that he couldn't hold his own against. Granted, he rarely got the chance to do more than petty chores and beginner's duty, but beggars and choosers and all that.

"So, get on with it. Give me the whole goddamn spiel. Blah blah blah, you want freedom and I want some unnamed thing that only you can give me. I fucking doubt it, by the way." Karkat turns to squint at Dave, surveying him from head to toe and making note of each and every wound. "You demons are all the same. No forethought, just endless violence and revelry." His mother's face flashes, unbidden, in his mind's eye and Karkat's hands clench into fists. He is so biased and poorly chosen for this task, and that was all by design. "C'mon then, hit me with your best pitch. Tell me why I should give any shits, much less everything I know, including my soul, to free you. Time's wasting, ticktock."