Work Text:
‘HEY. FUCKFACE.’
John Egbert looked up from his Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff comic to find himself face to face with a scowling Karkat Vantas.
‘Oh, hey Karkat! What’s that-’
John Egbert was hit in the face with an aluminium baseball bat.
‘DIPSHIT.’
Surprisingly enough, John’s brains hadn’t gone flying all over the walls, but his face definitely wasn’t in a good shape. His glasses had been flung across the bedroom, shattered into fragments off which the moonlight glittered. Karkat tossed the bat to the floor and it bounced with a clu-clu-clu-clunk . It was stained with blood, as was John’s face.
Karkat looked at the sorry sight below him and felt hot, sexy hatred. It didn’t matter if John didn’t return his feelings - that just stoked the fires of his kismesis, all the more intense for how one-sided it was. God, he was stupid. That stupid ugly face and its stupid blue eyes and those stupid teeth that were whiter than clouds on a summer day - he had wanted to just bang it right upside the fucking head for years, and now he had finally done it. It felt good. It felt amazing.
John’s nose was fucked up. It was a bloody mess, crushed into an angle that the human anatomy wasn’t meant to ever be in. His eyelids were closed, looking somehow delicate, and thick smears of blood had trickled over his face. He looked like a comatose Elizabethan boy actor after being pelted by so many tomatoes he had passed out, the bright red mess all over him. Not that Karkat knew what one of those was. To him, John just looked fucking stupid, more so than usual, and that was just the way he liked him.
So, now John Egbert had been whacked unconscious - what to do? Karkat could just stand here and look at his least favourite boy on this cesspit of a planet called Earth, thinking about how much he hated the pathetic unconscious loser in front of him and getting off on the hatred, but he knew he could do more with him than that. For example, all that blood spilling out of him. He could do something with it.
Karkat kneeled and got a closer look at the poor boy he had totally caught by surprise. His hands shaking, he reached out and put their grey palms to John’s face. He squeezed, his eyes widening at the blood that oozed out. It was sticky, smelled metallic, and - Karkat licked, shamelessly curious - tasted metallic too. Did his taste like this too?
Karkat bit himself as hard as he could, his sharp fangs piercing and drawing only a pinprick of blood. Karkat licked that too, and it tasted just the same. Great. His troll anatomy had something in common with John Egbert, so he’d always have something to hate close by, no matter where he was. He began to smile, remembered that wasn’t the kind of quadrant he was in, and returned to frowning determinedly. He hated John. So much.
Speaking of Egbert, he was losing a lot of blood. Was he even still alive? Karkat slapped at his face, enjoying the feel of John’s sticky red human juice splashing on his hands.
‘JOHN. JOHN. EGBERT. ARE YOU STILL ALIVE, YOU FUCKER?’
The human boy’s eyes moved, barely, weak and vulnerable-looking. They didn’t look too good. There’d be one hell of a black eye. Or two.
‘K- cah, cuh, cuff - Karkat? What’s - huh - going on?’
‘SO YOU’RE FINE. FUCK.’
‘Whu?’
‘SHUT UP, EGBERT.’
The smell and taste of John’s blood, the dark red of it, like wine, his face beaten into a pulp by a single, well-swung baseball bat hit, and it being so close to his - it all got Karkat, and the black spades in his eyes expanding like small, hate-filled blackholes, and he attacked John’s face with his. He chewed at John’s lips, bit them, the barely conscious boy managing a few half-voiced grunts of pain, knowing he was hurting him and caring that he hurt him, because that is what he wanted to do - John Egbert was one royal fucking fool, and he needed to know just what Karkat Vantas thought of him. Chiefly, ‘YOU STUPID- MMPH- FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT I- MMPH- FUCKING HATE YOU, MMPH…’
‘Whumph… ow…’ was all John could manage in response. Poor John. Just trying to enjoy his friend Dave’s incredible post-post-post-ironic masterpiece in comic writing, and now he was fighting for his life to not pass out again, his skull probably cracked in a few places, losing blood rapidly, all the while being violently made out with by Karkat Vantas. Not the ideal way to spend an evening. Certainly not what he had planned.
Karkat couldn’t get enough. He was starting to kind of understand how Terezi sometimes felt; everything was red, everything was John. And it was terrible, and he couldn’t stop licking and gnawing and sucking and basically just eating John’s face and trying to slurp his blood out of him like John would apple juice from a cardboard carton. It was a much grosser affair than that, though. There was no hatred in drinking apple juice - that was pure love. What was thick and heavy in the air of that now thoroughly blood-stained bedroom was the bitter scent of kismesis. Karkat hadn’t felt this much, this messy, this terrible/good as this for a long time.
‘FUCK, YOU TASTE LIKE SHIT, EGBERT. I - MMPH - HATE IT, I DON’T KNOW WHY I WON’T STOP. FUCK YOU, EGBERT.’
John’s face was going pale. Karkat’s nails were digging into him, drawing all the blood they could manage, and he kept squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, relishing the sight of so much red spilling out from his least favourite boy.
But too much of a bad thing can ruin it. Karkat’s spite for John was so great it had overridden the element of attraction, and now he was just sick of it and wanted to get out of there. Boy blood stains all over his face, Karkat drew back and gave John a final slap on the face.
‘I’M OUT OF HERE, YOU BASTARD. I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOUR STUPID FACE AGAIN. BUT WHEN I PESTER YOU I WANT YOU TO RESPOND. BUT ALSO I DON’T WANT THAT AT ALL. BUT - JOHN? JOHN?’
John Egbert was dead. Karkat Vantas had killed him in order to satisfy his own kismesis and latent fetish for blood.
‘SHIT.’